_THE BRIDGE THAT LAY BETWEEN_
"Do you think we're a star chamber?" I said to my mother, as she stood
at the parlour door with a cushion under either arm.
"Think you're what? Think who's what?" she queried in amazement.
"Where are you taking those cushions to?" I pursued, glancing at her
burden.
"To the up-stairs sitting-room. You know uncle always takes a nap
before he goes to bed." Which was true enough; uncle fancied he didn't
sleep well if he neglected this preliminary canter on the sofa. That
was where he was wont to try divers notes till he struck the proper key
for the night's performance.
"That's where you all are going to stay this evening," I averred.
"Uncle will snooze there while you and aunty play cribbage."
"Yes, of course--why?" answered my mother wonderingly. "You and Mr.
Giddens will be in the parlour, won't you?"
"That's what I meant about the star chamber," I rejoined. "I think
it's right foolish, the way you all take to your heels when Charlie
spends an evening here. There's a plenty of room in the parlour for us
all."
"There shouldn't be," my mother made reply; "I never saw the room big
enough for more than two when your father and I were lovers--which we
were the longest day he lived," she added, her voice softening to the
romantic note.
"And did you always want to be alone?" I asked seriously; "always alone
together--before you were married, I mean?"
My mother smiled, her eyes half closing in reminiscent thought. "Yes,
child," she answered slowly, "alone--together; I believe those two
words describe nearly all the joy of life--alone--together. Don't you
know what I mean, Helen?" and there was a deep tenderness in her voice
as she dropped one of the cushions on a chair, coming close and taking
me in her arms; "doesn't my dear one know the meaning of it? Oh,
Helen, I want you to be so happy. And you will be, won't you--you are,
aren't you, my darling? You love him, don't you, Helen?"
My face was hidden in her bosom. After a minute's silence she drew
back, that she might look into my eyes. "You love him, don't you,
dear?"
"Yes," I said, again seeking the shelter of her breast.
"I'm so glad, my darling," she murmured. Then she picked up the fallen
cushion and went on her way up-stairs.
I stood by the piano, listlessly fingering some music sheets that lay
on top of it. Suddenly the stillness was broken by my mother's voice.
"Helen," she cried; "oh, Helen."
"Yes, dear," I answered, stepping to the door.
"I forgot to tell you the news; our Presbytery guest isn't coming till
to-morrow. They sent us word just this afternoon--and they're almost
sure it's going to be an elder."
"Then 'it' will have to go in the attic," I rejoined, shouting the
opprobrious pronoun up the stairs.
"Helen, dear," the tender voice remonstrated, "how can you speak like
that--calling him 'it.' That isn't respectful, child."
"It's your word," responded I; "you said it's going to be an elder."
"But I didn't actually call him it," my mother defended. Her answer
was rather long in coming; I could tell she was struggling with the
verbal problem.
"Oh, well, I beg his pardon," I conceded; "anyhow he won't care what we
called him, when he strikes the attic," and the argument ended in a
duet of laughter.
"And, Helen," resumed my mother, by this time one or two steps
down-stairs, "don't you think you'd better dress? Mr. Giddens ought to
be here right soon now, shouldn't he? I think you ought to wear your
pink organdy--he says he loves you in pink, you know."
"He ought to love me in buckskin," I flung back, "if he loves me at
all. He ought to love me for my own sweet self undecorated--you see,
mother, how romantic you're making me. If he's really got the frenzy
he won't need any pink things to infuriate him," I insisted, laying
Spanish bull-fights under tribute.
"Please yourself, child," my mother responded as she disappeared, "but
I know, when your father was courting me----"
"You ought to write a book on the subject, mother," I interrupted
gaily; "you've evidently had it down to a science. If you'd write a
book and call it 'First Principles of Courtship' or 'Love-making for
Beginners' you'd help things on a lot." But by this time mother was
beyond the range of conversation and my literary counsel met with no
response.
I went back to the parlour. The music sheets were fumbled once again.
Then I tried to read, but found it impossible to settle down. I turned
once more to the piano and presently found myself softly singing a
little love-verse, familiar since my childhood. I crooned it once or
twice:
Still must you call me tender names
Still gently stroke my tresses;
Still shall my happy answering heart
Keep time to your caresses.
The words made me lonely--like a phantom song. I involuntarily smiled
a little as I caught myself sighing while the piano notes died away;
perhaps it was the gathering twilight that gave me such a plaintive
feeling in the region of my heart.
Suddenly a voice came from above. It was Aunt Agnes this time.
"Hear that, Helen?" she sang out. "There's music in that screech,
isn't there?"
"What screech?" I answered back, a little suspicious that she referred
to my simple warblings. Yet I knew she could scarcely have heard.
"The locomotive," she promptly replied. "Didn't you hear that engine
whistle?--that's his train, you know. I reckon you were listening for
it all right."
I rose and moved to the window, grimly wondering if ever lover had so
many assistants in the business. I could see the white puffs of smoke
as the train steamed slowly into the distant station. The dreamy
ringing of the bell floated in through the open window, mingling with
the pensive sounds of evening.
And I was lonely, so lonely! I knew that Charlie had just alighted
from the train, doubtless hurrying even now to his hotel. He would
soon shake its dust from off his feet, I knew, and old "Rastus"--Rastus
knew Charlie's orbit and kept a keen lookout for him--would bring him
with fitting haste to me. My cheek reddened, then paled, as I seemed
to see Charlie's eager face, his impatient arms, his ardent lips. I
quivered a little, and tore two or three of the petals from a rose I
had chosen from a bowlful on the table; the harmless things floated to
the pavement beneath the window.
Suddenly a bird's rich full note fluttered in and fell upon my ear. I
listened. And his mate responded--full and sweet and tremulous the
answer came. The love-throb pulsed vibrant through it. I thought it
beautiful; and I listened, enchanted, as the tender message came again
and again. Soon the note grew fainter--and I think I caught a glimpse
of the winged lovers as they glided close together into their bridal
chamber in the deep shade of the magnolia tree. The rich blossoms hung
like curtains, quivering a little where the mated pair had passed
within--that fragrant retreat was holy.
Still gazing, my attention was diverted by the sound of feet upon the
brick pavement that went past our house. I listened, watching. And a
minute or two later, all unconscious of my presence, a youth and maiden
passed beneath the window. Neither was speaking, and their steps were
slow, as if they cared not where they led. Somehow they compelled my
interest at once. I knew them both, though their station was quite
different from mine. She collected belated accounts for a local
laundry--he drove their horse, delivering from door to door. I watched
them wistfully as they passed on, by and by leaning out the window to
follow their career. They turned to the left and made their way out on
to the bridge. And I saw him once--though the dusk was deepening--I
saw him take her hand; she withdrew it quickly, but he gently recovered
it a moment later, this time without resistance. And thus they went on
together, far out on the lonely bridge, every step taking them farther
from everybody else, but nearer to each other. The twilight hid them
soon; and they were alone together in the shelter of the gathering dark.
Then was a wild tumult surging in my heart. I wondered what made it,
and why the lump rose so persistently in my throat, even while I feared
to know. For she was only a working girl, I thought, and he a swain
who drove a beast of burden. Yet I knew that that old bridge, rickety
and worn, lay between me and the Celestial. And I wondered who it was
that wrote that song about the tender names and the tresses so gently
to be stroked.
I went back towards the piano; for I heard the distant sound of wheels.
Then I rang the bell; a servant appeared in an instant.
"Lyddie," I said, "light the gas, please."
"Yes, Miss Helen. I done seen a transfeh drivin' to the fwont doah,
Miss Helen," as she returned with the taper.
"I heard it too," said I.