The Tragedy of the Chain Pier by Charlotte M. Braeme
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Charlotte M. Braeme >> The Tragedy of the Chain Pier
EVERYDAY LIFE LIBRARY No. 3
Published by EVERYDAY LIFE, Chicago
THE TRAGEDY OF THE CHAIN PIER
By CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
Most visitors to Brighton prefer the new pier; it is altogether a more
magnificent affair. It is in the fashionable town, for fashion will go
westward; it is larger, more commodious, more frequented. Go to the West
Pier when you will, there is always something to see; beautiful women,
pretty girls, fashionable belles promenade incessantly. There are times
when it is crowded, and there is even a difficulty in making room for
all who come. No wonder the elite of Brighton like the West Pier; it is
one of the most enjoyable spots in England; every luxury and comfort is
there; a good library, plenty of newspapers, elegant little shops,
excellent refreshment rooms, fine music; and then the lovely blue,
dimpling sea, the little boats with their white sails, like white-winged
birds on the water, the grand stretch of the waves, the blue sky
overhead, and the town, with its fine, tall houses shining in the
sunlight, the line of white cliff and the beach where the children are
at play. You go down to the wonderful jetty, which, to me, was one of
the most mysterious and romantic of places. There the water is of the
deepest, choicest emerald green, and it washes the wonderful net-work of
poles with a soft, lapping sound beautiful to hear. You can stand there
with only a rail between you and the green, deep water, watching the
fisher-boats out on the deep; watching, perhaps, the steamer with its
load of passengers, or looking over the wide sunlit waves,
dreaming--dreams born of the sea--out of the world; alone in the kingdom
of fancy; there is always something weird in the presence of deep,
silent, moving waters.
There is always plenty of life, gayety and fashion on the West Pier. It
is a famous place, not for love-making but for flirtation; a famous
place for studying human nature; a famous place for passing a pleasant
hour. You may often meet great celebrities on the West Pier; faces
familiar at the House of Lords, familiar at Court, familiar at the
opera, are to be seen there during the season; beautiful faces that have
grown pale and worn with the excitement of a London campaign, and here,
as they are bent thoughtfully over the green waters, the bracing air
brings sweet roses, the lines fade, the eyes brighten; there is no such
beautifier as a sea breeze, no bloom so radiant and charming as that
brought by the wind from the sea.
On the West Pier you will find all the beauty, rank and fashion of
Brighton; you will see costumes a ravir, dresses that are artistic and
elegant; you will see faces beautiful and well-known; you will hear a
charming ripple of conversation; you will witness many pleasant and
piquant adventures; but if you want to dream; if you want to give up
your whole heart and soul to the poetry of the sea; if you want to
listen to its voice and hear no other; if you want to shut yourself away
from the world; if you want to hear the music of the winds, their
whispers, their lullabies, their mad dashes, their frantic rages, you
must go to the Old Chain Pier. As a rule you will find few there, but
you may know they are a special few; you will see the grave, quiet face
of the thinker, who has chosen that spot because he does not want to be
disturbed by the frou-frou of ladies' dresses, or the music of their
happy voices; he wants to be alone with the sea and the wind.
It often happens that you find a pair of very happy lovers there--they
go to the side and lean over the railing as though their sole object in
life was to watch the rippling sea. Do not believe them, for you will
hear the murmur of two voices, and the theme is always "love." If you go
near them they look shyly at you, and in a few minutes move gently away.
Ah, happy lovers, make hay while the sun shines; it does not shine
always, even over the Chain Pier.
If you want to watch the waves, to hear their rolling music, if you want
to see the seagulls whirl in the blue ether, if you want to think, to
read, to be alone, to fill your mind with beautiful thoughts, go to the
Chain Pier at Brighton.
There is a jetty--an old-fashioned, weird place, where the green water
rushes swiftly and washes round the green wood, where there is always a
beautiful sound of the rising and falling of the sea; where you may sit
on one of the old-fashioned seats, seeing nothing but water and sky
around you, until you can fancy yourself out in the wide ocean; until
you can wrap your thoughts and your senses in the very mists of romance.
Time was when the Chain Pier at Brighton was one of the wonders of
England, and even now, with its picturesque chains and arches, I like it
better than any other.
I may as well tell the truth while I write of it. I know that if the
dead can rise from their graves I shall re-visit the Chain Pier at
Brighton. I spent one hour there--that was the hour of my life--one
madly happy, bewildering hour! I remember the plank of wood on which my
feet rested; I remember the railing, over which I heard the green, deep
water, with the white-sailed boat in the distance--sails like the white
wings of angels beckoning me away; the blue sky with the few fleecy
white clouds--the wash of the waters against the woodwork of the pier;
and I remember the face that looked down into mine--all Heaven lay in it
for me; the deep water, the blue sky, the handsome face, the measured
rhythms of the sea, the calm tones of the clear waves--are all mixed in
one dream. I cry out in anguish at times that Heaven may send me such
another, but it can never be! If the dead can return, I shall stand
once more where I stood then. I will not tell my story now, but rather
tell of the tragedy with which the Chain Pier at Brighton is associated
for evermore in my mind.
I had gone down to Brighton for my health, and I was staying at the most
comfortable and luxurious of hotels, "The Norfolk." It was the end of
September, and the only peculiarity of the month that I remember was
this: the nights grew dark very soon--they were not cold; the darkness
was rather that of soft thick gloom that spread over land and sea. No
one need ever feel dull in Brighton. If I could have liked billiards, or
cared for the theater, or enjoyed the brilliant shops on the crowded
pier, with its fine music, I might have been happy enough; but I was
miserable with this aching pain of regret and the chill desolation of a
terrible loss. I tried the Aquarium. If fishes could soothe the heart of
man, solace might be found there; but to my morbid fancy they looked at
me with wide open eyes of wonder--they knew the secrets of the sea--the
faint stir of life in the beautiful anemones had lost its interest. I
could not smile at the King Crabs; the reading tables and the music had
no interest for me; outwardly I was walking through the magnificent
halls of the Aquarium--inwardly my heart was beating to the mournful
rhythms of the sea. The clock had not struck seven when I came out, and
there lying before me was the Chain Pier.
I went there as naturally as the needle goes to the magnet. The moon
shone with a fitful light--at times it was bright as day--flooded the
sea with silver and showed the chain and the arches of the pier as
plainly as the sun could have done--showed the running of the
waves--they were busy that evening and came in fast--spreading out in
great sheets of white foam, and when the moonlight did touch the foam it
was beautiful to see.
But my lady moon was coquettish--every now and then she hid her face
behind a drifting cloud, then the soft, thick gloom fell again, and the
pier lay like a huge shadow--the very place, I thought, in which a
tortured heart could grow calm; there was only the wind and the sea,
nothing more. I would go to the spot where we two should stand together
never more. I fancied, as I paid for admission at the gate, that the
face of the person who received it expressed some surprise. It must have
seemed a strange taste; but--ah, me!--there had bloomed for me for one
short hour the flowers of paradise.
The thick, soft gloom was deeper on the pier. I remember that, as I
walked down, I heard from the church clocks the hour of eight. All along
the coast there was a line of light; the town was brilliantly lighted,
and when I looked across the waters the West Pier was in all its
radiance; the sound of the music floated over the waves to me, the light
of the colored lamps shone far and wide. I could see the moving mass of
people; here I was almost alone. I saw a gentleman smoking a cigar, I
saw the inevitable lovers, I saw an old man with an iron face, I saw two
young men, almost boys--what had brought them there I could not think.
I reached the pier-head, where the huge lamp had been lighted and shone
like a great brilliant jewel. I sat down; there was no greater pleasure
for me than an evening spent there. At first all was quite still; the
gentleman smoking his cigar walked up and down; the two youths, who had
evidently mistaken the nature of the pier, and considered themselves
greatly injured by the absence of music and company, went away; the old
man sat still for some time, then he left.
I was alone then with the smoker, who troubled himself very little about
me. The coquettish moon threw a wide, laughing gleam around, then
vanished. A whole pile of thick, dark clouds came up from the west and
hid her fair face--by them the thick, soft gloom had deepened into
darkness. I was far from expecting anything tragical as I sat there,
cold and desolate, lonely. As it was, the Chain Pier was more like home
to me than any other spot on earth, because of the one hour I had spent
there.
The wind began to freshen and blow coldly where I sat. I had no motive
in changing my seat, except to escape the sharpness of the breeze. I
crossed to the other side, where the white line of cliffs lay--away from
the brilliant lights of the west pier, hidden behind the wooden
structure erected to shelter those on the pier. I gave myself up to my
dreams.
I cannot tell how it was, but to-night many ghostly stories that I had
read about piers came to my mind. For instance, now, how easy it would
be for any man to steal up to me through the thick, soft, shadowy mist,
and murder me before I had time even to utter a cry, I might be thrown
over into the sea.
Then I said to myself, what a foolish thought! I was close to many
people, such a murder was quite impossible. Yet I was foolish enough to
turn my head and try to peer through the darkness to see if any one was
near.
The tall, slender figure of a woman dressed in a dark cloak was slowly
walking up the middle of the pier. She could not see me, but I saw
her--plainly, distinctly. I noticed the grace of her movements, her
grand carriage. She was closely veiled, so that I could not see her
face. But, unless I was much mistaken, she carried a bundle of something
held tightly under her arm.
CHAPTER II.
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.
CHAPTER III.
Why the word "murder" struck me with such a horror I cannot tell. I
stood looking at the old boatman like one struck with dismay. I was on
the point of saying that it was quite impossible, for I had been on the
Chain Pier last night, and had seen nothing of the kind. Some prudent
impulse restrained me.
"I would not go so far as to say it was murder," interrupted a sturdy
boatman. "I have been about here a great many years, and I have seen
some queer things. I should hardly call this murder."
"It was a life taken away, whether you call it murder or not," said the
old man.
"May be; but I am not sure. I have seen many mad with misery, but murder
is a rare thing."
"What is it?" I asked.
"A child, sir--only a little child," said the sturdy boatman. "The body
of a little child found drowned off the pier here."
Now, why should I start and tremble and grow sick at heart? What had it
to do with me? I knew nothing of any murdered child, yet great drops
formed on my brow, and my very heart trembled.
"A little child found drowned," I repeated; "but how do you know it was
murdered? It may have fallen into the water."
"It was not old enough for that, sir," said the elder boatman; "it is
but a fair little mite--a baby girl; they say not more than three months
old."
Ah! why did the beautiful, desperate face I had seen the night before
flash before my eyes then?
The boatman went on:
"It is plain to my eyes that it is a murder, although the child is but a
tender babe; all the greater murder for that; a bigger child might have
helped itself; this one could not."
"Tell me about it," I said.
Ah! if my heart would but stop beating, or if the beautiful, desperate
face would but fade from my memory.
"It was James Clayton who found it," continued the old man. "He was at
work in the jetty this morning when he caught sight of something moving
up and down with the waves. At first he thought it looked like an old
rag, and he took no notice of it; then something about it attracted his
attention more and more. He went nearer, and found that it was a gray
and black shawl, that had caught on some large hooks which had been
driven into the wooden pillars for some purpose or other--a woman's
shawl, sure as could be; some lady, he thought, had dropped it over the
pier, and it had caught on these hooks below the water. Jim was pleased.
He thought, if worth anything, he might get a trifle reward for it; if
not, he might take it home to his old mother.
"He took his boat to the spot, but, sir, to Jim's surprise, he found it
was not only a shawl, but a bundle. He thought he had found a treasure,
and hastened to get it quickly off the hooks. It had been caught more
tightly by accident than it could have been placed there by human
hands. It was tight on the hooks, and he had to tear the shawl to get it
off. He lost no time opening it, and there was a little, fair child,
drowned and dead.
"It was not a pleasant sight, sir, on a bright morning, when the
sunshine was dancing over the waves. Jim said his heart turned quite
faint when he saw the little white body--such a fair little mite, sir,
it was enough to make the very angels weep! Some woman, sir--Heaven
forbid that it was the mother--some woman had dressed it in pretty white
clothes. It had a white gown, with lace, and a soft white woolen cap on
the little golden head. A sorry sight, sir--a sorry sight! Jim said that
when he thought of that little tender body swinging to and fro with the
waves all the night, he could not keep the tears from his eyes.
"It was meant to sink, you see, sir," continued the man, with rough
energy; "it was never meant to be caught. But the great God, He is above
all, and He knows the little one was not to sink to the bottom, like
lead. It is true, sir, and murder will out."