"My remedy? What remedy?"
"The good wine remedy. I tried it at Mr. Birtwell's one night last
winter. But it didn't work. _And here I am!_"
Mr. Elliott made no reply. A blow from the arm of a strong man could
not have hurt or stunned him more.
"You needn't feel so dreadfully about it," said Mr. Ridley seeing
the effect produced on the clergy man. "It wasn't any fault of
yours. The prescription was all right, but, you see, the wine wasn't
good. If it had been pure, the kind you drink, all would have been
well. I should have gained strength instead of having the props
knocked from under me."
But Mr. Elliott did not answer. The magnitude of the evil wrought
through his unguarded speech appalled him. He had learned, in his
profession, to estimate the value of a human soul, or rather to
consider it as of priceless value. And here was a human soul cast by
his hand into a river whose swift waters were hurrying it on to
destruction. The sudden anguish that he felt sent beads of sweat to
his forehead and drew his flexible lips into rigid lines.
"Now, don't be troubled about it," urged Mr. Ridley. "You were all
right. It was Mr. Birtwell's bad wine that did the mischief."
Then his manner changed, and his voice falling to a tone of
solicitation, he said:
"And now, Mr. Elliott, you know good wine--you don't have anything
else. I believe in your theory as much as I believe in my existence.
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