Chapter XIII

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.