A young man's story
Date: 2026-02-27T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Short stories; Supernatural -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; England -- Juvenile fiction; Betrothal -- Juvenile fiction

The Project Gutenberg eBook of A young man's story

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

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

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78060

*** 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.

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."

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.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A YOUNG MAN'S STORY ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg

Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516, Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

- A YOUNG MAN'S STORY.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE