On the present occasion John Ralston deserved very much more sympathy than he got from the world at large, which would have found it very hard to believe the truth about his doings on the afternoon and night of Thursday. He was still unconscious when he was carried into the house by the two policemen and deposited upon his own bed. When he opened his eyes, they met his mother’s, staring down upon him with an expression in which grief, fear and disgust were all struggling for the mastery. She was standing by his bedside, bending over him, and rubbing something on his temples from time to time. He was but just conscious that he was at home at last, and that she was with him, and he smiled faintly at her and closed his eyes again.

He had hardly done so, however, when he realized what a look was in her face. He was not really injured in any way, he was perfectly sober, and he was very hungry. As soon as the effect of the last blow began to wear off, his brain worked clearly enough. He understood at once that his mother must suppose him to be intoxicated. It was no wonder if she did, as he knew. He was in a far worse plight now than he had been on Monday afternoon, as far as appearances were concerned. His clothes were drenched with the wet snow, his hat had altogether disappeared in the fight, his head was bruised, and his face was ghastly pale. He kept his eyes shut for a while and tried to recall what had happened last. But it was not at all clear to him why he had been fighting with the man who wore the fur collar and the chain, nor why he had wandered to Tompkins Square. Those were the two facts which recalled themselves most vividly at first, in a quite disconnected fashion. Next came the vision of Robert Lauderdale and the recollection of the violent gesture with which the latter had accidentally knocked John’s hat out of his hand; and after that he recalled the scene at the club. It seemed to him that he had been through a series of violent struggles which had no connection with each other. His head ached terribly and he should have liked to be left in the dark to try and go to sleep. Then, as he lay there, he knew that his mother was still looking at him with that expression in which disgust seemed to him to be uppermost. It flashed across his mind instantly that she must naturally think he had been drinking. But though his memory of what had happened was very imperfect, and though he was dizzy and faint, he knew very well that he was sober, and he realized that he must impress the fact upon his mother at any cost, immediately, both for his own sake and for hers. He opened his eyes once more and looked at her, wondering how his voice would sound when he should speak.

“Mother dear—” he began. Then he paused, watching her face.

But her expression did not unbend. It was quite clear now that she believed the very worst of him, and he wondered whether the mere fact of his speaking connectedly would persuade her that he was telling the truth.

“Don’t try to talk,” she said in a low, hard voice. “I don’t want to know anything about your doings.”

“Mother—I’m perfectly sober,” said John Ralston, quietly. “I want you to listen to me, please, and persuade yourself.”

Mrs. Ralston drew herself up to her full height as she stood beside him. Her even lips curled scornfully, and the lines of temper deepened into soft, straight furrows in her keen face.

“You may be half sober now,” she answered with profound contempt. “You’re so strong—it’s impossible to tell.”

“So you don’t believe me,” said John, who was prepared for her incredulity. “But you must—somehow. My head aches badly, and I can’t talk very well, but I must make you believe me. It’s—it’s very important that you should, mother.”

This time she said nothing. She left the bedside and moved about the room, stopping before the dressing table and mechanically putting the brushes and other small objects quite straight. If she had felt that it were safe to leave him alone she would have left him at once and would have locked herself into her own room. For she was very angry, and she believed that her anger was justified. So long as he had been unconscious, she had felt a certain fear for his safety which made a link with the love she bore him. But, as usual, his iron constitution seemed to have triumphed. She remembered clearly how, on Monday afternoon, he had evidently been the worse for drink when he had entered her room, and yet how, in less than an hour, he had reappeared apparently quite sober. He was very strong, and there was no knowing what he could do. She had forgiven him that once, but it was not in her nature to forgive easily, and she told herself that this time it would be impossible. He had disgraced himself and her.

She continued to turn away from him. He watched her, and saw how desperate the situation was growing. He knew well enough that there would be some talk about him on the morrow and that it would come to Katharine’s ears, in explanation of his absence from the Assembly ball. His mind worked rapidly and energetically now, for it was quite clear to him that he had no time to lose. If he should fall asleep without having persuaded his mother that he was quite himself, he could never, in all his life, succeed in destroying the fatal impression she must carry with her. While she was turning from him he made a great effort, and putting his feet to the ground, sat upon the edge of his bed. His head swam for a moment, but he steadied himself with both hands and faced the light, thinking that the brilliant glare might help him.

“You must believe me, now,” he said, “or you never will. I’ve had rather a bad day of it, and another accident, and a fight with a better man than myself, so that I’m rather battered. But I haven’t been drinking.”

“Look at yourself!” answered Mrs. Ralston, scornfully. “Look at yourself in the glass and see whether you have any chance of convincing me of that. Since you’re not killed, and not injured, I shall leave you to yourself. I hope you won’t talk about it to-morrow. This is the second time within four days. It’s just a little more than I can bear. If you can’t live like a gentleman, you had better go away and live in the way you prefer—somewhere else.”

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.

She tried to look at it fairly, for it was a question quite as grave in her estimation as one of life or death. She would far rather have known him dead than dishonourable, and his honour was arraigned at her tribunal in that moment. Her impulse was to believe him, to go back to him, and kiss him, and ask his forgiveness for having accused him wrongly. But the evidence stood between him and her as a wall of ice. The physical impression of horror and disgust was too strong. The outward tokens were too clear. Even the honesty of his whole life from his childhood could not face and overcome them.

And so he must have lied to her. It was a conviction, and she could not help it. And then she, too, felt that iron hands were tightening a band round her breast, and that she could not bear much more. There was but one small, pitiful excuse for him. In spite of his quiet tones, he might be so far gone as not to know what he was saying when he spoke. It was a forlorn hope, a mere straw, a poor little chance of life for her mother’s love. She knew that life could never be the same again, if she could not believe her son.

The struggle went on in silence. She did not move from her seat nor change her position. Her eyelids scarcely quivered as she gazed steadily at the coals of the dying wood fire. Behind her,

John Ralston slowly paced the room, following the pattern of the carpet, and glancing at her from time to time, unconscious of pain or fatigue, for he knew as well as she herself that his soul was in the balance of her soul’s justice. But the silence was becoming intolerable to him. As for her, she could not have told whether minutes or hours had passed since he had spoken. The trial was going against him, and she almost wished that she might never hear his voice again.

The questions and the arguments and the evidence chased each other through her brain faster and faster, and ever in the same vicious circle, till she was almost distracted, though she sat there quite motionless and outwardly calm. At last she dropped both hands upon her knees; her head fell forward upon her breast, and a short, quick sound, neither a sigh nor a groan, escaped her lips. It was finished. The last argument had failed; the last hope was gone. Her son had disgraced himself—that was little; he had lied on his word of honour—that was greater and worse than death.

“Mother, you’ve always believed me,” said John, standing still behind her and looking down at her bent head.

“Until now,” she answered, in a low, heart-broken voice.

John turned away sharply, and began to pace the floor again with quickening steps. He knew as well as she what it must mean if he did not convince her then and there. In a few hours it would be too late. All sorts of mad and foolish ideas crossed his mind, but he rejected them one after the other. They were all ridiculous before the magnitude of her conviction. He had never seen her as she was now, not even when his father had died. He grew more and more desperate as the minutes passed. If his voice, his manner, his calm asseveration of the truth could not convince her, he asked himself if anything could. And if not, what could convince Katharine to-morrow? His recollections were all coming back vividly to him now. He remembered everything that had happened since the early morning. Strange to say,—and it is a well-known peculiarity of such cases,—he recalled distinctly the circumstances of his fall in the dark, and the absence of all knowledge of the direction he was taking afterwards. He knew, now, how he had wandered for hours in the great city, and he remembered many things he had seen, all of which were perfectly familiar, and each of which, at any other time, would have told him well enough whither he was going. He reconstructed every detail without effort. He even knew that when he had fallen over the heap of building material he had hurt one of his fingers, a fact which he had not noticed at the time. He looked at his hand now to convince himself. The finger was badly scratched, and the nail was torn to the quick.

“Will nothing make you change your mind?” he asked, stopping in the middle of the room. “Will nothing I can do convince you?”

“It would be hard,” answered Mrs. Ralston, shaking her head.

“I’ve done all I can, then,” said John. “There’s nothing more to be said. You believe that I can lie to you and give you my word for a lie. Is that it?”

“Don’t say it, please—it’s bad enough without any more words.” She rested her chin upon her hand once more and stared at the fire.

“There is one thing more,” answered John, suddenly. “I think I can make you believe me still.”

A bitter smile twisted Mrs. Ralston’s even lips, but she did not move nor speak.

“Will you believe the statement of a good doctor on his oath?” asked John, quietly.

Mrs. Ralston looked up at him suddenly. There was a strange expression in her eyes, something like hope, but with a little distrust.

“Yes,” she said, after a moment’s thought. “I would believe that.”

“Most people would,” answered John, with sudden coldness. “Will you send for a doctor? Or shall I go myself?”

“Are you in earnest?” asked Mrs. Ralston, rising slowly from her seat and looking at him.

“I’m in earnest—yes. You seem to be. It’s rather a serious matter to doubt my word of honour—even for my mother.”

Being quite sure of himself, he spoke very bitterly and coldly. The time for appealing to her kindness, her love, or her belief in him was over, and the sense of approaching triumph was thrilling, after the humiliation he had suffered in silence. Mrs. Ralston, strange to say, hesitated.

“It’s very late to send for any one now,” she said.

“Very well; I’ll go myself,” answered John. “The man should come, if it were within five minutes of the Last Judgment. Will you go to your room for a moment, mother, while I dress? I can’t go as I am.”

“No. I’ll send some one.” She stood still, watching his face. “I’ll ring for a messenger,” she said, and left the room.

By this time her conviction was so deep seated that she had many reasons for not letting him leave the house, nor even change his clothes. He was very strong. It was evident, too, that he had completely regained possession of his faculties, and she believed that he was capable, at short notice, of so restoring his appearance as to deceive the keenest doctor. She remembered what had happened on Monday, and resolved that the physician should see him just as he was. It did not strike her, in her experience, that a doctor does not judge such matters as a woman does.

During her brief absence from the room, John was thinking of very different matters. It did not even strike him that he might smooth his hair or wash his soiled and blood-stained hands, and he continued to pace the room under strong excitement.

“Doctor Routh will come, I think,” said Mrs. Ralston, as she came in.

She sat down where she had been sitting before, in the small easy chair before the fire. She leaned back and folded her hands, in the attitude of a person resigned to await events. John merely nodded as she spoke, and did not stop walking up and down. He was thinking of the future now, for he knew that he had made sure of the present. He was weighing the chances of discretion on the part of the two men who had been witnesses of his struggle with Bright in the hall of the club. As for Bright himself, though he was the injured party, John knew that he could be trusted to be silent. He might never forgive John, but he could not gossip about what had happened. Frank Miner would probably follow Bright’s lead. The dangerous man was Crowdie, who would tell what he had seen, most probably to Katharine herself, and that very night. He might account for his absence from the dinner-party to which he had been engaged, and from the ball, on the ground of an accident. People might say what they pleased about that, but it would be hard to make any one believe that he had been sober when he had so suddenly lost his temper and tripped up the pacific Hamilton Bright in the afternoon.

He knew, of course, that his mother’s testimony would have counted for nothing, even if she had believed him, and bitterly as he resented her unbelief, he recognized that it was bringing about a good result. No one could doubt the evidence of such a man as Doctor Routh, and the latter would of course be ready at any time to repeat his statement, if it were necessary to clear John’s reputation.

But when he thought of Katharine, his instinct told him that matters could not be so easily settled. It was quite true that he was in no way to blame for having fallen over a heap of stones in a dark street, but he knew how anxiously she must have waited for him at the ball, and what she must have felt if, as he suspected, Crowdie had given her his own version of what had taken place in the afternoon. It was not yet so late but that he might have found her still at the Assembly rooms, and so far as his strength was concerned, he would have gone there even at that hour. Tough as he was, a few hours, more or less, of fatigue and effort would make little difference to him, though he had scarcely touched food that day. He was one of those men who are not dependent for their strength on the last meal they happen to have eaten, as the majority are, and who break down under a fast of twenty-four hours. In spite of all he had been through, moreover, his determined abstinence during the last days was beginning to tell favourably on him, for he was young, and his nerves had a boundless recuperative elasticity. Hungry and tired and bruised as he was, and accustomed as he had always been to swallow a stimulant when the machinery was slackened, he did not now feel that craving at all as he had felt it on the previous night, when he had stood in the corner at the Thirlwalls’ dance. That seemed to have been a turning-point with him. He had thought so at the time, and he was sure of it now. He felt that just as he was he could dress himself, and go to the Assembly if he pleased, and that he should not break down.

But his appearance was against him, as he was obliged to admit when he looked at himself in the mirror. His face was swollen and bruised, his eyes were sunken and haggard, and his skin was almost livid in its sallow whiteness. Others would judge him as his mother had judged, and Katharine might be the first to do so. On the whole, it seemed wisest to write to her early in the morning, and to explain exactly what had happened. In the course of the day he could go and see her.

He had reached this conclusion, when the sound of wheels, grating out of the snow against the curb-stone of the pavement, interrupted his meditations, and he stopped in his walk. At the same moment Mrs. Ralston rose from her seat.

“I’ll let him in,” she said briefly, as John advanced towards the door.

“Let me go,” he said. “Why not?” he asked, as she pushed past him.

“Because—I’d rather not. Stay here!” In a moment she was descending the stairs.

John listened at the open door, and heard the latch turned, and immediately afterwards the sound of a man’s voice, which he recognized as that of Doctor Routh. The doctor had been one of the Admiral’s firmest friends, and was, moreover, a man of very great reputation in New York. It was improbable that, except for some matter of life and death, any one but Mrs. Ralston could have got him to leave his fireside at midnight and in such weather.

“It’s an awful night, Mrs. Ralston,” John heard him say, and the words were accompanied by a stamping of feet, followed by the unmistakable soft noise of india-rubber overshoes kicked off, one after the other, upon the marble floor of the entry.

John retired into his room again, leaving the door open, and waited before the fireplace. Far down below he could hear the voices of his mother and Doctor Routh. They were evidently talking the matter over before coming up. Then their soft tread upon the carpeted stairs told him that they were on their way to his room.

Mrs. Ralston entered first, and stood aside to let the doctor pass her before she closed the door. Doctor Routh was enormously tall. He wore a long white beard, and carried his head very much bent forward. His eyes were of the very dark blue which is sometimes called violet, and when he was looking directly in front of him, the white was visible below the iris. He had delicate hands, but was otherwise rough in appearance, and walked with a heavy tread and a long stride, as a strong man marches with a load on his back.

He stopped before John, looked keenly at him, and smiled. He had known him since he had been a boy.

“Well, young man,” he said, “you look pretty badly used up. What’s the matter with you?”

“Have I been drinking, doctor? That’s the question.” John did not smile as he shook hands.

“I don’t know,” answered the physician. “Let me look at you.”

He was holding the young man’s hand, and pressing it gently, as though to judge of its temperature. He made him sit down under the bright gas-light by the dressing table, and began to examine him carefully.

Mrs. Ralston turned her back to them both, and leaned against the mantelpiece. There was something horrible to her in the idea of such an examination for such a purpose. There was something far more horrible still in the verdict which she knew must fall from the doctor’s lips within the next five minutes—the words which must assure her that John had lied to her on his word of honour. She had no hope now. She had watched the doctor nervously when he had entered the room, and when he had spoken to John she had seen the smile on his face. There had been no doubt in his mind from the first, and he was amused—probably at the bare idea that any one could look as John looked who had not been very drunk indeed within the last few hours. Presently he would look grave and shake his head, and probably give John a bit of good advice about his habits. She turned her face to the wall above the mantelpiece and waited. It could not take long, she thought. Then it came.

“If you’re not careful, my boy—” the doctor began, and stopped.

“What?” asked John, rather anxiously.

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.”

John followed him, however, but before he left the room he glanced at his mother’s face. Her eyes were cast down, and her lips seemed to tremble a little. She did not even say good night to Doctor Routh.