If this had been an ordinary woman, I should not have noticed her,
beyond the passing regard of the moment; it was the grace of her walk
that attracted my attention, and I felt sure that as she passed my by I
heard the sound of bitter passionate sobbing.
The old story over again, I thought--sorrow and pain, longing and love!
But for the sound of that sob as she passed me I should not have watched
her--I should not have known what afterward I would have given my life
not to know.
She walked right on to the very head of the pier, and stood there for a
few minutes. I knew, by instinct, that she was crying bitterly; then I
was struck by the manner in which she looked round; it was evident to me
that she wished to be quite alone. At times the waves playing round the
wooden pillars made some unusual sound; she turned quickly, as though
she suspected some one was near her. Once a gentleman strolled leisurely
down the pier, stood for a few minutes watching the sea in silence, then
went away; while he was there she stood still and motionless as a
statue; then she looked round with a stealthy gaze--a gaze so unlike the
free, grand grace of her movements that I was struck by it. She could
not see me because I was in the deep shadow, but I could see every
gesture of hers. I saw her raise her face to the darkling skies, and I
felt that some despairing prayer was on her lip, and the reason why I
could see her so plainly was this, that she stood just where the rays of
the lamps fell brightly.
It was a dramatic scene: the dark, heaving sea, with the fitful gleam of
the moonlight; the silent pier, with the one huge light; the tall, dark
figure standing there so motionless. Why did she look round with that
hurried stealthy glance, as though so desirous of being alone? Presently
she seemed to realize that she stood where the light fell brightest, and
she turned away. She walked to the side of the pier farthest from me,
where she stood opposite to the bright lights of the western pier. She
did not remain there long, but crossed again, and this time she chose
that part of the pier where I was sitting.
Far back in the deep shade in the corner she did not see me; she did not
suspect that any one was near. I saw her give a hasty look down the
pier, but her glance never fell on the corner where I sat. She went to
the railings--one or two of them were broken and had not been repaired;
in a more frequented place it might, perhaps, have been dangerous. She
did not seem to notice it. She stood for some minutes in silence; then I
heard again bitter weeping, passionate sobs, long-drawn sighs. I heard a
smothered cry of "Oh, Heaven; oh, Heaven have pity!" and then a sickly
gleam of light came from the sky, and by its light I saw that she took
the bundle from under her arm. I could not see what it was or what it
held, but she bent her head over it, she kissed it, sobbed over it with
passionate sobs, then raised it above the railings and let it fall
slowly into the water.
There was a slight splash; no other sound. As she raised the bundle I
saw distinctly that it was something wrapped in a gray and black shawl.
I swear before Heaven that no thought of wrong came to my mind; I never
dreamed of it. I had watched her first because the rare grace of her
tall figure and of her walk came to me as a surprise, then because she
was evidently in such bitter sorrow, then because she seemed so desirous
of being alone, but never did one thought cross my mind that there was a
shadow of blame--or wrong; I should have been far more on the alert had
I thought so. I was always of a dreamy, sentimental, half-awake kind of
mind; I thought of nothing more than a woman, desperate, perhaps, with
an unhappy love, throwing the love-letters and presents of a faithless
lover into the sea--nothing more. I repeat this most emphatically, as I
should not like any suspicion of indolence or indifference to rest upon
me.
A slight splash--not of anything heavy--no other sound; no cry, no
word--a moment's pause in the running of the waves, then they went on
again as gayly as ever, washing the wooden pillars, and wreathing them
with fresh seaweed. The tall figure, with the head bent over the rail,
might have been a statue for all the life or stir there was within her.
Quite a quarter of an hour passed, and she did not stir. I began to
wonder if she were dead; her head was bent the whole time, watching the
waves as they ran hurrying past. Then the lady moon relented, and showed
her fair face again; a flood of silver fell over the sea--each wave
seemed to catch some of it, and break with a thousand ripples of
light--the white cliffs caught it--it fell on the old pier, and the tall
black figure stood out in bold relief against the moonlit sky.
I was almost startled when she turned round, and I saw her face quite
plainly. The same light that revealed her pretty little face and figure,
threw a deeper shade over me. She looked anxiously up and down, yet by a
singular fatality never looked at the corner of the wooden building
where I sat. I have often wondered since that I did not cry out when I
saw that face--so wonderfully beautiful, but so marble white, so sad, so
intent, so earnest, the beautiful eyes wild with pain, the beautiful
mouth quivering. I can see it now, and I shall see it until I die.
There was a low, broad brow, and golden-brown hair clustered on it--hair
that was like a crown; the face was oval-shaped, exquisitely beautiful,
with a short upper lip, a full, lovely under one, and a perfectly
modeled chin. But it was the face of a woman almost mad with despair.
"Oh, Heaven! if I dare--if I dare!" she cried. She flung up her hands
with the gesture of one who has no hope; she looked over at the sea,
once more at the pier, then slowly turned away, and again quite plainly
I heard the words, "Oh, Heaven! if I dare--if I dare!"
She then walked slowly away, and I lost sight of her under the silent
arches; but I could not forget her. What a face!--what beauty, what
passion, what pain, what love and despair, what goodness and power! What
a face! When should I ever forget it?
Impelled by curiosity, I went to the railings, and I stood where she
stood. I looked down. How deep and fathomless it seemed, this running
sea! What was it she had dropped there? In my mind's eye I saw a most
pathetic little bundle made of love-letters; I pictured them tied with a
pretty faded ribbon; there would be dried flowers, each one a momento of
some happy occasion. I could fancy the dried roses, the withered
forget-me-nots, the violets, with some faint odor lingering still around
them. Then there would be a valentine, perhaps two or three; a
photograph, and probably an engagement ring. She had flung them away
into the depths of the sea, and only Heaven knows what hopes and love
she had flung with them! I could understand now what that cry meant--"If
I dare--if I dare!"
It meant that if she dare she would fling herself into the sea after
them! How many hopes had been flung, like hers, into those black depths!
Then I came to the conclusion that I was, to say the least of it, a
simpleton to waste so much time and thought about another person's
affairs.
I remember that, as I walked slowly down the pier, I met several people,
and that I felt a glow of pleasure at the thought that some people had
the good sense to prefer the Chain Pier. And then I went home.
A game at billiards, a long chat in the smoke-room, ought to have
distracted my mind from the little incident I had witnessed, but it did
not. My bed-room faced the sea, and I drew up the blind so that I might
look at it once more. The beautiful sea has many weird aspects, none
stranger than when it lies heaving sullenly under the light of the moon.
Fascinated, charmed, I stood to watch it. The moon had changed her mind;
she meant to shine now; the clouds had all vanished; the sky was dark
and blue; the stars were shining; but the wind had quickened, and the
waves rolled in briskly, with white, silvery foam marking their
progress.
The Chain Pier stood out quite clear and distinct in the moonlight; very
fair and shapely it looked. Then I went to sleep and dreamed of the
white, beautiful, desperate face--of the woman who had, I believed,
thrown her love-letters into the sea. The wind grew rougher and the sea
grew angry during the night; when at times I woke from my sleep I could
hear them. Ah! long before this the love-letters had been destroyed--had
been torn by the swift waves; the faded flowers and all the pretty
love-tokens were done to death in the brisk waters. I wondered if, in
thought, that beautiful, desperate woman would go back to that spot on
the Chain Pier.
The morning following dawned bright and calm; there was a golden
sunlight and a blue sea; why the color of the water should change so
greatly, I could not think, but change it did. I have seen it clear as
an emerald, and I have seen it blue as the lakes and seas of Italy. This
morning it wore a blue dress, and a thousand, brilliants danced on its
broad, sweet bosom. Already there were a number of people on the
promenade; both piers looked beautiful, and were full of life and
activity. It must have been some kind of holiday, although I forget for
what the flags were flying, and there was a holiday look about the town.
I thought I would walk for ten minutes before my breakfast. I went
toward the Chain Pier, drawn by the irresistible attraction of the face
I had seen there last evening.
It struck me that there was an unusual number of people about the Chain
Pier; quite a crowd had collected at the gate. People were talking to
each other in an excited fashion. I saw one or two policemen, and I came
to the conclusion that some accident or other had happened on the pier.
I went up to the crowd--two or three boatmen stood leaning over the
rail.
"What is the matter?" I asked.
"Matter, sir?" replied one; "there is matter enough. There must have
been murder, or something very much like it, done on that pier last
night."
"Murder?" I cried, with a beating heart; "do not use such a horrible
word."
"It is a horrible thing, sir, but it has been done," replied the
boatman.