“Yes,” said the Doctor. “But you’re taking the most desperate risks against health and life.” He leaned forward in his chair, jerked in his legs, and threw out his long white hands. “You’re committing slow suicide.”
“Doctor,” began Mary; but her husband had the floor.
“Doctor,” he said, “can you put yourself in our place? Wouldn’t you rather die than beg? Wouldn’t you?”
The Doctor rose to his feet as straight as a lance.
“It isn’t what you’d rather, sir! You haven’t your choice! You haven’t your choice at all, sir! When God gets ready for you to die he’ll let you know, sir! And you’ve no right to trifle with his mercy in the meanwhile. I’m not a man to teach men to whine after each other for aid; but every principle has its limitations, Mr. Richling. You say you went over the whole subject. Yes; well, didn’t you strike the fact that suicide is an affront to civilization and humanity?”
“Why, Doctor!” cried the other two, rising also. “We’re not going to commit suicide.”
“No,” retorted he, “you’re not. That’s what I came here to tell you. I’m here to prevent it.”
“Doctor,” exclaimed Mary, the big tears standing in her eyes, and the Doctor melting before them like wax, “it’s not so bad as it looks. I wash—some—because it pays so much better than sewing. I find I’m stronger than any one would believe. I’m stronger than I ever was before in my life. I am, indeed. I don’t wash much. And it’s only for the present. We’ll all be laughing at this, some time, together.” She began a small part of the laugh then and there.
“You’ll do it no more,” the Doctor replied. He drew out his pocket-book. “Mr. Richling, will you please send me through the mail, or bring me, your note for fifty dollars,—at your leisure, you know,—payable on demand?” He rummaged an instant in the pocket-book, and extended his hand with a folded bank-note between his thumb and finger. But Richling compressed his lips and shook his head, and the two men stood silently confronting each other. Mary laid her hand upon her husband’s shoulder and leaned against him, with her eyes on the Doctor’s face.
“Come, Richling,”—the Doctor smiled,—“your friend Ristofalo did not treat you in this way.”