Still he could not speak. Her question came to his ears as though it were something apart from her personality and his consideration--as though it were a tedious impertinence rising from an indifferent source. Although he knew he was in that room with the widow of Louis Davenport, and that she had just said she believed Fahey was alive, and had killed her husband from jealousy, he could not give the situation substantial form. There were confounding murmurs in his ears, and indeterminable shadows floating before his eyes. His mind was clamorous for quiet, and the clamour stunned and confounded him.
"Speak to me," she pleaded. "I am not deserted, yet I am alone. I have always been alone since I can first remember. Only I myself have broken the solitude in which I lived. Once, long ago, I thought you were coming towards me from a distance, to share my solitude, but you--you--went by. I felt like a castaway on a desolate island, who sees a sail bear down upon him in the twilight, only to find the morning sea a barren desert of water. Should I die? That is not a hard question for you to answer, is it?"
"No; not a hard question, Marion. You must live."
"For what?"
If she had asked this question an hour ago, before she told him her horrible suspicions, he would readily have answered, "For me." As it was, such an answer would have seemed flippant, profane. But an answer of some kind must be made. He could find no answer, and said merely, "Give me time."
She sat upright on her chair. One hand and arm rested on the table, the white hand lying open upon the leaf, the thumb holding on by the edge. Her head and face were thrust forward, her chin projecting, the forehead reclining. Her eyes, wide open, followed him closely, intently, but not eagerly. She seemed curious, more than anxious. It was as though she took but a reflected interest in the question, although the reply might govern her action. She waited for him patiently. He was a long time before he spoke.
"Marion," he said at length, "if I am to be of any use to you--if even my advice is to be of service to you--I must know all--all, without reserve of any kind. On the face of it, your question is absurd. Supposing you had no code--no religious feeling in the matter; suppose you had no fear or hope of the other world, what earthly good could come of your doing violence to yourself?--of your throwing away your life suddenly?"
While he was saying this, he continued to walk up and down the room, with his eyes bent on the floor.
Her eyes had continued to follow him in the same close, intent way. Still they lacked eagerness. She was a pupil anxious to know--not an enthusiast impatient to act.
"It would," she answered, with no trace of emotion, "close up his grave for ever, and give peace to his name."