I GET BETTER ACQUAINTED WITH ANTHY
As we look backward, those times in our lives which glow brightest, seem
most worth while, are by no means those in which we have been happiest
or most successful, but rather those in which, though painful and even
sorrowful, we have been most necessary, most _desired_. To be needed in
other human lives--is there anything greater or more beautiful in this
world?
It was in the weeks that followed upon these events that I came to know
Anthy best, nearest, deepest--to be of most use to her and to the
_Star_. A strange thing it was, too; for the nearer I came to her, the
farther away I seemed to find myself! She was very wonderful that
winter. I saw her grow, strengthen, deepen, under that test of the
spirit, and with a curious unconsciousness of her own development, as
she shows in the one letter to Lincoln of that period which has been
saved. She seemed to think it was all a part of the daily work; that the
_Star_ must be preserved, and that it was incumbent upon her to do it.
In those days I was often at her home, sometimes walking from the office
with her and the old Captain, sometimes with the old Captain, sometimes
alone with Anthy. She was not naturally very talkative, especially, as I
found, with one she knew well and trusted; but I think I have never
known any other human being who seemed so much alive just underneath.
It was on one of these never-to-be-forgotten evenings in the old library
of her father's house, with the books all around, that I came first into
Anthy's deeper life. A draft from an open door stirred the picture of
Lincoln on the wall above the mantelpiece, and a letter, slipping from
behind it, dropped almost at my feet. I stooped and picked it up and
read the writing on the envelope:
"_To Abraham Lincoln._"
Anthy's attention had been momentarily diverted to the door, and she did
not see what had happened.
"A letter to Lincoln," I said aloud, turning it over in my hand.
I shall never forget how she turned toward me with a quick intake of her
breath, the colour in her face, and her hand slowly lifting to her
breast. She took a step toward me, and I, knowing that I had somehow
touched a deep spring of her life, held out the letter. A moment we
stood thus, a moment I can never forget. Then she said in a low voice:
"Read it, David."
I cut the envelope and read the letter to Lincoln, and knew that Anthy
had opened a way into her confidence for me that had never before been
opened to any one else.
"David," she said, "I wanted you to know. In some ways you have come
closer to me than any one else except my father."
She said it without embarrassment, straight at me with clear eyes. I
was like her father. I understood.
[Illustration: _After that she opened her heart more and more to me--a
little here, a little there_]
I begged that letter of her, and others written both before and after,
and keep them in the securest part of my golden treasury. After that she
opened her heart more and more to me--a little here, a little there. I
waited for those moments, counted on them, tried to avoid the slightest
appearance of any jarring emotion, found them incomparably beautiful.
She gave me vivid glimpses of her early life, of the books she liked
best and the poetry, told me with enthusiasm of her college life and the
different girls who were her friends (showing me their pictures), and
finally, and choicest of all, she told me, a little here and a little
there, of the curious imaginative adventures which had been so much a
part of her girlhood. I presume I took all these things more seriously
than she did, for she exhibited them in no solemn vein, as though they
were important, but always in an amusing or playful light--here with a
bit of mock heroics, there with half-wistful laughter. And yet, through
it all, I could see that they had meant a great deal to her.
I think, I am almost sure, that Anthy had never at this time had a love
affair in any ordinary sense. To the true romance and the truly
romantic--and by this I do not mean sentimental--the realities of love
are often late in coming. To the true romance the idea of marriage is at
first repugnant, will not be thought about, for it seeks to square and
conventionalize a great burst of the spirit. The inner life is so keen,
so vivid, that it satisfies itself, and it must indeed be a prince who
would kiss awake the eyes of the dreamer.
Some of these things, when I began this narrative, I had no intention of
setting down in cold type, for they are among the deepest experiences in
my life, and yet if I am to give an idea of what Anthy was and of the
events which followed, it is imposed upon me to leave nothing out.
I do not wish to indicate, however, that the talks I had with Anthy
usually or even often reached these depths of the intimate. These were
the rare and beautiful flowers which blossomed upon the slow-growing
branches of the tree of intimacy. It was a curious thing, also, that
while she let me more and more deeply into her own life she knew less
about what was in my life than many other friends, far less even than
Nort. Youth is like that, too, and even when essentially unselfish, it
is terribly absorbed in the wonders of its own being. I knew what it
meant. In a way it was the price I paid for the utter trust she had in
me.
[Illustration]