The Monkey’s Paw / Обезьянья лапа. Уильям Джейкобс

a dramatic disappearance, isn't it?” she continued. “Another scrape, I suppose, and another letter for you in the same old strain; 'Dear Jem, help me out.'”

      Jem Benson blew a cloud of fragrant smoke into the air, and holding his cigar between his teeth brushed away the ash from his coat sleeves.

      “I wonder what he would have done without you,” said the girl, pressing his arm affectionately. “Gone under long ago, I suppose. When we are married, Jem, I shall presume upon the relationship to lecture him. He is very wild, but he has his good points, poor fellow.”

      “I never saw them,” said Benson, with startling bitterness. “God knows I never saw them.”

      “He is nobody's enemy but his own,” said the girl, startled by this outburst.

      “You don't know much about him,” said the other, sharply. “He was not above blackmail; not above ruining the life of a friend to do himself a benefit. A loafer, a cur, and a liar!”

      The girl looked up at him soberly but timidly and took his arm without a word, and they both sat silent while evening deepened into night and the beams of the moon, filtering through the branches, surrounded them with a silver network. Her head sank upon his shoulder, till suddenly with a sharp cry she sprang to her feet.

      “What was that?” she cried breathlessly.

      “What was what?” demanded Benson, springing up and clutching her fast by the arm.

      She caught her breath and tried to laugh.

      “You're hurting me, Jem.”

      His hold relaxed.

      “What is the matter?” he asked gently.

      “What was it startled you?”

      “I was startled,” she said, slowly, putting her hands on his shoulder. “I suppose the words I used just now are ringing in my ears, but I fancied that somebody behind us whispered 'Jem, help me out.'”

      “Fancy,” repeated Benson, and his voice shook; “but these fancies are not good for you. You – are frightened – at the dark and the gloom of these trees. Let me take you back to the house.”

      “No, I'm not frightened,” said the girl, reseating herself. “I should never be really frightened of anything when you were with me, Jem. I'm surprised at myself for being so silly.”

      The man made no reply but stood, a strong, dark figure, a yard or two from the well, as though waiting for her to join him.

      “Come and sit down, sir,” cried Olive, patting the brickwork with her small, white hand, “one would think that you did not like your company.”

      He obeyed slowly and took a seat by her side, drawing so hard at his cigar that the light of it shone upon his face at every breath. He passed his arm, firm and rigid as steel, behind her, with his hand resting on the brickwork beyond.

      “Are you warm enough?” he asked tenderly, as she made a little movement. “Pretty fair,” she shivered; “one oughtn't to be cold at this time of the year, but there's a cold, damp air comes up from the well.”

      As she spoke a faint splash sounded from the depths below, and for the second time that evening, she sprang from the well with a little cry of dismay.

      “What is it now?” he asked in a fearful voice. He stood by her side and gazed at the well, as though half expecting to see the cause of her alarm emerge from it.

      “Oh, my bracelet,” she cried in distress, “my poor mother's bracelet. I've dropped it down the well.”

      “Your bracelet!” repeated Benson, dully. “Your bracelet? The diamond one?”

      “The one that was my mother's,” said Olive. “Oh, we can get it back surely. We must have the water drained off.”

      “Your bracelet!” repeated Benson, stupidly.

      “Jem,” said the girl in terrified tones, “dear Jem, what is the matter?”

      For the man she loved was standing regarding her with horror. The moon which touched it was not responsible for all the whiteness of the distorted face, and she shrank back in fear to the edge of the well. He saw her fear and by a mighty effort regained his composure and took her hand.

      “Poor little girl,” he murmured, “you frightened me. I was not looking when you cried, and I thought that you were slipping from my arms, down – down-”

      His voice broke, and the girl throwing herself into his arms clung to him convulsively.

      “There, there,” said Benson, fondly, “don't cry, don't cry.”

      “To-morrow,” said Olive, half-laughing, half-crying, “we will all come round the well with hook and line and fish for it. It will be quite a new sport.”

      “No, we must try some other way,” said Benson. “You shall have it back.”

      “How?” asked the girl.

      “You shall see,” said Benson. “To-morrow morning at latest you shall have it back. Till then promise me that you will not mention your loss to anyone. Promise.”

      “I promise,” said Olive, wonderingly. “But why not?”

      “It is of great value, for one thing, and – But there – there are many reasons. For one thing it is my duty to get it for you.”

      “Wouldn't you like to jump down for it?” she asked mischievously. “Listen.”

      She stooped for a stone and dropped it down.

      “Fancy being where that is now,” she said, peering into the blackness; “fancy going round and round like a mouse in a pail, clutching at the slimy sides, with the water filling your mouth, and looking up to the little patch of sky above.”

      “You had better come in,” said Benson, very quietly. “You are developing a taste for the morbid and horrible.”

      The girl turned, and taking his arm walked slowly in the direction of the house; Mrs. Benson, who was sitting in the porch, rose to receive them.

      “You shouldn't have kept her out so long,” she said chidingly. “Where have you been?”

      “Sitting on the well,” said Olive, smiling, “discussing our future.”

      “I don't believe that place is healthy,” said Mrs. Benson, emphatically. “I really think it might be filled in, Jem.”

      “All right,” said her son, slowly. “Pity it wasn't filled in long ago.”

      He took the chair vacated by his mother as she entered the house with Olive, and with his hands hanging limply over the sides sat in deep thought. After a time he rose, and going upstairs to a room which was set apart for sporting requisites selected a sea fishing line and some hooks and stole softly downstairs again. He walked swiftly across the park in the direction of the well, turning before he entered the shadow of the trees to look back at the lighted windows of the house. Then having arranged his line he sat on the edge of the well and cautiously lowered it.

      He sat with his lips compressed, occasionally looking about him in a startled fashion, as though he half expected to see something peering at him from the belt of trees. Time after time he lowered his line until at length in pulling it up he heard a little metallic tinkle against the side of the well.

      He held his breath then, and forgetting his fears drew the line in inch by inch, so as not to lose its precious burden. His pulse beat rapidly, and his eyes were bright. As the line came slowly in he saw the catch hanging to the hook, and with a steady hand drew the last few feet in. Then he saw that instead of the bracelet he had hooked a bunch of keys.

      With a faint cry he shook them from the hook into the water below, and stood breathing heavily. Not a sound broke the stillness of the night. He walked up and down a bit and stretched his great muscles; then he came back to the well and resumed his task.

      For an hour or more the line was lowered without result. In his eagerness he forgot