after as fiercely as ever. 'Go back to the time, sir, when we met in your rooms at the prison. Did you know my wife then?'
'Certainly not.'
'Did you and she see each other—ha! I've got it now—did you see each other after I had left the town? No prevarication! You own to telling Helena that you knew her by her likeness to her mother. You must have seen her mother. Where?'
I made another effort to defend myself. He again refused furiously to hear me. It was useless to persist. Whatever the danger that threatened me might be, the sooner it showed itself the easier I should feel. I told him that Mrs. Gracedieu had called on me, after he and his wife had left the town.
'Do you mean to tell me,' he cried, 'that she came to you?'
'I do.'
After that answer, he no longer required the paper to help him. He threw it from him on the floor.
'And you received her,' he said, 'without inquiring whether I knew of her visit or not? Guilty deception on your part—guilty deception on her part. Oh, the hideous wickedness of it!'
When his mad suspicion that I had been his wife's lover betrayed itself in this way, I made a last attempt, in the face of my own conviction that it was hopeless, to place my conduct and his wife's conduct before him in the true light.
'Mrs. Gracedieu's object was to consult me—' Before I could say the next words, I saw him put his hand into the pocket of his dressing-gown.
'An innocent man,' he sternly declared, 'would have told me that my wife had been to see him—you kept it a secret. An innocent woman would have given me a reason for wishing to go to you—she kept it a secret, when she left my house; she kept it a secret when she came back.'
'Mr. Gracedieu, I insist on being heard! Your wife's motive—'
He drew from his pocket the thing that he had hidden from me. This time, there was no concealment; he let me see that he was opening a razor. It was no time for asserting my innocence; I had to think of preserving my life. When a man is without firearms, what defense can avail against a razor in the hands of a madman? A chair was at my side; it offered the one poor means of guarding myself that I could see. I laid my hand on it, and kept my eye on him.
He paused, looking backward and forward between the picture and me.
'Which of them shall I kill first?' he said to himself. 'The man who was my trusted friend? Or the woman whom I believed to be an angel on earth?' He stopped once more, in a state of fierce self-concentration, debating what he should do. 'The woman,' he decided. 'Wretch! Fiend! Harlot! How I loved her!!!'
With a yell of fury, he pounced on the picture—ripped the canvas out of the frame—and cut it malignantly into fragments. As they dropped from the razor on the floor, he stamped on them, and ground them under his foot. 'Go, wife of my bosom,' he cried, with a dreadful mockery of voice and look—'go, and burn everlastingly in the place of torment!' His eyes glared at me. 'Your turn now,' he said—and rushed at me with his weapon ready in his hand. I hurled the chair at his right arm. The razor dropped on the floor. I caught him by the wrist. Like a wild animal he tried to bite me. With my free hand—if I had known how to defend myself in any other way, I would have taken that way—with my free hand I seized him by the throat; forced him back; and held him against the wall. My grasp on his throat kept him quiet. But the dread of seriously injuring him so completely overcame me, that I forgot I was a prisoner in the room, and was on the point of alarming the household by a cry for help.
I was still struggling to preserve my self-control, when the sound of footsteps broke the silence outside. I heard the key turn in the lock, and saw the doctor at the open door.
CHAPTER XLVI. THE CUMBERSOME LADIES.
I cannot prevail upon myself to dwell at any length on the events that followed.
We secured my unhappy friend, and carried him to his bed. It was necessary to have men in attendance who could perform the duty of watching him. The doctor sent for them, while I went downstairs to make the best I could of the miserable news which it was impossible entirely to conceal. All that I could do to spare Miss Jillgall, I did. I was obliged to acknowledge that there had been an outbreak of violence, and that the portrait of the Minister's wife had been destroyed by the Minister himself. Of Helena's revenge on me I said nothing. It had led to consequences which even her merciless malice could not have contemplated. There were no obstacles in the way of keeping secret the attempt on my life. But I was compelled to own that Mr. Gracedieu had taken a dislike to me, which rendered it necessary that my visit should be brought to an end. I hastened to add that I should go to the hotel, and should wait there until the next day, in the hope of hearing better news.
Of the multitude of questions with which poor Miss Jillgall overwhelmed me—of the wild words of sorrow and alarm that escaped her—of the desperate manner in which she held by my arm, and implored me not to go away, when I must see for myself that 'she was a person entirely destitute of presence of mind'—I shall say nothing. The undeserved suffering that is inflicted on innocent persons by the sins of others demands silent sympathy; and, to that extent at least, I can say that I honestly felt for my quaint and pleasant little friend.
In the evening the doctor called on me at the hotel. The medical treatment of his patient had succeeded in calming the maddened brain under the influence of sleep. If the night passed quietly, better news might be hoped for in the morning.
On the next day I had arranged to drive to the farm, being resolved not to disappoint Eunice. But I shrank from the prospect of having to distress her as I had already distressed Miss Jillgall. The only alternative left was to repeat the sad story in writing, subject to the concealments which I had already observed. This I did, and sent the letter by messenger, overnight, so that Eunice might know when to expect me.
The medical report, in the morning, justified some hope. Mr. Gracedieu had slept well, and there had been no reappearance of insane violence on his waking. But the doctor's opinion was far from encouraging when we spoke of the future. He did not anticipate the cruel necessity of placing the Minister under restraint—unless some new provocation led to a new outbreak. The misfortune to be feared was imbecility.
I was just leaving the hotel to keep my appointment with Eunice, when the waiter announced the arrival of a young lady who wished to speak with me. Before I could ask if she had mentioned her name, the young lady herself
