IN THE DARK
Black night and a moaning sea! Now and then a drizzle of rain came on a
gust of wind, sprinkling the girl's tense face, damping the dark hair
that clustered about her temples. But she did not so much as feel it.
Her passionate young spirit was all on fire with a fierce revolt against
the destinies that ruled her life. She paced the parade as one
distraught.
Only for a brief space could she let herself go thus,--only while Bunny
and their mother played their nightly game of cribbage. They did not so
much as know that she was out of the house. She would have to return
ere she was missed, and then would follow the inevitable ordeal of
putting Bunny to bed. It was an ordeal that seemed to become each night
more difficult. In the morning he was easier to manage; but at night
when he was tired out and all his nerves were on edge she sometimes
found the task almost beyond her powers. When he was in pain--and this
was not infrequently--it took her hours to get him finally settled.
She was sure that it would be no easy task to-night. He had had bouts
of severe neuralgia during the day, and his flushed face and irritable
manner warned her that there was a struggle in store. She had sometimes
sat waiting till the small hours of the morning before he would permit
her to move or undress him. She felt that some such trial was before
her now, and her heart was as lead.
The house had seemed to stifle her. She had run out for a breath of
air; and then something about that moaning shore had seemed to draw her.
She had run down to the parade, and now she paced along it, staring down
into the fathomless dark below her where the deep water rose and fell
with a ceaseless moaning, thumping the well beneath in sullen impotence.
There was no splash of waves, only that dumb striving against a power it
could not overthrow. It was like her own mute rebellion, she thought to
herself miserably, as persistent and as futile.
She reached the end of the parade. The hour was late; the place
deserted. There was a shelter here. She was sure it would be empty,
but it did not attract her. She wanted to get as close as possible to
that moaning, mysterious waste of water. It held a stark fascination
for her. It drew her like a magnet. She stood on the very edge of the
parade, facing the drift of rain that blew in from the sea. How dark it
was! The nearest lamp was fifty yards away! The thought came to her
suddenly, taking form from the formless deep: how easy to take one
single false step in that darkness! How swift the consequence, and how
complete the deliverance!
A short, inevitable struggle in the dark--in the dark; and then a
certain release from this hateful chain called life. It would be
terrible, but so quickly over! And this misery that so galled her would
be for ever past.
She beat her foot on the edge with a passionate impatience. What a fool
she was to suffer so--when there was nothing (never had been any thing)
in life worth living for!
Nothing? Well, yes, there was Bunny. She was an absolute necessity to
him. That she knew. She was firmly convinced that he would die without
her. And though he would be far, far happier dead, poor darling, she
couldn't leave him to die alone.
She lifted her clenched hands above her head in straining impotence.
For one black moment she almost wished that Bunny were dead.
And then very suddenly, with staggering unexpectedness she received the
biggest shock of her life. Two hands closed simultaneously upon her
wrists, and she was drawn into two encircling arms.
She uttered a startled outcry, and in the same moment began a wild and
flurried struggle for freedom. But the arms that held her closed like
steel springs. A man's strength forced her steadily away from the
yawning blackness that stretched beyond the parade.
"It's no good kicking," a soft voice said. "You won't get away."
Something in the voice reassured her. She ceased to struggle. "Oh, let
me go!" she said breathlessly. "You--you don't understand.
I--I--only----"
"Came out for a breath of air?" he suggested. "Of course--I gathered
that."
He took his arms away from her, but he still kept one of her wrists in a
strong grasp. She could not see his face in the darkness, only his
figure, which was short and stoutly built.
"Do you know," he said, "when people take the air like that, I always
have to hold on to 'em tight till they've had all they want. It's damn'
cheek on my part, as you were just going to remark. But, my girl, it's
easier than mucking about in a dark sea looking for 'em after they've
lost their balance."
He had led her to the shelter. She sat down rather helplessly,
wondering if it would be possible to conceal her identity from him since
it was evident that so far he had not recognized her.
He stood in front of her, squarely planted, his hand still locked upon
her wrist. She had known him from the first word he had spoken, and,
remembering those startling lynx eyes of his, she felt decidedly uneasy.
She was sure they could see in the dark.
She spoke after a moment with slight hesitation. "I shouldn't have lost
my balance. And if I had meant to jump over, as you imagined, I
shouldn't have stood so long thinking about it."
"Sure you're not thinking about it now?" he said.
"Quite sure," she answered.
He bent down, and she was sure--quite sure--that his eyes scrutinized
her and took in every detail.
The next moment he released her wrist also. "All right, my girl," he
said. "I believe you. But--don't do it again! Accidents happen, you
know. You might have had one then; and I should still have had to
flounder around looking for you."
Something in his tone made her want to smile, and yet she felt so
sure--so sure--that he knew her all the time. And she wanted to resent
his familiarity at the same moment. For if he knew her, it was rank
presumption to address her so.
She rose at length and faced him with such dignity as she could muster.
"I am obliged to you," she said, "but I fail to see why your
responsibility should extend so far. If I had fallen over, the chances
are that you could never have found me--or saved me if you had."
"Ninety-nine to one!" he said coolly. "But, do you know, I rather count
on the hundredth chance. I've taken it--and won on it--before now."
He was not to be disconcerted, it was evident. He was plainly a
difficult man to rout, one accustomed to keep his head in any emergency.
And she--she was but a slip of a girl in his estimation, and he had her
at a disadvantage already.
She felt her face begin to burn in the darkness. She shifted her
ground. "I don't see why anyone should be made to live against his
will," she said, "why it should be anyone's business to interfere."
"That's because you're young," he said. "You haven't yet got the proper
hang of things. It only comes with practice--that."
Her face burned more hotly. He was actually patronizing her!
She turned abruptly. "Good evening," she said, and began to walk away.
But he fell in beside her at once. "I'm going your way," he observed.
"May as well see you past the bar of 'The Anchor.' They get a bit
lively there sometimes at this end of the day."
He walked with the slight roll of a man accustomed to much riding. She
imagined that he never appeared in anything but breeches and gaiters.
But his tread was firm and purposeful. Quite obviously it never entered
his head that she might not desire his company.
For that reason she had to submit to the arrangement though she felt
herself grow more and more rigid as they neared the circle of light cast
by the street-lamp. Of course he was bound to recognize her now.
But they reached and passed the lamp, and he tramped straight ahead
without looking at her, after the square fashion that she had somehow
begun to associate with him.
They reached and passed "The Anchor" also, with its lighted bar and
coarse voices and lounging figures. They began the steep ascent up
which he had pushed Bunny that afternoon. It was dark enough here at
least, and her self-confidence began to revive. She would put him to
the test. She would pass the gate that he had seen her enter earlier in
the day. If he displayed surprise or hesitation she would know that he
had recognized her.
But yet again he baffled her. He tramped steadily on.
She began to get a little breathless. There was another lamp at the top
of the road. She did not want to reach that.
In desperation she paused. "Good evening!" she said again.
He stopped at once, and she thought she caught the glitter of his eye,
seeking her own in the darkness.
"You're going in now?" he asked.
"Yes," she said.
He came a step nearer, and laid one finger on her arm. "Look here, my
girl! You take a straight tip from me! If you're in any sort of
trouble, go and tell someone! Don't bottle it in till it gets too big
for you! And above all, don't go step-dancing on the edge of the parade
in the dark! It's a fool thing to do."
He emphasized his points with impressive taps upon her arm. She felt
absurdly small and meek.
"Suppose I haven't anyone to tell?" she said, after a moment.
He rose to the occasion instantly. "I'm sound," he said. "Tell me!"
She had not expected that. He seemed to disconcert her at every turn.
"Thank you," she said, taking refuge in extreme frigidity. "I think
not."
"As you like," he said. "I daresay I shouldn't in your place. I only
suggested it because I can't see a girl in trouble and pass by on the
other side."
He spoke quite quietly, but there was a quality in the soft voice that
stirred her very strangely, something that made her for the moment
forget the man's dominant personality, and feel as if a woman had
uttered the words.
She put out a groping hand to him, obeying a curious impulse that would
not be denied.
"Thank you," she said again.
He kept her hand for a second or two, holding it squarely, almost as if
he were waiting for something.
Then, without a word, he let it go. She turned back; and he went on.