Democratic Sentinel, Volume 10, Number 27, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 6 August 1886 — SEA BEACH LIGHTHOUSE. [ARTICLE]

SEA BEACH LIGHTHOUSE.

BY HARRY BALDWIN.

“Mine, all mine! Another month, and I shall bring to my feet the proud and handsome man who can make me mistress of Glen Villa and of all his immense fortune.” The speaker was a dark, beautiful woman of thirty years, with eyes that rivaled the diamond in their piercing glow, and long flowing hair that formed a sable crown of glory to her perfect womanhood. The time was eventide, the close of a dark, sullen day in November, full of fitful shadows and mystic echoes. Through the lowering pines and fir trees the lurid, angry western sky filtered a film of ruddy color that tinged the rocks with a sickly glare. Beyond the glen, with its pretty villa and artistic lawns and garden slopes, the Sea dashed fretfully on the rock-bound coast. Voices of the air and sky seemed in complete harmony with the emotions of the woman who, a light drapery over her head and shoulders, stood by a hedge, looking meditatively through a ravine toward the ocean. There was triumph and hopefulness in her tones, and yet some mental calculation of possible failure in her fond desires seemed to arouse a latent determination and defiance against any adverse fate. As she stood there, a picture of sinister and repcllant lather thau enticing loveliness, her mind seemed to weave a memory of the past, and to build fair aerial castles of love and wealth for the future. The retrospect was brief; it recalled to her mind how she, Beatrice Langley, one year previous, had secured the position of companion to the invalid, Mrs. Thome, of Glen Villa. She had left behind her a dark and bitter past. A willful, wicked coquette, she had broken a score of hearts, finally wedded a faithful, loving man named Ernest Waldron, had tired of his devotion, and in a moment of cruel wickedness abandoned him, taking with her all of his money she •could secure. Then there was a brief, flitting, fevered life at a fashionable watering place, and then, her ill-gained means exhausted, poverty and desperation came. Once she had heard of her husband. She bad broken his heart and beggared him. He had sought her vainly, first for- , givingly, and then with black, despairing vengeaice in his heart. And then she saw his name in the list of a large number of persons killed in a railway accident. It was at this time that Beatrice Langley, as she chose to call herself, had secured the position alluded to. She was tired of the old life, she longed for rest and seclusion, and she found it at Glen Villa, and her life had become calmer if not better under the gentle influence of Mrs. Thorne. Besides these two and the servants there were no other residents at the villa until one month before our story opens. Then there occurred, in the return to his home, after a long sojourn in Europe, of the heir to the Thorne estates, the son of the invalid, an episode which changed all the currents of Beatrice Langley’s existence. The idol of his mother, brave, earnest, handsome, the first glance from his eyes conquered the beautiful siren, and the wicked heart that had treated the honest love of honeat men as a plaything knew herself all the bitter-sweet of fervent, passionate esteem. She knew that he was wealthy, she fancied he was heart-free. From that moment every magnetic wile of her intriguing nature was brought into action to captivate Wilfred Thorne. The fond mother, confined to her room, did not know how the first introduction of her son to her fascinating companion bad led to frequent meetings in the drawingrooms, to strolls to the beach, and moonlit drives. Wilfred Thome was lonely at the quiet villa, and glad to be entertained, and really esteemed Miss Langley as a most pleasant companion. The witchery of her arts pleased him, her friendship flattered him. A month more would have cemented the dangerous companionship, and the siren whispered fiercely to her ardent heart that sooner or later she would certainly win his love and entrap him into a marriage. It was of all this that she was thinking ffaat lowering November night as she stood lost in reverie by the hedge. The last few days Wilfred had brought A gentleman friend to the villa, but had found time to drive Miss Langley down the iteseh, and she fancied that the pressure of hi* hand was more fervent, his glance «KM» friendly than ever when they parted. Cruel delusion! In her vanity and willful determination the siren overestimated her «n power* of witchery. U destined that in that very hour she A&mddlMm her fate, and became incited

to an act tragic, cruel, and heartlessly revengeful. f A dazzling dream of wealth and comfort was rudely dispelled by the sound of approaching voices. Beatrice started and was about to hasten toward the house, when she observed that the intruders were on the other side of the hedge, and could not see her. Instantly, too, she recognized (heir voices. Wilfred Thome and his gentleman friend were coming down the garden path. She glanced around to see if any one was in sight, and then with an eager curiosity in her face crouched closer to the hedge and listened. The two men came just opposite to where she was and halted. “So yon are going away?” Beatrice heard young Thorne’s friend ask. “Yes, within an hour. You mustlry and pass the time till I return. You will find Miss Langley a most charming companion for a walk or drive, Forbes. ” Wilfred’s companion shrugged bis shoulders. “I have no especial liking for dark women, Wilfred. Besides, 1 half suspect you have a claim on her affections.” “I?” The listening woman’s heart stood still at the utter amazemant betrayed in Wilfred Thorne’s tone. “Yes, mon ami. Yon have certainly been very attentive to the lady, and if I mistake not she is very much in love with you.” Wilfred’s face was a maze of genuine concern. “You must be mistaken.” he said. “Honestly, Forbes, although I have often felt that her witchery was temporarily leading me from my sworn allegiance, I never regarded her more warmly' than a very pleasing companion.” Beatrice grew cold and sick at heart. “Your sworn allegiance?” repeated Forbes. “Exactly.” “To whom?” “To my affianced bride, Ethel Lansing. I supposed you knew.” “His affianced bride! Oh, heaven! this blow will kill me.” The two men had passed on. With a low moan of anguish Bentrice Langley sank to the dewy grass, pale ana lifeless. In the one long hour of agony that followed, the siren feared naught of the retributive justice of fate. She only knew that a fierce, passionate love for Wilfred Thome, a wild, bitter hatred for the woman who stood between herself and her happiness, filled her heart. First had come despair, then resentment, and, finally, the jealous, vengeful resolutiou of an evil, dauntless nature. “He shall not wed this girl; he shall be mine; I swear it!” she hissed, determinedly; and every resource of intrigue and scheming she possessed came to her aid as she finally arose and returned to the house. Wilfred Thorne was gone, and the wily siren at once set about learning all she could concerning him, and the woman he loved, Ethel Lansing. She drew the story from Mrs. Thorne’s lips. Ethel was the daughter of an old family friend, and had been engaged to Wilfied for nearly two years. Her father had died abroad, and she was returning to America, and would be at the villa the ensuing evening. They had received a telegram that day, to the effect that Miss Lansing had arrived in New York, and would be at Sea Beach, near (he villa, on a coast steamer, the ensuing evening.

Wilfred bad gone to the city, forty miles down the coast, to inform Ethel’s aunt of her expected arrival, and to have her come to the villa the next day. He would probably return in the morning, Beatrice was told. But morning came and the afternoon dawned, and there was no tidings of young Thome. The wretched Beatrice, tormented with jealousy and despair, haunted the beach all that day. She learned that the steamer Hatteras would arrive about dark. She wandered for the first time down the coast to Sea Bench lighthouse. She learned of its shifting light, heard of the slorru that was gathering on the waters, and then That evening, just at dusk, inclosed in a waterproof, raining as it was, Beatrice Langley stole from the villa. The thought of Ethel Lansing at the villa, the bride of the man she loved, was unendurable. A wicked, awful plan had come to the siren’s mind. The wind was a hurricane, the waves were mountains high as she passed a group of fishermen on the beach. “It will be a wild night on the waters,” one of them was saying. “The coasting steamer will need to watch the lighthouse beacon to make a safe landing to-night.” Even as he spoke the brilliant glare of the revolving light in the lighthouse flashed out over the stormy ocean. Beatrice Langley hastened down the beach like a phantom of the night. Ten minutes later she reached the steps of the lighthouse tower. She clambered over their slippery surface, crept up the long winding staircase, and crouched breathless and trembling behind a halfopen door that led into the light-room of the turret. Within the apartment was the lighthouse keeper, whom she had never seen before. His back was to her, for he stood at an open window, breasting the rain and tempest, and peering searchingly out at the seething sea of waters. “The steamer is in sight,” she heard him say. “The Hatteras will have to anchor at the beach to-night.” “The steamer, the Hatteras, with that my rival, on board!” hissed the siren darkly. “It shall never reach shore. She shall not come between my love and me.” She shrank back as the lighthouse keeper closed the window. She heard him mutter something about securing a boat below, and he descended the stairs without observing her. A bottle, half filled with liquor, and a glass stood on the table. The scheming siren darted into the room as soon as it was vacated. She had brought a phial of some deadly drug from the sick-room at the villa, and this she uncorked, and poured its contents into the bottle on the table. Then she resumed her place of espionage, and awaited developments. They came swiftly, tragically. The keeper returned. She w atched him as he poured out a drink from the bottle. For the first lime, as he drained it, she caught sight of his face. “Merciful heavens! The dead alive! My husband, Ernest Waldron!” . After, two years she saw him again, older,

paler, a wreck, yet it was he; she knewthat of a certainty. For a moment the discovery seemed to baffle her every plan. Then, as she observed his step grow unsteady, the delirium of the drug mount to his brain, all the murderous recklessness of her evil nature regained fall bw ay. She saw him traverse the room with a confused step, open a door, and wander out on the balcony. “Now or never!” she mattered, intensely. One glance through the windows showed the light of the steamer dnneing on the waves a mile distant. She sprang to the beacon. One touch of her hand plungtd the place in darkness. The beacon was extinguished. Woe to the guideless mariner tossed amid these awful waters btyond the harbor bar! About to retreat, a terrific scream broke from her lips. She saw the keeper reel on the balcony, overpowered by the subtle drug her evil hands had administered, and then, stumbling forward, fall over the low iron railing through the appalling darkness of the night to the rock-strewn waters fully fifty feet below. Then, horrified, affrighted, Beatrice Langley fled, like a being haunted, down the steep staircase. She never paused until she had reached the rocky beach some distance from the house. Then exhausted, she sank to the rocks, her basilisk glance fixed on the waters. Afar 6he saw a gleaming star of light, the lantern of the steamer; nearer and nearer it seemed to drift toward the rocklined coast.

Then it went out suddenly. A minute later a rocket shot skyward. It anuounced a signal of distress, and the success of the evil schemes of the heartless siren, Beatrice Langley. She pictured her rival dead, removed from her path, her own future assured, and then started. Hurrying forms were coming down the hearth. She heard voices excitedly speak of the imperiled steamer, of the mystery of the extinguished beacon. “I must not be seen here,” she murmured. Sho arose and started to fly down the beach and reach the villa unperceived. A sudden flare of light halted and blinded her. Some one had gained the tower, and relighted the lamp, too late, however, to save {he imperiled ocean steamer. Its rays revealed her to a man hurrying down the beach. She paled as she recognized him. It was Wilfred Thorne’s friend, Forbes. He regarded the woman amazedly. “You here, Miss Langley?” he ejaculated tn wonderment. She stammered out an incoherent explanation. “You have heard?” he said excitedly. “Some one has extinguished the light in the tower yonder, and it is believed that the Hatteias has gone to pieces.” “The Hatteras?” repeated Beatrice, “Was not Mr. Thorne’s fiancee on that ship?” “Yes, and Mr. Thorne himself.” “What!” Beatrice Langley reeled where she stood. “Yes, we received word an hour since that he boarded the steamer at the city, and would accompanv Miss Lansing to Sea Beach.” An awful moan of anguish rent his listener’s lips. Like one in a dream she stood rooted to the spot. She heard a confused babel of sound about her, and distinguished Forbes’ voice imploring the fisherman to put off a boat to the rescue of the steamer. “No boat would live in such a sea as that,” was the discouraging reply. A moment later they were terribly startled. . They saw Beatrice Langley arouse from her stupor. Sho flung aside her cloak, dashed to the beach, and, before they could deter her, with a wild cry, had sprung into a boat lying on the beach, and seized the oars. For one moment they saw it tossed on the waves, and then the darkness engulfed it. “She is mad—she has gone to her death,!” groaned an old fisherman. If mad, however, that delirium gave almost superhuman strength to Beatrice Langley. The frail boat was tossed like a leaf to and fro, yet she resolutely handled the oars, and drove the boat seaward. Half an hour later the anxious group on the beach witnessed a strange sight. They hastened to the waves as they bone a singular burden to the shore. A woman with gleaming eyes and pallid face, Beatrice Langley, was struggling in the waves.

Her arm encircled the inanimate form of Wilfied Thorne, to whom in turn clung a fair young girl, nearly dead from exhaustion. It was Ethel Lansing. Ready hands lifted the three to the beach. They saw the wild, insane light in Beatrice Langley’s eyes, and then they saw her sink inanimate to the beach, the blood flowing from a ghastly wound in her head made by the rocks. One hour later, at Glen Villa, the siren lay in her room, a physician hovering over her with serious face. At his mother’s side sat Wilfred Thorne and Ethel Lansing, both recovered from the terrible experience of the night. In graphic language Wilfred had told of the steamer dashing on a rock. Himself and Ethel had escaped to a small boat and cut it loose. The oarless boat bore them shoreward with fearful velocity. With an awful crash it had at last struck a rock, and they were precipitated into the water. Wilfred was no swimmer. With his terrified fiancee clinging to his side he gave up all for lost. At that moment a boat passed them. It contained Beatrice Langley. She could not direct it to them. With a wild cry she sprang toward them. She seemed not to notice Ethel. In tones of delirious delight she spoke Will red’s name; she clasped his form as he was about to sink. With fierce strength she swam shoreward. “Heaven bless her, brave soul! she saved us,” concluded Wilfred, with tears in his eyes. At that moment the doctor entered the room. “Your patient, Miss Langley?” asked Wilfred, anxiously. The physician looked grave. “ She is dying. ” “Ah, it can not be!” “I fear she has been mortally injured.” “She is conscious?” “ v es, and wishes to see you ”

“Tell her how we thank her; tell her our lives shall be devoted to her for her noble heroism,” spoke Ethel, impulsively, as Wilfred left the room. “Beatrice!” He spoke the name tenderly, tearfully, as, a minute later, he stood by the bedside of Beatrice Langley. Her eyes looked into his own. “Bend nearer,” she whispered, faintly. He did so. “Wilfred Thome,” she murmured, “1 love you. lam dying, they tell me. I know you are affianced to another; I know you can never love me. One dying favor. Will you make my last moments happy? Will you pity the heart that knows only love for you?” In dire amazement Wilfred Thome hesitated for a moment. “We owe you our lives. Tell me; any favor we can bestow shall be yours,” he finally replied. “Then here—dying—make me your wife. Is it too much to ask? I shall never live to come between you and Ethel Lansing. Oh! I have loved you so fondly, so hopelessly!” Her voice was a wail of anguish. He believed her dying; he pitied, he almost loved her for her heroic devotion. It was the wish of a dying woman. He conld not refuse those eager, love-deluged eyes. It was a strange night. One hour later a clergyman spoke the words that made them man and wife. And before midnight had passed, to the consternation of Wilfred Thome, to the delight of Beatrice Langley, the physician stated that his patient had suddenly recovered, and would live. Through consummate acting, aided by real serious illness, the wily siren had perfected her scheme. She thought not of the noble man who, to render happy her dying moments, had wedded her. She thought not of Ethel Lansing, and the suffering; the discovery would entail. She slumbered calmly after it was all over; the nuise at her bedside dozed lightly. At daybreak the latter awoke with a scream of horror. Wilfred Thome was released from the ban the siren had sought to place upon h m.

For, lying dead upon the bed, a dagger driven to its hilt in her heart, was the beautiful Beatrice Langley. Later they knew what the tragedy signified; later they shrunk in terror from the woman they had loved. A letter was found by the bed. It was signed by Ernest Waldron. In it he stated all that had occurred at the lighthouse. He had caught sight of Beatrice Langley’s face as she extinguished the beacon. In that flash he recognized his wife. Drugged, dazed, he fell into the sea, escaped, traced down his heartless wife, and was now determined to steal into the villa and kill her. Thus Beatrice Langley terribly atoned for the wrongs she had done him, and for the lives lost on the steamer outside the harbor bar. The next day the body of the unfortunate Waldron was found floating in the water near his recent post of duty. Husband and wife were buried in the beautiful cemetery at Sea Beach. Six months later Wilfred Thome and Ethel Lansing were wedded. In the golden sunshine of love they never think without a shudder of that dark hour in their lives when they were rescued by Beatrice Langley. They try (o regard her charitably when they remember her heroism, but her baleful plots form a dark page in their past, when they were wrecked in port.