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.