“Go in and relieve your brother’s mind. I’ll take the horses round, and then come on.”
When he entered the hotel lounge Francis Wilmot, still in riding clothes, was alone. His expression was peculiar, not exactly hostile, but certainly not friendly.
“Anne’s gone up,” he said, “I reckon you haven’t much bump of locality. You surely had me scared.”
“I’m awfully sorry,” said Jon humbly, “I forgot the horses were new to the country.”
“Well!” said Francis Wilmot, and shrugged his shoulders. Jon looked at the young man steadily.
“You don’t think that I got bushed on purpose? Because you look as if you did.”
Again Francis Wilmot shrugged his shoulders.
“Forgive me,” said Jon, “but aren’t you forgetting that your sister’s a lady, and that one doesn’t behave like a cad with a lady?”
Francis Wilmot did not answer; he went to a window and stood looking out. Jon felt very angry. He sat down on the arm of a long chair, suddenly extremely tired. He sat there looking at the ground, and frowning heavily. Damn the fellow! Had he been bullying Anne? If he had–! A voice behind him said: “I reckon I didn’t mean it. I certainly am sorry. It was just the scare. Shake hands!”
Jon stretched out his own impulsively, and they shook hands, looking straight into each other’s eyes.
“You must be about through,” said Francis Wilmot. “Come on to my room; I’ve gotten a flask. I’ve given Anne a dram already.”
They went up. Jon sat in the only chair, Francis Wilmot on the bed.
“Anne tells me she’s asked you to come home with us tomorrow. I surely hope you will.”
“I should simply love to.”
“That’s fine!”
They drank, talked a little, smoked.
“Good night,” said Jon, suddenly, “or I shall go to sleep here.”
They shook hands again, and Jon staggered to his room. He fell asleep at once.
They travelled next day, all three, through Columbia and Charleston, to the Wilmot’s place. It stood in the bend of a red river, with cotton fields around, and swampy ground where live oaks grew, melancholy, festooned with Florida moss. The old slave quarters, disused except as kennels, were still standing; the two-storied house had flights of wooden steps running up on each side, on to the wide wisteria-covered porch, and needed a coat of paint; and, within, rooms ran one into the other, hung with old portraits of dead Wilmots and de Frevilles; and darkies wandered around and talked their soft drawled speech.
Jon was happier than he had been since he landed in the New World three and a half years ago. In the mornings he sauntered with the dogs in the sunlight or tried to write poetry–for the two young Wilmots were busy. After the midday meal he rode with them or with Anne alone. In the evening he learned from her to play the ukulele before a wood fire lighted at sundown, or heard about cotton culture from Francis, with whom, since that moment of animosity, he was on the best of terms.
Between Anne and himself there was little talk; they had, as it were, resumed the silence which had fallen when they sat in the dark under the old Indian mound. But he watched her; indeed, he was always trying to catch the grave enticing look in her dark eyes. More and more she seemed to him unlike any girl he had ever known; quicker, more silent, and with more “sand.” The days went on, in warm sun, and the nightly scent of wood smoke; and his holiday drew to an end. He could play the ukulele now, and they sang to it–negro spirituals, songs from comic operas, and other immortal works. The last day came, and dismay descended on Jon. To-morrow, early, he was going back to his peaches at Southern Pines! That afternoon, riding with her for the last time, the silence was almost unnatural, and she did not even look at him. Jon went up to change, with panic in his heart. He knew now that he wanted to take her back with him, and he thought he knew that she did not want to come. How he would miss watching for those eyes to be fixed on him. He was thirsty with the wish to kiss her. He went down moodily, and sat in a long chair before the wood fire, pulling a spaniel’s ears and watching the room darken. Perhaps she wouldn’t even come for a last sing-song. Perhaps there would be nothing more but dinner and an evening a trois; not even a chance to say he loved her and be told that she didn’t love him. And he thought, miserably: ‘It’s my fault–I’m a silent fool; I’ve missed my chance.’ The room darkened till there was nothing but firelight, and the spaniel went to sleep. Jon, too, closed his eyes. It was as if he could wait better, thus–for the worst. When he opened them she was standing in front of him with the ukuleles in her hands.
“Do you want to play, Jon?”
“Yes,” said Jon, “let’s play. It’s the last time”; and he took his ukulele.
She sat down on the rug before the fire, and began to tune hers. Jon slipped down beside the spaniel and began to tune his. The spaniel got up and went away.
“What shall we sing?”
“I don’t want to sing, Anne. You sing; I’ll just accompany.”
She didn’t look at him! She would not look at him! It was all up! What a fool he’d been!
Anne sang. She sang a crooning phrase–some Spanish air. Jon plucked his strings, and the tune plucked his heart. She sang it through. She sang it again, and her eyes slid round. God! She WAS looking at him. She mustn’t see that he knew she was! It was too good–that long dark look over the ukulele. Between him and her were her ukulele and his own. He dropped the beastly thing. And, suddenly shifting along the floor, he put his arm round her. Without a word she drooped her head against his shoulder, as when they sat under the Indian mound. He bent his cheek down to her hair. It smelled, as it had then, of hay. And, just as she had screwed her face round in the moonlight, she turned it to him now. But this time Jon kissed her lips.

1 2 3