It was seven by the Town Hall clock. I walked up and down hard by the café, kept close to the iron railings, and kept a sharp watch on all who went in and came out of the door. At last, about eight o’clock, I saw the young fellow, fresh, elegantly dressed, coming up the hill and across to the café door. My heart fluttered like a little bird in my breast as I caught sight of him, and I blurted out, without even a greeting:
“Sixpence, old friend!” I said, putting on cheek; “here is the worth of it,” and I thrust the little packet into his hand.
“Haven’t got it,” he exclaimed. “God knows if I have!” and he turned his purse inside out right before my eyes. “I was out last night and got totally cleared out! You must believe me, I literally haven’t got it.”
“No, no, my dear fellow; I suppose it is so,” I answered, and I took his word for it. There was, indeed, no reason why he should lie about such a trifling matter. It struck me, too, that his blue eyes were moist whilst he ransacked his pockets and found nothing. I drew back. “Excuse me,” I said; “it was only just that I was a bit hard up.” I was already a piece down the street, when he called after me about the little packet. “Keep it! keep it,” I answered; “you are welcome to it. There are only a few trifles in it—a bagatelle; about all I own in the world,” and I became so touched at my own words, they sounded so pathetic in the twilight, and I fell a-weeping. …
The wind freshened, the clouds chased madly across the heavens, and it grew cooler and cooler as it got darker. I walked, and cried as I walked, down the whole street; felt more and more commiseration with myself, and repeated, time after time, a few words, an ejaculation, which called forth fresh tears whenever they were on the point of ceasing: “Lord God, I feel so wretched! Lord God, I feel so wretched!”
An hour passed; passed with such strange slowness, such weariness. I spent a long time in Market Street; sat on steps, stole into doorways, and when anyone approached, stood and stared absently into the shops where people bustled about with wares or money. At last I found myself a sheltered place, behind a deal hoarding, between the church and the bazaar.
No; I couldn’t go out into the wood again this evening. Things must take their course. I had not strength enough to go, and it was such an endless way there. I would kill the night as best I could, and remain where I was; if it got all too cold, well, I could walk round the church. I would not in any case worry myself any more about that, and I leant back and dozed.
The noise around me diminished; the shops closed. The steps of the pedestrians sounded more and more rarely, and in all the windows about the lights went out. I opened my eyes, and became aware of a figure standing in front of me. The flash of shining buttons told me it was a policeman, though I could not see the man’s face.
“Good night,” he said.
“Good night,” I answered, and got afraid.
“Where do you live?” he queried.
I name, from habit and without thought, my old address, the little attic.
He stood for a while.
“Have I done anything wrong?” I asked, anxiously.
“No, not at all!” he replied; “but you had perhaps better be getting home now; it’s cold lying here.”
“Ay, that’s true; I feel it is a little chilly.” I said good night, and instinctively took the road to my old abode. If I only set about it carefully, I might be able to get upstairs without being heard; there were eight steps in all, and only the two top ones creaked under my tread. Down at the door I took off my shoes, and ascended. It was quiet everywhere. I could hear the slow ticktack of a clock, and a child crying a little. After that I heard nothing. I found my door, lifted the latch as I was accustomed to do, entered the room, and shut the door noiselessly after me.
Everything was as I had left it. The curtains were pulled aside from the windows, and the bed stood empty. I caught a glimpse of a note lying on the table; perhaps it was my note to the landlady—she might never have been up here since I went away.
I fumbled with my hands over the white spot, and felt, to my astonishment, that it was a letter. I take it over to the window, examine as well as it is possible in the dark the badly-written letters of the address, and make out at least my own name. Ah, I thought, an answer from my landlady, forbidding me to enter the room again if I were for sneaking back.
Slowly, quite slowly I left the room, carrying my shoes in one hand, the letter in the other, and the blanket under my arm. I draw myself up, set my teeth as I tread on the creaking steps, get happily down the stairs, and stand once more at the door. I put on my shoes, take my time with the laces, sit a while quietly after I’m ready, and stare vacantly before me, holding the letter in my hand. Then I get up and go.
The
