"I suppose you know," she began, "that you struck me last night?"
His hand trembled as he took the cup, and again he turned away his eyes.
"You were drunk," she went on. "You called me by an evil name, too— a name I once called myself: but a name you would not have called me in your sober senses. At least, I think not. Tell me—and remember that you promised always to answer honestly: you would not have called me so in your sober senses? You do not think of me so?"
He set down the cup and stretched out a hand.
"My lass"—the words seemed to choke him.
"For I am not that. You married me knowing the worst; and ever since I have been a true wife to you. Well, I see that you are sorry. And you struck me, on the breast. I have a bruise there; but," she went on in a level lifeless tone, "there is no child to see his father's mark. You are sorry for that, too. But I understand, of course, that you were drunk. Many times now you have come home drunk, and next morning I pretended not to know it. I must not pretend now, since now to be clear about it is my only chance of comfort and your only chance of self-respect."
He groaned.
"Lass, I could cut my hand off for it! When a man gets overtaken—"
"No, no," her voice suddenly grew animated; "for God's sake, William, don't cry over it! You are not a David." She shivered, as a trick of memory brought back to her the night in the harvest field when she had broken out in wrath against her least admired of Biblical heroes—the same night on which she had first set eyes on this man, whose ring and whose bruise she wore.
"Do not use cheating words, either," she went on. "You were not overtaken by liquor; you went out to meet it, as you have gone night after night. Call it by the straight name. Listen: I like you well enough, William, to help you, if I can—indeed, I have tried. But there seems to be something in drink which puts aside help: the only fighting of any worth must come from the man himself—is it not so?"