Already he dreaded the long, empty days at sea, the monotonous Irish
coast, the sluggish passage up the Mersey, the flash of the boat train
through the summer country. He closed his eyes and gave himself up to
the feeling of rapid motion and to swift, terrifying thoughts. He was
sitting so, his face shaded by his hand, when the Boston lawyer saw him
from the siding at White River Junction.
When at last Alexander roused himself, the afternoon had waned to
sunset. The train was passing through a gray country and the sky
overhead was flushed with a wide flood of clear color. There was a
rose-colored light over the gray rocks and hills and meadows. Off to the
left, under the approach of a weather-stained wooden bridge, a group of
boys were sitting around a little fire. The smell of the wood smoke blew
in at the window. Except for an old farmer, jogging along the highroad
in his box-wagon, there was not another living creature to be seen.
Alexander looked back wistfully at the boys, camped on the edge of a
little marsh, crouching under their shelter and looking gravely at their
fire. They took his mind back a long way, to a campfire on a sandbar in
a Western river, and he wished he could go back and sit down with them.
He could remember exactly how the world had looked then.
It was quite dark and Alexander was still thinking of the boys, when it
occurred to him that the train must be nearing Allway. In going to his
new bridge at Moorlock he had always to pass through Allway. The train
stopped at Allway Mills, then wound two miles up the river, and then the
hollow sound under his feet told Bartley that he was on his first bridge
again. The bridge seemed longer than it had ever seemed before, and he
was glad when he felt the beat of the wheels on the solid roadbed again.
He did not like coming and going across that bridge, or remembering the
man who built it. And was he, indeed, the same man who used to walk that
bridge at night, promising such things to himself and to the stars? And
yet, he could remember it all so well: the quiet hills sleeping in the
moonlight, the slender skeleton of the bridge reaching out into the
river, and up yonder, alone on the hill, the big white house; upstairs,
in Winifred's window, the light that told him she was still awake and
still thinking of him. And after the light went out he walked alone,
taking the heavens into his confidence, unable to tear himself away from
the white magic of the night, unwilling to sleep because longing was so
sweet to him, and because, for the first time since first the hills were
hung with moonlight, there was a lover in the world. And always there
was the sound of the rushing water underneath, the sound which, more
than anything else, meant death; the wearing away of things under the
impact of physical forces which men could direct but never circumvent or
diminish. Then, in the exaltation of love, more than ever it seemed to
him to mean death, the only other thing as strong as love. Under the
moon, under the cold, splendid stars, there were only those two things
awake and sleepless; death and love, the rushing river and his burning
heart.