“Let me get through it. These fits have come and knocked me up, over and over—muffed my exam—for my degree—made a fool of me, times out of number. But, last night—he was there—the whole of him, myself in that queer old dress, as one might look when one’s chance was over, and one wanted others to share one’s disgrace. I saw him; but, oh, my God, Cuthbert! It’s not the seeing; but no other Presence is ever so real—so close! So, I’m catching at a rope. He’ll have me; I shall have to follow him—but—I’m trying to fight.”
Guy had dropped all his pretence at indifference; he spoke in short, stifled whispers, his eyes dilated with fear.
Cuthbert laid his hand on the fingers that were clutching the arm of the chair, and said gently, “I am very glad you have told me. You’ll feel better soon. It is very bad for you to suffer without any help.”
Guy clung to the warm, human clasp, it was unexpectedly comforting. Then he whispered, “I don’t drink, you know, yet. But he’ll drive me to it. He’s ruining my life!”
Cuthbert did not speak for some moments. Then he said, “Of course, there is more than one view to be taken of these things.”
“Oh yes, I might be mad—or lying.”
“Well, I don’t feel driven to those conclusions. Do you mind being questioned a little?”
“No; I think I should like it. I’ve felt so much alone.”
“Yes. You feel more afraid of the terror that seizes on you unexpectedly, than of the—thing itself?”
“Yes,” said Guy, hesitating; “at least, I mind feeling he is there, more than seeing him. That’s a detail.”