"I have an impression, Halifax, that in the future a spirit will haunt Raymond Towers. Nothing will induce Maggie to stay in her grave when I am living close to her. Do you believe in ghosts?"
I retorted briefly. There was nothing whatever for it but to soothe the poor fellow. If he were not insane at present, he was evidently on the borderland.
When he became a little more reasonable I tried to show him how more than absurd his different arrangements were.
"You think you are showing respect for your poor wife's memory by all this sort of thing," I said. "But you are greatly mistaken—people will pity her and think that grief for her loss has turned your brain."
"It has not done that," he said, with a sort of jerk of his shoulders. "I am all right as far as my brain is concerned, and if you think, Halifax, that I care that"—snapping his fingers with a loud click as he spoke—"for what anyone thinks of me, you are finely mistaken. Maggie is dead, but her spirit lives. All the future of my life will be devoted to pleasing that poor wandering ghost, until—until I meet her and clasp her again."
There was an exalted sort of look about his face. I saw it was hopeless to argue with him. There was nothing whatever for it but to humour him and let this ghastly travesty of woe take its course.
Once again that night I saw Grey. He was sitting in the drawing-room of the inn, filling in the death certificate.
The usual details were rapidly entered, but when he came to the clause which obliged him to certify the fact of death having taken place, he had recourse to words provided in the certificate for medical men who had not seen the dead body.
"I regret beyond words," I said, "that you did not see Mrs. Raymond after death. You are unable to state as an eye-witness that you saw her. For my part I should be glad to see the present law altered. I would make it compulsory that no doctor should sign a death certificate without having first seen the dead body."
"That would be well in most cases," answered Grey, "but there are exceptions, and legitimate ones, as in this case. You may remember that I did express a wish to see the body, but was prevented by Mr. Raymond's extraordinary behaviour."
"Well, it cannot be helped now," I said. "Poor Mrs. Raymond undoubtedly died from syncope or shock—the said syncope or shock was caused by the railway accident which occurred a few days ago. Were this known a coroner's inquest would have been necessary. We must be careful to say nothing about it, however, for it would give her husband intense pain, which is for every reason to be avoided."
"Certainly," said Grey.
"By the way," I asked, "did the nurse, who must have arrived from London yesterday morning, see the body?"
"No; Raymond would not allow her near the room. Of course, Mrs. McAllister, the nurse from here, was obliged to perform the last duties to the dead, and the undertaker's men had to measure her for the coffin, or rather shell; but no one else has seen her, Halifax, except her wretched husband. I am told that he put her into the coffin himself and screwed the lid down with his own hands."
I turned away. I had nothing further to add, and soon afterwards retired to my room.
I had scarcely dropped asleep, or so it seemed to me, before I was awakened by strange sounds in the room next to my own. I started and listened attentively. I suddenly remembered that Mrs. Raymond was lying in her coffin in this room.
Pretty, bright Maggie Raymond! I recalled her face as it was when I first saw it. A more innocent and a happier face it would have been difficult to find, but even then I was attracted by something peculiar in her eyes—they were beautiful; but it was not their beauty which arrested my professional interest. Two days ago I saw her for the last time—she sat up in bed and played with her soft hair. Then the mystery which dwelt in her lovely eyes was solved. It was latent insanity which gave her that peculiar expression. This insanity had been rudely awakened into active life by the shock of the railway accident.
Well, now, all was over. A short life had come to an abrupt termination. There was no use worrying about Maggie—she had gone to join the majority. Nothing of life could affect her again. My real anxiety now, my real regret, was for poor Raymond. Through the long hours of the night I heard him walking up and down the room which contained his wife's coffin. Now and then I heard his groans, and once, good God! I listened to his laughter. That laugh sent a thrill of horror through me. Was his case similar to his wife's? Was he, too, fast becoming insane? I turned over in my mind several plans for helping him, and in the midst of my meditations fell asleep again.
At a very early hour we were all stirring,
