THE MARSHLEA TRAGEDY
By Col. Ralph Fenton
Three years ago I went down to Marshlea to spend the summer. It is a sea-breezy, bird-singing country, and the Ocean House, having been taken by a friend of mine for the season, I knew I should have unexceptionable quarters, and "rust" as my friend Charley Williard says, to my heart's content.
Change of scene is a good thing, but utter solitude, under the names of rustication and rest, is a penalty I never willingly undergo.
I knew that there would be plenty of people at Marshlea—people in undress and holiday tempers—fashionables exhibiting, scholars seeking, invalids languishing, flirts flirting, and many good people simply enjoying relief from care and the salubrious situation.
I expected as much of the people as I did of the place, and accepted them quite as willingly.
My quarters were comfortable, a cool northeast room and a little east bedroom looking upon the sea, both rooms furnished freely in bamboo and India matting.
I wheeled my bed so that I could see the sun rise in the morning, quite comfortable, and with no thanks to Mr. Bierstadt, and heard the gong sound two hours later, while I was reading Thackeray.
I never took morning sea-baths—they did not agree with my constitution—but at noon, when the tide lapped the shingles, full of a soft wash and warm swells, I took a stretch of half a mile, and felt the better for my tonic.
But of a morning, as the tide came in, it was pleasant to watch the bathers—men swimming with fearless little boys, mothers dipping astonished babies, and acres of scarlet-clad figures tripping along the sand, or waltzing in the surf, like blossoms blown about—while the sky lay low and fleecy and warm over the scene.
I remember the sand-piper's cry, the peals of laughter, and lowing of the cattle in the marshes.
I recollect the saxifrage that grew among the rocks, the spring that pushed its way over the salt pebbles to the waters of the cove, and the sweet notes of the little brown shore birds.
I recall a day when the sunshine was very bland; glittering carriage loads of dolce far niente pleasure-seekers rolled slowly down the sands. Staniels' canopied boat, its silken flag fluttering, softly rocked at his moorings, little white tents, the mushroom dwellings of sportsmen, dotted the rocks, and the sea glittered and tossed under the serene blueness of the sky.
It was all enjoyable then, but an element of tragedy entered into it afterwards which makes me recall the place with a pang of sorrow.
I seem to hear a woman's shrieks ringing out over that blue, smiling water.
I was smoking in the bowling alley one evening, when a light coupe came dashing over the sands, and stopped at the door of the hotel.
John Saunders, my good friend and host, came out to meet a singularly handsome man, who alighted, and entered into conversation with him.
"By jingo!" exclaimed a volatile voice in my ear. "Colonel Staniels!" and my mercurial friend, Walt Summers, finished his exclamation of surprise with a prolonged whistle.
"Are you sure?" I asked, for I knew the name, though not the man then.
"Yes; know his carriage. And then no one could ever see Eben Staniels and mistake him afterwards."
I was certain of that when I saw the gentleman at supper.
He was about the medium height, with a magnificent chest, a handsome head covered with curling brown hair, and a prompt, military bearing.
His eyes were gray, bright, unflinching and very handsome.
He wore a closely-trimmed dark beard, and his regular features, straight brows and bold white forehead made his face as fine as it was fearless.
He seemed entirely indifferent to the sensation he produced.
It was generally known that he had been divorced from his wife two years previous, and this fact, together with his wealth, standing and personal appearance, made him an object of attention to everybody.
His manner was unexceptionable, and his bearing perfectly cool, to an ordinary observer; but as I passed him on the porch, late in the evening, smoking, I saw him looking silently over the moon-lighted sea, and wincing at his secret thoughts.
His room adjoined mine. He was at Marshlea three weeks before I made his acquaintance.
He knocked at my door one evening just at sunset.
"Mr. Cathmor, would you like to drive in town with me to-night? The sunset promises us a fine evening."
I had planned a sail by the moonlight, but an impulse to accept Colonel Staniels' invitation instantly seized me.
I admired the colonel, was glad to know more of him, as this opportunity suggested, and I liked fine horses, and the colonel's were very fine. I accepted the invitation.
When we went out the sun had just set, and a boy was holding the horses.
As soon as he left their heads we sailed away.
The animals were magnificent, wanting nothing but guiding.
In town we went to the postoffice and bank, and then turned homewards.
The colonel talked well. We touched briefly on a score of standard subjects, and momentarily my respect for the man beside me increased.
He made many remarks worth recording, among these this:
"It is a very common mistake among men that they must rule their wives."
This was nearly four years ago, before the diffusion of the woman's rights question, now so generally discussed. The words, and his manner of saying them, gave me a clew to the track of his observations, if not his experience.
I glanced at the stern contour of his face, the unquiet glance of his eye, and chose to believe the latter.
Suddenly his manner changed.
"Mr. Cathmor, I have a fancy to receive your congratulations first. I am to be married in a few days, and bring my wife to the Ocean House," he said.
I expressed the pleasure his manner conveyed to me.
"My little girl will like this place, I think," he said.
The singular sweetness of his smile charmed me. After a moment he took a little oval miniature case from his breast and handed it to me. It contained a sweet, pure, earnest face—a sparkle in the modest eyes, too, that told of exuberant life.
"That is what I call lovable," I exclaimed, in enthusiasm.
My praise seemed to touch him to the quick.
"I think so, too," he answered, quietly, putting the picture back in its hiding-place, with a moment's happy abstraction.
We drove fleetly up to the door. A little knot of men gathered about the horses as usual. I went up to my room with a new item for thought.
The next day Colonel Staniels took the boat for New York. In three days he was back with his wife.
Brides are not generally to my taste, they are usually too suggestive of clothes, and plume themselves to a fatiguing extent. They are too demonstrative and important, too publicly tender, and too generally oppressive. But I liked Mrs. Staniels the moment I heard her glad laugh. It was a laugh, and her face was like a sunbeam.
She was not overdressed or burdened with the consciousness of her position; she did not caress her husband in public, or betray any unusual excitement.
She talked in an arch, merry little way with everybody she won to her side, telling of places, things, people, anybody but herself and the colonel.
She had just returned from Europe. She was pretty, and an heiress, but she was not spoiled.
I admired the colonel more than ever at that time. He received the ladies' congratulations and compliments on his wife with a grave sweetness; I noticed that the men did not jest with him, and that their appearance did not suggest any of the stale jokes and comments on matrimony, common to a mixed company. More than all this, their composed and friendly demeanor when together, and the quiet system of their glances, pleased me.
But I knew that Staniels was very happy. His face unbent—its only fault had been a little coldness and sternness—and revealed a warmth and geniality that made him quite resistible.
He formed the habit of coming into my room to smoke, remarking that: "Say did not like tobacco smoke."
I never saw him smoke in her presence.
The name on her wedding cards was Sarah Fay Pomfret, but this stately appellation the colonel abbreviated to the diminutive title, "Say," and it seemed to quite suit her.
One day, about three weeks after their arrival, a party of us went down the shore gunning, Colonel Staniels was of the number.
My luck was unusually good. My game bag became heavy.
Towards noon I flung myself down under a tree to rest.
In a few minutes Staniels appeared and took a seat beside me. He was out of spirits.
"What is the matter?" I asked.
He tried to smile, ruthlessly, but I saw a tear flash in his eye.
"My cursed obstinacy! I was cross to Say this morning."
He arose restlessly, and walked away. I saw that he was far from being happy, but it was a matter requiring no interference of mine.
"Who breaks—pays," I muttered, and lay flat on my back for a full hour before the rest came up.
I reached home first.
The day had been unusually hot, but a cooling breeze had sprung up as the sun set.
I entered the house, and passing up to my room met Say Spaniels, all in white, in the hall.
"Mr. Cathmor, is Eben coming?" she asked.
"He has come; he will be up directly," I answered.
"Keep still as a mouse," she whispered, "I am going to play a trick on him. Don't tell where I am—hush!" as a step sounded on the stair.
She turned and fled noiselessly into an alcove of the hall.
Staniels came rather slowly up the stairs. I thought he was deliberating what kind of a reception might greet him, fearing, perhaps, tears, pouts or frowns.
But I, seeing the merry, peeping face, knew that the matter to which he was probably keenly sensible was utterly disregarded by the sweet, healthy nature of his wife.
He entered the room, closed the door. All was silent after he crossed the floor. Say tiptoed down the hall and stood listening, her head with its glossy waves of chestnut hair bent, her red lips parted, her cheek dimpling.
Suddenly we heard the report of a pistol. She started bewildered. I leaped from my seat, and sprang past her into the room. Staniels lay dead on the floor, shot through the heart. Beside him lay the innocent paper which had caused the deed.
It was a little note saying:
"You do not love me. I have gone away. Good-by. Say."
The cheat had been too certain. With a sore conscience, and a heart in which memories of a hidden past had probably rankled all day, the husband had been thoroughly duped. The thoughts that rushed upon him maddened him; the first act was self-destruction.
And so, when I think of beautiful Marshlea, I always hear above the murmur of the sea and the songs of the birds, the dreadful shrieks of an agonized woman, whose innocent, childlike love had been the cause of so terrible a tragedy.