“And there’s another grand mistake, my lad—your thinking that I’m haunting you out of revenge, that I’m trying to frighten you.... My dear Steven, if I’d wanted to frighten you I’d have appeared in a very different shape. I needn’t remind you what shape I might have appeared in.... What do you suppose I’ve come for?”
“I don’t know,” said Steven in a husky whisper. “Tell me.”
“I’ve come to forgive you. And to save you from the horror you would have felt sooner or later. And to stop your going on with your crime.”
“You needn’t,” Steven said. “I’m not going on with it. I shall do no more murders.”
“There you are again. Can’t you understand that I’m not talking about your silly butcher’s work? I’m talking about your real crime. Your real crime was hating me.
“And your very hate was a blunder, Steven. You hated me for something I hadn’t done.”
“Aye, what did you do? Tell me that.”
“You thought I came between you and your sweetheart. That night when Dorsy spoke to me, you thought I told her to throw you over, didn’t you?”
“Aye. And what did you tell her?”
“I told her to stick to you. It was you, Steven, who drove her away. You frightened the child. She said she was afraid for her life of you. Not because you half killed that poor boy, but because of the look on your face before you did it. The look of hate, Steven.