It was not till after his supper that he again thought of it, and he pulled it carelessly from his pocket. Within the envelope was the typewritten communication he had expected, and also a letter. It was addressed to Robin Adair, Esq., care of the publishers.
Peter turned the letter over curiously. The post-mark was London, the writing educated, delicately firm. He broke the seal and drew the letter from the envelope. Here is what he read:
“London.
“May 16th.
“This letter can have no formal beginning, inasmuch as it is not written to a man, but to a personality—the personality that breathes through the book signed by Robin Adair. Nor, in spite of appearances, is it a letter from a woman, but from a personality as impersonal—if the contradiction may pass—as that to which it is addressed.
“And in the first place I am trusting that you—for impersonal as one may wish to be, one cannot dispense with pronouns—that you are possessed of sufficient intuition to discover that I am neither an autograph-hunter nor one desirous of snatching a sensation by stolen intercourse with a celebrity. I am not greatly flattering your intuitive powers therein; for nowhere is true personality so intimately revealed as in an intimate letter. Art can almost invariably be detected, and there is no fleshly mask to dazzle the perceptions and obscure the soul. An intelligent abstraction from a letter would probably give the truest image of the subjective side of any nature, which after all is the side with which as an individual one is concerned. If, therefore, after reading thus far, you are disposed to regard this letter as an impertinence, then it is one which is entirely without excuse, and I should desire you to tear it up forthwith.
“If, on the other hand, you have preserved an open mind so far, then I shall not attempt excuse, but furnish you with reasons. In fancy or in reality I have detected in your book, running through its sweetness and underlying all its strength, a great heart-cry for sympathy, the cry of a lonely soul. What it is that has wounded you I cannot tell, but I feel in every fibre that the wound is there.
“Now, I make you an offer—one of intimate comradeship with one of another sex, under conditions of such stringency as Plato’s self might have approved. I am a woman whom you have never seen, whom you will never see, of gentle birth, with a share at least of education and refinement, and, moreover, one who has been so profoundly moved and influenced by your writing that she feels with an extraordinary degree of confidence the existence of a mind-rapport between herself and you.
“For the moment that is enough. Should you wish to accept my offer, write to me at an address I shall subjoin, whence the letter will be forwarded to me. On your side the compact must be marked by one condition: you must pledge me your word never to make any attempt to discover my identity.
“As I dislike pseudonyms, I leave this letter unsigned.”
Peter laid the letter upon the table and stared at it.
“Amazing!” he ejaculated. Then he took it up again. It was written on bluish paper, and held the faintest—just the very faintest—hint of perfume, lavender delicately fragrant.
“And a woman,” said Peter, “has written this letter to me—to me!” His brain whirled slightly. There is no other description for its state at that moment. Gradually it steadied itself. He began to realize the reality of what had happened. He was not dreaming: the letter was actually in his hand, the words traced in a clear and fine writing.
Impersonal, indeed! She—this unknown woman—might call it so if she pleased. To Peter it breathed personality, a personality vivid and rare. Its intimate aloofness—again a contradiction—was full of charm.
An autograph-hunter! Bah! had the merest suspicion of such a thought crossed his mind he [Pg 75]would indeed have been unworthy so much as to lay a finger upon the epistle.
To say that Peter was touched would be a poor way of expressing the emotions that filled him. For years, remember, he had lived in mind-isolation from his fellow-men, and here out of the Invisible came the offer of a soul-intimacy, delicately, graciously made, and made by a woman.
That she was grande dame and beautiful his every instinct told him. There was an undernote of assurance about the letter that made the fact convincing. It needed not her statement that she was of gentle birth. Very assuredly she was one accustomed to deference and homage. And she had written thus to him. Wonderful!