It was the third day since Giles had left her on the Cornice Road, and
Jocelyn had not seen him since. She had been told of his wife’s sudden
death. It had seemed to her like a fable with no certain meaning in it;
but the news had left her strangely excited, full of fear and doubt,
with the feeling that she was, like a swimmer, out of her depth and
struggling in dark and uncertain waters. She longed wistfully for some
glimpse into the dim future. She felt a tremulous compassion for the
woman whose life had been so full of pain, whose end had been so sudden;
and with that compassion was mingled a sense of remorse, of bitter
regret that she had done her a great and unmerited wrong. During the
first days of her own humiliation there had been no room for that
feeling in the lonely stress of her spirit; now, when the tide of her
shame ebbed, when the unwitting cause of that shame slipped silently
and swiftly away from the reach of her secret resentment, this other
pain came. But, above all else, she had a restless yearning to see
Giles, to rest the burden of her grief and of her fear upon his
shoulders; to shake herself once more free from this nightmare of
whirling shadows and dark pitfalls, and step into the sunshine of life.
She felt that he could help her, and he alone.
As she moved softly about the room arranging flowers and books with
supple, slender fingers--Jocelyn’s fingers were always busy, moving
swiftly to their various ends--she thought for the hundredth time of the
wording of the note that was folded into her dress--
“Jacopo will have told you what has happened. I could not come
yesterday, nor to-day. I will be at the hotel to-morrow at half-past
four. I _must_ see you alone.--G. L.”
At half-past four! It was four now. The minutes seemed leaden-winged.
She wandered to the window, and stepped out on to the stone terrace
where the sun beat fiercely. She felt its fiery touch upon her face,
upon her arms and neck through the thin muslin of her dress, and her
spirits rose insensibly. Those were right who worshipped the Sun! It was
he who brought colour to the rose, song to the air, life to the blood!
He who sailed high in the heavens to warm and cherish when the world was
dark and dreary! She leaned against the window, looking up at the yellow
roses trailing above her head, and humming to herself.
Nielsen, whom the servant had shown into the room unannounced, stood
looking at her a long time. He was thinking that never in his life had
he seen anything prettier than the line of her slender, rounded throat,
and of her pointed chin thrust softly forward. Her lips were slightly
parted in the act of singing, but he could not hear her. The light went
out of her face as quickly as it had come; with a sigh she bent her
head, and moved restlessly back into the room.
Nielsen stepped forward; he had seen the bright look upon her face in
the streaming sunlight, the sudden cloud that passed over her eyes and
the droop of her mouth; and when she came to him with a smile and some
commonplace remark of greeting, he experienced a feeling of
discomfiture, a sense of having hit up against something hard and
impassable. What did he, with all his experience, know of women?--of
this girl, upon whose face he had seen a moment before the stamp of
life, and who veiled it from him impenetrably with a smile? What had he
come to see her for? To offer her a warning? To do it delicately and
diplomatically? Fool! when with the touch of her fingers upon his, cold
and light though it was, his head was going round! He saw that he had
come rather to tell her how he could never forget her, would follow her,
until some day or other she cared for him as he cared for her! The idea
that she was going away from him, out of his reach, that he would no
longer be able to come and see her daily, when he wished--was suddenly
and crushingly brought home to him, as he looked at her slender figure
in its soft, grey dress, and at the little head poised so erect and so
daintily upon it.
“Won’t you sit down?”
Again, the sense of being baffled, of encountering a barrier. Yes, he
would sit down, many thanks!
“And how is the dear aunt? And we shall lose you to-morrow, everything
that makes life endurable?” And so on, and so on, in purring tones
rolling his r’s. It was such a habit of his to talk, that he went on
uttering smooth commonplaces and looking unutterable things--feeling all
the time that he would give the world for a moment of silence in which
to steady himself, and find out exactly what he wished to say, and how
to say it.
Jocelyn had seated herself at her piano with her face half turned over
her shoulder towards him, and while she answered him her fingers touched
the notes silently. His eyes fastened on them, the swift, silent fingers
that seemed to be keeping him at bay.
It roused a sudden feeling of anger in him. He would not--was there
nothing in her he could touch, in those eyes that looked at him so
coldly? He stopped talking, breathing quickly--he felt quite out of
breath. A low chord, suddenly struck, vibrated softly through the room.
He rose half way from his seat with his hands stretched out to lay them
upon hers.
She began to speak. What was she saying? He sank back again.
“Mr. Nielsen, I want you to tell me about poor Mrs.--poor Irma’s death.
Jacopo told me you were there.”
“Ah! poor lady! a dreadful thing!” He looked at her face tense and
compassionate, and was doubtful of what he should tell her.
“But how did it happen? You _were_ there, weren’t you?” she said.
“Well, no! I was not exactly there at the time, you know. It so happened
that I came to call soon after she died. I was the first to find her.”
“But what was it? Why was it? It was so dreadfully sudden.”
“She died about three o’clock on Tuesday afternoon, you know. It was
verry terrible--verry sad--the heart--” he stammered. Looking at the
white, sensitive face that hung upon his words, he had decided to lie
about that tragic ending, but it was not easy to do so to her, and he
stammered.
“Is that all?” The words were so incisive, the sentence so short that it
gave him no time.
“It was morphia,” he said with a sudden, overwhelming conviction that
lying was futile. “Poor lady! An overdose, don’t you know--she was in
the habit--”
“Morphia!” her voice took the word from his, and echoed it in a whisper,
and her eyes, large and dark, stared at him out of a face that was
suddenly very white and still.
“Yes, an overdose, you know, quite an accident--er-r--” for the life of
him he could not go on, with those frightened eyes staring into his.
There was silence, and he shifted his eyeglass methodically from one eye
to the other, because, being damp with perspiration, he could not see
through it. He tugged at his moustache--the girl’s face was so
tragically still and white.
A terrible thought had been stricken into Jocelyn’s mind--the thought of
suicide. What if she were the cause of this death--this overdose! It was
a dreadful--an inconceivable--thought! What if, knowing everything, Irma
had chosen this solution of the question! A murderess! The only motion
she made in the hideous turmoil of her spirit was to clasp her hands
together in her lap.
The sight of those interlacing fingers was very pitiful to Nielsen. He
saw that he had touched some spring of painful feeling, the depth of
which he could not sound. Why, in the name of God, had he not had the
grace to lie? His feelings were a strange jumble of disgust with
himself, perplexed pity, irritation that he could not read her feelings,
and an aching conviction that he was beyond the pale, and entered not at
all into the situation.
Jocelyn sat motionless, she would have given the world to be able to get
up and walk about the room, for swift motion of any sort, to free her
from the longing to scream that caught her by the throat, and made her
feel breathless and suffocated. Why did not this man go and leave her
alone? Alone with that thought! What was he staring at her for through
that idiotic glass? Did he think she was going to faint? She wished she
could. Why was she so tough that she was denied that relief?
She had an inclination to laugh wildly; she gave a little gasp. There
was the sound of a closing door, and the laugh died on her lips.
Nielsen, following the sudden eagerness in her eyes, turned, and saw
Legard coming in. He seemed taller than ever in his black clothes, and
his eyes looked straight past the Swede at Jocelyn.
Nielsen shot a quick glance at the girl. She stood waiting, her face was
changed--different to the face he knew; on it was a curious look that
baffled his comprehension, the eyes seemed to speak of entreaty, of
fear, and of a something unfathomable beyond. Ah! they were wonderful
eyes, wonderful! But they had forgotten his very existence.
He turned very pale, and rose from his chair, picking up his hat. He
bowed low over it and said--
“If you will excuse me--I am sure Monsieur Legard has much to say,
perhaps later--I may be permitted to bid you good-bye.” He moved slowly
to the window, and passed through it on to the terrace.
As he turned round to close the window after him, his immovable face,
pale and wrinkled in the glaring sunshine, looked in upon them with
weary, half-closed eyes. Behind that mask a consuming rage of jealousy
leapt up, and fought to find expression.