Part 11 (1/2)
”Good-night, everybody,” she was saying.
”Well, we've printed a paper this week, anyhow,” said Nort.
Anthy laughed: she had a fine clear laugh, not loud, but sweet, the kind of a laugh one remembers long afterward.
”Hold on, Miss Doane,” said Nort, starting up suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him, ”I'm going with you.”
He jumped for his coat. Anthy remained, still without moving, at the door. I chanced to glance at Fergus and saw him bite down on his pipe-- I saw the scowl that darkened his face.
So they went out together. A moment later I went out, too, and as I crossed the street on my way toward home I heard Anthy's voice through the night air, no words, just the inflection I had come to know so well, and then Nort's laugh. I stopped and looked back at the printing-office, half hidden in the shadows of its garden. A dim light still burned in the window. I saw Fergus come out and look down the street in the direction that Nort and Anthy had gone, look thus for some time, and go in again. And so I turned again homeward for my lonely walk under the stars.
Life has been good to me, and as I look back upon it no one thing seems more precious than the thought that I have been much trusted with deep things in the lives of other men and women. Next to living great things for one's self (we learn by and by to put that aside) it is wonderful to be _lived through_. It is wonderful to know a human soul, and ask nothing of it, nothing at all, save its utter confidence.
I know what took place that night when Nort first walked home with Anthy almost as well as though I had been with them. And I know how Fergus felt, Fergus who had known Anthy's father, who had seen Anthy grow up from a slim, eager, somewhat dreamy child to the woman she was now.
What do you suppose Nort and Anthy talked about? About themselves? Not a bit of it! They began by talking about the _Star_ and the poems they had just printed and how Hempfield would like them. And Nort, taking fire from the spontaneous combustion of his own ideas, began to talk as only Nort can talk. He painted a renewed country journalism in glowing language--a powerful engine of public opinion emanating from the country and expressing the mind, the heart, the very soul, of the people of the land. (Nort had never before in his life spent two consecutive months in the country!) Great writers should contribute to its columns--yes, by George, great poets, too!--statesmen would consult its opinions, and its editor (and deep down inside Nort saw himself with incomparable vividness as that very editor), its editor would sway the destinies of the nation. As he talked he began to swing his arms, he increased his pace until he was a step or two ahead of Anthy, walking so quickly at times that she could scarcely keep up with him. Apparently he forgot that she was there--only he didn't quite. Apparently he was talking impersonally to the tree tops and the south wind and the stars--only he wasn't, really. When they came to the gate of Anthy's home, Nort walked straight past it and did not discover for a moment or two that Anthy had stopped.
When he came back Anthy was standing, a dim figure, in the gateway.
”Well,” he said, ”I've been doing all the talking----”
Anthy's low laugh sounded clear in the night air.
”Your picture of a reconstructed country newspaper is irresistible!”
”It could be done!” said Nort. ”It could be done right here in Hempfield. Brains and energy will count anywhere, Miss Doane. Why, we could make the Hempfield _Star_ one of the most quoted journals in America--or in the world!”
They stood silent for a moment there at the gate. Nort was not looking at Anthy, or thought he was not, but long afterward he had only to close his eyes, and the whole scene came back to him: the dim old house rising among its trees, the wide sky and the stars overhead, and the slight figure of Anthy there in the gateway. And the very odour and feel of the night----
Anthy was turning to walk up the pathway.
”One week more,” said Nort.
”One week more,” responded Anthy.
Now there is nothing either mystical or poetical about any one of these three words-one--week--more--or about all of them together, and yet Nort once repeated them for me as though they had some peculiar or esoteric significance. They merely meant that there was another week before Ed Smith returned. A week is enough for youth!
[Ill.u.s.tration]
CHAPTER IX
A LETTER TO LINCOLN
Reaching this point in my narrative I lean back in my chair--the coals are dying down in the fireplace, Harriet long ago went to bed, and the house is silent with a silence that one can hear--I lean back and think again of that moment in Anthy's life.
I have before me an open letter, a letter so often opened and so often folded again that the creases are worn thin. I keep it in the drawer of my desk with a packet labelled, ”Archives of the _Star_.” There are several of the old Captain's editorials, including the one ent.i.tled ”Fudge,” and of course the one about Roosevelt, a number of Nort's early ma.n.u.scripts, Fergus's version of Mark Twain, and five letters in Anthy's firm handwriting.
This is a very curious doc.u.ment, this letter I have before me. The outside of the envelope bears the name of Abraham Lincoln, and the letter itself begins: ”Dear Mr. Lincoln.” It is in Anthy's hand.