THE MONSTER COMES
"A wicked man is loathsome and cometh to shame."--Prov. xiii, 5
The ogre was approaching his castle.
In other words Peter Grimes, after his conference with Messrs Bailey
and Swazey, was on his way to his bog-infested farm. He was
supremely happy and self-satisfied. Riches unlimited gleamed in
perspective before his eyes as did a bag of oats before the eyes of
his horse. His former exploits counted as nothing beside the
undertaking upon which he had now embarked under the leadership of
the brilliant Bailey. Peter twisted and writhed in very enjoyment of
the prospect. And because he was happy he felt cruel--murderously
cruel. He wanted to celebrate.
Had it not been for the swamps he might have reached home by a short
cut. That being impossible he drove direct from the court house
square down to the river road, followed it to the point where it
crossed the old turnpike, thence along the pike until he came to the
narrow, tortuous road, traversed only by those who went to and from
the Grimes farm. It was while covering this last stage of his
journey that Peter remembered his mail.
He felt of his pockets to assure himself that it was all safe. It
was. A corner of the cumbersome parcel came in contact with his
horny hand.
"What'n hell--" he muttered, then paused in the very act of
withdrawing the parcel to give his attention to the horse.
Old Walter had halted. He had arrived at the castle gate. There was
a bog to the right of him, a bog to the left of him, a monster behind
him and an impassable barrier almost at the end of his nose. Being
an intelligent animal despite his environment, he halted.
Peter did not shout for Maria. His thoughts were far away from home
and family. Slowly he writhed and twisted down over the wheel of the
buggy until he stood erect upon the ground. Then, taking hold of the
horse's bridle, Grimes told him to back. Walter backed sufficiently
to permit Grimes to pass between him and the high gate. Feeling in
his pocket for the key Peter's hand again came against the parcel.
This time he drew it forth.
It was a light pasteboard box, not very securely wrapped and tied
with ordinary cord. With one jerk of his huge thumb he broke the
cord, then tore away the paper and opened the box. In it, lying
among wrappings of tissue, was a doll. A baby doll with cherubic
face, winning smile and arms and hands reaching upward as if pleading
for some little mother to lift it up and snuggle it in her arms.
But the sound that rumbled from the throat of Peter Grimes at sight
of the dainty toy was not one of joyous appreciation. As a
combination of snort and grunt any one of his ugly, forbidding
looking hogs might have been proud of it. Taking the doll from its
wrappings he held it in his hand and examined the card pinned to its
white dress.
"to my darling Amy, with love from her Mammy."
The words were written by the same hand that had penned the letter
containing the dollar bills. It reminded Peter that he had been
interrupted before he had finished reading that letter. Crushing the
doll under his arm, he pulled the missive from the pocket where he
had stowed it, smoothed out the crumpled paper and read the few
sentences scrawled across its surface.
"Deer Mister Grimes, i send you this money. it is all i hev .. i hev
been awful sick so i cudent pay like i giv you my word, when i git
better i will send more. I know little Amy has growd. i wud like
for to see her. i am glad she is at your farm whar things is good
fer her. i pray God to take keer of her till i kin hev her agin,
yours truly Ruthena Potts."
Peter snorted again as he finished reading. This time the snort
sounded more like a growl. He gnashed his teeth, crumpled the
pathetic message in his fist and dropped it to the ground. Turning,
his heel trod it into the earth. Then he took the doll from under
his arm and surveyed it again. The smile on its face maddened him.
The appealing little hands seemed to strike at his heart. Damn it!
He wasn't going to have that thing on the premises. The living
children were enough to have to face, without being haunted by
something that looked like a dead one. He wanted to see a child run
and scream, like a tortured mouse. This doll was passive, peaceful,
trusting--bah! He hated it.
With the thought he flung it, as if it had stung him, out into the
bog. For a moment it lay there, floating on the surface of the black
ooze, sustained by the filmy lightness of its frock. Then the grim
mass reached upward, little by little, over the small body, sucking
it ever downward until finally, only the sweet, smiling face and one
tiny, outstretched arm remained visible.
From where he stood, the monster leered and gloated. Still the sweet
face smiled its tranquil smile, the little arm waved and beckoned.
The black mud lapped on. Now, the little face was blotted out. Only
the arm remained. Would it never disappear? It was going--slowly.
Nothing was left now but the pink, fairy-like hand. It moved with
the fluctuations of the engulfing mud. Was it waving in farewell?
Was it mocking him? Well, let it. It wouldn't wave long. There!
With a gentle, tragic flutter the pathetic little fingers sank from
view. The mud closed over the spot where they went down. It was
gone! The doll that a fond mother had thought would be pressed by
her baby's lips had disappeared forever.
For a moment the monster remained staring at the spot as if some
unseen influence emanating from the doll were tugging at him,
striving to drag him down with it into the depths.
"Bah!" he ejaculated, ridding himself of the quid of tobacco in his
mouth. "Ter hell with hit!"
Then he took the soiled and crumpled dollar bills that the poor
mother had sent him, counted them, smoothed them carefully and placed
them safely within the breast pocket of his coat.
When he entered the castle gate the bigger and better kite that
carried upon its face a message to God from His little ones had been
safely flung to the breeze.