“I said he was no drunkard, nor at all in the habit of drinking.”
“Habits grow, we know not how,” cried the old man, irritably. “Does he take it every day?”
“I suppose so. Most military men do.”
Mr. Johnston turned sharp upon me.
“I must have no modifications, Doctor Urquhart. Can you declare positively that you never saw Captain Treherne the worse for liquor?”
To answer this question directly was impossible. I tried to remove the impression I had unfortunately given, and which the old man had taken up so unexpectedly and fiercely, by enlarging on the brave manner in which Treherne had withstood many a lure to evil ways.
“You cannot deceive me, sir. I must have the truth.”
I was on the point of telling him to seek it from Treherne himself, when, remembering the irritation of the old man, and the hotheaded imprudence of the young one, I thought it would be safer to bear the brunt myself.
I informed Mr. Johnston of the two only instances when I had seen Treherne not himself. Once after twenty-four hours in the trenches, when unlimited brandy could hardly keep life in our poor fellows, and again when Miss Lisabel herself must be his excuse.
“Lisabel? Do not name her. Sir, I would rather see a daughter of mine in her grave, than the wife of a drunkard.”