Tallente reached the Manor about an hour and a half later, mud-splashed,
wet and weary. Robert followed him into the study and mixed him a
whisky and soda.
"You've walked all the way back, sir?" he remarked, with a note of
protest in his tone.
"They offered me a car," Tallente admitted. "I didn't want it. I came
down for fresh air and exercise."
"Two very good things in their way, sir, but easily overdone," was the
mild rejoinder. "These hills are terrible unless you're at them all the
time."
Tallente drank his whisky and soda almost greedily and felt the benefit
of it, although he was still weary. He had walked for five miles in the
company of ghosts and their faces had been grey. Perhaps, too, it was
the passing of his youth which brought this tiredness to his limbs.
"Robert," he confessed abruptly, "I was a fool to come down here at
all."
"It's dreary at this time of the year unless you've time to shoot or
hunt, sir. Why not motor to Bath to-morrow? I could wire for rooms,
and I could drive you up to London the next day. Motoring's a good way
of getting the air, sir, and you won't overtire yourself."
"I'll think of it in the morning," his master promised.
"My wife has found the silver, sir," Robert announced, as he turned to
leave the room, "and I managed to get a little fish. That, with some
soup, a pheasant, and a fruit tart, we thought--"
"I shall be alone, Robert," Tallente interrupted. "There is no one
coming for dinner."
The man's disappointment was barely concealed. He sighed as he took up
the tray.
"Very good, sir. Your clothes are all out. I'll turn on the hot water
in the bathroom."
Tallente threw off his rain and mud-soaked clothes, bathed, changed and
descended to the dining room just as the gong sounded. Robert was in
the act of moving the additional place from the little round dining
table which he had drawn up closer to the wood fire, but his master
stopped him.
"You can let those things be," he directed. "Take away the champagne,
though. I shan't want that."
Robert bowed in silent appreciation of his master's humour and began
ladling out soup at the sideboard. Tallente's lips were curled a
little, partly in self-contempt, with perhaps just a dash of self-pity.
It had come to this, then, that he must dine with fancies rather than
alone, that this tardily developed streak of sentimentality must be
ministered to or would drag him into the depths of dejection. He began
to understand the psychology of its late appearance. Stella's
artificial companionship had kept his thoughts imprisoned, fettered with
the meshes of an instinctive fidelity, and had driven him sedulously to
the solace of work and books. Now that it was removed and he was to all
practical purposes a free man, they took their own course. His life had
suddenly become a natural one, and all that was human in him responded
to the possibilities of his solitude, He had had as yet no time to
experience the relief, to appreciate his liberty, before he was face to
face with this new loneliness. To-night, he thought, as he looked at
the empty place and remembered his wistful, almost diffident invitation,
the solitude was almost unendurable. If she had only understood how
much it meant, surely she would have made some effort, would not have
been content with that half-embarrassed, half-doubtful shake of the
head! In the darkened room, with the throb of the sea and the crackling
of the lop in his ears, and only Robert's silent form for company, he
felt a sudden craving for the things of his youth, for another side of
life, the restaurants, the bright eyes of women, the whispered words of
pleasant sentiment, the perfume shaken into the atmosphere they created,
the low music in the background "I beg your pardon, sir," Robert said in
his ear, "your soup. Gertrude has taken such pains with the dinner,
sir," he added diffidently. "If I might take the liberty of suggesting
it, it would be as well if you could eat something." Tallente took up
his spoon. Then they both started, they both turned to the window. A
light had flashed into the room, a low, purring sound came from outside.
"A car, sir!" Robert exclaimed, his face full of pleasurable
anticipation. "If you'll excuse me, I'll answer the door. Might it be
the lady, after all, sir?" He hurried out. Tallente rose slowly to his
feet. He was listening intently. The thing wasn't possible, he told
himself. It wasn't possible! Then he heard a voice in the hall.
Robert threw the door open and announced in a tone of triumph--
"Lady Jane Partington, sir."
She came towards him, smiling, self-possessed, but a little
interrogative. He had a lightning-like impression of her beautiful
shoulders rising from her plain black gown, her delightfully easy walk,
the slimness and comeliness and stateliness of her.
"I know that I ought to be ashamed of myself for coming after I had told
you I couldn't," she said. "It will serve me right if you've eaten all
the dinner, but I do hope you haven't."
"I had only just sat down," he told her, as he and Robert held her
chair, "and I think that this is the kindest action you ever performed
in your life."
Robert, his face glowing with satisfaction, had become ubiquitous. She
had scarcely subsided into her chair before he was offering her a
cocktail on a silver tray, serving Tallente with his forgotten glass, at
the sideboard ladling out soup, out of the room and in again, bringing
back the rejected bottle of champagne.
"You will never believe that I am a sane person again," she laughed.
"After you had gone, and all those foolish children had departed, I felt
it was quite impossible to sit down and dine alone. I wanted so much to
come and I realised how ridiculous it was of me not to have accepted at
once. At the last moment I couldn't bear it any longer, so I rushed
into the first gown I could find, ordered out my little coupé and here I
am."
"The most welcome guest who ever came to a lonely man," he assured her.
"A moment ago, Robert was complaining because I was sending my soup
away. Now I shall show him what Devon air can do."
The champagne was excellent, and the dinner over which Gertrude had
taken so much care was after all thoroughly appreciated. Tallente,
suddenly and unexpectedly light-hearted, felt a keen desire to entertain
his welcome guest, and remembered his former successes as a raconteur.
They pushed politics and all personal matters far away. He dug up
reminiscences of his class in foreign capitals, when he had first
entered the Diplomatic Service, betrayed his intimate knowledge of the
Florence which they both loved, of Paris, where she had studied and
which he had seen under so many aspects,--Paris, the home of beauty and
fashion before the war; torn with anguish and horror during its earlier
stages; grim, steadfast and sombre in the clays of Verdun; wildly, madly
exultant when wreathed and decorated with victory. There were so many
things to talk about for two people of agile brains come together late
in life. They had moved into the study and Lady Jane was sealed in his
favourite easy-chair, sipping her coffee and some wonderful green
chartreuse, before a single personal note had crept into the flow of
their conversation.
"It can't be that I am in Devonshire," she said. "I never realised how
much like a succession of pictures conversation can be. You seem to
remind me so much of things which I have kept locked away just because
I have had no one to share them with."
"You are in Devonshire all right," he answered, smiling. "You will
realise it when you turn out of my avenue and face the hills. You see,
you've dropped down from the fairyland of 'up over' to the nesting place
of the owls and the gulls."
"Nine hundred feet," she murmured. "Thank heavens for my forty
horsepower engine! I want to see the sea break against your rocks," she
went on, as she took the cigarette which he passed her. "There used to
be a little path through your plantation to a place where you look
sheer down. Don't you remember, you took me there the first time I
came to see you, in August, and I have never forgotten it."
He rang the bell for her coat. The night, though windy and dark, was
warm. Stars shone out from unexpected places, pencil-like streaks of
inky-black clouds stretched menacingly across the sky. The wind came
down from the moors above with a dull boom which seemed echoed by the
waves beating against the giant rocks. The beads of the bare trees
among which they passed were bent this way and that, and the few
remaining leaves rustled in vain resistance, or, yielding to the
irresistible gusts, sailed for a moment towards the skies, to be dashed
down into the ever-growing carpet. The path was narrow and they walked
in single file, but at the bend he drew level with her, walking on the
seaward side and guiding her with his fingers upon her arm. Presently
they reached the little circular space where rustic seats had been
placed, and leaned over a grey stone wall.
There was nothing of the midsummer charm about the scene to-night.
Sheer below them the sea, driven by tide and wind, rushed upon the huge
masses of rock or beat direct upon the cave-indented cliffs. The spray
leapt high into the air, to be caught up by the wind in whirlpools,
little ghostly flecks, luminous one moment and gone forever the next.
Far away across the pitchy waters they could see at regular intervals a
line of white where the breakers came rushing in, here and there the
agitated lights of passing steamers; opposite, the twin flares on the
Welsh coast, and every sixty seconds the swinging white illumination
from the Lynmouth Lighthouse, shining up from behind the headland. Jane
slipped one hand through his arm and stood there, breathless,
rapturously watchful. "This is wonderful," she murmured. "It is the
one thing we have always lacked at Woolhanger. We get the booming of
the wind--wonderful it is, too, like the hollow thunder of guns or the
quick passing of an underground army--but we miss this. I feel,
somehow, as though I knew now why it tears past us, uprooting the very
trees that stand in its way. It rushes to the sea. What a meeting!"
Her hand tightened upon his arm as a great wave broke direct upon the
cliff below and a torrent of wind, rushing through the trees and
downwards, caught the spray and scattered it around them and high over
their heads.
"We humans," he whispered, "are taught our lesson."
"Do we need it?" she asked, with sudden fierceness. "Do you believe
that because some mysterious power imposes restraint upon us, the
passion isn't there all the while?"
She was suddenly in his arms, the warm wind shrieking about them, the
darkness thick and soft as a mantle. Only he saw the anguished
happiness in her eyes as they closed beneath his kisses.
"One moment out of life," she faltered, "one moment!"
Another great wave shook the ground beneath them, but she had drawn
away. She struggled for breath. Then once more her hand was thrust
through his arm. He knew so well that his hour was over and he
submitted.
"Back, please," she whispered, "back through the plantation--quietly."
An almost supernatural instinct divined and acceded to her desire for
silence. So they walked slowly back towards the long, low house whose
faint lights flickered through the trees. She leaned a little upon him,
the hand which she had passed through his arm was clasped in his. Only
the wind spoke. When at last they were en the terraces she drew a long
breath.
"Dear friend," she said softly, "see how I trust you. I leave in your
keeping the most precious few minutes of my life."
"This is to be the end, then?" he faltered.
"It is not we who have decided that," she answered. "It is just what
must be. You go to a very difficult life, a very splendid one. I have
my smaller task. Don't unfit me for it. We will each do our best."
Her servant was waiting by the car. His figure loomed up through the
darkness. "You will come into the house for a few minutes?" he begged
hoarsely. She shook her head.
"Why? Our farewells have been spoken. I leave you--so."
The man had disappeared behind the bonnet of the car. She grasped his
hand with both of hers and brushed it lightly with her lips. Then she
gilded away. A moment later he was listening to her polite speeches as
she leaned out of the coupé. "My dinner was too wonderful," she said.
"Do make my compliments to that dear Robert and his wife. Good luck to
you, and don't rob us poor landowners of every penny we possess in
life."
The car was gone in the midst of his vague little response. He watched
the lights go flashing up the hillside, crawling around the hairpin
corners, up until it seemed that they had reached the black clouds and
were climbing into the heavens. Then he turned back into the house.
The world was still a place for dreams.