“Don’t blame the youngster. At least he is sober.”
She winced, as though his self-condemnation hurt her, and surrendering her fortitude of a sudden, broke out into tears. Murchison looked at her helplessly, feeling like a man bound and chained by the shame of his own manhood. He felt himself unworthy to touch her, too much humiliated even to offer comfort. The very sincerity of his self-disgust drove him to action. He sprang out of bed and began to dress.
Catherine, still sobbing, went to the window and strove to overcome the shuddering weakness that had seized her. Her husband’s determination appeared to increase at the expense of her surrender. It was as though they had exchanged moods in a moment, and that the wife’s tears had given the man courage.
“Kate.”
She leaned against the window, and brushed her tears aside with her hand.
“Forgive me, dear. I was a fool, an accursed fool. Never again. Trust me.”
He touched her arm appealingly, like an awed lover who fears to offend. Catherine turned her head and looked at him, her courage shining through her tears.
“Your words hurt me. You called yourself a drunkard. No, no, you are not that. Oh, my beloved, I need you now—and you must go.”
His arms were round her in an instant.
“Wife, look up. God help me, I will conquer the curse! How can I fail, with you?”