Home > Authors Index > E. Phillips Oppenheim > Nobody's Man > This page
Nobody's Man, a novel by E. Phillips Oppenheim |
||
Book Two - Chapter 22 |
||
| < Previous |
Table of content |
|
|
________________________________________________
_ BOOK TWO CHAPTER XXII Upon the moor above Martinhoe and the farm lands adjoining, spring had fallen that year as gently as the warm rain of April. Tallente, conscious of an unexpected lassitude, paused as he reached the top of the zigzag climb from the Manor and rested for a moment upon a block of stone. Below him, the forests of dwarf oaks which stretched down to the sea were tipped with delicate green. The meadows were like deep soft patches of emerald verdure; the fruit trees in his small walled garden were pink and white with blossoms. The sea was peaceful as an azure lake into which the hulls of the passing steamers cut like knives, leaving behind a long line of lazy foam. Little fleecy balls of cloud were dotted across the sky, puffs of soft wind cooled his cheeks when he rose to his feet and faced inland. Soon he left the stony road and walked upon the springy turf bordering the moorland. Little curled-up shoots of light green were springing from the bracken. Here and there, a flame of gorse filled the air with its faint, almond-like blossom. And the birds! Farmlands stretched away on his left-hand side, and above the tender growth of corn, larks invisible but multifarious filled the air with little quiverings of melody. Bleatng lambs, ridiculously young, tottered around on this new-found, wonderful earth. A pair of partridges scurried away from his feet; the end of a drooping cloud splashed his face with a few warm raindrops. Tallente, as he swung onwards, carrying his cap in his hand, felt a great glow of thankfulness for the impulse which had brought him here. Already he was finding himself. The tangled emotions of the last week were loosening their grip upon his brain and consciousness. Behind him London was in an uproar, his name and future the theme of every journal. Journalists were besieging his rooms. Embryo statesmen were telephoning for appointments. Great men sent their secretaries to suggest a meeting. And in the midst of it all he had disappeared. The truth as to his sudden absence from town was unknown even to Dartrey. At the very moment when his figure loomed large and triumphant upon one of the great canvasses in history, he had simply slipped away, a disappearance as dramatic as it was opportune. And all because he had a fancy to see how spring sat upon the moors,--and because he had walked back to his rooms by way of Charles Street and because he had met Lady Alice. The last ascent was finished and below him lay the house and climbing woods,--woods that crept into the bosom of the hills, the closely growing trees tipped with tender greens melting into the softest of indeterminate greys as the breeze rippled through their tops like fingers across a harp. The darker line of moorland in the background, scant as ever of herbiage, had yet lost its menacing bareness and seemed touched with the faint colour of the earth beneath, almost pink in the generous sunshine. The avenue into which he presently turned was starred on either side with a riot of primroses, running wild into the brambles, with here and there a belt of bluebells. The atmosphere beneath the closely growing trees--limes, with great waxy buds--became enervating with spring odours and a momentary breathlessness came to Tallente, fresh from his crowded days and nights of battle. The sun-warmed wave of perfume from the trim beds of hyacinths in the suddenly disclosed garden was almost overpowering and he passed like a man in a dream through their sweetness to the front door. The butler who admitted him conducted him at once to Jane's sanctum. Without any warning he was ushered in. "Mr. Tallente, your ladyship." He had a strange impression of her as she rose from a very sea of newspapers. She was thinner--he was sure of that--dressed in indoor clothes although it was the middle of the morning, a suggestion of the invalid about her easy-chair and her tired eyes. It seemed to him that for a moment they were lit with a gleam of fear which passed almost instantaneously. She had recovered herself even before the door was closed behind the departing servant. "Mr. Tallente!" she repeated. "You! But how is this possible?" "Everything is possible," he answered. "I have come to see you, Jane." She was glad but amazed. Even when he had obeyed her involuntary gesture and seated himself by her side, there was something incredulous about her expression. "But what does it mean that you are here just now?" she persisted. "According to the newspapers you should be at Buckingham Palace to-day." "To-morrow," he corrected her. "I hired a very powerful car and motored down yesterday afternoon. I am starting back when the moon rises to-night. For these few hours I am better out of London." "But why--" she faltered. He was slowly finding himself. "I came for you, Jane," he said, "on any terms--anyhow. I came to beg for your sympathy, for some measure of your affection, to beg you to come back to Charles Street. Is it too late for me to abase myself?" Her eyes glowed across at him. She suddenly rose, came over and knelt by the side of his chair. Her arms went around his neck. "Andrew," she whispered, "I have been ashamed. I was wrong. That night--the thought of my pettiness--my foolish, selfish fears.--Oh, I was wrong! I have prayed that the time might come when I could tell you. And if you hadn't come, I never could have told you. I couldn't have written. I couldn't have come to London. But I wanted you to know." She drew his head down and kissed him upon the lips. Tallente knew then why he had come. The whole orchestra of life was playing again. He was strong enough to overcome mountains. "Andrew," she faltered, "you really--" He stopped her. "Jane," he said, "I have some stupid news. It seems to me incredibly stupid. Let me pass it on to you quickly. You knew, didn't you, that I was married in America? Well, my wife has divorced me there. We married in a State where such things are possible." "Divorced you?" she exclaimed. "Quite legally," he went on. "I saw a lawyer before I started yesterday morning. But listen to the rest of it. Stella is married--married to the man I thought I had thrown over the cliff. She is married to Anthony Palliser." "Then you are free?" Jane murmured, drawing a little away. "Not in the least," he replied. "I am engaged to marry you." At luncheon, with Parkins in attendance, it became possible for them to converse coherently. "When I found you at home in the middle of the morning," he said, "I was afraid that you were Ill." "I haven't been well," she admitted. "I rode some distance yesterday and it fatigued me. Somehow or other, I think I have had the feeling, the last few weeks, that my work here is over. All my farms are sold. I have really now no means of occupying my time." "It is fortunate," he told her, with a smile, "that I am able to point out to you a new sphere of usefulness." She made a little grimace at him behind Parkins' august back. "Tell me," she asked, "how did you ever make your peace with the trades unions after that terrible article of yours?" "Because," he replied, "except for Miller, their late chief, there are a great many highly intelligent men connected with the administration of the trades unions. They realised the spirit in which I wrote that article and the condition of the country at the time I wrote it. My apologia was accepted by every one who counted. The publication of that article," he went on, "was Miller's scheme to drive me out of politics. It has turned out to be the greatest godsend ever vouchsafed to our cause, for it is going to put Mr. Miller out of the power of doing mischief for a--many years to come." "How I hated him when he called here that day! Jane murmured reminiscently." "Miller is the type of man," Tallente declared, "who was always putting the Labour Party in a false position. He was born and he has lived and he has thought parochially. He is all the time lashing himself into a fury over imagined wrongs and wanting to play the little tin god on Olympus with his threatened strikes. Now there will be no more strikes." "I was reading about that," she reflected. "How wonderful it sounds!" "The greatest power in the country," Tallente explained, "is that wielded by these trades unions. There will be no more fights between the Government and them, because they are coaling into the Government. I am afraid you will think our programme revolutionary. On the other hand, it is going to be a Government of justice. We want to give the people their due, each man according to his worth. By that means we wipe out all fear forever of the scourge of eastern and mid-Europe, the bolshevism and anarchy which have laid great empires bare. We are not going to make the poor add to the riches of the rich, but on the other hand we are not going to take from the rich to give to the poor. The sociological scheme upon which our plan of government will be based is to open every avenue to success equally to rich and poor. The human being must sink or swim, according to his capacity. Ours will never be a State-aided socialism." Parkins had left the room. She held out her hand. "How horrid of you!" she murmured. "You are gibing at me because I lent my farmers a little money." He laughed softly. "You dear!" he exclaimed. "On my honour, it never entered into my head. Only I want to bring you gradually into the new way of thinking, because I want so much from you so much help and sympathy." "And?" she pleaded. He looked around to be sure that Parkins was gone and, leaning from his place, kissed her. "If you care for moonlight motoring," he whispered, "I think I can give you quite a clear outline of all that I expect from you." She drew a little sigh of relief. "If you had left me behind," she murmured, "I should have sat here and imagined that it was all a dream. And I am just a little weary of dreams."
[THE END] |
||