Pierre looked over Brydon's shoulder, towards a pretty cottage on the
hillside. "Made for homes like that, not this," he said, and he nodded
first towards the hillside, then to the Bridge House. (The cottage
belonged to the young doctor.) A growl like an animal's came from Brydon,
and he clinched the other's shoulder. Pierre glanced at the hand, then
at Brydon's face, and said sharply: "Take it away."
The hand dropped; but Brydon's face was hot, and his eyes were hard.
Pierre continued: "But then women are strange. What you expect they will
not--no. Riches?--it is nothing; houses like that on the hill, nothing.
They have whims. The hut is as good as the house, with the kitchen in
the open where the river welts and washes, and a man--the great man of
the world to them--to play the little game of life with. . . . Pshaw!
you are idle: move; you are thick in the head: think hard; you like the
girl: speak."
As he said this, there showed beneath them the front timbers of a small
crib of logs with a crew of two men, making for the rapids and the slide
below. Here was an adventure, for running the rapids with so slight a
craft and small a crew was smart work. Pierre, measuring the distance,
and with a "Look out, below!" swiftly let himself down by his arms as
far as he could, and then dropped to the timbers, as lightly as if it
were a matter of two feet instead of twelve. He waved a hand to Brydon,
and the crib shot on. Brydon sat eyeing it abstractedly till it ran into
the teeth of the rapids, the long oars of the three men rising and
falling to the monotonous cry. The sun set out the men and the craft
against the tall dark walls of the river in strong relief, and Brydon was
carried away from what Pierre had been saying. He had a solid pleasure
in watching, and he sat up with a call of delight when he saw the crib
drive at the slide. Just glancing the edge, she shot through safely.
His face blazed.
"A pretty sight!" said a voice behind him.
Without a word he swung round, and dropped, more heavily than Pierre,
beside Judith.
"It gets into our bones," he said. "Of course, though it ain't the same
to you," he added, looking down at her over his shoulder. "You don't
care for things so rough, mebbe?"
"I love the river," she said quietly.
"We're a rowdy lot, we river-drivers. We have to be. It's a rowdy
business."
"I never noticed that," she replied, gravely smiling. "When I was small
I used to go to the river-drivers' camps with my brother, and they were
always kind to us. They used to sing and play the fiddle, and joke; but
I didn't think then that they were rowdy, and I don't now. They were
never rough with us."
"No one'd ever be rough with you," was the reply. "Oh yes," she said
suddenly, and turned her head away. She was thinking of what the young
doctor had said to her that morning; how like a foolish boy he had acted:
upbraiding her, questioning her, saying unreasonable things, as young
egoists always do. In years she was younger than he, but in wisdom much
older: in all things more wise and just. He had not struck her, but with
his reckless tongue he had cut her to the heart. "Oh yes," she repeated,
and her eyes ran up to his face and over his great stalwart body; and
then she leaned over the railing and looked into the water.
"I'd break the man into pieces that was rough with you," he said between
his teeth.
"Would you?" she asked in a whisper. Then, not giving him a chance to
reply, "We are very poor, you know, and some people are rough with the
poor--and proud. I remember," she went on, simply, dreamily, and as if
talking to herself, "the day when we first came to the Bridge House. I
sat down on a box and looked at the furniture--it was so little--and
cried. Coming here seemed the last of what grandfather used to be. I
couldn't help it. He sat down too, and didn't say anything. He was very
pale, and I saw that his eyes ached as he looked at me. Then I got angry
with myself, and sprang up and went to work--and we get along pretty
well."
She paused and sighed; then, after a minute: "I love the river. I don't
believe I could be happy away from it. I should like to live on it, and
die on it, and be buried in it."
His eyes were on her eagerly. But she looked so frail and dainty that
his voice, to himself, sounded rude. Still, his hand blundered along the
railing to hers, and covered it tenderly--for so big a hand. She drew
her fingers away, but not very quickly. "Don't!" she said, "and--and
someone is coming!"
There were footsteps behind them. It was her grandfather, carrying
a board fished from the river. He grasped the situation, and stood
speechless with wonder. He had never thought of this. He was a
gentleman, in spite of all, and this man was a common river-boss.
Presently he drew himself up with an air. The heavy board was still in
his arms. Brydon came over and took the board, looking him squarely in
the eyes.
"Mr. Rupert," he said, "I want to ask something." The old man nodded.
"I helped you out of a bad scrape on the river?" Again the old man
nodded.
"Well, mebbe, I saved your life. For that I'm going to ask you to draw
no more driftwood from the Madawaska--not a stick, now or ever."
"It is the only way we can keep from freezing in winter." Mr. Rupert
scarcely knew what he said. Brydon looked at Judith, who turned away,
then answered: "I'll keep you from freezing, if you'll let me, you--and
Judith."
"Oh, please let us go into the house," Judith said hastily.
She saw the young doctor driving towards them out of the covered bridge!
When Brydon went to join his men far down the river he left a wife behind
him at the Bridge House, where she and her grandfather were to stay until
the next summer. Then there would be a journey from Bamber's Boom to a
new home.
In the late autumn he came, before he went away to the shanties in the
backwoods, and again in the winter just before the babe was born. Then
he went far up the river to Rice Lake and beyond, to bring down the
drives of logs for his Company. June came, and then there was a sudden
sorrow at the Bridge House. How great it was, Pierre's words as he stood
at the door one evening will testify. He said to the young doctor: "Save
the child, and you shall have back the I O U on your house." Which was
also evidence that the young doctor had fallen into the habit of
gambling.
The young doctor looked hard at him. He had a selfish nature. "You can
only do what you can do," he said.
Pierre's eyes were sinister. "If you do not save it, one would guess
why."
The other started, flushed, was silent, and then said: "You think I'm a
coward. We shall see. There is a way, but it may fail."
And though he sucked the diphtheria poison from the child's throat, it
died the next night.
Still, the cottage that Pierre and Company had won was handed back with
such good advice as only a worldwise adventurer can give.
Of the child's death its father did not know. They were not certain
where he was. But when the mother took to her bed again, the young
doctor said it was best that Brydon should come. Pierre had time and
inclination to go for him. But before he went he was taken to Judith's
bedside. Pierre had seen life and death in many forms, but never
anything quite like this: a delicate creature floating away upon a summer
current travelling in those valleys which are neither of this life nor
of that; but where you hear the echoes of both, and are visited by
solicitous spirits. There was no pain in her face--she heard a little,
familiar voice from high and pleasant hills, and she knew, so wise are
the dying, that her husband was travelling after her, and that they would
be all together soon. But she did not speak of that. For the knowledge
born of such a time is locked up in the soul.
Pierre was awe-stricken. Unconsciously he crossed himself.
"Tell him to come quickly," she said, "if you find him,"--her fingers
played with the coverlet,--"for I wish to comfort him. . . . Someone
said that you were bad, Pierre. I do not believe it. You were sorry
when my baby went away. I am--going away--too. But do not tell him
that. Tell him I cannot walk about. I want him to carry me--to carry
me. Will you?" Pierre put out his hand to hers creeping along the
coverlet to him; but it was only instinct that guided him, for he could
not see. He started on his journey with his hat pulled down over his
eyes.
One evening when the river was very high and it was said that Brydon's
drives of logs would soon be down, a strange thing happened at the Bridge
House.
The young doctor had gone, whispering to Mr. Rupert that he would come
back later. He went out on tiptoe, as from the presence of an angel.
His selfishness had dropped away from him. The evening wore on, and in
the little back room a woman's voice said:
"Is it morning yet, father?"
"It is still day. The sun has not set, my child."
"I thought it had gone, it seemed so dark."
"You have been asleep, Judith. You have come out of the dark."
"No, I have come out into the darkness--into the world."
"You will see better when you are quite awake."
"I wish I could see the river, father. Will you go and look?"
Then there was a silence. "Well?" she asked.
"It is beautiful," he said, "and the sun is still bright."
"You see as far as Indian Island?"
"I can see the white comb of the reef beyond it, my dear."
"And no one--is coming?"
"There are men making for the shore, and the fires are burning, but no
one is--coming this way. . . . He would come by the road, perhaps."
"Oh no, by the river. Pierre has not found him. Can you see the Eddy?"
"Yes. It is all quiet there; nothing but the logs tossing round it."
"We used to sit there--he and I--by the big cedar tree. Everything was
so cool and sweet. There was only the sound of the force-pump and the
swallowing of the Eddy. They say that a woman was drowned there, and
that you can see her face in the water, if you happen there at sunrise,
weeping and smiling also: a picture in the water. . . . Do you think
it true, father?"
"Life is so strange, and who knows what is not life, my child?"
"When baby was dying I held it over the water beneath that window, where
the sunshine falls in the evening; and it looked down once before its
spirit passed like a breath over my face. Maybe, its look will stay, for
him to see when he comes. It was just below where you stand.... Father,
can you see its face?" "No, Judith; nothing but the water and the
sunshine."
"Dear, carry me to the window."
When this was done she suddenly leaned forward with shining eyes and
anxious fingers. "My baby! My baby!" she said.
She looked up the river, but her eyes were fading, she could not see far.
"It is all a grey light," she said, "I cannot see well." Yet she smiled.
"Lay me down again, father," she whispered.
After a little she sank into a slumber. All at once she started up.
"The river, the beautiful river!" she cried out gently. Then, at the
last, "Oh, my dear, my dear!"
And so she came out of the valley into the high hills. Later he was left
alone with his dead. The young doctor and others had come and gone. He
would watch till morning. He sat long beside her, numb to the world. At
last he started, for he heard a low clear call behind the House. He went
out quickly to the little platform, and saw through the dusk a man
drawing himself up. It was Brydon. He caught the old man's shoulders
convulsively. "How is she?" he asked. "Come in, my son," was the low
reply. The old man saw a grief greater than his own. He led the husband
to the room where the wife lay beautiful and still. "She is better, as
you see," he said bravely.
The hours went, and the two sat near the body, one on either side. They
knew not what was going on in the world.
As they mourned, Pierre and the young doctor sat silent in that cottage
on the hillside. They were roused at last. There came up to Pierre's
keen ears the sound of the river.
"Let us go out," he said; "the river is flooding. You can hear the
logs."
They came out and watched. The river went swishing, swilling past, and
the dull boom of the logs as they struck the piers of the bridge or some
building on the shore came rolling to them.
"The dams and booms have burst!" Pierre said. He pointed to the camps
far up the river. By the light of the camp-fires there appeared a wide
weltering flood of logs and debris. Pierre's eyes shifted to the Bridge
House. In one room was a light. He stepped out and down, and the other
followed. They had almost reached the shore, when Pierre cried out
sharply: "What's that?"
He pointed to an indistinct mass bearing down upon the Bridge House. It
was a big shed that had been carried away, and, jammed between timbers,
had not broken up. There was no time for warning. It came on swiftly,
heavily. There was a strange, horrible, grinding sound, and then they
saw the light of that one room move on, waving a little to and fro-on to
the rapids, the cohorts of logs crowding hard after.
Where the light was two men had started to their feet when the crash
came. They felt the House move. "Run-save yourself!" cried the old man
quietly. "We are lost!"
The floor rocked.
"Go," he said again. "I will stay with her."
"She is mine," Brydon said; and he took her in his arms. "I will not
go."
They could hear the rapids below. The old man steadied himself in the
deep water on the floor, and caught out yearningly at the cold hands.
"Come close, come close," said Brydon. "Closer; put your arms round
her."
The old man did so. They were locked in each other's arms--dead and
living.
The old man spoke, with a piteous kind of joy: "We therefore commit her
body to the deep--!"
The three were never found.