She went back to the bedroom and locked the door; and, after a few minutes, heard him going downstairs again.
Then she flung herself upon the bed, weeping for Martin whom she loved: whom she had left crying for her sake; who should have lived to be loved by his children, and honoured and full of years; Martin who was kind when all else was unkind—Martin who had been dead two days, rolling about in the waves; Martin for whom poor Roddy had searched the sea in vain; Martin who had been comely and now was destroyed utterly and made horrible,—sea-water in his mouth and eyes and hair, sea-water swelling his shapely body to a gross lump.
Whom had he thought of while he drowned? Had he fought and cursed? Or had he welcomed death because of somebody’s unkindness and deceit?
‘Martin, I didn’t mean it.’
Martin was almost in the room—quite in the room—standing just behind her, saying: “I’m all right.” He had come to comfort her.
Martin had entered into everlasting life. Yes!
No. No. No. Dead. Unconscious. Nothing. Beyond sight and touch for ever.