  IN the evening he stopped from force of habit at Doctor Allhop's drugstore: the familiar group was assembled behind the screen at the rear, the conversation flowed in the old channels. Anthony lounged and listened, but his attention continually wandered—he heard other, more musical, tones; his vision was filled with a candid face and widely-opened eyes in the green gloom of a pergola. He passed out by the bevy at the sodawater fountain to the street. In the artificial day of the electric lights the early summer foliage was as virulently green as the toy trees of a miniature ark; the sky was a breathless vault filled with blue mists that veiled the stars; under the locust trees the blooms were spilled odorously, whitely, on the pavement. He walked aimlessly to the outskirts of the town. Across the dim valley, against the hills merged into the night and sky, he could see glimmering the low lights of Hydrangea House. It would be pleasant, he thought, to be closer to that abode of delight; and, crossing the road, he vaulted a fence, and descended through a tangle of aromatic grass to the brook that threaded the meadow below. A star swam imaged on the black, wrinkled surface of the water: it suggested vague, happy images—Eliza was the star, and he was the brook, holding her mirrored in his dreams. He passed cows, blowing softly into the sod; a flock of sheep broke before him like an argent cloud on the heaven of the fields; and, finally, reached the boundary of James Dreen's acres. He forced his way through the budding hedge from which the place had its name, and, in a cup of the lawn like a pool of brimming, fragrant shadows, sat watching the lights of the house. Indistinct shapes passed the windows, each—since it might be she—carrying to him a thrill; indistinguishable voices reached him, the vague tones—they might be hers—chiming like bells on his straining senses. The world, life, was so beautiful that it brought an obstruction into his throat; he drew the back of his hand across his eyes, and, to his surprise, found that it was wet. Presently, the lights sank on the lower floor and reappeared above. The blinding whiteness of the thought of Eliza sleeping seared his brain like a flare of powder. When the house retreated unrelieved into the gloom he rose and slowly retraced his steps. He lit a cigarette; the match burned with a steady flame in the stillness; but, in an unnamed impulse, he flung both aside, and filled his lungs with the elysian June air.
|
|
