The next week was dreadful. Stroeve went twice a day to the hospital to
enquire after his wife, who still declined to see him; and came away at
first relieved and hopeful because he was told that she seemed to be
growing better, and then in despair because, the complication which the
doctor had feared having ensued, recovery was impossible. The nurse was
pitiful to his distress, but she had little to say that could console
him. The poor woman lay quite still, refusing to speak, with her eyes
intent, as though she watched for the coming of death. It could now be
only the question of a day or two; and when, late one evening, Stroeve
came to see me I knew it was to tell me she was dead. He was absolutely
exhausted. His volubility had left him at last, and he sank down
wearily on my sofa. I felt that no words of condolence availed, and I
let him lie there quietly. I feared he would think it heartless if I
read, so I sat by the window, smoking a pipe, till he felt inclined to
speak.
“You’ve been very kind to me,” he said at last. “Everyone’s been very
kind.”
“Nonsense,” I said, a little embarrassed.
“At the hospital they told me I might wait. They gave me a chair, and I
sat outside the door. When she became unconscious they said I might go
in. Her mouth and chin were all burnt by the acid. It was awful to see
her lovely skin all wounded. She died very peacefully, so that I didn’t
know she was dead till the sister told me.”
He was too tired to weep. He lay on his back limply, as though all the
strength had gone out of his limbs, and presently I saw that he had
fallen asleep. It was the first natural sleep he had had for a week.
Nature, sometimes so cruel, is sometimes merciful. I covered him and
turned down the light. In the morning when I awoke he was still asleep.
He had not moved. His gold-rimmed spectacles were still on his nose.