CHAPTER II
THE ACQUAINTANCE RIPENS
Doris said no more on the subject. She was too well-bred to persist insuch a demand when it did not seem to be welcome. But though shepromptly changed the subject and talked about other things, inwardly shehad become transformed into a seething cauldron of curiosity.
Sally headed the boat for the draw in the bridge, and in another fewmoments they had passed from the quiet, well-kept, bungalow-strewnshores of the lower river, to the wild, tawny, uninhabited beauty of theupper. The change was very marked, and the wagon bridge seemed to be thedividing line.
"How different the river is up here," remarked Doris. "Not a house or abungalow, or even a fisherman's shack in sight."
"It is," agreed Sally. And then, in an unusual burst of confidence, sheadded, "Do you know what I always think of when I pass through thatbridge 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 barefootedchild of thirteen or fourteen, in a little, out-of-the-way New Jerseycoast village to be quoting poetry? Where had she learned it? Doris'sown father and mother were untiring readers of poetry and otherliterature, 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 haslovely pictures in it made by a man named Dore." (She pronounced it"Door.") "The book was one of my mother's wedding presents. It alwayslies on our parlor table. I don't believe any one else in our house hasever read it but Genevieve and me. I love it, and Genevieve likes tolook 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 likepoetry?"
"That's about the only poem I know," acknowledged Sally, "'cept the onesin the school readers--and they don't amount to much. That book's aboutthe only one we have 'cept a Bible and a couple of novels. But I'velearned the poem all by heart." She rowed on a way in silence, whileDoris marvelled at the bookless condition of this lonely child andwondered how she could stand it. Not to have books and papers andmagazines unnumbered was a state unheard of to the city child. She hadbrought half a trunkful with her, to help while away the time atManituck. But before she could speak of it, Sally remarked:
"That's Huckleberry Heights,--at least I've named it that, 'causeGenevieve 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," shewent 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 topieces. It's kind of interesting. Want to go sometime?"
"Oh, I'm crazy to!" cried Doris. "There's nothing I enjoy more thanexploring things, and I've never had the chance to before. We've alwaysgone to such fashionable places where everything's just spic and spanand cut and dried, and nothing to do but what every one else does. I'mdeathly sick of that sort of thing. Our doctor recommended Mother tocome to this place because the sea and pine air would be so good forher. But he said it was wild, and different from the usual summerplaces, and I was precious glad of the change, I can tell you." Therewas something so sincere in Doris's manner that it won Sally overanother 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 aspring near the shore." Doris was flattered beyond words to be takenfurther into the confidence of this strange new acquaintance, andheartily assented. Around a bend of the river, they approached a pointof land projecting out several hundred feet into the tide, its endterminating in a long, golden sandbar. Toward the shore, the land gentlyascended in a pretty slope, crowned with velvety pines and cedars. Theconformation of slope and trees gave the outjut of land a curious shape.
"Do you know what I call this point?" questioned Sally. Doris shook herhead. "Well, you see what a queer shape it is when you look at it fromthe side. I've named it 'Slipper Point.' Doesn't it look like aslipper?"
"It certainly does," agreed Doris enthusiastically. "Why, you're awonder at naming things, Sally." Her companion colored with pleasure,and beached the boat sharply on the sandbar. The three got out, put theanchor in the sand and clambered up the piny slope. At the top, the viewup and down the river was enchanting, and the three sat down on the pineneedles to regain their breath and rest. At length Sally suggested thatthey find the spring, and she led the way down the opposite side of theslope to a spot near the shore. Here, in a bower of branches, almosthidden from sight, a sparkling spring trickled down from a small cave ofreddish clay, filled an old, moss-covered box, and rambled on down thesand into the river. Sally unearthed an old china cup from some hiddenrecess of her own, and Doris drank the most delicious water she had evertasted.
But while Sally was drinking and giving Genevieve a share, Doris glancedat the little gold wrist-watch she wore.
"Gracious sakes!" she exclaimed. "It's nearly five o'clock and Mother'llbegin to think I've tumbled into the river and drowned. She's alwayssure 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 ajiffy." They raced back to the boat, clambered into their former places,and were soon shooting down the river under the impetus of the tide andSally's muscular strokes. The candy was by now all consumed. Genevievecuddled down close to Doris, her thumb once more in her mouth, and wentpeacefully to sleep. The two other girls talked at intervals, but Sallywas too busy pulling to waste much breath in conversation.
"I'll land you right at the hotel dock," she remarked, when at last theyhad come within sight of it. "Don't worry about your canoe. I'll bringthat up myself, right after supper, and walk back."
"Thanks," said Doris gratefully. "That'll save me a lot of time." Inanother moment Sally had beached the boat on the shore directly in frontof "The Bluffs," and Doris, gently disengaging the still sleepingGenevieve, 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." Sheraced away up the steps, breathless with fear lest her long absence hadunduly upset her invalid mother, and Sally again turned her boat outinto 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 wasstill full of the afternoon's encounter, and she wondered vaguelywhether she should see more of the strange village child, so ignorantabout many things, so careless about her personal appearance, who couldyet quote such a wonderful poem as "The Ancient Mariner" in appropriateplaces and seemed to be acquainted with some queer mystery about theriver. Presently she noticed a red canoe slipping into sight around abend, and in another moment recognized Sally in the stern.
There was no Genevieve with her this time. And to Doris's wonderingeyes, the change in her appearance was quite amazing. No longerbarefooted, she was clothed in neat tan stockings and buttoned shoes.Added to that, she boasted a pretty, well-fitting blue serge skirt anddainty blouse. But the only jarring note was a large pink bow of hideoushue, a patent imitation of the one Doris wore, balanced on her beautifulbronze hair. She managed the canoe with practiced ease, and waved herhand at Doris from afar.
"Here's your canoe!" she called, as Doris hurried down the long dock tomeet 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 runin and ask Mother if I may." Again Sally flushed with pleasure as sheassented, and when Doris had rushed back and seated herself in the bowof the canoe, they pushed out into the peaceful tide, wine-colored inthe app
roaching sunset. But the evening was too beautiful for strenuouspaddling. Doris soon shipped her paddle and, skilfully turning in herseat, faced Sally.
"Let's not go far," she suggested, "let's just drift--and talk." Sallyherself was privately only too willing. Dipping her paddle onlyoccasionally to keep from floating in shore, she nodded anotherapproving assent. But her country unaccustomedness to conversation heldher 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'susually so sleepy she can't even finish her supper. But I miss herevenings. She's a lot of company for me."
"She's a darling!" agreed Doris. "I just love the way she cuddles up tome, and she looks so--so appealing when she tucks that little thumb inher mouth. But, Sally, will you forgive my saying it?--you look awfullynice tonight." Sally turned absolutely scarlet in her appreciation ofthis compliment. Truth to tell, she had spent quite an hour over hertoilet when Genevieve had been put to bed, and had even gone flying tothe village to purchase with her little hoard of pocket-money the pinkribbon 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 hairI ever saw, but I think you ought never to wear any colored ribbon butblack on it. Pink's all right for very light or very dark people, butnot 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 muchbetter 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 shouldapprove her appearance and shame that she had made such an error ofjudgment in selecting the pink ribbon. Mentally, too, she wascalculating just how long it would take her to save, from the straypennies her mother occasionally gave her, enough to purchase thesuggested black one. While she was figuring it out, Doris had somethingelse to suggest:
"Sally, let's be good friends. Let's see each other every day. I'mawfully 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 theysay there are very few young folks coming to 'The Bluffs.' It's mostlyolder people there, because the younger ones like the hotels on theocean best. So things won't be much better for me, even during theseason. Can't we be good friends and see each other a lot, and have ajolly time on the river,--you and Genevieve and I?"
The appeal was one that Sally could scarcely have resisted, even had shenot herself yearned for the same thing. "It--it would be fine!" sheacknowledged, shyly. "I'm--I'm awfully glad--if you want to."
They drifted about idly a while longer, discussing a trip for the nextmorning, in which Sally proposed to show her new friend the desertedmill, up Cranberry Creek. And Doris announced that she was going tolearn to row, so that the whole burden of that task might not fall onSally.
"But now I must go in," she ended. "It's growing dark and Mother willworry. 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'llhave a jolly day."
Not once during all this time, had there been the least reference to themysterious hint of Sally's during the earlier afternoon. But this wasnot at all because Doris had forgotten it. She was, to tell the truth,even more curious about it than ever. Her vivid imagination had beenbusy with it ever since, weaving all sorts of strange and fantasticfancies about the suggestion. Did the river have a mystery? What couldits 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 herbusy speculations. They suggested possibilities of every hue and kind.But not for worlds would she have had Sally guess how ardently shelonged for its revelation. Sally should tell her in good time, or notat 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 saidgood-bye, she still lingered uncertainly, as if she had something elseon her mind. It was only when she had turned to walk away across thebeach, that she suddenly wheeled and ran up to Doris once more.
"I--I want to tell you something," she hesitated. "I--perhaps--sometimeI'll tell you more, but--the _secret_--Genevieve's and mine--is up onSlipper Point!"
And before Doris could reply, she was gone, racing away along thedarkening sand.