CHAPTER XIX. THE KEEPER OF THE BRIDGE
"Like the darkness of the grave, which is darkness itself--"
Most of those who break out of the zareba of life, who lay violent handsupon themselves, do so with a complete reasoning, which in itself isproof of their insanity. It may be domestic tragedy, or ill-health,or crime, or broken faith, or shame, or insomnia, or betrayedtrust--whatever it is, many a one who suffers from such things, tries toend it all with that deliberation, that strategy, and that cunning whichbelong only to the abnormal.
A mind which has known a score or more of sleepless nights acquiresan invincible clearness of its own, seeing an end which is withoutperadventure. It finds a hundred perfect reasons for not going on, everyone of which is in itself sufficient; every one of which knits into theother ninety and nine with inevitable affinity.
To the mind of Ingolby came a hundred such reasons for breaking out oflife's enclosure, as the effect of the opiate Rockwell had given himwore off, and he regained consciousness. As he did so, someone inthe room was telling of that intervention of Gabriel Druse and theMonseigneur at the Orange funeral, which had saved the situation. Atfirst he listened to what was said--it was the nurse talking to JimBeadle with no sharp perception of the significance of the story; thoughit slowly pierced the lethargy of his senses, and he turned over in thebed to face the watchers.
"What time is it, Jim?" he asked heavily. They told him it was sunset.
"Is it quiet in both towns?" he asked after a pause. They told him thatit was.
"Any telegrams for me?" he asked.
There was an instant's hesitation. They had had no instructions on thispoint, and they hardly knew what to say; but Jim's mind had its ownlogic, and the truth seemed best to him now. He answered that there wereseveral wires, but that they "didn't amount to nothin'."
"Have they been opened?" Ingolby asked with a frown, half-raisinghimself. It was hard to resign the old masterfulness and self-will.
"I'd like to see anybody open 'em 'thout my pe'mision," answered Jimimperiously. "When you's asleep, Chief, I'm awake; and I take care ofyou' things, same as ever I done. There ain't no wires been opened, andthere ain't goin' to be whiles I'm runnin' the show for you."
"Open and read them to me," commanded Ingolby. Again Ingolby wasconscious of hesitation on Jim's part. Already the acuteness of theblind was possessing him, sharpening the senses left unimpaired.Although Jim moved, presumably, towards the place where the telegramslay, Ingolby realized that his own authority was being crossed by thatof the doctor and the nurse.
"You will leave the room for a moment, nurse," he said with a brassyvibration in the voice--a sign of nervous strain. With a smotheredprotest the nurse left, and Jim stood beside the bed with the telegrams.
"Read them to me, Jim," Ingolby repeated irritably. "Be quick."
They were not wires which Ingolby should have heard at the time, whenhis wound was still inflamed, when he was still on the outer circleof that artificial sleep which the opiates had secured. They were fromMontreal and New York, and, resolved from their half-hidden suggestioninto bare elements, they meant that henceforth others would do the workhe had done. They meant, in effect, that save for the few scores ofthousand dollars he had made, he was now where he was when he came West.
When Jim had finished reading them, Ingolby sank back on the pillows andsaid quietly:
"All right, Jim. Put them in the drawer of the table and I'll answerthem to-morrow. I want to get a little more sleep, so give me a drink,and then leave me alone--both nurse and you--till I ring the bell.There's a bell on the table, isn't there?"
He stretched out a hand towards the table beside the bed, and Jim softlypushed the bell under his fingers.
"That's right," he added. "Now, I'm not to be disturbed unless thedoctor comes. I'm all right, and I want to be alone and quiet. No one atall in the room is what I want. You understand, Jim?"
"My head's just as good to get at what you want as ever it was, and yougoin' have what you want, I guess, while I'm on deck," was Jim's reply.
Jim put a glass of water into his hand. He drank very slowly, was indeedonly mechanically conscious that he was drinking, for his mind was faraway.
After he had put the glass down, Jim still stood beside the bed, lookingat him.
"Why don't you go, as I tell you, Jim?" Ingolby asked wearily.
"I'm goin'"--Jim tucked the bedclothes in carefully--"I'm goin', but,boss, I jes' want to say dat dis thing goin' to come out all rightbime-by. There ain't no doubt 'bout dat. You goin' see everything, comejes' like what you want--suh!"
Ingolby did not reply. He held out his hand, and black fingers shot overand took it. A moment later the blind man was alone in the room.
The light of day vanished, and the stars came out. There was no moon,but it was one of those nights of the West when millions of starsglimmer in the blue vault above, and every planet and every star andcluster of stars are so near that it might almost seem they could becaught by an expert human hand. The air was very still, and a mantle ofpeace was spread over the tender scene. The window and the glass doorsthat gave from Ingolby's room upon the veranda on the south side of thehouse, were open, and the air was warm as in Midsummer. Now and then thenote of a night-bird broke the stillness, but nothing more.
It was such a night as Ingolby loved; it was such a night as oftenfound him out in the restful gloom of the trees, thinking and brooding,planning, revelling in memories of books he had read, and in dreaming ofbooks he might write-if there were time. Such a night insulated the darkmoods which possessed him occasionally almost as effectively as fishingdid; and that was saying much.
But the darkest mood of all his days was upon him now. When Rockwellcame, soon after Jim and the nurse left him, he simulated sleep, for hehad no mind to talk; and the doctor, deceived by his even breathing, hadleft, contented. At last he was wholly alone with his own thoughts, ashe desired. From the moment Jim had read him the wires, which werethe real revelation of the situation to which he had come, he had beentravelling hard on the road leading to a cul-de-sac, from which therewas no egress save by breaking through the wall. Never, it might haveseemed, had his mind been clearer, but it was a clearness belonging tothe abnormal. It was a straight line of thought which, in its intensity,gathered all other thoughts into its wake, reduced them to the controlof an obsession. It was borne in on his mind that his day was done, thatnothing could right the disorder which had strewn his path withbroken hopes and shattered ambitions. No life-work left, no schemes toaccomplish, no construction to achieve, no wealth to gain, no publicgood to be won, no home to be his, no woman, his very own, to be hiscounsellor and guide in the natural way!
As myriad thoughts drove through his brain on this Indian-summer night,they all merged into the one obsession that he could no longer stay. Theirresistible logic of the brain stretched to an abnormal tenuity, andan intolerable brightness was with him. He was in the throes of thatintense visualization which comes with insomnia, when one is awake yetapart from the waking world, where nothing is really real and nothingnormal. He had a call to go hence, and he must go. Minute after minutepassed, hours passed, and the fight of the soul to maintain itselfagainst the disordered mind went on. All his past seemed but part of adesert, lonely and barren and strange.
In the previous year he had made a journey to Arizona with Jowett, tosee some railway construction there, and at a ranch he had visitedhe came upon some verses which had haunted his mind ever since. Theyfastened upon his senses now. They were like a lonesome monotone whichat length gave calm to his torturing reflections. In his darkness theverses kept repeating themselves:
"I heard the desert calling, and my heart stood still There was Winter in my world and in my heart: A breath came from the mesa and a message stirred my will, And my soul and I arose up to depart.
I heard the desert calling; and I knew that over there, In an olive-sheltered garden where the mesquite grows, Was a woman
of the sunrise, with the starshine in her hair, And a beauty that the almond-blossom blows.
In the night-time when the ghost-trees glimmered in the moon, Where the mesa by the watercourse was spanned, Her loveliness enwrapped me like the blessedness of June, And all my life was thrilling in her hand.
I hear the desert calling, and my heart stands still; There is Summer in my world and in my heart; A breath comes from the mesa, and a will beyond my will Binds my footsteps as I rise up to depart."
This strange, half-mystic song of the mesa and the olive-groves, of theghost-trees and the moon, kept playing upon his own heated senses likethe spray from a cooling stream, and at last it quieted him. The darkspirit of self-destruction loosened its hold.
His brain had been strained beyond the normal, almost unconsciously hisfingers had fastened on the pistol in the drawer of the table by hisbed. It had been there since the day when he had travelled down fromAlaska--loaded as it had been when he had carried it down the southerntrail. But as his fingers tightened on the little engine of death,from the words which had been ringing in his brain came the flash of arevelation:
"... And a will beyond my will Binds my footsteps as I rise up to depart."
A will beyond his will! It was as though Fleda's fingers were laid uponhis own; as though she whispered in his ear and her breath swept hischeek; as though she was there in the room beside him, making thedarkness light, tempering the wind of chastisement to his naked soul.In the overstrain of his nervous system the illusion was powerful. Hethought he heard her voice. The pistol slipped from his fingers, and hefell back on the pillow with a sigh. The will beyond his will bound hisfootsteps.
Who can tell? The grim, malign experience of Fleda in her bedroom withthe Thing she thought was from beyond the bounds of her own life; thevoice that spoke to Ingolby, and the breath that swept over his cheekwere, perhaps, as real in a sense as would have been the corporealpresence of Jethro Fawe in one case and of Fleda Druse in the other.It may be that in very truth Fleda Druse's spirit with its poignantsolicitude controlled his will as he "rose up to depart." But if it wasonly an illusion, it was not less a miracle. Some power of suggestionbound his fleeing footsteps, drew him back from the Brink.
He slept. Once the nurse came and looked at him and returned to theother room; and twice Jim stole in silently for a moment and retiredagain to his own chamber. The stars shone in at the doors that openedout from the quiet room into the night, the watch beside the bed tickedon, the fox-terrier which always slept on a mat at the foot of the bedsighed in content, while his master breathed heavily in a sleep full ofdreams that hurried past like phantasmagoria--of a hundred things thathad been in his life, and that had never been; of people he had known,distorted, ridiculous and tremendous. There were dreams of fiddlersand barbers, of crowds writhing in passion in a room where there was abilliard-table and a lucky horseshoe on the wall. There were dreamsthat tossed and mingled in one whirlpool vision; and then at last came adream which was so cruel and clear that it froze his senses.
It was the dream of a great bridge over a swiftflowing river; of his ownbridge over the Sagalacof that bridge being destroyed by men who creptthrough the night with dynamite in their hands.
With a hoarse, smothered cry he awoke. His eyes opened wide. His heartwas beating like a hammer against his side. Only the terrier at his feetheard the muttered agony. With an instinct all its own, it slipped tothe floor.
It watched its master get out of bed, cross the room and feel for a coatalong the wall--an overcoat which he used as a dressing-gown at times.Putting it on hastily, with outstretched hands Ingolby felt his way tothe glass doors opening on the veranda. The dog, as though to let himknow he was there, rubbed against his legs. Ingolby murmured a soft,unintelligible word, and, in his bare feet, passed out on to theveranda, and from there to the garden and towards the gate at the frontof the house.
The nurse heard the gate click lightly, but she was only half-awake,and as all was quiet in the next room, she composed herself in her chairagain with the vain idea that she was not sleeping. And Jim the faithfulone, as though under a narcotic of fate, was snoring softly beside thevacant room. The streets were still. No lights burned anywhere so faras eye could see. But now and then, in the stillness through which theriver flowed on, murmuring and rhythmic, there rose the distant soundsof disorderly voices. Ingolby was in a state which was neither sleep norwaking, which was in part delirium, in part oblivion to all thingsin the world save one--an obsession so complete, that he movedautomatically through the street in which he lived towards that whichled to the bridge.
His terrier, as though realizing exactly what he wished, seemed to guidehim by rubbing against his legs, and even pressing hard against themwhen he was in any danger of losing the middle of the road, or swervingtowards a ditch or some obstruction. Only once did they pass any humanbeing, and that was when they came upon a camp of road-builders, where ared light burned, and two men slept in the open by a dying fire. Oneof them raised his head when Ingolby passed, but being more thanhalf-asleep, and seeing only a man and a dog, thought nothing of it, anddropped back again upon his rough pillow. He was a stranger toLebanon, and there was little chance of his recognizing Ingolby in thesemi-darkness.
As they neared the river, Ingolby became deeply agitated. He moved withhis hands outstretched. Had it not been for his dog he would probablyhave walked into the Sagalac; for though he seemed to have an instinctthat was extra-natural, he swayed and staggered in the delirium drivinghim on. There was one dreadful moment when, having swerved from the roadleading on to the bridge, he was within a foot of the river-bank.One step farther, and he would have plunged down thirty feet into thestream, to be swept to the Rapids below.
But for the first time the terrier made a sound. He gave a whiningbark almost human in its meaning, and threw himself at the legs of hismaster, pushing him backwards and over towards the road leading upon thebridge, as a collie guides sheep. Presently Ingolby felt the floor ofthe bridge under his feet; and now he hastened on, with outstretchedarms and head bent forward, listening intently, the dog trotting beside,with what knowledge working in him Heaven alone knew.
The roar of the Rapids below was a sonorous accompaniment to Ingolby'swild thoughts. One thing only he felt, one thing only heard--the menin Barbazon's Tavern saying that the bridge should be blown up onthe Saturday night; and this was Saturday night--the night of the dayfollowing that of the Orange funeral. He had heard the criminal hirelingof Felix Marchand say that it should be done at midnight, and that theexplosive should be laid under that part of the bridge which joined theManitou bank of the Sagalac. As though in very truth he saw with hiseyes, he stopped short not far from the point where the bridge joinedthe land, and stood still, listening.
For several minutes he was motionless, intent, as an animal waiting forits foe. At last his newly-sensitive ears heard footsteps approachingand low voices. The footsteps came nearer, the voices, though so low,became more distinct. They were now not fifty feet away, but to thedelirious Ingolby they were as near as death had been when his fingersclosed on the pistol in his room.
He took a step forward, and with passionate voice and arms outstretched,he cried:
"You shall not do it-by God, you shall not touch my bridge! I built it. You shall not touch it. Back, you devils-back!"
The terrier barked loudly.
The two men in the semi-darkness in front of him cowered at the sightof this weird figure holding the bridge they had come to destroy. Hiswords, uttered in so strange and unnatural a voice, shook their nerves.They shrank away from the ghostly form with the outstretched arms.
In the minute's pause following on his words, a giant figure suddenlyappeared behind the dynamiters. It was the temporary Chief Constable ofLebanon, returning from his visit to Tekewani. He had heard Ingolby'swild words, and he realized the situation.
"Ingolby--steady there, Ingolby!" he called. "Steady! Steady! Gab
rielDruse is here. It's all right."
At the first sound of Druse's voice the two wreckers turned and ran.
As they did so, Ingolby's hands fell to his side, and he staggeredforward.
"Druse--Fleda," he murmured, then swayed, trembled and fell.
With words that stuck in his throat Gabriel Druse stooped and liftedhim up in his arms. At first he turned towards the bridge, as though tocross over to Lebanon, but the last word Ingolby had uttered rang in hisears, and he carried him away into the trees towards his own house, thefaithful terrier following. "Druse--Fleda!" They were the words of onewho had suddenly emerged from the obsession of delirium into sanity, andthen had fallen into as sudden unconsciousness.
"Fleda! Fleda!" called Gabriel Druse outside the door of his house aquarter of an hour later, and her voice in reply was that of one whoknew that the feet of Fate were at her threshold.