The Monster

by Stephen Crane

  After they were all seated, Trescott looked expectantly from one face to another. There was a little silence. It was broken by John Twelve, the wholesale grocer, who was worth $400,000, and reported to be worth over a million.

  "Well, doctor," he said, with a short laugh, "I suppose we might as well admit at once that we've come to interfere in something which is none of our business."

  "Why, what is it?" asked Trescott, again looking from one face to another. He seemed to appeal particularly to Judge Hagenthorpe, but the old man had his chin lowered musingly to his cane, and would not look at him.

  "It's about what nobody talks of--much," said Twelve. "It's about Henry Johnson."

  Trescott squared himself in his chair. "Yes?" he said.

  Having delivered himself of the title, Twelve seemed to become more easy. "Yes," he answered, blandly, "we wanted to talk to you about it."

  "Yes?" said Trescott.

  Twelve abruptly advanced on the main attack. "Now see here, Trescott, we like you, and we have come to talk right out about this business. It may be none of our affairs and all that, and as for me, I don't mind if you tell me so; but I am not going to keep quiet and see you ruin yourself. And that's how we all feel."

  "I am not ruining myself," answered Trescott.

  "No, maybe you are not exactly ruining yourself," said Twelve, slowly, "but you are doing yourself a great deal of harm. You have changed from being the leading doctor in town to about the last one. It is mainly because there are always a large number of people who are very thoughtless fools, of course, but then that doesn't change the condition."

  A man who had not heretofore spoken said, solemnly, "It's the women."

  "Well, what I want to say is this," resumed Twelve: "Even if there are a lot of fools in the world, we can't see any reason why you should ruin yourself by opposing them. You can't teach them anything, you know."

  "I am not trying to teach them anything." Trescott smiled wearily. "I--It is a matter of--well--"

  "And there are a good many of us that admire you for it immensely," interrupted Twelve; "but that isn't going to change the minds of all those ninnies."

  "It's the women," stated the advocate of this view again.

  "Well, what I want to say is this," said Twelve. "We want you to get out of this trouble and strike your old gait again. You are simply killing your practice through your infernal pig-headedness. Now this thing is out of the ordinary, but there must be ways to-- to beat the game somehow, you see. So we've talked it over--about a dozen of us--and, as I say, if you want to tell us to mind our own business, why, go ahead; but we've talked it over, and we've come to the conclusion that the only way to do is to get Johnson a place somewhere off up the valley, and--"

  Trescott wearily gestured. "You don't know, my friend. Everybody is so afraid of him, they can't even give him good care. Nobody can attend to him as I do myself."

  "But I have a little no-good farm up beyond Clarence Mountain that I was going to give to Henry," cried Twelve, aggrieved. "And if you--and if you--if you--through your house burning down, or anything--why, all the boys were prepared to take him right off your hands, and--and--"

  Trescott arose and went to the window. He turned his back upon them. They sat waiting in silence. When he returned he kept his face in the shadow. "No, John Twelve," he said, "it can't be done."

  There was another stillness. Suddenly a man stirred on his chair.

  "Well, then, a public institution--" he began.

  "No," said Trescott; "public institutions are all very good, but he is not going to one."

  In the background of the group old Judge Hagenthorpe was thoughtfully smoothing the polished ivory head of his cane.

  XXIV.

  Trescott loudly stamped the snow from his feet and shook the flakes from his shoulders. When he entered the house he went at once to the dining-room, and then to the sitting-room. Jimmie was there, reading painfully in a large book concerning giraffes and tigers and crocodiles.

  "Where is your mother, Jimmie?" asked Trescott.

  "I don't know, pa," answered the boy. "I think she is upstairs."

  Trescott went to the foot of the stairs and called, but there came no answer. Seeing that the door of the little drawing-room was open, he entered. The room was bathed in the half-light that came from the four dull panes of mica in the front of the great stove. As his eyes grew used to the shadows he saw his wife curled in an arm-chair. He went to her. "Why, Grace," he said, "didn't you hear me calling you?"

  She made no answer, and as he bent over the chair he heard her trying to smother a sob in the cushion.

  "Grace!" he cried. "You're crying!"

  She raised her face. "I've got a headache, a dreadful headache, Ned."

  "A headache?" he repeated, in surprise and incredulity.

  He pulled a chair close to hers. Later, as he cast his eye over the zone of light shed by the dull red panes, he saw that a low table had been drawn close to the stove, and that it was burdened with many small cups and plates of uncut tea-cake. He remembered that the day was Wednesday, and that his wife received on Wednesdays.

  "Who was here to-day, Gracie?" he asked.

  From his shoulder there came a mumble, "Mrs. Twelve."

  "Was she--um," he said. "Why--didn't Anna Hagenthorpe come over?"

  The mumble from his shoulder continued, "She wasn't well enough."

  Glancing down at the cups, Trescott mechanically counted them. There were fifteen of them. "There, there," he said. "Don't cry, Grace. Don't cry."

  The wind was whining round the house, and the snow beat aslant upon the windows. Sometimes the coal in the stove settled with a crumbling sound, and the four panes of mica flashed a sudden new crimson. As he sat holding her head on his shoulder, Trescott found himself occasionally trying to count the cups. There were fifteen of them.