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!
THRAWN JANET
BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
Robert Louis Balfour Stevenson was born in Edinburgh in 1850. He was graduated at Cambridge and studied law, which he abandoned for literature. In 1889 he settled in Samoa, where he died in 1894. He is the author of numerous essays, a delightful volume of poems called "A Child's Garden of Verses," and many stories. Stevenson's books include: "Treasure Island"; "Kidnapped" and its sequel, "David Balfour"; "The Black Arrow"; "Prince Otto"; "The Silverado Squatters"; "New Arabian Nights"; "Island Nights' Entertainments"; "The Master of Ballantrae"; "An Inland Voyage"; "Travels with a Donkey," and "The Ebb-Tide."