  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." 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. 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 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 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?" |
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