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.

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."