“My father drank; poor old dad! I’m not trying to shelve the affair by putting it on his shoulders. My father and my grandfather both died of drink. My wife knows. She did not know when we were married. That was wrong. If ever a man owed anything to the love of a good woman, I am that man.”
Canon Stensly returned to his chair. His face bore the impress of deep thought. He had the air of a man ready to help in the bearing of a brother’s burden, not with any bombast and display, but as though it were as natural an action as holding out a hand.
“It can’t have been very serious,” he said.
Murchison set his teeth.
“A sort of hell while it lasted, a tempting of the devil; not often; perhaps the worse for that.”
“Ah, I can understand.”
“It was when I was overworked.”
“Jaded.”
“The wife was something better than a ministering angel, she was a brave woman. She fought for me. We should have won—without that scandal, but for a mad piece of folly I took to be heroism.”
The churchman extended a large hand.