The Tragedy of the Chain Pier, Charlotte Mary Brame [free e books to read txt] 📗

ache. The withered trunk of a fallen tree lay across the river's bank; one end of it was washed by the stream. Mrs. Fleming sat down upon it and the scarlet poppies were at her feet.

"We can see nothing so pretty as the sunset over the river, Mr. Ford," she said; "let us watch it."

We sat for some few minutes in silence; the rosy glow from the sky and the river seemed to fall on her face as she turned it to the water.

The time had come; I knew that, yet only Heaven knows how I shrank from the task! I would rather have died, yet my sense of justice urged me on. Was it fair that Lance Fleming should lavish the whole love of his life on a murderess?

"What are you thinking so intently about, Mr. Ford?" she asked me.

"Shall I tell you?" I asked.

"Yes, by all means," she replied. "I am sure the subject is very grave, you look so unhappy."

Now the time was come! That beautiful face would never look into mine again. I steeled my heart by thinking of the tiny baby face I had seen on the wooden bench of the pier--so like hers--the little drowned face!

"I will tell you of what I am thinking, Mrs. Fleming," I said; "but I must tell it to you as a story."

"Do," she said, in a gentle voice, and she gathered the scarlet poppies as she spoke.

"There were two friends once upon a time," I began, "who loved each other with a love deeper and truer than the love of brothers."

She nodded her head with a charming smile; I saw an expression of great relief pass over her face.

"I understand," she said; "as you and Lance love each other, there is something most beautiful in the love of men."

"These two spent much time together; their interests were identical, they shared at that time the same hopes and fears. They were parted for a time, one was busy with his own affairs, the other, an invalid, went to Brighton for his health."

How the smile died away; the sun did not set more surely or more slowly than that sweet smile of interest died from her lips, but no fear replaced it at first.

"The friend who was an invalid went to Brighton, as I have said, for his health, and either fate or Providence took him one night to the Chain Pier."

I did not look at her; I dared not. My eyes wandered over the running river, where the crimson clouds were reflected like blood; but I heard a gasping sound as of breath hardly drawn. I went on:

"The Chain Pier that evening lay in the midst of soft, thick gloom; there was no sound on it save the low washing of the waves and the shrill voice of the wind as it played amongst the wooden piles. He sat silent, absorbed in thought, when suddenly a woman came down the pier--a tall, beautiful woman, who walked to the end and stood leaning there."

I saw the scarlet poppies fall from the nerveless hands on the green grass, but the figure by my side seemed to have suddenly turned to stone. I dare not look at her. The scene was far greater agony to me, I almost believe, than to her. I went on:

"The woman stood there for some short time in silence; then she became restless, and looked all around to see if anyone were near.

"Then she walked to the side of the pier. She did not see the dark form in the corner; she raised something in her arms and dropped it into the sea."

There was a sound, but it was like nothing human--it was neither sigh nor moan, but more pitiful than either; the poppies lay still on the grass, and a great hush seemed to have fallen over the river.

"Into the sea," I repeated, "and the man, as it fell, saw a shawl of black and gray."

She tried to spring up, and I knew that her impulse was to rush to the river. I held her arms, and she remained motionless; the very air around us seemed to beat with passionate pulse of pain.

"There was a faint splash in the water," I went on; "it was all over in less than a second, and then the swift waves rolled on as before. The woman stood motionless. When she turned to leave the spot the moon shone full on her face--ghastly, desperate and beautiful--he saw it as plainly as I see the river here. He heard her as plainly as I hear the river here. She cried aloud as she went away, 'Oh, my God, if I dare--if I dare!' Can you tell what happened? Listen how wonderful are the ways of God, who hates murder and punishes it. She flung the burden into the sea, feeling sure it would sink; but it caught--the black and gray shawl caught--on some hooks that had been driven into the outer woodwork of the pier; it caught and hung there, the shawl moving to and fro with every breath of wind and every wave."

Without a word or a cry she fell with her face in the grass. Oh, Heaven, be pitiful to all who are stricken and guilty! I went on quickly:

"A boatman found it, and the bundle contained a little drowned child--a fair waxen babe, beautiful even though it had lain in the salt, bitter waters of the green sea all night. Now comes the horror, Mrs. Fleming. When the man, who saw the scene went after some years to visit the friend whom he loved so dearly, he recognized in that friend's wife the woman who threw the child into the sea!"

Again came the sound that was like nothing human.

"What was that man to do?" I asked. "He could not be silent; the friend who loved and trusted him must have been most basely deceived--he could not hide a murder; yet the woman was so lovely, so lovable; she was seemingly so good, so charitable, so devoted to her husband, that he was puzzled, tortured; at last he resolved upon telling her. I have told you."

Then silence, deep and awful, fell over us; it lasted until I saw that I must break it. She lay motionless on the ground, her face buried in the grass.

"What should you have done in that man's place, Mrs. Fleming?" I asked.

Then she raised her face; it was whiter, more despairing, more ghastly than I had seen it on the pier.

"I knew it must come," she wailed. "Oh, Heaven, how often have I dreaded this--I knew from the first."

"Then it was you?" I said.

"It was me," she replied. "I need not try to hide it any longer, why should I? Every leaf on every tree, every raindrop that has fallen, every wind that has whispered has told it aloud ever since. If I hide it from you someone else will start up and tell. If I deny it, then the very stones in the street will cry it out. Yes, it was me--wretched, miserable me--the most miserable, the most guilty woman alive--it was me."

My heart went out to her in fullness of pity--poor, unhappy woman! sobbing her heart out; weeping, as surely no one ever wept before. I wished that Heaven had made anyone else her judge than me. Then she sat up facing me, and I wondered what the judge must think when the sentence of death passes his lips. I knew that this was the sentence of death for this woman.

"You never knew what passed after, did you?" I asked.

"No--not at all," was the half sullen reply--"not at all."

"Did you never purchase a Brighton paper, or look into a London paper to see?"

"No," she replied.

"Then I will tell you," I said, and I told her all that had passed. How the people had stood round the little baby, and the men cursed the cruel hands that had drowned the little babe.

"Did they curse my hands?" she asked, and I saw her looking at them in wonder.

"Yes; the men said hard words, but the women were pitiful and kind; one kissed the little face, dried it, and kissed it with tears in her eyes. Was it your own child?"

There was a long pause, a long silence, a terrible few minutes, and then she answered:

"Yes, it was my child!"

Her voice was full of despair; she folded her hands and laid them on her lap.

"I knew it must come," she said. "Now, let me try to think what I must do. I meet now that which I have dreaded so long. Oh, Lance! my love, Lance! my love, Lance! You will not tell him?" she cried, turning to me with impassioned appeal. "You will not!--you could not break his heart and mine!--you could not kill me! Oh, for Heaven's sake, say you will not tell him?"

Then I found her on her knees at my feet, sobbing passionate cries--I must not tell him, it would kill him, She must go away, if I said she must; she would go from the heart and the home where she had nestled in safety so long; she would die; she would do anything, if only I would not tell him. He had loved and trusted her so--she loved him so dearly. I must not tell. If I liked, she would go to the river and throw herself in. She would give her life freely, gladly--if only I would not tell him.

So I sat holding, as it were, the passionate, aching heart in my hand.

"You must calm yourself," I said. "Let us talk reasonably. We cannot talk while you are like this."

She beat her white hands together, and I could not still her cries; they were all for "Lance!"--"her love, Lance!"


CHAPTER XI.


"You must listen to me," I said; "I want you to see how truly this is the work of Providence, and not of mere chance."

I told her how I often had been attracted to the pier; I told her all that was said by the crowd around; of the man who carried the little dead child to the work-house; of the tiny little body that lay in its white dress in the bare, large, desolate room, and of the flowers that the kindly matron had covered it with.

I told her how I had taken compassion on the forlorn little creature, had purchased its grave, and of the white stone with "Marah" upon it.

"Marah, found drowned." And then, poor soul--poor, hapless soul, she clung to my hands and covered them with kisses and tears.

"Did you--did you do that?" she moaned. "How good you are, but you will not tell him. I was mad when I did that, mad as women often are, with sorrow, shame and despair. I will suffer anything if you will only promise not to tell Lance."

"Do you think it is fair," I asked, "that he should be so cruelly deceived?--that he should lavish the whole love of his heart upon a murderess?"

I shall not forget her. She sprang from the ground where she had been kneeling and stood erect before me.

"No, thank Heaven! I am not that," she said; "I am everything else that is base and vile, but not that."

"You were that, indeed,"