This state of things could not last. A shade of fear or mistrust came in
her manner to me. I must repeat, even at the risk of being wearisome,
that I think no man was ever in such a painful position. Had it not been
for my fore-knowledge, I should have loved Mrs. Fleming for her beauty,
her goodness and her devotion to my dear old friend. I could not bear to
tell him the truth, nor could I bear that he should be so basely and
terribly deceived--that he should be living with and loving one whom I
knew to be a murderess. So I waited for an opportunity of appealing to
herself, and it came sooner than I had expected.
One afternoon Lance had to leave us on business; he said he might be
absent some few hours--he was going to Vale Royal. He asked me if I
would take Mrs. Fleming out; she had complained of headache, and he
thought a walk down by the river might be good for her. I promised to do
so, and then I knew the time for speaking to her had come.
I cannot tell how it was that our walk was delayed until the gloaming,
and then we went at once to the river, for no other reason that I can
see, except that Lance had wished us to go there.
But to my dying day I can never forget the scene. The sky was roseate
with crimson clouds, and golden with gold; the river ran swiftly,
brimming full to the banks; the glow of the sunlight lay on the hills
around, on the green fields, on the distant woods, on the bank where we
stood, on the tall, noble trees, on the wild flowers and blossoms.
Better almost than anything else I remember a great patch of scarlet
poppies that grew in the long green grass; even now, although this took
place a long time ago, the sight of crimson poppy makes my heart ache.
The withered trunk of a fallen tree lay across the river's bank; one end
of it was washed by the stream. Mrs. Fleming sat down upon it and the
scarlet poppies were at her feet.
"We can see nothing so pretty as the sunset over the river, Mr. Ford,"
she said; "let us watch it."
We sat for some few minutes in silence; the rosy glow from the sky and
the river seemed to fall on her face as she turned it to the water.
The time had come; I knew that, yet only Heaven knows how I shrank from
the task! I would rather have died, yet my sense of justice urged me on.
Was it fair that Lance Fleming should lavish the whole love of his life
on a murderess?
"What are you thinking so intently about, Mr. Ford?" she asked me.
"Shall I tell you?" I asked.
"Yes, by all means," she replied. "I am sure the subject is very grave,
you look so unhappy."
Now the time was come! That beautiful face would never look into mine
again. I steeled my heart by thinking of the tiny baby face I had seen
on the wooden bench of the pier--so like hers--the little drowned face!
"I will tell you of what I am thinking, Mrs. Fleming," I said; "but I
must tell it to you as a story."
"Do," she said, in a gentle voice, and she gathered the scarlet poppies
as she spoke.
"There were two friends once upon a time," I began, "who loved each
other with a love deeper and truer than the love of brothers."
She nodded her head with a charming smile; I saw an expression of great
relief pass over her face.
"I understand," she said; "as you and Lance love each other, there is
something most beautiful in the love of men."
"These two spent much time together; their interests were identical,
they shared at that time the same hopes and fears. They were parted for
a time, one was busy with his own affairs, the other, an invalid, went
to Brighton for his health."
How the smile died away; the sun did not set more surely or more slowly
than that sweet smile of interest died from her lips, but no fear
replaced it at first.
"The friend who was an invalid went to Brighton, as I have said, for his
health, and either fate or Providence took him one night to the Chain
Pier."
I did not look at her; I dared not. My eyes wandered over the running
river, where the crimson clouds were reflected like blood; but I heard a
gasping sound as of breath hardly drawn. I went on:
"The Chain Pier that evening lay in the midst of soft, thick gloom;
there was no sound on it save the low washing of the waves and the
shrill voice of the wind as it played amongst the wooden piles. He sat
silent, absorbed in thought, when suddenly a woman came down the pier--a
tall, beautiful woman, who walked to the end and stood leaning there."
I saw the scarlet poppies fall from the nerveless hands on the green
grass, but the figure by my side seemed to have suddenly turned to
stone. I dare not look at her. The scene was far greater agony to me, I
almost believe, than to her. I went on:
"The woman stood there for some short time in silence; then she became
restless, and looked all around to see if anyone were near.
"Then she walked to the side of the pier. She did not see the dark form
in the corner; she raised something in her arms and dropped it into the
sea."
There was a sound, but it was like nothing human--it was neither sigh
nor moan, but more pitiful than either; the poppies lay still on the
grass, and a great hush seemed to have fallen over the river.
"Into the sea," I repeated, "and the man, as it fell, saw a shawl of
black and gray."
She tried to spring up, and I knew that her impulse was to rush to the
river. I held her arms, and she remained motionless; the very air around
us seemed to beat with passionate pulse of pain.
"There was a faint splash in the water," I went on; "it was all over in
less than a second, and then the swift waves rolled on as before. The
woman stood motionless. When she turned to leave the spot the moon shone
full on her face--ghastly, desperate and beautiful--he saw it as
plainly as I see the river here. He heard her as plainly as I hear the
river here. She cried aloud as she went away, 'Oh, my God, if I dare--if
I dare!' Can you tell what happened? Listen how wonderful are the ways
of God, who hates murder and punishes it. She flung the burden into the
sea, feeling sure it would sink; but it caught--the black and gray shawl
caught--on some hooks that had been driven into the outer woodwork of
the pier; it caught and hung there, the shawl moving to and fro with
every breath of wind and every wave."
Without a word or a cry she fell with her face in the grass. Oh, Heaven,
be pitiful to all who are stricken and guilty! I went on quickly:
"A boatman found it, and the bundle contained a little drowned child--a
fair waxen babe, beautiful even though it had lain in the salt, bitter
waters of the green sea all night. Now comes the horror, Mrs. Fleming.
When the man, who saw the scene went after some years to visit the
friend whom he loved so dearly, he recognized in that friend's wife the
woman who threw the child into the sea!"
Again came the sound that was like nothing human.
"What was that man to do?" I asked. "He could not be silent; the friend
who loved and trusted him must have been most basely deceived--he could
not hide a murder; yet the woman was so lovely, so lovable; she was
seemingly so good, so charitable, so devoted to her husband, that he was
puzzled, tortured; at last he resolved upon telling her. I have told
you."
Then silence, deep and awful, fell over us; it lasted until I saw that I
must break it. She lay motionless on the ground, her face buried in the
grass.
"What should you have done in that man's place, Mrs. Fleming?" I asked.
Then she raised her face; it was whiter, more despairing, more ghastly
than I had seen it on the pier.
"I knew it must come," she wailed. "Oh, Heaven, how often have I dreaded
this--I knew from the first."
"Then it was you?" I said.
"It was me," she replied. "I need not try to hide it any longer, why
should I? Every leaf on every tree, every raindrop that has fallen,
every wind that has whispered has told it aloud ever since. If I hide it
from you someone else will start up and tell. If I deny it, then the
very stones in the street will cry it out. Yes, it was me--wretched,
miserable me--the most miserable, the most guilty woman alive--it was
me."
My heart went out to her in fullness of pity--poor, unhappy woman!
sobbing her heart out; weeping, as surely no one ever wept before. I
wished that Heaven had made anyone else her judge than me. Then she sat
up facing me, and I wondered what the judge must think when the sentence
of death passes his lips. I knew that this was the sentence of death for
this woman.
"You never knew what passed after, did you?" I asked.
"No--not at all," was the half sullen reply--"not at all."
"Did you never purchase a Brighton paper, or look into a London paper to
see?"
"No," she replied.
"Then I will tell you," I said, and I told her all that had passed. How
the people had stood round the little baby, and the men cursed the cruel
hands that had drowned the little babe.
"Did they curse my hands?" she asked, and I saw her looking at them in
wonder.
"Yes; the men said hard words, but the women were pitiful and kind; one
kissed the little face, dried it, and kissed it with tears in her eyes.
Was it your own child?"
There was a long pause, a long silence, a terrible few minutes, and then
she answered:
"Yes, it was my child!"
Her voice was full of despair; she folded her hands and laid them on her
lap.
"I knew it must come," she said. "Now, let me try to think what I must
do. I meet now that which I have dreaded so long. Oh, Lance! my love,
Lance! my love, Lance! You will not tell him?" she cried, turning to me
with impassioned appeal. "You will not!--you could not break his heart
and mine!--you could not kill me! Oh, for Heaven's sake, say you will
not tell him?"
Then I found her on her knees at my feet, sobbing passionate cries--I
must not tell him, it would kill him, She must go away, if I said she
must; she would go from the heart and the home where she had nestled in
safety so long; she would die; she would do anything, if only I would
not tell him. He had loved and trusted her so--she loved him so dearly.
I must not tell. If I liked, she would go to the river and throw herself
in. She would give her life freely, gladly--if only I would not tell
him.
So I sat holding, as it were, the passionate, aching heart in my hand.
"You must calm yourself," I said. "Let us talk reasonably. We cannot
talk while you are like this."
She beat her white hands together, and I could not still her cries; they
were all for "Lance!"--"her love, Lance!"