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The Bridge House
by
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.