henceforth peter walked daily to the post-office in the market-town. and never perhaps has author so eagerly awaited the sight of a letter from his publishers.

for ten days, however, the journeys made by him were fruitless, and he began to cast about despairingly in his mind for the memory of anything in his own letter that could have offended. but he found nothing. his writing, during these days, did not progress. he was too restless, too anxious, to work quietly. sometimes he sat at his cottage door and piped. occasionally a small crowd of children would gather outside the hedge, drawn by the magic of the music. the ceasing of the pipe, or any movement on his part, however, was the signal for them to scatter like a flock of frightened sparrows, and he would find the lane deserted.

at last, one evening, his journey to the market-town proved fruitful. a letter awaited him there, also a box bearing the name of a london tailor.

peter returned across the fields at a fine pace, the letter in his breast pocket, the box under his arm. arriving at his cottage, he unknotted the string that tied it.

some twenty minutes later, peter, in well-cut evening clothes and with a gleaming expanse of white shirt-front, broke the seal of the letter.

you perceive he was a host, receiving in spirit the woman who had deigned to consider him worthy of notice. and now he held the letter in his hand and saw once more the delicate, firm writing.

“london,

“may 27th.

“first i must thank you that you have not misunderstood me. and now that the understanding between us is complete, i can write more freely, more fully.

“so you are a recluse. perhaps you are to be envied. i have been, and am, in the midst of [pg 81]that mumming-show society, where we all wear gaily-coloured masks and jest with those around us. we speak little as we feel, but largely as we are expected to speak. is it part of your compensation that you need not speak at all? for me, i am somewhat weary of the show. it is very gaudy, and the music, i think, too loud. you may ask why i attend it, and to that i have no answer, except that custom demands it of me as a right. how many people, i wonder, act not according to their own individuality, but rather as usage and those around them expect them to act?

“is it possible, i wonder, to free oneself from tradition, that closely fitting garment placed upon us by our ancestors at birth, which becomes, to the majority, as much part and parcel of ourselves as our skin? clothed in it, i attend dances, dinners, bridge parties, and theatres, from which i am at the moment recoiling with a kind of mental nausea. should i strip myself of the garment, shall i not feel cold and shivery—in short, to use a common phrase, feel ‘out of things’? and once the garment is definitely discarded it may not be so easily donned again; at all events, it might not [pg 82]fit so well. you, a writer, who in your solitude think many thoughts, give me your opinion.

“mercifully, custom has at least decreed that i should spend some months in the country. in a few days’ time i go down to it. there my individuality resumes what i believe to be its rightful sway. i have a garden. it is, as the poet sings, a thing of beauty, and is to me a joy for ever.

“a summer evening in a flower-scented garden! can you—you writer of poetic prose—conceive anything more full of charm and delight? i have a bed of night-stocks—poor, dilapidated, withered things in the daytime, and the despair of my gardener. but in the evening on the terrace the odour is entrancing—divine. my thoughts are ‘carried on the wings of perfume into high places.’ you see, i can quote from your book and from memory.

“no; the cry beneath its strength and sunshine was faint, barely discernible. i confess that at the first reading, which i took at a draught, i did not observe it. it was when i returned, as i did, to sip the wine of its poetic fancy that i detected the slightly bitter taste. [pg 83]yet bitter is not a fair word to use. bittersweet would be better, though that barely fits the flavour. the exact word—if one exists—has escaped me.

“you quote from emerson, and also speak of compensation. of course, you know this:

“‘we cannot part with our friends. we cannot let our angels go. we do not see that they go out only that archangels may come in.... the compensations of calamity are made apparent to the understanding also, after long intervals of time.... it permits or constrains the formation of new acquaintances and the reception of new influences, that prove of the first importance to the next years; and the man or woman who would have remained a sunny garden-flower, with no room for its roots and too much sunshine for its head, by the falling of the walls and the neglect of the gardener is made the banian of the forest, yielding shade and fruit to wide neighbourhoods of men.’

“your quotation made me look up my emerson. i found your sentence, and went on to read ‘compensation,’ whence i have copied the above.

“would your writing have been as human were it not for the hidden wound you bear? is it some compensation to know that to one soul at least your words have brought refreshment? what are you writing now?

“i like your pseudonym.”

peter read the letter through twice then put it on the table while he prepared his supper. he laid two places to-night, laughing at himself for the fancy. his unknown lady was very present with him, you perceive.

he pretended—and loved the pretence—that she was dining with him. he let himself imagine that a woman, clad in chiffon and lace, and fragrant with that delicate scent of lavender, sat in the chair opposite to him; that the candle-light was playing on her warm hair, finding reflection in her luminous eyes. no palace contained a more courteous host that night than did that little cottage; no royal guest received a greater welcome than did peter’s dream lady.

it was a strange, fantastic little scene. had any one peered through the cottage window, they would have seen a barely furnished room, a meagre supper-table lit by a couple of candles, [pg 85]and, seated at the table, a man in well-cut evening clothes—a man groomed with the fresh cleanness of a well-bred englishman. they would have seen a second place laid at the table, and in the second place, between the knife and fork, a bluish letter lying. they would have seen both glasses filled with red wine.

mad? not a bit of it! peter was entirely sane, and very refreshingly healthy. but—and herein lay the difference between him and many of his countrymen—he was possessed of a fine imagination.

and when peter had drunk the health of his dream lady, he began to talk to her; and for this purpose pen, ink, and paper came once more into requisition.

“may 29th.

“your first letter was welcome; your second is ten thousand times more so. the first was the mere fluttering of a signal, waved at a distance. this evening you are near, and i can speak more easily.

“as for the garment of tradition, i fancy it may at times be discarded by ourselves and [pg 86]gently, and again donned without fear of it fitting less well. in fact, may it not gain greater value in our own eyes and in the eyes of others by its temporary disuse? it is when fate strips it from us, tearing it to ribbons in the process, that it cannot again be worn, or worn merely as a sorry, ragged semblance of what it once has been. it is then, to use your own parlance, that one feels ‘out of things.’ i, who write to you, speak from experience. fate tore my garment from me, and in so doing made the wound you have detected. but enough of that. the touch of your hand upon it has eased its smart, though possibly—nay probably—the scar will remain throughout my life.

“thank you for your quotation. yes; i know it. i am glad the shade of my banian-tree—a very small one—has reached you, and its fruit brought you refreshment. the ‘ever-onward’ note of emerson is exhilarating. there is no repining, no sitting down with folded hands under grief, but an ever pushing forward to the light, as a green shoot pushes aside earth and stones in its journey upward through the soil to the sun.

“yes, i am writing again; but the last few days i have done little. i could not tear myself away from the thought of the next letter i should receive from you. sometimes i feared that none would come, that you might have regretted your offer. it was an unworthy thought; forgive me. now, i shall write again quietly.

“you ask what it is that i am writing. it is the story of a man, a wayfarer. i do not think there is much plot in the story. probably all the plot lies in the past which he has thrown behind him. fate has made of him a wanderer, as she has made a recluse of me. during his wanderings he thinks much. i am endeavouring to record those thoughts as he traverses the fields and lanes. if the gods are good to me, perhaps one day the thoughts may reach you in book form. then you will give me your opinion on them.

“soon you will be among your night-stocks in your garden. their perfume will be more fragrant than the scent of ballrooms and theatres.

“good-night.

“robin adair.

“have i thanked you for your letter? i do thank you from my heart.”