A young man's story
Edition opening
Contents and reading sections
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.
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.