CHAPTER XII

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.