“Thee belongs to Hamley. Thee is an honour to Hamley, Soolsby.”
Soolsby’s eyes widened; the blurred look of rage and self-reproach in them began to fade away.
“Thee has made a fight, Soolsby, to conquer a thing that has had thee by the throat. There’s no fighting like it. It means a watching every hour, every minute—thee can never take the eye off it. Some days it’s easy, some days it’s hard, but it’s never so easy that you can say, ‘There is no need to watch.’ In sleep it whispers and wakes you; in the morning, when there are no shadows, it casts a shadow on the path. It comes between you and your work; you see it looking out of the eyes of a friend. And one day, when you think it has been conquered, that you have worn it down into oblivion and the dust, and you close your eyes and say, ‘I am master,’ up it springs with fury from nowhere you can see, and catches you by the throat; and the fight begins again. But you sit stronger, and the fight becomes shorter; and after many battles, and you have learned never to be off guard, to know by instinct where every ambush is, then at last the victory is yours. It is hard, it is bitter, and sometimes it seems hardly worth the struggle. But it is—it is worth the struggle, dear old man.”
Soolsby dropped on his knees and caught David by the arms. “How did you know-how did you know?” he asked hoarsely. “It’s been just as you say. You’ve watched some one fighting?”
“I have watched some one fighting—fighting,” answered David clearly, but his eyes were moist.
“With drink, the same as me?”
“No, with opium—laudanum.”
“Oh, I’ve heard that’s worse, that it makes you mad, the wanting it.”
“I have seen it so.”
“Did the man break down like me?”