The sun staring into his room awoke him. As he stretched himself, the
sight of his own half-dressed figure brought him with a cruel jerk to a
sense of reality.
Yet, in spite of the agony of returning consciousness, there was a glow
of resolution in his mind, another dawning of hope. He shrank before the
acknowledgment of it. To his indolent, pleasure-loving nature, a
resigned acceptance of the worst meant relief. He resented the renewed
vitality which brought suspense, and a fresh struggle against the
abandonment of hope. With every movement of his muscles in the morning
air came another balancing of the possibilities. Effort of any sort,
other than the purely physical, was painful to him; he shrank from
beginning again a mental contest against overpowering odds, and all the
time the struggle was renewing itself within him. It was his nature to
shrink from obstacles, and to hate the rough of life, yet when he
encountered it, something in him always forced him forward against his
will. He began to calculate the earliest minute at which he might see
Jocelyn.
He dressed hastily, swallowed some coffee and a roll, and ordered his
pony. While waiting for it he paced restlessly up and down the little
garden. Once, when he passed her window, he saw his wife’s figure moving
feebly from her bedroom to her sitting-room. He had heard her talking,
had heard her cough, had even heard her laughing, but it was all he had
_seen_ of her for three days. He turned away hastily, and walked down
into the road to wait....
Four hours later the bay pony, very tired, stopped with a jerk before
the villa door. The afternoon sun struck hotly on to the white road, and
the palm trees by the Saracen tower were waiting dejectedly for the
wind, that hung in the black clouds over the sea, to free them from
their dusty covering. Giles got off, he staggered slightly, and wiped
his forehead as he gave the reins to the slim, dark Italian boy, who
appeared like a mournful shadow from an unexpected corner to take
them--then throwing his head back he walked into the house.
Shortly, this was what had happened to him in the four hours.
He had ridden at a pace alternately very fast and very slow to the Hôtel
Milano. At the gate of the hotel garden the German proprietor was
standing, a large, grave man, with a military back. The ladies, he said,
had gone to Monte Carlo, would Monsieur not come in and rest himself
from the heat, and wait, for the ladies would surely be back very
presently. Monsieur would not! The ladies would certainly return for the
luncheon at half-one. Yes! there was a train from Monte Carlo at twelve
o’clock; it was now eleven. Would not Monsieur, perhaps, drink
something--there was some very good hock newly arrived. Monsieur would
not! It was very hot! _Aufwiedersehn!_
As Giles dug his heels into the pony’s sides and clattered up the street
towards the Cornice Road, the German proprietor, bowing his long,
bearded face towards his gaunt chest, looked gravely after him.
“Mein Herr Legard is no longer the same man, I think,” he said slowly
to his little French wife, in an interval of her flower gathering. “He
used to be so calm, so nonchalant; now he does everything
_augenblicklich_, with his mouth shut and his brows down. He is ill, I
think, or he has lost money.”
“_Que t’es bête, mon cher!_” said Madame compassionately, a rose in her
mouth, and her small, fat, French hands full of carnations.
Legard rode into Monte Carlo, he could not wait for the chance of their
returning for lunch. He came upon them walking down from Smith’s bank to
the station. He had the privilege of shaking hands with them. Mrs.
Travis was slightly in front--she had always a conviction that trains
wished to elude her. After a glance at his face, she discreetly
increased her pace and disappeared into the station, perceiving from its
expression that she would be more comfortable away from him.
Giles was alone with Jocelyn for two seconds. He had her hand in his, a
perfectly cold, motionless hand. He looked at her eyes, they were half
closed and averted; a furrow was between her brows, and her lips were
pressed together. He could hardly prevent himself from crying out.
Jocelyn turned her eyes to his face for one second, the face of a man in
purgatory, with the corners of the mouth drawn back from the clenched
teeth, the chin square, the jaw quivering, the eyes deep-sunk and
staring. The expression of her own face did not change, it was at once
shrinking and repellant. He dropped her hand with a gasp, and sat
motionless on the pony, looking after her as she walked into the
station. He sat there until he saw the train go out, but she did not
come back.
Then he rode slowly home along the dusty road, at the pony’s own pace,
bending over its neck, and staring in front of him like a man in a
dream....
When he had thrown the reins to his servant he went up the steps to the
house. At the top of the winding, rose-hung passage, he turned. A vision
of Jocelyn, standing at the foot and looking up at him with the roses
whispering above her, was for an instant before him; then it was gone,
and there stood only an Italian boy, in nankeen clothes, and a
wide-brimmed hat, holding the ends of the pony’s reins, and looking up
at his master with mournful black eyes. Legard spoke in his gentle
voice. It was characteristic of him that in his trouble his
consideration for others did not lessen.
“Jacopo, we shall take the yacht and go shooting.”
Jacopo’s apathetic, olive-coloured face lighted up for a moment. He was
a silent, ubiquitous boy, and devoted to his master.
“Si, Signore!”
“We start directly--you must be ready to-night.”
The boy stroked the pony’s nose solemnly with his dark fingers. Giles
had chosen him because he was fond of animals--a rare thing in an
Italian.
“For where, Signore?” he said.
“I don’t know yet; somewhere where there is something to shoot. Pack for
cold weather and for hot. We shall be away a long time perhaps. Take
Shikari, and put in a rug for him. That’s all, I think. Do you want any
money?”
“No, Signore.”
Jacopo threw the reins on the pony’s neck and departed, whistling a
little tune. The pony followed him like a dog.
Legard stayed a moment at the top of the steps, passing his hand over
his brow, and trying to conjure up again the girl’s image, then he went
into the house and began mechanically to overhaul his guns.
For a little while he felt the relief it would be to have done with it
all--a merciful span of time that was gone as soon as it was come--then
a great horror of loneliness, and a sense that the sands of his life had
run out, came over him. He leant his face against the frame of the gun
cabinet, feeling sick and cold. He _could_ not live without her!
A great wave of pity for her carried him a little beyond that thought.
Her eyes with the shrinking look in them were always before him. At
whatever cost he would not crown the disgrace of his manhood by forcing
himself upon her! The instinctive revolt within him against brutality of
any sort, which was at once the strength and the weakness of his
character, forbade that. To that instinct he must be true! He clung to
it with the despairing clutch of a man who had lost other things which
he had thought secure. He would go away! He would see her once again,
that very day, as a matter of form--he did not confess to any hope--just
as a matter of form. He was, in fact, unable, even then, to despair. He
went to the sideboard, drank some wine, and ate some fruit--he could not
get anything solid down--and went about his preparations mechanically.
The thought came into his mind that, since he was going away, he must
see his wife. He poured out the rest of the wine, drank it, and lit a
cigarette. If it had to be done, it might as well be done at once. He
sat down, and smoked the cigarette steadily through, with a sense of
effacing his emotions. When he had finished it he got up and knocked at
her door.
There was no answer. He opened it gently and went in.