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Alexander's Bridge

Horton put out his hand as if to hold her back and spoke pleadingly: "Won't you
drive up to my house, Mrs. Alexander? They will take him up there."
"Take me to him now, please. I shall not make any trouble."
The group of men down under the riverbank fell back when they saw a woman
coming, and one of them threw a tarpaulin over the stretcher. They took off their
hats and caps as Winifred approached, and although she had pulled her veil
down over her face they did not look up at her. She was taller than Horton, and
some of the men thought she was the tallest woman they had ever seen. "As tall
as himself," some one whispered. Horton motioned to the men, and six of them
lifted the stretcher and began to carry it up the embankment. Winifred followed
them the half-mile to Horton's house. She walked quietly, without once breaking
or stumbling. When the bearers put the stretcher down in Horton's spare
bedroom, she thanked them and gave her hand to each in turn. The men went
out of the house and through the yard with their caps in their hands. They were
too much confused to say anything as they went down the hill.
Horton himself was almost as deeply perplexed. "Mamie," he said to his wife,
when he came out of the spare room half an hour later, "will you take Mrs.
Alexander the things she needs? She is going to do everything herself. Just stay
about where you can hear her and go in if she wants you."
Everything happened as Alexander had foreseen in that moment of prescience
under the river. With her own hands she washed him clean of every mark of
disaster. All night he was alone with her in the still house, his great head lying
deep in the pillow. In the pocket of his coat Winifred found the letter that he had
written her the night before he left New York, water-soaked and illegible, but
because of its length, she knew it had been meant for her.
For Alexander death was an easy creditor. Fortune, which had smiled upon him
consistently all his life, did not desert him in the end. His harshest critics did not
doubt that, had he lived, he would have retrieved himself. Even Lucius Wilson did
not see in this accident the disaster he had once foretold.
When a great man dies in his prime there is no surgeon who can say whether he
did well; whether or not the future was his, as it seemed to be. The mind that
society had come to regard as a powerful and reliable machine, dedicated to its
service, may for a long time have been sick within itself and bent upon its own
destruction.
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