The next day (the twenty-ninth of February) was the day of the “Silver
Wedding.”  The first thing in the morning, I went to Francis Raven’s room. 
Rigobert met me at the door.

“How has he passed the night?” I asked.

“Saying his prayers, and looking for ghosts,” Rigobert answered.  “A lunatic asylum is the only proper place for him.”

I approached the bedside.  “Well, Francis, here you are, safe and sound, in spite of what you said to me last night.”

His eyes rested on mine with a vacant, wondering look.

“I don’t understand it,” he said.

“Did you see anything of your wife when the clock struck two?”

“No, sir.”

“Did anything happen?”

“Nothing happened, sir.”

“Doesn’t this satisfy you that you were wrong?”

His eyes still kept their vacant, wondering look.  He only repeated the words he had spoken already:  “I don’t understand it.”

I made a last attempt to cheer him.  “Come, come, Francis! keep a good heart.  You will be out of bed in a fortnight.”

He shook his head on the pillow.  “There’s something wrong,” he said.  “I don’t expect you to believe me, sir.  I only say there’s something wrong—­and time will show it.”

I left the room.  Half an hour later I started for Mr. Beldheimer’s house; leaving the arrangements for the morning of the first of March in the hands of the doctor and my wife.

XVI

The one thing which principally struck me when I joined the guests at the “Silver Wedding” is also the one thing which it is necessary to mention here.  On this joyful occasion a noticeable lady present was out of spirits.  That lady was no other than the heroine of the festival, the mistress of the house!

In the course of the evening I spoke to Mr. Beldheimer’s eldest son on the subject of his mother.  As an old friend of the family, I had a claim on his confidence which the young man willingly recognized.

“We have had a very disagreeable matter to deal with,” he said; “and my mother has not recovered the painful impression left on her mind.  Many years since, when my sisters were children, we had an English governess in the house.  She left us, as we then understood, to be married.  We heard no more of her until a week or ten days since, when my mother received a letter, in which our ex-governess described herself as being in a condition of great poverty and distress.  After much hesitation she had ventured—­at the suggestion of a lady who had been kind to her—­to write to her former employers, and to appeal to their remembrance of old times.  You know my mother:  she is not only the most kind-hearted, but the most innocent of women—­it is impossible to persuade her of the wickedness that there is in the world.  She replied by return of post, inviting the governess to come here and see her, and inclosing the money for