"Not you, Mr. Mainwaring! Not you!" I sobbed out. "You, who knew
him, and knew that dishonor was not in him! Let me think that one,
at least, believes in my dead love. Would to God, for my sake, it
were as people think, so that I might some day see him again."
The kind old friend raised me.
"No," he said; "I don't believe it. I have known him from a boy, and
I knew his father before him. They lie who say Walter Linton could
have done such a thing. But it is all very, very dreadful."
Mr. Mainwaring slept at Draycot Hall that night, but I could not
bring myself to spend the evening in his company. We could but think
or speak of one subject, and I felt I had no right to inflict my
grief upon him. I should be better alone. I watched the children
sink to sleep, and for some hours sat by their little white beds
listening to their regular breathing. Then I kissed them all gently
and very quickly, lest my hot tears, falling on their upturned faces,
should awake them; and, near midnight, retired to what with me would
wrongly be called rest. I locked the door of my room, undressed
myself, and sat in my dressing-gown over the fire, for the night
being damp and cold, my good maid had kindled a fire for me.
And there I sat, not seeking rest. I knew that sleep and I must be
strangers for hours; that not until my strength was quite worn out
would sad thoughts cease and change to sadder dreams; not till at
last, from sheer fatigue they fell, would weary eyelids curtain
tearful eyes. And so I sat, till slowly died the fire, and morning
air stole chilly through the room--thinking of all the joy and
sweetness of life so lately promised, all it gave me now. It seemed
so hard to lose the one I loved--lost, as it were, in darkest night,
with none to say where he had wandered.
"Oh!" I cried, "if I could see you once and say farewell, although
your words came but from dying lips! I should not grieve so much,
and for the sake of children dear to both might live, and even not go
mad."
The wind had risen with the night, and gusts now and again bore heavy
rain that beat against my window; whilst the tall trees round moaned
as the gale went tearing through their boughs. The world seemed full
of dismal sounds and grief, and I the saddest in the world. At last
sleep conquered sorrow, so I threw myself down on the bed and slept.
How long it was I slept I can not tell, for all the while I seemed
awake and seeing fearful sights. Cruel voices whispered words that
stabbed my heart, so that in dreams I longed for wakefulness. Then I
awoke and heard the wind and rain, louder and fiercer, whilst the
room looked strange as morning dawned in cheerless gray, and crept in
through the half turned blind.
I felt dazed. For a moment I could scarcely realize where I was, or
quite recall what had happened. I even turned, from force of habit,
to see if Walter, who should be by my side, was also awake. Then, as
I saw the vacant pillow by mine, all came back to me--came back with
such a reflux of sorrow that, in my despair, I threw out my arms, and
sobbing bitterly, called on the one who could not hear me. My right
hand lay as it had fallen, outside the coverlid, and, in a minute, I
almost shrieked with horror and alarm; for I felt another hand seek
it, touch it; and I experienced the sensation of fingers closing
round my own. Hastily I tore my hand away from that clasp--if what
held without restraining, made itself distinctly felt without
offering resistance, can be called a clasp--and sprang from the bed.
Courageous as I am by nature, I trembled like a leaf, and had it been
dark when that unknown hand sought mine, my horror must have vented
itself in screams. But the room was nearly light; so in a few
moments I conquered that overpowering fright and looked around for
the intruder. I peered into every nook in which one might possibly
hide, but detected no one. The door was as firmly locked as I left
it. I was alone, for no one could have entered either by door or
window. Then I sat down and reasoned with myself on my folly. It
was fancy from a mind upset and overwrought with grief. It was the
lingering impression left by one of those dreams--those dreadful
dreams which sleep had brought me! It was a pure delusion, a
creation of my own, and I wondered if, as I feared at times, I was
going out of my senses. Although I was able to persuade myself that
this reasoning was correct, I dared not return to my bed, but,
sitting once more in my chair, longed for broad daylight.
My thoughts soon wandered away from my recent fright, and took that
path which they always followed. My arm dropped to my side, and my
fingers relaxed themselves. And then, once more I felt that hand
creep to mine, take it, and hold it. Again I felt the unmistakable
sensation of fingers that closed round mine. I felt that there was
no hand in mine that my hand could clasp in return, but the sensation
of a palm against my palm--fingers twining my fingers--was
indisputable. The sensation of pressure was there--faintly, it is
true, but it was there. It was no fancy, no dream, this time.
Whether mortal or not, a hand, or the semblance of a hand, was
holding mine. Again the horror overcame me--again I strove to tear
my hand away from this invisible clasp. My blood curdled as I found
the result of my efforts failed on this second occasion--found that
the fingers which fastened on my own could not be shaken off, do what
I would. As I moved my hand, even so the hand that held it moved
with it. If I clinched my own, I could yet feel the strange pressure
of those unseen fingers. If I grasped my right hand in my left,
there was still the sensation of another hand between my own. Do
what I would, move how I would, that clasp, or phantom of a clasp,
was ever on my hand. Yet I struggled with fear until the awful
thought flashed through my brain that this was the aura, the
forerunner of paralysis or epilepsy. Then I could bear it no longer.
Whether that grasp was the result of bodily or mental ailment, I
could bear it no longer--I felt my mind was going. I rushed to the
door, tore it open, and my screams rang through the house. Remember,
I was but a woman, and alone.
As the sound of hurrying feet drew near, that hand or hand-clasp
lying on my own quitted it. Then, as the strange sensation ceased,
did I hear a mournful sound, like a sigh, or was it only the wind
outside? Did the phantom fingers draw themselves away from mine
soothingly, even, it seemed, reluctantly, or was that fancy too? As
the servants with frightened looks drew near me, could that wild and
joyful thought that flashed through my brain be more than the thought
of a madwoman? What could it mean?
Except for this I was myself again. I had been frightened, I told
all who came to me--frightened by dreams, by shadows, by solitude,
and my own thoughts. No one wondered at it; what flesh and blood
could stand, unmoved, the anxiety I had borne during the last week?
I was over-wrought and suffering from sleeplessness, so Mr.
Mainwaring insisted upon giving me an opiate. I swallowed it
reluctantly, and my maid sat with me, until, in due time, dull sleep
told of the potency and efficacy of the drug which I had been made to
take.
This artificial sleep lasted without a break until late in the
afternoon. Then I awoke refreshed, and in full possession of my
senses. I arose and prayed, as I had never prayed before, that my
hand might again feel that unseen touch which had nearly driven me
mad in the night. "Will it come again? O, let it come again!" was
the constant cry of my heart; and I longed ardently for the night,
which, perhaps, might bring that hand seeking my own again. For
incredible as it seems, I knew, when those fingers last left mine,
that love had in part conquered death--that Walter had been with me.
Now I feared nothing. Why should I fear? He had loved me living--he
loved me now. Whether he came to me in body or in spirit, should he
not be welcome? Oh, that he might come again!
And he came again. Mr. Mainwaring, who would not leave Draycot that
day on account of the apparently strange state of my health, that
evening insisted upon my taking a turn in the garden. I obeyed him,
although every plant, every blossom around, seemed breathing sadness.
I was too tired to walk for longer than a few minutes, but sat on my
favorite seat, and watched the sun sink behind the hills. Even then
and there--in broad daylight--I felt his hand seek my own, and my
heart leaped with joy. I shunned or strove to avoid it no longer. I
let my hand lie still, and again I felt the touch, or the spirit of
the touch, of the one I loved. So naturally those fingers closed
round mine; so familiar seemed that clasp to me, that could I have
forgotten the last week, I might have closed my eyes, and, lying
there with my hand in his, have thought I had only to open them to
happiness once more. If I could but forget!
Even if I had not known in whose hand mine was resting, the caress
those fingers gave me would have told me. I wondered why I feared
and repulsed them at first. If only I could sometimes sit as I sat
then, and know and feel that Walter was beside me, I thought that
life might even be happy. So I turned my head toward him, and said,
softly--so softly:
"Dearest love, you will come often and often, will you not? You will
be always with me; then I shall not be unhappy."
He answered not, but I felt a change in the clasp of his hand, and I
pondered as to what its meaning could be. Then I fancied that
faintly, very faintly, that touch was endeavoring to make me
understand something which my grosser earthly faculties failed to
grasp--to direct, to lead me somewhere for some purpose. For it left
me and came again, left and came again, till at last I learned its
meaning.
Then and there I rose. "I come, my love," I said. And once more
Walter Linton and his wife walked, as they had walked many a time
before, hand-in-hand down the broad garden path; past the rustic
lodge, covered with rosebuds and woodbine; through the gateway; out
into the high road. I feared nothing: the hand of the one I loved
was in mine, and guiding me whither he chose; moreover it was yet
daylight, and I was not dreaming.
I even knew that Mr. Mainwaring followed us as we walked down the
path. I saw him come to my side and look at me with wonder. I
wanted no one to be near my husband and myself, so I waved him back
imperiously. "Follow if you like," I said, "but do not speak to us."
Perhaps he thought I was mad, perhaps that I was walking in my sleep,
and, if so, feared to awake me. Any way, he followed us silently,
and that was all I knew or cared about him, or about anything else.
For were not my love and I walking, once more, hand-in-hand, and it
was not in a dream?
Along and along the road, each side of which is beautiful with its
green banks and hedges, and every inch of which we know, even keeping
to that side we always choose because the flowers grow thickest
there. How fresh and green everything looks this evening! The
swallows are flying here and there. Every blade of grass is washed
clean from dust by the heavy rain of the morning. No. I am not
dreaming. I am walking with my husband. A nightingale breaks Into
song near us, as we walk. We stop--who could help stopping to
listen? Now its melody ceases, and Walter leads me on. It is like
in the old days when we were first wed; before we thought or wished
for more wealth. Those days when all the country round was fresh and
new to me. Never did the wild-flowers, I think, look gayer than they
look this evening, although they are closing fast. I would stop, my
darling, and gather a bunch for the children; but they have so many
flowers at home, and I fear to loose your hand for a moment.
Besides, you wish to lead me further yet; we have somewhere to go to
this evening. I forget whither it was you told me, Walter. Is it to
the lily-pond, to see if we can find any snow-white cups floating,
buoyed up by the broad green leaves? Is it to climb the hill that
lies in front of us, and see the very last of the glorious sun; to
catch the crimson sparkle of its rays on the distant windows of our
dear home? That sun which will rise to-morrow, and waken us both so
early--for you will never leave me again, Walter--promise me, my
darling--I have been so unhappy. Is it further yet? To the ruins of
the gray old abbey where the poet's ivy grows so freely? Shall we
wait there, as once before, and see the full moon shine through the
rose of the east windows? Shall we wander arm-in-arm through the dim
glades, laughing at the foolish monks who chose to live and die
there, knowing not love, nor the sweetness of life when two share its
joys and troubles? But our troubles are over now, are they not,
dearest? No matter, lead me whither you will: I care not--you are
with me, your hand is in mine, and I am happy. But wherever we go,
we will walk back by moonlight, and then creep up quietly and kiss
the children just once before we go to bed. To-morrow we will wake
and love again. No, I am not dreaming. But why do you not speak to
me and tell me where you have been--why you left me so long? Oh, how
I have wept and waited for you! Dearest, you will never leave me
again?
This is the spot you wished to lead me to--the place where the ferns
grow? Ah, you remembered what I wanted. Are there any of that sort
up there? Let us go and see, although the day is flying fast.
Through the hazel bushes--deep, deep into the underwood--on and
on--up and up--brambles and stones! I did not know it was so steep
here. Hold my hand firmer and help me. More bushes, more
undergrowth; and how the twilight fades! My darling, we shall find
no ferns to-night. May we not go back and come again to-morrow? Yet
on, and on! Love, where you lead I follow and fear not! Is not your
hand in mine, and you will never leave me again! Still on! My
darling, you have brought me to the very edge of a rock! Don't leave
me here! Don't draw your hand from mine! Stay one minute--one
moment longer! I can not see you; it is dark and cold! I can not
feel you, and the world seems filling again with grief. Come back!
Come back! Walter! Walter!
They told me I dreamed it--that I walked in my sleep. Clever and
learned men said so, and I am only a woman, neither clever nor
learned. Mr. Mainwaring, who had with great difficulty followed
us--for I say "us," in spite of all that wisdom can urge--found me
lying lifeless at the brink of the rocky depth to which Walter had
led me, and where he had left me. Down below me lay something that
I, thank God, never saw. They bore it home and told me it was all
that was left of Walter Linton, my husband. But I knew better, for
had he not that evening walked hand-in-hand with me for miles? They
told me, also, that he had fallen from the top of the rock--that it
was not a great height, but high enough for the fall to kill him
instantaneously--that most likely he was led to that fatal place,
seeking some rare plant; as a root and withered leaves were clenched
in his hand--that the notes he had placed in his pocket when he left
his home were still there--that Draycot was still mine and his
children's. But they believe me not when I tell them that my love,
my husband, through the power of the love he bore me, could come from
the dead--could take my hand In his and lead me with him, on and on,
till he showed me where and how he died--till he saved those he loved
from utter ruin and a life of penury--till, more than all, he cleared
his own dear memory from stain and dishonor. Yet these things were!