The Tragedy of the Chain Pier / Everyday Life Library No. 3

My suspicion, from that time, I felt was a truth. I knew that there were characters so complex that no human being could understand them. Here was a beautiful surface—Heaven only knew what lay underneath. There was no outward brand of murder on the white brow, or red stain on the soft, white hand. But day by day the certainty grew in my mind. Another thing struck me very much. We were sitting one day quite alone on the grass near a pretty little pool of water, called "Dutton Pool." In some parts it was very shallow, in some very deep. Lance had gone somewhere on business, and had left us to entertain each other. I had often noticed that one of Mrs. Fleming's favorite ornaments was a golden locket with one fine diamond in the center; she wore it suspended by a small chain from her neck. As she sat talking to me she was playing with the chain, when it suddenly became unfastened and the locket fell from it. In less than a second it was hidden in the long grass. She looked for it in silence for some minutes, then she said, gently:

"I have dropped my locket, Mr. Ford; is it near you? I cannot find it."

"Is it one you prize very much?" I asked.

"I should not like to lose it," she replied, and her face paled as searching in the long grass she saw nothing of it.

I found it in a few minutes, but it was lying open; the fall had loosened the spring. I could not help seeing the contents as I gave it to her—a round ring of pale golden hair.

"A baby's curl?" I said, as I returned it to her.

Her whole face went blood-red in one minute.

"The only thing I have belonging to my little sister," she said. "She died when I was a child."

"You must prize it," I said; but I could not keep the dryness of suspicion from my voice.

"Mrs. Fleming," I asked, suddenly, "are you like Lance and myself, without relations?"

"Almost," she replied, briefly.

"Strange that three people should be almost alone in the world but for each other!" I said.

"I was left an orphan when I was four years old," she said. "Only Heaven knows how I have cried out upon my parents for leaving me. I never had one happy hour. Can you imagine a whole childhood passed without one happy hour?"

"Hardly," I said.

With white, nervous fingers she fastened the gold chain round her neck again.

"Not one happy hour," she said. "I was left under the care of my grandmother, a proud, cold, cruel woman, who never said a kind word to me, and who grudged me every slice of bread and butter I ate."

She looked at me, still holding the golden locket in her white fingers.

"If I had been like other girls," she said "if I had parents to love me, brothers and sisters, friends or relatives, I should have been different. Believe me, Mr. Ford, there are white slaves in England whose slavery is worse than that of an African child. I was one of them. I think of my youth with a sick shudder; I think of my childhood with horror, and I almost thank Heaven that the tyrant is dead who blighted my life."

Now the real woman was breaking through the mask; her face flushed; her eyes shone.

"I often talk to Lance about it," she said, "this terrible childhood of mine. I was punished for the least offence. I never heard a word of pity or affection. I never saw a look of anything but hate on my grandmother's face. No one was ever pitiful to me; fierce words, fierce blows, complaints of the burden I was; that was all my mother's mother ever gave to me. I need not say that I hated her, and learned to loathe the life I fain would have laid down. Do I tire you, Mr. Ford?"

"On the contrary, I am deeply interested," I replied.

She went on:

"My grandmother was not poor; she was greedy. She had a good income which died with her, and she strongly objected to spend it on me. She paid for my education on the condition that when I could get my own living by teaching I should repay her. Thank Heaven, I did so!"

"Then you were a governess?" I said.

"Yes; I began to get my own living at fifteen. I was tall for my age, and quite capable," she said; "but fifteen is very young, Mr. Ford, for a girl to be thrown on to the world."

"You must have been a very beautiful girl," I said.

"Yes, so much the worse for me." She seemed to repent of the words as soon as they were uttered.

"I mean," she added, quickly, "that my grandmother hated me the more for it."

There was silence between us for some minutes, then she added:

"You may imagine, after such an unloved life, how I love Lance."

"He is the best fellow in the world," I said, "and the woman who could deceive him ought to be shot."

"What woman would deceive him?" she asked. "Indeed, for matter of that, what woman could? I am his wife!"

"It happens very often," I said, trying to speak carelessly, "that good and loyal men like Lance are the most easily deceived."

"It should not be so," she said. She was startled again, I saw it in her face.

That same afternoon we drove into Vale Royal. Mrs. Fleming had several poor people whom she wished to see, and some shopping to do.

"You should take your locket to a jeweler's," I said, "and have the spring secured."

"What locket is that?" asked Lance, looking up eagerly from his paper.

"Mine," she replied—"this." She held it out for his inspection. "I nearly lost it this morning," she said; "it fell from my neck."

"Is it the one that holds your sister's hair?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied, opening it and holding it out for him to see.

What nerve she had, if this was what I imagined, the hair of the little dead child. Loving Lance rose from his chair and kissed her.

"You would not like to lose that, my darling, would you?" he said, "Excepting me, that is all you have in the world."

They seemed to forget all about me; she clung to him, and he kissed her face until I thought he would never give over.

"How lovely you were when I found you, Frances," he said. "Do you remember the evening—you were bending over the crysanthemums?"

"I shall forget my own life and my own soul before I forget that," she replied.

And I said to myself: "Even if my suspicion be perfectly true, have I any right to mar such love as that?" I noticed that during all the conversation about the locket, she never once looked at me.

We went to Vale Royal, and there never was man so bewildered as I. Lance proposed that we should go visiting with Mrs. Fleming.

"Get your purse ready, John," he said—"this visit will require a small fortune."

"I find the poor value kind words as much as money," said the beautiful woman.

"Then they must be very disinterested," he said, laughingly—"I should prefer money."

"You are only jesting," she said.

It was a pretty sight to see her go into those poor, little, dirty houses. There was no pride, no patronage, no condescension—she was simply sweetly natural; she listened to their complaints, gave them comfort and relieved their wants. As I watched her I could not help thinking to myself that if I were a fashionable or titled lady, this would be my favorite relaxation—visiting and relieving the poor. I never saw so much happiness purchased by a few pounds. We came to a little cottage that stood by itself in a garden.

"Are you growing tired?" she asked of her husband.

"I never tire with you," he replied.

"And you, Mr. Ford?" she said.

She never overlooked or forgot me, but studied my comfort on every occasion. I could have told her that I was watching what was to me a perfect problem—the kindly, gentle, pitying deeds of a woman, who had, I believed, murdered her own child.

"I am not tired, Mrs. Fleming, I am interested," I said.

The little cottage which stood in the midst of a wild patch of garden was inhabited by a day-laborer. He was away at work; his wife sat at home nursing a little babe, a small, fair, tiny child, evidently not more than three weeks old, dying, too, if one could judge from the face.

She bent over it—the beautiful, graceful woman who was Lance's wife. Ah, Heaven! the change that came over her, the passion of mother love that came into her face; she was transformed.

"Let me hold the little one for you," she said, "while you rest for a few minutes;" and the poor, young mother gratefully accepted the offer.

What a picture she made in the gloomy room of the little cottage, her beautiful face and shining hair, her dress sweeping the ground, and the tiny child lying in her arms.

"Does it suffer much?" she asked, in her sweet, compassionate voice.

"It did, ma'am," replied the mother, "but I have given it something to keep it quiet."

"Do you mean to say that you have drugged it?" asked Mrs. Fleming.

"Only a little cordial, ma'am, nothing more; it keeps it sleeping; and when it sleeps it does not suffer."

She shook her beautiful head.

"It is a bad practice," she said; "more babes are killed by drugs than die a natural death."

I was determined she should look at me; I stepped forward and touched the child's face.

"Do you not think it is merciful at times to give a child like this drugs when it has to die; to lessen the pain of death—to keep it from crying out?"

Ah, me, that startled fear that leaped into her eyes, the sudden quiver on the beautiful face.

"I do not know," she said; "I do not understand such things."

"What can it matter," I said, "whether a little child like this dies conscious or not? It cannot pray—it must go straight to Heaven! Do you not think anyone who loved it, and had to see it die, would think it greatest kindness to drug it?"

My eyes held hers; I would not lose their glance; she could not take them away. I saw the fear leap into them, then die away; she was saying to herself, what could I know?

But I knew. I remembered what the doctor said in Brighton when the inquest was held on the tiny white body, "that it had been mercifully drugged before it was drowned."

"I cannot tell," she replied, with a gentle shake of the head. "I only know that unfortunately the poor people use these kind of cordials too readily. I should not like to decide whether in a case like this it is true kindness or not."

"What a pretty child, Mr. Ford; what a pity that it must die!"

Could it be that she who bent with such loving care over this little stranger, who touched its tiny face with her delicate lips, who held it cradled in her soft arms, was the same desperate woman who had thrown her child into the sea?

Mrs. Fleming was not at her ease with me. I found her several times watching me with a curious, intent gaze, seeking, as it were, to pierce my thoughts, to dive into my motives, but always puzzled—even as I was puzzled over her. That round of visiting made me more loath than ever to believe that I was right. Such gentle thought and care, such consideration, such real charity, I had never seen before. I was not surprised when Lance told me that she was considered quite an angel by the poor. I fell ill with anxiety. I never knew what to say or think.

I did what many others in dire perplexity do, I went to one older, wiser and better than myself, a white-haired old minister, whom I had known for many years, and in whom I had implicit trust. I mentioned no names, but I told him the story.

He was a kind-hearted, compassionate man, but he decided that the husband should be told.

Such a woman, he said, must have unnatural qualities; could not possibly be one fitted for any man to trust. She might be insane. She might be subject to mania—a thousand things might occur which made it, he thought, quite imperative that such a secret should not be withheld from her husband.

Others had had a share in it, and there was no doubt but that it would eventually become known; better hear it from the lips of a friend than from the lips of a foe.

"Perhaps," he advised, "it might be as well for you to speak to her first; it would give her a fair chance."

If it were not true, she could deny it, although if she proved to be innocent, and I had made a mistake, I deserved what I should no doubt get; if she were guilty and owned it, she would have some warning at least. That seemed to me the best plan, if I could speak to her; break it to her in some way or other.

A few more days passed. If any doubt was left in my mind, what happened one morning at breakfast would have satisfied me. Lance had taken up the paper. I was reading some letters, and Mrs. Fleming making tea.

Lance looked suddenly from his paper.

"I used to think drink was the greatest curse in England," he said.

"Have you changed your opinion?" I asked.

"I have. I think now the crying sin of the country is child-murder."

As he uttered the words his wife was just in the act of pouring some cream into my cup; it did not surprise me that the pretty silver jug and the cream all fell together. Lance laughed aloud.

"Why, Frances," he cried; "I have never seen you do such a clumsy thing before."

She was deadly pale, her hand shaking.

"I have frightened myself," she said, "and no wonder with such a noise."

A servant came, who made everything right.

Then Lance continued, "You interrupted me, Frances. I was just saying that child-murder is one of the greatest blots on the civilization of the present day."

"It is such a horrible thing to speak of," she said, feebly.

"It wants some speaking about," said Lance. "I never take up a paper without reading one or two cases. I wonder that the Government does not take it up and issue some decree or other. It is a blot on the face of the land."

"I do not suppose that any decree of Government would change it," I said; "the evil lies too deeply for that; the law should be made equal; as it is, the whole blame, shame and punishment fall on the woman, while the man goes free; there will be no change for the better while that is the case. I have not patience to think of the irregularity of the law."

"You are right, John," said my old friend. "Still, cruelty in a woman is so horrible, and the woman must be as cruel as a demon who deserts or slays her own child. If I had my own way, I would hang every one who does it; there would soon be an end of it then."

There was a low startled cry, and the paper fell to the ground. Mrs. Fleming rose from her chair with a ghastly face.

"Frances!" cried her husband, "what is the matter?"

"You will talk of such horrible things," she replied, vehemently, "and you know that I cannot bear them."

"Sweetheart," he whispered, as he kissed her, "I will be more careful. I know a sensitive heart like yours cannot bear the knowledge of such things. You must forgive me, Frances, but to me there is something far more loathing in the woman who kills a child than in the woman who slays a man. Do not look so pale and grieved, my darling! John, we must be more careful what we say."

"I must beg you to remember that you began the subject, Lance."

"I am ashamed of making such a fuss," she continued, "but there are some subjects too horrible even to dwell upon or speak of, and that is one. I am going into the garden, Lance; perhaps you and Mr. Ford would like your cigars there? I am going to prune a favorite rose tree that is growing wild."

"Do you understand pruning, Mrs. Fleming?" I asked.

"Such small things as rose trees," she said.

"We will follow you, Frances," said her husband. "My case is empty; I must get some more cigars."

I fancied that she was unwilling to leave us together. She lingered a few minutes, then went out. Then simple, honest Lance turned to me with his face full of animation.

"John, did you ever see such a tender-hearted woman in all your life? She is almost too sensitive."

My suspicions were certainties now, and my mind was more than ever tossed and whirled in tortured doubt and dread. I shall never forget one evening that came soon afterwards. We went to dine with a friend of Lance's, a Squire Peyton, who lived not far away, and he was the possessor of some very fine pictures, of which he was very proud. He took us through his pretty arranged gallery.

"This is my last purchase," he said.

We all three stopped to look at a large square picture representing the mother of the little Moses placing his cradle of rushes amongst the tall reeds in the water.

I saw Mrs. Fleming look at it with eyes that were wet with tears.

"Does it sadden you?" asked Lance. "It need not; the little one looks young and tender to be left alone, but the water is silent and the mother is near. She never left him. What a pretty story of mother-love it is."

The beautiful face paled, the lips trembled slightly.

"It is a beautiful picture," she said, "to come from that land of darkness; it makes something of the poetry of the Nile."

Watching her, I said to myself, "That woman has not deadened her conscience; she has tried and failed. There is more good than evil in her."

All night long there sounded in my ears those words, "A life for a life!" And I wondered what would, what could, be the punishment of a mother who took the life of her own child?

This state of things could not last. A shade of fear or mistrust came in her manner to me. I must repeat, even at the risk of being wearisome, that I think no man was ever in such a painful position. Had it not been for my fore-knowledge, I should have loved Mrs. Fleming for her beauty, her goodness and her devotion to my dear old friend. I could not bear to tell him the truth, nor could I bear that he should be so basely and terribly deceived—that he should be living with and loving one whom I knew to be a murderess. So I waited for an opportunity of appealing to herself, and it came sooner than I had expected.

One afternoon Lance had to leave us on business; he said he might be absent some few hours—he was going to Vale Royal. He asked me if I would take Mrs. Fleming out; she had complained of headache, and he thought a walk down by the river might be good for her. I promised to do so, and then I knew the time for speaking to her had come.

I cannot tell how it was that our walk was delayed until the gloaming, and then we went at once to the river, for no other reason that I can see, except that Lance had wished us to go there.

But to my dying day I can never forget the scene. The sky was roseate with crimson clouds, and golden with gold; the river ran swiftly, brimming full to the banks; the glow of the sunlight lay on the hills around, on the green fields, on the distant woods, on the bank where we stood, on the tall, noble trees, on the wild flowers and blossoms. Better almost than anything else I remember a great patch of scarlet poppies that grew in the long green grass; even now, although this took place a long time ago, the sight of crimson poppy makes my heart 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!"

"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," I replied. "The child you flung into the sea was living, not dead."

"It was not living," she cried—"it was dead an hour before I reached there."

"The doctors said—for there was an inquest on the tiny body—they said the child had been drugged before it was drowned, but that it had died from drowning."

"Oh, no, a thousand times!" she cried. "Oh, believe me, I did not wilfully murder my own child—I did not, indeed! Let me tell you. You are a just and merciful man, John Ford; let me tell you—you must hear my story; you shall give me my sentence—I will leave it in your hands. I will tell you all."

"You had better tell Lance, not me," I cried. "What can I do?"

"No; you listen; you judge. It may be that when you have heard all, you will take pity on me; you may spare me—you may say to yourself that I have been more sinned against than sinning—you may think that I have suffered enough, and that I may live out the rest of my life with Lance. Let me tell you, and you shall judge me."

She fell over on her knees again, rocking backwards and forwards.

"Ah, why," she cried—"why is the world so unfair?—why, when there is sin and sorrow, why does the punishment fall all on the woman, and the man go free? I am here in disgrace and humiliation, in shame and sorrow—in fear of losing my home, my husband, it may even be my life—while he, who was a thousand times more guilty than I was, is welcomed, flattered, courted! It is cruel and unjust.

"I have told you," she said, "how hard my childhood was, how lonely and desolate and miserable I was with my girl's heart full of love and no one to love.

"When I was eighteen I went to live with a very wealthy family in London, the name—I will not hide one detail from you—the name was Cleveland; they had one little girl, and I was her governess. I went with them to their place in the country, and there a visitor came to them, a handsome young nobleman, Lord Dacius by name.

"It was a beautiful sunlit county. I had little to do, plenty of leisure, and he could do as he would with his time. We had met and had fallen in love with each other. I did not love him, I idolized him; remember in your judgment that no one had ever loved me. No one had ever kissed my face and said kind words to me; and I, oh! wretched, miserable me, I was in Heaven. To be loved for the first time, and by one so handsome, so charming, so fascinating! A few weeks passed like a dream. I met him in the early morning, I met him in the gloaming. He swore a hundred times each day that he would marry me when he came of age. We must wait until then. I never dreamed of harm or wrong, I believed in him implicitly, as I loved him. I believe every word that came from his lips. May Heaven spare me! I need tell you no more. A girl of eighteen madly, passionately in love; a girl as ignorant as any girl could be, and a handsome, experienced man of the world.

"There was no hope, no chance. I fell; yet almost without knowing how I had fallen. You will spare me the rest, I know.

"When in my sore anguish and distress, I went to him, I thought he would marry me at once; I thought he would be longing only to make me happy again; to comfort me; to solace me; to make amends for all I had suffered. I went to him in London with my heart full of longing and love. I had left my situation, and my stern, cruel grandmother believed that I had found another. If I lived to be a thousand years old I should never forget my horror and surprise. He had worshipped me; he had sworn a thousand times over that he would marry me; he had loved me with the tenderest love.

"Now, when after waiting some hours, I saw him last, he frowned at me; there was no kiss, no caress, no welcome.

"'This is a nice piece of news,' he said. 'This comes of country visiting.'

"'But you love me?—you love me?' I cried.

"'I did, my dear,' he said, 'but, of course, that died with Summer. One does not speak of what is dead.'

"'Do you not mean to marry me?' I asked.

"'No, certainly not; and you know that I never did. It was a Summer's amusement.'

"'And what is it to me?' I asked.

"'Oh, you must make the best of it. Of course, I will not see you want, but you must not annoy me. And that old grandmother of yours, she must not be let loose upon me. You must do the best you can. I will give you a hundred pounds if you will promise not to come near me again.'

"I spoke no word to him; I did not reproach him; I did not utter his name; I did not say good-bye to him; I walked away. I leave his punishment to Heaven. Then I crushed the anguish within me and tried to look my life in the face. I would have killed myself rather than have gone home. My grandmother had forced me to be saving, and in the postoffice bank I had nearly thirty pounds. I had a watch and chain worth ten. I sold them, and I sold with them a small diamond ring that had been my mother's, and some other jewelry; altogether I realized fifty pounds. I went to the outskirts of London and took two small rooms.

"I remember that I made no effort to hide my disgrace; I did not pretend to be married or to be a widow, and the mistress of the house was not unkind to me. She liked me all the better for telling the truth. I say no word to you of my mental anguish—no words can describe it, but I loved the little one. She was only three weeks old when a letter was forwarded to me at the address I had given in London, saying that my grandmother was ill and wished me to go home at once. What was I to do with the baby? I can remember how the great drops of anguish stood on my face, how my hands trembled, how my very heart went cold with dread.

"The newspapers which I took daily, to read the advertisements for governesses, lay upon the table, and my eyes were caught by an advertisement from some woman living at Brighton, who undertook the bringing up of children. I resolved to go down that very day. I said nothing to my landlady of my intention. I merely told her that I was going to place the little one in very good hands, and that I would return for my luggage.

"I meant—so truly as Heaven hears me speak—I meant to do right by the little child. I meant to work hard to keep her in a nice home. Oh, I meant well!

"I was ashamed to go out in the streets with a little baby in my arms.

"'What shall I do if it cries?' I asked the kindly landlady. 'You can prevent it from crying,' she said; 'give it some cordial.' 'What cordial?' I asked, and she told me. 'Will it hurt the little one?' I asked again, and she laughed.

"'No,' she replied, 'certainly not. Half the mothers in London give it to their children. It sends them into a sound sleep, and they wake up none the worse for it. If you give the baby just a little it will sleep all the way to Brighton, and you will have no trouble.' I must say this much for myself, that I knew nothing whatever of children, that is, of such little children. I had never been where there was a baby so little as my own.

"I bought the cordial, and just before I started gave the baby some. I thought that I was very careful. I meant to be so. I would not for the whole world have given my baby one half-drop too much.

"It soon slept a calm, placid sleep, and I noticed that the little face grew paler. 'Your baby is dying,' said a woman, who was traveling in the third-class carriage with me. 'It is dying, I am sure.' I laughed and cried; it was so utterly impossible, I thought; it was well and smiling only one hour ago. I never remembered the cordial. Afterwards, when I came to make inquiries, I found that I had given her too much. I need not linger on details.

"You see, that if my little one died by my fault, it was most unconscious on my part; it was most innocently, most ignorantly done. I make no excuse. I tell you the plain truth as it stands. I caused my baby's death, but it was most innocently done; I would have given my own life to have brought hers back. You, my judge, can you imagine any fate more terrible than standing quite alone on the Brighton platform with a dead child in my arms?

"I had very little money. I knew no soul in the place. I had no more idea what to do with a dead child than a baby would have had. I call it dead," she continued, "for I believe it to have been dead, no matter what any doctor says. It was cold—oh, my Heaven, how cold!—lifeless; no breath passed the little lips! the eyes were closed—the pretty hand stiff. I believed it dead. I wandered down to the beach and sat down on the stones.

"What was I to do with this sweet, cold body? I cried until I was almost blind; in the whole wide world there was no one so utterly desolate and wretched. I cried aloud to Heaven to help me—where should I bury my little child? I cannot tell how the idea first occurred to me. The waves came in with a soft, murmuring melody, a sweet, silvery hush, and I thought the deep, green sea would make a grave for my little one. It was mad and wicked I know now; I can see how horrible it was; it did not seem to be so then. I only thought of the sea then as my best friend, the place where I was to hide the beloved little body, the clear, green grave where she was to sleep until the Judgment Day. I waited until—it is a horrible thing to tell you! but I fell asleep—fast asleep, and of all the horrors in my story, the worst part is that, sitting by the sea, fast asleep myself, with my little, dead babe on my knee.

"When I awoke the tide was coming in full and soft, and swift-running waves, the sun had set, and a thick, soft gloom had fallen over everything, and then I knew the time had come for what I wanted to do."

"I went on to the Chain Pier. I had kissed the little face for the last time; I had wrapped the pretty white body in the black-and-gray shawl. I said all the prayers I could remember as I walked along the pier; it was the most solemn of burial services to me.

"I went to the side of the pier—I cannot understand how it was that I did not see you—I stood there some few minutes, and then I took the little bundle; I raised it gently and let it fall into the sea. But my baby was dead—I swear to that. Oh, Heaven! if I dared—if I dared fling myself in the same green, briny waves!

"I was mad with anguish. I went back to my lodging; the landlady asked me if I had left the baby in Brighton, and I answered 'Yes.' I do not know how the days went on—I could not tell you; I was never myself, nor do I remember much until some weeks afterward I went home to my grandmother, who died soon after I reached her. I need not tell you that afterwards I met Lance, and learned to love him with all my heart.

"Do not tell him; promise me, I beseech you, for mercy's sake, do not tell him!"

"What you have told me," I said, "certainly gives a different aspect to the whole affair. I will make no promise—I will think it over. I must have time to decide what is best."

"You will spare me," she went on. "You see I did no one any harm, wrong or injury. If I hurt another, then you might deprive me of my husband and my home; as it is, Lance loves me and I love him. You will not tell him?"

"I will think about it," I replied.

"But I cannot live in this suspense," she cried. "If you will tell him, tell him this day, this hour."

"He might forgive you," I said.

"No, he would not be angry, he would not reproach me, but he would never look upon my face again."

"Would it not be better for you to tell him yourself?" I suggested.

"Oh, no!" she cried, with a shudder. "No, I shall never tell him."

"I do not say that I shall," I said. "Give me a few days—only a few days—and I will decide in my mind all about it."

Then we saw Lance in the distance.

"There is my husband," she said. "Do I look very ill, Mr. Ford?"

"You do, indeed; you look ghastly," I said.

"I will go and meet him," she said.

The exercise and the fresh air brought some little color to her face before they met. Still he cried out that I had not taken care of her; that she was overtired.

"That is it," she replied. "I have been over-tired all day: I think my head aches; I have had a strange sensation of dizziness in it, I am tired—oh, Lance, I am so tired!"

"I shall not leave you again," said Lance to her, and I fancied he was not quite pleased with me, and thought I had neglected her. We all three went home together. Mrs. Fleming did not say much, but she kept up better than I thought she could have done. I heard her that same evening express a wish to be driven to Vale Royal on the day following; a young girl, whom she had been instrumental in saving from ruin, had been suddenly taken ill, and wanted to see her.

"My darling," Lance said, "you do not seem to me strong enough. Let me persuade you to rest tomorrow."

"I should like to see Rose Winter again before—before I"—then she stopped abruptly.

"Before you—what, Frances?" he asked.

"I mean," she said, "that I should like to see Rose before she grows worse."

"I think you ought to rest, but you shall do as you like, Frances; you always do. I will drive you over myself."

I saw them start on the following morning, and then I tried to think over in solitude what it would be best to do. Her story certainly altered facts very considerably. She was not a murderess, as I had believed her to be. If the death of the little hapless child was attributable to an overdose of the cordial, she had certainly not given it purposely. Could I judge her?

Yet, an honest, loyal man like Lance ought not to be so cruelly deceived. I felt sure myself that if she spoke to him—if she told him her story with the same pathos with which she had told it to me, he would forgive her—he must forgive her. I could not reconcile it with my conscience to keep silence, I could not, and I believed that the truth might be told with safety. So, after long thinking and deliberation, I came to the conclusion that Lance must know, and that she must tell him herself.

It was in the middle of a bright, sunshiny afternoon when they returned. When Lance brought his wife into the drawing-room he seemed very anxious over her.

"Frances does not seem well," he said to me. "Ring the bell, John, and order some hot tea; she is as cold as death."

Her eyes met mine, and in them I read the question—"What are you going to do?" I was struck by her dreadful pallor.

"Is your head bad again today?" I asked.

"Yes, it aches very much," she replied.

The hot tea came, and it seemed to revive her; but after a few minutes the dreadful shivering came over her again. She stood up.

"Lance," she said, "I will go to my room, and you must lead me; my head aches so that I am blind."

She left her pretty drawing-room, never to re-enter it. The next day at noon Lance came to me with a sad face.

"John, my wife is very ill, and I have just heard bad news."

"What is it, Lance?" I asked.

"Why, that the girl she went yesterday to see, Rose Winter, is ill with the most malignant type of small-pox."

I looked at him in horror.

"Do you think," I gasped, "that the—that Mrs. Fleming has caught it?"

"I am quite sure," he replied. "I have just sent for the doctor, and have telegraphed to the hospital for two nurses. And my old friend," he added, "I am afraid it is going to be a bad case."

It was a bad case. I never left him while the suspense lasted; but it was soon over. She suffered intensely, for the disease was of the most virulent type. It was soon over. Lance came to me one afternoon, and I read the verdict in his face.

"She will die," he said, hoarsely. "They cannot save her," and the day after that he came to me again with wistful eyes.

"John," he said, slowly, "my wife is dying, and she wants to see you. Will you see her?"

"Most certainly," I replied.

She smiled when she saw me, and beckoned me to her. Ah, poor soul! her judgment had indeed been taken from me. She whispered to me:

"Promise me that you will never tell him. I am dying! he need never know now. Will you promise me?"

I promised, and she died! I have kept my promise—Lance Fleming knows nothing of what I have told you.

Only Heaven knows how far she sinned or was sinned against. I never see the sunset, or hear the waves come rolling in, without thinking of the tragedy on the pier.

THE END.

[Transcriber's Note: Several typographical errors from the original edition have been corrected.

white, slivery foam has been changed to white, silvery foam.

an entensive park has been changed to an extensive park.

the magnificent retriver has been changed to the magnificent retriever.

a ring of such clear, music has been changed to a ring of such clear music.

the breat boughs has been changed to the great boughs.

come to your own room, John and has been changed to come to your own room, John, and.

a supberb picture has been changed to a superb picture.

it was utterably impossible that my suspicious could be correct has been changed to it was utterly impossible that my suspicions could be correct.

seeming unconciousness has been changed to seeming unconsciousness.

A missing quotation mark has been added at the end of the line I do not like thee, Doctor Fell!'

An extraneous quotation mark has been removed from the sentence beginning I meant nothing by the words.

A missing quotation mark has been added to the sentence I will go into the house."

A missing quotation has been added to the sentence I am not tired, Mrs. Fleming, I am interested," I said.

In the sentence He heard her as plainly as I here the river here "here" has been changed to "hear".

An extra comma has been removed from the line my old friend," he added,, "I am afraid.]