TWO LETTERS
I can imagine just how Nort looked, sitting in the bare room of the
Bedlow Hotel of Hewlett, biting the end of his pen and struggling
furiously with his letter to Anthy. In one moment he would let himself
go the limit: "My dearest Anthy, I shall never see you again, and I can
therefore tell you with the more freedom of my undying love----" and at
the next moment he would hold himself to the strictest restraint: "My
dear Miss Doane" or "Dear Miss Doane." Half the letters he wrote were
too long, or too wild, or too passionate, and the other half were too
short or too cold. Before he got through, the table and floor all about
him were drifted white with torn scraps of his correspondence.
His face was pale and his hair was rumpled. For almost the first time in
his life he was in such deadly earnest, so altogether miserable, that he
could not even stand aside and see himself with any degree of interest
or satisfaction. This was the real thing.
He had firmly made up his mind as to his course. He would no longer
think and talk about doing something great and heroic for Anthy. He
would really do it. And he had settled upon quite the most heroic thing
he could think of--this extraordinary young man--and this was to leave
Hempfield, and to see no more of Anthy. Fergus was undoubtedly right. He
was not worthy of Anthy, and his presence and his love would be a
hindrance rather than a help to her. Whatever Nort did in those days he
did to the utter extremity. And this was the letter he finally sent:
MY DEAR MISS DOANE:
I am hopelessly unfortunate in everything I do. I do nothing
but blunder. I hope you will not think ill of me. Fergus is
right. In leaving Hempfield, not to return, I am leaving
everything in the world that means anything to me. I hope
you will at least set this down to the credit of
NORTON CARR.
I was in the office of the _Star_ when Nort's letter arrived. I saw
Anthy pause a moment, standing very still by her desk. I saw her open
the letter slowly, and then, after reading it, hold it hard in her hand,
which she unconsciously lifted to her breast. I saw her turn and walk
out of the office, a curious rapt expression upon her face.
As she entered the familiar hallway of her home, she told me afterward,
everything seemed strange to her and terribly lonely. A day's time had
changed the aspect of the world. She sat down in the study at the little
desk where she had found solace so often in writing letters to Mr.
Lincoln. But she was not thinking now of writing any such letter:
indeed, the door had already closed upon this phase of her imaginative
life, as it had closed on other and earlier phases. She never wrote
another letter to Mr. Lincoln.
She was not outwardly excited, nor did she tear up a single sheet of
notepaper, nor give any attention to the form of address. Her letter
was exactly like herself--simple, direct, and straight out of her heart.
She had no need of making any changes, for this was all she had to say:
DEAR NORT:
Why have you gone away from Hempfield, and where are you?
Just at the moment I found you, and found myself, you have
gone away. Is it anything I have done, or have not done? It
seems to me, as I look back, that I have been fast asleep
all the years, until last night when you wakened me. I know
I am awake, because everything I see to-day is changed from
what it was yesterday; everything is more beautiful and
nobler--and sadder. When I went down this morning I seemed
to see a new Hempfield. I loved it even more than I loved
the old Hempfield, and as I met the children on their way to
school I had a new feeling for them, too. They seemed very
dear to me.
I did not find you at the office, but my heart kept saying
to me, "Nort will soon be here.... In a moment Nort will be
coming in." Whenever I heard a step on the porch I said, "It
is surely Nort," but you did not come. I think the office
never seemed so wonderful to me as it did to-day, for the
thought that you had been there, and would be there again.
Everything reminded me of you, of the way you looked, and of
what you did, and how your voice sounded.
And then your letter came. Why have you gone away from
Hempfield? I could not make it any plainer last night,
Nort. I did not understand it fully myself, until afterward.
Don't you see? I have nothing to give that is not yours for
the asking. Come back, for I love you, Nort.
ANTHY.
This letter, which I did not know about until long afterward, was never
sent, for Anthy had no way of addressing it.
That evening, rereading Nort's letter, she said aloud:
"What does he mean by saying Fergus is right? What has Fergus to do with
it? Where _is_ Fergus?"
[Illustration]