Between the Dark and the Daylight

by Richard Marsh

  "I meant to come to Dieppe. I thought you knew it."

  She had known it; all pretence to the contrary was brushed away like so much cobweb. And she knew that he knew she knew it. It was dreadful. What could she say to this extraordinary man? She blundered from bad to worse. Fumbling with the buttons of her little jacket she took out from some inner receptacle a small flat leather case.

  "I think this got into that box of chocolates by mistake."

  He glanced at it out of the corner of his eye, then continued to draw figures on the pavement with the ferrule of his stick.

  "No mistake. I put it there. I thought you'd understand."

  Thought she would understand! What did he think she would understand? Did the man suppose that everyone took things for granted?

  "I think it was a mistake."

  "How? When I sent to New York for it specially for you?" So that question was solved. She was conscious of a small flutter of satisfaction. "Don't you think it's pretty?"

  "It's beautiful." She gathered her courage.

  "But you must take it back."

  "Take it back! Take it back! I didn't think you were the kind of woman that would want to make a man unhappy."

  Nothing was further from her desire.

  "I am not in the habit of accepting presents from strangers."

  "That's just it. It's because I knew you weren't that I gave it to you."

  "But you're a stranger to me."

  "I didn't look at it in just that way."

  "I know nothing of you."

  "I'm sorry. I thought you knew what kind of man I am, as I know what kind of woman you are—and am glad to know it. If it's my record you'd like to be acquainted with, I'm ready to set forth the life and adventures of Ezra G. Huhn at full length whenever you've an hour or two or a day or two to spare. Or I can refer you for them to my lawyer, or to my banker, or to my doctor, according to what part of me it is on which you'd like to have accurate information."

  She could not hint that she would like to listen to a chapter or two of his adventures there and then, though some such idea was at the back of her mind. While she was groping for words he stood up, repeating his original suggestion.

  "Come with me into the Casino."

  She rose also. Not because she wished to; but because—such was the confusion of her mental processes—she found it easier to agree than to differ. They moved across the square. The flat leather case was in her hand.

  "Have you found the locket?"

  "Yes."

  She blushed; but she was a continual blush.

  "Good portrait of me, isn't it?"

  "Excellent."

  "I had it done for my mother. When she was dying I wanted it to be buried with her. But she wouldn't have it. She said I was to give it to—someone else one day. Then I didn't think there ever would be a someone else. But when I met you I sent it to New York and had it mounted in that bracelet—for you."

  It was absurd what a little self-control she had. Instead of retorting with something smart, or pretty, or sentimental, she was tongue-tied. Her eyes filled with tears. But he did not seem to notice it. He went on.

  "You'll have to give me one of yours."

  "I—I haven't one."

  "Then we'll have to set about getting one. I'll have to look round for someone who'll be likely to do you justice, though it isn't to be expected that we shall find anyone who'll be able to do quite that."

  It was the nearest approach to a compliment he had paid her; probably the first pretty thing which had been said to her by any man. It set her trembling so that, for a moment, she swayed as if she would fall. They were passing through the gate into the Casino grounds. He looked at the case which she still had in her hand.

  "Put that in your pocket."

  "I haven't one."

  She was the personification of all meekness.

  "Then where did you have it?"

  "Inside my jacket."

  "Put it back there. I can't carry it. That's part of the burden you'll have to carry, henceforward, all alone."

  She did not stop to think what he meant. She simply obeyed. When the jacket was buttoned the case showed through the cloth. Even in the midst of her tremors she was aware that his eyes kept travelling towards the tell-tale patch. For some odd reason she was glad they did.

  They passed from the radiance of the autumn afternoon into the chamber of the "little horses." The change was almost dramatic in its completeness. From this place the sunshine had been for some time excluded. The blinds were drawn. It was garishly lighted. Although the room was large and lofty, owing to the absence of ventilation, the abundance of gas, the crowd of people, the atmosphere was horrible. There was a continual buzz; an unresting clatter. The noise of people in motion; the hum of their voices; the strident tones of the tourneur, as he made his various monotonous announcements; all these assisted in the formation of what, to an unaccustomed ear, was a strange cacophony. She shrank towards Mr. Huhn as if afraid.

  "What are they doing?" she asked.

  Instead of answering he led her forward to the dais on which the nine little horses were the observed of all observers, where the tourneur stood with his assistant with, in front and on either side of him, the tables about which the players were grouped. At the moment the leaden steeds were whirling round. She watched them, fascinated. People were speaking on their right.

  "C'est le huit qui gagne."

  "Non; le huit est mort. C'est le six."

  Someone said behind her, in English:—

  "Jack's all right; one wins. Confound the brute, he's gone right on!"

  The horses ceased to move.

  "Le numéro cinq!" shouted the tourneur, laying a strong nasal stress upon the numeral.

  There were murmurs of disgust from the bettors on the columns. Miss Donne perceived that money was displayed upon baize-covered tables. The croupiers thrust out wooden rakes to draw it towards them. At the table on her right there seemed to be only a single winner. Several five-franc pieces were passed to a woman who was twiddling a number of them between her fingers.

  "Are they gambling?" asked Miss Donne.

  "Well, I shouldn't call it gambling. This is a little toy by means of which the proprietor makes a good and regular income out of public contributions. These are some of the contributors."

  Miss Donne did not understand him—did not even try to. She was all eyes for what was taking place about her. Money was being staked afresh. The horses were whirling round again. This time No. 7 was the winning horse. There were acclamations. Several persons had staked on seven. It appeared that that particular number was "overdue." Someone rose from a chair beside her.

  Mr. Huhn made a sudden suggestion.

  "Sit down." She sat down. "Let's contribute a franc or two to the support of this deserving person's wife and family. Where's your purse?" She showed that her purse—a silver chain affair—was attached to her belt. "Find a franc." Whether or not she had a coin of that denomination did not appear. She produced a five-franc piece. "That's a large piece of money. What shall we put it on?"

  Someone who was seated on the next chair said:—

  "The run's on five."

  "Then let's be on the run. That's it, in the centre there. That's the particular number which enables the owner of this little toy to keep a roof above his head."

  As she held the coin in front of her with apparently uncertain fingers, as if still doubtful what it was she had to do, her neighbour, taking it from her with a smile, laid it upon five.

  "Le jeu est fait!" cried the tourneur. "Rien ne va plus!"

  He started the horses whirling round.

  Then with a shock, she seemed to wake from a dream. She sprang from her chair, staring at her five-franc piece with wide-open eyes. People smiled. The croupiers gazed at her indulgently. There was that about her which made it obvious that to such a scene she was a stranger. They supposed that, like some eager child, she could not conceal her anxiety for the safety of
her stake. Although surprised at her display of a degree of interest which was altogether beyond what the occasion seemed to warrant, Mr. Huhn thought with them.

  "Don't be alarmed," he murmured in her ear. "You may take it for granted that it's gone, and may console yourself with the reflection that it goes to minister to the wants of a mother and her children. That's the philosophical point of view. And it may be the right one."

  Her hand twitched, as if she found the temptation to snatch back her stake before it was gone for ever almost more than she could bear. Mr. Huhn caught her arm.

  "Hush! That sort of thing is not allowed."

  The horses stopped. The tourneur proclaimed the winner.

  "Le numéro cinq!"

  "Bravo!" exclaimed the neighbour who had placed the stake for her. "You have won. I told you the run was on five."

  "Shorn the shearers," commented Mr. Huhn. "You see, that's the way to make a fortune, only I shouldn't advise you to go further than the initiatory lesson."

  The croupier pushed over her own coin and seven others. Her neighbour held them up to her.

  "Your winnings."

  She drew back.

  "It's not mine."

  Her neighbour laughed outright. People were visibly smiling. Mr. Huhn took the pile of coins from the stranger's hand.

  "They are yours; take them." Him she obeyed with the docility of a child. "Come let us go."

  He led the way to the door which opened on to the terrace. She followed, meekly. It seemed that the eight coins were more than she could conveniently carry in one hand; for, as she went, she dropped one on to the floor. An attendant, picking it up, returned it to her with a grin. Indeed, the whole room was on the titter, the incident was so very amusing. They asked themselves if she was mad, or just a simpleton. And, in a fashion, considering that her first youth was passed, she really was so pretty! Mr. Huhn was more moved than, in that place, he would have cared to admit. Something in her attitude in the way she looked at him when he bade her take the money, had filled him with a sense of shame.

  Between their going in and coming out the sky had changed. The shadows were lowering. The autumnal day was drawing to a close. September had brought more than a suggestion of winter's breath. A grey chill followed the departing sun. They went up, then down, the terrace, without exchanging a word; then, moving aside, he offered her one of the wicker-seated chairs which stood against the wall. She sat on it. He sat opposite, leaning on the handle of his stick. The thin mist which was stealing across the leaden sea did not invite lounging out of doors. They had the terrace to themselves. She let her five-franc pieces drop with a clinking sound on to her lap. He, conscious of something on her face which he was unwilling to confront, looked steadily seaward. Presently she gave utterance to her pent-up feelings.

  "I am a gambler."

  Had she accused herself of the unforgivable sin she could not have seemed more serious. Somewhere within him was a laughing sprite. In view of her genuine distress he did his best to keep it in subjection.

  "You exaggerate. Staking a five-franc piece—for the good of the house—on the petits chevaux does not make you that, any more than taking a glass of wine makes you a drunkard."

  "Why did you make me, why did you let me, do it?"

  "I didn't know you felt that way."

  "And yet you said you knew me!"

  He winched. He had told a falsehood. He did know her—there was the sting. In mischievous mood he had induced her to do the thing which he suspected that she held to be wrong. He had not supposed that she would take it so seriously, especially if she won, being aware that there are persons who condemn gambling when they or those belonging to them lose, but who lean more towards the side of charity when they win. He did not know what to say to her, so he said nothing.

  "My father once lost over four hundred pounds on a horse-race. I don't quite know how it was, I was only a child. He was in business at the time. I believe it ruined him, and it nearly broke my mother's heart. I promised her that I would never gamble—and now I have."

  He felt that this was one of those women whose moral eye is single—with whom it is better to be frank.

  "I confess I felt that you might have scruples on the point; but I thought you would look upon a single stake of a single five-franc piece as a jest. Many American women—and many Englishwomen—who would be horrified if you called them gamblers, go into the rooms at Monte Carlo and lose or win a louis or two just for the sake of the joke."

  "For the sake of the joke! Gamble for the sake of the joke! Are you a Jesuit?" The question so took him by surprise that he turned and stared at her. "I have always understood that that is how Jesuits reason—that they try to make out that black is white. I hope—I hope you don't do that?"

  He smiled grimly, his thoughts recurring to some of the "deals" in which his success had made him the well-to-do man he was.

  "Sometimes the two colours merge so imperceptibly into one another that it's hard to tell just where the conjunction begins. You want keen sight to do it. But here you're right and I'm wrong; there's no two words about it. It was I who made you stake that five-franc piece; and I'd no right to make you stake buttons if it was against your principles. Your standard's like my mother's. I hope that mine will grow nearer to it. I ask you to forgive me for leading you astray."

  "I ought not to have been so weak."

  "You had to—when I was there to make you."

  She was still; though it is doubtful if she grasped the full meaning his words conveyed. If he had been watching her he would have seen that by degrees something like the suggestion of a smile seem to wrinkle the corners of her lips. When she spoke again it was in half a whisper.

  "I'm sorry, I should seem to you to be so silly."

  "You don't. You mustn't say it. You seem to me to be the wisest woman I ever met."

  "That must be because you've known so few—or else you're laughing. No one who has ever known me has thought me wise. If I were wise I should know what to do with this."

  "She motioned towards the money on her lap.

  "Throw it into the sea."

  "But it isn't mine."

  "It's yours as much as anyone else's. If you come to first causes you'll find it hard to name the rightful owner—in God's sight—for any one thing. There's been too much swapping of horses. You'll find plenty who are in need."

  "It would carry a curse with it. Money won in gambling!"

  He looked at his watch.

  "It's time that you and I thought about dinner. We'll adjourn the discussion as to what is to be done with the fruit of our iniquity. I say 'our,' because that I'm the principal criminal is as plain as paint. Sleep on it; perhaps you'll see clearer in the morning. Put it in your pocket."

  "Haven't I told you already that I haven't a pocket? And if I had I shouldn't put this money in it. I should feel that that was half-way towards keeping it."

  "Then let me be the bearer of the burden."

  "No; I don't wish the taint to be conveyed to you." He laughed outright. "There now you are laughing!"

  "I was laughing because—" he was on the verge of saying "because I love you;" but something induced him to substitute—"because I love to hear you talking."

  She glanced at him with smiling eyes. His gaze was turned towards what was now the shrouded sea. Neither spoke during the three minutes of brisk walking which was required to reach the Hotel de Paris, she carrying the money, four five-franc pieces, gripped tightly in either hand.

  In his phrase, she slept on it, though the fashion of the sleeping was a little strange. The next morning she sallied forth to put into execution the resolve at which she had arrived. I was early, though not so early as she would have wished, because, concluding that all Dieppe did not rise with the lark, she judged it as well to take her coffee and roll before she took the air. It promised to be a glorious day. The atmosphere was filled with a golden haze, through which the sun was gleaming. As she went through the gate of the Port
d'Ouest she came upon a man who was selling little metal effigies of the flags of various nations. From him she made a purchase—the Stars and Stripes. This she pinned inside her blouse, on the left, smiling to herself as she did so. Then she marched straight off into the Casino.

  The salle de jeu had but a single occupant, a tourneur who was engaged in dusting the little horses. To enable him to perform the necessary offices he removed the steeds from their places one after the other. As it chanced he was the identical individual who had been responsible for the course which had crowned Miss Doone with victory. With that keen vision which is characteristic of his class the man recognised her on the instant. Bowing and smiling he held out to her the horse which he was holding.

  "Vlà madame, le numéro cinq! C'est lui qui a porté le bonheur à madame."

  It was, indeed, the horse which represented the number on which she had staked her five-franc piece. By an odd accident she had arrived just as its toilet was being performed. She observed what an excellent model it was with somewhat doubtful eyes, as if fearful of its being warranted neither steady nor free from vice.

  "I have brought back the seven five-franc pieces which I—took away with me."

  She held out the coins. As if at a loss he looked from them to her.

  "But, madame, I do not understand."

  "I can have nothing to do with money which is the fruit of gambling."

  "But madame played."

  "It was a misunderstanding. A mistake. It was not my intention. It is on that account I have come to return this money."

  "Return?—to whom?—the administration? The administration will not accept it. It is impossible. What it has lost it has lost; there is an end."

  "But I insist on returning it; and if I insist it must be accepted; especially when I tell you it is all a mistake."

  The tourneur shrugged his shoulders.

  "If madame does not want the money, and will give it to me, I will see what I can do with it." She handed him the coins; he transferred them to the board at his back. Then he held out to her the horse which he had been dusting. "See, madame, is it not a perfect model? And feel how heavy—over three kilos, more than six English pounds. When you consider that there are nine horses, all exactly the same weight, you will perceive that it is not easy work to be a tourneur. That toy horse is worth much more to the administration than if it were a real horse; it is from the Number Five that all this comes."