Chapter III: The Bridge That Lay Between

"Do you think we're a star chamber?" I said to my mother, as she stood at the parlour door with a cushion under either arm.

"Think you're what? Think who's what?" she queried in amazement.

"Where are you taking those cushions to?" I pursued, glancing at her burden.

"To the up-stairs sitting-room. You know uncle always takes a nap before he goes to bed." Which was true enough; uncle fancied he didn't sleep well if he neglected this preliminary canter on the sofa. That was where he was wont to try divers notes till he struck the proper key for the night's performance.

"That's where you all are going to stay this evening," I averred. "Uncle will snooze there while you and aunty play cribbage."

"Yes, of course--why?" answered my mother wonderingly. "You and Mr. Giddens will be in the parlour, won't you?"

"That's what I meant about the star chamber," I rejoined. "I think it's right foolish, the way you all take to your heels when Charlie spends an evening here. There's a plenty of room in the parlour for us all."

"There shouldn't be," my mother made reply; "I never saw the room big enough for more than two when your father and I were lovers--which we were the longest day he lived," she added, her voice softening to the romantic note.

"And did you always want to be alone?" I asked seriously; "always alone together--before you were married, I mean?"

My mother smiled, her eyes half closing in reminiscent thought. "Yes, child," she answered slowly, "alone--together; I believe those two words describe nearly all the joy of life--alone--together. Don't you know what I mean, Helen?" and there was a deep tenderness in her voice as she dropped one of the cushions on a chair, coming close and taking me in her arms; "doesn't my dear one know the meaning of it? Oh, Helen, I want you to be so happy. And you will be, won't you--you are, aren't you, my darling? You love him, don't you, Helen?"

My face was hidden in her bosom. After a minute's silence she drew back, that she might look into my eyes. "You love him, don't you, dear?"

"Yes," I said, again seeking the shelter of her breast.

"I'm so glad, my darling," she murmured. Then she picked up the fallen cushion and went on her way up-stairs.

I stood by the piano, listlessly fingering some music sheets that lay on top of it. Suddenly the stillness was broken by my mother's voice.

"Helen," she cried; "oh, Helen."

"Yes, dear," I answered, stepping to the door.

"I forgot to tell you the news; our Presbytery guest isn't coming till to-morrow. They sent us word just this afternoon--and they're almost sure it's going to be an elder."

"Then 'it' will have to go in the attic," I rejoined, shouting the opprobrious pronoun up the stairs.

"Helen, dear," the tender voice remonstrated, "how can you speak like that--calling him 'it.' That isn't respectful, child."

"It's your word," responded I; "you said it's going to be an elder."

"But I didn't actually call him it," my mother defended. Her answer was rather long in coming; I could tell she was struggling with the verbal problem.

"Oh, well, I beg his pardon," I conceded; "anyhow he won't care what we called him, when he strikes the attic," and the argument ended in a duet of laughter.

"And, Helen," resumed my mother, by this time one or two steps down-stairs, "don't you think you'd better dress? Mr. Giddens ought to be here right soon now, shouldn't he? I think you ought to wear your pink organdy--he says he loves you in pink, you know."

"He ought to love me in buckskin," I flung back, "if he loves me at all. He ought to love me for my own sweet self undecorated--you see, mother, how romantic you're making me. If he's really got the frenzy he won't need any pink things to infuriate him," I insisted, laying Spanish bull-fights under tribute.

"Please yourself, child," my mother responded as she disappeared, "but I know, when your father was courting me----"

"You ought to write a book on the subject, mother," I interrupted gaily; "you've evidently had it down to a science. If you'd write a book and call it 'First Principles of Courtship' or 'Love-making for Beginners' you'd help things on a lot." But by this time mother was beyond the range of conversation and my literary counsel met with no response.

I went back to the parlour. The music sheets were fumbled once again. Then I tried to read, but found it impossible to settle down. I turned once more to the piano and presently found myself softly singing a little love-verse, familiar since my childhood. I crooned it once or twice:

Still must you call me tender names
Still gently stroke my tresses;
Still shall my happy answering heart
Keep time to your caresses.

The words made me lonely--like a phantom song. I involuntarily smiled a little as I caught myself sighing while the piano notes died away; perhaps it was the gathering twilight that gave me such a plaintive feeling in the region of my heart.

Suddenly a voice came from above. It was Aunt Agnes this time.

"Hear that, Helen?" she sang out. "There's music in that screech, isn't there?"

"What screech?" I answered back, a little suspicious that she referred to my simple warblings. Yet I knew she could scarcely have heard.

"The locomotive," she promptly replied. "Didn't you hear that engine whistle?--that's his train, you know. I reckon you were listening for it all right."

I rose and moved to the window, grimly wondering if ever lover had so many assistants in the business. I could see the white puffs of smoke as the train steamed slowly into the distant station. The dreamy ringing of the bell floated in through the open window, mingling with the pensive sounds of evening.

And I was lonely, so lonely! I knew that Charlie had just alighted from the train, doubtless hurrying even now to his hotel. He would soon shake its dust from off his feet, I knew, and old "Rastus"--Rastus knew Charlie's orbit and kept a keen lookout for him--would bring him with fitting haste to me. My cheek reddened, then paled, as I seemed to see Charlie's eager face, his impatient arms, his ardent lips. I quivered a little, and tore two or three of the petals from a rose I had chosen from a bowlful on the table; the harmless things floated to the pavement beneath the window.

Suddenly a bird's rich full note fluttered in and fell upon my ear. I listened. And his mate responded--full and sweet and tremulous the answer came. The love-throb pulsed vibrant through it. I thought it beautiful; and I listened, enchanted, as the tender message came again and again. Soon the note grew fainter--and I think I caught a glimpse of the winged lovers as they glided close together into their bridal chamber in the deep shade of the magnolia tree. The rich blossoms hung like curtains, quivering a little where the mated pair had passed within--that fragrant retreat was holy.

Still gazing, my attention was diverted by the sound of feet upon the brick pavement that went past our house. I listened, watching. And a minute or two later, all unconscious of my presence, a youth and maiden passed beneath the window. Neither was speaking, and their steps were slow, as if they cared not where they led. Somehow they compelled my interest at once. I knew them both, though their station was quite different from mine. She collected belated accounts for a local laundry--he drove their horse, delivering from door to door. I watched them wistfully as they passed on, by and by leaning out the window to follow their career. They turned to the left and made their way out on to the bridge. And I saw him once--though the dusk was deepening--I saw him take her hand; she withdrew it quickly, but he gently recovered it a moment later, this time without resistance. And thus they went on together, far out on the lonely bridge, every step taking them farther from everybody else, but nearer to each other. The twilight hid them soon; and they were alone together in the shelter of the gathering dark.

Then was a wild tumult surging in my heart. I wondered what made it, and why the lump rose so persistently in my throat, even while I feared to know. For she was only a working girl, I thought, and he a swain who drove a beast of burden. Yet I knew that that old bridge, rickety and worn, lay between me and the Celestial. And I wondered who it was that wrote that song about the tender names and the tresses so gently to be stroked.

I went back towards the piano; for I heard the distant sound of wheels. Then I rang the bell; a servant appeared in an instant.

"Lyddie," I said, "light the gas, please."

"Yes, Miss Helen. I done seen a transfeh drivin' to the fwont doah, Miss Helen," as she returned with the taper.

"I heard it too," said I.