“He’s frightened of the bridge,” said Nan in a choked voice. Her lips were dry, and something seemed to have closed her throat.
“He’s been over it hundreds of times.”
“Then there’s something wrong with it today.”
Jervis twisted his hand in the dog’s collar, took a long stride towards the bridge, and pulled. Bran sat back on his haunches and resisted with all his strength.
“There’s something wrong with the bridge,” said Nan.
Jervis’ eyes flashed.
“He’s going over if I’ve got to drag him!”
“Don’t!” said Nan. “There’s something wrong.”
“There’s nothing wrong!”
He wrenched at Bran’s collar, but without budging him.
“Jervis, there is something wrong!”
“Shall I show you there isn’t?” He let go of Bran with a sudden contemptuous movement and turned to the bridge.
Nan felt the most agonizing certainty of danger. Her heart jumped, and before she knew that she was going to do it she found herself on the bridge ahead of him.
What happened after that was a horrible confusion. She did not hear the crack of breaking timber, because it was lost in the roar of the fall, but she felt the shuddering jar of it. The bridge seemed to be wrenched beneath her. She did hear Jervis’ shout, and she felt his grasp like an iron clamp upon her shoulder. She thought she screamed, and the spray and the foam and the cold came up upon her face, and her hands, and her breast. She swung giddily above the torrent, and there was nothing between her and pool below—a long, long way below. The bridge was gone—everything was gone. She swung giddily, a frightful noise in her ears, and the water waiting for her. She had no thought for why she did not fall. She swung to and fro. It was all a confusion, like the broken bits of a dream.
And then suddenly she came shuddering out of the dream, to hear Jervis’ voice above her:
“Can you lift your arm?”
The sound of the words had reached her before, but not their sense. She made a slow, weak effort to raise her right arm, but something clamped it down.
Then Jervis voice again:
“Your—left—arm.”
She tried, reached up, and felt him grasp her wrist. Then she was being drawn up, slowly, dreadfully slowly, whilst the noise of the falling, churning water seemed to be right inside her head. She didn’t seem able to think. The moment went on interminably. Then she felt a scraping sensation across her shoulders and back, and the feel of something solid beneath her. Something went round and round in her head. She gasped and struggled to sit up. She felt as if she had been wrenched in two. She got up on her knees panting.
The middle of the bridge was gone. A yard away the broken timbers stuck out over empty space. On her left Jervis was getting to his feet. Bran pressed against her and licked her cheek. She caught him about the neck and struggled up.
Jervis was breathing hard. His clothes were darkly stained.
“Are you—all right?”
She nodded, holding Bran tight. An extraordinary wave of emotion threatened her with tears. She did not cry easily. If she were to weep now, it would not be because she was afraid, but because her whole nature seemed to be dissolved in a flood of joy and thankfulness. She had saved Jervis. If he had walked out on to the bridge, he must have gone down with it—if she had not got there first, he would have gone down. She had definitely flung herself in front of him, with the knowledge that she was flinging herself into the danger which had been prepared for him. She felt again the frightful grinding vibration of the breaking bridge.
She clenched her hands and stood staring at Jervis. The wave of emotion spent itself against the force with which she thrust it back. When it had ebbed, she felt strangely shaken. She said, in a fluttering voice that was much less audible than she meant it to be,
“What happened?”
Jervis said harshly, “The bridge broke.”
She said, “I went—down.”
He threw her a curious look. It was almost as if he accused her—an angry look.
“You might have been killed.”
“You saved me.”
“I grabbed your shoulder. We came down together.”
“Yes—tell me. I don’t know a bit what happened. Everything broke.”
“The bridge cracked—I grabbed you—and we both came down. Then the middle of the bridge went, and you were over the edge.”
Nan’s heart contracted. She might have pulled him over—she might so easily have pulled him over. The words said themselves aloud:
“I might have pulled you over!”
Jervis stood there frowning.
“You very nearly did. It was damned slippery. If I hadn’t come down full length before the bridge actually fell, we should both have gone with it. As it was, I managed to hang on, and old Bran took hold of my coat and pulled for all he was worth. I got a good handful of your dress, and thank goodness the stuff was strong!”
That was why her right arm felt as if someone had been trying to cut it off. He must be very strong to have held her like that. It had felt like a long time, but perhaps it was only a moment. She found herself asking him this, as if it was something of great importance.
“Was it a long time? It felt very long.”
“No. I couldn’t have held you for more than a moment. I said ‘Put up your arm,’ and I got hold of it; but if it hadn’t been for Bran, I don’t think I could have got you up.”
At the sound of his name Bran thrust his head under his master’s hand, jerking it up. Nan felt an envy of him. He had saved them both, and he could say how glad he was. She couldn’t. It came over her how strangely they were standing here, speaking cold conventional sentences on the ragged edges of death. She envied Bran very much. Perhaps it would have been better if she had cried her heart out.
She turned from the broken bridge and began to move stiffly down the path. Her knees shook a little, and before she had taken half a dozen steps Jervis’ hand was on her arm.
“You’re a bit shaky.”
“A little. It’s nothing.”
He walked beside her with his hand under her elbow, and she was very glad of it. Bran kept coming up on her other side, pushing against her with his head and then falling back to heel again.
They came out of the trees, but instead of climbing the slope they followed the easier gradient of the path. The sound of the fall receded. After walking silent for some time Jervis burst out with a sudden,
“I can’t understand it.”
Nan wondered if he felt the accusing leap of her pulses.
“He did it,” she said; and now her voice sounded unnaturally loud, as if she was still speaking against the roar of the fall.
Jervis stopped dead and swung her round to face him.
“What’s that?”
He still held her by the elbow, and his grasp felt rough and strong.
“He did it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The bridge.”
“You’ve got to say what you mean!”
“Yes—I saw him.”
“What do you mean? Who did you see.”
“Robert Leonard.”
He let go of her so suddenly that she felt as if he had pushed her away.
She repeated, “I saw him.” And then after a moment she added, “I did.”
Jervis stepped back from her. There was an angry colour under his dark skin.
“We’ve got to have this out! You’ve got to say what you mean!”
“Yes, Jervis. I woke up in the night—something waked me—I don’t know what it was. Then I heard Bran downstairs.”
“You heard Bran?”—with angry suspicion.
“He was walking up and down and whining. I went to the top of the stairs and called him. He came into my room with me, and we both looked out of the window. He was very excited. I thought it was because there was a storm coming up.”
“You seem to
think he’s a Pekinese! He doesn’t mind storms.”
“I know he doesn’t. It wasn’t the storm he was minding.”
“No—I suppose it was Leonard!” Nothing could have been more incredulous than his voice; his eyes held a hint of fierce amusement.
Nan lifted her head.
“Yes. Bran is cleverer than you are—he knows when there’s danger—he wouldn’t go on to the bridge.”
Jervis laughed angrily.
“Well—he was minding Leonard? And then, I suppose, you both saw him!”
“I did. I don’t know if Bran did. I don’t think he goes by seeing—he’s got something else.”
“You saw Leonard?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Where?”
“Where the path goes into the trees.”
Jervis laughed again.
“From your window! In the middle of the night!”
“Yes—I did. The moon went in, and there was a flash of lightning. I could see everything very clearly, and I saw Robert Leonard. I did see him.”
Jervis’ manner changed; it became colder and lost its rough edge.
“I’m afraid you have rather an obsession about Leonard. I hope you won’t go about saying this sort of thing to anyone else—it might get you into trouble. You see, it’s quite impossible that you could have recognized him at that distance by a flash of lightning.”
“I did recognize him,” said Nan.
She began to walk on toward the house. Jervis came up with her.
“A man you’ve seen once!” he said in a taunting tone.
“I’ve seen him more than once—and I should know him wherever I saw him.”
He gave an angry jerk of the shoulder and walked on in silence. The path entered a shrubbery, and presently came out upon the lawn. Just before they came to the house Jervis spoke again.
“What have you got against Leonard?”
She looked at him with a direct simplicity.
“He wants to kill you.”
Jervis was startled clean out of his angry impatience.
“You can’t possibly mean a thing like that!”
“I do mean it.”
“You can’t! I don’t like the man—but it’s a perfectly foul thing to say about anyone without proof.”
Nan looked away. There was a note of appeal in his voice that weakened her. She took a step towards the house.
“You’ve no proof,” said Jervis.
She looked back over her shoulder for an instant.
“The bridge fell,” she said.
She went into the house.
XIX
At lunch Jervis made the sort of polite conversation which he would have made to a guest, and immediately after lunch he went out. The day had turned to heat; the last of the haze was gone, and a fierce sun beat down upon the damp ground; far away on the horizon heavy piled up clouds suggested thunder.
Nan took a book to a seat on the shady side of the lawn, but she did not read. The book lay on her lap, whilst her thoughts moved restlessly about the broken bridge. She had had a shock, and it had left her shaken. Jervis had been as near death as he could ever be until death took him. She did not think of how near death she had been herself. She thought of Jervis taking that long step forward on to the bridge, of the bridge cracking, of the violence of its fall, and of the roar of the falling water. The water fell into the pool and was broken into foam and spray, and the bridge fell and was smashed. And Jervis—Jervis had only just not fallen. She had a horrible picture of the water battering him down into the pool. She shivered, cold in the midst of the heat, and tried to push the thought away. It kept coming back.
She opened her book at random and began to read. The words passed over her mind like water passing over stone; they left no mark. She shut the book, and saw Jervis crossing the lawn with Bran at his heels. He had a haughty, confident look. He stood at the end of the seat with his knee upon it and an arm along the back.
“Well—” he said. “I’ve had the men down at the bridge.”
Nan turned to face him. Bran came over to her and put his head in her lap.
“The wood was rotten. The spray from the fall had rotted it. As a matter of fact Benham—that’s the carpenter—reminded me that I had spoken to him about having it overhauled, but of course I didn’t think there was any particular urgency.”
Nan looked down at Bran and stroked his head. She did not speak. She had a picture in her mind of a lightning flash, and of Robert Leonard against a black background of trees.
Jervis lifted his head a little. Why didn’t she speak?
“Benham made a thorough examination of the broken timbers. I think you suggested that they had been tampered with.”
Nan looked up and said, “Yes.”
“You suggested that Leonard had tampered with the bridge.”
“Yes—I did.”
“Then I think you ought to withdraw that suggestion. If the timbers had been partly sawn through, the marks of the saw would show. There aren’t any marks. The timbers broke because they were rotten. The ends are all ragged and splintered, and the wood’s so rotten that you can break it with your fingers. I can’t think how it held so long.”
Nan did not speak. She gave him a steady look, and then went back to stroking Bran.
A little dark colour showed in Jervis’ face.
“You made what amounted to an accusation.”
“Yes,” said Nan.
He struck the back of the seat with his hand.
“Are you going to withdraw it?”
“No.”
“After Benham’s report?”
Nan flung up her head.
“He tried to kill you!”
“That’s nonsense. The bridge fell because it was rotten and I’d put off having it seen to. As a matter of fact it was Leonard who directed my attention to it not a week ago—Benham reminded me. I don’t like Leonard—he’s not a man I’ve ever cared about, and he rather put my back up—but he’s a family connection, and I think you ought to take back what you said.”
Nan got up. She took a step towards him and stood still.
“This is the third time he’s tried to kill you,” she said.
She saw his face darken and then change. He was looking past her, and she turned involuntarily. Lady Tetterley and Rosamund Carew were coming across the lawn.
Nan braced herself. She wasn’t ready to meet Rosamund—here, where Rosamund was at home and she was a stranger; she wasn’t ready at all. Jervis was angry. She had the picture of the breaking bridge in the back of her mind. She felt taken unawares and defenceless, but she called on her courage, and it rose.
Alfred brought chairs, and presently Monk entered upon the imposing ritual of tea.
Lady Tetterley, a ginger-haired woman with pale eyes and magenta lips painted on crooked, shook hands without looking at Nan, and began at once to talk to Jervis about people Nan did not even know by name. Pogo was broke and was going to have a try for the Winkledon girl, but it wasn’t likely she’d look at him, because Snorter was in the running too, and naturally he’d have a pull over Pogo.
Jervis preferring Pogo’s chances, they became involved in argument, until Lady Tetterley produced a red herring in the shape of an extraordinary rumour about Bonzo’s entry for the Cesarewitch.
Rosamund sat back in her chair with an air of complete detachment. Her beauty, her indifference, the skilful simplicity of her washing-silk dress, made Nan feel as if she herself was all wrong. She spoke to Rosamund, and Rosamund’s replies left her with no more to say. Rosamund’s manner conveyed perfectly the impression that she was being polite. Nan preferred Lady’s Tetterley’s frank rudeness.
She poured out tea, and presently Rosamund had joined the others in a quite unintelligible discussion as to whether Juju Fordyce was, or was not, mixed up in the Lansdell affair. Lady Tetterley was of opinion that he was. Her plucked red eyebrows went up into an exaggerated arch as she maintained her contention.
/> “Jinks told me he was, and Freddy told Jinks—and I suppose you’ll admit that Freddy ought to know.”
“Because of Dodo?” said Rosamund.
“Naturally. And as Tuffy said to me—”
“Dodo’s the worst liar in London,” said Jervis.
“Oh, not the worst!”
“By worst do you mean cleverest?” inquired Rosamund.
“Dodo hasn’t the brains of a weevil,” said Jervis.
Nan poured out tea. It was a useful function; apart from it, there seemed to be no reason for her existence. A spate of gossip swept past and left her on the bank. If it had not been for Jervis, she would not have minded. It would have amused her to watch Lady Tetterley, who was so thin that each of her restless movements threatened to break something. Having achieved a miraculous slenderness by the complete sacrifice of health, colour and bloom, she was inordinately pleased with the result. At intervals of ten minutes or so she opened a vanity case, peered into the glass which lined its lid, and applied powder to her bony features, and another touch of magenta to her thin lips. She talked without ceasing, and had something faintly unpleasant to say about everyone she mentioned. She appeared to amuse Jervis.
Rosamund sat, for the most part, lighting one cigarette from another and talking little. Once when Nan looked up she found herself meeting Rosamund’s eyes. Behind their beauty and their wonderful dark blue a definitely hostile something met and then instantly evaded her. Nan felt a little shaken; she did not quite know why. She did not expect Rosamund to like her. An armed neutrality was the best that could be hoped for between them.
Lady Tetterley did not make a long visit. As they got up to go, Rosamund drew a little nearer to Jervis.
“I’ve got things all over the place here. I thought I’d blow in whilst I’m with Mabel and do some sorting and shedding.”
“Oh, whenever you like.”
“You don’t mind if I leave some things here?”
“Won’t you be wanting them?”
She made a very slight gesture with the hand which held her cigarette.
“Where can I put them? I’ve only got the Leaham Road house for another month. I shall have to look out for an attic in a slum, I suppose.”
“My cue?” said Jervis. “I take it that this is where I ask, ‘Why a slum?’”
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