|
Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers |
||||
 |
||||
|
Support the Monkey! Tell All your Friends and Teachers |
||||
|
|
||||
When he reached the flat by half-past five, it was still dark. He knew that Carrie was not there, not only because there was no light showing through the tran- som, but because the evening papers were stuck between the outside knob and the door. He opened with his key and went in. Everything was still dark. Lighting the gas, he sat down, preparing to wait a little while. Even if Carrie did come now, dinner would be late. He read until six, then got up to fix something for himself. As he did so, he noticed that the room seemed a little queer. What was it? He looked around, as if he missed something, and then saw an envelope near where he had been sitting. It spoke for itself, almost without further action on his part. Reaching over, he took it, a sort of chill settling upon him even while he reached. The crackle of the envelope in his hands was loud. Green paper money lay soft within the note. "Dear George," he read, crunching the money in one hand. "I’m going away. I’m not coming back any more. It’s no use trying to keep up the flat; I can’t do it. I wouldn’t mind helping you, if I could, but I can’t support us both, and pay the rent. I need what little I make to pay for my clothes. I’m leaving twenty dollars. It’s all I have just now. You can do whatever you like with the furniture. I won’t want it.- Carrie." He dropped the note and looked quietly round. Now he knew what he missed. It was the little ornamental clock, which was hers. It had gone from the mantel-piece. He went into the front room, his bedroom, the parlour, lighting the gas as he went. From the chiffonier had gone the knick-knacks of silver and plate. From the table-top, the lace coverings. He opened the wardrobe-no clothes of hers. He opened the drawers-nothing of hers. Her trunk was gone from its accustomed place. Back in his own room hung his old clothes, just as he had left them. Nothing else was gone. He stepped onto the parlour and stood for a few moments looking vacantly at the floor. The silence grew oppressive. The little flat seemed wonderfully deserted. He wholly forgot that he was hungry, that it was only dinner-time. It seemed later in the night. Suddenly, he found that the money was still in his hands. There were twenty dollars in all, as she had said. Now he walked back, leaving the lights ablaze, and feeling as if the flat were empty. "I’ll get out of this," he said to himself. Then the sheer loneliness of his situation rushed upon him in full. "Left me!" he muttered, and repeated, "left me!" The place that had been so comfortable, where he had spent so many days of warmth, was now a memory. Something colder and chillier confronted him. He sank down in his chair, resting his chin in his hand-mere sensation, without thought, holding him. Then something like a bereaved affection and self-pity swept over him. "She needn’t have gone away," he said. "I’d have got something." He sat a long while without rocking, and added quite clearly, out loud: "I tried, didn’t I?" At midnight he was still rocking, staring at the floor. |
