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....