Chapter II

Early frogs croaked in the _Val de Menton_, a fragrant acrid whiff of smoke from burning eucalyptus-wood floated up from the unkempt dwellings behind the hotel. The green shutters of the French windows were thrown back, and a girl appeared in the space between. She stood with her head slightly on one side, her hands in front of her, holding in them a branch of roses. As she twisted them to this side, and that, they reflected the sunlight through their pale yellow petals, hearts of orange, and ruddy-stemmed foliage, and gave a suggestion of gipsy colouring to her figure. She poised herself on the threshold of the window, with a little swaying motion like that of a bird upon a twig. Neither tall nor short, she had the indescribable quality of perfect proportion. From the soft, dark brown hair rippling back from her low forehead and drawn over the tip of the tiniest of ears, to the arched instep thrust slightly forward under the folds of some soft, maize-coloured gown, the paramount impression conveyed was that of _race_--the subtle something which distinguishes the true Arab horse even from the English thoroughbred; the something very old, quite inseparable, ungrafted, which one may see in the purest gipsy types, the purest Arab or Persian; that something which produces an absolute uniformity of line and of “tone.” The oval face in repose was stamped with a look of weariness, almost of sadness, an inherited look--as of one having played a game with fate and lost--which is seen so often in the Eastern, so seldom in the Western face. In the pallor of it was the slightest browning tint, the chance outcome of a long ago gipsy strain.

She smiled as she looked quickly about her with large, soft brown eyes, from under slightly arched, dark brows, and the lines of the mouth curved, and took to themselves two tiny dimples at the corners. There was no trace of the weary look in the face then; it was the very incarnation of light and life, as she sniffed the eucalyptus smoke luxuriously, and stretched like a little cat in the streaming sunshine. She gave a little nod to Giles, and stooped to pat the greyhound’s head pushed up against her dress.

“Dear boy,” she said softly, with the pretty childish lisp she used to her intimate beasts, “Did ’oo want ’oor cake? I’ll get him his cake, Giles.” She turned back into the room, and came out again with two large slices of cake. She laughed while the dog ate them, and looked first at him and then at Giles, with friendly, untroubled eyes.

“Sweet boy! How he loves cake!” she said.

Giles had not moved; he stood with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall, and frowning from the sun in his eyes.

“Isn’t it a heavenly day?” said the girl, “what a pity to have to go and spend hours in those stuffy ‘Rooms’!”

“Must you go over to ‘Monte’?” he said; “we might have gone a walk.”

Jocelyn plucked a spray of the yellow mimosa, and held it up to see if it would go with the roses.

“Yes,” she said, “it’s such a pity; but Auntie’s dying to go, and she won’t go alone. The poor dear’s got a new ‘system.’ She’s been studying it all the morning, she doesn’t understand it in the least, but that doesn’t matter, you know, she always gives it up when it comes to the point. Are you coming over with us? Mr. Nielsen said he’d meet us in the Gardens.” Giles bit his lips.

“Yes, I think so,” he said.

Jocelyn took a long sniff of the roses, and walked up to the terrace wall. She stood there with her back to him, looking down on the white houses and the ill-kept gardens, where plants straggled, and coloured garments hung limply from lines. Presently, without turning her head, she put her hand on Giles’s arm, and plucked his sleeve, saying--

“Look! What a wilderness! I believe I love even the untidiness of it; there’s colour in it, anyway.” Giles quivered when she touched him; he came close to her, and looked over her shoulder at the confused jumble of painted buildings, green foliage, and gay rags, with the blue sea shining beyond. With a thrill of delight he felt the touch of her shoulder against his arm.

“What a child it is for colour!” he said; “do you care so very much for the South?”

“I love it,” she said, with a little sigh. She twisted her fingers in and out of each other in a way she had when she was thinking. “The only thing I don’t care about are the people. I don’t mean the natives, I don’t know them, I mean hotel people; all the years I’ve been abroad, they’re always the same, wherever one goes. This place is almost worse than any, because of Monte Carlo.”

“Do you include me?” said Giles. She gave his coat sleeve a little friendly pull.

“Of course not; you’re different, you don’t seem to belong abroad at all.” She turned her head slightly and looked at him.

“In spite of your laziness, you are always in earnest, you see, Giles; you can’t help being English all through.”

“Ah!” said Giles, with a very faint smile, “it’s nice to know one’s always in earnest, isn’t it, Shika?” And he stooped, and stroked the greyhound’s nose.

“And you,” he said, “what about you, Jocelyn?” She moved her supple body impatiently, and the look of defeat, which was never far away, came into her face.

“I am sometimes in earnest,” she said slowly, “and sometimes not; it’s always ‘sometimes’ with _me_, you know--I drift and drift.” A brown lizard darted across the top of the wall almost under her fingers. Her eyes shone softly.

“Sweet little beast!” she said. “I wish I were a lizard, Giles; just to be in the sun all day, and bask, and never have anything to worry one, or to fight against.” Giles, with his hands in his pockets, and his chin thrust forward, was looking at her hungrily.

“You would make a very decent little lizard, you are so quick,” he said between his teeth, “rather too nice-looking, perhaps.” He had to say something ridiculous to hide the tenderness that came into his voice. Jocelyn smiled; when she smiled her face was wonderfully soft, and the tiny dimples always came to the corners of her mouth; then she sighed.

“Oh dear! it must be nearly time to go. I would much rather stay with you, Shika,” and the greyhound, who seemed to understand, licked her hand amicably with a wet tongue.

“Irma would like to see you--will you go to her for a minute?” Giles brought out the words with difficulty.

“Of course I will.” She moved quickly across the terrace to the window. Giles, still leaning against the wall, followed her with his eyes.

She knocked on the window softly, and passed through it.... That was a curious contrast in the dim, shaded room, into which the brilliant light filtered through the closed shutters--the dark-haired girl standing gracefully and pliantly erect in her yellow dress, shyly twisting the soft-petalled roses in her hands, and the shrunken, weary woman, in her white draperies on the couch, all the life that remained to her seeming to lie in her eyes alone; black eyes, with that peculiar mournful look seen in monkeys’ faces, and yet with the steadfast faith of martyrs in them--eyes that differed from most, in that they were always alight, always expressionful.

To the immense physical difference between the two was added a vast disparity--that between the mind of disciplined and the mind of undisciplined impulse--and yet, each was conscious of a great liking, somewhat shyly expressed, for the other.

Irma had a free and unenvious admiration for the girl’s supple life and beauty; Jocelyn could not help being attracted by the elder woman’s wit, and she had a sincere compassion for her weary suffering. They had always a sense of pleasure in each other’s company, though, in spite of having lived for two months in the same hotel, they had not seen much of one another. The Legards’ villa was some five miles distant, but Mrs. Legard always wintered in Mentone to be near her doctor.

Jocelyn bent down over the couch, and laid the saffron-centred roses against the breast of the white dress.

“How good of you to bring me these,” came in the softest, slightly-foreign, staccato English. “I am so glad to see you, I thought perhaps you would not be coming to-day, and I am going away, you know--has not Giles told you? Yes,” and she laughed almost gleefully, “I have got my liberty from Dr. Lamotte; the spring cure is over, he cannot do any more for me now, it seems; so I may go back to my little villa, and my flowers and books, and my singing birds. I miss them so here. _Mon Dieu!_ How I miss them! So, I am going to-morrow; but you will come and see me, will you not, Jocelyn? It is not far, you know, only about five miles. I will tell Giles he must bring you.”

“Of course I will come, I want to see the villa so much, but I am sorry you are going.”

“Yes?” The faintest mockery seemed to ring in the word, but she put out her hand, and took the girl’s with a caressing gesture. “I do not like to ask your dear aunt; there is no roulette there, you know; she will perhaps be bored. Yes, I will tell Giles; he will bring you; I do not know if he is coming too--perhaps not.” Again in the voice and the black eyes fixed so steadily on the girl’s, there was that indefinable spirit of fleeting mockery; Jocelyn flushed slowly, her sensitive mind was aware of something unpleasant, which she did not understand. There was a light tap on the window.

“That is auntie,” she said, “I must go, I’m afraid; we are going over to ‘Monte.’”

“Good-bye, Jocelyn. Will you kiss me?” She gave the girl a look of mingled tenderness and admiration. “You are _so_ pretty to-day.”

Jocelyn stooped for a kiss.

“Good-bye! I am very sorry you are feeling so ill; shall I stay with you?” she said.

“_Mon Dieu!_ No! The dear aunt would certainly be bored without you; you must go at once. _Bonne chance._ And you will come over and see me?”

“Yes,” said Jocelyn. There was a troubled look on her face, as she turned it to the other before passing through the window.

Outside, Mrs. Travis’s figure spread, straight and full, in a cool, grey silk gown, under a black sunshade.

She covered a good deal of ground. She had on a very smart bonnet, and large, easy boots; the keynote of her personality was struck in the words, “material comfort.” It was an unconscious profession with her to pursue it, but she would have been the last to admit it. She was fifty, with soft, well-curled fair hair going grey, and hazel-green eyes; she had a good deal of colour. She was not a tall woman, but she impressed one as such, there was so much dignity about her--the dignity of the old Puritan stock--the dignity of obstinacy. She had no principle, or, rather, she had the principles of temporary convenience, and a lingering, superstitious remnant of a Puritan education, which compelled her against her desires to go to church on Sundays. She was fond of gambling; gambled badly and superstitiously, with a keen enjoyment; objected to people believing that she did so at all; suspected the “bank” of knowing a little too much when she lost; bore her losses, as she bore physical pain, with the stoicism of early education; expected the same stoicism, multiplied, in her niece. Without knowing it, she was a perfect mistress of the art of avoiding wrinkles.

If you scratch a Russian you come to a Tartar, if you scratch a human being you come to an animal; only in some cases you scratch more, in others less. In Mrs. Travis’s case you scratched less. She suggested nothing so much as a large Persian cat.

With her bright, quickly-moving, greenish eyes she observed many things, conveying them as far as the shell which covered her reasoning powers--if she had any. She had much instinct, no logic.

She was frequently heard to say to her niece, “You ought to think of other people, my dear.” And she did so herself--just so far as it suited her own convenience. She only said it to her niece in the impunity of close relationship; in other cases she became the sublime martyr in a smooth sulk. For the rest, she was entirely devoid of “inwardness,” was hospitable, and a widow with no children, loved shopping and dress, collected silver, and did it all well and economically. She did not talk much, but smiled a great deal, a pleasant smile; when she was agitated she puffed her lips.

She puffed them now, saying to Jocelyn--

“We shall lose our train, my dear, and we ought to play before dinner, you know, I’m never so lucky after.” She linked her arm in the girl’s, and walked down the terrace steps, Giles following in a feeble endeavour to reconcile her bonnet with her boots. He was given to dissection, and Mrs. Travis was tough under the knife.