IN CONFIDENCE
The next resolve Tom made, he carried out. He took Audry Ferris into his
confidence. From the first he had known that he would do this. He had
hesitated and put it off because he knew that once done he could not
undo it. He did it because he was under the spell of her superior
intelligence, or what he flatteringly thought to be her superior
intelligence. Also he was under the spell of her charm and he felt that
to establish a sort of confidence with her would give him the right to
think himself a little nearer to her.
He was that sort of young fellow who tries to ingratiate himself with a
girl by acknowledging her superiority. At all events he was ready enough
to acknowledge Audry’s. And she was ready enough to show him the light.
“I don’t suppose you’d care to walk a little way out on the ledge
trail,” he said one evening. “If you would there’s something cut on a
rock along there that I’d like to show you. Then we could sit on the
rock and I’ll tell you something; there’s something I want to tell you
and talk over with you. Maybe you can give me your advice, because
there’s something that’s worrying me. There are names of girls carved
out there, I saw them, so it shows girls can get out there all right.”
“Just because others have done foolish things is no reason I should,”
Audry said. “I’ll go but not past the first crevice. It makes me feel
creepy to think of jumping one of those caverns.”
Tom would not admit to himself that he was a trifle disappointed at her
not being more venturesome. He even adopted her view of the matter and
said, “Maybe those bones down at the bottom of one of the crevices are
all that’s left of one of those girls, for all we know.”
“_Ugh_, what a ghastly thought!” said Audry. “I’m sure I don’t want my
bones bleaching at the bottom of a canyon, thank you.”
“I’ve been thinking about a girl named Esther,” said Tom; “Esther B—”
“You never told me about her. What’s her last name?”
“B,” said Tom.
“Oh very well, if you’re ashamed to tell her name,” said Audry. “You
never even told me you knew such a girl. Is she dark or light?”
“She’s dead for all I know,” said Tom. “Esther B. is carved on a rock
along the trail.”
They walked in silence toward where the clearing led into the trail,
then along the narrow, obstructed way till the obscure, overgrown path
ran close to the precipitous descent and the distant reservoir lay full
in view.
“That’s Woodstock,” said Tom; “that village about half-way.”
“Oh I’d love to go there,” said Audry. “They must be _wonderful_, those
people, those artists and writers. They’re doing something _really worth
while_. They’re all _thinkers_.”
“Well we’ve been doing a pretty good job on the mountain,” Tom said.
“Oh don’t mention that work in the same breath with the Woodstock
colony,” said Audry. “Those people down there are all _thinkers_. You
don’t mean to say that Fairgreaves and Whalen and Billy the sailor are
constructive, do you? That they are _originating_ anything, in the
higher sense?”
“No, I suppose we’re not,” said poor Tom.
“You mean _they_, not _you_. I bet you’ve known a lot of girls that you
never told me about—not dead ones.”
“Yes, I’ve known some dead ones,” laughed Tom. Then instantly remorseful
for the pleasantry he said, “But I’ve learned more from you than any
girl I ever met; gee, you’ve got more brains than all of them put
together.”
“I suppose they invite you all over,” she said, “in Bridgeburgh where
you live?”
“Bridgeboro,” said Tom.
“Do you correspond with any? I bet there’s one you like especially.”
“I bet there is,” said Tom.
“Tell me her name?”
“It’s a funny name,” said Tom.
“Is she interested in serious things? Tell me her name.”
“Goodfellow,” said Tom. “She’s a boat.”
Audry seemed relieved. But she did not forget to be argumentative. “You
can’t say that you _love_ a boat,” she said.
“Well, I wasn’t exactly talking about love,” said Tom.
For a moment this seemed to silence her. Then she rose to the surface
with the kind of analytical talk that always edified poor Tom. “You
can’t say that you’re really fond of a thing that can’t offer any
_response_. You can’t really say that you’re _fond_ of a boat. You might
say you like a boat.”
Tom seemed greatly impressed. “Well, I like that boat, you can bet,” he
said.
So then he told her about his only sweetheart, the _Goodfellow_. They
sat on a rock some yards short of the first crevice and she listened to
his recital of the charms of the gay little cruiser which it seemed he
was permitted to like but not to love. He had never known before that
there was anything technical about one’s feelings.
And the distant _Goodfellow_ was Tom’s friend in this, that she made it
easy for him to tell all that was on his mind. He told Audry he had
first gone to inspect the boat admitting that it was a crazy thing to
do. “Because I’m no more in her class than I am in yours,” he added.
He was soon telling her how he met old Caleb Dyker and of how they
talked at the little wayside spring, and of the old man’s story. Her
interest was caught and her great brown eyes, sobered to an intense
listening expression, were very rich and beautiful. And she listened to
him without comment, which was unusual. He had really never seen her
listen before, and he was stirred to something like eloquence in his
narrative by the compliment of her attentive silence. If he was confused
at all it was not because of his usual awkwardness of speech, but
because her eyes were upon him.
And soon he had told her the whole story, including the recent
happenings on the mountain which identified Whalen with Anson Dyker. Tom
had never before seen her so soberly receptive. She had never looked at
him so long and so steadily. He found that her big, lustrous, listening
eyes were quite as wonderful as her intelligence. Well not quite, but
almost....