The next morning dawned with a brightness that seemed almost mocking. The wintry sun poured through the windows of Laburnum Villa, gilding the breakfast table with soft light. Its wholesome warmth washed away the lingering shadows of the stormy night before, and for a moment, the small house seemed immune to superstition and dread.
Mr. White chuckled as he buttered his bread, shaking his head at himself. What a fool I was to sit by the fire, staring at that ugly little thing as though it were alive. On the sideboard lay the monkey's paw, discarded without ceremony. Shriveled and dirty, it looked no more magical than a scrap of dried leather.
"I suppose all old soldiers are the same," Mrs. White remarked, pouring tea with a satisfied clink of china. "The idea of our listening to such nonsense! How could wishes be granted these days? And even if they could—how could two hundred pounds hurt you, father?"
Herbert, cheerful as ever, leaned back in his chair with a mischievous grin. "Might drop on his head from the sky," he said, his tone playful.
Mr. White frowned slightly, though not without amusement. "Morris said the things happened so naturally that you could always blame coincidence if you wanted."
Herbert rose from his chair, brushing the crumbs from his trousers. "Well, don't spend it all before I come home tonight. I'd hate to return to a father transformed into a miserly tyrant. I'll be forced to disown you if you start hoarding gold and glaring at passersby."
His mother chuckled, following him to the door. She fussed with his coat as mothers do, and watched him stride down the road, his whistle carrying faintly in the crisp morning air. When she returned to the table, she teased her husband good-naturedly about his "superstitious streak," enjoying her morning at his expense.
Still, she could not resist the quickening of her heartbeat when the postman knocked. She hurried to the door, a spark of hope in her eyes. Perhaps… just perhaps… But the envelope was only a tailor's bill. With a sharp sigh, she muttered something about retired sergeants and their drinking habits, then tucked the paper away.
At dinner, her mood was lighter. "Herbert will have plenty of funny remarks tonight," she said, setting down the plates.
Mr. White grunted, pouring himself a glass of beer. "Perhaps. But all the same, the thing moved in my hand. That, I'll swear to."
His wife gave him a soft, patient smile, the kind one might give to a child with a fanciful story. "You thought it did."
"No," he said stubbornly, setting down his fork with a sharp clink. "I say it did. I felt it twist." His words hung heavy in the room.
Mrs. White opened her mouth to reply, but her attention suddenly shifted. She was staring past her husband's shoulder, her eyes fixed on the window. A man lingered outside, pacing slowly before the gate. He looked toward the house, then away again, as though torn by indecision.
Her heart gave a faint lurch. He was well-dressed, his suit freshly pressed, his silk hat gleaming in the sun. In the space of a breath, her thoughts leapt to the wish. Two hundred pounds… Could it be?
Three times the stranger passed the gate without entering. The fourth time, he stopped, hand resting on the latch. With sudden resolve, he flung it open and strode up the path. Mrs. White quickly untied her apron strings and stuffed the garment beneath a chair cushion before her visitor could knock.
The man entered stiffly when invited. He carried himself with the politeness of someone trained to observe rules, but unease clung to him like a shadow. His eyes flicked over the humble furniture, over Mr. White's worn garden coat, but he did not seem to see them. His thoughts were elsewhere.
Mrs. White, unable to contain herself, leaned forward. "Yes? What is it, sir? What business brings you here?"
The visitor cleared his throat, bending to pluck an invisible thread from his trousers. "I was asked to call," he said, his voice oddly stilted. "I come from Maw and Meggins."
The name fell like a stone in the room. Mrs. White's face drained of color. "Is anything the matter?" she whispered. "Has anything happened to Herbert? What is it? Tell me—what is it?"
Her husband raised a calming hand. "Now, now, mother. Don't leap to conclusions." His voice wavered despite his effort to sound steady. "You've not brought us bad news, I'm sure, sir?"
The man swallowed, shifting uncomfortably beneath their desperate gazes. "I'm sorry—"
Mrs. White sprang to her feet, her voice trembling. "Is he hurt?"
The visitor bowed his head. "Badly hurt," he admitted softly. "But he is not in any pain."
A great sigh burst from Mrs. White. "Oh, thank God for that!" she cried, pressing her hands together. "Thank God—thank—" Her words faltered. The man's face was averted, his shoulders heavy with sorrow. The truth struck her like a blow. Her breath caught, and she clutched her husband's hand with fingers that shook violently.
The silence stretched, broken only by the ticking of the clock. At last, the visitor spoke, his voice low. "He was caught in the machinery."
Mr. White repeated the words numbly, as if trying to anchor himself. "Caught… in the machinery. Yes." He stared blankly out the window, then clasped his wife's trembling hand between his own, pressing it as tenderly as he had in their youth.
"He was our only child," he whispered. "The only one left to us. This is… too hard."
The visitor coughed awkwardly and moved to the window, turning his back. "The firm wishes me to convey their sincere sympathy in your great loss. Please understand, I am only their messenger, bound by orders."
The Whites sat frozen. Mrs. White's face was white as marble, her breath shallow. Mr. White's expression bore the stunned, vacant look of a soldier walking into his first battle, unprepared.
The man continued, his words falling like lead. "Maw and Meggins disclaim all responsibility. They admit no liability. But… in consideration of your son's services, they wish to present you with a sum as compensation."
The air grew suffocating. Mr. White let go of his wife's hand and stood stiffly, his dry lips barely moving. "How much?"
The man's answer was a quiet hammer-blow. "Two hundred pounds."
Mrs. White screamed—a raw, heart-rending cry—and collapsed into her chair. Mr. White gave a faint, twisted smile, like a blind man reaching in darkness. He stretched out his hands, staggered, and fell heavily to the floor, senseless.
The monkey's paw lay where it had been flung the night before, shriveled and silent.
And the price of their first wish had been paid.