THE TIMBER BRIDGE.
BY this time it had become clear to me, that whatever my thoughts
were and my longings—such as those who are free from them call
romantic—there was nothing proper for me to do, except to turn in at
our own little gate, and be satisfied with my own duty inside. And
this I was truly at the point of doing, although with very little
satisfaction, when the glancing of the twilight down the road convinced
me of a different duty. To the westward there happened just here to
be a long stretch of lane without much turn in it, only guided and
overhung partly with trees, and tufts of wild hops which were barren
this year. And throughout this long course, which was wavering with
gloom, a watery gleam from the west set in, partly perhaps from the
flooded river, and partly from the last glance of sunset.
My hand was just laid upon our wicket-latch, and my mind made up for no
thinking, when the figure of some one in the distance, like a call-back
signal, stopped me. I had not returned, you must understand, by the
shortest possible way from church, which would have taken me to Uncle
Corny’s door opposite the river; but being a little disturbed, perhaps,
and desiring to walk it off quietly, had turned up to the right towards
the Halliford lane, to escape any gossip, and come back through our
garden. And where I stood now, there was a view by daylight of nearly
half a mile of lane, and the timber bridge across the brook.
The lane was not quite straight, but still it bent in such an obliging
manner, first to the left and then back to the right, that anything
happening upon its course would be likely to come into view from our
gate. And I saw as plainly as could be, although beyond shouting
distance, a man with his arms spread forth, as if to stop or catch
anybody going further, and nearer to me the forms of women desirous
to go on, but frightened. It is not true that I stopped to think for
one moment who those women were; but feeling that they must be in the
right, and the man in the wrong as usual, without two endeavours I was
running at full speed—and in those days that was something—merely to
help the right, and stop the wrong. And in less time than it takes to
tell it, I was one of the party. Then I saw that the ladies were Mrs.
Marker, and the lovely young maiden, who had been with her in church.
“Oh, Master Orchardson, you will take our part,” Mrs. Marker cried, as
she ran up to me; “you will take our part, as every good man must. That
bad man says that we shall not cross the bridge, without—without—oh, it
is too dreadful!”
“Without paying toll to me—this is kissing-bridge, and the wood is now
kissing the water. ’Tis a dangerous job to take ladies across. Kit,
you are come just in time to help. Let us have toll at the outset, and
double toll upon landing, my boy. You take my lady Marker, Kit, because
she is getting heavy; and I will take Miss Fairthorn.”
Sam Henderson spoke these words as if we had nothing to do but obey
him. Perhaps as a man who was instructing horses, he had imbibed too
much of the upper part. At any rate, I did not find it my duty to fall
beneath his ordering. And as if to make me stand to my own thoughts,
the sweetest and most pitiful glance that had ever come to meet me,
came straight to my heart from a shadowy nook, where the beautiful maid
was shrinking.
“Sam Henderson, none of this rubbish!” I shouted, for the roar of the
water would have drowned soft words. “It is a coward’s job to frighten
women. A man should see first what the danger is.”
Before he could come up to strike me, as his first intention seemed
to be, I ran across the timbers, which were bowing and trembling with
the strain upon the upright posts, as well as the wash upon their
nether sides. And I saw that the risk was increasing with each moment,
for the dam at the bottom of Tim Osborne’s meadow, not more than a
gunshot above us, was beginning to yield, and the flood checked by it
was trembling like a trodden hay-rick. Upon this I ran back, and said,
“Now, ladies, if cross you must, you must do it at once.”
“Kit, you are a fool. There is no danger,” Sam Henderson shouted
wrathfully. “Who is the coward that frightens ladies now? But if you
must poke in your oar without leave, you go first with Mother Marker,
and I will come after you, with the young lady.”
The maiden shrank back from his hand, and I saw that good Mrs. Marker
was pained by his words. “Mother Marker will go first,” she said, “but
with no thanks to you, Mr. Henderson.”
Her spirit was up, but her hands were trembling, as I took her
Prayer-book from them.
“I may be a fool, but I am not a cub,” I answered with a gaze that made
Henderson scowl; “I would rather frighten ladies than insult them. Now,
Mrs. Marker, give me one of your nice little hands, and have no fear.”
The house-keeping lady put forth one hand, with a tender look at it,
because it had been praised, and then she put forth one brave foot,
and I was only afraid of her going too fast. The water splashed up
between the three-inch planks, for the lady was of some substance; but
she landed very well, and back I ran to see about her young companion.
“I will not go with you sir; I will go alone. You do not behave like
a gentleman,” she was crying in great distress, as I came up, and Sam
Henderson had hold of both her hands. This enraged me so that I forgot
good manners, for I should not have done what I did before a lady. I
struck Sam heavily between the eyes, and if I had not caught him by the
collar, nothing could have saved him from falling through the bush,
into the deep eddy under the planks. As soon as I had done it, I was
angry with myself, for Sam was not a bad fellow at all, when in his
best condition. But now there was no time to dwell upon that, for the
flood was arising and rolling in loops, like the back of a cat who has
descried a dog.
“Now or never, Miss,” I cried; “the dam has given; in a minute, this
bridge will be swept clean away.”
She showed such bright sense as I never saw before, and never can hope
to see in anybody else, however they may laugh through want of it.
Without a word, or even a glance at me, she railed up her dress into a
wondrous little circle, and gave me a hand which I had not the strength
to think of, for fear of forgetting all the world outside. Taking it
gently in my coarse hard palm, I said, “Come,” and she came like an
angel.
As I led her across, all my gaze was upon her; and this was a good
thing for both of us. For a scream from Mrs. Marker and a dreadful
shout from Sam—who came staggering up to the brink and caught the
handrail, just as we were shaking upon the middle dip—these, and a
great roar coming down the meadows, would probably have taken all
my wits away, if they had been within me, as at ordinary times. But
heeding only that which I was holding, I went in a leisurely and steady
manner which often makes the best of danger, and set the maiden safe
upon the high stone at the end, and turned round to see what was coming.
Before I had time to do this, it was upon me, whirling me back with a
blow of heavy timber, and washing me with all my best clothes on into
the hedge behind the lane. Then a rush of brown water, like a drove of
wild cattle leaping on one another’s backs, went by, and the bridge was
gone with it, like a straw hat in the wind. But the stone upon which
the young lady stood was unmoved although surrounded, and I made signs
to her—for to speak was useless—to lay hold of a branch which hung over
her head. As she did so, she smiled at me, even in that terror; and I
felt that I would go through a thousandfold the peril for the chance of
being so rewarded.
Suddenly, as suddenly as it had mounted, the bulk of the roaring flood
fell again, and the wreck of the handrail and some lighter spars of the
bridge hung dangling by their chains. And soon as the peril was passed,
it was hard to believe that there had been much of it. But any one
listening to Mrs. Marker, as she came down the hill when it was over,
must have believed that I had done something very gallant and almost
heroic. But I had done nothing more than I have told; and it is not
very likely that I would make too little of it.
“Brave young man!” cried Mrs. Marker, panting, and ready to embrace me,
if I had only been dry; “you have saved our lives, and I would say it,
if it were my last moment. Miss Kitty, I never saw such valour. Did you
ever, in all your life, dear?”
“Never, dear, never! Though I had not the least idea what this
gentleman was doing, till he had done it. Oh, he must be sadly knocked
about. Let me come down, and help him.”
“He put you up there, and he shall fetch you down. Nobody else has the
right to do it. Mr. Orchardson, don’t be afraid; assist her.”
Now this shows how women have their wits about them, even at moments
most critical. The housekeeper had fled with no small alacrity,
when the flood came roaring; and now with equal promptitude she had
returned, and discovered how best to reward me.
“I think you might give me a hand,” said the young lady, still mounted
on the high stone with our parish-mark, upon which by some instinct I
had placed her.
“I cannot; I am trembling like an aspen-leaf,” Mrs. Marker replied,
though she looked firm enough; “but our gallant preserver is as strong
as he is brave. Don’t be afraid of his touching you, because he is a
little damp, Miss Kitty.”
This was truly clever of her, and it stopped all reasoning. With
a glance of reproach, the maiden gathered her loosened cloak more
tightly, and then gave me both her hands and sprang; and I managed it
so that she slid down into my arms. This was not what she intended, but
there was no help for it, the ground being very slippery after such a
flood. She seemed lighter than a feather, and more buoyant than a cork;
though some of that conclusion perhaps was due to my impressions. Be
that either way, I could never have believed that anything so lovely
would be ever in my hold; and the power of it drove away my presence
of mind so badly, that I was very near forgetting the proper time for
letting go.
And this was no wonder, when I come to think about it; the only wonder
was that I could show such self-command. For the breath of her lips was
almost on mine, and her blushes so near that I seemed to feel their
glow, and the deep rich blue of her eyes so close that they were like
an opening into heaven. My entire gift of words was gone, and I knew
not what I did or thought.
But suddenly a shout—or a speech if one could take it so—of vulgar
insolence and jealousy most contemptible, broke on my lofty condition.
Sam Henderson had been left in black dudgeon on the other side of the
water, and the bridge being swept away, he could not get at us. We had
forgotten all about him; however, he had managed to run away, when the
great billow came from the bursting of the sluice; and now he showed
his manners and his thankfulness to God, by coming to the bank and
shouting, while he grinned, and clapped his hands in mockery,—
“Kit and Kitty! Kit and Kitty! That’s what I call coming it strong;
and upon a Sunday evening! Mother Marker, do you mean to put up with
that? See if I don’t tell your Missus. Kit and Kitty! O Lord, oh Lord!
’Tis as good as a play, and we don’t get much of that sort of fun in
Sunbury. Holloa! What the deuce—”
His speech was ended, for I had caught up a big dollop of clod from the
relics of the flood, and delivered it into his throat so truly that his
red satin fall and mock-diamond pin—which were tenfold more sacred to
him than the Sabbath—were mashed up into one big lump of mud, together
with the beard he cherished. Labouring to utter some foul words, he
shook his fist at me and departed.