She stopped and gazed into the fire. The waters of the Channel ran in sunlit ripples before her eyes; the red rocks of Bigbury Bay curved warmly out on her right and her left; further away the towering headlands loomed misty in the hot, still August air. A white yacht, her sails hardly drawing, moved slowly westwards; the black smoke of a steamer stained the sky far out; and on the beach there were just two figures visible — herself and the man who had not meant to speak.
“We parted at once,” she went on. “He was appointed a consul in West Africa. I think — indeed I know — that he hoped to rise more quickly that way. But trouble came and he was killed. Because of that one hour, you see, when he spoke what he did not mean to speak, he was killed.” It seemed that there was the whole story told. But Pamela had not told it all, and never did; for her mother had played a part in its unfolding. It was Mrs. Mardale’s ambition that her daughter should make a great marriage; it was her daughter’s misfortune that she knew little of her daughter’s character. Mrs. Mardale had remarked the growing friendship between Pamela and the man, she had realised that marriage was quite impossible, and she had thought, with her short-sighted ingenuity, that if Pamela fell in love and found love to be a thing of fruitless trouble, she would come the sooner to take a sensible view of the world and marry where marriage was to her worldly advantage. She thus had encouraged the couple to a greater friendliness, throwing them together when she could have hindered their companionship; she had even urged Pamela to accept that invitation to Devonshire, knowing who would be the other guests. She was disappointed afterwards when Pamela did not take the sensible view; but she did not blame herself at all. For she knew nothing of the suffering which her plan had brought about. Pamela had kept her secret. Even the months of ill-health which followed upon that first season had not opened the mother’s eyes, and certainly she never suspected the weary nights of sleeplessness and aching misery which Pamela endured. Some hint of the pain of that bad past time, however, Pamela now gave to Warrisden.
“I stayed as much at home in Leicestershire as possible,” she said. “You see there were my horses there; but even with them I was very lonely. The time was long in passing, and it wasn’t pleasant to think that there would be so much of it yet, before it passed altogether. I went up to London for the season each year, and I went out a great deal. It helped me to keep from thinking.”
The very simplicity with which she spoke gave an intensity to her words. There was no affectation in Pamela Mardale. Warrisden was able to fill out her hints, to understand her distress.
“All this is a great surprise to me,” he said. “I have thought of you always as one who had never known either great troubles or great joys. I have hoped that some day you would wake, that I should find you looking out on the world with the eagerness of youth. But I believed eagerness would be a new thing to you.”
He looked at her as she sat. The firelight was bright upon her face, and touched her hair with light; her dark eyes shone; and his thought was that which the schoolmaster at Roquebrune had once sadly pondered. It seemed needlessly cruel, needlessly wanton that a girl so equipped for happiness should, in her very first season, when the world was opening like a fairyland, have been blindly struck down. There were so many others who would have felt the blow less poignantly. She might surely have been spared.
“You can guess, now,” said Pamela, “why I have so persistently looked on. I determined that I would never go through such distress again. I felt that I would not dare to face it again.” She suddenly covered her face with her hands. “I don’t think I could,” she cried in a low, piteous voice. “I don’t know what I would do,” as though once more the misery of that time were closing upon her, so vivid were her recollections.
And once more Warrisden felt, as he watched her, the shock of a surprise. He had thought her too sedate, too womanly for her years, and here she sat shrinking in a positive terror, like any child, from the imagined recurrence of her years of trouble. Warrisden was moved as he had seldom been. But he sat quite still, saying no word; and in a little while she took her hands from her face and went on —
“My life was over, you see, at the very beginning, and I was resolved it should be over. For the future I would get interested only in trifling, unimportant things; no one should ever be more to me than a friend whom I could relinquish; I would merely look on. I should grow narrow, no doubt, and selfish.” And, as Warrisden started, a smile came on to her face. “Yes, you have been thinking that, too, and you were right. But I didn’t mind. I meant to take no risks. Nothing serious should ever come near me. If I saw it coming, I would push it away; and I have pushed it away.”
“Until to-day, when you need my help?” Warrisden interrupted.
“Yes, until to-day,” Pamela repeated softly.
Warrisden walked over to the window and stood with his back towards her. The three tall poplars stood leafless up in front of him; the sky was heavy with grey clouds; the wind was roaring about the chimneys; and the roads ran with water. It was as cheerless a day as February can produce, but to Warrisden it had something of a summer brightness. The change for which he had hoped so long in vain had actually come to pass.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked, turning again to the room.
“I want you to find Millie Stretton’s husband,” she replied; “and, at all costs, to bring him home again.”
“Millie Stretton’s husband?” he repeated, in perplexity.
“Yes. Don’t you remember the couple who stepped out of the dark house in Berkeley Square and dared not whistle for a hansom — the truants?”
Warrisden was startled. “Those two!” he exclaimed. “Well, that’s strange. On the very night when we saw them, you were saying that there was no road for you, no new road from Quetta to Seistan. I was puzzling my brains, too, as to how in the world you were to be roused out of your detachment; and there were the means visible all the time, perhaps — who knows? — ordained.” He sat down again in his chair.
“Where shall I look for Mr. Stretton?” he asked.
“I don’t know. He went away to New York, six months ago, to make a home for Millie and himself. He did not succeed, and he has disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” cried Warrisden.
“Oh, but of his own accord,” said Pamela. “I can’t tell you why; it wouldn’t be fair. I have no right to tell you. But he must be found, and he must be brought back. Again I can’t tell you why; but it is most urgent.”
“Is there any clue to help us?” Warrisden asked. “Had he friends in New York?”
“No; but he has a friend in England,” said Pamela, “and I think it’s just possible that the friend may know where he is to be found, for it was upon his advice that Mr. Stretton went to New York.”
“Tell me his name.”
“Mr. Chase,” Pamela replied. “He is head of a mission in Stepney Green. Tony Stretton told me of him one morning in Hyde Park just before he went away. He seemed to rely very much upon his judgment.”
Warrisden wrote the name down in his pocket-book.
“Will he tell me, do you think, where Stretton is, even if he knows? You say Stretton has disappeared of his own accord.”
“I have thought of that difficulty,” Pamela answered. “There is an argument which you can use. Sir John Stretton, Tony’s father, is ill, and in all probability dying.”
“I see. I can use the same argument to Stretton himself, I suppose, when I find him?”
“I can give you no other,” said Pamela; “but you can add to it. Mr. Stretton will tell you that his father does not care whether he comes back in time or not. He is sure to say that. But you can answer that every night since he went away the candles have been lit in his dressing-room and his clothes laid out by his father’s orders, on the chance that some evening he might walk in at the door.”
That Sir John Stretton’s illness was merely the pretext for Tony’s return both understood. The real reason why he must come home P
amela did not tell. To her thinking Millie was not yet so deeply entangled with Lionel Callon but that Tony’s home-coming might set the tangle right. A few weeks of companionship, and surely he would resume his due place in his wife’s thoughts. Pamela, besides, was loyal to her sex. She had promised to safeguard Millicent; she was in no mind to betray her.
“But bring him back,” she cried, with a real passion. “So much depends on his return, for Millie, for him, and for me, too. Yes, for me! If you fail, it is I who fail; and I don’t want failure. Save me from it!”
“I’ll try,” Warrisden answered simply; and Pamela was satisfied.
Much depended, for Warrisden too, upon the success of his adventure. If he failed, Pamela would retire again behind her barrier; she would again resume the passive, indifferent attitude of the very old; she would merely look on as before and wait for things to cease. If, however, he succeeded, she would be encouraged to move forward still; the common sympathies would have her in their grasp again; she might even pass that turnpike gate of friendship and go boldly down the appointed road of life. Thus success meant much for him. The fortunes of the four people — Millicent, Tony, Pamela, and Warrisden — were knotted together at this one point.
“Indeed, I’ll try,” he repeated,
Pamela’s horse was brought round to the inn door. The dusk was coming on.
“Which way do you go?” asked Warrisden.
“Down the hill.”
“I will walk to the bottom with you. The road will be dangerous.”
They went slowly down between the high elder hedges, Pamela seated on her horse, Warrisden walking by her side. The wide level lowlands opened out beneath them — fields of brown and green, black woods with swinging boughs, and the broad high road with its white wood rails. A thin mist swirled across the face of the country in the wind, so that its every feature was softened and magnified. It loomed dim and strangely distant, with a glamour upon it like a place of old romance. To Pamela and Warrisden, as the mists wove and unwove about it, it had a look of dreamland.
They reached the end of the incline, and Pamela stopped her horse.
“This is my way,” said she, pointing along the highway with her whip.
“Yes,” answered Warrisden. The road ran straight for some distance, then crossed a wooden bridge and curved out of sight round the edge of a clump of trees. “The new road,” he said softly. “The new road from Quetta to Seistan!”
Pamela smiled.
“This is Quetta,” said she.
Warrisden laid his hand upon her horse’s neck, and looked suddenly up into her face.
“Where will be Seistan?” he asked in a low voice.
Pamela returned the look frankly. There came a softness into her dark eyes. For a moment she let her hand rest lightly upon his sleeve, and did not speak. She herself was wondering how far she was to travel upon this new road.
“I cannot tell,” she said very gently. “Nor, my friend, can you. Only” — and her voice took on a lighter and a whimsical tone-”only I start alone on my new road.”
And she went forward into the level country. Warrisden climbed the hill again, and turned when he had reached the top; but Pamela was out of sight. The dusk and the mists had enclosed her.
CHAPTER X
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.
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 400