Nobodys Man | Page 2

moorland reared itself into strange promontories,
out-flung to the sea. On his right, a little farm, with its cluster of
out-buildings, nestled in the bosom of the hills. On either side, the
fields still stretched upward like patchwork to a clear sky, but below,
down into the hollow, blotting out all that might lie beneath, was a
curious sea of rolling white mist, soft and fleecy yet impenetrable.
Tallente, who had seen very little of this newly chosen country home of
his, had the feeling, as the car crept slowly downward, of one about to
plunge into a new life, to penetrate into an unknown world. A man of
extraordinarily sensitive perceptions, leading him often outside the
political world in which he fought the battle of life, he was conscious of
a curious and grim premonition as the car, crawling down the

precipitous hillside, approached and was enveloped in the grey shroud.
The world which a few moments before had seemed so wonderful, the
sunlight, the distant view of the sea, the perfumes of flowers and shrubs,
had all gone. The car was crawling along a rough and stony road,
between hedges dripping with moisture and trees dimly seen like
spectres. At last, about three-quarters of the way down to the sea, after
an abrupt turn, they entered a winding avenue and emerged on to a
terrace. The chauffeur, who had felt the strain of the drive, ran a little
past the front door and pulled up in front of an uncurtained window.
Tallente glanced in, dazzled a little at first by the unexpected lamplight.
Then he understood the premonition which had sat shivering in his
heart during the long descent.
The mist, which had hung like a spectral curtain over the little demesne
of Martinhoe Manor, had almost entirely disappeared when, at a few
minutes before eight, with all traces of his long journey obliterated,
Andrew Tallente stepped out on to the stone-flagged terrace and looked
out across the little bay below. The top of the red sandstone cliff
opposite was still wreathed with mists, but the sunlight lay upon the
tennis lawn, the flower gardens below, and the rocks almost covered by
the full, swelling tide. Tall, and looking slimmer than ever in his plain
dinner garb, there were some indications of an hour of strange and
unexpected suffering in the tired face of the man who gazed out in
somewhat dazed fashion at the little panorama which he had been
looking forward so eagerly to seeing again. Throughout the long
journey down from town, he had felt an unusual and almost boyish
enthusiasm for his coming holiday. He had thought of his tennis
racquet and fishing rods, wondered about his golf clubs and his guns.
Even the unexpected encounter with Miller had done little more than
leave an unpleasant taste in his mouth. And then, on his way down
from "up over," as the natives called that little strip of moorland
overhead, he had vanished into the mist and had come out into another
world.
"Andrew! So you are out here? Why did you not come to my room?
Surely your train was very punctual?"

Tallente remained for a moment tense and motionless. Then he turned
around. The woman who stood upon the threshold of the house, framed
with a little cascade of drooping roses, sought for his eyes almost
hungrily. He realised how she must be feeling. A dormant vein of
cynicism parted his lips as he held her fingers for a moment. His tone
and his manner were quite natural.
"We were, I believe, unusually punctual," he admitted. "What an
extraordinary mist! Up over there was no sign of it at all."
She shivered. Her eyes were still watching his face, seeking for an
answer to her unasked question. Blue eyes they were, which had been
beautiful in their day, a little hard and anxious now. She wore a white
dress, simple with the simplicity of supreme and expensive art. A rope
of pearls was her only ornament. Her hair was somewhat elaborately
coiffured, there was a touch of rouge upon her cheeks, and the
unscreened evening sunlight was scarcely kind to her rather wan
features and carefully arranged complexion. She still had her claims to
beauty, however. Tallente admitted that to himself as he stood there
appraising her, with a strange and almost impersonal regard,--his wife
of thirteen years. She was beautiful, notwithstanding the strained look
of anxiety which at that moment disfigured her face, the lurking fear
which made her voice sound artificial, the nervousness which every
moment made fresh demands upon her self-restraint.
"It came up from the sea," she said. "One moment Tony and I were
sitting out under the trees to keep away from the sun, and the next we
were driven