“Aye. Doan’t gaw,” he said. “Doan’t gaw.”
It seemed to him that Mr. Greathead’s phantasm was getting a little thin, as if it couldn’t last more than an instant. He had never so longed for it to go, as he longed now for it to stay and help him.
“Well, Steven, any flesh-and-blood man would tell you to go and get hanged to-morrow; that it was no more than your plain duty. And I daresay there are some mean, vindictive spirits even in my world who would say the same, not because they think death important but because they know you do, and want to get even with you that way.
“It isn’t my way. I consider this little affair is strictly between ourselves. There isn’t a jury of flesh-and-blood men who would understand it. They all think death so important.”
“What do you want me to do, then? Tell me and I’ll do it! Tell me!”
He cried it out loud; for Mr. Greathead’s phantasm was getting thinner and thinner; it dwindled and fluttered, like a light going down. Its voice came from somewhere away outside, from the other end of the bridle-path.
“Go on living,” it said. “Marry Dorsy.”
“I darena’. She doan’ knaw I killed ’ee.”
“Oh, yes”—the eyes flickered up, gentle and ironic—“she does. She knew all the time.”
And with that the phantasm went out.