For two days in the South American city Lovat now raged like a madman,
now was limp and gray as if all life had left. The storm crashed like
artillery. The wind swirled in terrific outshoots of uncontrolled
power. Rain whorled like a water-burst. And all the time there ran
through Lovat's head the unending, pounding rhythm: "The bridge! The
bridge is down! Is down! The bridge! The bridge is down!" Statesmen
and ministers looked at him in pity, forgetting the country's loss in
the great grief of the artist.
Cecily he was n't worried about. He knew she was all right. There was
an army to take care of her there, and their home was solid, would last
against the deluge.
Three days ago and no warning of this cataclysm.
And now, to-day! To-day was like the Day of Judgment. To be sure, a
half-crazy astronomer had predicted the end of the world, and sane
scientists had pooh-poohed it, saying that there might be bad weather
from the stellar conjunctions, but outside of that--nothing. And then,
suddenly, this immensity of flood. Down in the lowlands, on the shore
of the Caribbees, there had been havoc past imagining. Whole towns
were swept away. There had been no chance of getting in touch with the
bridge. All telegraph wires were down.
Now it was Wednesday, and on Sunday he had left to discuss some details
of the opening with the ministry and he had asked Cecily to come with
him, but she would not go.
"Lover, no," she had said; "I would rather stay here by the bridge."
"But, Cecily, you have n't been away from here in two months. Would
n't you like to come to the city? There 'll be clothes to buy and
people to see, and an opera from Madrid. Come, Cecily."
"Dearest one, no!" she had refused. She smiled. "One of us must stay
by the bridge."
"But, Cecily--"
"No! No!"
She loved the bridge as much as he.
On the little platform of the working railroad station he had said
good-by to her. The train started and she ran alongside.
"Stop the train!" she cried.
He pulled the emergency cord.
"What is it, Cecily? Changing your mind?"
"Dearest one, I just want to kiss you again before you go. Just once
more. I 'm a silly woman."
"Come with me, Cecily. Come as you are. We can get you clothes in
town."
"No, lover. I must stay and take care of your bridge. I don't mind
who 's looking, lover. Just--kiss me again."
Had she some premonition of the disaster? Did that spiritual wisdom
which we call intuition, tell her of ruin that was hovering like a
hawk? Poor Cecily! How heartbroken she'd be. Her eyes, her poor
eyes, would be burnt with crying. Poor Cecily! Perhaps he could make
her believe it did n't matter. Nothing mattered so long as he had her.
Ah, but it did! He would never build another bridge. He might do
mighty structures of iron and cement, immense feats of engineering, but
never a great stone bridge again. Never again!... Poor Cecily!