Guy felt his breath coming thickly. “Was it long?” he asked.
“Yes. Long. Eighteen months, I think. Morphia did little good at last. He couldn’t swallow; could hardly speak; begged to be killed and put out of his torment. She was with him in it all. She never left him, day or night; nor could he have borne it if she had. Nothing quieted him except her hand in his. But at the end,” said Mr. Haseltine, pushing away the table and rising, “at the end, it attacked his brain and then he raved at her. She couldn’t go into the room at the last.”
The old man, with step lagging, as if weighted, walked away to the window and stood looking out, while Guy, at the table, felt his heart turn to stone.
“Poor Effie!” Mr. Haseltine repeated after a little while. He came back into the room and moved up and down, pausing to look at the books and pictures. “She has never been the same since. For a long while we were afraid she couldn’t live. She hardly slept for months; and when she did sleep, she used to wake crying, crying, always for him. When she became stronger, she used to walk up and down those meadows, sometimes for hours at a time. Very gentle; no complaint; always ready to talk to people, to go on with things as best she could; but changed; completely changed. We speak very little of him; but when we do, it’s quite naturally. She goes to the church sometimes, and there are always flowers on his grave; but I don’t think she has any orthodox beliefs; I don’t know that she has any beliefs at all. Still, she seems helped. She is a very dear, unselfish woman; a dreamer, she was always a dreamer; but always meaning well; and she does good in her quiet way. And I think she likes this plan of having people come and stay and seeing after them; especially now that they are so often people who have had a bad time. Dear me, dear me!” Mr. Haseltine again shook his head, stationed again at the window and looking out. “You would hardly have recognized her had you seen her ten years ago. She had bright hair and a charming colour; and full of gaiety and mischief. You’d hardly believe it now.”
“I’m so sorry,” Guy heard himself saying. He remembered that those were the words Mrs. Baldwin had used to him about Ronnie.
“Yes, it’s very sad,” said Mr. Haseltine. “Life is certainly very difficult for some of us, and Effie has had her share. Somehow one doesn’t remember it when one is with her. I only recalled the day by chance.”
Guy was walking in the meadows when Mrs. Baldwin returned. He saw her in the garden, reading the letters that the evening post had brought, and his first impulse was to remove himself as speedily as might be from her sight, to cross the bridge and the farther meadow, and turn into the lane that led away from it. But then he saw, as he stood irresolute, that she was coming down to him, and he stood there, helpless, watching her approach in the soft radiance of the late afternoon. She wore one of the lavender-coloured dresses and the little knitted jacket. In her hand were the opened letters. Her face was tranquil. She was, of course, unaware of what had happened to him.
She joined him. “You are having your last look at the crocuses?”
It was their last look together. That, of course, was why she had come, full of care and of kindness.
“Yes. Yes. My last look for the year.” He heard that his voice was strange. And his heart seemed to lie like a cold hard block in his side.