LATER he dressed with scrupulous exactitude, and proceeded directly to Hydrangea House. The afternoon was sultry, the air full of the soothing drone of summer insects, the dust of the road rose in heavy puffs about his feet. He crossed the stream and fields, saturated with sunlight, and came to the pillared portico of his destination.
“Miss Dreen,” Anthony said, stepping forward into the opening door.
“Miss Dreen cannot see you,” the servant returned without hesitation. Anthony drew back, momentarily repelled; but, before he could question this announcement, he heard grinding wheels on the gravel drive. Turning, he saw a motor stop, and Mrs. Dreen descend, followed by a man with a somber, deeply-scored countenance. Anthony moved forward eagerly as she mounted the steps. “Mrs. Dreen,” he asked; “can you tell me-” She passed with a confused, blank face, without stopping or acknowledging his salutation, and the door closed softly upon her and her companion.
A momentary flame of anger within Anthony quickly sank to cold consternation. Eliza had told her parents and they had dismissed the idea and him. It was evident they had forbidden her to see him. He walked indecisively down the steps, still carrying his hat, and stopped mechanically on the driveway. He gazed blindly over a brilliant, scarlet bed of geraniums, over the extended lawn, the rolling hills of Ellerton. Then his courage returned, stiffened by the obstacles which apparently confronted him: he would show them that he was not to be lightly dismissed; no power on earth should separate him from Eliza.
The servant had only obeyed Mrs. Dreen's direction; Eliza, he was certain, had no choice in the matter of his reception. Then, unexpectedly, he remembered his father's words, the latter's contemptuous reference to all appeals to women. He must go to Mr. Dreen, and straightforwardly state his position, tell him... what? Why, that he, Anthony Ball, loved Eliza, desired her, had come to take her away... where? In all the world he had no place prepared for her. He drove his hand into his pocket, and discovered a quarter of a dollar and some odd pennies—all that he possessed. Suddenly he laughed, a short, sorry merriment that stopped in a dry gasp. He turned and ran, stumbling over the grass, through the hot dust, toward Ellerton. Two years, he thought, California; California and two years.
XXII
ANTHONY sat late into the night composing an explanatory and farewell letter to Eliza:
“Your family would laugh at me,” he wrote; “I couldn't show them a dollar. And although my father has done a great deal for me he wouldn't do this. I couldn't expect him to. Mother might help, she is like you, but I could not very well live between two women, could I? The only hope is California for a couple of years. You know how much I want to stay with you, how hard this is to write, when our engagement, everything, is so new and wonderful. But it would only be harder later. If I had seen you this afternoon I would never have left you. I am going to-morrow night. This will come to you in the morning, and I will be home if you send me a message. I would like to see you again before I go away in order to come back to you forever. I would like to hear you say again that you love me. Sometimes I think it never really happened. If I don't see you again before I leave, remember I shall never change, I shall love you always and not forget the least thing you said. I wish now I had studied so that I could write better. Remember that I belong to you, when you want me I will come to you if it's around the world, I would come to you if I were dead I think. Good-bye, dear, dear Eliza, until tomorrow anyhow, and that's a long while to be without seeing you or hearing your voice.”