They mounted and pursued a track through the woods in silence, till Jon said:
“Do you like picnics?”
“I certainty do not.”
“Nor do I. But riding?”
“I just adore it more than anything in the world.”
“More than dancing?”
“Surely. Riding and swimming.”
“Ah! I THOUGHT—” And he was silent.
“What did you think?”
“Well, I thought somehow you were a good swimmer.”
“Why?”
Jon said with embarrassment:
“By your eyes—”
“What! Are they fishy?”
Jon laughed.
“Not exactly. They’re like a water nymph’s.”
“I don’t just know if that’s a compliment.”
“Of course it is.”
“I thought nymphs weren’t respectable.”
“Oh! WATER nymphs—very! Shy, of course.”
“Do you have many in England?”
“No. As a matter of fact I’ve never seen one before.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Just a general sense of what’s fitting.”
“I suppose you had a classical education. Don’t you all have that in England?”
“Far from it.”
“And how do you like America, Mr. Forsyte?”
“Very much. I get homesick sometimes.”
“I’d love to travel.”
“You never have?”
She shook her head. “I just stay at home and look after things. But I reckon we’ll have to sell the old home—cotton doesn’t pay any more.”
“I grow peaches near Southern Pines, you know, up in North Carolina; that’s paying at present.”
“D’you live there alone?”
“No; with my mother.”
“Is she English?”
“Yes.”
“Have you a father?”
“He died four years ago.”
“Francis and I have been orphans ten years.”
“I wish you’d both come and stay with us some day; my mother would be awfully glad.”
“Is she like you?”
Jon laughed.
“No. She’s beautiful.”
The eyes regarded him gravely, the lips smiled faintly.
“I’d just love to come, but Francis and I can’t ever be away together.”
“But,” said Jon, “you’re both here.”
“We go back tomorrow; I wanted to see Camden.” The eyes resumed their steady consideration of Jon’s face. “Won’t you come back with us and see our home—it’s old? Francis would like to have you come.”
“Do you always know what your brother would like?”
“Surely.”
“That must be jolly. But do you really mean you want me?”
“I certainly do.”
“I’d enjoy it awfully; I hate hotels. I mean—well, you know—” But as HE didn’t, he was not so sure that she did.
She touched her horse, and the single-footing animal broke into a canter.
Along the alleys of the eternal pinewood the sun was in their eyes; a warmed scent rose from pine needles, gum and herbs; the going was sandy and soft; the horses in good mood. Jon felt happy. This girl had strange eyes, enticing; and she rode better even than the Blair girls.
“I suppose all the English ride well?” she said.
“Most do, when they ride at all; but we don’t ride much nowadays.”
“I’d love to see England; our folk came from England in 1700—Worcestershire. Where is that?”
“It’s our middle west,” said Jon. “But as unlike as ever you can imagine. It’s a fruit-growing county—very pretty; white timbered houses, pastures, orchards, woods, green hills. I went there walking one holiday with a school friend.”
“It sounds just lovely. Our ancestors were Roman Catholics. They had a place called Naseby; that’s why we call ours Naseby. But my grandmother was French Creole, from Louisiana. Is it true that in England they think Creoles have negro blood in them?”
“We’re very ignorant,” said Jon. “I know the Creoles are the old French and Spanish families. You both look as if you had French blood.”
“Francis does. Do you think we’ve passed that mound? We’ve come all of four miles, and I thought it was only two.”
“Does it matter? The other mound was rather over-rated.”
The lips smiled; she didn’t ever quite laugh, it seemed.
“What Indians hereabouts?” asked Jon.
“I’m not too sure; Seminoles, if any, I think. But Francis says these mounds would be from way back before the present tribes. What made you come to America, Mr. Forsyte?”
Jon bit his lip. To give the reason—family feud—broken love affair—was not exactly possible.
“I went first to British Columbia; but I didn’t get on too well. Then I heard of peaches in North Carolina.”
“But why did you leave England?”
“I suppose I just wanted to see the world.”
“Yes,” she said. It was a quiet but comprehending sound; Jon was the more gratified, because she had not comprehended. The image of his first love did not often haunt him now—had not for a year or more. He had been so busy with his peaches. Besides, Holly had written that Fleur had a boy. He said suddenly: “I think we ought to turn. Look at the sun!” The sun, indeed, was well down behind the trees.
“My—yes!”
Jon turned his steed. “Let’s gallop, it’ll be down in half an hour; and there’s no moon till late.”
They galloped back along the track. The sun went down even faster than he had thought, the air grew cold, the light grey. Jon reined up suddenly.
“I’m awfully sorry; I don’t believe we’re on the track we came by from the picnic. I feel we’ve gone off to the right. The tracks are all alike and these horses only came in from Columbia yesterday; they don’t know the country any more than we do.”
The girl laughed.
“We’ll be lost.”
“M’m! That’ll be no joke in these woods. Don’t they ever end?”
“I reckon not, in these parts. It’s an adventure.”
“Yes; but you’ll catch cold. It’s jolly cold at night.”
“And you’ve had ‘flu!”
“Oh! That’s all right. Here’s a track to the left. Shall we go on, or shall we take it?”
“Take it.”
They cantered on. It was too dark now for galloping, and soon too dark for cantering. And the track wound on and on.
“This is a pretty business,” said Jon. “I am sorry.” He peered towards her riding beside him, and could just see her smile.
“Why! It’s lots of fun.”
He was glad she thought so, but he could not see it.
“I HAVE been an ass. Your brother’ll be pretty sick with me.”
“He’ll know I’m with you.”
“If we only had a compass. We may be out all night at this rate. Here’s another fork! Gosh, it is going to be dark.”
And, almost as he spoke, the last of the light failed; he could barely see her five yards away.
He came up close alongside, and she touched his sleeve.
“Don’t worry,” she said; “that spoils it.”
Shifting his reins, he gave her hand a squeeze.
“You’re splendid, Miss Wilmot.”