Miss Donne's Great Gamble

You cannot keep meeting the same man by accident—not in that way. To suggest such a possibility would be to stretch the doctrine of probabilities too far.

Miss Donne herself began to think that might be the case. She had first encountered him at Geneva, at the Pension Dupont. There his manner had been not only extremely deferential but positively distant. Possibly this was partly owing to Miss Donne herself, who, at that stage of her travels, was the most unapproachable of human beings. During the last few days of her stay, he had sat next to her at the table, and she felt that a certain amount of conversation was unavoidable in such a position.

He had informed her, during the remarks the situation required, that he was an American and a bachelor, and also that his name was Huhn.

So far as Miss Donne was concerned, that encounter would merely have been filed away among the other notable incidents of that memorable journey had it not been that two days after her arrival at Lausanne, she met him in the open street—to be exact, in the Place de la Gare. Not only did he bow, but he stopped to talk with the air of quite an old acquaintance.

But it was at Lucerne that the situation began to take on a truly curious phase. Miss Donne left Lausanne on a Thursday. The day before, she told Mr. Huhn she was going and where she intended to stop. Mr. Huhn made no comment on the information, which was given casually while they waited among a crowd of other people for the steamer. No one could have guessed from his manner that he did not intend to end his days at Lausanne. So when, on the morning after her arrival, she found him seated by her side at lunch, she was thrown into a flurry of surprise.

But as he seemed to take her presence for granted—offering no explanation at all of why he was there—she soon found herself talking to him as if his being there was quite in accordance with the natural order. However, when she later went upstairs to put her hat on, she found herself inclined to avoid asking herself a certain question.

Those four weeks at Lucerne were the happiest she had ever known. A sociable group was staying at the pension just then. Everyone treated her with surprising kindness. Hardly an excursion was arranged without her being included. Another constant companion was Mr. Huhn. She could not hide from herself the fact that whenever the parties set out, it was Mr. Huhn who personally escorted her. A better escort she could not have wished for. Without being intrusive, he was always there when needed. Unassumingly, he studied her little preferences and made it his special business to see that nothing was lacking that added to her enjoyment. As a conversationalist, she had never met his equal. But then, as she admitted with characteristic honesty, she had never had experience of masculine discourse. Perhaps the situation was made even more enjoyable by the fact that she was troubled by misgivings as to whether her relations with Mr.

Huhn were quite proper. She was a lady traveling alone. He was a stranger, self-introduced. Whether a lady in her position ought to allow herself to be on familiar terms with a gentleman in his was a point she could hardly doubt. She was convinced she ought not. Theoretically, she would have been willing to die for that principle. When she thought of what she had preached to others, she metaphorically shivered in her shoes. She was half alarmed by the need to admit that it was a kind of shivering she could not correctly describe as disagreeable.

The extraordinary part began after she left Lucerne. At the Pension Emeritus, her plans were public property. Everyone knew she intended to return to England by way of Paris and Dieppe, with a few days in Paris and a week or two in Dieppe. Practically the whole pension came to the station to see her off. She was showered with sweets and flowers. Mr. Huhn, in particular, gave her a gorgeous bouquet and a box that purported to be chocolates. It was only after she had started that she discovered the chocolates were a sham, and hidden in the very middle of them was another package. The sight of it filled her with strange unease. Other people were in the carriage, so she decided it was prudent to ignore its existence in front of possibly observant eyes. But when she had a moment of relative privacy, she removed it from its hiding place with—positively—trembling fingers.

It was tied with pink baby ribbon in a true lover's knot. Inside was a leather case, and in the case was a flexible gold bracelet with a circular ornament encrusted with diamonds. As she fingered it, she must have touched a hidden spring, because suddenly the glittering trinket sprang open, revealing inside—of all things—a portrait of Mr. Huhn!

She stared at it in bewildered amazement. All the way to Paris, she was torn by conflicting emotions. That a complete stranger should have dared to take such a liberty! After all, she knew nothing about him—absolutely nothing, except that he was an American; which one piece of knowledge might be sufficient explanation. For all she knew, Americans might have their own ideas on such matters. This kind of behavior might be perfectly proper by their standards. The thought made her sigh. She almost regretted that her standard was the English one, so strongly did she feel there was something to be said for the American point of view—if, indeed, it was the American point of view, which of course remained to be determined.

Had the bracelet been cheap trumpery, costing fifteen or twenty francs, the case would have been different. No doubt about that. But this triumph of the jeweler's art, with its costly diamonds! She herself had never owned a decent piece of jewelry. Her knowledge of values was nil. Yet her instincts told her it cost money. Then there was the name "Tiffany" on the case. She had a vague recollection of hearing of Tiffany. It might have cost one hundred—even two hundred—pounds! At the thought she burned with shame. Who was she, and what had she done, that a wandering male—a mere casual acquaintance—should feel free to throw bank notes into her lap, as if she were a beggar—or worse? There was a moment when she was tempted to throw the bracelet out the window.

The trouble was she didn't know where to return it. She had Mr. Huhn's own assurance that he also left Lucerne that same day. Where he was going, she had no idea. At least, she told herself she had no idea. To send it by post to Ezra G. Huhn, America, would be absurd. She might send it back to Tiffany. She would.

Then there was the portrait—hidden in the bracelet—which he had had the audacity to palm off on her under cover of a box of chocolates. It was excellent, that was certain.

The shrewd face, with the kindly eyes that always seemed to twinkle, looked up at her from the little gold frame like an old friend. How pleasant he had been to her; how good. How she always felt at ease, never afraid. Though he had never by a single question sought her confidence, she had a curious feeling that he understood her. How impressed she had been by his way of doing things: his quick resourcefulness, his quiet ability to make everything pleasant. How she had come to rely on him. How, in spite of herself, she felt at peace when he was near. How curious that seemed. As she thought, fancying she saw the twinkle, her eyes filled with tears, and she had to use her handkerchief. During the rest of the journey to Paris, the bracelet was on her wrist, hidden under her sleeve. More than once she caught herself crying.

She found she couldn't stay in Paris. The weather was hot; the streets glared in the sun; they made her head ache. She longed for the sea. Within three days she hurried to Dieppe. At Dieppe she checked into the Hotel de Paris. The first person she saw as she crossed the threshold was Annie Moriarty—at least, she had been Annie Moriarty until she became Mrs. Palmer. The two rushed into each other's arms, and Mrs. Palmer went upstairs with Miss Donne to help unpack. When they came down, Miss Donne was introduced to Mr. Palmer, who was Annie's one topic in the letters she regularly wrote. Mr. Palmer, a husband of twelve months, proved to be a sort of understudy for a giant, towering above Miss Donne and inspiring awe. While she wondered whether, when he wanted to kiss his wife, he had to lift her onto a chair—for Annie was a tiny thing—who should come down the staircase but Mr. Huhn!

At that sight, Miss Donne's cheeks flamed, and she was so confused she couldn't hide it from her sharp-eyed friend. Though Mr. Huhn merely raised his hat as he passed into the street, her distress continued after he was gone. She accompanied the Palmers—in a daze—into the Etablissement grounds. As long as Mr. Palmer was with them, Annie was discretion itself. But when Mr. Palmer went inside (perhaps on a hint from her), leaving the two women on the terrace, she attacked Miss Donne in a way that quickly broke down all her defenses.

The whole story came out before Miss Donne realized she intended to tell it. Her listener was delighted. With a delicacy that well became her, Annie concealed the larger half of her enthusiasm, but she revealed enough to throw Miss Donne into a state of agitation both pathetic and delightful. Sitting there, listening to Annie's hints and watching her smile, the heroine of these strange adventures wondered vaguely whether this was the same world she had lived in all her life, and whether she was awake or dreaming. After all the miracles that had lately changed her life, was the greatest still on its way?

Eva Donne was thirty-eight and three-quarters, as children say. For over twenty years she had been a governess, without kith or kin. All along she had been haunted by the fear that the fat years were now and the lean ones coming. She was not a scholar; she was simply the sweetest woman in the world. But though she had no idea of that, she was painfully aware of her intellectual limits. She had strained every nerve to improve herself, to keep up with educational standards, to pass examinations and win certificates. Always in vain; the dullest of her students was no duller than she. How she found employment was beyond her. Why Miss Law kept her for thirteen consecutive years was a mystery.

That Miss Law valued a well-mannered, dainty lady with infinite patience, kindness, and tact, the soul of honor, who put her employer's interests first, who was liked by all the pupils, and who smoothed the headmistress's path in a hundred ways—such qualifications never entered Miss Donne's modest philosophy. So she dreaded that each term would be her last. If dismissed for inefficiency at her age, what would she do? She was growing old—she knew it. Grey—almost—behind the ears; her hair thinner; telltale wrinkles around her eyes; stiffness in her joints. A governess soon grows old, especially if she isn't clever. Many nights she lay awake, thinking in horror of the future. What would she do? She had saved so little, from such a salary—she had such a soft, generous heart, unable to resist a request for help. She sometimes wondered how she hadn't turned completely grey after those anxious nights.

And then the miracle came—the deus ex machina. A cousin of her mother's, whom she had only heard of, died in America, in Pittsburgh. A bachelor, alone in the world, he left everything to his distant relative. It came to eight hundred pounds a year, actually, when all was realized. What a difference it made when she understood the incredible had come to pass! She was rich, independent, secure from want and the fear of it. She thanked God with all her heart, like a simple child. And she ceased to grow old; indeed, she grew young again. She almost fancied the greyness vanished, her hair seemed thicker, the wrinkles fainter, and she had an absurd and improper urge to run up and down the stairs.

Then came the wonderful journey. She, a solitary spinster who had never left England, after only six months of consideration, decided to go alone to Switzerland. And she went. After the strange happenings one naturally expects on such a journey, to crown it all, here on the terrace at Dieppe sat Annie Moriarty—who had been a troublesome child—telling her, her former governess, that a certain American gentleman was in love with her! With her, Miss Eva Donne! The most extraordinary part was that instead of correcting the presumptuous Annie, Miss Donne beamed and blushed, and blushed and beamed, and felt the strangest sensations.

But a remark Mrs. Palmer made, apparently by accident, brought her back to earth with a jolt.

"I suppose whoever does become Mrs. Huhn will have to become an American."

It took her a second to comprehend. When she did, her heart sank. Something had gone out of the world—perhaps because a cloud had passed over the sun.

Was it possible? A thing to be avoided? Of course, Mr. Huhn was American; she knew that much. And although this was not his first visit to Europe, he probably spent most of his time in his native country. His wife would be expected to live there too. Would she have to lose her nationality, her birthright as an Englishwoman? That would be an extraordinary position. Mischievous Annie could not have succeeded better if she had planned to confuse Miss Donne further.

She dined with the Palmers at a small table by themselves. Mr. Huhn was at the long table around the corner, hidden by the room's odd layout. Mrs. Palmer said he had arrived before she entered. Miss Donne left before he could reappear. She spent the evening in her room, despite Mrs. Palmer's protests, writing letters—or at least she said so. She did begin half a dozen letters to Mr. Huhn. The bracelet was on her mind; she wanted to return it with a note that would perfectly fit the occasion. But she couldn't compose such a note. She didn't want to hurt him, but she also needed to make her meaning clear, and she wasn't even sure what she meant. She didn't want the bracelet; certainly not. Yet she didn't want to throw it back at him or make him think she despised his gift or was unaware of his kindness. Nor did she want him to suspect she liked him, or to give him any excuse to ask her to reconsider.

Combining all those opposing desires in one short note was a puzzle.

It was a lovely bracelet—a beauty. It looked lovely on her wrist. She had never dreamed a single ornament could make such a difference; it made her hand seem smaller. She wondered if he had sent to New York for it, or had carried it around with him. But that was beside the point. Since she couldn't write the perfect note, she would see him tomorrow and return it herself. Then the matter would be closed. Having made that decision, she slept like a top, with the bracelet under her pillow.

In the morning she dressed with unusual care—so much care that Mrs. Palmer greeted her with exclamations.

"You look lovelier than ever, my dear. Just like some picture, only sweeter. Doesn't she look a darling, Dick?"

Dick was Mr. Palmer.

Since this was said in his presence and within earshot of others, Miss Donne was so embarrassed she couldn't tell the woman she disliked personal remarks.

There was no sign of Mr. Huhn. She went with the Palmers to the market, to a man who carved grotesque heads from vegetable ivory, to watch the bathers, listening to the band, then to lunch. All the time she had the bracelet on her person. After lunch, they took a queer vehicle—not quite a break—on what the owner called a "fashionable excursion" to the forest of Arques. It was nearly five when they returned. The Palmers went upstairs, and she sat on a chair in front of the hotel. She had been dreaming for some minutes when someone took the chair beside her.

It was Mr. Huhn. His sudden appearance left her speechless. She tried to think what to say but couldn't. No greetings were exchanged.

He said in his ordinary voice: "Come with me into the Casino."

That was his way—taking things for granted. She felt that if she met him after a long absence on the other side of the world, he would simply ask if she liked sugar in her tea and assume that sufficed. But she thought explanations were required. She meant her next remark to suggest as much.

"I didn't expect to see you at Dieppe."

He looked at her—just looked—and she felt ashamed. She knew she had known he would be there. He said, "I meant to come to Dieppe. I thought you knew it."

She had known, and she knew he knew she did. It was dreadful. What could she say? She fumbled with her buttons and produced a small leather case.

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

He glanced at it out of the corner of his eye. "No mistake. I put it there. I thought you'd understand."

She thought he must assume 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 answered. She felt a small flutter of satisfaction. "Don't you think it's pretty?"

"It's beautiful. But you must take it back."

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

She certainly didn't want that.

"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 I'm glad to know it. If you'd like my record, I'll tell you the life of Ezra G. Huhn whenever you have time. Or you can ask my lawyer, banker, or doctor—whichever part you want."

She couldn't say she'd like to hear some now, though she wanted to. While she searched for words, he stood, repeating: "Come with me into the Casino."

She rose too, not because she wanted but because confusion made agreement easier. They crossed the square, the case still in her hand.

"Have you found the locket?"

"Yes," she blushed.

"Good portrait of me, isn't it?"

"Excellent."

"I had it done for my mother. When she was dying, I wanted it buried with her. But she refused, saying I should give it to someone else one day. I never thought there would be anyone. But when I met you, I sent it to New York and had it mounted in that bracelet—for you."

She was tongue-tied, tears filling her eyes. He didn't seem to notice and continued: "You'll have to give me one of yours."

"I—I haven't one."

"Then we'll have to get one. I'll look for someone who can do you justice."

It was the closest he had come to a compliment, and she trembled. They entered the Casino grounds. He looked at the case.

"Put that in your pocket."

"I haven't one."

She was all meekness.

"Then where did you have it?"

"Inside my jacket."

"Put it back there. I can't carry it. That's a burden you'll have to carry alone from now on."

She simply obeyed. But the case bulged, and she knew he was looking at it. She was glad.

Inside the "little horses" room, the change from the bright afternoon was dramatic. The blinds were drawn, and gaslight lit the airless, noisy room. There was a constant buzz, clatter, the tourneur's monotonous calls. She shrank back.

"What are they doing?" she asked.

He led her to the platform where nine little horses were spinning. She watched, fascinated. People were speaking around her. The tourneur shouted "Number five!" and money was drawn across tables. Some won; a woman received coins.

"Are they gambling?" Miss Donne asked.

"Well, I wouldn't call it that. It's a toy that provides the owner an income from public contributions."

Miss Donne didn't understand, but watched as more bets were placed. Someone offered her a chair. Mr. Huhn suggested they contribute a franc or two. She couldn't find a single franc but produced a five-franc piece. He said, "That's large. What shall we put it on?" Someone said the run was on five. He took the coin from her and placed it on five.

The tourneur cried "The bets are placed! No more bets!" The horses spun. Miss Donne, suddenly panic-stricken, stood up, staring. People smiled, thinking her anxious. Mr. Huhn said, "Don't be alarmed; it's probably a loss, but it goes to a good cause." She almost snatched it back, but he held her arm.

The horses stopped. "Number five!" shouted the tourneur. The neighbor said, "You won! I told you the run was on five." The croupier pushed over coins; she drew back, saying, "It's not mine." Everyone laughed. Mr. Huhn took them and handed them to her; she obeyed like a child. He led her out, while she dropped a coin, and an attendant returned it, grinning. The whole room was amused. Mr. Huhn was moved by her innocence.

Outside, the sky had changed; the day was drawing to a close. A grey chill hung in the air. They walked up and down the terrace silently, then sat in wicker chairs. The mist crept over the sea. She let the coins fall into her lap. He looked seaward. Finally she said, "I am a gambler."

He tried to reassure her, but she explained that her father had lost money in a horse race and nearly ruined the family; she had promised her mother never to gamble. He felt ashamed for leading her astray.

"I apologize," he said. "I know I shouldn't have."

She said, "I ought not to have been so weak."

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

She pondered. Then she said, "I'm sorry I seem silly."

"You don't. You seem the wisest woman I've met."

"That's because you've known so few—or you're laughing. If I were wise, I'd know what to do with this," she said, motioning to the money.

"Throw it in the sea."

"But it isn't mine."

"It's yours as much as anyone's. There are many in need."

"It would carry a curse."

He looked at his watch. "Time for dinner. We can decide later. Sleep on it."

They returned to the hotel, she carrying the coins. That night, she slept poorly. The next morning, she went to return the money to the administration. She bought a tiny American flag from a vendor and pinned it inside her blouse. At the Casino, she found only the tourneur, who greeted her and showed her the horse Number Five that had brought her luck.

She said, "I have brought back the seven five-franc pieces I took away."

The tourneur looked puzzled. "But madame, I don't understand."

"I cannot have anything to do with money won by gambling."

"But madame played."

"It was a mistake. I didn't intend to. I've come to return the money."

He said the administration wouldn't accept it, but if she insisted, he would take it. She handed it over. He shrugged.

Then she left, and outside she met Mr. Huhn, who was carrying towels, having been bathing. He had a tiny Union Jack in his buttonhole.

"So you returned your gains?" he said.

"Yes, to the administration—or at least to the tourneur."

They sat on the wall. He asked, "Did you sleep on it?"

"I did."

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

"I'm sorry."

"You ought to be; it was your fault."

"Mine!"

Then he noticed the American flag on her blouse, and he showed his Union Jack. They laughed. He had bought his from the same vendor.

Later, at lunch with the Palmers, he announced to Annie: "Since you're an old friend of Miss Donne, you may be interested to know there's likely soon to be an International Alliance." He gestured to her flag and his buttonhole. Annie, who had guessed long before, smiled.

Soon after, Miss Donne and Mr. Huhn were married, and she went to America, not losing her heritage but gaining a new one.