Turning back into the room, he laid the folded sheet of paper on the table. That done, he spoke to me.
“I distrust my own weakness,” he said. “A dreadful necessity confronts me—I might shrink from the horrid idea, and, if I could open the door, might try to get away. Escape is impossible now. We are prisoners together. But don’t suppose that we are alone. There is a third person present, who will judge between you and me. Look there!”
He pointed solemnly to the portrait of his wife. It was a small picture, very simply framed; representing the face in a “three-quarter” view, and part of the figure only. As a work of art it was contemptible; but, as a likeness, it answered its purpose. My unhappy friend stood before it, in an attitude of dejection, covering his face with his hands.
In the interval of silence that followed, I was reminded that an unseen friend was keeping watch outside.
Alarmed by having heard the key turned in the lock, and realizing the embarrassment of the position in which I was placed, the doctor had discovered a discreet way of communicating with me. He slipped one of his visiting-cards under the door, with these words written on it: “How can I help you?”
I took the pencil from my pocketbook, and wrote on the blank side of the card: “He has thrown the key into the garden; look for it under the window.” A glance at the Minister, before I returned my reply, showed that his attitude was unchanged. Without being seen or suspected, I, in my turn, slipped the card under the door.
The slow minutes followed each other—and still nothing happened.
My anxiety to see how the doctor’s search for the key was succeeding, tempted me to approach the window. On my way to it, the tail of my coat threw down a little tray containing pens and pencils, which had been left close to the edge of the table. Slight as the noise of the fall was, it disturbed Mr. Gracedieu. He looked round vacantly.
“I have been comforted by prayer,” he told me. “The weakness of poor humanity has found strength in the Lord.” He pointed to the portrait once more: “My hands must not presume to touch it, while I am still in doubt. Take it down.”
I removed the picture and placed it, by his directions, on a chair that stood midway between us. To my surprise his tones faltered; I saw tears rising in his eyes. “You may think you see a picture there,” he said. “You are wrong. You see my wife herself. Stand here, and look at my wife with me.”