Our little life in this world seems of little count. Throw a stone into
the sea--it makes a splash that lasts for one second, then it is all
over; the waves roll on just as though it had not been 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 work-house, 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." Kind-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. Every one knew that the child had been drowned; the doctor
thought it had been 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 the
little funeral.
The little unknown babe, who had spent the night in the deep sea, was
buried in the cemetery on the Lewes Road. 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 work-house 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 ordered a small white marble cross; it stands underneath the trees at
the head of the little green grove. When the head mason asked me what
name was to be put upon it, I was puzzled. Only Heaven 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 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--."
Only one small grave among so 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 that 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 forgotten, 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 of a swift wind, yet which was impressed on
my brain forever.
I have been writing to you, dear reader, behind a veil; let me draw it
aside. My name is John Ford--by no means a romantic name--but I come of
a good family. I am one of the world's unfortunates. I 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, my manhood
more lonely still. I found a fair and dainty love, but she proved false;
she left me for one who had more gold and a title to give her. When I
lost her, all my happiness died; the only consolation I found was going
about from place to place trying to do good where I could. This little
incident on the Chain Pier aroused me more than anything had done for
some time.
I had one comfort in life--a friend whom I loved dearer than a brother,
Lancelot Fleming; and lately he had 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 brought up to the bar, but he never cared much
for his profession, and was much pleased when he 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
frank, 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; he was always either whistling or singing,
and his bright, cheery voice trolled out such snatches of sweet song
that it was a pleasure to hear him.
I am naturally melancholy, and have a tendency to look always 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 him. I loved his fair, handsome face, his laughing blue eyes, his
sunny smile, his cheery voice; I loved his warm-hearted, genial manner.
In fact, I loved the whole man, just as he was, with a love passing that
of women--loved him as I shall love no other.
Naturally enough, Lance was a great favorite with the ladies; every
woman who saw him loved him more or less. He was quite irresistible
when, in addition to his handsome face and sweet temper, came the charm
of being 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 his gay,
passionate temperament, his universal admiration and chivalrous manner
of treating the fair 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."
"I shall make no mistake, John. I know that somewhere or other the most
adorable woman in the whole world is waiting for me. I shall be sure to
find her, and fall in love with her, marry her, and live happy forever
afterward."
"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."
"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 and
seven months. I found myself at home again when the lovely month of May
was at its fairest. During all that time only one incident of any note
happened to me, or, rather, happened that interested me. Lance Fleming
was married.
He wrote whole volumes to me before his marriage, and he wrote whole
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 happy--it was that I should see his
lady-love. Her name was Frances Wynn, and he assured me that it was the
most poetical name in the world. Page after page of rhapsody did he
write and I read, until at last I 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
go at once to Dutton Manor. I should find Dutton Manor an earthly
Paradise, he said, 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 greatly. My wife is--well, I worship
her--she is a 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 Vale Royal, a pretty little town about
three miles from the house. If I would let him know by what train I
should reach Vale 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 untold happiness.
"When I think of seeing Frances and you together," he said, "I feel like
a school-boy out for a holiday. I will count the hours, John, until you
come."
I had to go to London on business, 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 years had
passed since it happened. There 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 round the pier, the
beautiful, desperate face, and the voice that had wailed: "If I dare!
oh, my God, if I dare!"
I went to see the little grave. The thick green grass which covered is
was studded with white 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 a tear over the
little grave.