She stepped out of the shade. Had anyone been watching, he would have seen, in the instant the sun hit her, a gleam of future beauty. Just now June was only half formed. There was a lack of harmony about her; that soft, sliding, disturbing quality that is at once the despair of adolescents and their fascination. Her face was over-large for the skull behind it. The strong sweep of her jawbone met her ears as though surprised to come so suddenly upon these exquisite, small shells. Her eyes were yellow-brown; set deep with rough brows above them. Her forehead was too high. Only her nose, piercing through, so to speak, from behind the mask of her face, showed the same proportion as that dainty skull. It was straight, narrow, pure and of medium length. The nostrils were so thin that one could see the blood through, and they quivered with every emotion, giving her an angel look. Then too, softening the whole, were the rich, blond locks of her hair which fell wild upon temple, cheek and nape.
June kicked through the spiked grasses of the pasture and avoided the five cows with her eyes. She had never gotten over her fear of them and did not want to attract them with her regard. A few mushrooms which had sprouted in the morning dew now lay dying. Their rosy, pleated undersides were black. She reached the woods and started down the steep path to the bay. Occasionally her knees bent the wrong way from weakness and sent a sharp twinge along her leg. She had had the intention of bathing, but now she knew she would never have the strength to do so. She went on simply because it was downhill and had no idea of how she would ever get back up. The path wound around the trunks of trees like a cool, dark snake slipping downwards to drink in the marsh. Presently June could see the glitter of water through the branches and she came to a little dell at the bottom of the path where a spring burst out of the ground and ran away.
Someone was here already; a boy on a horse. He was a lad of eleven or so, with a dark mop of hair and his horse was drinking thirstily at the spring. June was startled. One might wander through these woods day after day and never meet a soul. Then she noticed that the boy had a bird on his wrist and, probably to protect himself from beak or claw, wore a leather gauntlet which reached up his forearm. The boy was regarding her, black-eyed, from a face which, even in repose, bore a mobile, nervous expression.
An unaccountable feeling of happiness came over June on seeing this child, like the pleasant recollection of a dream which one cannot really remember. She spoke first. “Do you live near here?” She neither smiled nor made any gesture of friendship, but the boy did not seem shy.
“Yes, over there.” He jerked his head in the direction of the beach. His voice was in that fluty stage which not all boys have. So far no trace of manhood marred its tone although it was touched by shrillness. June, listening, thought that it reminded her of something. Then she asked, surprised:
“You don’t live in the millionaire’s boathouse, do you?”
She was referring to a large brick building which had stood tenantless now for years, yawning over the water. Mrs. Grey had rented the land over ten years ago to a rich man called Walsh. No one knew why and perhaps there was no reason. At any rate Mrs. Grey had never given one to her son. Walsh had built a house on it for his mistresses and his speed boats, but no one seemed to know what had happened to him lately. Only a caretaker and his wife remained, and they kept to themselves and were ignorant of the intentions of their employer. A high wall around the property kept out intruders, or rather wild animals, since forests and reeds had grown up on three sides and on the other the salt water slid beneath the building, in and out.
The boy, who had not answered her question, now stated: “My name’s Ronny. What’s yours?”
“June.”
“You look rather funny,” he said.
June defended herself. “I’ve been sick. It’s the first time I’ve been out and I think I shouldn’t have, come so far.”
“I’m never sick,” said Ronny with a look of regret. Then suddenly his face changed as though a secret thought had opened like a rose inside his brain. “I sometimes have headaches,” he offered, looking down at her with that flirting glance which children sometimes give, a glance to which June could not respond. With a proud gesture he took the hood from his bird’s head. The falcon fluttered for a moment and then lifted himself straight upwards. They watched in silence as his dark wings cut the sky above the trees. “He’s a hunting hawk,” said Ronny.
“Is he hunting now?” asked June.
“Well, he doesn’t really hunt yet. I haven’t got as far as that with him, but he comes when I call him home at night.”
June started and looked up surprised. Ronny’s horse, long finished drinking, was tearing at the foliage which grew near the spring. Now and then he stamped his hoof impatiently. A big fly with a brilliant green head was bothering him, giving him long, vicious bites so that his flanks quivered.
“Do you know,” asked Ronny in his high, excited voice, “what happens when you put the leaves he is eating into the water?” With a kick he threw his bare leg over the horse’s back and slid to the ground. Grasping one of the weeds from beneath the animal’s nose, he pulled it up roots and all and plunged it into the water. He was like a magician performing a star trick and at once the leaves turned into precious silver, glittering as they bent beneath the water’s current. Ronny crouched there in triumph by the spring and his black hair fell across his eyes.
“It’s beautiful!” cried June, who had known about silver-weed all her life.
Ronny rose to his feet. “Where do you live?” he asked.
“In the house on top of the hill,” replied June. “But I don’t know how I’m ever going to get back there. My legs are so tired and weak.”
“Get on behind,” said Ronny at once. “Gambol will take you there.” He led the horse to a fallen tree and they both climbed up. “I usually spring onto his back in a single bound,” said Ronny, “but there’s no point if you must mount too.”
“None at all,” agreed June, holding on to the boy’s waist in order not to fall. She was overcome with lassitude and murmured directions as though in a dream. Once Ronny half turned around and asked:
“Do you think you could be called a damsel?”
“Certainly,” June answered with a smile. “A damsel in distress.”
Ronny was silent after that. He frowned in thought and swung his bare feet against the horse’s sides.
CHAPTER THREE
Ronny, the lovely child with his silky olive skin and tangle of hair, was a worry to his mother. Especially of late. The boarding school, to which he had been sent for the first time, did not suit his temperament. He failed in his classes, and his constant tension forced them to release him early. Even pretty, worldly Grace Villars realized that something must be done about her son. But Grace could not bear to give up her summer visits at fashionable resorts; indeed she could not afford to. So it was good luck when she came across Walsh at a party in New York that spring; Walsh who owned the boathouse on Mrs. Grey’s peninsula.
“Grace,” he said, “how nice to see you again after all these years, and looking as pretty as ever. How’s Roger?”
“Roger’s dead, Jim. Surely you must have heard,” said Grace Villars.
“Oh, yes, as a matter of fact I did read about it.” He put his rubbery face nearer hers so that she could look into his eyes below their heavy lids and asked: “How’s the boy?”
“It’s about time you asked,” said Grace, shaking her bright curls and blinking her lashes against the melancholy power of his eyes.
“Now Grace, you know I’ve always taken an interest in the boy, even though we don’t see each other,” protested Jim, who had never been sure whether or not Ronny was his own son. He looked again at his companion. How strange it always was after a lapse of years