My nerve inspired the old man. He rushed away eagerly, and I hovered in a fever of impatience between the study door and the open coffin. All would be lost, indeed, if Raymond awoke now. He did not stir, however, and I owned to myself that my fears made me unduly anxious.
After a time, which seemed an eternity, Jasper returned with the blanket.
I wrapped it tenderly round the sleeping girl's slender form, lifted her in my arms, and carried her upstairs. She was placed in a warm bed, restoratives of different kinds were immediately applied, and in about a quarter of an hour she opened her eyes and smiled at me.
She recognised me immediately, and asked where she was.
"In bed," I said. "You are going to have this cup of beef-tea, and then you are to have another sleep. You have been ill, but are much better."
"I don't remember anything," she said, in a drowsy tone; "but I want Will. Where is he?"
"He shall come to you very soon; now go to sleep."
I sat by her until she fell into a gentle, natural slumber, then, motioning Mrs. Adams to take my place by her side, I went downstairs.
Jasper and Berring, whom he had summoned, were both standing by the open coffin. Both men looked dazed, as well they might. Jasper rubbed his hand several times across his eyes.
"Now, look here," I said to them both. "You are immediately to get rid of all that. Every trace of it must be taken away, flowers and all, and the hall restored to its normal condition. Do you hear me? This must be done before Mr. Raymond awakes, and what is more, as you value your master's life and reason, you two men are never to mention the subject of this night to him, or to anyone else in the place. I myself will see Mr. Herbert, the clergyman, in the morning, and you, Berring, can go round and stop all funeral proceedings immediately."
The men promised to do everything that I wished, and I spent the rest of the night between the two rooms where the husband and wife each slept unconscious of the other.
The grey dawn was breaking when Will opened his eyes. He stretched himself at first, looked round him drowsily, and stared at me in some astonishment.
"Why, Halifax, old man," he began.
Then memory returned to him. The poor fellow turned ghastly pale, and put his hand to his brow.
"I forgot for a moment," he began.
"What did you forget?" I answered, cheerfully. "Come up to your wife. She is rather tired after her journey, but is awake now, and has been asking for you incessantly for over an hour."
"But, Halifax, you forget—you must have taken leave of your senses—Maggie is dead—this is the day of her funeral."
"That is not the case," I answered, speaking on purpose in as matter-of-fact a tone as possible. "The state of things is this: Mrs. Raymond's death was assumed far too quickly. You behaved in a very extraordinary way when you allowed no doctor to see her. As matters turned out, she was only having a long sleep. I opened her coffin last night—(for goodness' sake, keep quiet, man—don't excite yourself—it is all right)—I opened her coffin, and found that she was beginning to awake. She is now in bed, doing well, taking nourishment, and asking for you."
Poor Raymond's face was a picture—he staggered for a moment, clutching my shoulder with a grip of iron, but presently he recovered himself. The news was too good not to restore his mental equilibrium.
"Now, look here," I said, "you are all right, and joy need never kill anyone; but remember that your wife knows nothing of this, and if you wish her to keep her reason, she must never know. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, yes, of course I do. But I am stunned. I can't take the thing in. Has my wife really got her reason back?"
"Perfectly."
"Then she doesn't dislike me now?"
"Good heavens, no—she's longing for you to go to her."
"My God, how can I thank Thee?" said poor Raymond. "Halifax, old man, let me pass."
"You are not to go to your wife in that state. Have a bath and a shave, change your things—go quietly into the room, sit by her side and talk commonplaces. There is not the least hurry. She is very calm at the present moment, and you must on no account excite her."
"I'll do anything in the world you tell me, Halifax—how can I thank you?"
"By doing what I say."
These things happened two years ago. Raymond and his wife are the happiest people of my acquaintance. Neither of them have shown a trace of insanity from that day to this, and Mrs. Raymond never knows, nor will, I think, anyone ever tell her, how she came home as a bride to Raymond Towers.
