THE ACQUAINTANCE RIPENS
Doris said no more on the subject. She was too well-bred to persist in
such a demand when it did not seem to be welcome. But though she
promptly changed the subject and talked about other things, inwardly she
had become transformed into a seething cauldron of curiosity.
Sally headed the boat for the draw in the bridge, and in another few
moments they had passed from the quiet, well-kept, bungalow-strewn
shores of the lower river, to the wild, tawny, uninhabited beauty of the
upper. The change was very marked, and the wagon bridge seemed to be the
dividing line.
"How different the river is up here," remarked Doris. "Not a house or a
bungalow, or even a fisherman's shack in sight."
"It is," agreed Sally. And then, in an unusual burst of confidence, she
added, "Do you know what I always think of when I pass through that
bridge into this part of the river? It's from the 'Ancient Mariner':
"'We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.'"
Doris stared at her companion in amazement. How came this barefooted
child of thirteen or fourteen, in a little, out-of-the-way New Jersey
coast village to be quoting poetry? Where had she learned it? Doris's
own father and mother were untiring readers of poetry and other
literature, and they were bringing their daughter up in their footsteps.
But surely, this village girl had never learned such things from _her_
parents. Sally must have sensed the unspoken question.
"That's a long poem in a big book we have," she explained. "It has
lovely pictures in it made by a man named Dore." (She pronounced it
"Door.") "The book was one of my mother's wedding presents. It always
lies on our parlor table. I don't believe any one else in our house has
ever read it but Genevieve and me. I love it, and Genevieve likes to
look at the pictures. Did you ever hear of that poem?"
"Oh, yes!" cried Doris. "My father has often read me to sleep with it,
and we all love it. I'm so glad it is a favorite of yours. Do you like
poetry?"
"That's about the only poem I know," acknowledged Sally, "'cept the ones
in the school readers--and they don't amount to much. That book's about
the only one we have 'cept a Bible and a couple of novels. But I've
learned the poem all by heart." She rowed on a way in silence, while
Doris marvelled at the bookless condition of this lonely child and
wondered how she could stand it. Not to have books and papers and
magazines unnumbered was a state unheard of to the city child. She had
brought half a trunkful with her, to help while away the time at
Manituck. But before she could speak of it, Sally remarked:
"That's Huckleberry Heights,--at least I've named it that, 'cause
Genevieve and I have picked quarts and quarts of huckleberries there."
She pointed to a high, sandy bluff, overgrown at the top with scrub-oak,
stunted pines and huckleberry bushes. "And that's Cranberry Creek," she
went on, indicating a winding stream that emptied into the river nearby.
"'Way up that creek there's an old, deserted mill that's all falling to
pieces. It's kind of interesting. Want to go sometime?"
"Oh, I'm crazy to!" cried Doris. "There's nothing I enjoy more than
exploring things, and I've never had the chance to before. We've always
gone to such fashionable places where everything's just spic and span
and cut and dried, and nothing to do but what every one else does. I'm
deathly sick of that sort of thing. Our doctor recommended Mother to
come to this place because the sea and pine air would be so good for
her. But he said it was wild, and different from the usual summer
places, and I was precious glad of the change, I can tell you." There
was something so sincere in Doris's manner that it won Sally over
another point. After a few moments of silent rowing, she said:
"We're coming to a place, in a minute, that Genevieve and I like a lot.
If you want, we can land there and get a dandy drink of water from a
spring near the shore." Doris was flattered beyond words to be taken
further into the confidence of this strange new acquaintance, and
heartily assented. Around a bend of the river, they approached a point
of land projecting out several hundred feet into the tide, its end
terminating in a long, golden sandbar. Toward the shore, the land gently
ascended in a pretty slope, crowned with velvety pines and cedars. The
conformation of slope and trees gave the outjut of land a curious shape.
"Do you know what I call this point?" questioned Sally. Doris shook her
head. "Well, you see what a queer shape it is when you look at it from
the side. I've named it 'Slipper Point.' Doesn't it look like a
slipper?"
"It certainly does," agreed Doris enthusiastically. "Why, you're a
wonder at naming things, Sally." Her companion colored with pleasure,
and beached the boat sharply on the sandbar. The three got out, put the
anchor in the sand and clambered up the piny slope. At the top, the view
up and down the river was enchanting, and the three sat down on the pine
needles to regain their breath and rest. At length Sally suggested that
they find the spring, and she led the way down the opposite side of the
slope to a spot near the shore. Here, in a bower of branches, almost
hidden from sight, a sparkling spring trickled down from a small cave of
reddish clay, filled an old, moss-covered box, and rambled on down the
sand into the river. Sally unearthed an old china cup from some hidden
recess of her own, and Doris drank the most delicious water she had ever
tasted.
But while Sally was drinking and giving Genevieve a share, Doris glanced
at the little gold wrist-watch she wore.
"Gracious sakes!" she exclaimed. "It's nearly five o'clock and Mother'll
begin to think I've tumbled into the river and drowned. She's always
sure I'm going to do that some time. We must hurry back."
"All right," said Sally. "Jump into the boat and I'll have you home in a
jiffy." They raced back to the boat, clambered into their former places,
and were soon shooting down the river under the impetus of the tide and
Sally's muscular strokes. The candy was by now all consumed. Genevieve
cuddled down close to Doris, her thumb once more in her mouth, and went
peacefully to sleep. The two other girls talked at intervals, but Sally
was too busy pulling to waste much breath in conversation.
"I'll land you right at the hotel dock," she remarked, when at last they
had come within sight of it. "Don't worry about your canoe. I'll bring
that up myself, right after supper, and walk back."
"Thanks," said Doris gratefully. "That'll save me a lot of time." In
another moment Sally had beached the boat on the shore directly in front
of "The Bluffs," and Doris, gently disengaging the still sleeping
Genevieve, hopped ashore. "I'll see you soon again, Sally," she said,
"but I've got to just scamper now, I'm so worried about Mother." She
raced away up the steps, breathless with fear lest her long absence had
unduly upset her invalid mother, and Sally again turned her boat out
into the tide.
* * * * *
After supper that evening, Doris sat out at the end of the hotel pier,
watching the gradual approach of sunset behind the island. Her mind was
still full of the afternoon's encounter, and she wondered vaguely
whether she should see more of the strange village child, so ignorant
about many things, so careless about her personal appearance, who could
yet quote such a wonderful poem as "The Ancient Mariner" in appropriate
places and seemed to be acquainted with some queer mystery about the
river. Presently she noticed a red canoe slipping into sight around a
bend, and in another moment recognized Sally in the stern.
There was no Genevieve with her this time. And to Doris's wondering
eyes, the change in her appearance was quite amazing. No longer
barefooted, she was clothed in neat tan stockings and buttoned shoes.
Added to that, she boasted a pretty, well-fitting blue serge skirt and
dainty blouse. But the only jarring note was a large pink bow of hideous
hue, a patent imitation of the one Doris wore, balanced on her beautiful
bronze hair. She managed the canoe with practiced ease, and waved her
hand at Doris from afar.
"Here's your canoe!" she called, as Doris hurried down the long dock to
meet her on the shore. And as they met, Doris remarked:
"It's early yet. How would you like to paddle around a while? I'll run
in and ask Mother if I may." Again Sally flushed with pleasure as she
assented, and when Doris had rushed back and seated herself in the bow
of the canoe, they pushed out into the peaceful tide, wine-colored in
the approaching sunset. But the evening was too beautiful for strenuous
paddling. Doris soon shipped her paddle and, skilfully turning in her
seat, faced Sally.
"Let's not go far," she suggested, "let's just drift--and talk." Sally
herself was privately only too willing. Dipping her paddle only
occasionally to keep from floating in shore, she nodded another
approving assent. But her country unaccustomedness to conversation held
her tongue-tied for a time.
"Where's Genevieve?" demanded Doris.
"Oh, I put her to bed at half-past six most always," said Sally. "She's
usually so sleepy she can't even finish her supper. But I miss her
evenings. She's a lot of company for me."
"She's a darling!" agreed Doris. "I just love the way she cuddles up to
me, and she looks so--so appealing when she tucks that little thumb in
her mouth. But, Sally, will you forgive my saying it?--you look awfully
nice tonight." Sally turned absolutely scarlet in her appreciation of
this compliment. Truth to tell, she had spent quite an hour over her
toilet when Genevieve had been put to bed, and had even gone flying to
the village to purchase with her little hoard of pocket-money the pink
ribbon for her hair.
"But I wonder if you'd mind my saying something else," went on Doris,
eyeing her companion critically. "You've got the loveliest colored hair
I ever saw, but I think you ought never to wear any colored ribbon but
black on it. Pink's all right for very light or very dark people, but
not for any one with your lovely shade. You don't mind my saying that,
do you? Sometimes other people can tell what looks best on you so much
better than you can yourself."
"Oh, no. I don't mind--and thank you for telling me," stammered Sally,
in an agony of combined delight that this dainty new friend should
approve her appearance and shame that she had made such an error of
judgment in selecting the pink ribbon. Mentally, too, she was
calculating just how long it would take her to save, from the stray
pennies her mother occasionally gave her, enough to purchase the
suggested black one. While she was figuring it out, Doris had something
else to suggest:
"Sally, let's be good friends. Let's see each other every day. I'm
awfully lonesome when I'm not with Mother,--even more so than you,
because you've got Genevieve. I expect to stay here all summer, and they
say there are very few young folks coming to 'The Bluffs.' It's mostly
older people there, because the younger ones like the hotels on the
ocean best. So things won't be much better for me, even during the
season. Can't we be good friends and see each other a lot, and have a
jolly time on the river,--you and Genevieve and I?"
The appeal was one that Sally could scarcely have resisted, even had she
not herself yearned for the same thing. "It--it would be fine!" she
acknowledged, shyly. "I'm--I'm awfully glad--if you want to."
They drifted about idly a while longer, discussing a trip for the next
morning, in which Sally proposed to show her new friend the deserted
mill, up Cranberry Creek. And Doris announced that she was going to
learn to row, so that the whole burden of that task might not fall on
Sally.
"But now I must go in," she ended. "It's growing dark and Mother will
worry. But you be here in the morning at half-past nine with your boat,
if we'd better not take the canoe on account of Genevieve, and we'll
have a jolly day."
Not once during all this time, had there been the least reference to the
mysterious hint of Sally's during the earlier afternoon. But this was
not at all because Doris had forgotten it. She was, to tell the truth,
even more curious about it than ever. Her vivid imagination had been
busy with it ever since, weaving all sorts of strange and fantastic
fancies about the suggestion. Did the river have a mystery? What could
its nature be, and how had Sally discovered it? Did any one else know?
The deepening shadows on the farther shore added the last touch to her
busy speculations. They suggested possibilities of every hue and kind.
But not for worlds would she have had Sally guess how ardently she
longed for its revelation. Sally should tell her in good time, or not
at all, if she were so inclined: never because she (Doris) had _asked_
to be admitted to this precious secret.
They beached the canoe, still talking busily about the morrow's plans,
and together hauled it up in the sea-grass and turned it bottom upward.
And then Sally prepared to take her departure. But after she had said
good-bye, she still lingered uncertainly, as if she had something else
on her mind. It was only when she had turned to walk away across the
beach, that she suddenly wheeled and ran up to Doris once more.
"I--I want to tell you something," she hesitated. "I--perhaps--sometime
I'll tell you more, but--the _secret_--Genevieve's and mine--is up on
Slipper Point!"
And before Doris could reply, she was gone, racing away along the
darkening sand.