“Was it that? Was it that? Did Maurice make that atonement?”
Artois shuddered. Her voice was so strange, or sounded so strange in the dark. Did she wish to think, wish to be sure that her husband had been murdered? He heard the faint rustle of her dress. She had moved. Was she coming nearer? He heard her breathing, or thought he heard it. He longed to be certain. He longed to still the perpetual cry of the baffled sea.
“Then he was brave—at the last. I think he knew—I am sure he knew—when he went down to the sea. I am sure he knew—when he said good-bye.”
Her voice was nearer to him. And again it had changed, utterly changed. And in the different sounds of her voice Artois seemed to see the different women who dwelt within her, to understand and to know them as he had never understood and known them before. This woman was pleading, as women will plead for a man they have once loved, so long as they have voices, so long as they have hearts.
“Then that last time he didn’t—no, he didn’t go to—her.”
The voice was almost a whisper, and Artois knew that she was speaking for herself—that she was telling herself that her husband’s last action had been—not to creep to the woman, but to stand up and face the man.
“Was it her father?”
The voice was still almost a whisper.
“I think it was.”
“Maurice paid then—he paid!”