HER CRIME.
They took rooms in a pleasant hotel in the town, and after an early tea they strolled down to the water-side to look at the small shipping.
It was a delicious evening in September. The sun had just set, and the whole expanse of water was aflame with the afterglow.
A refreshing breeze had sprung up, and the river was alive with pleasure boats of every description, from the sail- to the row-boat.
And there were more boats for hire, at the service of any who might wish to amuse themselves upon the water.
"Take a boat. Craven, and let us go out for a row. The evening is so delightful, the sky and the water so beautiful," said the bride, coaxingly.
"I would like to do so, my angel; but, to tell the truth, I am a very inexperienced oarsman, and I can not swim at all," answered the poor fellow, apologetically.
"Are you afraid then, Craven?" she asked, with exasperating archness.
"No, love, not for myself, but for you. If by my awkwardness any accident should happen to you I think I should run raving mad," he answered, earnestly.
"Oh, well, never mind me! There is no cause for fear whatever, as far as I am concerned. I can row like a squaw and I can swim like a duck. And I think I could do so ever since I could walk. At least, I certainly do not remember the time when I could not swim," said the lady, laughingly.
"What a wonder you are—in everything!" exclaimed the lover-bridegroom, in a rapture of admiration.
"No wonder at all. I was brought up on the water-side, and was always a sort of amphibious little creature, as often in the water as out of it. Come, now, will you hire a boat to please me?"
"Of course! I would do anything in the world to please you, my angel!"
"Then engage that little pea-green boat. It is a nice one," she said, pointing to a frail skiff moored near them.
"That, my dearest Mary? Why, that is a mere egg-shell! It could not live in rough water. And if this gentle breeze should rise into a wind—"
"Are you afraid?" she inquired, with provoking sarcasm.
"I say again not for myself, but for you."
"And I say again that there can be no ground of fear for me. I say again I can row like a squaw and swim like a duck. There! Now will you get the boat I want?"
"Yes, my darling, I will. And I will also take the precaution to hire the man in charge of it to help us row, in case of accidents."
"No, no, no; I won't have the man! He would spoil all our pleasure. I want you and myself to go out alone together, and have no interloper with us."
"But, my beloved—"
"I don't believe you love me at all, when you want a great hulking boatman to be in the boat with us, watching us," said the bride, with pretty childish petulance.
"Not love you? Oh, heaven of heavens! You know how I love you—how I adore you—how I worship you!" he whispered, earnestly.
"Will you get the boat I want before it grows too dark?"
"Yes, yes, I will, my darling! I can refuse you nothing," said the infatuated bridegroom as he walked down to the water's edge and forthwith hired the one she had set her heart on.
Then he came back to take her down to the boat.
It was a mere shell, as he had said; and though the boatman declared that it could easily carry six if required, it did not look as if it would safely bear more than two or three passengers at most.
They were soon floating out upon the water and down with the tide past the dingy colliers and the small trading vessels that were anchored there, and out among the coming and going sloops and schooners.
"Let me row toward that beautiful wooded shore. It is so lovely over there!" said Mary Grey, coaxingly.
"'Distance lends,' and so forth," smiled Craven Kyte, as he at once headed for the shore.
But the outgoing tide had left a muddy beach there, and so they had to keep at a respectful distance from it.
They rowed again to the middle of the river.
The afterglow had faded away, but the blue-black starlit sky was brilliantly reflected in the dark water.
When they had rowed an hour longer, back and forth from shore to shore, Craven Kyte drew in his oar and said:
"It is growing late and very dark, love. Had we not better go in?"
"No, no, no!" answered the bride, with prettily assumed authority.
"But, dear love—"
"The night is beautiful! I could stay out here until morning!"
"But chills and fevers, these September nights, darling!"
"Fiddle-de-dee! Are you afraid?"
"Not for myself, love, but for you."
"I never had a chill in my life! I am acclimated to these water-side places. If you are tired of rowing give me the oars."
"Not for the world! What, fatigue your dear arms? I would sooner mine dropped from my shoulders with weariness!"
And he took up both oars again and plied them actively, although his unaccustomed muscles were aching from the long-continued exercise.
"Turn down the stream then and row with the tide. It will be so much lighter work than rowing back and forth across the river."
"But it will take us so far from the town."
"Never mind!"
"And it will make it very difficult, when we turn back, to row against wind and tide."
"Bah, we will not stay out long! We will only go around that point that I see before us. What a fascination there is in a turning point! We always want to see what is on the other side," said Mary Grey, lightly.
Meantime, Craven Kyte had turned the boat and they were floating down stream very fast.
They soon passed the point, and saw on the other side a flat, sandy shore, with the woods at a little distance.
They were still off the point, when Mary Grey suddenly uttered an exclamation of dismay.
"What is the matter?" hastily inquired Craven Kyte.
"Oh, my hat! My hat has fallen off my head and is in the water! If you stoop over quick you can reach it before it floats quite away!" she said, eagerly.
Craven Kyte immediately drew in his oars and secured them, and then bent over the side of the boat to reach the hat that was still floating within three feet of his hands. He bent very far out and endangered his balance.
Mary Grey arose to her feet. Her eyes were glittering like phosphorus in the night, her face pallid in the starlight.
He bent lower down and further out, trying to reach the hat, when suddenly she gave him a push and he fell into the river, and went down before he could utter the cry upon his lips.
The force with which she had pushed her victim into the water had given the little boat an impetus that sent it flying down the stream, and rocking violently from side to side.
It was as much as she could do to keep her place in it. Any other than an experienced boat-woman like herself must have been shaken out and drowned.
She heard her victim's agonized scream for help as he rose the first time to the surface of the water.
But she gave it no attention.
For even if she had repented, and had wished to save him, she could not do so now.
She could, with the greatest difficulty, keep her place in the rocking boat until the impetus that had started it was spent.
Yet again that awful cry for help pierced the night sky as the drowning man arose the second time to the surface; but on this occasion the cry sounded farther off, and the boat, though it had ceased to rock, was flying rapidly down stream.
She took hold of the rudder and tried to guide the flying little shell.
Her situation, self-sought as it had been, was one of almost intolerable horror.
The night sky was above her, the dark waters beneath her, and around her, at various distances, like little dim white specks, were to be seen the sails of the coming and going colliers, and other small trading craft.
She steered down the stream with the tide, pausing now and then and listening. But she heard no more that agonized cry of the drowning man, though she knew it would ring in her spirit's ears forever.
She steered down stream until she heard the sound of oars, and of merry laughter and cheerful talk, and then she dimly perceived the approach of a large pleasure boat crowded with gentlemen and ladies.
Then she, knowing it was too late to save her victim, deceitfully raised a shrill scream, that attracted the attention of the people in the large boat, which was immediately rowed in the direction of the cry.
Soon the two boats were side by side.
"What is the matter?" inquired a man's voice from the larger boat.
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, help! My companion has fallen overboard, and, I fear, is drowned!" cried Mary Grey, wringing her hands in well-simulated grief and terror.
"Where? Where?" inquired a dozen eager, interested voices, all at once.
"Just about here. Oh, look for him, listen for him! Do try to save him!" cried the hypocrite, seizing her own hair, as if she would have pulled it out by the roots, in her pretended anguish of mind.
"Where did he fall? Did he not struggle?" inquired two or three voices, as the oarsmen rowed their boat around and around in a circle and peered over the surface of the water for some sign of the lost man.
"Oh, he sank at once—he sank at once!" cried Mary Grey, beating her breast.
"But he will come up again. They always do, unless they are seized with the cramp and it holds them. Keep a bright lookout there, boys, and if you see so much as a ripple in the water make for it at once! We may save the poor fellow yet!" said the voice of a man who seemed to be in authority.
"How in the world did he happen to fall over, miss?" inquired another voice.
"Oh, my miserable, unlucky hat blew off my head and fell into the water. I begged him not to mind it—told him I would tie a pocket-handkerchief over my head—but he wouldn't listen to me. Oh, he wouldn't listen me! And so, in stooping to recover my wretched hat, he bent over too far, lost his balance and fell into the water. And oh, he sank at once like lead! Oh, do try to find him! Oh, do try to save him! He might be resuscitated even now, if you could find him—might he not?" she cried, wringing her hands.
"Oh, yes, ma'am!" answered a man, in his good-natured wish to soothe who he took to be a distracted woman.
And they rowed around and around, peering into the water and listening for every sound.
But there was no sign of the lost man.
After they had sought for him about an hour the man who seemed to be the chief among them said:
"I am afraid it is quite vain, ma'am. It is not a drowning, but a drowned man that we have been seeking for the last hour. Tell us where you wish to go, and we will take you home. To-morrow the body may be recovered."
But Mary Grey, with a wild shriek, fell back in her boat and lay like one in a swoon.
"We must take the lady into this boat of ours, and tow the little one after us," said the man.