Terre Haute Weekly Gazette, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 13 September 1883 — Page 2

^TRAGEDY

-OB—

IE STORY CF IDE CHAIN PIER.

Continued From Last Week.

CHAPTER

VI.

As we drew near the house on onr return, the first dinner-bell was ringing. "We have twenty minutes yet," said Lance "you will just have time to say a few words to Frances she is sure to be in the drawing-room."

We went there. When the door was opened I saw a magnificent room,—long, lofty and bright, so cheerful and light, —with such beautiful pictures and flowers, such beautiful furniture, and such superb hangings of white and

Sefore

old. I was struck as I had never been by any room. The long French windows, opening like glass doors, look* ed over a superb flower garden, where flowers of every hue were now in blossom.

The room was full of sunlight it faced the west, and the sun was setting. Por a few moments my eyes were dazzled then, as the golden haze cleared. I saw a tall figure at the other end or the room, a beautiful figure, dressed in along robe of blue, with a crown of golden brown hair when she turned «uddenly to us, I saw that she carried some sprays of white hawthorn in her hand. At first my attention was concentrated on the golden hair, the blue dress, the white flowers then slowly, -as though following some irresistible magnetic attraction, my eyes were raised to her face, and remained fixed there. I have wondered a thousand times since how it was that no cry escaped my lips,—how it was that none of the cold, sick horror that filled my whole heart and soul did not find vent in words. How was it? To this moment I cannot tell. Great Heaven! what did I see? In this beloved and worshipped wife,— in this fair and queenly woman,—in this tender and charitable lady, who was so good to the fallen and the miserable,-—in this woman, idolized by the man I loved best on earth, I saw the murderess—the woman who had dropped the little bundle over the railing Into the sea.

It was she as surely as Heaven shone above us. I recognized the beautiful face, the light golden hair, the tall, graceful figure. The face was not white, set, and desperate now, but bright, with a soft, sweet radiance I have seen on the face of no other woman living. For an instant my whole beprt was paralyzed with honror. I felt my blood grow cold and gather round my heart, leaving my face white and my hands cold. She came forward to meet me with the same graceful, undulating grace which had struck me before. For a moment I was back on the Chain Pier, with the wild waste of waters around me, and the rapid rush of the waves in my ear. Then a beautiful face was smiling into mine—a White hand, on which rich jewels shone, was held out to me, a voice sweeter than any music I had ever heard, said: *'Y"ou are welcome to Dutton, Mr. Ford. My husband will be completely happy pow."

Great Heaven! how could this woman be a murderess—the beautiful face, the clear, limpid eyes—how could it be? No sweeter mouth ever smiled, and the light that lay on her face was the light of Heaven itself. How could it be?

She seemed to wonder a little at my coldness, for she added,— "I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you, and Lance has thought of nothing else during the last week."

I wonder that I didn't cry out,—"You are the woman who drowned the little child off the Chain Pier." It was only the sight of Lance's face that deterred me. I had some vague, indistinct notion of what those words would be to him. "What is the matter, John?" asked Lance, impatiently. "The sight of ray wife's face seems to have struck you dumb." "It must be with admiration then," I said, making a desperate effort to recover myself. "I could almost think I had seen Mrs. Fleming's face before."

She looked at me frankly, and she laughed frankly. "I have a good memory for faces," she said "anal do not remember to have seen yours."

There was no shadow of fear or of any effort at concealment she did not change color or shrink from me.

Lance laughed aloud. "I wonder no longer at your being a bachelor he said, "if the sight of a beautiful face produces such a strange effect on you. You must deal gently with him, Frances," he said to his wife "his nerves are weak—he cannot bear much at a time." "I promise to be very gentle," she said and the music of that low, caressing voice thrilled' my very heart. "I think," she continued, "that Mr. Ford looks very tired, Lance,- pale and worn. We must take great care of him." "That we will," was the hearty reply.

Great Heaven! was it a murderess standing there, with that sweet look of compassion on her face? Could this woman, who looked pitifully on me, a

§eep

rown man, drown a little child in the sea? Were those lips, uttering kindly words of welcome, the same that had cried in mad despair, "Oh. Heaven! If I dare—if I dare!" I could have killed myself for the base suspicion. Yet it was most surely she!

I stooped to pick up the white hawthorn that she had dropped.

should cro

(:She

took

It from me with the sweetest smile, and Lance stood by, looking on with an air of proud proprietorship that would have been amusing if it nad not been so unutterably pitiful. "While my brain and mind were still chaos—a whirl of thought and emotion —the dinner-bell rang. I offered her my arm, but I could not refrain from.a shudder as her white hand touched it. When I saw that hand last it was most assuredly dropping the little burden into the sea. Lance looked at us most ruefully, so that she laughed and said: "Come with us, Lance."

She laid her other hand on his arm, and we all three walked intothe diningroom together.

Q.

ess—most attentive—most gracerui. shall never forget her kindness to me any more than I shall forget the comeliness of her face or the gleam of her golden hair.

She thought I was not well. She did not know that it was fear which had blanched my face and made me tremble she could not tell that it was horror which curdled my blood. Without any fuss—she was so anxiously considerate for me—without seeming to make any ceremony, she was so gracefully kind she would not let me sit in the draughts with her own hands she selected some purple grapes for me. This could never be the woman who had drowned a little child.

When dinner was over and we were in the drawing-room again, she drew a chair near the fire for me. "You will laugh at the notion of a fire in May," she said "but I find the early Summer evenings chilly, and I cannot bear the cold."

I wondered if she thought of the chill of the water in which she had plunged the little child. I looked at her, there was not even a fleeting shadow on her face. Then she lingered for half a minute by my side.

As she drew near to me I felt again that it was utterly impossible that my suspicions could be correct, and that I must be mistaken. "I hope," she said, "you will not think what I am going to say strange. I know that it is the custom for some wives to be jealous of their husband's friends—some might be jealous of you. I want to tell you that I am not one of that kind. I love my husband so utterly, so entirely, that all whom he loves are dear to me. You are brother, friend, everything to him—will you be the same to me?"

A beautiful woman asking, with those sweet, sensitive lips, f§r my friendship, looking at me with those calm, tender eyes, asking me to like her for her husband's sake the sweetest, the most gracious, the most graceful picture I nad ever seen. Yet, oh Heaven! a murderess if ever there was (me. She wondered why I did not respond to her advances. 1 read the wonder in her face. "You do not care for hasty friends," she said. "Well, Lance and I are one if you like him you must like me, and time will show." "You are more than good to me," I stammered, thinking in my heart if she had been but half as good to the little helpless child she had flung into the sea.

I have never seen a woman more charming,—of more exquisite grace,—of more perfect accomplishment,—greater fascination of manner, she sang to us, and her voice was full of such sweet pathos it almost brought the tears in my eyes. I could not reconcile what I saw now with what I had seen on the Chain Pier, though outwardly the same woman I had seen on the Chain Pier and this graceful gracious lady could not possibly be one. As the evening passed on, and I saw her bright, cheerful ways, her devotion to her husband, her candid, frank, open man*er, I came to the conclusion that I gxust be the victim either of a mania or of some terrible mistake. Was it possible, though, that I could have been? Had I not had the face clearly, distinctly, before me for the past three years?

One thing struck me during the evening. Watching her most narrowly, I could not see in her any under-current of feeling she seemed to think what she said, and to say just what she thought there were no musings, no reveries, no fits of abstraction, such as. one would think would go always with sin or crime. Her attention was given always to what was passing she was' not in the least like a person with anything weighing on her mind. We were talking, Lance and I, of an old friend of ours, who had gone to Nice, and that led to a digression on the different watering places of England. Lance' mentioned several, the climate of which he declared was unsurpassed,—those mysterious places of which one reads' in the papers, where violets grow in December, and the sun shines all the year, round. I cannot remember who first named Brighton, but I do remember that she neither changed color nor shrank. "Now for a test," I said to myself. I looked at her quite straight in the face, BO that no expression of ners could escape me—no shadow pass over her eyes unknown to me. "Do you know Brighton at all?" I. asked tier. I could see to the very

depths of the limpid eyes. No shadow came the beautiful, attentive face did not change in the least. She smiled as she replied: "I do not. I know Bournemouth and Eastbourne very well I like Bournemouth best."

We had hardly touched upon the subject, and she had glided from it, yet with such seeming unconsciousness. I laughed, yet I felt that my lips were stiff and the sound of my laugh strange. "Everyone knows Brighton," I said.' "It is not often one meets an English lady who does not know it."

tos

She looked at me with the most charmand frank directness. "I spent a few hours there once," she said. "From the little I saw of it I took it for a city of raises." "It is a beautiful place," I sauL

She rose with languid grace, and went, to the table. "I think I will ring for some tea," she said. "I am chilly and cold in spite of the fire. Mr. Ford, will you join me?"

CHAPTER VN.

My feelings when I reached my room that night were not to be envied. I was as firmly convinced of the identity of the woman as I was of the shining of. the sun. There could not be any mistake I had seen her face quite plainly in the moonlight, and it had been too deeply impressed on my mind for me to forget it, or to mistake it for another. Indeed, the horror of the discovery was still upon me, my nerves were trembling, my blood was cold. How could it be that my old friend Lance had made so terrible a mistake? How could I bear to know that the wife whom he worshipped was a murderess? What else she nad been I did not care even to think whose child it was, or why she had drowned it, I could not, dare not think.

I could not sleep' or rest my mind and brain were at variance with themselves. Frances Fleming seemed to me la fair, kind-hearted, loving woman, graceful as fair the woman I had seen on the Chain Pier was a wild, desperate creature, capable of anything. I could not rest the soft bed of eider down,

I could not eat any dinner—I could only sit and watch the beautiful face. It was the face of a good woman—there was nothing cruel, nothing subtle in it. not rest the soft bed of eider down, the must be mistaken. I felt as though I pure linen perfumed with lavender, the

mad. Sho was a uarfect host- thouorh filled with down

rrom

toe WlUga vx a

TBS TERRE HA GTE WEEKLY GAZETTE.

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rest to me. If this wom&n were anything but what she seemed to be, if she were indeed a murderess, how dare she deceive Lance Fleming? Was it right, just, or fair that he should give the love of his honest heart, the devotion of his life, to a woman who ought to have been branded? I wished a thousand times over that I had never seen the Chain Pier, or that I had never come to Dutton Manor House yet it might be that I was the humble instrument intended by Providence to bring to light a great crime. It seemed strange that of all nights in the year I should have chosen that one it seemed strange that after keeping the woman's face living in my memory for so long I should so suddenly meet it in life. There was something more than mere coincidence in this yet it seemed a horrible thing to do, to come under the roof of my dearest friend, and ruin his happiness for ever.

Then the question came—was it not better for him to know the truth than to live in a fool's paradise—to take to his heart a murderess—to live befooled and to die deceived? My heart rose in. hot indignation against the woman who .iad blighted his life, who would bring home to him such shame and anguish as must tear his heart and drive him mad.

I could not suppose, for one moment, that I was the only one in the world who knew her secret—there must be others, and meeting her suddenly, one of these might betray her secret, might do her greater harm and more mischief than I could do. After hours of weary thought. I came to this conclusion, that I must find out first of all whether my suspicions were correct or not. That was evidently my first duty. I must know whether there was anv truth in my suspicions or not. I haled myself for the task that lay before me, to watch a woman, to seek to entrap her, to play the detective, to seek to discover the secret of one who had so cordially and frankly offered me her friendship.

Yet it was equally hateful to know that a bad and wicked woman, branded with sin, stained with murder, had deceived an honest, loyal man like Lance Fleming. Look which Way I would, it was a most cruel dilemma—pity, indignation, wonder, fear, reluctance, all' tore at my heart. Was Frances Fleming the good, pure, tender-hearted woman she seemed to be, or was was she the woman branded with a secret brand? I must find out for Lance's sake. There were times when intense pity softened my heart, almost moved me to tears then the recollection of the tiny white baby lying all night in the sea, swaying to and fro with the waves, steeled me. I could see again the pure little waxen face, as the kindly woman kissed it on the pier. I could see the little green grave, with the white, shining cross—'"Marah, found drowned." and here beside me, talking to me, tending me with gentle solicitude, was the very woman I feared, who had drowned the child. There were times—I remember one particularly when she held out a bunch of fine hot-house grapes to me, that I could have cried out—"It is the hand of a murderess, take it away," but I restrained myself.

I declare that, during a whole fortnight, I watched her incessantly I scrutinized every look every gesture, I criticized every word, and in neither one nor the other did I find a shadow of blame. She seemed to me pure in heart, thought, and word. At times, when she read or sang to us, there was alight such as one fancies the angels wear. Then I found also what Lance said of her charity to the poor was perfectly true—they worshipped her. No saint was a greater saint to them than the woman whom I believed I had seen drown a little child.

It seemed as though she could hardly do enough for them the minute she heard that anyone was sick or in want she went to their aid. I have known this beautiful woman, whose husband adored her, give up a party or ball to sit up with some poor woman whose child was ill, or was ill herself. And I must speak, too, of her devotion—to see the earnest, tender piety on that beautiful face was marvellous. 'Look, John!" Lance would whisper to me "my wife looks like an angel."'

I was obliged to own that she did. But what was the soul like that animated the beautiful body?

When we were talking—and we spent many hours together in the garden—I was struck witn the beauty and nobility of her ideas. ev

She took the right side in

erythine her wisdom was full of tenderness she never once gave utterance to a thought or a sentence but that I was both pleased and struck with it. But for this haimtjngsuspicion I should have pronounced lier a perfect woman, for I could see no fault in her. I had been a fortnight at Dutton Manor, and but for this it would have been a very happy fortnight. Lance and 1 had fallen into the old loving terms of intimacy, and Frances made a most lovable and harmonious third. A whole fortnight I had studied her, criticised her, and was more bewildered than ever— more sure of two things: the first was, that it v.as next to impossible that she had ever been anything different to what she was now the second, that she must be the woman I had seen on the pier. What, under those circumstances, was any man to do?

No single incident had happened to interrupt the tranquil course of life, but from day to day I grew more wretched with the weight of my miserable secret.

One afternoon, I remember that the lilacs were all in bloom, and Lance sat with his beautiful wife where a great group of the trees stood. When I reached them they were speaking of the sea. "I always long for the sea in Hummer time," said Lance, "when the sun is hot and the air full of dust, and no trees give shade, and the grass seems burned, I long for the sea. Love of water seems almost a mania with me, from the deep blue ocean, with its foaming billows, to the smallest pool hidden in a wood. It is strange, Frances, with your beauty-loving soul, that you dislike the sea."

She had gathered a spray of the beautiful lilac, and held it to her lips. Was it the shade of the flower, or

did

the

color leave her facb? If so, it was the first time I had seen it change. "Do you really dislike the sea, Mrs. Fleming?" I asked. "Yes/' she replied, laconically."Why?" I asked again. "I cannot tell," she answered. "It must be on the old principle,—

"'I do not like thee. Doctor Fell.

*.*•

fhft Wnr—I

t»ut omy uus xnow ruu weii, I do not like thee, Doctor Felll'" "Those lines hardly apply to the sea," I said. "I thought love of the sea was inborn with every man and woman in England." "It is not with me," she said.

She spoke quite gently. There was not the least hurry or confusion, but I was quite sure the color had faded from her face. Was it possible that I had found a hole in the strong armor at last?

Lance turned a laughing face to me. "My wife is as strong ir as in her likes," he said.

wife is as strong in her dislikes er likes," he said. "She never

will go to the sea. Last year I spent a whole month in trying to persuade her this year I have began in good time, and I intend to give it three months

quite in vain." "Why doyou dislike the sea?" I repeated. "You must have a reason." "I think," she replied, "it makes me melancholy and low-spirited." "Well it might!" I thought, for the rush and fall of the waves must be life* a vast requiem to her. "That is not the effect the sea has upon most people," I said. "No, I suppose not it has upon me," she said. Then smiling at me she went on: "You seem to think it is my fault, Mr. Ford, that I do not love the sea." "It is your misfortune." I said, and our eyes met.

I meant nothing by the words, but a shifting, curious look came into her face, and for the first time since I had been there her eyes fell before mine. "I suppose it is," she said, quietly but from that moment we were never quite the same again. She watched me curiously, and I knew it. "Like or dislike, Frances, rive way. this time," said Lance, "ana John will go with us." "Do you really wish it," she asked. "I should like it I think it would do us all good. And, after all, yours is but a fancy, Frances." "If we go at all," she said, "let us go to the great Northern sea, not to the South, where it is smiling and treacherous." "Those southern seas hide, much," I said and again she looked at me with a curious, intent gaze—a far-off gaze, as though She were trying to make something out. "Wh at do they hide, John?" asked Lance, indifferently. "Sharp rocks ana shifting sands," I answered.

"So do the northern seas," he replied. A soft, sweet voice said: "Everyone has their own taste. I love the country you love the sea. I find more beauty in this bunch of lilac than I should in all the seaweed that was ever thrown on the beach* to me there is more poetry and more loveliness in the ripple of the leaves, the changeful hues of the trees and flowers, the corn in the fields, the fruit in the orchards, than in the perpetual monotony of the sea." "That is not fair, Frances," cried Lance. "Say what you will, but never call the sea monotonous—it is never that it always gives one the impression of power and majesty." "And of mystery," I interrupted. "Of mysterv," she repeated, and the words seemed forced from her in sp of herself. "Yes. of mystery!" I said. "Think what is buried in the seal Think of the vessels that have sunk laden with human beings! No one will know onethird of the mysteries of the sea until the day when she gives up her dead."

The spray of lilac fell to the ground She rose quickly and made no attempt to regain it. '•It is growing chilly," she said will go into the house.' "A strange thing that my wife does not like the sea," sail! Lance.

But it was not strange to my mind,— not strange at all.

Continued Next Week.

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FOR

TRIM

An unfmilinsr and speedy ours fat Nervous Debility and Wedkne**.

Lorn

of Vitality and Vigor, or am? evil re salt of indiscretion, ezoess, overwork, etc., 'over forty thonxand poe tive cares.

I Br "Send 15c for pastaa

on trial box of 100 bills. Address, Or. M. W. BAOON, 126 Clark Street, CmcAoe, TITS