"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.