ANNAN’S letters came to her every day. She answered infrequently,—not oftener than once a week.
Other letters were forwarded from Jane Street,—persistent letters from Smull begging to know where she had gone,—abject letters betraying all the persistence of a man who knows no pride, no shame in pursuit where there ever had been an end to gain.
Eris read only the first of Smull’s letters. The others went, unopened, into the kitchen range.
Twice, also, her husband wrote her,—evidently aware of annulment proceedings,—vaguely threatening her in case she married Smull,—furnishing her with a mass of filthy detail concerning Smull’s private life, menacing her and him, pleading,—sometimes begging for money.
She read both letters, sent them to her attorney, and cleansed her mind of them and of the creature who had written them.
The time was shortening; the days were drawing near when she must report for work.... Her last year of work, perhaps.... The last year, maybe, of her screen career.
She wrote to the man who already had become the object paramount of her life:
“Dearest:—
“Your daily letters reassure me. You do me a great kindness in writing them. Long ago, before I knew what love was, your unvarying kindness won me. Always, to me, it remains the most wonderful thing in the world.
“We are not yet in full autumn here at Whitewater Farms. Few leaves have turned. Except for miles of golden-rod and purple asters on fallow and roadside, and acres of golden stubble, and the wine-red acres of reaped buckwheat, one would scarcely believe that summer had ended in these Northern hills.
“I went to-day to Whitewater Brook, where I encountered the first person connected with pictures I ever had seen. You will laugh. It was poor old Quiss.
“He was fishing. He didn’t possess much skill. He called me ‘sister’ and ‘girlie.’
“I clung to him as a cat clings to a back fence. I pleaded, I implored for his aid and advice.
“Poor old fellow, I always shall be grateful. I met Frank Donnell through him—dearest of my friends excepting you, Barry.
“Well, then, I walked along the brook and sentimentalised in the dappled sunlight of the yellowing woods. The blue-jays were like winged sapphires everywhere; squirrels made a most prodigious noise among dry leaves. In a hemlock I saw a large owl sitting.
“I took home a huge sheaf of asters. Even in my arms butterflies hovered about the gold and blue blossoms.
“I shall leave here soon. My stepmother and my half-brothers are kind to me. My father, too, in his own way.
“But I shall not come to Whitewater Farms again.
“In spite of kindness, I am not wanted. Finally, I have come to understand that.
“I am not really welcome; I am pleasantly endured. My people have nothing in common with me. It always has been so. I seem to have been born an outsider. I still am. They can’t help it; nor can I. There seems to be no bond, no tie, no natural obligation of blood, none of custom, to hold me here.... It is a lonely feeling. But it has been mine from earliest recollection.
“Often I used to wonder why I had no intimate affection for this house, for the place—trees, hills, woods.
“I love them—but as one who passes that way often, and becomes fond of a neighbour’s house and trees.
“Never have they, in any intimate sense, been mine, or part of me.... Not even my old dresses, my few books, my fewer child’s toys, have I ever truly considered mine—lacking, perhaps, the love that should have been the gift,—the spirit, Barry—which left me only with the substance—a lonely, lonely child.
“Gradually I have come to realise that, before I came back, harmony reigned at Whitewater Farms. Now, there is the slightest note of discord. I am conscious of it. I know the others are. I understand, now, it was inevitable.... I am Eris, daughter of Discord.... But for you, Eris and Eros are merged and one. I strike out the i!... Forever, Barry. I and i melt into U and you! My eyes, too. Darling! Did you ever suspect such silly wit in me?
“Your attorney writes to me occasionally. He assures me he is speeding the annulment. To me, that brief phase was vaguer than a dream of which one remembers only an indefinable discomfort.
“When it is brushed away forever I shall marry you. If children come I can’t go on acting—or only between times. Not even then, because I shan’t leave them or you;—or you, Barry—chiefly you.... I shall be a good wife and a good mother.... And you shall provide our fame.
“And I shall turn lazy, and repose in the shadow of your greatness.
“When our time has come I should like a small house in the country. Would you? A garden? Hills—breezy in spring—and a little brook in the woods—and a cow or two—for the children’s sake. Do you mind, darling?
“When I was a young girl I was inclined toward verse. Here is one effusion:
‘This is my Prophet’s Paradise to come:—
Long grass a-tremble by a little brook,
A hillside where brown bees contented hum,
And I alone there with God’s Wonder-book
Wherein I read and ponder, read and pray,
Learning a truer Truth from day to day.’
“Be merciful to a school-girl’s rhymes. I’ve still a book full to show you, dear.
“And now, back to earth: I begin work in a little while, as you know.... And I am very fain to have you take me in your arms, Barry. And so shall soon come to you, being inclined that way—yours—yours no less truly now than when the law permits—always your property—your refuge, God willing—your roof, your shelter, your retreat, to hold by right, to enjoy in peace—the girl you found shabby and asleep, and have awakened, clothed in light.
“Gratitude undying; loyalty to you; love.
“Eris.”