A little desk on a side-table, the common property of himself, his
mother, and sister, was soon opened, and materials found. Then, in his
own uncial characters, that always tended hopefully upward, and thus
left a triangle of untouched paper at the bottom of every sheet, Will
wrote a letter of two folios, or eight complete pages. In this he
repeated the points of his conversation with Phoebe's father, told her
to be patient, and announced that, satisfied of her unfailing love and
steadfastness through all, he was about to pass into the wider world,
and carve his way to prosperity and fortune. He hid particulars from
her, but mentioned that Clement Hicks would forward any communications.
Finally he bid her keep a stout heart and live contented in the
certainty of ultimate happiness. He also advised Phoebe to forgive her
father. "I have already done it, honor bright," he wrote; "'t is a wise
man's part to bear no malice, especially against an old grey body whose
judgment 'pears to be gone bad for some reason." He also assured Phoebe
that he was hers until death should separate them; in a postscript he
desired her to break his departure softly to his mother if opportunity
to do so occurred; and, finally, he was not ashamed to fill the empty
triangles on each page with kisses, represented by triangles closely
packed. Bearing this important communication, Will walked out again into
the night, and soon his letter awaited Phoebe in the usual receptacle.
He felt therein himself, half suspecting a note might await him, but
there was nothing. He hesitated for a moment, then climbed the gate into
Monks Barton farmyard, went softly and stood in the dark shadow of the
mill-house. The moon shone full upon the face of the dwelling, and its
three fruit-trees looked as though painted in profound black against the
pale whitewash; while Phoebe's dormer-window framed the splendour of the
reflected sky, and shone very brightly. The blind was down, and the
maiden behind it had been asleep an hour or two; but Will pictured her