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 walked in—Helena Gracedieu.
She explained her object in calling on me, with the exasperating composure which was peculiarly her own. No parallel to it occurs to me in my official experience of shameless women.
“I don’t wish to speak of what happened yesterday, so far as I know anything about it,” she began. “It is quite enough for me that you have been obliged to leave the house and to take refuge in this hotel. I have come to say a word about the future. Are you honoring me with your attention?”
I signed to her to go on. If I had answered in words, I should have told her to leave the room.
“At first,” she resumed, “I thought of writing; but it occurred to me that you might keep my letter, and show it to Philip, by way of lowering me in his good opinion, as you have lowered me in the good opinion of his father. My object in coming here is to give you a word of warning. If you attempt to make mischief next between Philip and myself, I shall hear of it—and you know what to expect, when you have me for an enemy. It is not worth while to say any more. We understand each other, I hope?”
She was determined to have a reply—and she got it.
“Not quite yet,” I said. “I have been hitherto, as becomes a gentleman, always mindful of a woman’s claims to forbearance. You will do well not to tempt me into forgetting that you are a woman, by prolonging your visit. Now, Miss Helena Gracedieu, we understand each other.” She made me a low curtsey, and answered in her finest tone of irony: “I only desire to wish you a pleasant journey home.”