I.
Without, the night was cold
and wet, but in the small parlour of Laburnam Villa the blinds were drawn and
the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess, the former, who
possessed ideas about the game involving radical changes, putting his king into
such sharp and unnecessary perils that it even provoked comment from the
white-haired old lady knitting placidly by the fire.
“Hark at the wind,” said
Mr. White, who, having seen a fatal mistake after it was too late, was amiably
desirous of preventing his son from seeing it.
“I’m listening,” said the
latter, grimly surveying the board as he stretched out his hand. “Check.”
“I should hardly think that
he’d come to-night,” said his father, with his hand poised over the board.
“Mate,” replied the son.
“That’s the worst of living
so far out,” bawled Mr. White, with sudden and unlooked-for violence; “of all
the beastly, slushy, out-of-the-way places to live in, this is the worst.
Pathway’s a bog, and the road’s a torrent. I don’t know what people are
thinking about. I suppose because only two houses in the road are let,
they think it doesn’t matter.”
“Never mind, dear,” said
his wife, soothingly; “perhaps you’ll win the next one.”
Mr. White looked up
sharply, just in time to intercept a knowing glance between mother and
son. The words died away on his lips, and he hid a guilty grin in his
thin grey beard.
“There he is,” said Herbert
White, as the gate banged to loudly and heavy footsteps came toward the door.
The old man rose with hospitable haste, and opening
the door, was heard condoling with the new arrival. The new arrival also
condoled with himself, so that Mrs. White said, “Tut, tut!” and coughed gently
as her husband entered the room, followed by a tall, burly man, beady of eye
and rubicund of visage.
“Sergeant-Major Morris,” he
said, introducing him.
The sergeant-major shook
hands, and taking the proffered seat by the fire, watched contentedly
while his host got out whiskey and tumblers and stood a small
copper kettle on the fire.
At the third glass his eyes
got brighter, and he began to talk, the little family circle regarding with
eager interest this visitor from distant parts, as he squared his broad
shoulders in the chair and spoke of wild scenes and doughty deeds; of wars and
plagues and strange peoples.
“Twenty-one years of it,”
said Mr. White, nodding at his wife and son. “When he went away he was a
slip of a youth in the warehouse. Now look at him.”
“He don’t look to have
taken much harm,” said Mrs. White, politely.
“I’d like to go to India myself,” said the old man, “just to
look round a bit, you know.”
“Better where you are,”
said the sergeant-major, shaking his head. He put down the empty glass,
and sighing softly, shook it again.
“I should like to see those
old temples and fakirs and jugglers,” said the old man. “What was that
you started telling me the other day about a monkey’s paw or something,
Morris?”
“Nothing,” said the soldier, hastily.
“Leastways nothing worth hearing.”
“Monkey’s paw?” said Mrs.
White, curiously.
“Well, it’s just a bit of
what you might call magic, perhaps,” said the sergeant-major, offhandedly.
His three listeners leaned
forward eagerly. The visitor absent-mindedly put his empty glass to his
lips and then set it down again. His host filled it for him.
“To look at,” said the
sergeant-major, fumbling in his pocket, “it’s just an ordinary little paw,
dried to a mummy.”
He took something out of
his pocket and proffered it. Mrs. White drew back with a grimace, but her
son, taking it, examined it curiously.
“And what is there special
about it?” inquired Mr. White as he took it from his son, and having examined
it, placed it upon the table.
“It had a spell put on it
by an old fakir,” said the sergeant-major, “a very holy man. He wanted to
show that fate ruled people’s lives, and that those who interfered with it did
so to their sorrow. He put a spell on it so that three separate men could
each have three wishes from it.”
His manner was so
impressive that his hearers were conscious that their light laughter jarred
somewhat.
“Well, why don’t you have
three, sir?” said Herbert White, cleverly.
The soldier regarded him in
the way that middle age is wont to regard presumptuous youth. “I have,”
he said, quietly, and his blotchy face whitened.
“And did you really have
the three wishes granted?” asked Mrs. White.
“I did,” said the
sergeant-major, and his glass tapped against his strong teeth.
“And has anybody else
wished?” persisted the old lady.
“The first man had his
three wishes. Yes,” was the reply; “I don’t know what the first two were,
but the third was for death. That’s how I got the paw.”
His tones were so grave
that a hush fell upon the group.
“If you’ve had your three
wishes, it’s no good to you now, then, Morris,” said the old man at last.
“What do you keep it for?”
The soldier shook his
head. “Fancy, I suppose,” he said, slowly. “I did have some idea of
selling it, but I don’t think I will. It has caused enough mischief
already. Besides, people won’t buy. They think it’s a fairy tale; some
of them, and those who do think anything of it want to try it first and pay me
afterward.”
“If you could have another
three wishes,” said the old man, eyeing him keenly, “would you have them?”
“I don’t know,” said the
other. “I don’t know.”
He took the paw, and
dangling it between his forefinger and thumb, suddenly threw it upon the
fire. White, with a slight cry, stooped down and snatched it off.
“Better let it burn,” said
the soldier, solemnly.
“If you don’t want it, Morris,” said the
other, “give it to me.”
“I won’t,” said his friend,
doggedly. “I threw it on the fire. If you keep it, don’t blame me
for what happens. Pitch it on the fire again like a sensible man.”
The other shook his head
and examined his new possession closely. “How do you do it?” he inquired.
“Hold it up in your right
hand and wish aloud,” said the sergeant-major, “but I warn you of the
consequences.”
“Sounds like the Arabian
Nights,” said Mrs. White, as she rose and began to set the supper.
“Don’t you think you might wish for four pairs of hands for me?”
Her husband drew the
talisman from pocket, and then all three burst into laughter as the
sergeant-major, with a look of alarm on his face, caught him by the arm.
“If you must wish,” he
said, gruffly, “wish for something sensible.”
Mr. White dropped it back
in his pocket, and placing chairs, motioned his friend to the table. In
the business of supper the talisman was partly forgotten, and afterward the
three sat listening in an enthralled fashion to a second instalment of the
soldier’s adventures in India.
“If the tale about the
monkey’s paw is not more truthful than those he has been telling us,” said
Herbert, as the door closed behind their guest, just in time for him to catch
the last train, “we sha’nt make much out of it.”
“Did you give him anything
for it, father?” inquired Mrs. White, regarding her husband closely.
“A trifle,” said he,
colouring slightly. “He didn’t want it, but I made him take it. And
he pressed me again to throw it away.”
“Likely,” said Herbert,
with pretended horror. “Why, we’re going to be rich, and famous and
happy. Wish to be an emperor, father, to begin with; then you can’t be
henpecked.”
He darted round the table,
pursued by the maligned Mrs. White armed with an antimacassar.
Mr. White took the paw from
his pocket and eyed it dubiously. “I don’t know what to wish for, and
that’s a fact,” he said, slowly. “It seems to me I’ve got all I want.”
“If you only cleared the
house, you’d be quite happy, wouldn’t you?” said Herbert, with his hand on his
shoulder. “Well, wish for two hundred pounds, then; that ’ll just do it.”
His father, smiling
shamefacedly at his own credulity, held up the talisman, as his son, with a
solemn face, somewhat marred by a wink at his mother, sat down at the piano and struck a few impressive chords.
“I wish for two hundred
pounds,” said the old man distinctly.
A fine crash from the piano
greeted the words, interrupted by a shuddering cry from the old man. His
wife and son ran toward him.
“It moved,” he cried, with
a glance of disgust at the object as it lay on the floor.
“As I wished, it twisted in
my hand like a snake.”
“Well, I don’t see the
money,” said his son as he picked it up and placed it on the table, “and I bet
I never shall.”
“It must have been your fancy, father,” said
his wife, regarding him anxiously.
He shook his head.
“Never mind, though; there’s no harm done, but it gave me a shock all the
same.”
They sat down by the fire
again while the two men finished their pipes. Outside, the wind was
higher than ever, and the old man started nervously at the sound of a door
banging upstairs. A silence unusual and depressing settled upon
all three, which lasted until the old couple rose to retire for the night.
“I expect you’ll find the
cash tied up in a big bag in the middle of your bed,” said Herbert, as he bade
them good-night, “and something horrible squatting up on top of the wardrobe
watching you as you pocket your ill-gotten gains.”
He sat alone in the
darkness, gazing at the dying fire, and seeing faces in it. The last face
was so horrible and so simian that he gazed at it in amazement.’ It got
so vivid that, with a little uneasy laugh, he felt on the table for a glass containing a little water to throw
over it. His hand grasped the monkey’s paw, and with a little shiver he
wiped his hand on his coat and went up to bed.
In the brightness of the
wintry sun next morning as it streamed over
the breakfast table he laughed at his fears. There was an air of prosaic
wholesomeness about the room which it had lacked on the previous night, and the
dirty, shrivelled little paw was pitched on the sideboard with a carelessness
which betokened no great belief in its virtues.
“I suppose all old soldiers
are the same,” said Mrs. White. “The idea of our listening to such
nonsense! How could wishes be granted in these days? And if they
could, how could two hundred pounds hurt you, father?”
“Might drop on his head
from the sky,” said the frivolous Herbert.
“Morris said the things
happened so naturally,” said’ his father, “that you might if you so wished
attribute it to coincidence.”
“Well, don’t break into the
money before I come back,” said Herbert as he rose from the table. “I’m afraid
it’ll turn you into a mean, avaricious man, and we shall have to disown you.”
His mother laughed, and
following him to the door, watched him down the road; and returning to the
breakfast table, was very happy at the expense of her husband’s
credulity. All of which did not prevent her from scurrying to the door at
the postman’s knock, nor prevent her from referring somewhat shortly to retired
sergeant-majors of bibulous habits when she found that the post brought a
tailor’s bill.
“Herbert will have some
more of his funny remarks, I expect, when he comes home,” she said, as they sat
at dinner.
“I dare say,” said Mr.
White, pouring himself out some beer; “but for all that, the thing moved in my
hand; that I’ll swear to.”
“You thought it did,” said
the old lady soothingly.
“I say it did,” replied the other.
“There was no thought about it; I had just—— What’s the matter?”
His wife made no
reply. She was watching the mysterious movements of a man outside, who,
peering in an undecided fashion at the house, appeared to be trying to make up his mind to enter. In mental
connection with the two hundred pounds, she noticed that the stranger was well
dressed, and wore a silk hat of glossy newness. Three
times he paused at the gate, and then walked on again. The fourth time he
stood with his hand upon it, and then with sudden resolution flung it open and
walked up the path. Mrs. White at the same moment placed her hands behind
her, and hurriedly unfastening the strings of her apron, put that useful
article of apparel beneath the cushion of her chair.
She brought the stranger,
who seemed ill at ease, into the room. He gazed at her furtively, and
listened in a preoccupied fashion as the old lady apologized for the appearance
of the room, and her husband’s coat, a garment which he usually reserved for the
garden. She then waited as patiently as her sex would permit, for him to
broach his business, but he was at first strangely silent.
“I—was asked to call,” he
said at last, and stooped and picked a piece of cotton from his trousers.
“I come from ‘Maw and Meggins.’”
The old lady started.
“Is anything the matter?” she asked, breathlessly. “Has anything happened
to Herbert? What is it? What is it?”
Her husband
interposed. “There, there, mother,” he said, hastily. “Sit down,
and don’t jump to conclusions. You’ve not brought bad news, I’m sure,
sir;” and he eyed the other wistfully.
“I’m sorry—” began the
visitor.
“Is he hurt?” demanded the
mother, wildly.
The visitor bowed in
assent. “Badly hurt,” he said, quietly, “but he is not in any pain.”
“Oh, thank God!” said the
old woman, clasping her hands. “Thank God for that! Thank—”
She broke off suddenly as
the sinister meaning of the assurance dawned upon her and she saw the awful
confirmation of her fears in the other’s perverted face. She caught her
breath, and turning to her slower-witted husband, laid her trembling old hand
upon his. There was a long silence.
“He was caught in the
machinery,” said the visitor at length in a low voice.
“Caught in the machinery,”
repeated Mr. White, in a dazed fashion, “yes.”
He sat staring blankly out
at the window, and taking his wife’s hand between his own, pressed it as he had
been wont to do in their old courting-days nearly forty years before.
“He was the only one left
to us,” he said, turning gently to the visitor. “It is hard.”
The other coughed, and
rising, walked slowly to the window. “The firm wished me to convey their
sincere sympathy with you in your great loss,” he said, without looking
round. “I beg that you will understand I am only their servant and merely
obeying orders.”
There was no reply; the old
woman’s face was white, her eyes staring, and her breath inaudible; on the
husband’s face was a look such as his friend the sergeant might have carried
into his first action.
“I was to say that Maw and Meggins disclaim
all responsibility,” continued the other. “They admit no liability at
all, but in consideration of your son’s services, they wish to present you with
a certain sum as compensation.”
Mr. White dropped his
wife’s hand, and rising to his feet, gazed with a look of horror at his
visitor. His dry lips shaped the words, “How much?”
“Two hundred pounds,” was
the answer.
Unconscious of his wife’s
shriek, the old man smiled faintly, put out his hands like a sightless man, and
dropped, a senseless heap, to the floor.
In the huge new cemetery,
some two miles distant, the old people buried their dead, and came back to a
house steeped in shadow and silence. It was all over so quickly
that at first they could hardly realize it, and remained in a state of
expectation as though of something else to happen —something else which was to
lighten this load, too heavy for old hearts to bear.
But the days passed, and
expectation gave place to resignation—the hopeless resignation of the old,
sometimes miscalled, apathy. Sometimes they hardly
exchanged a word, for now they had nothing to talk about, and their days were
long to weariness.
It was about a week after
that the old man, waking suddenly in the night, stretched out his hand and
found himself alone. The room was in darkness, and the sound of subdued
weeping came from the window. He raised himself in bed and listened.
“Come back,” he said,
tenderly. “You will be cold.”
“It is colder for my son,”
said the old woman, and wept afresh.
The sound of her sobs died
away on his ears. The bed was warm, and his eyes heavy with sleep.
He dozed fitfully, and then slept until a sudden wild cry from his wife awoke
him with a start.
“The paw!” she cried
wildly. “The monkey’s paw!”
He started up in
alarm. “Where? Where is it? What’s the matter?”
She came stumbling across
the room toward him. “I want it,” she said, quietly. “You’ve not
destroyed it?”
“It’s in the parlour, on
the bracket,” he replied, marvelling. “Why?”
She cried and laughed
together, and bending over, kissed his cheek.
“I only just thought of
it,” she said, hysterically. “Why didn’t I think of it before? Why
didn’t you think of it?”
“Think of what?” he
questioned.
“The other two wishes,” she
replied, rapidly.
“We’ve only had one.”
“Was not that enough?” he
demanded, fiercely.
“No,” she cried,
triumphantly; “we’ll have one more. Go down and get it quickly, and wish
our boy alive again.”
The man sat up in bed and flung the bedclothes from his
quaking limbs. “Good God, you are mad!” he cried, aghast.
“Get it,” she panted; “get it quickly, and
wish—Oh, my boy, my boy!”
Her husband struck a match
and lit the candle. “Get back to bed,” he said, unsteadily. “You
don’t know what you are saying.”
“We had the first wish
granted,” said the old woman, feverishly; “why not the second?”
“A coincidence,” stammered
the old man.
“Go and get it and wish,”
cried his wife, quivering with excitement.
The old man turned and
regarded her, and his voice shook. “He has been dead ten days, and
besides he—I would not tell you else, but—I could only recognize him by his
clothing. If he was too terrible for you to see then, how now?”
“Bring him back,” cried the
old woman, and dragged him toward the door. “Do you think I fear the
child I have nursed?”
He went down in the
darkness, and felt his way to the parlour, and then to the mantelpiece.
The talisman was in its place, and a horrible fear that the unspoken wish might
bring his mutilated son before him ere he could escape from the room seized upon
him, and he caught his breath as he found that he had lost the direction of the
door. His brow cold with sweat, he felt his way round the table, and
groped along the wall until he found himself in the small passage with the
unwholesome thing in his hand.
Even his wife’s face seemed
changed as he entered the room. It was white and expectant, and to his
fears seemed to have an unnatural look upon it. He was afraid of her.
“Wish!” she cried, in a
strong voice.
“It is foolish and wicked,”
he faltered.
“Wish!” repeated his wife.
He raised his hand.
“I wish my son alive again.”
The talisman fell to the floor, and he regarded it
fearfully. Then he sank trembling into a chair as the old woman, with burning
eyes, walked to the window and raised the blind.
He sat until he was chilled
with the cold, glancing occasionally at the figure of the old woman peering
through the window. The candle-end, which had burned below the rim of the
china candlestick, was throwing pulsating shadows on the ceiling and walls, until, with a flicker
larger than the rest, it expired. The old man, with an unspeakable sense
of relief at the failure of the talisman, crept back to his bed, and a minute
or two afterward the old woman came silently and apathetically beside him.
Neither spoke, but lay
silently listening to the ticking of the clock. A stair creaked, and a
squeaky mouse scurried noisily through the wall. The darkness was
oppressive, and after lying for some time screwing up his courage, he took the
box of matches, and striking one, went downstairs for a candle.
At the foot of the stairs
the match went out, and he paused to strike another; and at the same moment a
knock, so quiet and stealthy as to be scarcely audible, sounded on the front
door.
The matches fell from his
hand and spilled in the passage. He stood motionless, his breath
suspended until the knock was repeated. Then he turned and fled swiftly
back to his room, and closed the door behind him. A third knock sounded through
the house.
“What’s that?” cried the
old woman, starting up.
“A rat,” said the old man
in shaking tones—“a rat. It passed me on the stairs.”
His wife sat up in bed
listening. A loud knock resounded through the house.
“It’s Herbert!” she
screamed. “It’s Herbert!”
She ran to the door, but
her husband was before her, and catching her by the arm, held her tightly.
“What are you going to do?”
he whispered hoarsely.
“It’s my boy; it’s
Herbert!” she cried, struggling mechanically. “I forgot it was two miles
away. What are you holding me for? Let go. I must open the
door.
“For God’s sake don’t let
it in,” cried the old man, trembling.
“You’re afraid of your own
son,” she cried, struggling. “Let me go. I’m coming, Herbert; I’m
coming.”
There was another knock,
and another. The old woman with a sudden wrench broke free and ran from the
room. Her husband followed to the landing, and called after her
appealingly as she hurried downstairs. He heard the chain rattle back and
the bottom bolt drawn slowly and stiffly from the socket. Then the old
woman’s voice, strained and panting.
“The bolt,” she cried,
loudly. “Come down. I can’t reach it.”
But her husband was on his
hands and knees groping wildly on the floor in search of the paw. If he
could only find it before the thing outside got in. A perfect fusillade
of knocks reverberated through the house, and he heard the scraping of a chair
as his wife put it down in the passage against the door. He heard the
creaking of the bolt as it came slowly back, and at the same moment he found
the monkey’s paw, and frantically breathed his third and last wish.
The knocking ceased
suddenly, although the echoes of it were still in the house. He heard the
chair drawn back, and the door opened. A cold wind rushed up the
staircase, and a long loud wail of disappointment and misery from his wife gave
him courage to run down to her side, and then to the gate beyond. The
street lamp flickering opposite shone on a
quiet and deserted road.
