Mrs. Ralston felt as though she must stop her ears to keep out the sound of the next words. Yet she knew that she must hear them before it was all over. “You’ll injure yourself,” said Doctor Routh, completing his sentence very slowly and thoughtfully.
“That’s of no consequence,” answered John. “What I want to know is, whether I have been drinking or not. Yes or no?”
“Drinking?” Doctor Routh laughed contemptuously. “You know as well as I do that you haven’t had a drop of anything like drink all day. But you’ve had nothing to eat, either, for some reason or other—and starvation’s a precious deal worse than drinking any day. Drinking be damned! You’re starving—that’s what’s the matter with you. Excuse me, Mrs. Ralston, forgot you were there—”
Mrs. Ralston had heard every word. Her hands dropped together inertly upon the mantelpiece, and she turned her head slowly toward the two men. Her face had a dazed expression, as though she were waking from a dream.
“Never mind the starvation, doctor,” said John, with a hard laugh. “There’s a Bible somewhere in the room. Perhaps you won’t mind swearing on it that I’m sober—before my mother, please.”
“I shouldn’t think any sane person would need any swearing to convince them!” Doctor Routh seemed to be growing suddenly angry. “You’ve been badly knocked about, and you’ve been starving yourself for days—or weeks, very likely. You’ve had a concussion of the brain that would have laid up most people for a week, and would have killed some that I know. You’re as thin as razor edges all over—there’s nothing to you but bone and muscle and nerve. You ought to be fed and put to bed and looked after, and then you ought to be sent out West to drive cattle, or go to sea before the mast for two or three years. Your lungs are your weak point. That’s apt to be the trouble with thoroughbreds in this country. Oh—they’re sound enough—enough for the present, but you can’t go on like this. You’ll give out when you don’t expect it. Drinking? No! I should think a little whiskey and water would do you good!”
While he was speaking, Mrs. Ralston came slowly forward, listening to every word he said, in wide-eyed wonder. At last she laid her hand upon his arm. He felt the slight pressure and looked down into her eyes.
“Doctor Routh—on your word of honour?” she asked in a low voice.
John laughed very bitterly, rose from his chair, and crossed the room. The old man’s eyes flashed suddenly, and he drew himself up.
“My dear Mrs. Ralston, I don’t know what has happened to you, nor what you have got into your head. But if you’re not satisfied that I’m enough of a doctor to tell whether a man is drunk or sober, send for some one in whom you’ve more confidence. I’m not used to going about swearing my professional opinion on Bibles and things, nor to giving my word of honour that I’m in earnest when I’ve said what I think about a patient. But I’ll tell you—if I had fifty words of honour and the whole Bible House to swear on—well, I’ll say more—if it were a case of a trial, I’d give my solemn evidence in court that Master John Ralston has had nothing to drink. Upon my word, Mrs. Ralston! Talk of making mountains of mole-hills! You’re making a dozen Himalayas out of nothing at all, it seems to me. Your boy’s starving, Mrs. Ralston, and I daresay he takes too much champagne and too many cocktails occasionally. But he’s not been doing it to-day, nor yesterday, nor the day before. That is my opinion as a doctor. Want my word of honour and the Bible again? Go to bed! Getting your old friend away from his books and his pipe and his fire at this hour, on such a night as this! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, young lady! Well—if I’ve done you any good, I’m not sorry—but don’t do it again. Good night—and get that young fellow out of this as soon as you can. He’s not fit for this sort of life, anyhow. Don’t take thoroughbreds for cart horses—they stand it for a bit, and then they go crack! Good night—no, I know my way all right—don’t come down.”