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MOTION PICTURE CLASSIC
Storm back to the Driftwood. Little did I know of this until later, for, thru it all, I guarded the light on the top of ’Ception . . . the very light that had enabled Philip to land, the light that now flashed thru the storm to the Driftwood, rocking in the heavy seas.
Towards morning the storm abated and I fell asleep. When I awoke the sun was shining, the sea was rolling placidly, the storm of the night before was a mere memory.
I walked along the sands, when suddenly the lighthouse tender, Smoot, appeared. Smoot, as I knew, was now first mate of the Driftwood. I started, of course, at the sight of him and looked to sea. There, at anchor, was Philip’s yacht.
“Philip has come back !’’ I exclaimed.
“Blake is dead,” said Smoot, abruptly. “Died at sea. But he left this letter for you.” With that he handed me a note.
There was just one word, “Eve,” on the envelope. It was unmistakably Philip’s writing. And, thru my tears, I read' the enclosure :
“Dearest — I cannot face things as they are. The wretchedness of life ! I was just coming to realize the beauty of it all. The world is empty without you, Eve . . . Never can I take you in my arms again. There’s just one thing — death.
“Philip.”
“He’s gone,” continued Smoot. “Might just as well forget him, girlie. What about me?”
I turned abruptly to go to the lighthouse, halfblinded with my tears. ’Twas then Smoot seized me. That maddened my whole being. I fought like an animal, beating and scratching his leering face.
Suddenly, out of the madness of it all, I heard a voice — Philip’s ! Smoot staggered back and ran down the beach . . . There were
just Philip and I . . . alone “You’ve come back-•' ^ knowing all about
me?” I made myself
at last . . . close to the edge
of the ocean.
ask
Shall I ever forget the bitter loneliness . . . the wretchedness . . . the growing realization that Philip was not writing . . . was not thinking of me . . . was not coming back?
‘They said you were dead,” I whispered, afraid to touch him and find myself dreaming.
“You, too ; he told me you were dead,” he said.
‘Dont you understand, Philip ?” I said. “They’ve tried to keep us apart, but God wouldn’t have it so. There is right . . . and beauty . . . and love in the world after all.”
“This morning it was all empty and dreary,” smiled Philip. “As lonely as before you came out of the sea that morning. Now you’re with me and the sun is shining again. Eve.”
“You’ve come back — knowing all about me?” I made myself ask.
“As if the dead past mattered. Eve,” answered Philip. “There’s just you and me. That’s all that counts.”
“But that letter?” I asked.
“I wrote that thinking you were dead. I was going to cast it into the sea ... a {Continued on page 67)
(Forty-six)