Chapter XVI

The Sapphire Necklace

The path immediately behind Les Oliviers, worn by the steps of many generations of mules and men, was steep and rugged, here and there sinking deeply and filled in with broken fragments and buttressed with rock slabs. A little further on the ridge ran up in an abrupt narrow steep; a clump of pines on its summit stood out clear and glowing upon the sky, with a straw-roofed hut under the dark boughs. Ermengarde loved that little clump of pine-trees soaring up above the house and grounds, whether, as now, in the full glow of forenoon, or in still, golden afternoons, or flushed with sunset upon a crimson and amber sky, or, later still, traced on the pale clear green of after-glow, or black against a blue-black vault pierced with shining stars. She had often and vainly tried to draw it; but even the thin man had failed to catch its charm; much paper had been spoiled and colour wasted in the attempt. When you gained that abrupt eminence you seemed to have reached the top of the world, which unrolled itself beneath, and spread blue and far to the unseen African shore; but when you turned from the sea, and saw the path winding higher along the wooded brink to mountain summits endlessly unfolding, you knew that you were still very far from the top.

The warm bright air was spiced with aromatic scents. Myrtle and lavender, cistus and juniper, rosemary, thyme, and pine, clothed and climbed every cliff and steep down to the torrent beds that ran on each side the ridge, and sprang from every crack and crevice in rock and cliff. Higher still, the ridge broadened into a pine-wood, and narrowed abruptly upon its steep wooded sides, then widened again into a grassy plateau, where the columnar trunks of hoary olives showed dim and solemn through shadows of drooping foliage shot with subdued, changing colour.

Where the pine-wood ended and the olive-grove began the ridge-side fell more gently, laying a slope of myrtle and rosemary open to the full south sun. Here Ermengarde sat, the mysterious murmur of pine-woods on one hand, the solemn stillness and blue-grey haze of olives on the other. The sunny bank was grey with massed rosemary blossom, into which countless bees plunged and buzzed drowsily in the warmth. Far below, forest and olive-terrace sank into purple bloom of shadow; the distance was closed by bare mountain peaks rolling up in great billows of stone above wooded slopes, and towered villages white in sunlight.

All this solemn beauty rebuked her and made her ashamed. She knew that she had forgotten the message and missed the healing of the mountains. She had played the fool and made herself a mark for fool's gossip. Oh, how small and cheap she felt, and how very sick of herself and her petty follies!

Such feelings are not at all comfortable; it was a relief to forget them in indignation at the indignity of being turned out of a hotel. How had the woman dared? Was she, Ermengarde Allonby, to submit to the creature's impertinence, to be driven away by the insolence of an unmannerly Frenchwoman? Never, though at first she had intended to go straight home.

Turned out of a hotel? Well, after all, _à qui la perte_? Les Oliviers was not the only house of entertainment on the Riviera. It would be something to escape from the eternal cackle of the Boundrish; there could not possibly be two Boundrishes along the Azure Shore. It was an opportunity to drop the undesirable friendship with the woman of mystery. Somehow, the prospect of dropping this friendship was not wholly agreeable. There was a dreadful fascination about that young woman, whose good points were undeniable. Besides, Ermengarde was so sorry for her, and so ready to do her any service short of selling doubtfully acquired jewellery for her. Then there was the moral regeneration of this frail sister to be considered. That certainly had not as yet made great progress; indeed, some faint hesitation as to her own power of effecting it was beginning to creep into Ermengarde's mind. She realized that she was herself hardly a saint. After all, there is not so much superfluous virtue floating loose in the world that people can afford to share any with erring brothers and sisters. Perhaps her own lamp wanted a little trimming and replenishing.

It would be lonely work to go into a strange hotel, and probably more expensive than staying here. No; she must go home--home to fogs and mud and east winds; home to a husband who, besides not being there, never had, and never would, care for her; who had been capable of becoming suddenly famous by writing the most powerful and remarkable novel of the last twenty years, and never telling her a word about it.

She had no home to go to; she had been turned out of a third-rate hotel. So many sorrows were out of proportion to her demerits; she was very, very sorry for herself. Warm sunshine drew out the fragrance of rosemary and myrtle; the still air was drowsy with the buzzing of innumerable bees; mountain peaks nodded, shadowy dells and wooded slopes heaved gently like summer waves; the humming deepened to a sea-surge, to organ-booming, and now Ermengarde sank back against a springy cushion of grey-white heather, her head pillowed on rosemary-bloom, fast asleep.

The bees went on humming in the rosemary, droning all sorts of suggestions into her ear. Now it was the hum of a schoolroom about a little curly-headed boy, with his fingers in his ears, his elbows on a desk, and his brows knitted over a dog's-eared book not unstained by tears. "_Musa_--a song, _Musæ_--of a song," he was drearily droning over and over again. Then it was an interminable clergyman in a lofty pulpit upon the crags, discoursing wearily of the sins of the woman of mystery and the follies of Ermengarde, for which there seemed to be no remedy. The clergyman was curiously like the thin man, and was beginning to be very wearisome on the indiscretions of the young Isidore, when he suddenly changed to Arthur, standing on the drawing-room hearthrug at home, and holding forth on the same topics with the name and identity of Ivor Paul confused with those of M. Isidore.

Arthur's voice was unmistakable; it was rather deep, and liable to become monotonous, especially when he discoursed upon excesses in hats and gowns, of the desirability of keeping accurate accounts, of never exceeding one's allowance or letting bills run on, of the excellent household management of his mother, and inferior capabilities of ladies of the present generation. The voice became clearer and more resonant, the dreamer grew conscious of rosemary-scent and sunshine, the grey columns of the olive-grove swam out of a haze of sunshot foliage, and became distinct above patches of golden light on flowery grass. Arthur's voice rumbled away in confused murmurs; there was a faint sound of skirts brushing herbage and a woman's lighter voice; finally, the well-known figures of the woman of mystery and the Anarchist were seen upon the path under the olives, leading away from the rosemary bank, and Ermengarde knew that she had been dozing, and was now wide awake again.

Her heart was beating hard; the dream of Arthur had been so vivid. She could not realize that it had only been a dream; it was as if he had actually been standing here on the thin grass under the pendent olive-branches in the tender shadowy light. The familiar voice was still in her ears, stirring all sorts of buried memories and slumbering feelings. Oh, why was he not with her? How was it that, with all the leisure and independence this great success must mean, he could not leave that miserable, so-called business of his, and come and take care of her, and rescue her from the insults of hotel-keepers and the persecutions of Anarchists? It was not as if he were obliged to stay in London. She was so lonely, so unfriended, so desperately home-sick. Yes, home-sick; that was the name of this lonely, gnawing heart-pang that grew worse from day to day.

The woman of mystery and her cavalier struck into a sloping path immediately in front of her, leading to the first terrace beneath the mule-path, where they were screened from the sight of people passing on the ridge, but not from the eyes of Ermengarde, whose reclining-place was behind a myrtle, through the stems of which she saw without being seen. The olives on this first terrace were gnarled and hoary, like those bordering the mule-path; the sunshot, lavender mist of their drooping boughs gave the same air of mystery and magic. The two figures actually standing on the grass, vivid with anemone and dark with violet, seemed less real than those of her dream.

She was too little interested to reflect that they were unaware of her presence, and might not wish to be seen. They kept close to the turfed wall behind them, and were screened by the massive olive-trunk in front, but only the thin myrtle-boughs came between her drowsy eyes and a full side-view of them. But they were too far off for anything more than confused murmurs of their conversation to reach her. It suddenly struck her that Agatha might be the Anarchist's wife, or even daughter, though she was undoubtedly English. An English wife might be very useful in all these "treasons, stratagems, and spoils" of his, though what but sudden and probably temporary insanity could have induced any Christian female to marry that hairy, unwashed Orson of a man was unimaginable to any sane observer.

Two red admirals fluttered past, one over the other, in pure joy of life; a lizard darted across the path at her feet. She saw the rosy bloom of a peach-tree far down on the last olive-terrace, and then became aware that the woman of mystery was agitated and the Anarchist silent and interested. There followed a brief bass murmur, and then something suddenly flashed in the sunlight, making Ermengarde's heart jump into her mouth.

But it was not a dagger, or any other murderous implement, she observed, after winking away the first dazzle; only the quivering brilliance of diamonds and sapphires glancing and dancing in Agatha's hands. It was, in fact, the necklace shown to her in the firelight on that wet afternoon, the improvised history of which had fallen on such sceptical ears--the necklace of doubtful origin but undoubted value that this mysterious and secretive young woman had asked her to sell for her. Why had she not asked the Anarchist in the first place, she wondered, or could he be the unlawful acquirer of that shining treasure? Had he suggested or commanded the making a cat's-paw of her? But, from the way in which he took and looked at the jewels, it seemed that they were new to him. He held them in this light and that, pushing the spectacles up to his forehead to examine them more closely, weighing them thoughtfully in his hand, and exchanging remarks upon them with Agatha, who presently took the necklace back, and held it this way and that, as if discussing its value. Finally, she clasped it round her neck over her white blouse, as she had done by the fire that day, with the same air of using herself to show off the jewels, and looked absently across the blue bloom of the ravine to the high mountains, while the Anarchist, thoughtfully stroking his beard, and with his goggles pushed up under his hat-brim, contemplated the necklace gem by gem, but not the wearer, evidently appraising the beauty and value of each sparkling drop and pendant as it flashed and quivered in the sun.

Then he turned and paced the grassy terrace, while Agatha took off the necklace and laid all the shining splendour carefully in its velvet bed, and again looked absently and sadly away across the blue bloom of distance to the mountain peaks. Then the Anarchist came back, said a few words, took the morocco case, and put it away in an inner breast-pocket, at the same time handing her a paper, which she read with interest and anxiety, and returned to him with a sigh and a look of relief. He held her hand a moment, then, saying something that made her turn her head away to hide tears, that Ermengarde saw sparkling in the sunshine, he sprang up the turf-banked terrace where it was a little broken, walked across the grass under the olives, and disappeared on the other side, where a steep path led by the olive-dresser's cottage and wound down the precipitous ridge-side to the high-road by the torrent-bed.

He could not have gone far down the steep, when he was seen emerging upon the olive-shadowed plateau once more, and hastily stepping back across it and down the bank to the woman of mystery, who was evidently more surprised than pleased at this return. Saying something quickly, he took out the morocco case, and, after some reluctance and apparent objection on her part, placed it in her hands, pointed, to Ermengarde's horror, towards her hiding-place, again climbed the terrace bank, hurried across the path, and vanished down the steep; while Agatha, after a short pause, as of indecision, suddenly seemed to become resolute, put the case in her pocket, turned and dashed quickly, almost at a run, straight along the terrace towards Ermengarde, who gave herself up for lost.

But before she could collect her senses sufficiently to decide whether to lie back and pretend to be asleep or get up and seem to be just emerging from the wood behind her, Agatha had flashed by like a whirlwind, her skirts brushing Ermengarde's feet, looking straight ahead and in too great a hurry to see what lay on the rosemary-bank behind the myrtle.

Then Ermengarde, petrified with amazement, got up and went back to the path over the ridge, remembering that the way taken by the woman of mystery through the wood was shorter than the mule-track along the ridge, so that there was no fear, unless she went at a much greater rate than Agatha, of overtaking her and leading her to suppose that she had been in the olive-garden during the interview.

She therefore walked slowly back along the mule-path, meditating upon the mysterious and nefarious proceedings of her young friend, and alternately blaming herself for watching the interview, and wondering what it meant, and congratulating herself on having accidentally been the witness of what justified her suspicions about that necklace, and reached the gate of the hotel just in time to see that same Agatha and Mr. Mosson coming out from a path on the wooded convent steep in earnest colloquy.

There was no reason why two of the hotel visitors should or should not be walking in the monastery grounds at the same time; but, as the descent by the hotel gate was very abrupt and much tangled by interlacing roots of pine-trees, there was every reason why Mr. Mosson, even if, instead of being a benefactor to his species, he had been a misanthrope (and from the grim set of his jaw and hard eyes, and thin, tight-drawn mouth, Ermengarde was inclined to think him that), should hand Miss Somers carefully over the snaky roots and crumbling ledges, as he did with the greatest politeness and deference, standing aside with raised hat to let her pass into the grounds before him, and on perceiving Ermengarde's approach from the opposite direction, extending the same courtesy to her. And yet the juxtaposition of these two seemed to confirm her suspicions concerning Agatha and stamp her with double intrigue. Was Mr. Mosson a suppositious uncle of Agatha's?--an aunt he clearly could not be--so she debated, walking by necessity at this suspicious young woman's side through the garden paths.

"Have you been up the ridge?" asked Agatha, with cheeks flushed and eyes over bright.

"I came back through the olives, so pleasant and peaceful," replied Ermengarde, observing a tremor in her companion's voice, and wondering what had been the last experience of the necklace. "And you?"

"I have been up by the monastery," she said. "Bordighera is very beautiful to-day: an indescribable peacock blue bloom upon it."

"Velvety, and yet with the clear brilliance of a jewel," Ermengarde commented pensively. "By the way, Miss Somers," as if struck by a sudden thought, "_did_ you ever succeed in selling that lovely necklace of yours?"

"Oh yes. I disposed of it quite satisfactorily," she returned in the half-bored way in which people refer to things long over and done with. "It cost me a pang."

"I wonder what it cost _him_?" Ermengarde mused, as they were merged in a stream of sun-burnt, sun-hatted people flocking in to luncheon in the cool shadow of the house.

For all his reputed benevolence and ascetic cast of face there was a curious feline quality in Mr. Mosson, Ermengarde observed. He sat at his solitary table in a corner, quietly intent on what was put before him, yet all the time stealthily watching people from under drooped eyelids, with an occasional hungry flash in his eyes when suddenly bent upon some individual, as, for instance, to-day upon Agatha, and slightly crouching in his chair like some great creature of the cat tribe, gathering itself together to spring on its prey.

So he might look at and spring upon her, she reflected with a shiver, if she put herself within reach of that quick, aggressive paw (now peeling oranges with slow and stealthy ferocity, as if they were alive and felt being skinned so closely), and so he might devour her, crunching her audibly, bones and all, as he crunched the crisp _zwieback_ that he slowly munched from time to time to fill in the pauses between courses. Was Agatha being slowly crunched and ground to powder by those cruel jaws? or was she on the tiger-man's side, a tool or decoy to bring his prey within range?

It was embarrassing to the last degree, and yet it was a sort of comfort, to find that Agatha was not only going down into Mentone--"down below," as it was pleasantly termed on the ridge--but was bent on accompanying her in her quest for fresh quarters.

Two people, the woman of mystery truly said, were better than one; they presented a more imposing front to the enemy--that is, the hotel-keeper--and in case of any bluffing or attempt at imposition, offered a double supply of the courage necessary to unmask and combat his stratagems of war.

"But why leave Les Oliviers?" she questioned, as they stepped down the ravine side together. "Surely there could be nothing more charming, or half as healthy, down below?"

To this Mrs. Allonby began with haughty reticence, to the effect that one had excellent reasons not always possible or desirable to explain, and ended, before they reached the town, by confiding to her that she had been turned out of Les Oliviers, the manner of which turning out she related not without humour, the absurd side of the catastrophe having suddenly presented itself to her imagination. The whole episode now showed itself in the light of an excellent joke and capital opportunity of getting a change. Les Oliviers was undoubtedly dull, euphemistically, restful. It had been remarked by foreign visitors that none but English could put up with the dulness of that high-placed, solitary house.

The woman of mystery observed that the onslaught of Madame Bontemps was sudden and apparently unprovoked, and Ermengarde returned that it was absolutely unprovoked; she had not so much as seen either mother or daughter for a couple of days at least, so that an opportunity of provocation had not been forthcoming even.

"I was out nearly all day yesterday," she said, "and went straight to my room when I came in at night, and I was down late this morning, and breakfasted alone in the corner looking down the gorge, and never moved till I went in. I couldn't move, in fact, because my Italian lesson came immediately afterwards."

"Oh, your Italian lesson," said Agatha, with a look of enlightenment. "Ah! and you found Mlle. Bontemps in the office? I see."

Having found the key to the mystery, she suddenly became so absent-minded as not to hear the question, "What do you see?" Then she began to warn Mrs. Allonby equally against the larger hotels and any in the Caravan Bay, and Ermengarde took the opportunity of finally refusing to drag her into the fag of hotel-hunting, and got into a tram going towards Caravan by herself.

But when, a couple of hours later, she found herself leaning on the balustrade by the sea on the Promenade du Midi, very tired and hot, and unable to find any room in the crowded hotels just visited, she was partly annoyed and partly pleased to see the tall, slight figure of this woman of mystery coming towards her.

"I never saw it more darkly and deeply blue," Agatha said, stopping and leaning at her side, "or the turquoise of the shoal water more clear and lovely."

The soft boom of surf on the rocks was very lulling and sweet, and the scent of the pure, azure-shadowed spray that dashed from waves breaking in fine curves of every shade of blue, with never a tint of green, fresh and vivifying. Even the subdued menace of the ground-swell was mellow, not harsh with the scream of dragged shingle, as in paler, greyer seas. It was restful to look and look, to plunge and steep the sight in the intense glowing blue, and wonder if it could be true, a real sea rolling through this mid-earth, and not some incredible splendour of "faery lands forlorn." Even the wickedness and cruelty of Arthur took a softer complexion in the light of that warm and clear dark sea. Far out towards the horizon the velvety depth of blue made the sky white by comparison; but nearer it had a liquid quality, a sparkling sweetness that promised to assuage thirst and renew failing pulses as with some divine elixir. One might drink deep of that clear wave and lose all memory of pain and grief, or, like the waters of Eunoe, it might bring to mind all that is beautiful--lost joys, forgotten aspirations, divine desires, old sweet loves.

But in a world of prose and fatigue tea was a more desirable, or at least a more attainable, elixir; for was not Rumpelmayer's hard by--Rumpelmayer's of the pure and perfumed China leaf and select company? Thither Ermengarde turned, and secured a table outside, with that broad purple splendour still in sight, and its salt freshness stealing through the palm-colonnade and rustling the feathery tops of the giant eucalyptus in the public gardens opposite; and thither, after some hesitation and consultation of her watch, the woman of mystery was persuaded to accompany her.

The last strains of the band were dying away in the dark greenery of the gardens; people were streaming off in every direction in the golden afternoon; Rumpelmayer's was rapidly filling to overflow inside and out--carriage after carriage rolling up and setting down charming costumes of muslin and pale summer tints of various texture, oddly finished with furs and sunshades of dainty hue. There was a cheery murmur of voices and laughter all around, with the solemn undertone of sea-surges booming through all. Ermengarde had left Agatha to fill the cups with that exquisite China fragrance, while she went in to choose cakes, and was just coming out with a heaped plate when she met the smiling gaze of Ivor Paul, who seemed to have been strolling aimlessly with the crowd, when he stopped to speak to Agatha, whose manner conveyed an impression of unrest and anxiety, rather than embarrassment, at this meeting.

"You may have forgotten Mr. Paul, who was at Les Oliviers some time since," she said; and Ermengarde, replying graciously, reflected that her opportunities of forgetting this young man had been singularly scanty. He positively haunted them; he was as persistent as a family ghost, or the Anarchist himself.

He proved more entertaining than either of those, however, discoursing most gaily and pleasantly about nothing, laughing at less, and listening with due sympathy to the sorrows and fatigues of Ermengarde in her expulsion from one hotel and ineffectual hunt for another, and observing that it was a beastly shame, and that hotel-keepers were a rotten lot, which confirmed her in a growing conviction that this turning-out was of the nature of an excellent joke and delightful adventure. Had Mrs. Allonby tried Pension Gilardoni? An aunt, or some such elderly and respectable relation, of his had wintered there, and found it most satisfactory and quite reasonable--altogether a ripping place. It was just along there on the west of the gardens by the sea. It would give him pleasure to conduct her to the house there and then.

But Ermengarde had had enough of hotel-hunting for that day, and after a little pressure accepted the woman of mystery's offer to go and explore the house for her, personally conducted by Mr. Paul; or rather, as she reflected when left to sip her second cup alone, the two young people had simply gone off at once upon this benevolent quest, without waiting for any consent or comment, vanishing among the palms before there was time to take breath, and leaving Agatha's steaming second cup to waste its perfume on the unthinking crowd.