A young man's story
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."
"'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.