As she spoke, her anger began to take hold of her, and her voice fell to a lower pitch, growing concentrated and cruel.
“You’re unjust, though you don’t mean to be,” said John. “But, as I said, it’s very important that you should recognize the truth. All sorts of things have happened to me, and many people will say that I had been drinking. And now that it’s over I want you to establish the fact that I have not. It’s quite natural that you should think as you do, of course. But—”
“I’m glad you admit that, at least,” interrupted Mrs. Ralston. “Nothing you can possibly say or do can convince me that you’ve been sober. You may be now—you’re such a curiously organized man. But you’ve not been all day.”
“Mother, I swear to you that I have!”
“Stop, John!” cried Mrs. Ralston, crossing the room suddenly and standing before him. “I won’t let you—you shan’t! We’ve not all been good in the family, but we’ve told the truth. If you were sober you wouldn’t—”
John Ralston was accustomed to be believed when he made a statement, even if he did not swear to it. His virtues were not many, and were not very serviceable, on the whole; but he was a truthful man, and his anger rose, even against his own mother, when he saw that she refused to believe him. He forgot his bruises and his mortal weariness, and sprang to his feet before her. Their eyes met steadily, as he spoke.
“I give you my sacred word of honour, mother.”
He saw a startled look come into his mother’s eyes, and they seemed to waver for a moment and then grow steady again. Then, without warning, she turned from him once more, and went and seated herself in a small arm-chair by the fire. She sat with her elbow resting on her knee, while her hand supported her chin, and she stared at the smouldering embers as though in deep thought.
Her principal belief was in the code of honour, and in the absolute sanctity of everything connected with it, and she had brought up her son in that belief, and in the practice of what it meant. He did not give his word lightly. She did not at that moment recall any occasion upon which he had given it in her hearing, and she knew what value he set upon it.
The evidence of her senses, on the other hand, was strong, and that of her reason was stronger still. It did not seem conceivable that he could be telling the truth. It was not possible that as his sober, natural self he should have got into the condition in which he had been brought home to her. But it was quite within the bounds of possibility, she thought, that he should have succeeded in steadying himself so far as to be able to speak connectedly. In that case he had lied to her, when he had given his word of honour, a moment ago.