The Legards left Mentone very early the following day; it was necessary
for Irma to drive the five miles to the villa in the cool of the
morning. Giles had failed to see Jocelyn again; he delayed the departure
as much as he could, but she was not down when they left. During the
drive he sat silently calm opposite his wife, but with a feeling of rage
and despair in his heart. He took the greatest care of her, changing her
cushions continually, and making the man drive with the utmost caution.
They arrived without incident. He had hoped that he would find some
relief and distraction in the familiar surroundings of the villa, but he
found instead that they only maddened him by bringing to his mind more
forcibly the bar set between him and Jocelyn. He asked himself, a
hundred times a day, what he was doing? what he meant to do? and he
could give himself no answer. His conscience, his sense of balance, his
honour, whatever name best fitted that feeling which struggled with his
passion, exacted from him a dying remonstrance. He tried to give himself
no time to think, to keep himself busy all day and every day, riding,
walking, or with affairs in the house; he was particularly attentive to
his wife, and he felt all the time that she knew what was passing in his
heart; and all his efforts were of no use--Jocelyn’s face was ever
before him. He wrote a note to her, in which he said that he had
business which would take him to Genoa. He went there, and stayed two
days, at the end of which time he returned more miserable than ever. In
this way a week passed without his going to Mentone.
Jocelyn missed him; she had become so used to his companionship in those
two months. She had no idea, until he had gone, how much she had
depended on him for enjoyment. She felt quite lost without him and the
greyhound. He seemed to her so different from the men, Germans,
Frenchmen, Poles, or Russians with whom she had been thrown during her
wanderings. They had danced with her, ridden with her, paid her
compliments, even asked to marry her, and one and all she had distrusted
them, with the native distrust peculiar to her. She had always felt as
if she understood Giles. It was not because he was her countryman, it
was for no defined reason; yet it had been good to be with him; to find
some one who loved, like herself, the sun and the flowers, music, the
hot, sweet-scented air, the clack of many foreign tongues in the glowing
light, and on starry evenings the murmur of the deep-hearted sea. To
know that there was some one near who felt the spirit moving in these
things, who lived in them, to whom they were not, as to her aunt, merely
the chance outside ministers of a bodily ease.... After he had gone, she
would sometimes go into the garden with her lips pursed up in a dumb
whistle, expecting every minute to see Shikari uncoil his snake-like
body from under the shade of some shrub, and come lolloping across the
grass with arched back to lick her hands; or to see Giles sitting in the
sun with a Panama hat over his eyes, and his long legs crossed.
Sometimes, as she sat indoors alone, or with her aunt, she would fancy
she smelt the smoke of his cigar on the terrace, and she would get up
and look through the shutters. She ceased to go for walks--it was so
dull by herself, and she no longer cared to go over to Monte Carlo. She
played to herself a good deal, but she found that she missed Giles’s
grave face looking at her, and a habit, which he had, of coming up from
behind and touching her on the shoulder, saying, “Play that again.” She
wanted somebody to like her music. It was no good playing when there was
nobody to care whether she played badly or well.
When she received his note she was surprised, and a little hurt, not at
the news it contained, but at the wording--it seemed to her so formal
and precise.
She sat down, and wrote him a friendly letter in return, then tore it up
in a sudden fit of childish irritation, and wrote to Irma instead,
telling her what a good time she was having.
Just a week after the Legards had gone, she found herself with Mrs.
Travis at a party given by a certain German baroness at her hotel in the
East Bay. The hot, airless rooms, opening into each other, were filled
with a cosmopolitan crowd of people, raising a gabble of words and
laughter. The majority of them discussed the health of themselves and of
their friends; a German professor, sitting at the piano, now and then
struck a chord upon it to illustrate an argument he was carrying on; a
fat, brown poodle begged incessantly, all over the room, for cakes; in a
corner two Russians with parted beards disputed in low tones over a
“system”; and an old English lady, stolidly eating an ice, complained of
toothache to a Colonial bishop, who stood beside her with his hat
clasped to his stomach. On the gravel walk outside, people paraded
vaguely, smelling at the flowers, or turning to stare at new arrivals.
There were present, in fact, all the ingredients of hotel society on the
Riviera.
Mrs. Travis, seated in a cool corner of the room, was fanning herself,
and listening with an occasional ample wriggle to the conversation of an
anæmic curate, who was endeavouring to expound his own, and to elicit
her views upon art. Having no views, she was finding it best to agree
with everything he said, while her quick eyes took in a large amount of
information about the dress and appearance of her neighbours. She
smiled a great deal at him, however, so that he was quite
pleased--considering himself appreciated--and presently brought her some
tea.
In the centre of the room a knot of people surrounded Jocelyn, two of
them talking to her eagerly in spasmodic and heavy-shouldered sentences;
they were both Germans--Jocelyn had a peculiar fascination for Germans,
they came round her like flies round honey. One of them would say--
“Do you that gomposer zo much like, ach?” The other: “Has he not
veeling, ach?” and Jocelyn contrived always to convince each of them
that she had answered him first. She did not wish to attract them, but
only to avoid hurting their feelings. She appeared delicious to them,
with her vivid yet mysterious face, and the absolute daintiness of her
gestures and her dress. Every now and then she turned to the only other
lady in the group, and tried to draw her into the talk, and, curiously
enough, she seemed delicious to her also, having the faculty, given to a
few attractive women, of not arousing the jealousy of her own kind. The
Germans were pressing her to play, and she was turning to the piano
when her eyes fell upon the figure of Giles. He was standing outside one
of the French windows with his hands in his pockets, watching her. She
gave an abrupt little movement, and sat down at the piano feeling
suddenly hot. She began turning the leaves of some music hastily, with
the idea, without knowing why, that she must hide her eyes from people.
She played a mazurka of Chopin’s, while the German professor, leaning
over, regarded her admiringly through his smoked spectacles. When she
had finished, she got up, saying, in answer to a buzz of remonstrance,
“It’s too hot to play,” and walked away to a chair, with a sudden
impatience of the people around her. She was thinking, “Why doesn’t
Giles come and talk to me?” The German professor, who had followed her
from the window, began a commentary upon composers; Jocelyn, leaning
back in her chair, listened languidly, while her eyes wandered to the
window. A tall, good-looking woman in pink was talking to Giles, who was
listening with a smile on his face. Jocelyn wondered who she was, and
made an absent remark to the professor. She observed the look of mild
surprise that lurked behind his spectacles, and caught herself up with
her habitual quickness; but the moment he began to talk again her eyes
went back to the window. Giles, bending a little forward, was holding
the curtain aside to allow his companion to pass into the open air.
Jocelyn felt a kind of dismay, as if something unpleasant and unexpected
had happened.
“_Und_ Schubert,” the German professor was saying, “how _wunderschön
mit_ his beaudiful melodies, _nicht wahr_!”
“Ah!” she answered shortly, with her eyes on the ground, “I don’t like
him at all, he is too sweet,” and was surprised at her own irritability.
When she looked up again she met Giles’s eyes. He stopped short in the
act of stepping through the window, and she felt as if something were
passing from him to her in that look. Without glancing again, she knew
that he was threading his way towards her, and the colour began to come
slowly into her cheeks. She plucked incessantly at a loose thread in her
skirt, and talked nervously. When he came up she held out her hand to
him with a smile; he took it silently in his, and stood close to her,
without joining in the talk. She felt suddenly light-hearted, and began
a gay and laughing discussion with the professor. They disputed upon the
colouring of the Riviera. The professor, a short, bearded man, with a
square figure, prominent blue eyes, and a red face, maintained that it
was too vivid.
“Dere is no zoul in it, no veeling, _nicht wahr_?” he said, “everydings
you zee at once--it is not inderesding.”
“Ah! But always to have the sun, and the beautiful clear sky, what does
anything else really matter except that, Herr Schweitzer? Besides, there
are the olives--isn’t there any soul in them?”
“Ach! The olives, dey are ingongruous, like a grey goat on an Idalian
beasant. I like more de zcenes mit de bine woods, und de rivers vlowing,
und to zee de beasts und de women in de vields.”
“Yes, I like that too, but I don’t feel as if I _lived_ there, you know,
as one does in the South.”
“_Ach! Mein fraulein_, you are English; like all de English you will
eggzitement have. For me to dake his ztick and walk in de beaudiful
woods und vields, und to zee nadure, und den berrhaps to rest, und drink
a liddle beer, and walk again, dat is ’abbiness--ach!”
He beamed at her sentimentally through his spectacles. At this moment
Mrs. Travis approached; she was greatly bored by her curate, and by the
heat, and wished to depart. Giles, with a look of relief upon his face,
went out to find their carriage; in spite of his yearning to be with
Jocelyn, it tortured him to see her talking to other people. He had come
to the party in the hope of finding her, proposing just to look at her,
and to go away. As he put them into their carriage, her hand rested
lightly on his arm, and she said--
“When are you coming over to see us, Giles?”
“To-morrow,” he answered, trembling all over. He did not take his eyes
from her face, and when she looked back at him as the carriage drove
away, she felt again as if something were passing between them.
“_Au revoir!_” she cried, waving her hand. All the way home she felt
curiously light-hearted....
After dinner that evening, she wandered alone into the hotel garden; the
endless chatter of the drawing-room irritated and annoyed her--she
wanted to be alone.
The night was breathlessly still, the scent of roses and heliotrope hung
heavily in the air, fire-flies flashed, and now and then a blue gleam of
the summer lightning rent the clear dark. For a moment the silence was
intense, then suddenly a frog croaked harshly, the cry of a peacock or a
far-off shout from the street broke the stillness and died away. Jocelyn
walked up and down one of the paths, and then stood looking into the
night with soft eyes. Her lips parted in a caress.... What a marvellous
world under those remote and silent stars! If she could but take it into
her arms and kiss it! Kiss the sweet flowers, the still air, the whole
wonderful night! It seemed more to her than ever before--fuller of
meaning and of delight. She stretched out her arms, and then pressed
them to her breast with a sudden irresponsible motion of which she was
half ashamed....
The light of a lamp streamed from an open window into the darkness, and
stretched in a band of gold over the dew-stained grass. Jocelyn turned
away; it seemed to her like a hot and intruding touch upon the purity of
the night. She drew a long breath of the warm air, feeling utterly and
unreasoningly happy--as if nothing could touch her, as if her steps were
guided by some soft gleam shining mysteriously from behind the curtain
of life. She did not seek to know why she had that strange and sweet
sensation; it was enough for her that she felt the throb of the stars,
the dumb whisper of the dreaming night. She pressed the backs of her
hands against her cheeks--they were glowing as if from kisses....
The hoarse barking of a dog rose from the distant street; with a faint
rustling the quiet garden seemed to stir resentfully, as though some
strange breath had stolen into it. Jocelyn gave a little shiver, she
twisted with her hands the muslin scarf around her neck and
shoulders--it was all limp and wet with the dew. With a sudden feeling
of discouragement she turned and went back into the house.
That night she lay awake a long while, thinking.