“It is all over now,” said Cuthbert, soothingly; “you won’t see the figure again.”
Guy slowly turned his eyes away from Cuthbert’s face, and looked straight in front of him.
“I see it now,” he said. “Listen—don’t stop me. I saw it ahead all the way. I’ve seen it ever since. But—but—it’s not him—now. Oh, you won’t understand. I know he’s not here now. This is a spectre—a delusion—but it’s very bad to bear. Stop; let me rest a bit.”
He put his hand over his eyes and lay still—whispering, “I’ve some more to say.”
“Yes, tell me everything—tell me just what it is,” said Cuthbert, gently.
“I can’t,” said Guy. “Shakespeare was right—and it’s very hard to be quite sure. The more one thinks, the harder it is. But whatever that is—which comes to me, I can fight it; I can resist. And I will. I mustn’t give in an inch. I’ve got to hold on with the business, and against the drink, and against the terror. That’s all I know; but I know that, though I’ve almost died of learning it.”
Guy turned faint after this eager speech, and was forced to lie back and be silent. Presently he spoke again in a faltering whisper—
“Doesn’t all this—”
“What, my boy? Yes, tell me.”
“It is so queer—you’ll dislike me for it,” said poor Guy, simply, and with tears in his eyes. “Anybody would.”