Darrin and Ruth had come to that point in friendship where they could
sit silently together, each busy with his or her own thoughts, without
embarrassment. The girl liked to come down the hill of an afternoon for
an hour with the man; and sometimes he read to her from one of the books
of which he had a store. And sometimes he showed her the pictures he had
made--strange glimpses of the life of the swamp. His camera trap caught
curious scenes. Now and then a deer, occasionally a moose, once a
wildcat screeching in the night. And again they had to look closely to
see what it was that had tugged the trigger string; and sometimes it was
a rabbit, and sometimes it was a mink; and at other times it was nothing
at all that they could discover in the finished photograph. Once a great
owl dropped on some prey upon the ground and touched the string; and the
plate caught him, wings flying, talons reaching--a picture of the wild
things that prey.
Most of the pictures were imperfect--blurred or shadowed or ill-focused.
Out of them all there were only four or five that Darrin counted worth
the saving; but he and Ruth found fascination in the study of even the
worthless ones.
It was inevitable that the confidence between them should develop
swiftly in these afternoons together. It was not surprising that Ruth
one afternoon dared ask Darrin a question. She had been curiously
silent, studying him, until he noticed it, and laughed at her for it;
and she told him then, “I’m wondering--whether we really know you here.”
He looked at her with a quick intentness, smiled a little. “Why?” he
asked. “What are you thinking?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know, exactly. Just that sometimes I felt
you’re hiding something; that you’re not thinking about the things
you--seem to think about.”
He said good-naturedly, “You’re making a mystery out of me.”
“A little,” she admitted.
“There’s no mystery,” he said; and he added softly: “There’s a deal more
mystery about you, to me.”
He had never, as they say, made love to her. Yet there was that in his
tone now which made her flush softly and look away from him. Watching
her he hesitated. His hand touched hers. She drew her hand away and rose
abruptly.
“I must go back to the house,” she said. “It’s time I was starting
supper.”
He was on his feet, facing her; but there was only cheerful friendliness
in his eyes. He would not alarm her. “Come again,” he said. “I like to
have you come.”
“You never come to the house, except for eggs and things. You ought to
come and see us.”
“Perhaps I will,” he said; and he watched her as she climbed the knoll
and disappeared. His eyes were very gentle; there would have been in
them an exultant light if he could have seen the girl, once out of his
sight, stop and look back to where the smoke of his little fire rose
above the trees.
Darrin was much in her thoughts during these days. She would have
thought of him more if she had been able to think less of John.