Surprise, then pain showed in her face; she flushed, was agitated.
“I am sorry. It’s too bad—it’s hard on him you should see,” she said in a breath, and turned her head away for an instant; but presently looked him in the face again, all trembling and eager. “He’ll be sorry enough to-morrow,” she added solicitously, and drew away from something, she had been trying to hide.
Then David saw. On a bench against a wall lay old Soolsby—drunk. A cloud passed across his face and left it pale.
“Of course,” he said simply, and went over and touched the heaving shoulders reflectively. “Poor Soolsby!”
“He’s been sober four years—over four,” she said eagerly. “When he knew you’d come again, he got wild, and he would have the drink in spite of all. Walking from Heddington, I saw him at the tavern, and brought him home.”
“At the tavern—” David said reflectively.
“The Fox and Goose, sir.” She turned her face away again, and David’s head came up with a quick motion. There it was, five years ago, that he had drunk at the bar, and had fought Jasper Kimber.
“Poor fellow!” he said again, and listened to Soolsby’s stertorous breathing, as a physician looks at a patient whose case he cannot control, does not wholly understand.
The hand of the sleeping man was suddenly raised, his head gave a jerk, and he said mumblingly: “Claridge for ever!”
Kate nervously intervened. “It fair beat him, your coming back, sir. It’s awful temptation, the drink. I lived in it for years, and it’s cruel hard to fight it when you’re worked up either way, sorrow or joy. There’s a real pleasure in being drunk, I’m sure. While it lasts you’re rich, and you’re young, and you don’t care what happens. It’s kind of you to take it like this, sir, seeing you’ve never been tempted and mightn’t understand.” David shook his head sadly, and looked at Soolsby in silence.