Giles paced up and down his verandah restlessly; he was awaiting
Jocelyn’s arrival. His wife had sent an invitation to her and to Mrs.
Travis to come and see the villa, with the suggestion that they should
afterwards drive on to Bordighera. Nielsen, who had also received an
invitation, was coming with them; the prospect of a whole day in
Jocelyn’s society having caused him for once to abandon his professional
visit to the gambling-tables.
The little grey villa hanging over the Cornice road smiled down a sheer
descent at the sea, which danced, far out, to the tune of the breeze in
lines of sapphire, and, shorewards, was ringed smoothly with a dull,
turquoise crescent of water, broken only where the foam-scud, shining in
the brilliant sunshine, flew up over the green-grey rocks. Below the
wall, on the nether side of the road, a clump of silver olives swayed
gracefully in the freshening breeze, and beyond, a group of stone pines
brooded, thoughtful and apart, at the edge of the cliff. Hanging masses
of pink geranium, and wine-coloured bougainvillea stained the greyness
of the villa walls, and rainbow roses clung in festoons round its
closed, green shutters.
Up the curved, white vista of dusty road toiled the figure of an old
man, sturdily bending under his load of palm branches. A two-horsed cart
rattled noisily downwards towards the bridge to the crack of the
driver’s lash and his shrill “yuips.” Just in front of the villa three
small brown urchins chattered busily in the dust, heaving flat stones
aimlessly along the road; and the soft, metallic note of women’s talk,
with a wailing rise at the end of each sentence, floated up from a
gaily-skirted group washing linen in the tank below. To the left, where
the road wound past a buttress of old grey masonry, palms clustered
skyward in dusty profusion; to the right, through a slanting, mauve
network of wisteria and sleepy heliotrope, one caught a glimpse of the
lichen-dotted wall of a Saracen tower, rising solid and picturesque,
pierced in the centre by a white-washed stone archway. The sea gave a
blue-green setting to the spreading foliage, to the gnarled trunks of
the balancing olives and the stems of the pines; the edging foam,
glinting white as it shot up over the rocks, seemed to throw a playful
challenge to the friends that had hung so long above in airy seclusion.
In a corner of the garden, where a pepper tree threw feathery shadows
from its hanging, frond-like leaves, and dull pink berries, on to the
grass, Shikari lay, his head between his paws, watching his master’s
restless figure out of one half-closed eye.
Presently the sound of wheels was heard coming up the road. Giles
stopped his uneasy tramp on the broad verandah, and, followed by the
dog, went and stood at the top of the crescent of trellis-roofed steps,
that led curving up to the door from the outside porch. The carriage
stopped. Jocelyn was the first to alight. She stood, for a minute,
before she mounted, looking up at him through the roses which trailed
mysteriously over her head out of shadowy masses of hanging
foliage--falling through the openings of the twisted trellis-work, they
seemed to be whispering and beckoning to her, as she stood under the
green archway.
Shikari walked gravely down the steps, and raising himself, placed a paw
on each of her shoulders.
Irma was waiting for them in a cool room on the ground floor. She looked
very ill, but she greeted her visitors with graceful cordiality. Giles
noticed that she looked at Jocelyn with a strangely wistful expression.
Nielsen, who had followed them into the room, suddenly produced from his
pocket a beautiful little china bowl, which he presented to his hostess
with his usual elaborate languor.
“I have been waiting for the chance of giving you this, my dear lady,”
he said, bowing. “It was presented to me by my dear frriend Dick Garron;
it comes from Yokohama, you know; I have been tortured,” and he spread
his hands expressively, “for fear it should be destrroyed by my cats. I
should not feel it so deeply, don’t you see, if it were destrroyed by
_other_ people’s cats.”
Irma’s tired face, yellow-white from constant pain, lighted up with a
smile. Jocelyn had brought her flowers, Mrs. Travis, chocolate; the
three characteristic gifts touched her fancy humorously. As she murmured
her gracious, foreign thanks, her eyes--like those of a souled
monkey--kept glancing from Jocelyn as she put the flowers in water, to
Giles, who leant against the door watching her. He caught one look from
his wife; there was such sadness, such depth of comprehension, such
mockery in it, that he knew once for all there was nothing to hide from
her. He dropped his eyes, and there was a moment when his feelings were
a strange mingling of shame, regret, bitterness, and compassion--a
moment of absolute physical discomfort; then he stepped across, smoothed
her cushions, and with a muttered excuse left the room.
Nielsen, an old friend with a great and sympathetic admiration for the
sick woman, had much to say, and proceeded to say it. Mrs. Travis was
busy inspecting the silver in two cabinets against the wall, examining
the pattern critically, and murmuring a constant approval. Jocelyn, left
to herself, talked to two bullfinches, who instantly became her friends.
Her nerves were on edge, the strain of the situation, whether she would
or no, was being forced upon her reason. Her aunt’s complacent comments,
Nielsen’s languid chatter, Irma’s eyes so full of meaning and knowledge,
and yet so kind, jarred her. The colour came and went in her face, and
her eyes looked restlessly about her; she revolted impatiently in a
hardly-repressed irritation against the confinement of the pretty,
dainty room, shaded by the verandahs from the powerful beat and throb of
life outside. She longed to get into the sunshine, away from the
thoughts that crowded painfully upon her mind.
She felt an immense relief when Giles’s voice summoned them to the
carriage, and she went out and drew a deep breath, with Irma’s farewell
words sounding in her ears--
“Good-bye, dear one, you are young and so beautiful; have a good time,
it is right, it is fitting.” ...
To the jingling of their ear bells, the pair of little flea-bitten greys
raised a whirling column of dust on the winding, downward road to
Ventimiglia. With every step gained from the villa, Jocelyn’s spirits
rose in the rapid motion through the warm dry air; she lost herself in
the brilliant day, in the passing glimpses of the laughing sea, in the
hot pine scent from above the road. She shook her parasol gaily, with a
smiling “_Buon Giorno_,” at a group of Italian peasant girls swinging
along, slowly and erect, to market; the flowers which she had tied round
its handle swayed and quivered, sending their perfume over to Giles, who
sat opposite her. She did not look at him; it seemed as though she had
determined to forget everything--everything but the throb of the warm
life that stirred around her.
As they rose a slight hill, they passed a man with a gun slung over his
shoulder by a strap. Side-whiskered, with a hard felt hat and a
nondescript dog, he was going out to shoot singing birds.
“_Le sport!_” said Giles, with a disgusted shrug of his shoulders.
“The brute!” said Jocelyn, her face crimson with sudden anger. “I should
like to wring his neck, only”--recovering herself slightly under the
surprise in her aunt’s and Nielsen’s faces, “it looks so dirty.”
Giles glanced at her sympathetically--he knew her great love for all
birds and animals, and understood.
“You must not be angry with the poor man,” said Nielsen, “they are not a
sportin’ people, the Italians, don’t you know.”
But Jocelyn’s feelings were still ruffled.
“I hate people who drop their final g’s,” she said.
Nielsen regarded her through his eyeglass with great consternation.
“I beg your pardon,” he said at last.
“My _dear_!” said Mrs. Travis--want of affability in _other_ people was
a crime to her, it rendered things so uncomfortable.
“Oh! You are excused,” said Jocelyn, whose sudden anger had evaporated
now that they were out of sight of the intending sportsman--“it doesn’t
matter for foreigners, you know, only you mustn’t do it again.”
She experienced a sudden compunction, and smiled at him appealingly.
Nielsen, who accepted her shrewdly as one not to be judged by ordinary
standards, liked her the better for the swift changing of her moods.
They passed through Ventimiglia and along the level road that runs to
Bordighera; past the odorous tannery, past the town’s custom-house, past
the ill-looking, outlying, roadside cafés.
A villainous Italian, with a dirty face, coming out of one of these,
took his slouch hat off to Giles, who returned him a nod.
“Who is that horrid-looking man?” said Jocelyn.
“A friend of mine,” replied Giles gravely; “he pays professional visits
to the villa sometimes; he is one of a profession the most elevated in
these parts, plays the barrel-organ.”
“_Ah! Mais ce n’est pas une profession, ça, c’est une carrière vous
savez_,” put in Nielsen, sotto voce.
They drove past the long, dull, modern street, and the picturesque town
of old Bordighera, tumbled together in lofty and evil-smelling seclusion
above. At the garden of palms beyond, the drive came to an end.
Some one suggested picnicking on the rocks below the road; they left the
carriage, and made their way down to the beach, where they lunched in
the shade of a huge, seaworn boulder.
After the things were cleared and taken back to the carriage, Giles
returned from giving directions to the coachman to find Mrs. Travis on
the verge of sleep, her mouth slightly open, her hand feebly grasping a
drooping parasol, her head nodding from side to side.
He could see Jocelyn at the water’s edge, and Nielsen moving towards
her; and he felt a great pang of jealousy.
Lighting a cigar, he strolled away from Mrs. Travis; he did not wish to
embarrass the good lady upon her awakening. With his hat over his eyes,
he leant against a rock, sending vicious puffs of smoke between his
lips, and looking down at a footprint Jocelyn had left in the sand.