ON THE GOODWIN SANDS.

Grey River Argus, Volume XII, Issue 1432, 4 March 1873, Page 4

ON THE GOODWIN SANDS.

(from the once a-webk.) (Continued.) " An awful place for a murder," I said, looking round. " A wild, desolate place — the spot which a murderer would choose. Can we not fancy him bringing his victim out here on that quiet September night, far away from any house, and deliberately doing her to death ? See, he would hide her body in the ditch ; then wash his hands again. How was he found out ? Murder is always found out, you know. But mademoiselle, in Heaven's name, what is the matter ?" If she was pale before, she was ghastly now. Her lips were white, her brow studded with drops that seemed wrung out in agony ; her eyes— those beautiful, limpid eyes — strained with a fearful expression of misery, pain, and expectation; her hands held out before her, palms downwards, in an attitude of the most miserable despair. " Mademoiselle, what is it V She fell fainting towards me. I caught her up as she fell, and laid her on the grass. Then, although the water in the ditch looked foul and tnuddy, it was better than nothing, and I filled my hat with it, and sprinkled her face and forehead. In a moment she recovered and sat upright. ■ "Ah!" she said, "I suppose I have walked too far. I am not strong, you know. Wait a moment, and I shall be well again." She turned her head and read the inscription again. " Ah, miserable stone !" she said, with a faint smile ; " you have frightened me, you and your inscription — and you, Monsieur Edward, who wanted to draw a picture of the horrible murder. Come, let us run away and leave it !" She walked back with a sort of feverish activity, and talking incessantly; only I fancied she talked too quickly. Evidently, she was not well. I had overtasked her strength. As we reached the house, she said to me, with more emphasis than was necessary for so simple a request — " Promise me, Monsieur Edward, that you will not say a word to madame about this wretched fainting fib of mine. She is so kind that she will be frightened." Of course 1 promised. That night she did not come down to dinner, having a headache ; and the whole of the next day kept her room. The following day, I found her sitting in the little room which was my mother's favourite, which looked upon the sea, and was fitted with rose-coloured curtains, her pet colour— and, for the matter of that, Adrienne's too. Did I say that I had got in the habit of thinking of her as Adrienne? Perhaps it was from hearing my mother call her so. The General always call her his "little ally," and used to make little jokes about the entente cordiale. But then his generalship, and his acquaintance with the French too, dated back to the Crimean war. He had been spared, poor old man the agony and humiliation of seeing his old comrades in the field despoiled and conquered — made to sign a treaty more greedy and grasping on the part of conquerors, more barbarous, more pitiless, than anything since the days of Bremus, while England looked on and said nothing. She was sitting on the sofa reading, with the warm rose light falling full upon her face. I never saw her look so lovely. My heart gave a great leap, and my throat seemed to swell and prevent me from speaking as I looked at her. She raised her eyes and smiled. I could bear it no longer. I was only five and twenty,., -which is some excuse. I threw myself down at her feet, and seized her hands,, crying, in - broken tones— ■..'•■ "Adrienne— my own Adrienne, Hove you. It is I whose stupid folly made y uV ufl S r ~~ my P° or ' £r *B ile > sensitive child. Forgive me, for I love you." She let heir hands lie in mine for a moment^ and then withdrew them gently.

"Forgive you," she said, "why not? What is there to forgive ?" "But I said more, Adrienne. I said I loved you." "In my country, people only say that when they are married." " But we are in England now. Ah, dearest, bear with me— hear me plead my own love." Did I love her ? Even now I cannot answer that question. For five years I have been trying to find whether I really , loved her, or whether it was only the passing fancy of a man for the beauty of a woman, in her case heightened by all circumstances connected with her — the wreck, the lifeboat, my own share in the rescue, her own fragility of appearance. We may fall in love a hundred times. There is no period between eighteen and eight and forty wheu there is not a possible wife among our acquaintance. But real love, or what we read of, I do not know. If ever I felt it, it was that moment when knelt at her feet, while she lay upon the couch, and 1 longed with all the strength of my soul to fold her in my arms, and feed my hungry heart with kisses. "Monsieur Edward," she said, "would it not be a dishonourable thing for me to listen to you 1 See, I am a poor girl. I am living here on the bounty of your parents. Nay, go away, be silent — 1 cannot listen." " But if they gave consent— if then, my Adrienne ?" "Alas!" she murmured, "they will not." I snatched her hand again and kissed it and left her. [ went straight to my father, and told him my story. By great good luck, he was that day entirely free from gout. He wagged his head from side to side for five minutes, and then nodded it up and down for five minutes more. This was way of turning the matter over in all its lights. Then he said he would think over it. That meant he would go by my mother's decision. I went to her and pleaded — not in vain ; for my mother was in more love with Adrienne than any of us. "Why, not, Edward ? She is a Catholic I suppose ; but we may get over that in time. She is a lady. She is good. She is accomplished. Really, my son, if I were to choose your wife for you you myself, even the jealous eye of your mother could find you no better wife than my dear Adrienne." Adrienne was a Catholic, but a liberal one ; and the religiou3 difficulty was got over at once, and by half-an-hour's discussion with my father. I heard them discussing wtth open doors — that is, I heard my father banging a book on the table, and stating with emphasis and clearness, the more evident points in the Bible by which the Pope and his adherents may be brought to shame and confusion. And presently he emerged, .announcing to me that the last barriers were overcome, and Adrienne was prepared to become an Anglican. I think that evening the memory of Inkerman did not rejoice him so much as this triumph ; and the poor old man ever after regarded the girl with a peculiar affection, as one saved from the errors of a straying Church through his own humble instrumentality. Why linger over a time which is, to me above all, a bitter time to look back upon ? I am sorry I began my story at all, because of the bitter pain of finishing it. We left Deal at the end of November, and returned to our own place in Hertfordshire. I went up to town, got called, made the usual arrangements common to young barristers who have not the smallest reason for expecting any practice — i.e., took chambers for the transaction of as much work as Sir Roundell Palmer has to do— announced my approaching marriage, and then went down into the country, not to leave it again till I brought away my bride. It was ai ranged that we were to be married at the NewYear. I got down to Hall a fortnight before Christmas. It was glorious weather —frosty, cold, bright. We had a little skating and plenty of walking. Adrienne did not care much about going out ; so our house. was filled with people night after night, and we had impromptu dances, charades, and private theatricals. And then I found another accomplishment in my fiancee, for she was an accomplished actress. To please her, we performed little French pieces — the proverbs of Alfred de Musset, and those light airy sketches where everything depends upon the acting. I dare say our own performances were bad enough— at least my father was never tired of laughing at our accent ; but Adrienne carried us through, and even at times inspired us with the power of acting, though the mere conta- 1 gion of her own enthusiasm. And she seemed happy, too. The old fits of sadness, which had been wont to come over her, sometimes for days together, vanished altogether. To myself she was ever the same, cold and undemonstrative, and unresisting. I might play with her delicate fingers, and run my hand through her hair as we sat together. I might kiss her cheek, if I pleased. I might call her all endearing epithets. She only seemed to yield. I thought little of her coldness at the time, which seemed to me a maiden modesty. Afterwards, it helped to expam a great deal. And myself ? I cannot understand, as I have said, my own feelings. I regarded her with an intensity of admiration which I can never again feel for another woman. For there does not, 1 believe, exist a woman in the world so bright, so ready to understand, so full of tact. But while I lavished my caresses upon her, and persuaded myself that I was madly in love with her, there was yet a together wanting that softening of the heart at the very sound of her name, fiat trembling at her presence, winch belongs to a young man's first love. I was not — 1 think I could not have been — really in love with her. I was only dreaming of love. I was enchanted with her presence. I remember, one evening, we were reading poetry. I read to her Coleridge's most exquisite poem, "Genevieve." When i mt ad the verßes > I looked up at her. Ihere was no emotion in her eyes, which met mine with her cold and lustrous look ; and for the moment my heart fell. But no misgivings on my partnone ; no disloyalty to the pledge of my heart ; no shaking of my faith; Adrienne was mine, and I was hers. We were to be one. Little by little the petals of that sweet and delicate blossom of love would unfold her, till I should have the full flowers — an immortal Rose of Jericho. By decrees, I thought I should learn to read all the secret workings of an entirely pure and unsullied page, a maiden's

mind ; xmtilthe rapport between us should be that mystical and wonderful, the perfect union of two souls, wrought by the power of wedded love. Alas! alas! — dreams — dreams — doomed to be shattered and destroyed ! On Christmas Eve we sat, we and our guests, round the big fire in the great hall, talking, and singing, and drinking punch, after the good old English fashion, which my father would not alter. He sat on one side in his great arm-chair. At his feet lay Adrienne, her head upon her knees, his hand in her hair, and caressing her smooth cheek. My mother was opposite. I, my heart full of happiness, next her. My father had been telling some stories of his Crimean campaign. He loved to talk of the war where he had won his rank and his title, especially to Adrienne, before whom he dilated upon the bravery of our gallant allies, and the friendships he had formed among them ; and presently twelve o'clock struck. " It is Christmas Day," said my father. " God bless us, every one ! Only a week now, my children, and you will be a married pair. I pray that you may be as happy as your mother and I." The tears came into his eyes, as he spoke with a full heart. Our guests were all old friends, before whom he could speak unreservedly. " Wedded life, " he went on, after a pause, "is the only happy life. Edward, you do well to marry young. I could not. I was obliged to wait till I was thirty-five. lam not going to tell anybody how old you were, mamma. " " Indeed you may," said my mother. " I was past thirty when we married. The bloom was off my youth." " You are always beautiful, my dear," said the General. "God has been very good to us, my friends. I am not so thankful as I ought to be. Truly we have been spared all trouble : no sadness has come to my home— no disgrace to any of mme — no evil had fallen upon us. " That night, how well I remember it, and the General's last words of thanksgivings because no evil had fallen upon us! The evil was even then fallen, but we knew it not. That was reserved for the morning. It was after church. Adrienne and myself were sitting alone by the fireside. Her hand was in mine ; and in perfect happiness, I sat silent. There was the sound of wheels as a carriage drove up to the door, and in a few moments the servant opened the door, and gave me a card with the name of John Probyn written upon it. " Who is Mr. John Probyn?" I asked. The question had no answer, for the owner of the card, a tall strong-looking man, followed the servant into the room. Adrienne rose to go. "Pray doo't go, mademoiselle," said our visitor: - 'I have most particular and private business, in which your presence is necessary." She sat down without saying a word, carelessly. I motioned the stranger to a seat. "Perhaps," he said, "you will excuse my locking the door. My business is of a most painful nature." What could it be ? I stared at him. He put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out a paper. "lam very sorry, Mr , most sorry. Prepare yourself for the most terrible thing that can happen to you. " Adrienne was lividly white— white as when I had laid her on the grass beside the murderer's stone at Deal ; and her hands were shaking in her lap, as she tried vainly to look unconcerned. 1 « Terrible thing ! What terrible thing? Speak, man !" I cried. " I must do my business at once," said he, " Cruelty is the best kindness." He made a step towards Adrienne, and called her by a new name — v Amelie Clariet." She sat motionless, save for the trembling of her lips. " Ame'lie Clariet, you know why I am here." She rose, putting her hands in her pocket. I noticed the gesture. The man was looking at me. Then she came to me, and put her hand upon my shoulder. "My friend — you will let me have a few words with him, will you not, Mr Proybn ? In your presence — oh ! bien entendu—my friend, when your father thanked God last night that no evil had ever happened to him or Ms, I prayed solemnly that should the evil tiling I feared come upon him, it might come before next week. I thank God, now, that my prayer is answered. I am not Adrienne de Comarmond at all. lam Amelie Clariet, an actress — Amelie Clariet, a murderess !" My lips parted, but could not speak. " I invented my lies to save myself. But I always knew I should be found out. The rest I could not help. If only you had not fallen in love with me, all would have been well; for it would not then have mattered. " She let go my shoulder, and staggered to a seat. There was a tumbler and water on the table. Mr Probyn poured out a glass, and gave it her. In a moment she went on again. " Ame'lie Clariet, the murderess. I will tell you about it. You shall know the whole truth, and then you may hate me if you will. I cannot undo the past. I was young, and he loved me — my bright, my handsome, my darling Alfred. He was a gentleman, and I was not a lady. He could never marry me. What did I care? Marriage ! Pah ! It was invented by priests to make themselves strong. My father always said so. We loved each other, and we were happy. He was an officer in a cavalry regiment. Ah mon Dieu ! mon Dieu ! how happy was I ! He used to come and see me act every evening, with his brother officer. I always acted better when they were there. There is nothing I would not have done for the dear old regiment to which he belonged. I knew every officerin it, and all theirstories — every sergeant — almost every man, and they all knew me. Ask them, if you will, what they would not have done for Mademoiselle Clariet, the actress. There is something wrong in this world— somethingthatmight be set right — something that prevents people from being happy. It is with everybody — even, you see, Monsieur Edward, with that poor old man, that good man, that kind and brave man, your father. Alas ! that he should ever have met with me. It was so with me ! We were stationed — I mean the regiment was stationed — at Lyons. There was a young avocat who was in love with me. Why I do not know. He threw bouquets for me on the stage ; he sent me fruit and flowers to my lodgings. At last he called himself one day. He-

threw himself at my feet, and begged me to marry him. He was ready to go anywhere, and do anything— to sacrifice all for my sake. I laughed at him — in the abundance of my happiness I laughed at him. Then he rose to his feet and called me names — called me a coquette, a heartless actress, and so on. I laughed the louder. Then he went away from me. I laughed again. At the theatre that night people looked at me earnestly, my colleagues whispered among each other ; but no one told me anything/ Next day I was not at the theatre at all; for the lawyer had gone straight away from me to a cafe', and met my lover — my Alfred— and insulted him. They fought at da/break, and with pistols •; and my Alfred was lying, when I ought to have appeared on the stage, dead upon his bed ; and I standing beside him, swearing, on his pale cold lips, that I would avenge his death. That was last May. All this has happened, you see, within a year. I had a little money, and I left the stage; but I did not leave my plan of revenge. That I nursed and watched, while it grew and grew in my brain, and became ever a deeper purpose. I kept myself informed of my avoeafs doings. Tie never saw me, and I suppose had forgotten my existence. 1 bought a revolver, and learned how to use it ; but I watted on my time. In September, he Vent north, to "Normandy, with his wife. I forgot to say that he was married. Yes ; this made it the better for me, you see, because the revenge wou'd be the greater. I went, too, disguised, like an actress as I am, s<> that even he should not recognise me. Then, in that quiet little place by the seaside, I sat and watched. One evening — it was September the 26th, 1867, this very year— exactly one hundred after that murder was done at Deal, Monsieur Edward — now you know why I turned pale, and fainted — I saw him walking along the sands, away from the town. It was a lonely walk ; no one passed along that way. It was a "wild and desolate place the walk led to ; not a heath, like that place at Deal, bnt a cliff, up which the path climbed, and then passed along the edge, lonely and deserted. I put on my hat, took my pistol, and followed. For half an hour he strolled leisurely along, smoking a cigar —I a hundred yards behind him. Thenh'e. stopped, and after looking at the sea for a few moments, turned idly back. I tore off my false hair, and stood before him in the path. "Mademoiselle Clariet!" he gasped. "lam Amelie Clariet," I said. • ' You remember, monsieur, this morning, four months ago, when you stood by the river, side, above my lover's dead body?" " Mademoiselle has no right to reproach me with that fatal accident. I deplore it greatly." "Murderer! whose was the insult?" Whose fault was it that the duel took place?" "At least we had an equal chance. I risked my life." "Yes, you risked yours to take his. You staked your life against my happiness, and you Avon the stake; but it is my turn now !" I raised my hand, and fire 1. I missed. He rushed upon me.- I steadied my nerves, and when he was only a few feet from me — when I could feel almost his hot breath upon my face, and could see the wild fear in his eyes — I fired again. He fell, and never spoke. To make my vengeance sure, I fired the other four chambers into him. Then I walked down the cliff, and made my way back to Paris. I wrote to an officer of the regiment — my regiment — and told him what I had done. He came to Paris, and hid me for a time. Then, because he could hide me no longer, he brought me to the coast ; and on that day, in October, when you saved me, he put me on the little vessel that was wrecked. Now you know it all. " I am sorry," she said, bursting into tears — she had kept dry-eyed while she told the tale — " lam sorry — oh !so sorry, for the General and madame, and you — oh. so very, very sorry ! Tell me that you forgive me, Monsieur Edward, tell me that you forgive me ! What could I do otherwise ? Oh mon- Dieu ! what could I have done ? Forgive me !" She knelt at my feet. I could not answer, but by a sigh. I raised her up, and kissed her. As I kissed her, her forehead became cold — ice-cold. She stood erect for a moment ; from her hand there fell a little bottle, which broke upon the floor — she had not touched it — and then, in a moment — I hardly seen her, because my eyes were dimmed — she lay upon the carpet, dead. Her heart was broken long before. The misery of remorse — the dread of detection had broken it ; and then the sudden shock came, and it ceased to beat. Shall Igo on ? The . General and my mother never knew. That Mr Probyn was with us on law business connected with me was stated by the good fellow himself, who perjured himself at the inquest, with the most complete readiness, to save us pain. We buried her in the country churchyard, in our own family vault.