Terre Haute Weekly Gazette, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 6 September 1883 — Page 6

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 1883.

^TRAGEDY

*y «K8—

•THE STORT |E CHAIN PIER.

I'J-

Con tin tied From X^ast Week.

CHAPTER IV.

Oar little life in this world seems of little count. Throw a stone into the sear—it makes a splash that lasts for one second, then it is all over the waves roll on just as though it had not bees

dropped.

The death of this one little child, whom no one knew, and for whom no one cared, was of less than no account it made a small paragraph in the newspapers,—it had caused some little commotion on the pier,—just a little hurry at the workhouse, and then it was forgotten. What was such a little waif and stray—such a small, fair, tender little creature to the gay crowd? "A child found drowned by the Chain Pier." B3nd-hearted, motherly women shrugged their shoulders with a sigh. The finding or the death of such hapless little ones is, alas! not rare. I do not think, of the hundreds who carelessly heard the words that morning, there was one who stopped to think of the possible suffering of the child. It is a wide step from the warmth of a mother's arms to the chill of the deep sea water. The gay tide of fashion ebbed and flowed just the same the band played on the Chain Pier the morning following: the sunbeams danced on the water,—there was nothing to remind one of the little life so suddenly and terribly closed.

There was not much more to tell. There was an inquest, but it was not of much use. Everyone knew that the child had been drowned the doctor thought it was drugged before it was drowned there was very little to be said about it. Jim, the boatman, proved the finding of it. The coroner said a few civil words when he heard that one of the visitors of the town, out of sheer pity, had offered to defray the expenses of tne little funeral.

The little unknown babe, who had spent the night in the deep sea, was tmried in the cemetery on the Lewes Boad. I bought a grave for her under the spreading boughs of a tree she had a white pall and a quantity of white flowers. The matron from the workbouse went, and it was not at all like a pauper's funeral. The sun was shining, and the balmy air was filled with the song of birds but then, the sun does shine, and the birds will sing, for 'paupers. I I ordered a small white marble cross: 'it stands under the trees at the head of jthe little green grave. When the head tmason asked me what name was to be jput upon it, I was puzzled. Only Efcav«n knew whether the helpless little child had a claim to any name, and, if so, what that name was. I bethought myself of one name, it meant bitterness, and the bitterness of deep waters, "I will call it 'Marah,'" I said, and the name stands there on the marble cross. "Marah, aged three weeks, found drowned in the sea, September, 18—."

1

Only one small grave amongst many, but a grave over which no mother has shed a tear. Then, after a few days more I forgot almost all about it yet at (hat time I was so lonely, so utterly desolate, that I felt some kind of tie bound me to the little grave, and made me love the spot. It was soon all for-

sotten, but I never forgot the beautiful, despairing face I had seen on the pier that night—the face that seemed to have passed me with the quickness irt wind,

man tic name—but I come of a good family. I am one of the world's unfortunates. 1 had neither brother nor sister my father and mother died while I was quite young they left me a large fortune, but no relations—no one to love me. My guardian was a stern, grave, elderly man my youth was lonely, iv, my manhood more lonely still. I found a fair and dainty love, but she proved false: she left me for one who bad more ggld and a title to give her.— •When I lost her, all my happiness died the only consolation I round was going about from place to place trying to do good where I could. This little incident on the Chain Pier reused me more than anything had done for some time.

I bad one comfort in life—a friend whom I loved dearer than a brother, Lancelot Fleming and lately be bad come into possession of a very nice estate called Dutton Manor, a fine old mansion, standing in the midst of an extensive park, and with it an income of three thousand per annum. Lance Fleming had been Drought up to the bar, but he never cared much for his

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rofession, and was much pleased when succeeded to his cousin's estate. He had invited me several times to visit Dutton Manor, but something or other had always intervened to prevent it Lance came to see me we traveled together we were the very opposite of each other. He was franx, gay. cheerful, always laughing, always with some grand jest on the tapis—a laughing, sunny, blue-eyed fellow, who was like a sunbeam in every house he entered be was alwar-

temper, came tne cnarm or uemg master of a grand old manor-house, with three thousand per annum. No wonder that he was popular. The only thing which troubled me about Lance was his marriage I always feared it. With ibj8 8&J- passionate temperament, his universal admiration and chivalrous manner of treating the fairer sex, it was certain that he would, sooner or later, fall in love and marry. From what I knew of him, from the innate conviction of my own love, I felt sure that his marriage would be the hinge on which his whole life would turn. I was very anxious about it, and talked to him a great deal about it when we were together. "If you marry the right woman, Lance," I said to him, "you will be one of the happiest and most successful men in the world, but if you should make a mistake you will be one of the most miserable."

He always looted at me with laughing eyes. "I shall make no mistake, John. I know that somewhere or other the most adorable woman in the world is waiting for me. I shall be sure to find her, and fall in love with her, marry her, and live happy for ever afterwards." "But you will be careful, Lance," I said. "As careful as a man can be but, John, as you are so anxious, you had better choose for me."v "No," I replied. "I made so great a mistake when I had to choose for myself that I shall never attempt it again."

Circumstances happened that drew me over to America. I had a large interest in some land there, and not caring about the trouble of it, I went over to sell it. I succeeded in selling it to great profit, and as I liked America I remained there three' years. I sailed for America in the month of October, two or three weeks after the incident of the Chain Pier, and I returned to England after an absence of three years ana seven months. I found myself at homo again when the lovely month of May was at its fairest. During all that time only one incident of any note hap-

Eterested

lm-

of a swift wind, yet which was pressed on my brain for ever.

ned to me, or rather, happened that me. Lance Fleming was married.

He wrote whole volumes to me before his marriage, and he wrote volumes afterwards. Of course she was perfection—nay, just a little beyond perfection, I think: she was beautiful, clever, accomplished, and such a darling,—of course, I might be sure of that. One

thing only was wanted to make him perfectly nappy—it was that I should see his lady love. Her name was Frances Wvnn, and he assured me that it I was the most poetical name in the world. Page after page of rhapsody I did he write and I read, until at last 1 believed him, that he had found the one perfect woman in the world.

Lance wrote oftener still when I told him that I was coming home. I must

So

at once to Dutton Manor. I should nd Dutton Manor an earthly Paradise, he sqid, and he was doubly delighted that I should be there in May, for in May it wore its fairest aspect. "A wife makes home Heaven, John," he never tired of writing. "I wonder often why Heaven has blessed me so

ger—sne

reatly. My wife is—well, I worship is a fair, proud woman, calm, fair, and lovely as a saint. You will never know how much I love her until» you have seen her. She fills the old manor-house with sunshine and music. I love to hear the gentle sound of her voice, sweet and low as the sound of a lute—the frou-frou of her dress as she moves about. I am even more in love with her than when I married her, and I should not have thought that possible. Make haste home, John, my dear old friend even my happy home is incomplete without you. Come and share its brightness with me."

He wrote innumerable directions for my journey. The nearest railway station to Dutton Manor was at Yale Royal, a pretty little town about three miles from the house. If I would let him know by what train I should reach Yale Royal, he would be at the station to meet me. And he said,—Heaven bless his dear, loving heart,—that he was looking forward to it with ontold happiness. "When I think of seeing Frances and I you together," he said, "I feel like a

vn»

I have been writing to you, reader,1J?h0o?{Svout for a lWidav I have behind a veil, let me draw it aside. My Snted Le houra .Tohn untfl' vou will name is John Ford—by no means a ro-

RNROTTIPR H« SAIN "I T#»PI HI™ A

tne

4—

it was a pleasure to hear him. I am naturally melancholy, and have a tendency always to look on the dark side of things. You can imagine how I loved Lance Fleming the love that other men give to wives, children, parents and relatives, I lavished on mm. I loved his fair, handsome face, his

whole man, just as he was, with a love passing that of women—loved him as I shall love no other.

Naturallv enough, Lance was a great favorite with the ladies every woman who saw him loved him more or less. He was quite irresistible whfen, in addition to his handsome faoe and sweet

nours'Jotm'1111111

y°u

come.". I I hod to go to London on business,

1

and while there it was impossible to resist the temptation of running on to Brighton. I loved the place so well, and I had not seen it for so long. I wanted to stand once more on the Chain Pier, and think of my lost Heaven. How Vividly it all came back to me—that terrible tragedy, although more than three ears baa passed sinee it happened. 'here was the corner where I had sat in the thick, soft shadows there was the railing against which she leaned when she threw the little bundle in the water.

I remembered the fitful light, the wash of the waves around the pier, the beautiful, desperate face, and the voice that had wailed: "If I dare oh, my God, if I dare I"

I went to see the little grave. The thick green grass which covered it was studded with while daisies the golden letters on the white cross seemed to burn in the sunlight: "Marah, found drowned." I had been to the other end of the world, but no one had been to shed one tear over the little grave. :4 Te ...

CHAPTER V.

It is good to see the face of an old friend after along absence. Tears filled my into them, and the handsome

tga

eyes when the sunny blue ones looked face, quivering with "emotion, smiled into mine. I was glad to feel once more the clasp of that honest hand. "Ah, Lance," I cried, "I would travel twice as far for one hour with youl"

I shall never forget that pretty station at Yale Royal. A beautiful brawling river ran close by, spanned by an old-fashioned rustic bridge: three huge chestnut trees, now in full flower, seemed to shade the whole place. "A pretty spot," said proud, happy Lance "but wait until you see DuttonI I tell Frances that I am quite sure it is the original garden of paradise!" "Let us pray that no serpent may enter therein!" I said. "There is no fear, John," he replied— "my Frances would be an antidote against all the serpents in the world. We shall have a glorious drive home. How do you like m$ carriage?"

It was perfect, so were the horses, so was the groom in his neat livery, so was the dog-cart waiting for the luggage, so w»« th» maomficant retriever that ran

witn tne carriage, nat a- tirive it wasi Of all seasons, in all climes, give me an

English spring. The hedges were covered with white and pink hawthorn all

with white and

the apple trees were in bloom: the air was redolent of mariets. The white lambs were in the meadows the leaves were springing on the trees the birds singing. "It is like anew life, John," said the happy young fellow by my side then, quite unable to keep his thoughts or his words long away from her, he continued: "Frances will be so pleased to see you—we have talked of nothing else for a week." "I am afraid that she will be disappointed when she sees me, Lance." "No, indeed," he replied, heartily. "You look better than you did when you went to America, John—you look younger, less haggard, less worn. Perhaps you have found some comfort?" "Not of the kind you mean. Lance," I answered, "and I never shall." "Ah," he said, musingly, "what mischief one bad woman can make! And she was a bad woman, this false love of yours, John." "If she had been a good one, she would have been true," I replied. "I think," said Lance, musingly, "that in all this world there is nothing so horrible as a bad—a really bad or wicked womanl They seem to me much worse than men, just as a good woman is better than a man could ever be,—is little less than an angel. "Do you know," ne continued, his voice trembling with emotion, "I did not understand how good a woman could be! My wife, Frances, is quite an angel. When I see her in the morning, her fair face so fresh and pure, kneeling down to say her prayers, I feel quite unworthy of her When I see the rapt, earnest expression of her face, as we sit side by side in church, I long to be like her. She is one of the gentlest and sweetest of human beings there is no one like her!" "I am heartily glad that you are so happy, my dearest Lance," I said.

He continued. "I know that my talking does not bore you you are too true a friend it eases my heart, for it is always full of her. You do not know how good she is! Why, John, the soul of a good woman is clear and transparent, like a deep, clear lake and in it one sees such beautiful things. When my Frances speaks to a little child there comes into her voice a beautiful tenderness—a ring of such clear sweet music,

that 1 Shy to myself it is more like the voice of an angel than of a woman it is just the same when she speaks to anyone in sorrow or sickness. The strange thing to me is this—that though she is so good herself, so pure and innocent, she has such profound compassion for the fallen and the miserable. At Vale Royal, only a few months ago, there was one of those unfortunate cases. A servant girl,—a very pretty and nice girl, too, she was,—was tirnea out of her mistress's house in the cold of a winter's night her boxes and wages were put into the street, and she was told to go to the workhouse. She almost went mad with shame and despair. Frances would go to the rescue, and I honestly believe that through my wife's charity and goodness that unhappy girl will be restored to her place in the world, or that at least she will not go, as she otherwise would have done, to the bad. I thought that a most beautiful trait in her character." "So it was," I replied, liking my dear old friend all the better for his great love for his wife. "She is always the same," he continued, "full of chariiy and tenderness for the poor. You could not think how much they love her. All round Vale Royal she is worshipped. I am a very fortunate man. John." "You are indeed," I replied.

He went on— "I always had my ideal. I have known many. None ever reached my standard but Frances, and she is my ideal eome to life—the reality found, fair, sweet and true, a blonde, queenly woman. I should think that very few men meet and marry their ideal as I have met and married mine. Ah, there is the avenue that leads to the old manor-house! Who eould have thought that I should ever be master of a man-or-house, John? Neither that nor the handsome income belonging to it would be of any use without Frances. It is Frances who makes the world to me."

The avenue was a superb one. It consisted of tall chestnut trees standing four deep. I have seen nothing finer. Just now the flowers were all in uloom, the bees and butterflies had all been drawn there by their odor: the birds were flitting in and out making grand discoveries in the great boughs the ground was a carpet of flowers, white daisies and golden buttercups mixed with wild hyacinths and graceful bluebells. We drove for some few minutes over this carpet, and then the old grey manor-house stood before us, the pret tiest picture ever seen on a Summer's day. The whole front of the house was covered with flowers, and the ivy grew green and thick, it climbed to the very top of the towers. "Famous ivy," said Lance. "People come to Dutton to look at the ivy." "I do not wonder at it," I said.

I was somewhat surprised at the style of the house, I had not expected anything so grand, so beautiful. "We shall have time for a cigar and a stroll before dinner," said Lance, as he threw the reins to the groom "but you must see Frances first, John—you must see her."

But one of the servants told us that Mrs. Fleming was in the drawing-room, engaged with Lady Ledbitter. Lance's face fell. "You do not seem to care for Lady Ledbitter," I said to him. "In truth I do not: she is a county magnate, and a local horror I call her. She leads all the ladies of the county they are frightened to death at her they frown when she frowns, smile when she smiles. I begged of Frances not to fall under her sway, but I have begged in vain, no doubt. If she has been there for half an hour Frances will have given in."

He turned on me suddenly, so suddenly, indeed, that he almost startled me. "Do you know," he said, "those kind of women, fair and calm, whose thoughts seem to be always turned inwards? My wife is one of those when one talks to her she listens with her eyes down, and seems as though she had left another world of thought just for your sake. Her manner always piques one to go on talking for the sake of making her smile. I can just imagine how sne looks now, while Lady Leabitter talks to her. Well. come to your own room. John, and we will stroll

AVUAIU I &ne gioauas uiu cer aa.Ysoip iuu»

retreated.'' What a beautiful old house it was, one could tell so easily that a lady of taste and refinement presided over it. The fine old oak was not covered, but contrasting with it were thick crimson rugs, hangings of crimson velvet, and it was relieved by any amount of flowers beautiful pictures were hung with exquisite taste, white statues stood out in grand relief against the dark walls. "Your wife is a woman of taste, that is quite evident, Lance," I said.

My own room.—a spacious chamber called the.Blue Chamber,—a large, oldfashioned room with three windows, eaeh window seat as large as a small room the hangings were of blue and white there were a few jardiniers with costly, odorous flowers easy chairs, a comfortable couch. Little stands had been placed with easy chairs in the window seats the room looked as though bluebells had been strewn with a liberal hand on white ground. "How beautiful!" I cried "I shall never want to leave this room again, Lance." "I wish you would stay here and never leave us I am happy enough in having Frances, if I had you as well, my happiness would be complete. You have all you want, John I will send your portmanteau.'

When Lance had gone I looked round my room and fell in love with it. It had the charm of old fashion, of elegance, of space, of height, and from the windows there was a magnificent view of the park and the gardens. "Lance must indeed be a happy man," I thought to myself.

He came to me when I was dressed, and we went out for a stroll through the gardens. "We shall hear the dinner bell," said Lance. "We will not go too far."

We saw the stately equipage of Lady Ledbitter driven down the avenue. "Thank Heaven!" said Lance. "Now Frances is free. She will have gone to her room. That good Lady Ledbitter has robbed us of a pleasant hour."

I was surprised and delighted at the magnificence of the ground. I had never dreamed that Dutton manorhouse was so extensive or so beautiful. "The great artist. Lilias, is coming here next week," said Lance. "I want him to paint my wife's portrait. She will make a superb picture, and when completed that picture shall have the place of honor here in the drawingroom. You will enjoy meeting him he is a most intelligent, amiable man."

That good Lancet it seemed to me quite impossible that he could speak even these words without bringing in Frances: but how bright and happy he looked I envied him. "Do as I have done. John," he said. "Marry. Believe me, no man knows what happiness means until he does marry." "You must find me a wife just like your own," I said, and the words came back to me afterwards with a fervent prayer of "Heaven forbid!—may Heaven forbid!" "I shall never marry now, Lance," I said. "The only woman I could ever love is dead to me."

He looked at me very earnestly. I wish you would forget all about her, John. She was not worthy of you." "Perhaps not," I replied, "but that does not interfere with the love." "Why should you give all that loving heart of yours to one woman, John?" he said. "If one fails, try another." "If your Frances died, should you love another woman?" I asked. "That is quite another thing,he said, and I saw that in his heart he resented the fact that I should place the woman who had been faithless to me on an equality with his wife. Poor Lancet I?

Continued Next Week.

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