MR. CHASE
The night had come when Warrisden stepped from the platform of the
station into the train. Pamela was by this time back at Whitewebs--he
himself was travelling to London; their day was over. He looked out of
the window. Somewhere three miles away the village of the three
poplars crowned the hill, but a thick wall of darkness and fog hid it
from his eyes. It seemed almost as if Pamela and he had met that day
only in thought at some village which existed only in a dream. The
train, however, rattled upon its way. Gradually he became conscious of
a familiar exhilaration. The day had been real. Not merely had it
signalled the change in Pamela, for which for so long he had wished;
not merely had it borne a blossom of promise for himself, but
something was to be done immediately, and the thing to be done was of
all things that which most chimed with his own desires. He was to take
the road again, and the craving for the road was seldom stilled for
long within his heart. He heard its call sung like a song to the
rhythm of the wheels. The very uncertainty of its direction tantalised
his thoughts.
Warrisden lodged upon the Embankment, and his rooms overlooked the
Thames. The mist lay heavy upon London, mid all that night the
steamboats hooted as they passed from bridge to bridge. Warrisden lay
long awake listening to them; each blast had its message for him, each
was like the greeting of a friend; each one summoned him, and to each
he answered with a rising joy, "I shall follow, I shall follow." The
boats passed down to the sea through the night mist. Many a time he
had heard them before, picturing the dark deck and the side lights,
red and green, and the yellow light upon the mast, and the man silent
at the wheel with the light from the binnacle striking up upon the
lines of his face. They were little river or coasting boats for the
most part, but he had never failed to be stirred by the long-drawn
melancholy of their whistles. They talked of distant lands and an
alien foliage.
He spent the following morning and the afternoon in the arrangement of
his affairs, and in the evening drove down to the mission house. It
stood in a dull by-street close to Stepney Green, a rambling building
with five rooms upon the ground floor panelled with varnished deal and
furnished with forms and rough tables, and on the floor above, a big
billiard-room, a bagatelle-room, and a carpenter's workshop. Mr. Chase
was superintending a boxing class in one of the lower rooms, and
Warrisden, when he was led up to him, received a shock of surprise. He
had never seen a man to the outward eye so unfitted for his work. He
had expected a strong burly person, cheery of manner and confident of
voice; he saw, however, a tall young man with a long pale face and a
fragile body. Mr. Chase was clothed in a clerical frock-coat of
unusual length, he wore linen of an irreproachable whiteness, and his
hands were fine and delicate as a woman's. He seemed indeed the
typical High Church curate fresh that very instant from the tea-cups
of a drawing-room.
"A gentleman to see you, sir," said the ex-army sergeant who had
brought forward Warrisden. He handed Warrisden's card to Chase, who
turned about and showed Warrisden his full face. Surprise had been
Warrisden's first sentiment, but it gave place in an instant to
distaste. The face which he saw was not ugly, but he disliked it. It
almost repelled him. There was no light in the eyes at all; they were
veiled and sunken; and the features repelled by reason of a queer
antagonism. Mr. Chase had the high narrow forehead of an ascetic, the
loose mouth of a sensualist, and a thin crop of pale and almost
colourless hair. Warrisden wondered why any one should come to this
man for advice, most of all a Tony Stretton. What could they have in
common--the simple, good-humoured, unintellectual subaltern of the
Coldstream, and this clerical exquisite? The problem was perplexing.
"You wish to see me?" asked Chase.
"If you please."
"Now? As you see, I am busy."
"I can wait."
"Thank you. The mission closes at eleven. If you can wait till then
you might come home with me, and we could talk in comfort."
It was nine o'clock. For two hours Warrisden followed Chase about the
mission, and with each half-hour his interest increased. However
irreconcilable with his surroundings Chase might appear to be, neither
he nor any of the members of the mission were aware of it. He was at
ease alike with the boys and the men; and the boys and the men were at
ease with him. Moreover, he was absolute master, although there were
rough men enough among his subjects. The fiercest boxing contest was
stopped in a second by a motion of that delicate hand.
"I used to have a little trouble," he said to Warrisden, "before I had
those wire frames fixed over the gas-jets. You see they cover the gas
taps. Before that was done, if there was any trouble, the first thing
which happened was that the room was in darkness. It took some time to
restore order;" and he passed on to the swimming-bath.
Mr. Chase was certainly indefatigable. Now he was giving a lesson in
wood-carving to a boy; now he was arranging an apprenticeship for
another in the carpenter's shop. Finally he led the way into the great
billiard-room, where only the older men were allowed.
"It is here that Stretton used to keep order?" said Warrisden; and
Chase at once turned quickly towards him.
"Oh," he said slowly, in a voice of comprehension, "I was wondering
what brought you here. Yes; this was the room."
Chase moved carelessly away, and spoke to some of the men about the
tables. But for the rest of the evening he was on his guard. More than
once his eyes turned curiously and furtively towards Warrisden. His
face was stubborn, and wore a look of wariness. Warrisden began to
fear lest he should get no answer to the question he had to put. No
appeal would be of any use--of that he felt sure. His argument must
serve--and would it serve?
Chase, at all events, made no attempt to avoid the interview. As the
hands of the clock marked eleven, and the rooms emptied, he came at
once to Warrisden.
"We can go now," he said; and unlocking a drawer, to Warrisden's
perplexity he filled his pockets with racket-balls. The motive for
that proceeding became apparent as they walked to the house where
Chase lodged. Their way lay through alleys, and as they walked the
children clustered about them, and Chase's pockets were emptied.
"We keep this house because men from the Universities come down and
put in a week now and then at the mission. My rooms are upstairs."
Chase's sitting-room was in the strangest contrast to the bareness of
the mission and the squalor of the streets. It was furnished with
luxury, but the luxury was that of a man of taste and knowledge. There
was hardly a piece of furniture which had not an interesting history;
the engravings and the brass ornaments upon the walls had been picked
up here and there in Italy. A bright fire blazed upon the hearth.
"What will you drink?" Chase asked, and brought from a cupboard bottle
after bottle of liqueurs. It seemed to Warrisden that the procession
of bottles would never end--some held liqueurs of which he had never
even heard the name; but concerning all of them Mr. Chase discoursed
with great knowledge and infinite appreciation.
"I can recommend this," he said tentatively, as he took up one fat
round bottle and held it up to the light. "It is difficult perhaps to
say definitely which is the best, but--yes, I can recommend this."
"Can't I have a whiskey and soda?" asked Warrisden, plaintively.
Mr. Chase looked at his companion with a stare.
"Of course you can," he replied. But his voice was one of
disappointment, and with an almost imperceptible shrug of the
shoulders he fetched a Tantalus and a siphon of seltzer.
"Help yourself," he said; and lighting a gold-tipped cigarette he drew
up a chair and began to talk. And so Warrisden came at last to
understand how Tony Stretton had gained his great faith in Mr. Chase.
Chase was a talker of a rare quality. He sat stooping over the fire
with his thin hands outspread to the blaze, and for half an hour
Warrisden was enchained. All that had repelled him in the man, all
that had aroused his curiosity, was soon lost to sight. He yielded
himself up as if to some magician. Chase talked not at all of his work
or of the many strange incidents which he must needs have witnessed in
its discharge. He spoke of other climates and bright towns with a
scholarship which had nothing of pedantry, and an observation human as
it was keen. Chase, with the help of his Livy, had traced Hannibal's
road across the Alps and had followed it on foot; he spoke of another
march across snow mountains of which Warrisden had never till this
moment heard--the hundred days of a dead Sultan of Morocco on the
Passes of the Atlas, during which he led his forces back from Tafilet
to Rabat. Chase knew nothing of this retreat but what he had read. Yet
he made it real to Warrisden, so vividly did his imagination fill up
the outlines of the written history. He knew his Paris, his
Constantinople. He had bathed from the Lido and dreamed on the Grand
Canal. He spoke of the peeling frescoes in the Villa of Countess
Guiccioli above Leghorn, of the outlook from the terrace over the
vines and the olive trees to the sea where Shelley was drowned; and
where Byron's brig used to round into the wind and with its sails
flapping drop anchor under the hill. For half an hour Warrisden
wandered through Europe in the pleasantest companionship, and then
Chase stopped abruptly and leaned back in his chair.
"I was forgetting," he said, "that you had come upon a particular
errand. It sometimes happens that I see no one outside the mission
people for a good while, and during those periods when I get an
occasion I am apt to talk too much. What can I do for you?"
The spirit had gone from his voice, his face. He leaned back in his
chair, a man tired out. Warrisden looked at the liqueur bottles
crowded on the table, with Chase's conversation still fresh in his
mind. Was Chase a man at war with himself, he wondered, who was living
a life for which he had no taste that he might the more completely
escape a life which his conscience disapproved? Or was he deliberately
both hedonist and Puritan, giving to each side of his strange nature,
in turn, its outlet and gratification?
"You have something to say to me," Chase continued. "I know quite well
what it is about."
"Stretton," said Warrisden.
"Yes; you mentioned him in the billiard-room. Well?"
Chase was not looking at Warrisden. He sat with his eyes half-closed,
his elbows on the arms of his chair, his finger-tips joined under his
chain, and his head thrown back. There was no expression upon his face
but one of weariness. Would he answer? Could he answer? Warrisden was
in doubt, indeed in fear. He led to his question warily.
"It was you who recommended Stretton to try horse-breeding in
Kentucky."
"Yes," said Chase; and he added, "after he had decided of his own
accord to go away."
"He failed."
"Yes."
"And he has disappeared."
Chase opened his eyes, but did not turn them to his companion.
"I did not advise his disappearance," he said. "That, like his
departure, was his own doing."
"No doubt," Warrisden agreed. "But it is thought that you might have
heard from him since his disappearance."
Chase nodded his head.
"I have."
"It is thought that you might know where he is now."
"I do," said Mr. Chase. Warrisden was sensibly relieved. One-half of
his fear was taken from him. Chase knew, at all events, where Stretton
was to be found. Now he must disclose his knowledge. But before he
could put a question, Chase said languidly--
"You say 'it is thought,' Mr. Warrisden. By whom is it thought? By his
wife?"
"No. But by a great friend of hers and his."
"Oh," said Chase, "by Miss Pamela Mardale, then."
Warrisden started forward.
"You know her?" he asked.
"No. But Stretton mentioned her to me in a letter. She has sent you to
me in fulfilment of a promise. I understand."
The words were not very intelligible to Warrisden. He knew nothing of
Pamela's promise to Tony Stretton. But, on the other hand, he saw that
Mr. Chase was giving a more attentive ear to what he said. He betrayed
no ignorance of the promise.
"I am sent to fetch Stretton home," he said. "I want you to tell me
where he is."
Chase shook his head.
"No," he said gently.
"It is absolutely necessary that Stretton should come back," Warrisden
declared with great deliberation. And with no less deliberation Chase
replied--
"In Stretton's view it is absolutely necessary that he should stay
away!"
"His father is dying."
Chase started forward in his chair, and stared at Warrisden for a long
time.
"Is that an excuse?" he said at length.
It was, as Warrisden was aware. He did not answer the question.
"It is the truth," he replied; and he replied truthfully.
Chase rose from his chair and walked once or twice across the room. He
came back to the fire, and leaning an elbow on the mantelpiece stared
into the coals. Warrisden sat very still. He had used his one
argument--he could add nothing to it; he could only wait for the
answer in a great anxiety. So much hung upon that answer for Stretton
and his wife, for Pamela, for himself! The fortunes of all four were
knotted together. At last the answer came.
"I promised Tony that I would keep his secret," said Chase. "But when
he asked for the promise, and when I gave it, the possibility of his
father dying was not either in his mind or mine. We considered--in
letters, of course--other possibilities; but not this one. I don't
think I have the right to remain silent. Even in the face of this
possibility I should have kept my promise, I think, if you had come
from his wife--for I know why he disappeared. But as things are, I
will tell you. Tony Stretton is in the North Sea on a trawler."
"In the North Sea?" exclaimed Warrisden. And he smiled. After all, the
steamboats on the river had last night called to him with a particular
summons.
"Yes," continued Chase, and he fetched from his writing-desk a letter
in Tony's hand. "He came back to England two months ago. He drifted
across the country. He found himself at Yarmouth with a few shillings
in his pocket. He knew something of the sea. He had sailed his own
yacht in happier times. He was in great trouble. He needed time to
think out a new course of life. He hung about on Gorleston pier for a
day or two, and then was taken on by a skipper who was starting out
short of hands, he signed for eight weeks, and he wrote to me the day
before he started. That's four weeks ago."
"Can I reach him?" Warrisden asked.
"Yes. The boat is the _Perseverance_, and it belongs to the Blue
Fleet. A steam cutter goes out every day from Billingsgate to fetch
the fish. I know one of the owners. His son comes down to the mission.
I can get you a passage. When can you start?"
"At any time," replied Warrisden. "The sooner the better."
"To-morrow, then," said Chase. "Meet me at the entrance to
Billingsgate Market at half-past eleven. It will take you forty-eight
hours with ordinary luck to reach the Dogger Bank. Of course, if
there's a fog in the Thames the time will be longer. And I warn you,
living is rough on a fish-carrier."
"I don't mind that," said Warrisden, with a smile. He went away with a
light heart, and that night wrote a letter to Pamela, telling her of
his interview with Mr. Chase. The new road seemed after all likely to
prove a smooth one. As he wrote, every now and then a steamboat hooted
from the river, and the rain pattered upon his window. He flung it up
and looked out. There was no fog to-night, only the rain fell, and
fell gently. He prayed that there might be no fog upon the Thames
to-morrow.
Mr. Chase, too, heard the rain that night. He sat in his armchair
listening to it with a decanter at his elbow half filled with a liquid
like brown sherry. At times he poured a little into his glass and
drank it slowly, crouching over his fire. Somewhere in the darkness of
the North Sea Tony Stretton was hidden. Very likely at this moment he
was standing upon the deck of his trawler with his hands upon the
spokes of the wheel, and his eyes peering forward through the rain,
keeping his long night-watch while the light from the binnacle struck
upwards upon the lines of his face. Mr. Chase sat late in a muse. But
before he went to bed he locked the decanter and the glass away in a
private cupboard, and took the key with him into his bedroom.