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Title: A young man's story
Author: Sarah Doudney
Release date: February 27, 2026 [eBook #78060]
Language: English
Original publication: London: The Leisure Hour Office, 1886
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A YOUNG MAN'S STORY ***
Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.
A
YOUNG MAN'S
STORY.
BY
SARAH DOUDNEY
The Girl's Own Annual Illustrated
VOL. VII. 1886.
"FEATHERY FLAKES" EXTRA CHRISTMAS PART
THE LEISURE HOUR OFFICE
56, PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
CONTENTS.
A YOUNG MAN'S STORY
A YOUNG MAN'S STORY.
YES, I confess I have known something which may fairly be termed a
supernatural experience; but I did not care to talk about it in the
smoking-room last night. Now that I am sitting here quietly with you
and Susy, you may hear my story if you like. Perhaps it is hardly
worth telling; perhaps you will both laugh at me when it is finished.
However, it is the kind of story that ought to be told between the
lights; so do not ring for the lamp till I have done.
You have never heard much about my engagement to May Newton. There was
nothing remarkable in the affair; it was only the oft-told tale of two
persons being thrown together in a narrow sphere, and gliding naturally
into close intimacy. I suppose you are aware that I met her first in
an out-of-the-way village on the sea-coast where I went to stay with
my uncle. It was the sort of place in which any man would have rapidly
drifted into love-making—firstly, because there was no other way of
killing time; and, secondly, because there was an air of romance about
the spot. Although there were no great beauties in Longbeach, it had a
certain charm of dreamy peace. The sea lulled it to sleep with drowsy
murmurs; its ruined castle, grey and ivy-grown, was full of nooks where
you might read or muse without fear of intrusion. There were one or two
girls in the village who were prettier than May, and yet, after giving
them all a fair trial, I settled down into a calm enjoyment of her
companionship, and cared for no one else.
In the beginning, I certainly had no serious intentions. I was not a
marrying man, and the pleasure of "Shaking down loose blossoms from
off a laden bough" had always been quite enough for such a trifler
as myself. But does anyone ever know the precise moment when liking
changes to love? I have looked back sometimes, and tried to see just
the very spot where my path took that mysterious turn; but I never
could discover it. All I know is that the jest became earnest, the
shadow shaped itself into substance, and then the old idle days fled
away for ever.
We were not rich enough to think of a speedy marriage. She was living
with a widowed mother and elder sister, and I knew from the first that
their income was small. As for myself, you are pretty well acquainted
with my means, and you know that I have only lately been smiled upon
by fortune. We used to sketch out our future as we sat together on
the shore. A golden future it was to be—bright as the sunlit sea that
lay calm and glittering before our eyes. There were no storms to mar
those tranquil days of late summer; hour after hour glided by in mellow
sunshine, and the still atmosphere was full of that sense of ripeness
which always deepens the feeling of repose.
It was difficult to believe that a cold world was waiting outside our
balmy paradise. Poor May, living her secluded country life, was utterly
unable to realise the bitter struggle for existence which exhausts the
heart and brain. While I was with her, the charm of her presence made
me forget all about that struggle, and yet I knew that it had to be
faced. We could not build our nest, like the birds, in some cranny of
the old castle walls, and sing our lives away in an ivy bower. What a
delightfully simple ending of a courtship that would be! I remember
how we watched the happy feathered things flitting in and out of
their haunts in the ruins, and wished that we could as easily provide
ourselves with a home.
The autumn had set in before I left Longbeach, and went up to town to
seek my fortune. Through my uncle's influence, I had obtained the post
of confidential clerk in a mercantile house; but the salary was small,
and the business and its associations had few attractions for me. In
fact, I hated the very name of business.
Brought up to be an idler, I had never had any of the training that
prepares a man for intercourse with the great City world. After a week
or two of City life, I began to pine for the dreamy calm of Longbeach;
I missed the lullaby of the sea, the soothing tones of May's sweet
voice, the touch of her little hand. And then, as I grew more and
more dissatisfied with my lot, I had moods of bitter discontent and
impatience. I got angry with my uncle for not finding me a better
place than the office of Marford and Knox, angry with myself for being
unfitted to cope with the sharp City men around me—and angry (for no
cause at all) with poor, innocent May.
I never was a hero, you see; I set about doing my share of disagreeable
work as badly as a man possibly could, and nothing sours the temper
more than the secret consciousness of work ill done. So it came to pass
that I went down to Longbeach, in an unamiable humour, to spend my
holidays. It was December when I saw it again; our favourite paths were
strewn with yellow leaves, the sea was cold and grey, and there was no
singing of birds about the ruins. A chill breath seemed to have passed
over both our hearts.
[Illustration: MAY WAS SILENT AND MELANCHOLY.]
May was silent and melancholy on our skating expedition, distrustful of
herself and me. Her eyes looked the question that she did not speak.
Had we made a mistake when we plighted our troth among roses? Had our
love only a flower's life—"sweet, not lasting?"
About May herself there was always something fragile and flower-like.
She was slender, and she was pretty, but it was a beauty of colouring
and expression, not of feature. Her cheeks had a delicate bloom that
came and went quickly; her eyes, which were large and clear, would
shine with a brilliant light in moments of excitement. There was a
charming natural grace in all her movements that reminded you of a
blossom swaying in the wind. Everybody liked her, and even strangers
were won by that sweet, picturesque face and soft voice, but hers was
too sensitive a nature to thrive without sunshine. She seemed to pale
and wither in my gloomy presence, like an anemone that is blighted by a
bitter blast.
It vexed me to find that I had a blighting influence; I missed the
blushes and brightness that had welcomed me in the bygone summer days,
and I was not careful to conceal my annoyance. She saw that I was
displeased, and shrank away in a helpless fashion that was painful to
see.
"You are greatly changed, May," I said, one day, in an irritable tone.
We were walking up the garden path together, with the dead leaves
drifting about our feet. I saw the sudden whitening of her cheeks and
lips, and a sharp pang smote me, even as I spoke. But I did not let her
see that I felt anything.
"Yes," she answered, "I am changed, and I do not think my old self will
ever come back. It was to that old gay self that you were pledged,
Horace; I will not keep you bound to the dull girl of to-day. You used
to say I was always bright, you know; well, I have lost my brightness,
and we had better say good-bye."
"Do you mean it?" I asked.
"I do," she said, firmly and coldly.
All the pride that was latent in her gentle nature was up in arms. She
felt herself undervalued, unappreciated.
And so we parted—parted, although I knew I could never love another
woman in the world as I had loved her! An hour or two later I had left
the place, and the train was whirling me back to town.
A few weeks afterwards my uncle followed me to London. He had grown
tired of village life, he said, and wanted to end his days in the old
West-end street where he was born. Not one word did he say about the
Newtons; in fact, he had made no intimate friends in Longbeach, and had
concerned himself very little with his neighbours and their doings. He
was, as you know, a man of excessively retiring habits, and never cared
for any kind of society. Thus it fell out that all communication with
Longbeach was cut off, and there was not a single link left to connect
me with the past.
About this time, I began to take a greater interest in the affairs
of our firm, and applied myself more closely to business than I had
ever done before. I did not forget May, but I resolutely put her image
into the background of memory. There were new friends to be made, new
pleasures to be enjoyed, new ambitions to give a zest to life. Yet
her sweet face was always lurking in my thoughts, ready to come to
the front whenever I was weary and alone. Sometimes I caught sight of
faces that had a look of hers—in trains, in omnibuses, in the streets.
I suppose you do not know what sharp pain may come with a chance
resemblance. Well, you are happy if you have never known it. I have
seen my lost love looking at me through a stranger's eyes, many a time;
and in the tone of a strange voice, I have heard an echo of the voice
that was still.
So life went on with me through the winter and spring, and far into the
summer, and then it was proposed to take another partner into the firm
of Marford and Knox.
It occurred to use that I knew the very man who was wanted by my
employers. He was an idle man with a good deal of money and leisure
hanging uselessly upon his hands, and I resolved at once to seek him
out and press him into our service. My idea was favourably received
by Mr. Knox. There was no time, he said, to be lost; the grass must
not grow under my feet; it would be wise to look up this friend of
mine without delay. The last time I had heard of him he was living at
Monksbury, and I decided to go there and call upon him.
I was not unacquainted with Monksbury. It was a gay little
watering-place, where I had idled away pleasant hours in days gone by.
It lies on the South Coast, and when I stepped into the train I knew
that I was booked for a tedious journey of three hours at least. It
was growing late in the summer; the air was sultry and still, not a
cloud flecked the blue of the afternoon sky, scarcely a breath of wind
wandered in at the open windows, and I leaned back in my corner, too
languid even to unfold the papers I had bought to while the time away.
I could not read and I could not sleep. My eyes were always seeking for
familiar objects in the scenery, and I thought of the bygone summer
when I had travelled along this line, gay of heart, to Longbeach.
By-and-by, we must stop at the well-known little station. I should
catch a glimpse of the ruined tower and the quiet fields where May and
I had dreamed our brief love dream together. While I mused, the day was
waning, swiftly and yet softly, as such cloudless days always do fade.
Longer and longer grew the shadows. A faint mist came creeping over the
downs, the blue above melted into gold. The gloaming was stealing on
apace, bringing the freshness of dew into the air, softening all the
harsher features of the landscape, and adding an indescribable sense of
rest to the scene.
My companions were two middle-aged men, who had dozed peacefully
through the greater part of the journey. As the light faded and the
atmosphere cooled, they woke up and made a few remarks on the crops and
the weather. I gathered from their talk that they, too, were going as
far as Monksbury to join their wives and children in seaside lodgings.
Their conversation did not interest me then, but later on I remembered
it, and even recalled the faces and voices of the speakers. One of them
(the elder of the two) spoke tenderly of a delicate little daughter who
was gaining strength from the sea-breezes, and wondered if she would be
looking brighter when he saw her again.
Gazing out of the window, I watched the afterglow dying off the
sea, and felt the briny breath of a rising tide. We were drawing
near Longbeach; the train slackened speed, and crawled into the
little station; and my heart beat fast as the platform came in
sight. Were there any familiar figures to be seen? Yes; there was
the station-master, and beside him a slight little woman with a
fleecy-white woollen shawl wrapped carelessly about her head. The light
was growing dim, yet not too dim for me to distinguish her face, which
was turned towards me. Good heaven! It was May herself!
She was very pale and thin; but at the sight of me, her features were
lit up by the brightest smile I had ever seen. It was more than a
smile—it was a glory. In an instant, she had advanced close to the
carriage window, and was beckoning impatiently with a little ungloved
hand. There was a pretty imperiousness in the gesture that reminded me
of the May of old days. I never thought of resisting it for a moment—I
should not have been a man if I had. Seizing my travelling-bag, I
opened the door and jumped out upon the platform, alighting close to
the toes of Drake, the station-master, who looked at me, I fancied,
with some surprise.
"Good evening, Mr. Medway," he said, in rather a constrained tone.
"Good evening," I responded, absently, walking with him along the
platform while May's light figure flitted on before us.
At the gate, I gave up my ticket, and then turned into the old road
that led straight to the village. It was a quiet road, shaded by tall
trees, and sweet with the scent of cottage gardens; and May and I had
often traversed it together. This was the very hour for explanations
and reconciliations; we might stroll slowly homewards in the gloaming,
and I would ask her, humbly and frankly, to forgive me for the past. I
had never ceased to love her. Looking back on the last twelve months, I
could see that her memory had been present with me in every action of
my life. I had never shaken off the spell of her sweet influence, never
offered to another woman the heart that was hers alone.
"Where are you, May?" I called, standing still in the silent road. But
there was no reply. The light form had vanished.
It was just one of her old, childish tricks, I thought. I remembered
how she used to hide in the shrubbery of the garden, and spring out,
light as a fay, when I least expected to find her. And yet it was
strange that she should have walked from her cottage to the railway
station with that woollen shawl wrapped round her head! Light-heated as
she was, May had always had a respect for conventionalities; she had
never been known to appear in the village street without a dainty hat
or bonnet.
Then, too, how had she heard that I was likely to be in the train at
that hour? It must have been a mere chance that had brought her to the
railway station, and in beckoning to me, she might have acted on a
sudden impulse of which she had immediately felt ashamed. Overwhelmed
by a sense of bashfulness, she had probably fled across the fields to
seek shelter at home. As the last thought occurred to me, I smiled,
and began to walk rapidly onward. It was not likely that I should
overtake her before she gained the village; she was light of foot and
well acquainted with all the short cuts and by-ways of the place. But I
resolved to go straight to the door of Mrs. Newton's house, and ask for
an interview with my old love before I slept that night.
The evening was intensely sweet and still; showers of jessamine
blossoms had drifted down from cottage porches, and the air was heavy
with fragrance. Still walking at a quick pace, I came to a pause at
length before the door of Fern Cottage, and felt instinctively among
the ivy leaves for the handle of the bell. A startling peal resounded
through the little house, and I waited, half confused yet happy on the
threshold of May's old home. There was no sound of footsteps within; no
one came to answer my summons. I stepped back into the road and looked
up at the shuttered windows with a sudden sense of dismay. What did
this darkness and silence mean? I pulled the bell again.
"That is an empty house," said a voice at my elbow.
I turned and beheld two ladies regarding me with evident astonishment.
In the next instant, the younger of the two had recognised me. She was
a Miss Reed, a girl who had been on intimate terms with May.
"It is Mr. Medway, mamma," she cried.
"It is indeed," said Mrs. Reed, holding out her hand. "I did not know
you at first; it is a long time since we have seen you."
"Did you think that the Newtons still lived at Fern Cottage?" asked Amy
Reed.
Her bright eyes were looking keenly at me in the dusk; there was
nothing for it but to give her a straightforward answer.
"Yes, I did," I replied.
"How strange! You did not know that they left Longbeach in the spring?"
"Left Longbeach!" I repeated, incredulously. "But I have seen May this
very evening. She was at the railway station when my train came in."
"You must have been mistaken," Amy Reed said, gravely. "The Newtons
have gone to live in Richmond, and May, poor child, has been very ill."
"Ill or well, she was at the railway station to-night," I declared
stubbornly.
And then followed an uneasy silence. A vague sense of fear seemed to
possess us all three, as we stood mutely gazing at each other in the
twilight.
Mrs. Reed, a good, motherly woman, was the first to recover her usual
manner.
"You have been deceived by an accidental likeness," she said,
cheerfully. "Such things often happen, you know. But what are you going
to do to-night? Come home and be our guest, and we will give you the
latest news of the Newtons."
"Yes, do come," added Amy. "I had a letter from Charlotte Newton
yesterday."
Like one in a dream, I walked with them through the village street, my
mind full of the vision I had seen, my heart sick with forebodings.
The Reeds talked on, kindly anxious to dispel the gloom that was fast
overwhelming me, and I soon learnt all that they had to tell.
Some property in Richmond had been left to Mrs. Newton, and she had
decided to go and live there, hoping that the change would be good for
May. But, in spite of fresh air and new scenes, May had languished all
through the summer, and at last became dangerously ill. For weeks,
she lay on the very borders of death; few hopes were entertained, and
when at length the crisis of the fever was past, it seemed impossible
to rouse her from the state of apathy into which she had fallen. As
Charlotte said, she did not care about getting well—she was willing,
far more willing, to die than to live.
I scarcely know how I got through that long night in Longbeach. Hour
after hour was spent in pacing the room and longing for daybreak. If
I closed my eyes, it was only to be haunted by that strange vision of
May's pale face looking out of the folds of the fleecy, white shawl.
Her smile had been verily a beautiful smile, almost too bright for any
mortal features to have worn. And then that beckoning gesture! It had
summoned me, perhaps, to follow her beyond the old earthly home to
another home of everlasting rest.
Early in the morning, I took leave of my kind hostess, and Amy insisted
on accompanying me to the railway station. She talked hopefully and
cheerfully as we walked, doing her utmost to banish my fear; and yet
I could detect an undercurrent of sadness in her tone. My forebodings
seemed to have communicated themselves to her; silence fell on us both
as we approached the station, and she looked pale and anxious as we
passed through the little gate that opened on the platform. Drake was
there, as usual, and he, too, appeared grave and out of sorts.
"You had a narrow escape last night, Mr. Medway," he said. "You took a
ticket to Monksbury, didn't you? Yes, and you got out here. Well, if
you had gone on, you would have been in for a great smash, sir, that's
all."
"A smash! Was there an accident last night?" asked Amy.
I was incapable of uttering a word.
"A dreadful smash, miss, about three miles down the line. Five killed,
and ten or eleven injured. The traffic was stopped for hours."
"Drake," said Amy, suddenly, "did you see anyone on the platform last
evening when Mr. Medway got out of the train? He thought—he fancied he
had caught sight of a friend."
"You looked as if you had seen somebody, sir," remarked Drake, staring
at me. "You jumped out of the carriage, smiling as if somebody was here
to meet you; and there wasn't a soul on the platform but myself. I
remember thinking it rather odd, sir, if you'll excuse my saying so."
Amy and I exchanged glances.
I had abandoned the intention of going to Monksbury; my sole object now
was to get back to town, and then proceed to Richmond with as little
delay as possible. There was no time for more conversation; the uptrain
came thundering along, and I grasped Miss Reed's hand in silence.
"Good-bye," she whispered; "we shall meet again, I hope, in happier
days."
It was still early in the afternoon when I reached Richmond, and hired
a fly at the railway station. Then came a drive of a mile and a half,
which sorely tried my patience, although I had many a fair glimpse of
dark woodland and silver river. I saw all without seeing; my mind was
full of the one absorbing question—was she living or dead? If she were
dead, this bright world around would be a world of darkness to me; if
she lived, I had the hope of beginning a new life.
At last, the driver pulled up before the gate of a pretty little villa,
set in the midst of trees and flowering shrubs. With a wild throb of
anxiety I looked up at the windows—they were all thrown wide open, and
unveiled, to admit the summer air and sunshine! My knock at the door
was speedily answered, and Charlotte's face appeared in the entry.
"You are come, Horace!" she said. "I have been expecting you all the
morning."
"Did Miss Reed send a telegram?" I asked.
"No; but I had an impression that you would be here. I will explain—"
"How is May?" I interrupted, breathlessly.
"Better, much better. Oh, Horace, I have a strange thing to tell! But
how tired and pale you are looking! Have you been ill, too?"
"Not ill, but unhappy and restless," I said, letting her lead me into a
little drawing-room. And then sinking down on a sofa, I looked at her
in silence.
Just for a moment, I could not ask another question. Since that strange
vision had appeared to me at Longbeach, I had been without sleep, and
almost without food. I had scarcely touched the meals that the Reeds
had set before me, and after leaving them, there had been neither time
nor thought for refreshment.
"You are worn out," said Charlotte, gently. "I will bring you some wine
before I say another word."
She hurried away, and I was left alone in the pretty room with traces
of May's handiwork around me.
There were some of the old drawings that recalled a thousand memories.
That sketch of the ruined castle—how well I remembered every line of
it! May was a better artist than I, but I loved to assert myself on
all occasions, and the clump of alder bushes had been put in by my
hand. Then, too, there was the big sunflower which she had embroidered
on a satin sofa-pillow, meekly accepting all my numerous suggestions
about stitches and shades. And there were the peacock screens with
which I had fanned her many a time on hot summer days; in fact, there
was scarcely anything in the room that did not mutely remind me of
the past. They are often intensely sad, these dumb appeals made to us
by inanimate things—sadder even, I think, than the human voices which
sometimes reproach us for our unkindness to the lost.
The warm air came in languidly through the open windows, and bees
were humming in the sunshine, hovering about the passion-flowers, and
jessamine. The house was very quiet, and Charlotte's returning footstep
sounded distinctly in the stillness.
She persuaded me to eat and drink, assuring me all the while that May
should be told of my arrival. I yielded to her gentle management with
a docility that was quite new in me. Moreover, there is a delicious
langour attending a sense of relief, and I was in no mood to strive
with anyone.
"You are looking more like your old self now," she said, after a pause;
"it would have startled May to see you some minutes ago. There was a
strained and anxious look in your face that made you seem a dozen years
older, Horace. You must have had a shock."
"I am not a nervous man," I answered; "but I will confess, Charlotte,
that my nerves have been severely tried. Tell me more about May. I will
talk of myself and my own concerns by-and-by."
"She has been very ill," said Charlotte, gravely. "If you have seen
the Reeds, you have heard of her illness. Her recovery has been a slow
business. Indeed, I began to fear that she would not take pains to get
well. One day was just like another; she stopped short at a certain
point, and never seemed to get beyond it. She was always patient and
gentle, you know. We should have hailed a little peevishness as a good
sign; but it never came."
There were tears in the good sister's eyes. She drew a long breath, and
then suddenly sat down on the sofa by my side.
"Horace, how could you have done so? How could you have parted with
her so easily? She is so sweet, and good, and true. There are not many
girls like her in the world."
"I know it," I said, in a low voice; "and no one has ever filled her
place."
Charlotte's face brightened.
"You cannot think how she pined and faded," she went on. "I am sure
she tried to bear her sorrow bravely; but if the spirit was strong,
the flesh was weak. Of course she would lay the blame of ill-health on
any cause bet the true one. If she had a headache, she owed it to the
east wind; if she looked white and weary, her walk had been too long;
if she could not eat, it was always because she had over-tired herself
with working, or drawing, or writing letters. Those innocent little
falsehoods never deceived us for a moment; but there is something
infinitely pathetic in a girl's attempts to hide a wounded heart. I
used to go about looking for other girls who had suffered or were
suffering in the same way—I had such a longing to speak tender words to
them and comfort them, for May's sake."
I held out my hand, and pressed hers in silence. How they put us to
shame, these women, with their strong, natural affections and wide
sympathies! I had never rightly understood the character of Charlotte
Newton before.
"Then we came here," she continued, "and instead of getting better, May
grew worse. We thought it would be best for her to leave Longbeach,
but she was not strong enough to bear the uprooting. We are not rich,
Horace, but we have more money now than we have ever had in our lives;
and yet it seemed that this happy change in our fortunes did no good
to May. Poor darling! She pretended to be pleased with our new home!
She tried to help us in arranging the books and furniture, and fell ill
before half of the work was done."
"But she is better, Charlotte? You said she was better," I cried. "Is
not the danger past?"
"Thank God, yes; I believe it is. And now, Horace, I am going to tell
you something very strange."
Charlotte paused, and drew a long breath; and the bees hummed loudly in
the stillness. It had cost her a painful effort to speak calmly, and
she had to wipe away her tears before she spoke again.
"At five o'clock, yesterday afternoon, I brought a cup of cocoa to
May, and said that her eyes were heavy with sleep. She was sitting in
an armchair by the open window; the day was very sultry and still, and
she seemed to pine greatly for a breath of cool air. After drinking the
cocoa, she leaned back upon the pillows of her chair, and looked out
dreamily on the flower-bed.
"'I think I shall go to sleep, Charlotte,' she said. 'I can sleep
better here than in my bed.'
"'But the evening is coming, dear; it will be chill presently by the
open window,' I replied.
"'Don't shut it,' she pleaded, taking up her white woollen shawl, and
wrapping it loosely round her head and shoulders. 'I shan't be cold
now; and I like to doze in this chair.'
"I would not thwart her, and in a few moments I saw her eyes close.
Then I sat reading while she slumbered, glancing up from my book now
and again to look at her dear face. The light faded; the air grew chill
as the sun went down, and I could see that a mist was rising; but May's
sleep was so profound that I did not like to run the risk of rousing
her, and the window was left open. I could not shut it without noise,
and I knew that sleep was the best of all tonics for our invalid.
"At length she stirred uneasily, and some broken murmurs fell from
her lips. I drew nearer, Horace, and heard your name. Poor child, I
knew how often her spirit was with you in dreams, and I rose and stood
bending over the chair, half disposed to wake her gently. But in an
instant, her face changed; the look of pain was gone; she smiled (still
with eyes fast closed), and drew a long peaceful breath. A few seconds
more and she woke, still smiling, and clasped my hands in hers.
"'Where am I, Charlotte?' she said. 'Still in this room? How strange! I
must have travelled a long way in my sleep.'
"'You have been dreaming, dear,' I answered."
[Illustration: AN OLD-FASHIONED CHRISTMAS.]
"'It was a most vivid dream. Let me tell you about it,' she went on.
'You must listen, Charlotte, and remember all that I say. I thought
that in some inexplicable way I had received warning of a danger that
threatened Horace. I knew not what the danger was; I only knew that
I was made aware of it that I might save him. And then the air grew
cool and damp; I was out in the gloaming, with only this shawl wrapped
round my head, and found myself standing on the platform of the railway
station at Longbeach. The down train was coming in. I heard the roar
and saw the red signal lights, and as it crawled into the station, I
caught sight of Horace looking out of a carriage window. In a second,
I was at the door of that carriage, beckoning and praying him, by
gesture, to get out. His face lit up, he obeyed me, and sprang upon the
platform. I had saved him; the danger was escaped—and I woke.'
"It was impossible for me to treat May's dream as lightly as, perhaps,
I ought to have done. I saw that it had upon her a most happy
influence. She passed a good night afterwards, and awoke this morning
refreshed and strengthened.
"'I think I shall soon see him,' she said; and I could not help sharing
her hope.
"Oh, Horace, how thankful I am that this hope was not mere delusion! I
believe that your coming will save her life."
"She has saved mine," I said, gravely. "As I live, it was the sight of
her face on the platform that made me get out of that doomed train. I
saw her, pale and eager, beckoning to me; she wore the white woollen
shawl folded round her head, and vanished as I left the station."
"What can we say about these things?" said Charlotte, in a thoughtful
tone. "We laugh at them and try to explain them away, and sometimes
refuse to hear of them at all. Yet, once or twice, perhaps, in a
lifetime, some case of this kind is forced upon our notice. Spirit
flies to spirit, unhindered by time or space, untrammelled by the
bodily frame. Only He who gave the soul knows what that soul can do."
My story is nearly ended now. After a little more talk with Charlotte,
I was permitted to see May once more. You do not wish me to describe
that meeting; you have yourselves loved and parted, and met again, and
you can realise the blessedness of our reunion without any words of
mine.
The firm of Marford and Knox are prospering greatly, I believe, but I
have nothing to do with their business nowadays. Very soon after my
reconciliation with May, my uncle died, and I became, as you are aware,
a richer man than I ever expected to be. You will come and stay with us
in our home at Richmond? My wife has got back all her old brightness,
and wants to welcome my friends. But when you get on confidential terms
with her, don't say anything about her dream.
THE END.
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