It stood on a wide wall between two small bridges. These were approaches
to the big covered bridge spanning the main channel of the Madawaska
River, and when swelled by the spring thaws and rains, the two flanking
channels divided at the foundations of the house, and rustled away
through the narrow paths of the small bridges to the rapids. You could
stand at any window in the House and watch the ugly, rushing current,
gorged with logs, come battering at the wall, jostle between the piers,
and race on to the rocks and the dam and the slide beyond. You stepped
from the front door upon the wall, which was a road between the bridges,
and from the back door into the river itself.
The House had once been a tavern. It looked a wayfarer, like its patrons
the river-drivers, with whom it was most popular. You felt that it had
no part in the career of the village on either side, but was like a rock
in a channel, at which a swimmer caught or a vagrant fish loitered.
Pierre knew the place, when, of a night in the springtime or early
summer, throngs of river-drivers and their bosses sauntered at its doors,
or hung over the railing of the wall, as they talked and smoked.
The glory of the Bridge House suddenly declined. That was because
Finley, the owner, a rich man, came to hate the place--his brother's
blood stained the barroom floor. He would have destroyed the house but
that John Rupert, the beggared gentleman came to him, and wished to rent
it for a dwelling.
Mr. Rupert was old, and had been miserably poor for many years, but he
had a breeding and a manner superior to anyone at Bamber's Boom. He was
too old for a labourer, he had no art or craftsmanship; his little money
was gone in foolish speculations, and he was dependent on his
granddaughter's slight earnings from music teaching and needlework. But
he rented an acre of ground from Finley, and grew vegetables; he gathered
driftwood from the river for his winter fire, and made up the accounts of
the storekeeper occasionally. Yet it was merely keeping off starvation.
He was not popular. He had no tongue for the meaningless village talk.
People held him in a kind of awe, and yet they felt a mean satisfaction
when they saw him shouldering driftwood, and piling it on the shore to be
dragged away--the last resort of the poor, for which they blush.
When Mr. Rupert asked for the House, Finley knew the chances were he
would not get the rental; yet, because he was sorry for the old man, he
gave it to him at a low rate. He closed up the bar-room, however, and it
was never opened afterwards.
So it was that Mr. Rupert and Judith, his granddaughter, came to live
there. Judith was a blithe, lissome creature, who had never known
comfort or riches: they were taken from her grandfather before she was
born, and her father and mother both died when she was a little child.
But she had been taught by her grandmother, when she lived, and by her
grandfather, and she had felt the graces of refined life. Withal, she
had a singular sympathy for the rude, strong life of the river. She was
glad when they came to live at the Bridge House, and shamed too: glad
because they could live apart from the other villagers; shamed because it
exposed her to the curiosity of those who visited the House, thinking it
was still a tavern. But that was only for a time.
One night Jules Brydon, the young river-boss, camped with his men at
Bamber's Boom. He was of parents Scotch and French, and the amalgamation
of races in him made a striking product. He was cool and indomitable,
yet hearty and joyous. It was exciting to watch him at the head of his
men, breaking up a jam of logs, and it was a delight to hear him of an
evening as he sang:
"Have you heard the cry of the Long Lachine,
When happy is the sun in the morning?
The rapids long and the banks of green,
As we ride away in the morning,
On the froth of the Long Lachine?"
One day, soon after they came, the dams and booms were opened above,
and forests of logs came riding down to Bamber's Boom. The current was
strong, and the logs came on swiftly. As Brydon's gang worked, they saw
a man out upon a small raft of driftwood, which had been suddenly caught
in the drive of logs, and was carried out towards the middle channel.
The river-drivers laughed, for they failed to see that the man was old,
and that he could not run across the rolling logs to the shore. The old
man, evidently hopeless, laid down his pike-pole, folded his hands, and
drifted with the logs. The river-drivers stopped laughing. They began
to understand.
Brydon saw a woman standing at a window of the House waving her arms,
and there floated up the river the words, "Father! father!" He caught
up a pikepole, and ran over that spinning floor of logs to the raft. The
old man's face was white, but there was no fear in his eyes.
"I cannot run the logs," he said at once; "I never did; I am too old, and
I slip. It's no use. It is my granddaughter at that window. Tell her
that I'll think of her to the last. . . . Good-bye!"
Brydon was eyeing the logs. The old man's voice was husky; he could not
cry out, but he waved his hand to the girl.
"Oh, save him!" came from her faintly.
Brydon's eyes were now on the covered bridge. Their raft was in the
channel, coming straight between two piers. He measured his chances. He
knew if he slipped, doing what he intended, that both might be drowned,
and certainly Mr. Rupert; for the logs were close, and to drop among them
was a bad business. If they once closed over there was an end of
everything.
"Keep quite still," he said, "and when I throw you catch."
He took the slight figure in his arms, sprang out upon the slippery logs,
and ran. A cheer went up from the men on the shore, and the people who
were gathering on the bridges, too late to be of service. Besides, the
bridge was closed, and there was only a small opening at the piers. For
one of these piers Brydon was making. He ran hard. Once he slipped and
nearly fell, but recovered. Then a floating tree suddenly lunged up and
struck him, so that he dropped upon a knee; but again he was up, and
strained for the pier. He was within a few feet of it as they came to
the bridge. The people gave a cry of fear, for they saw that there was
no chance of both making it; because, too, at the critical moment a space
of clear water showed near the pier. But Brydon raised John Rupert up,
balanced himself, and tossed him at the pier, where two river-drivers
stood stretching out their arms. An instant afterwards the old man was
with his granddaughter. But Brydon slipped and fell; the roots of a tree
bore him down, and he was gone beneath the logs!
There was a cry of horror from the watchers, then all was still. But
below the bridge they saw an arm thrust up between the logs, and then
another arm crowding them apart. Now a head and shoulders appeared.
Luckily the piece of timber which Brydon grasped was square, and did not
roll. In a moment he was standing on it. There was a wild shout of
encouragement. He turned his battered, blood-stained face to the bridge
for an instant, and, with a wave of the hand and a sharp look towards the
rapids below, once more sprang out. It was a brave sight, for the logs
were in a narrower channel and more riotous. He rubbed the blood out of
his eyes that he might see his way. The rolling forest gave him no
quarter, but he came on, rocking with weakness, to within a few rods of
the shore. Then a half-dozen of his men ran out on the logs,--they were
packed closely here,--caught him up, and brought him to dry ground.
They took him to the Bridge House. He was hurt more than he or they
thought. The old man and the girl met them at the door. Judith gave a
little cry when she saw the blood and Brydon's bruised face. He lifted
his head as though her eyes had drawn his, and, their looks meeting,
he took his hat off. Her face flushed; she dropped her eyes. Her
grandfather seized Brydon's big hand, and said some trembling words of
thanks. The girl stepped inside, made a bed for him upon the sofa, and
got him something to drink. She was very cool; she immediately asked
Pierre to go for the young doctor who had lately come to the place, and
made ready warm water with which she wiped Brydon's blood-stained face
and hands, and then gave him some brandy. His comrades standing round
watched her admiringly, she was so deft and delicate. Brydon, as if to
be nursed and cared for was not manly, felt ashamed, and came up quickly
to a sitting posture, saying, "Pshaw! I'm all right!" But he turned
sick immediately, and Judith's arms caught his head and shoulders as he
fell back. His face turned, and was pillowed on her bosom. At this she
blushed, but a look of singular dignity came into her face. Those
standing by were struck with a kind of awe; they were used mostly to the
daughters of habitants and fifty-acre farmers. Her sensitive face spoke
a wonderful language: a divine gratitude and thankfulness; and her eyes
had a clear moisture which did not dim them. The situation was trying to
the river-drivers--it was too refined; and they breathed more freely when
they got outside and left the girl, her grandfather, Pierre, and the
young doctor alone with the injured man.
That was how the thing began. Pierre saw the conclusion of events from
the start. The young doctor did not. From the hour when he bound up
Brydon's head, Judith's fingers aiding him, he felt a spring in his blood
new to him. When he came to know exactly what it meant, and acted, it
was too late. He was much surprised that his advances were gently
repulsed. He pressed them hard: that was a mistake. He had an idea,
not uncommon in such cases, that he was conferring an honour. But he was
very young. A gold medal in anatomy is likely to turn a lad's head at
the start. He falls into the error that the ability to demonstrate the
medulla oblongata should likewise suffice to convince the heart of a
maid. Pierre enjoyed the situation; he knew life all round; he had boxed
the compass of experience.
He believed in Judith. The old man interested him: he was a wreck out of
an unfamiliar life.
"Well, you see," Pierre said to Brydon one day, as they sat on the high
cross-beams of the little bridge, "you can't kill it in a man--what he
was born. Look, as he piles up the driftwood over there. Broken down,
eh? Yes, but then there is something--a manner, an eye. He piles the
wood like champagne bottles. On the raft, you remember, he took off his
hat to death. That's different altogether from us."
He gave a sidelong glance at Brydon, and saw a troubled look.
"Yes," Brydon said, "he is different; and so is she."
"She is a lady," Pierre said, with slow emphasis. "She couldn't hide it
if she tried. She plays the piano, and looks all silk in calico. Made
for this?"--he waved his hand towards the Bridge House. "No, no! made
for--"
He paused, smiled enigmatically, and dropped a bit of wood on the swift
current.