“Had I not practised every art, To oblige, divert and cheer thy heart, To make me pleasing in thine eyes, And turn thy house to paradise, I had not ask’d ’Why dost thou shun These faithful arms, and eager run To some obscure, unclean retreat, With vile companions glad to meet, Who, when inspired by beer, can grin At witless oaths and jests obscene, Till the most learned of the throng Begins a tale of ten hours long To stretch with yawning other jaws, But thine in rapture of applause?’

     “Deprived of freedom, health and ease,
      And rivall’d by such things as these,
      Soft as I am, I’ll make thee see
      I will not brook contempt from thee! 
      I’ll give all thoughts of patience o’er
      (A gift I never lost before);
      Indulge at once my rage and grief
      Mourn obstinate, disdain relief,
      Till life, on terms severe as these,
      Shall ebbing leave my heart at ease;
      To thee thy liberty restore
      To laugh, when Hetty is no more.”

One morning William Wright awoke out of stertorous sleep with a heavy sense of something amiss, and opened his eyes to find Hetty standing beside the bed in nightgown and light wrapper, with a tray and pot of tea which she had stolen downstairs to prepare for him.  After a second or two he remembered, and turned his face to the wall.

“No,” said she, “you had better sit up and drink this, and we can talk honestly.  See, I have brought a cup for myself, too.”

She drew a small table close to the bed, and a chair, poured out the tea and seated herself—­all with the least possible fuss.

“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—­”