The last moving van had gone; the tenant, a young man with mourning band around his hat, wandered through the empty rooms to see if anything had been left behind. No, nothing had been forgotten, nothing. He went out into the corridor, determined never to think again of all he had passed through in this apartment. But there, on the wall, near the telephone, was a slip of paper covered with writing. The entries were in several handwriting; some quite legible, in black ink; some pencil scrawls in black and red and blue. There stood recorded the whole beautiful romance that had been lived in the short space of two years. All that he had resolved to forget was written there—a bit of human history on half a sheet of paper.
He took the sheet down. It was a piece of sun-yellow scratch paper that casts a sheen. He laid it on the mantel of the fireplace in the living room, and bending over, he began to read.
First stood her name
Alice—the most beautiful name he knew, because it was the name of his sweetheart. Beside it was a number, 1511—it looked like a chant number on the hymn board in church.
Underneath was scribbled: The Bank. It was there his work lay, the scared work which for him meant bread, home, family—the foundations of life, A heavy black line had been drawn across the number, for the bank had failed, and he had been taken on at another, after a short period of much anxiety.
The followed the livery stable and the florist— He was when they were engaged, and he had a pocketful money.
The office furniture dealer— The interior designer—They furnish their apartment. Express Bureau—They are newly married and go to the opera on Sunday evenings. Their most delightful hours are those spent there, sitting quietly, while their hearts commune in the beauty and harmony of the fairyland on the other side of the footlights.
Here followed the name of a man (crossed out), a friend who had risen high, but who fell—dazzled by prosperity—fell irremediably, and had to flee the country. So ephemeral is that will-o’-the-wisp, success!
Now something new came into the lives of the couple. Entered with a pencil in a woman’s hand stands The sister. What sister? Ah! The one with long gray cloak and the sweet with sympathetic face, who comes so softly and never goes through the drawing room, but takes the corridor way to the bedroom. Below her name is written: Dr. L—
Here first appeared on the list a relative—Mother. That is his mother-in-law, who had discreetly kept away so as not to disturb, and comes gladly, since she is needed.
Then came some entries in red and blue pencil. Employment Agency. The maid has left, and a new one must be engaged. The Apothecary—H-m! It begins to look dark. The dairy—Milk is ordered, sterilized milk. The grocer, the butcher, and others. The household affairs are being conducted by telephone. The mistress of the house is not at her usual post? No. She is confined to her bed.
That which followed he could not read, for it grew dim before his eyes, as it must for the drowning man at sea who would look through salt water. But there is stood recorded, in plain, black letters: The undertaker.
That tells enough!—a large and a smaller casket. And in parenthesis was written: Of dust.”
There was nothing more. It ended in dust, the way of all flesh.
He took up the sun-yellow paper, kissed it, folded it carefully, and put it in his breast pocket.
In two minutes he had relived two years of his life.
But he was not bowed down as he walked out. On the contrary, he carried his head high, like a proud and happy man, for he knew that to him it had given to hold for a little the best that life can bestow on man. How many there were, alas! Who had not had this.
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