She looked down at him with hard eyes. "We are going to ride cross-country—to the Ridge. You might meet us there, if you care to come."
"You know I care."
"I'm not sure. You don't show it. I—I am tired of never having a lover—Dicky."
It was a wonderful afternoon. The heavy frost had chilled the air, the leaves were red, and the sky was blue—and there was green and brown and gold. But Richard as he rode up in the hills had no eyes for the color, no ears for the song beaten out by big Ben's hoofs. The vision which held him was of Eve in the midst of that shouting circle.
The man who had cut himself was black. He was thin and tall and his hair was gray. He had worked hard all of his life, but he had never worked out of himself the spirit of joyous optimism.
"I jes' tole 'um," he said, "to send for Dr. Brooks, and he'd beat the devil gettin' to me."
When Richard reached the Ridge, a flash of scarlet at once caught his eye. On the slope below Eve, far ahead of Meade, in a mad race, was making for a grove at the edge of the Crossroads boundaries. She was a reckless rider, and Richard held his breath as she took fences, leaped hurdles, and cleared the flat wide stream.
As she came to the grove she turned and waved triumphantly to Pip. For a moment she made a vivid and brilliant figure in her scarlet against the green. Then the little wood swallowed her up.
Pip came pounding after, and Richard, spurring his big Ben to unaccustomed efforts, circled the grove to meet them on the other side.
But they did not come. From the point where he finally drew up he could command a view of both sides of the slope. Unless they had turned back, they were still in the grove.