Between the Dark and the Daylight

by Richard Marsh

  He waved his hand as if to denote the entire building.

  "I thought that public gambling was prohibited in France and in all Christian countries, and that it was only permitted in such haunts of wickedness as Monte Carlo."

  "Gambling? Ah, the little horses is not gambling! It is an amusement."

  A voice addressed her from the other side of the table. It was Mr. Huhn.

  "Didn't I tell you it wasn't gambling? It's as this gentleman says—an amusement; especially for the administration."

  "Ah, yes—in particular for the administration."

  The tourneur laughed. Miss Donne and Mr. Huhn went out together by the same door through which they had gone the night before. They sat on the low wall. He had some towels on his arm; he had been bathing. Already the sea was glowing with the radiance of the sun.

  "So you've relieved yourself of your ill-gotten gains?"

  "I have returned them to the administration."

  "To the — did that gentleman say he would hand those five-franc pieces to the administration?"

  "He said that he would see what he could do with them."

  "Just so. There's no doubt that that is what he will do. So you did sleep upon that burning question?"

  "I did."

  "Then you got the better of me; because I didn't sleep at all."

  "I am sorry."

  "You ought to be, since the fault was yours."

  "Mine! My fault that you didn't sleep!"

  "Do you see what I've got here?"

  He made an upward movement with his hand. For the first time she noticed that in his buttonhole he had a tiny copy of the Union Jack.

  "Did you buy that of the man outside the town gate?"

  He nodded.

  "Why, it was of that very same man that I bought this."

  From the inside of her blouse she produced that minute representation of the colours he knew so well. They looked at each other, and....

  When some time after they were lunching, he forming a fourth at the small table which belonged of right to Mr. and Mrs. Palmer, he said to Annie Moriarty, that was:—

  "Since you're an old friend of Miss Donne you may be interested in knowing that there's likely soon to be an International Alliance."

  He motioned to the lady at his side and then to himself, as if to call attention to the fact that in his buttonhole was the Union Jack, while on Miss Donne's blouse was pinned the American flag. But keen-witted Mrs. Palmer had realized what exactly was the condition of affairs some time before.

  "Skittles"

  *

  Chapter I

  Mr. Plumber was a passable preacher. Not an orator, perhaps—though it is certain that they had had less oratorical curates at Exdale. His delivery was not exactly good. But then the matter was fair, at times. Though Mr. Ingledew did say that Mr. Plumber's sermons were rather in the nature of reminiscences—tit-bits collated from other divines. According to this authority, listening to Mr. Plumber preaching was a capital exercise for the memory. His pulpit addresses might almost be regarded in the light of a series of examination papers. One might take it for granted that every thought was borrowed from some one, the question—put by the examiner, as it were—being from whom? On the other hand, it must be granted that Mr. Ingledew's character was well understood in Exdale. He was one of those persons who are persuaded that there is no such thing as absolute originality in the present year of grace. From his point of view, all the moderns are thieves. He read a new book, not for the pleasure of reading it, but for the pleasure of finding out, as a sort of anemonic exercise, from whom its various parts had been pilfered. He held that, nowadays, nothing new is being produced, either in prose or verse; and that the only thing which the latter day writer does need, is the capacity to use the scissors and the paste. So it was no new thing for the Exdale congregation to be informed that the sermon which they had listened to had been preached before.

  Nor, Mrs. Manby declared, in any case, was that the point. She wanted a preacher to do her good. If he could not do her good out of his own mouth, then, by all means, let him do her good out of the mouths of others. All gifts are not given to all men. If a man was conscious of his incapacity in one direction, then she, for one, had no objection to his availing himself, to the best of his ability, of his capacity in another. But—and here Mrs. Manby held up her hands in the manner which is so well known to her friends—when a man told her, from the pulpit, on the Sunday, that life was a solemn and a serious thing, and then on the Monday wrote for a comic paper—and such a comic paper!—that was the point, and quite another matter entirely.

  How the story first was told has not been clearly ascertained. The presumption is, that a proof was sent to Mr. Plumber in one of those wrappers which are open at both ends in which proofs sometimes are sent; and that on the front of this wrapper was imprinted, by way of advertisement, the source of its origin: "Skittles: Not to mention the Beer. A Comic Croaker for the Cultured Classes."

  The presumption goes on to suggest that, while it was still in the post office, the proof fell out of the wrapper,—they sometimes are most insecurely enclosed, and the thing might have been the purest accident. One of the clerks—it is said, young Griffen—noticing it, happened to read the proof—just glanced over it, that is—also, of course, by accident. And then, on purchasing a copy of a particular issue of the periodical in question, this clerk—whoever he was—perceived that it contained the, one could not call it poem, but rhyming doggerel, proof of which had been sent to the Reverend Reginald Plumber. He probably mentioned it to a friend, in the strictest confidence. This friend mentioned it to another friend, also in the strictest confidence. And so everybody was told by everybody else, in the strictest confidence; and the thing which was meant to be hid in a hole found itself displayed on the top of the hill.

  It was felt that something ought lo be done. This feeling took form and substance at an informal meeting which was held at Mrs. Manby's in the guise of a tea, and which was attended by the churchwardens, Mr. Ingledew, and others, who might be expected to do something, when, from the point of view of public policy, it ought to be done. The pièces de conviction were not, on that particular occasion, actually produced in evidence, because it was generally felt that the paper, "Skittles: Not to mention the Beer, etc." was not a paper which could be produced in the presence of ladies.

  "And that," Mrs. Manby observed, "is what makes the thing so very dreadful. It is bad enough that such papers should be allowed to appear. But that they should be supported by the contributions of our spiritual guides and teachers, opens a vista which cannot but fill every proper-minded person with dismay."

  Miss Norman mildly hinted that Mr. Plumber might have intended, not so much to support the journal in question, either with his contributions or otherwise, as that it should aid in supporting him. But this was an aspect of the case which the meeting simply declined to even consider. Because Mr. Plumber chose to have an ailing wife and a horde of children that was no reason, but very much the contrary, why, instead of elevating, he should assist in degrading public morals. So the resolution was finally arrived at that, without loss of time, the churchwardens should wait upon the Vicar, make a formal statement of the lamentable facts of the case, and that the Vicar should then be requested to do the something which ought to be done.

  So, in accordance with this resolution, the churchwardens waited on the vicar. The Rev. Henry Harding was, at that time, the Vicar of Exdale. He was not only an easy-going man and possessed of large private means, but he was also one of those unfortunately constituted persons who are with difficulty induced to make themselves disagreeable to any one. The churchwardens quite anticipated that they might find it hard to persuade him, even in so glaring a case as the present one, to do the something which ought to be done. Nor were their expectations, in this respect, doomed to meet with disappointment.

  "Am I to understand," asked the vicar, when, to a certain extent, the lamentable facts of the case had
been laid before him, and as he leaned back in his easy chair he pushed his spectacles up on his forehead, "that you have come to complain to me because a gentleman, finding himself in straitened circumstances, desires to add to his income by means of contributions to the press?"

  That was not what they wished him to understand at all. Mr. Luxmare, the people's warden, endeavoured to explain.

  "It is this particular paper to which we object. It is a vile, and a scurrilous rag. Its very name is an offence. You are, probably, not acquainted with its character. I have here—"

  Mr. Luxmare was producing a copy of the offensive publication from his pocket, when the vicar stopped him.

  "I know the paper very well indeed," he said.

  Mr. Luxmare seemed slightly taken aback. But he continued—.

  "In that case you are well aware that it is a paper with which no decent person would allow himself to be connected."

  "I am by no means so sure of that." Mr. Harding pressed the tips of his fingers together, with that mild, but occasionally exasperating, air of beaming affability for which he was peculiar. "I have known some very decent persons who have allowed themselves to become connected with some extremely curious papers."

  As the people's warden, Mr. Luxmare, was conscious of an almost exaggerated feeling of responsibility. He felt that, in a peculiar sense, he represented the parish. It was his duty to impress the feelings of the parish upon the vicar. And he meant to impress the feeling of the parish upon the vicar now. Moreover, by natural constitution he was almost as much inclined to aggressiveness as the vicar was inclined to placability. He at once assumed what might be called the tone and manner of a prosecuting counsel.

  "This is an instance," and he banged his right fist into his left palm, "of a clergyman—a clergyman of our church, the national church, associating himself with a paper, the avowed and ostensible purpose of which is to pander to the depraved instincts of the lowest of the low. I say, sir, and I defy contradiction, that such an instance in such a man is an offence against good morals."

  Mr. Harding smiled—which was by no means what the people's warden had intended he should do.

  "By the way," he said, "has Mr. Plumber been writing under his own name?"

  "Not he. The stuff is anonymous. It is inconceivable that any one could wish to be known as its author?"

  "Then may I ask how you know that Mr. Plumber is its author?"

  Mr. Luxmare appeared to be a trifle non-plussed—as did his associate. But the people's warden stuck to his guns.

  "It is common report in the parish that Mr. Plumber is a contributor to a paper which would not be admitted to a decent house. We are here as church officers to acquaint you with that report, and to request you to ascertain from Mr. Plumber whether or not it is well founded."

  "In other words, you wish me to associate myself with vague scandal about Queen Elizabeth, and to play the part of Paul Pry in the private affairs of my friend and colleague."

  Mr. Luxmare rose from his chair.

  "If, sir, you decline to accede to our request, we shall go from you to Mr. Plumber. We shall put to him certain questions. Should he decline to answer them, or should his replies not be satisfactory, we shall esteem it our duty to report the matter to the Bishop. For my own part, I say, without hesitation, that it would be a notorious scandal that a contributor to such a paper as Skittles should be a minister in our beloved parish church."

  The vicar still smiled, though it is conceivable that, for once in a way, his smile was merely on the surface.

  "Then, in that case, Mr. Luxmare, you will take upon yourself a great responsibility."

  "Mr. Harding, I took upon myself a great responsibility when I suffered myself to be made the people's warden. It is not my intention to attempt to shirk that responsibility in one jot or in one tittle. To the best of my ability, at any cost, I will do my duty, though the heavens fall."

  The vicar meditated some moments before he spoke again. Then he addressed himself to both his visitors.

  "I tell you what I will do, gentlemen. I will go to Mr. Plumber and tell him what you say. Then I will acquaint you with his answer."

  "Very good!" It was Mr. Luxmare who took upon himself to reply. "At present that is all we ask. I would only suggest, that the sooner your visit is paid the better."

  "Certainly. There I do agree with you; it is always well to rid oneself of matters of this sort as soon as possible. I will make a point of calling on Mr. Plumber directly you are gone."

  Possibly, when his visitors had gone, the vicar was inclined to the opinion that he had promised rather hastily. Not only did he not start upon his errand with the promptitude which his own words had suggested, but even when he did start, he pursued such devious ways that several hours elapsed between his arrival at the curate's and the departure of the deputation.

  Mr. Plumber lived in a cottage. It might have not been without its attractions as a home for a newly-married couple, but as a residence for a man of studious habits, possessed of a large and noisy family, it had its disadvantages. It was the curate himself who opened the door. Directly he did so the vicar became conscious that, within, there was a colourable imitation of pandemonium. Some young gentlemen appeared to be fighting upstairs; other young gentlemen appeared to be rehearsing some unmusical selections of the nature of a Christy Minstrel chorus on the ground floor at the back; somewhere else small children were crying; while occasionally, above the hubbub, were heard the shrill tones of a woman's agitated voice, raised in heartsick—because hopeless,—expostulation. Mr. Plumber seemed to be unconscious of there being anything strange in such discord of sweet sounds. Possibly he had become so used to living in the midst of a riot that it never occurred to him that there was anything in mere uproar for which it might be necessary to apologise. He led the way to his study—a small room at the back of the house, which was in uncomfortable proximity to the Christy Minstrel chorus. Small though the room was, it was insufficiently furnished. As he entered it, the vicar was struck, by no means for the first time, by an unpleasant sense of the contrast which existed between the curate's study and the luxurious apartment which was his study at the vicarage. The vicar seated himself on one of the two chairs which the apartment contained. A few desultory remarks were exchanged. Then Mr. Harding endeavoured to broach the subject which had brought him there. He began a little awkwardly.

  "I hope that you know me well enough to be aware, Mr. Plumber, that I am not a person who would wish to thrust myself into the affairs of others."

  The curate nodded. He was standing up before the empty fireplace. A tall, sparely-built man, with scanty iron-grey hair, a pronounced stoop, and a face which was a tragedy—it said so plainly that he was a man who had abandoned hope. Its careful neatness accentuated the threadbare condition of his clerical costume—it was always a mystery to the vicar how the curate contrived to keep himself so neat, considering his slender resources, and the life of domestic drudgery which he was compelled to lead.

  "Are you acquainted with a publication called Skittles?"

  Mr. Plumber nodded again; Mr. Harding would rather he had spoken. "May I ask if you are a contributor to such a publication?"

  "May I inquire why you ask?"

  "It is reported in the parish that you are. The parish does not relish the report. And you must know yourself that it is not a paper"—the vicar hesitated—"not a paper with which a gentleman would wish it to be known that he was associated."

  "Well?"

  "Well, without entering into questions of the past, I hope you will give me to understand that, at any rate, in the future, you will not contribute to its pages."

  "Why?"

  "Is it necessary to explain? Are we not both clergymen?"

  "Are you suggesting that a clergyman should pay occasional visits to a debtor's prison rather than contribute to the pages of a comic paper?"

  "It is not a question of a comic paper, but of this particular comic paper."

  Th
e curate looked intently at the vicar. He had dark eyes which, at times, were curiously full of meaning. Mr. Harding felt that they were very full of meaning then. He so sympathised with the man, so realised the burdens which he had to bear, that he never found himself alone with him without becoming conscious of a sensation which was almost shyness. At that moment, as the curate continued to fixedly regard him, he was not only shy, but ashamed.

  "Mr. Harding you are not here of your own initiative."

  "That is so. But that will not help you. If you take my advice, of two evils you will choose what I believe to be the lesser."

  "And that is?"

  "You will have no further connection with this paper."

  "Mr. Harding, look here." Going to a cupboard which was in a corner of the room, the curate threw the door wide open. Within were shelves. On the shelves were papers. The cupboard seemed full of them, shelf above shelf. "You see these. They are MSS.—my MSS. They have travelled pretty well all round the world. They have been rejected everywhere. I have paid postage for them which I could very ill afford, only to have them sent back upon my hands, at last, for good. I show them to you merely because I wish you to understand that I did not apply to the editor of Skittles until I had been rejected by practically every other editor the world contains." The Vicar fidgetted on his chair.

  "Surely, now that reading has become almost universal, it is always possible to find an opening for good work."

  "For good work, possibly. Though, even then, I suspect that the thing is not so easy as you imagine. But mine is not good work. Very often it is not even good hack work, as good hack work goes. I may have been capable of good work once. But the capacity, if it ever existed, has gone—crushed perhaps by the burdens which have crushed me. Nowadays I am only too glad to do any work which will bring in for us a few extra crumbs of bread."