Out of dumb rock and lifeless iron the bridge arose. First these were
only amorphous objects, and then through the fire of genius was evoked
an entity. The bridge had a personality strong as a man's, as houses
have personalities, and some trees. It rose there strong and slim and
beautiful and of use to men, but terrible as an army with banners. And
though Simon Lovat and his wife Cecily said nothing to each other about
it, yet there arose in both their minds that the bridge demanded and
needed something. And ancient lore of bridges came to them in
lightning flashes of memory--old stories of terror that told of human
sacrifice before a bridge would stand. What ancient mysticism made the
priests of the Pons Sublicius of olden Rome throw dummies of human
beings into the Tiber on festal days? What horror of old made British
Vortigern build his castle over the dead body of a murdered boy? Even
in China of to-day, a pig was thrown into the river in times of flood,
that the bridge should hold. And gnarled old masons told tales....
Old wives' tales! Ancient vile superstition! And yet, what wisdom had
departed from the world since ancient days! Not spiritual wisdom alone
but material wisdom. How were the great blocks of the pyramids raised?
We were n't certain of that! The mighty things of Easter Island, yes,
and the great stone legacies of the Incas! We did n't know. And the
progress of the world was not spiritual. It was material. And we were
n't even certain of material things.
Why did they do it, Lovat pondered! Was it a sacrifice to the bridge
itself? A tribute to the idol they had made with their own hands?
Hardly! For that would be the idea of barbarians, and barbarians never
built great bridges. Was it a sacrifice to the cruelty of the great
elements that might endanger the bridge? Possibly. And yet storm was
so powerful and so cruel when it felt that way that nothing would
hinder it. What was it? He did n't know.
And yet the bridge demanded, needed something.
Cecily felt it,, too, he knew, for she spoke one evening in the
lamplight, with averted eyes.
"Dearest one, it sounds a silly question, but why are you building the
bridge?"
"Because it's my work, Cecily, to build bridges." He felt what she
meant.
"Dearest one, if the bridge were to fall, you would be heartbroken,
would n't you?"
"I 'm afraid I should, Cecily."
"Why, dearest one? Is it because you are proud of your bridge? That
you want generations to remember you by your bridge?"
"No, Cecily," he thought seriously, "it is n't that. I--I 'm just a
helper of the Master Mason, and if the bridge were to fall, I should
feel I was a poor, an unworthy helper. That's how I feel, Cecily.
That's why I should be heart-broken."
She put down the sewing work she was doing, and came to him, her eyes
misty. She took his hands. She knelt by his side.
"I know, my lover," she whispered, a little huskily, "but your bridge
will never fall. Believe it, dearest one. Believe it night and day."
But the bridge bothered him. And all her wise courage could not still
its silent clamor. He could watch the ant-like battalions of men as
they laid stone on stone, chanting in the guttural Chibcha as the
bridge-builders of Persia chanted when they built the Perl-i-Khaju at
Ispahan. But above their voices came the silent voice of the bridge,
loud as thunder. Until he could stand it no longer.
"What is it you want? In God's name what do you want?"
"You know."
"I don't know."
"Ta-wak knew when he builded the great wall of China."
"I don't know."
"King Cheops knew when he builded his great pyramid at Ghizeh."
"But I don't know."
"The Romans knew when they raised the bridges of Gaul. You know,
building me."
"I don't know. I won't know." Lovat broke from the place, his
forehead damp with perspiration. And as he went toward his cottage, it
seemed to him that the jungle and the mountains and all the creatures
of the wilds were watching with their inhuman apathetic eyes the
Titanic struggle between himself and the thing he had conceived into
being, out of lifeless iron and dumb stone.