and at five o'clock on this winter's morning, in the midst of drizzling rain and fog, we steamed slowly out of the little station, carrying all that was mortal of poor Mrs. Raymond back to her husband's home.
I do not think in my whole life I ever experienced anything longer or more utterly dreary than this journey. We had a saloon carriage to ourselves, in one corner of which the coffin was placed.
I was glad to find that the excitement which had rendered Raymond's conduct so strange the night before was now greatly subdued. He was very quiet, scarcely speaking a word, but now and then laying his big hand with a caressing movement on the lid of the coffin, and now and then looking out of the window and smiling.
I did not like the smile, nor the sort of satisfied expression on his face. Had he been plunged in the deepest woe, I could have understood him. He looked almost happy, however. I saw plainly that he was as much in a world apart from mine as was the dead woman who lay in her coffin.
I wondered how all this was going to end, and my fears with regard to Raymond's mental condition were considerable.
The longest journeys come at last to an end, however, and in the darkness of evening we arrived at a little wayside station three miles distant from Raymond Towers.
Here the station-master and several gentlemen from the neighbourhood met us. They were all dressed in mourning, and I saw that this fact roused poor Raymond's indignation at once.
"I don't want this to be a mournful procession," he said, in a testy tone, to a neighbour who came and with deep feeling shook the poor fellow by the hand. "I am not conventional, and I don't wish anything conventional to be done. Where is my steward? Where is Berring?"
"Here, sir," answered the man, taking off his hat.
"Berring, have you attended to all my orders—bonfires, and all that sort of thing?"
Berring muttered something which no one could quite distinguish. There was a bustle on the platform owing to the removal of the coffin, which was placed on a bier covered with a white velvet cloth. At this moment a touching thing happened—six young girls came forward and laid wreaths of white flowers on the coffin. They were daughters of neighbouring squires. This token of respect touched Raymond, who went up and shook hands with one of them, and fortunately forgot to ask anything more about the bonfires.
I saw the gentlemen who had come to meet him and to offer their hearty sympathy and condolences looking at one another in a very significant manner, and I also saw that the moment had come for me to interfere.
I went up and took my friend firmly by the arm.
"Hands off!"
"Hands off," he said, pushing me from him with some violence. But I would not notice this.
"Come," I said, "your carriage is waiting. Don't make yourself remarkable, I beg of you, Raymond. I am going with you in the carriage. See, they are already moving forward with———"
