A young man's story
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