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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/14176-0.txt b/14176-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0da2d4e --- /dev/null +++ b/14176-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6761 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14176 *** + +THE DWELLER ON THE THRESHOLD + +by + +ROBERT HICHENS + +Author of _The Garden of Allah_, _Bella Donna_, _Egypt and Its +Monuments_, _The Holy Land_, etc. + +1911 + + + + + + + +I + + +When Evelyn Malling, notorious because of his sustained interest in +Psychical Research and his work for Professor Stepton, first met the +Rev. Marcus Harding, that well-known clergyman was still in the full +flow of his many activities. He had been translated from his labors in +Liverpool to a West End church in London. There he had proved hitherto +an astonishing success. On Hospital Sundays the total sums collected +from his flock were by far the largest that came from the pockets of +any congregation in London. The music in St. Joseph's was allowed by +connoisseurs, who knew their Elgar as well as their Goss, their Perosi +as well as their Bach, and their Wesley, to be remarkable. Critical +persons, mostly men, who sat on the fence between Orthodoxy and Atheism, +thought highly of Mr. Harding's sermons, and even sometimes came down +on his side. And, of all signs surely the most promising for a West End +clergyman's success, smart people flocked to him to be married, and Arum +lilies were perpetually being carried in and out of his chancel, which +was adorned with Morris windows. He was married to a woman who managed +to be admirable without being dull, Lady Sophia, daughter of the late +Earl of Mansford, and sister of the present peer. He was comfortably off. +His health as a rule was good, though occasionally he suffered from some +obscure form of dyspepsia. And he was still comparatively young, just +forty-eight. + +Nevertheless, as Evelyn Malling immediately perceived, Mr. Harding was +not a happy man. + +In appearance he was remarkable. Of commanding height, with a big frame, +a striking head and countenance, and a pair of keen gray eyes, he looked +like a man who was intended by nature to dominate. White threads appeared +in his thick brown hair, which he wore parted in the middle. But his +face, which was clean-shaven, had not many telltale lines. And he did not +look more than his age. + +The sadness noted by Malling was at first evasive and fleeting, not +indellibly fixed in the puckers of a forehead, or in the down-drawn +corners of a mouth. It was as a thin, almost impalpable mist, that can +scarcely be seen, yet that alters all the features in a landscape ever +so faintly. Like a shadow it traveled across the eyes, obscured the +forehead, lay about the lips. And as a shadow lifts it lifted. But it +soon returned, like a thing uneasy that is becoming determined to +discover an abiding-place. + +Malling's first meeting with the clergyman took place upon Westminster +Bridge on an afternoon in early May, when London seemed, almost like +a spirited child, to be flinging itself with abandon into the first +gaieties of the season. Malling was alone, coming on foot from Waterloo. +Mr. Harding was also on foot, with his senior curate, the Rev. Henry +Chichester, who was an acquaintance of Malling, but whom Malling had +not seen for a considerable period of time, having been out on his estate +in Ceylon. At the moment when Malling arrived upon the bridge the two +clergymen were standing by the parapet on the Parliament side, looking +out over the river. As he drew near to them the curate glanced suddenly +round, saw him, and uttered an involuntary exclamation which attracted +Mr. Harding's attention. + +"Telepathy!" said Chichester, shaking Malling by the hand. "I believe I +looked round because I knew I should see you. Yet I supposed you to be +still in Ceylon." He glanced at the rector rather doubtfully, seemed to +take a resolution, and with an air almost of doggedness added, "May I?" +and introduced the two men to one another. + +Mr. Harding observed the new-comer with an interest that was +unmistakable. + +"You are the Mr. Malling of whom Professor Stepton has spoken to me," he +said,--"who has done so much experimental work for him?" + +"Yes." + +"The professor comes to my church now and then." + +"I have heard him say so." + +"You saw we were looking at the river? Before I came to London I was at +Liverpool, and learned there to love great rivers. There is something in +a great river that reminds us--" + +He caught his curate's eye and was silent. + +"Are you walking my way?" asked Malling. "I am going by the Abbey and +Victoria Street to Cadogan Square." + +"Then we will accompany you as far as Victoria Station," said the rector. + +"You don't think it would be wiser to take a hansom?" began Chichester. +"You remember--" + +"No, no, certainly not. Walking always does me good," rejoined Mr. +Harding, almost in a tone of rebuke. + +The curate said nothing more, and the three men set out toward Parliament +Square, Malling walking between the two clergymen. + +He felt embarrassed, and this surprised him, for he was an extremely +self-reliant man and entirely free from shyness. At first he thought that +possibly his odd discomfort arose from the fact that he was in company +with two men who, perhaps, had quite recently had a difference which they +were endeavoring out of courtesy to conceal from him. Perhaps there had +been a slight quarrel over some parish matter. Certainly when he first +spoke with them there had been something uneasy, a suspicion of strain, +in the manner of both. But then he remembered how, before Chichester had +turned round, they had been leaning amicably above the river. + +No, it could not be that. He sought mentally for some other reason. But +while he did so he talked, and endeavored to rid himself promptly of the +unwelcome feeling that beset him. + +In this effort, however, he did not at first succeed. The "conditions" +were evidently unsatisfactory. He wondered whether if he were not walking +between the two men he would feel more comfortable, and presently, at a +crossing, he managed to change his place. He was now next to Mr. Harding, +who had the curate on his other side, and at once he felt more at his +ease. The rector of St. Joseph's led the conversation, in which Malling +joined, and at first the curate was silent. But presently Malling noticed +a thing that struck him as odd. Chichester began to "chip in" now and +then, and whenever he did so it was either to modify what Mr. Harding +had just said, or to check him in what he was saying, or abruptly to +introduce a new topic of talk. Sometimes Mr. Harding did not appear to +notice these interruptions; at other times he obviously resented them; +at others again he yielded with an air of anxiety, almost of fear, to +his curate's attenuations or hastened to follow his somewhat surprising +leads down new conversational paths. Malling could not understand +Chichester. But it became evident to him that for some reason or other +the curate was painfully critical of his rector, as sometimes highly +sensitive people are critical of members of their own family. And Mr. +Harding was certainly aware of this critical attitude, and at moments +seemed to be defiant of it, at other moments to be almost terrorized +by it. + +All that passed, be it noted, passed as between gentlemen, rather +glided in the form of nuance than trampled heavily in more blatant +guise. But Evelyn Malling was a highly trained observer and a man in +whom investigation had become a habit. Now that he was no longer ill at +ease he became deeply interested in the relations between the two men +with whom he was walking. He was unable to understand them, and this +fact of course increased his interest. Moreover he was surprised by the +change he observed in Chichester. + +Although he had never been intimate with Henry Chichester, he had known +him fairly well, and had summed him up as a very good man and a decidedly +attractive man, but marred, as Malling thought, by a definite weakness of +character. He had been too amiable, too ready to take others on their own +valuation of themselves, too kind-hearted, and too easily deceived. The +gentleness of a saint had been his, but scarcely the firmness of a saint. +Industrious, dutiful, and conscientious, he had not struck Malling as a +man of strong intellect, though he was a cultivated and well-educated +man. Though not governed by his own passions,--when one looked at him one +had been inclined to doubt whether he had any,--he had seemed prone to be +governed by those about him, at any rate in little matters of every day. +His charm had consisted in his transparent goodness, and in an almost gay +kindliness which had seemed to float round him like an atmosphere. To +look into his face had been to look at the happiness which comes only to +those who do right things, and are at peace with their own souls. + +What could have happened to change this charming, if too pliant, +personality into the critical, watchful, almost--so at moments it seemed +to Malling--aggressive curate who was now, always in a gentlemanly way, +making things rather difficult for his rector? + +And the matter became the more mysterious when Malling considered Mr. +Harding. For here was a man obviously of dominant personality. Despite +his fleeting subservience to Chichester, inexplicable to Malling, he was +surely by far the stronger of the two, both in intellect and character. +Not so saintly, perhaps, he was more likely to influence others. Firmness +showed in his forcible chin, energy in the large lines of his mouth, +decision in his clear-cut features. Yet there was something contradictory +in his face. And the flitting melancholy, already remarked, surely hinted +at some secret instability, perhaps known only to Harding himself, +perhaps known to Chichester also. + +When the three men came to the turning at the corner of the Grosvenor +Hotel, Chichester stopped short. + +"Here is our way," he said, speaking across Mr. Harding to Malling. + +The rector looked at Malling. + +"Have you far to go?" he asked, with rather a tentative air. + +"I live in Cadogan Square." + +"Of course. I remember. You told us you were going there." + +"Good-by," said Chichester. "We are taking the underground to South +Kensington." + +"I think I shall walk," said the rector. + +"But you know we are due--" + +"There is plenty of time. Tell them I shall be there at four." + +"But really--" + +"Punctually at four. I will walk on with Mr. Malling." + +"I really think you had better not," began Chichester. "Over-exertion--" + +"Am I an invalid?" exclaimed Mr. Harding, almost sharply. + +"No, no, of course not. But you remember that yesterday you were not +quite well." + +"That is the very reason why I wish to walk. Exercise always does my +dyspepsia good." + +"Let us all walk," said the curate, abruptly. + +But this was obviously not Mr. Harding's intention. + +"I want you to go through the minutes and the accounts before the +meeting," he said, in a quieter but decisive voice. "We will meet at the +School at four. You will have plenty of time if you take the train. And +meanwhile Mr. Malling and I will go on foot together as far as Cadogan +Square." + +Chichester stood for a moment staring into Mr. Harding's face, then he +said, almost sulkily: + +"Very well. Good-by." + +He turned on his heel, and was lost in the throng near the station. + +It seemed to Malling that an expression of relief overspread his +companion's face. + +"You don't mind my company for a little longer, I hope?" said the rector. + +"I shall be glad to have it." + +They set out on their walk to Cadogan Square. After two or three minutes +of silence the rector remarked: + +"You know Chichester well?" + +"I can hardly say that. I used to meet him sometimes with some friends of +mine, the Crespignys. But I haven't seen him for more than two years." + +"He's a very good fellow." + +"An excellent fellow." + +"Perhaps a little bit limited in his outlook. He has been with me at St. +Joseph's exactly two years." + +The rector seemed about to say more, then shut his large mouth almost +with a snap. Malling made no remark. He was quite certain that snap was +merely the preliminary to some further remark about Chichester. And so it +proved. As they came to St. Peter's Eaton Square, the rector resumed: + +"I often think that it is a man's limitations which make him critical +of others. The more one knows, the wider one's outlook, the readier +one is to shut one's eyes to the foibles, even to the faults, of one's +neighbors. I have tried to impress that upon our friend Chichester." + +"Doesn't he agree with you?" + +"Well--it's difficult to say, difficult to say. Shall we go by Wilton +Place, or--?" + +"Certainly." + +"Professor Stepton has talked to me about you from time to time, Mr. +Malling." + +"He's a remarkable man," said Malling almost with enthusiasm. + +"Yes. He's finding his way to the truth rather by the pathway of science +than by the pathway of faith. But he's a man I respect. And I believe +he'll get out into the light. You've done a great deal of work for him, I +understand, in--in occult directions." + +"I have made a good many careful investigations at his suggestion." + +"Exactly. Now"--Mr. Harding paused, seemed to make an effort, and +continued--"we know very little even now, with all that has been done, +as to--to the possibilities--I scarcely know how to put it--the +possibilities of the soul." + +"Very little indeed," rejoined Malling. + +He was considerably surprised by his companion's manner, but was quite +resolved not to help him out. + +"The possibilities of one soul, let us say, in connection with another," +continued the rector, almost in a faltering voice. "I often feel as if +the soul were a sort of mysterious fluid, and that when we what is called +influence another person, we, as it were, submerge his soul fluid in our +own, as a drop of water might be submerged in an ocean." + +"Ah!" said Malling, laconically. + +Mr. Harding shot a rather sharp glance at him. + +"You don't object to my getting on this subject, I hope?" he observed. + +"Certainly not." + +"Perhaps you think it rather a strange one for a clergyman to select?" + +"Oh, no. I have known many clergymen deeply interested in Stepton's +investigations." + +Mr. Harding's face, which had been cloudy, cleared. + +"It seems to me," he said, "that we clergymen have a special reason +for desiring Stepton, and all Stepton's assistants, to make progress. +It is true, of course, that we live by faith. And nothing can be more +beautiful than a childlike faith in the Great Being who is above all +worlds, in the _anima mundi_. But it would be unnatural in us if we did +not earnestly desire that our faith be proved, scientifically proved, +to be well-founded. I speak now of the faith we Christians hold in a +life beyond the grave. I know many people who think it very wrong in a +clergyman to mix himself up in any occult experiments. But I don't agree +with them." + +It was now Malling's turn to look sharply at his companion. + +"Have you made many experiments yourself, may I ask?" he said very +bluntly. + +The clergyman started, and was obviously embarrassed by the question. + +"I! Oh, I was speaking generally. I am a very busy man, you see. What +with my church and my parish, and one thing and another, I get very +little time for outside things. Still I am greatly interested, I confess, +in all that Stepton is doing." + +"Does Mr. Chichester share your interest?" said Malling. + +"In a minor degree, in a minor degree," answered the rector, rather +evasively. + +They were now in Sloane Street and Malling said: + +"I must turn off here." + +"I'll go with you as far as your door if you've no objection," said the +rector, who seemed very loath to leave his companion. "It's odd how men +change, isn't it?" + +"As they grow older? But surely development is natural and to be +expected?" + +"Certainly. But when a man changes drastically, sheds his character and +takes on another?" + +"You are talking perhaps of what is called conversion?" + +"Well, that would be an instance of what I mean, no doubt. But there +are changes of another type. We clergymen, you know, mix intimately with +so many men that we are almost bound to become psychologists if we are +to do any good. It becomes a habit with many of us to study closely our +fellow-men. Now I, for instance; I cannot live at close quarters with a +man without, almost unconsciously, subjecting him to a minute scrutiny, +and striving to sum him up. My curates, for example--" + +"Yes?" said Malling. + +"There are four of them, our friend Chichester being the senior one." + +"And you have 'placed' them all?" + +"I thought I had, I thought so--but--" + +Mr. Harding was silent. Then, with a strange abruptness, and the air of a +man forced into an action against which something within him protested, +he said: + +"Mr. Malling, you are the only person I know who, having been acquainted +with Henry Chichester, has at last met him again after a prolonged +interval of separation. Two years, you said. People who see a man from +day to day observe very little or nothing. Changes occur and are not +noticed by them. A man and his wife live together and grow old. But does +either ever notice when the face of the other begins first to lose its +bloom, to take on that peculiar, unmistakable stamp that the passage of +the years sets on us all? Few of us really see what is always before us. +But the man who comes back--he sees. Tell me the honest truth, I beg of +you. Do you or do you not, see a great change in Henry Chichester?" + +The rector's voice had risen while he spoke, till it almost clamored for +reply. His eyes were more clamorous still, insistent in their demand upon +Malling. Nevertheless voice and eyes pushed Malling toward caution. +Something within him said, "Be careful what you do!" and, acting +surprise, he answered: + +"Chichester changed! In what way?" + +The rector's countenance fell. + +"You haven't observed it?" + +"Remember I've only seen him to-day and walking in the midst of crowds." + +"Quite true! Quite true!" + +Mr. Harding meditated for a minute, and then said: + +"Mr. Malling, I daresay my conduct to-day may surprise you. You may think +it odd of me to be so frank, seeing that you and I have not met before. +But Stepton has told me so much about you that I cannot feel we are quite +strangers. I should like you to have an opportunity of observing Henry +Chichester without prejudice. I will say nothing more. But if I invite +you to meet him, in my house or elsewhere, will you promise me to come?" + +"Certainly, if I possibly can." + +"And your address?" + +Malling stopped and, smiling, pointed to the number outside a house. + +"You live here?" + +Mr. Harding took a small book and a pencil from his pocket and noted down +the address. + +"Good-by," he said. "I live in Onslow Gardens--Number 89." + +"Thank you. Good-by." + +The two men shook hands. Then Mr. Harding went on his way toward South +Kensington, while Malling inserted his latch-key into the door of Number +7b, Cadogan Square. + + + + +II + + +Evelyn Malling was well accustomed to meeting with strange people and +making investigations into strange occurrences. He was not easily +surprised, nor was he easily puzzled. By nature more skeptical than +credulous, he had a cool brain, and he was seldom, if ever, the victim +of his imagination. But on the evening of the day in question he found +himself continually dwelling, and with a curiously heated mind, upon the +encounter of that afternoon. Mr. Harding's manner in the latter part of +their walk together had--he scarcely knew why--profoundly impressed him. +He longed to see the clergyman again. He longed, almost more ardently, to +pay a visit to Henry Chichester. Although the instinct of caution, which +had perhaps been developed in him by his work among mediums, cranks of +various kinds, and charlatans, had prevented him from letting the rector +know that he had been struck by the change in the senior curate, that +change had greatly astonished him. Yet was it really so very marked? He +had noticed it before his attention had been drawn to it. That he knew. +But was he not now, perhaps, exaggerating its character, "suggestioned" +as it were by the obvious turmoil of Mr. Harding? He wondered, and was +disturbed by his wonderment. Two or three times he got up, with the +intention of jumping into a cab, and going to Westminster to find out +if Professor Stepton was in town. But he only got as far as the hall. +Then something seemed to check him. He told himself that he was in no +fit condition to meet the sharp eyes of the man of science, who delighted +in his somewhat frigid attitude of mind toward all supposed supernormal +manifestations, and he returned to his study and tried to occupy himself +with a book. + +On the occasion of his last return, just as he was about to sit down, +his eyes chanced to fall on an almanac framed in silver which stood on +his writing-table. He took it up and stared at it. May 8, Friday--May 9, +Saturday--May 10, Sunday. It was May 9. He put the almanac back on the +table with a sudden sense of relief. For he had come to a decision. + +To-morrow he would attend morning service at St. Joseph's. + +Malling was not a regular church-goer. He belonged to the Stepton breed. +But he was an earnest man and no scoffer, and some of his best friends +were priests and clergymen. Nevertheless it was in a rather unusual +go-to-meeting frame of mind that he got into a tail-coat and top hat, and +set forth in a hansom to St. Joseph's the next morning. + +He had never been there before. As he drew near he found people flowing +toward the great church on foot, in cabs and carriages. Evidently Mr. +Harding had attractive powers, and Malling began to wonder whether he +would have any difficulty in obtaining the seat he wanted, in some corner +from which he could get a good view both of the chancel and the pulpit. +Were vergers "bribable"? What an ignoramus he was about church matters! + +He smiled to himself as he paid the cabman and joined the stream of +church-goers which was passing in through the open door. + +Just as he was entering the building someone in the crowd by accident +jostled him, and he was pushed rather roughly against a tall lady +immediately before him. She turned round with a startled face, and +Malling hastily begged her pardon. + +"I was pushed," he said. "Forgive me." + +The lady smiled, her lips moved, doubtless in some words of conventional +acceptance, then she disappeared in the throng, taking her way toward +the left of the church. She was a slim woman, with a white streak in her +dark hair just above the forehead. Her face, which was refined and +handsome, had given to Malling a strong impression of anxiety. Even when +it had smiled it had looked almost tragically anxious, he thought. The +church was seated with chairs, and a man, evidently an attendant, told +him that all the chairs in the right and left aisles were free. He made +his way to the right, and was fortunate enough to get one not far from +the pulpit. Unluckily, from it he could only see the left-hand side of +the choir. But the preacher would be full in his view. The organ sounded; +the procession appeared. Over the heads of worshipers--he was a tall +man--Malling perceived both Mr. Harding and Chichester. The latter took +his place at the end of the left-hand row of light-colored oaken stalls +next to the congregation. Malling could see him well. But the rector was +hidden from him. He fixed his eyes upon Chichester. + +The service went on its way. The music was excellent. A fair young man, +who looked as if he might be a first-rate cricketer, one of the curates +no doubt, read the lessons. Chichester intoned with an agreeable light +tenor voice. During the third hymn, "Fight the Good Fight," Mr. Harding +mounted into the pulpit. He let down the brass reading-desk. He had no +notes in his hands. Evidently he was going to preach extempore. After +the "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost" +had been pronounced, Malling settled himself to listen. He felt tensely +interested. Both Mr. Harding and Chichester were now before him, the +one as performer--he used the word mentally, with no thought of +irreverence--the other as audience. He could study both as he wished to +study them at that moment. + +Chichester was a small, cherubic man, with blue eyes, fair hair, and neat +features, the sort of man who looks as if when a boy he must have been +the leading choir-boy in a cathedral. There was nothing powerful in his +face, but much that was amiable and winning. His chin and his forehead +were rather weak. His eyes and his mouth looked good. Or--did they? + +Malling found himself wondering as Mr. Harding preached. + +And was Mr. Harding the powerful preacher he was reputed to be? + +At first he held his congregation. That was evident. Rows of rapt faces +gazed up at him, as he leaned over the edge of the pulpit, or stood +upright with his hands pressed palm downward upon it. But it seemed to +Malling that he held them rather because of his reputation, because of +what they confidently expected of him, because of what he had done in +the past, than because of what he was actually doing. And presently they +slipped out of his grasp. He lost them. + +The first thing that is necessary in an orator, if he is to be successful +with an audience, is confidence in himself, a conviction that he has +something to say which is worth saying, which has to be said. Malling +perceived that on this Sunday morning Mr. Harding possessed neither +self-confidence nor conviction; though he made a determined, almost a +violent, effort to pretend that he had both. He took as the theme of his +discourse self-knowledge, and as his motto--so he called it---the words, +"Know thyself." This was surely a promising subject. He began to treat it +with vigor. But very soon it became evident that he was ill at ease, as +an actor becomes who cannot get into touch with his audience. He stumbled +now and then in his sentences, harked back, corrected a phrase, modified +a thought, attenuated a statement. Then, evidently bracing himself up, +almost aggressively he delivered a few passages that were eloquent +enough. But the indecision returned, became more painful. He even +contradicted himself. A "No, that is not so. I should say--" communicated +grave doubts as to his powers of clear thinking to the now confused +congregation. People began to cough and to shift about in their chairs. A +lady just beneath the pulpit unfolded a large fan and waved it slowly to +and fro. Mr. Harding paused, gazed at the fan, looked away from it, wiped +his forehead with a handkerchief, grasped the pulpit ledge, and went on +speaking, but now with almost a faltering voice. + +The congregation were doubtless ignorant of the cause of their pastor's +perturbation, but Malling felt sure that he knew what it was. + +The cause was Henry Chichester. + +On the cherubic face of the senior curate, as he leaned back in his +stall while Mr. Harding gave out the opening words of the sermon, there +had been an expression that was surely one of anxiety, such as a master's +face wears when his pupil is about to give some public exhibition. That +simile came at once into Malling's mind. It was the master listening to +the pupil, fearing for, criticizing, striving mentally to convey help to +the pupil. And as the sermon went on it was obvious to Malling that the +curate was not satisfied with it, and that his dissatisfaction was, as +it were, breaking the rector down. At certain statements of Mr. Harding +looks of contempt flashed over Chichester's face, transforming it. +The anxiety of the master, product of vanity but also of sympathy, +was overlaid by the powerful contempt of a man who longs to traverse +misstatements but is forced by circumstances to keep silence. And so +certain was Malling that the cause of Mr. Harding's perturbation lay in +Chichester's mental attitude, that he longed to spring up, to take the +curate by the shoulders and to thrust him out of the church. Then all +would be well. He knew it. The rector's self-confidence would return and, +with it, his natural powers. + +But now the situation was becoming painful, almost unbearable. + +With every sentence the rector became more involved, more hesitating, +more impotent. The sweat ran down his face. Even his fine voice was +affected. It grew husky. It seemed to be failing. Yet he would not +cease. To Malling he gave the impression of a man governed by a secret +obstinacy, fighting on though he knew it was no use, that he had lost +the combat. Malling longed to cry out to him, "Give it up!" + +The congregation coughed more persistently, and the lady with the fan +began to ply her instrument of torture almost hysterically. + +Suddenly Malling felt obliged to look toward the left of the crowded +church. Sitting up very straight, and almost craning his neck, he stared +over the heads of the fidgeting people and met the eyes of a woman, the +lady with the streak of white hair against whom he had pushed when +coming in. + +There was a look almost of anguish on her face. She turned her eyes +toward Mr. Harding. At the same instant the rector saw Mailing in the +congregation. He stopped short, muttered an uneven sentence, then, +forcing his voice, uttered in unnaturally loud tones the "Now to God the +Father," et cetera. + +Henry Chichester rose in his stall with an expression of intense +thankfulness, which yet seemed somehow combined with a sneer. + +The collection was made. + +Before the celebration some of the choir and two of the clergy, of whom +Mr. Harding was one, left the church. Henry Chichester and the fair, +athletic-looking curate remained. Mailing took his hat and made his way +slowly to the door. As he emerged a young man stopped him and said: + +"If you please, sir, the rector would like to speak to you if you could +wait just a moment. You are Mr. Malling, I believe." + +"Yes. How could you know?" + +"Mr. Harding told me what you were like, sir, and that you were wearing +a tie with a large green stone in it. Begging your pardon, sir." + +"I will wait," said Malling, marveling at the rector's rapid and accurate +powers of observation. + +Those of the congregation who had not remained for the celebration were +quickly dispersing, but Malling now noticed that the lady with the white +lock was, like himself, waiting for some one. She stood not far from him. +She was holding a parasol, and looking down; she moved its point to and +fro on the ground. Several people greeted her. Almost as if startled she +glanced up quickly, smiled, replied. Then, as they went on, she again +looked down. There was a pucker in her brow. Her lips twitched now and +then. + +Suddenly she lifted her head, turned and forced her quivering mouth to +smile. Mr. Harding had come into sight round the corner of the church. + +"Ah, Mr. Malling," he said, "so you have stayed. Very good of you. +Sophia, let me introduce Mr. Malling to you--my wife, Lady Sophia." + +The lady with the white lock held out her hand. + +"You have heard Professor Stepton speak of Mr. Malling, haven't you?" +added the rector to his wife. + +"Indeed I have," she answered. + +She smiled again kindly, and as if resolved to throw off her depression +began to talk with some animation as they all walked together toward the +street. Directly they reached it the rector said: + +"Are you engaged to lunch to-day, Mr. Malling?" + +"No," answered Malling. + +Lady Sophia turned to him and said: + +"Then I shall be informal and beg you to lunch with us, if you don't mind +our being alone. We lunch early, at one, as my husband is tired after his +morning's work and eats virtually nothing at breakfast." + +"I shall be delighted," said Malling. "It's very kind of you." + +"We always walk home," said the rector. + +He sighed. It was obvious that he was in low spirits after the failure of +the morning, but he tried to conceal the fact, and his wife tactfully +helped him. Malling praised the music warmly, and remarked on the huge +congregation. + +"I scarcely thought I should find a seat," he added. + +"It is always full to the doors in the morning," said Lady Sophia, with a +cheerfulness that was slightly forced. + +She glanced at her husband, and suddenly added, not without a decided +touch of feminine spite: + +"Unless Mr. Chichester, the senior curate, is preaching." + +"My dear Sophy!" exclaimed Mr. Harding. + +"Well, it is so!" she said, with a sort of petulance. + +"Perhaps Mr. Chichester is not gifted as a preacher," said Malling. + +"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said the rector. + +"My husband never criticizes his--swans," said Lady Sophia, with delicate +malice, and a glance full of meaning at Malling. "But I'm a woman, and my +principles are not so high as his." + +"You do yourself an injustice," said the rector. "Here we are." + +He drew out his latch-key. + +Before lunch Malling was left alone for a few minutes in the drawing-room +with Lady Sophia. The rector had to see a parishioner who had called and +was waiting for him in his study. Directly her husband had left the room +Lady Sophia turned to Malling and said: + +"Had you ever heard my husband preach till this morning?" + +"No, never," Mailing answered. "I'm afraid I'm not a very regular +church-goer. I must congratulate you again on the music at St. Joseph's. +It is exceptional. Even at St. Anne's Soho--" + +Almost brusquely she interrupted him. She was obviously in a highly +nervous condition; and scarcely able to control herself. + +"Yes, yes, our music is always good, of course. So glad you liked it. +But what I want to say is that you haven't heard my husband preach this +morning." + +Malling looked at her with curiosity, but without astonishment. He might +have acted a part with her as he had the previous day with her husband. +But, as he looked, he came to a rapid decision, to be more frank with the +woman than he had been with the man. + +"You mean, of course, that your husband was not in his best vein," he +said. "I won't pretend that I didn't realize that." + +"You didn't hear him at all. He wasn't himself--simply." + +She sat down on a sofa and clasped her hands together. + +"I cannot tell you what I was feeling," she added. "And he used to be so +full of self-confidence. It was his great gift. His self-confidence +carried him through everything. Nothing could have kept him back if--" + +Suddenly she checked herself and looked, with a sort of covert inquiry, +at Malling. + +"You must think me quite mad to talk like this," she said, with a return +to her manner when he first met her. + +"Shall I tell you what I really think?" he asked, leaning forward in the +chair he had taken. + +"Yes, do, do!" + +"I think you are very ambitious for your husband and that your ambition +for him has received a perhaps mysterious--check." + +Before she could reply the door opened and Mr. Harding reappeared. + +At lunch he carefully avoided any reference to church matters, and +they talked on general subjects. Lady Sophia showed herself a nervously +intelligent and ardent woman. It seemed to Malling obvious that she was +devoted to her husband, "wrapped up in" him--to use an expressive phrase. +Any failure on his part upset her even more than it did him. Secretly she +must still be quivering from the public distresses of the morning. But +she now strove to aid the rector's admirable effort to be serene, and +proved herself a clever talker, and well informed on the events of the +day. Of her Malling got a fairly clear impression. + +But his impression of her husband was confused and almost nebulous. + +"Do you smoke?" asked Mr. Harding, when lunch was over. + +Malling said that he did. + +"Then come and have a cigar in my study." + +"Yes, do go," said Lady Sophia. "A quiet talk with you will rest my +husband." + +And she went away, leaving the two men together. + +Mr. Harding's study looked out at the back of the house upon a tiny strip +of garden. It was very comfortably, though not luxuriously, furnished, +and the walls were lined with bookcases. While his host went to a drawer +to get the cigar-box, Malling idly cast his eyes over the books in the +shelves nearest to him. He always liked to see what a man had to read. +The first book his eyes rested upon was Myers's "Human Personality." +Then came a series of works by Hudson, including "Psychic Phenomena," +then Oliver Lodge's "Survival of Man," "Man and the Universe," and "Life +and Matter." Farther along were works by Lowes Dickinson and Professor +William James, Bowden's "The Imitation of Buddha" and Inge's "Christian +Mysticism." At the end of the shelf, bound in white vellum, was Don +Lorenzo Scupoli's "The Spiritual Combat." + +A drawer shut, and Mailing turned about to take the cigar which Mr. +Harding offered him. + +"The light is rather strong, don't you think?" Mr. Harding said, when the +two men had lit up. "I'll lower the blind." + +He did so, and they sat down in a sort of agreeable twilight, aware of +the blaze of an almost un-English sun without. + +Malling settled down to his cigar with a very definite intention to +clear up his impressions of the rector. The essence of the man baffled +him. He had known more about Lady Sophia in five minutes than he knew +about Mr. Harding now, although he had talked with him, walked with him, +heard him preach, and watched him intently while he was doing so. His +confusion and distress of the morning were comprehended by Malling. They +were undoubtedly caused by the preacher's painful consciousness of the +presence and criticism of one whom, apparently, he feared, or of whose +adverse opinion at any rate he was in peculiar dread. But what was the +character of the man himself? Was he saint or sinner, or just ordinary, +normal man, with a usual allowance of faults and virtues? Was he a man +of real force, or was he painted lath? The Chichester episodes seemed +to point to the latter conclusion. But Malling was too intelligent to +take everything at its surface value. He knew much of the trickery of +man, but that knowledge did not blind him to the mystery of man. He +had exposed charlatans. Yet he had often said to himself, "Who can ever +really expose another? Who can ever really expose himself?" Essentially +he was the Seeker. And he was seldom or never dogmatic. A friend of his, +who professed to believe in transmigration, had once said of him, "I'm +quite certain Malling must have been a sleuth-hound once." Now he wished +to get on a trail. + +But Mr. Harding, who on the previous day had been almost strangely frank +about Henry Chichester, to-day had apparently no intention to be frank +about himself. Though he had desired Malling's company, now that they +were together alone he showed a reserve through which, Malling believed, +he secretly wanted to break. But something held him back. He talked of +politics, government and church, the spread of science, the follies of +the day. And Malling got little nearer to him. But presently Malling +happened to mention the modern craze for discussing intimately, or, as a +Frenchwoman whom he knew expressed it, "_avec un luxe de détail_," +matters of health. + +"Yes, yes," responded Mr. Harding. "It is becoming almost objectionable, +almost indecent. At the same time the health of the body is a very +interesting subject because of its effect upon the mind, even, so it +seems sometimes, upon the very nature of a man. Now I--" he struck the +ash off the end of his cigar--"was, I might almost say, the victim of my +stomach in the pulpit this morning." + +"You were feeling ill?" + +"Not exactly ill. I have a strong constitution. But I suffer at times +from what the doctors call nervous dyspepsia. It is a very tiresome +complaint, because it takes away for the time a man's confidence in +himself, reduces him to the worm-level almost; and it gives him absurd +ideas. Now this morning in the pulpit I had an attack of pain and +uneasiness, and my nerve quite gave out. You must have noticed it." + +"I saw that you were troubled by something." + +"Something! It was that. My poor wife was thoroughly upset by it. You +know how sensitive women are. To hold a crowd of people a man must be +strong and well, in full possession of his powers. And I had a good +subject." + +"Splendid." + +"I'll treat it again--treat it again." + +The rector shifted in his chair. + +"Do you think," he said after a pause, "that it is possible for another, +an outsider, to know a man better than he knows himself?" + +"In some cases, yes," answered Malling. + +"But--as a rule?" + +"There is the saying that outsiders see most of the game." + +"Then why should we mind when all are subject to criticism!" exclaimed +Mr. Harding, forcibly. + +Evidently he was startled by his own outburst, for instantly he set about +to attenuate it. + +"What I mean is that men ought not to care so much as most of them +undoubtedly do what others think about them." + +"It certainly is a sign of great weakness to care too much," said +Malling. "But some people have a quite peculiar power of impressing their +critical thoughts on others. These spread uneasiness around them like an +atmosphere." + +"I know, I know," said the rector, with an almost hungry eagerness. "Now +surely one ought to keep out of such an atmosphere, to get out of it, and +to keep out of it." + +"Why not?" + +"But--but--how extraordinary it is, the difficulty men have in getting +away from things! Haven't you noticed that?" + +"Want of moral strength," said Mailing, laconically. + +"You think so?" + +"Don't you?" + +At this moment there was a knock at the door. Mr. Harding started. + +"How impossible it is to get a quiet moment," he said with acute +irritation. "Come in!" he called out. + +The footman appeared. + +"Mr. Chichester has called to see you, sir." + +The rector's manner changed. He beckoned to the man to come into the room +and to shut the door. The footman, looking surprised, obeyed. + +"Where is he, Thomas?" asked Mr. Harding, in a lowered voice. "In the +hall?" + +"No, sir. As you were engaged I showed him up into the drawing-room." + +"Oh, very well. Thank you. You can go." + +The footman went out, still looking surprised. + +Just as he was about to close the door his master said: + +"Wait a moment!" + +"Sir?" + +"Was her ladyship in the drawing-room?" + +"No, sir. Her ladyship is lying down in the boudoir." + +"Ah. That will do." + +The footman shut the door. + +Directly he was gone the rector got up with an air of decision. + +"Mr. Malling," he said, "perhaps I ought to apologize to you for treating +you with the abruptness allowable in a friend, but surprising in an +acquaintance, indeed in one who is almost a stranger. I do apologize. My +only excuse is that I know you to be a man of exceptional trend of mind +and unusual ability. I know this from Professor Stepton. But there's +another thing. As I told you yesterday, you are the only person of my +acquaintance who, having been fairly intimate with Henry Chichester, has +not seen anything of him during the two years he has been with me as my +coadjutor. Now what I want you to do is this: will you go upstairs and +spend a few minutes alone with Chichester? Tell him I am detained, but +am coming in a moment. I'll see to it that you are not interrupted. I'll +explain to my wife. And, of course, I rely on you to make the matter +appear natural to Chichester, not to rouse his--but I am sure you +understand. Will you do this for me?" + +"Certainly," said Malling, with his most prosaic manner. "Why not?" + +"Why not? Exactly. There's nothing objectionable in the matter. But--" +Mr. Harding's manner became very earnest, almost tragic. "I'll ask you +one thing--afterward you will tell me the truth, exactly how Chichester +impresses you now in comparison with the impression you got of him two +years ago. You--you have no objection to promising to tell me?" + +Malling hesitated. + +"But is it quite fair to Chichester?" he said. "Suppose I obtained, for +instance, a less favorable, or even an unfavorable impression of him +now? You are his rector. I hardly think--" + +The rector interrupted him. + +"I'll leave it to you," he said. "Do just as you please. But, believe me, +I have a very strong reason for wishing to know your opinion. I need it. +I need it." + +There was a lamentable sound in his voice. + +"If I feel it is right I will give it to you," said Malling. + +The rector opened the door of the study. + +"You know your way?" + +"Yes." + +Malling went upstairs. Mr. Harding stood watching him from below till he +disappeared. + + + + +III + + +When Malling opened the door of the drawing-room Chichester was standing +by one of the windows, looking out into Onslow Gardens. He turned round, +saw Malling, and uttered an exclamation. + +"You are here!" + +His light tenor voice sounded almost denunciatory, as if he had a right +to demand an explanation of Malling's presence in Mr. Harding's house, +and as he came away quickly from the window, he repeated, with still more +emphasis: + +"You are here!" + +"Lunching--yes," replied Malling, imperturbably. + +He looked at Chichester and smiled. + +"You have no objection, I hope?" + +His words and manner evidently brought the curate to a sense of his own +unconventionality. He held out his hand. + +"I beg your pardon. Your coming in surprised me. I had no idea"--his blue +eyes went searchingly over Malling's calm face--"that you could be here. +I thought you and the rector were complete strangers till I introduced +you yesterday." + +"So we were." + +Malling sat down comfortably on a sofa. His action evidently recalled +Chichester's mind to the fact that he was to see the rector. + +"Isn't the rector coming to see me?" he asked. + +"Almost directly. He's busy for a few minutes. We were smoking together +in his study." + +"You seem to--you seem to have made great friends!" said Chichester, with +a sort of forced jocularity. + +"Great friends! They're hardly made in a moment. I happened to be at +church this morning--" + +"At church--where?" exclaimed the curate. + +"At St. Joseph's. And Mr. Harding kindly asked me to lunch." + +"You were at church at St. Joseph's this morning?" said Chichester. + +He sat down by Malling and stared into his face. + +"Did you--did you stay for the sermon?" + +"Certainly. I came for the sermon. I had never heard Mr. Harding preach." + +"No? No? Well, what did you think of it? What did you think of it?" + +The curate spoke nervously, and seemed to Malling to be regarding him +with furtive anxiety. + +"It was obvious that Mr. Harding wasn't in good form this morning," +Malling said. "He explained the matter after lunch." + +"He _explained_ the matter!" said Chichester, with a rising voice, in +which there was an almost shrill note of suspicion. + +"Yes. He told me he was often the victim of nervous dyspepsia, and that +he had an attack of it while in the pulpit this morning." + +"He told you it was nervous dyspepsia!" + +"I have just said so." + +The curate looked down. + +"I advised him not to walk all the way home yesterday," he said gloomily. +"You heard me." + +"You think it was that?" + +"He never will take advice from any one. That's his--one of his great +faults. Whatever he thinks, whatever he says, must be right. You, as a +layman, probably have no idea how a certain type of clergyman loves +authority." + +This remark struck Malling as in such singularly bad taste--considering +where they were, and that one of them was Mr. Harding's guest, the other +his curate--that only his secret desire to make obscure things clear +prevented him from resenting it. + +"It is one of the curses of the Church," continued Chichester, "this +passion for authority, for ruling, for having all men under one's feet as +it were. If men would only listen, take advice, see themselves as they +really are, how much finer, how much greater, they might become!" + +"See themselves as others see them! Eh?" said Malling. "But do you mean +that a rector should depend on his curate's advice rather than on his own +judgment?" + +"And why not?" said Chichester. "Rector--curate--archbishop--what does it +matter? The point is not what rank in the hierarchy a man has, but what, +and how, does he see? A street boy may perceive a truth that a king is +blind to. At that moment the street boy is greater than the king. Do you +deny it?" + +"No," said Malling, amazed at the curate's excitement, but showing no +astonishment. + +"But it's a terrible thing to see too clearly!" continued Chichester, +almost as if talking to himself, absorbed. "A terrible thing!" + +He looked up at Malling, and almost solemnly he said: + +"Are you still going on with all those investigations?" + +"When I have any spare time, I often spend some of it in that sort of +work," answered Malling, lightly. + +It was his way to make light of his research work, and indeed he seldom +mentioned it unless he was forced to do so. + +"Do you think it is right?" said Chichester, earnestly. + +"Right?" + +"To strive to push one's way into hidden regions." + +"If I didn't think it right I shouldn't do it," retorted Malling, but +without heat. + +"And--for clergymen?" questioned Chichester, leaning forward, and +dropping his small, thin hands down between his knees. + +"What do you mean?" + +"Do you think it right for clergymen to indulge themselves--for it is +indulgence--in investigations, in attempts to find out more than God +has chosen to reveal to us?" + +The man of science in Malling felt impatient with the man of faith in +Chichester. + +"Does it never occur to you that the _anima mundi_ may have hidden +certain things from the minds of mortals just in order to provide them +with a field to till?" he said, with a hint of sarcasm. "Wasn't the fact +that the earth revolves round the sun, instead of the sun round the +earth, hidden from every living creature till Galileo discovered it? Do +you think Galileo deserved our censure?" + +"Saul was punished for consulting the witch of Endor," returned +Chichester. "And the Roman Catholic Church forbids her children to deal +in occult things." + +"You can't expect a man like me, a disciple of Stepton, to take the Roman +Catholic view of such a matter." + +"You are not a clergyman," said Chichester. + +Malling could not help smiling. + +"You think the profession carries with it certain obligations," he said. +"No doubt it does. But I shall never believe that one of them is to shut +your eyes to any fact in the whole scheme of Creation. Harm can never +come from truth." + +"If I could believe that!" Chichester cried out. + +"Do you mean to tell me you don't believe it?" + +Chichester looked at Malling for quite a minute without replying. Then he +got up, and said, with a changed voice and manner: + +"If the rector doesn't come to see me I shall have to go. Sunday is not a +holiday, you know, for us clergymen." + +He drew out his watch and looked at it. + +"I shall have to go. I'm taking the Children's Service." + +Malling got up too. + +"Is it getting late?" he said. "Perhaps--" + +At this moment the door was gently opened and Mr. Harding appeared. + +"Oh, Chichester," he said. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. What is +it? Would you like to come to my study?" + +"I must be off," said Malling. "May I say good-by to Lady Sophia? Or +perhaps she is resting and would rather not be disturbed." + +"I'm sure she would wish to say good-by to you," said the rector. "I'll +just ask her." + +He shot a quick glance from one man to the other and went out of the +room, leaving the door open behind him. + +Directly he was gone the curate said: "It has been such a pleasure to me +to renew my acquaintance with you, Mr. Malling. Are you going to be long +in London?" + +"All the season, I think." + +"Then I hope we may meet again soon, very soon." + +He hesitated, put one hand in his pocket, and brought out a card-case. + +"I should like to give you my address." + +"And let me give you mine." + +They exchanged cards. + +"I expect you'll be very busy," said the curate, rather doubtfully. + +Then he added, like a man urged on by some strong, almost overpowering +desire to do a thing not quite natural to him: + +"But I wish you could spare an evening to come to dine with me. I live +very modestly, of course. I'm in rooms, in Hornton Street--do you know +it?--near Campden Hill?--Number 4a--as you'll see on my card. I wonder--" + +"I shall be delighted to come." + +"When?" + +"Whenever you are kind enough to ask me." + +"Could you come on Wednesday week? It's so unfortunate, I have such a +quantity of parish engagements--that is my first evening free." + +"Wednesday week, with pleasure." + +"At half after seven?" + +"That will suit me perfectly." + +"And"--he looked toward the door--"I shall be greatly obliged to you if +you won't mention to the rector the fact that you are coming. He--" + +"My wife's in the boudoir," said Mr. Harding, coming into the room at +this moment. + +He stood by the door. + +Malling shook hands with Chichester, and went to say good-by to his +hostess. + +Mr. Harding shut the drawing-room door. + +"This is the way," he said. "Well, Mr. Malling? Well?" + +"You mean you want to know--?" + +"Your impression of Chichester." + +The rector stopped on the landing. + +"Do you find him much changed?" + +Malling shrugged his shoulders. + +"Possibly--a little. He may have become rather firmer in manner, a trifle +more decisive." + +"Firmer! More decisive, you say!" + +"But surely that is only natural, working--as he has done, I understand, +under a man such as yourself for two years." + +"Such as myself! Then you think he's caught something of my manner and +way of looking at things? You think--" + +"Really, it's difficult to say," interrupted Malling. "He's developed, no +doubt. But very few people don't. I suppose you've trained him." + +"I!" said the rector. "I train a man like Chichester!" + +In his voice there was a bitter irony. + +"Is that you, Mr. Malling?" said the voice of Lady Sophia. "I was lying +down with a book. This is my little room." + +She looked pale, almost haggard, as the sunshine fell upon her through +the open window. + +Malling took his leave at once and she did not attempt to detain him. + +"I hope you'll come again," she said, as they shook hands. "Perhaps on +another Sunday morning, to church and lunch. I'll let you know." + +She said the last words with a significance which made Malling understand +that she did not wish him to come to church at St. Joseph's again till +she gave him the word. + +The rector let him out of the house. Not another word was spoken about +Henry Chichester. As his guest walked away the rector stood, bareheaded, +looking after him, then, as Malling turned the corner of the gardens, +with a heavy sigh, and the unconscious gesture of a man greatly troubled +in mind, he stepped back into his hall and shut the door behind him. + + + + +IV + + +A week later, Mailing paid a visit to Professor Stepton. He had heard +nothing of the Hardings and Chichester since the day of the luncheon in +Onslow Gardens, but they had seldom been absent from his thoughts, and +more than once he had looked at the words, "Dine with H.C." in his book +of engagements, and had found himself wishing that "Hornton Street, +Wednesday" was not so far distant. + +The professor lived in Westminster, in a house with Adam ceilings, not +far from the Houses of Parliament. He was unmarried, and Malling found +him alone after dinner, writing busily in his crowded library. He had but +recently returned from Paris, whither he had traveled to take part in a +series of "sittings" with the famous medium, Mrs. Groeber. + +In person the professor was odd, without being specially striking. He +was of medium height, thin and sallow, with gray whiskers, thick gray +hair, bushy eyebrows, and small, pointed and inquiring features which +gave him rather the aspect of a prying bird. His eyes were little and +sparkling. His mouth, strangely enough, was ecclesiastical. He nearly +always wore very light-colored clothes. Even in winter he was often +to be seen clad in yellow-gray tweeds, a yellow silk necktie, and a +fawn-colored Homburg hat. And no human being had ever encountered him +in a pair of boots unprotected by spats. One peculiarity of his was that +he did not possess a walking-stick, another that he had never--so at +least he declared--owned a pocket-handkerchief, having had no occasion +to use one at any moment of his long and varied life. When it rained he +sometimes carried an umbrella, generally shut. At other times he moved +briskly along with his arms swinging at his sides. + +As Malling came in he looked up and nodded. + +"Putting down all about Mrs. Groeber," he observed. + +"Anything new or interesting?" asked Malling. + +"Just the usual manifestations, done in full light, though." + +He laid aside his pen, while Malling sat down. + +"A letter from Flammarion this morning," he said. "But all about Halley's +comet, of course. What is it?" + +Now the professor's "What is it?" was not general, but particular, and +was at once understood to be so by Malling. It did not mean "Why have you +come?" but "Why are you obsessed at this moment, and by what?" + +"Let's have the mystery," he added, leaning his elbows on his just dried +manuscript, and resting his sharp little chin on his doubled fists. + +Yet Malling had hinted at no mystery, and had come without saying he was +coming. + +"You know a clergyman called Marcus Harding?" said Malling. + +"Of St. Joseph's. To be sure, I do." + +"Do you know also his senior curate, Henry Chichester?" + +"No." + +"Have you heard of him?" + +"Oh dear, yes. And I fancy I've seen him at a distance." + +"You heard of him from Harding, I suppose." + +"Exactly, and Harding's wife." + +"Oh, from Lady Sophia!" + +"Who hates him." + +"Since when?" said Malling, emphatically. + +"I couldn't say. But I was only aware of the fact about a month ago." + +"Have you any reason to suppose that Harding has been making any +experiments?" + +"In church music, biblical criticism, or what?" + +"Say in psychical research?" + +"No." + +"Or that Chichester has?" + +"No." + +"Hasn't Harding ever talked to you on the subject?" + +"He has tried to," said the professor, rather grimly. + +"And you didn't encourage him?" + +"When do I encourage clergymen to talk about psychical research?" + +Malling could not help smiling. + +"I have some reason--at least I believe so--to suppose that Harding and +his curate Chichester have been making some experiments in directions +not entirely unknown to us," he observed. "And what is more"--he +paused--"what is more," he continued, "I am inclined to think that +those experiments may have been crowned with a success they little +understand." + +Down went the professor's fists, his head was poked forward in Malling's +direction, and his small eyes glittered almost like those of a glutton +who sees a feast spread before him. + +"The experiments of two clergymen in psychical research crowned with +success!" he barked out. + +"If so, I shall see what I can do in the pulpit--the Abbey pulpit!" + +He got up, and walking slightly sidewise, with his hands hanging, and his +fingers opening and shutting, went over to a chair close to Malling's. + +"Get on!" he said. + +"I'm going to. I want your advice." + +When Malling had finished what he had to say, the professor, who had +interrupted him two or three times to ask pertinent questions, put his +hands on his knees and thrust his head forward. + +"You said you wanted advice," he said. "What about?" + +"I wish you to advise me how I had better proceed." + +"You really think the matter important?" asked the professor. + +Malling looked slightly disconcerted. + +"You don't?" he said. + +"You are deducing a great deal from not very much. That's certain," +observed the professor. + +"You never knew Chichester," retorted Malling. "I did--two years ago." + +"Suppose you are right, suppose these two reverend gentlemen have done +something such as you suppose--and that there has been a result, a +curious result, what have we to do with it? Tell me that." + +"You mean that I have no right to endeavor to make a secret investigation +into the matter. But I'm positive both the men want help from me. I don't +say either of them will ask it. But I'm certain both of them want it." + +"Two clergymen!" said the professor. "Two clergymen! That's the best of +it--if there is an it, which there may not be." + +"Harding spoke very warmly of you." + +"Good-believing man! Now, I do wonder what he's been up to. I do +wonder. Perhaps he'd have told me but for my confounded habit of +sarcasm, my way of repelling the amateur--repelling!" His arms flew out. +"There's so much silliness beyond all bearing, credulity beyond all the +patience of science. Table-turning women, feminine men! 'The spirits +guide me, Professor, in every smallest action of my life!'--Wuff!--the +charlatan battens and breeds. And the bile rises in one till Carlyle on +his worst day might have hailed one as a brother bilious, and so +denunciatory--Jeremiah nervously dyspeptic! And when you opened your +envelop and drew out a couple of clergymen, really, really! But perhaps +I was in a hurry! Clergymen in a serious fix, too, because of unexpected +and not understood success! And I talk of repelling the _amateur_!" + +Suddenly he paused and, with his bushy eyebrows twitching, looked +steadily at Malling. + +"I leave it to you," he said. "Take your own line. But don't forget that, +if there's anything in it, development will take place in the link. The +link will be a center of combat. The link will be an interesting field +for study." + +"The link?" said Malling, interrogatively. + +"Goodness gracious me! Her ladyship! Her ladyship!" cried out the +professor. "What are you about, Malling?" + +And he refused to say another word on the matter till Malling, after much +more conversation on other topics, got up to go. Then, accompanying him +to the front door, the professor said: + +"You know _I_ think it's probably all great nonsense." + +"What?" + +"Your two black-coated friends. You bustle along at such a pace. +Remember, I have made more experiments than you have, and I have never +come upon an exactly similar case. I don't know whether such a thing +can be. No more do you--you've guessed. Now, guessing is not at all +scientific. At the same time you've proved you can be patient. If there +is anything in this it's profoundly interesting, of course." + +"Then you advise me--?" + +"If in doubt, study Lady Sophia. Good night." + +As Malling went away into the darkness he heard the professor snapping +out to himself, as he stood before his house bareheaded: + +"Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings! _Très bien!_ But--reverend +gentlemen of St. Joseph's! I shall have to look for telergic power in my +acquaintance Randall Cantuar, when I want it! By Jove!" + +"If in doubt, study Lady Sophia." As Malling thought over these +parting words, he realized their wisdom and wondered at his own +short-sightedness. + +He had sent his cards to Onslow Gardens after the luncheon with the +Hardings. He wished now he had called and asked for Lady Sophia. But +doubtless he would have an opportunity of being with her again. If she +did not offer him one, he would make one for himself. + +He longed to see her with Henry Chichester. + +During the days that elapsed before "Hornton Street, Wednesday" he +considered a certain matter with sedulous care. His interview with +Stepton had not been fruitless. Stepton always made an effect on his +mind. Casual and jerky though his manner was, obstinate as were his +silences at certain moments, fragmentary as was his speech, he had a +way of darting at the essential that set him apart from most men. Malling +remembered a horrible thing he had once seen in the Sahara, a running +gazelle killed by a falcon. The falcon, rising high in the blue air, +had followed the gazelle, had circled, poised, then shot down and, with +miraculous skill, struck into the gazelle's eye. Unerringly from above +it had chosen out of the vast desert the home for its cruel beak. +Somewhat in similar fashion, so Malling thought, Stepton rose above +things, circled, poised, sank, and struck into the heart of the truth +unerringly. + +Perhaps he was able to do this because he was able to mount, falconwise! + +Malling would have given a good deal to have Stepton with him in this +affair, despite the professor's repellent attitude toward the amateur. +Well, if there really was anything in it, if strangeness rose out of the +orthodox bosom of St. Joseph's, if he--Malling--found himself walking in +thick darkness, he meant to bring Stepton into the matter, whether at +Stepton's desire or against it. Meanwhile he would see if there was +enlightenment in Hornton Street. + +On the Wednesday the spell of fine weather which had made London look +strangely vivacious broke up, and in the evening rain fell with a gentle +persistence. Blank grayness took the town. A breath as of deep autumn was +in the air. And the strange sadness of cities, which is like no other +sadness, held the spirit of Evelyn Malling as he walked under an umbrella +in the direction of Kensington High Street. He walked, to shake off +depression. But in his effort he did not succeed. All that he saw +deepened his melancholy; the soldiers starting out vaguely from barracks, +not knowing what to do, but free for a time, and hoping, a little +heavily, for some adventure to break the military monotony of their +lives; the shopgirls, also in hope of something to "take them out of +themselves"--pathetic desire of escape from the little prison, where the +soul sits, picking its oakum sometimes, in its cell of flesh!--young +men making for the parks, workmen for the public houses, an old woman, +in a cap, peering out of an upper window in Prince's Gate; Italians with +an organ, and a monkey that looked as if it were dying of nostalgia; +women hurrying--whither?--with anxious faces, and bodies whose very +shapes, and whose every movement, suggested, rather proclaimed, worry. + +Malling knew it was the rain, the possessive grayness, which troubled his +body to-night, and through his body troubled his spirit. His nostrils +inhaled the damp, and it seemed to go straight into his essence, into the +mystery that was he. His eyes saw no more blue, and it was as if they +drew a black shutter over all the blue in his heart, blotting it out. +People became doomed phantoms, because the weather had changed and +because London knows how to play Cassandra to the spirit of many a man. +To Malling, as he presently turned to the right, Hornton Street looked +like an alley leading straight to the pit of despair, and when he tapped +on the blistered green door of the small house where the curate lived, it +was as if he tapped seeking admittance to all the sorrowful things that +had been brought into being to beset his life with blackness. + +A neat servant-girl opened the door. There was a smell of roast mutton in +the passage. So far well. Malling took off his hat and coat, hung them up +on a hook indicated by the plump red hand of the maid, and then followed +her upstairs. The curate was in possession of the first floor. + +Malling knew that it would be a case of folding-doors and perhaps of +curtains of imitation lace. It was a case of folding-doors. But there +was a dull green hue on the walls that surely bespoke Henry Chichester's +personal taste. There were bookcases, there were mezzotints, there were +engravings of well-known pictures, and there were armchairs not covered +with horsehair. There was also a cottage piano, severely nude. In the +center of the room stood a small square table covered with a cloth and +laid for two persons. + +"I'll tell Mr. Chichester, sir." + +The maid went out. From behind the folding-doors came to Malling's ears +the sound of splashing water, then a voice saying, certainly to the maid, +"Thank you, Ellen, I will come." And in three minutes Chichester was in +the room, apologizing. + +"I was kept late in the parish. There's a good deal to do." + +"You're not overworked?" asked Malling. + +"Do I look so?" said Chichester, quickly. + +He turned round and gazed at himself in an oval Venetian mirror which +was fixed to the wall just behind him. His manner for a moment was oddly +absorbed as he examined his face. + +"London life tells on one, I suppose," he said, again turning. "We +change, of course, in appearance as we go on." + +His blue eyes seemed to be seeking something in Malling's impenetrable +face. + +"Do you think," he said, "I am much altered since we used to meet two +years ago? It would of course be natural enough if I were." + +Malling looked at him for a minute steadily. + +"In appearance, you mean?" + +"Of course." + +"To-night it seems to me that you have altered a good deal." + +"To-night?" said the curate, as if with anxiety. + +"If there is any change,--and I think there is,--it seems to me more +apparent to-night than it was when I saw you the other day." + +Ellen, the maid, entered the room bearing a tray on which was a +soup-tureen. + +"Oh, dinner!" said Chichester. "Let us sit down. You won't mind simple +fare, I hope. We are having soup, mutton,--I am not sure what else." + +"Stewed fruit, sir," interpolated Ellen. + +"To be sure! Stewed fruit and custard. Open the claret, Ellen, please." + +"Have you been in these rooms long?" asked Malling, as they unfolded +their napkins. + +"Two years. All the time I have been at St. Joseph's. The rector told me +of them. The curate who preceded me had occupied them." + +"What became of him?" + +"He has a living in Northampton now. But when he left he had nothing in +view." + +"He was tired of work at St. Joseph's?" + +"I don't think he got on with the rector." + +The drip of the rain became audible outside, and a faint sound of +footsteps on the pavement. + +"Possibly I shall not stay much longer," he added. + +"No doubt you'll take a living." + +"I don't know. I don't know. But, in any case, I may not stay much +longer--perhaps. That will do, Ellen; you may go and fetch the mutton. +Put the claret on the table, please." + +When the maid was gone, he added: + +"One doesn't want a servant in the room listening to all one says. As +she was standing behind me I had forgotten she was here. How it rains +to-night! I hate the sound of rain." + +"It is dismal," said Malling, thinking of his depression while he had +walked to Hornton Street. + +"Do you mind," said the curate, slightly lowering his voice, "if I speak +rather--rather confidentially to you?" + +"Not at all, if you wish to--" + +"Well, now, you are a man of the world, you've seen many people. I wish +you would tell me something." + +"What is it?" + +Ellen appeared with the mutton. As soon as she had put it on the table +and departed, Chichester continued: + +"How does Mr. Harding strike you? What impression does he make upon you?" + +Eagerness, even more, something that was surely anxiety, shone in his +eyes as he asked the question. + +"He's a very agreeable man." + +"Of course, of course! Would you say he was a man to have much power over +others, his fellow-men?" + +"Speaking quite confidentially--" + +"Nothing you say shall ever go beyond us two." + +"Then--I don't know that I should." + +"He doesn't strike you as a man of power?" + +"In the pulpit?" + +"And out of it--especially out of it?" + +"He may have been. But--perhaps he has lost in power. Dispersion, you +know, does not make for strength." + +Suddenly the curate became very pale. + +"Dispersion--you say!" he almost stammered. + +As if to cover some emotion, he looked at Malling's plate, and added: + +"Have some more? You won't? Then--" + +He got up and rang the bell. Ellen reappeared, cleared away, and put the +stewed fruit and custard on the table. + +"Bring the coffee in ten minutes, Ellen. I won't ring." + +"Very well, sir." + +"Dispersion," said Chichester to Malling in a firmer voice, as Ellen +disappeared. + +"Concentration makes for strength. Mr. Harding seems to me mentally--what +shall I say?--rather torn in pieces, as if preyed upon by some anxiety. +Now, if you'll allow me to be personal, I should say that you have +greatly gained in strength and power since I knew you two years ago." + +"You--you observe a difference?" asked Chichester, apparently in great +perturbation. + +"A striking difference." + +"And--and would you say I looked a happier, as well as a--a stronger +man?" + +"I couldn't with truth say that." + +"Very few of us are happy," said Chichester, with trembling lips. "Poor +miserable sinners as we are! And we clergymen, who set up to direct +others--" he broke off. + +He seemed greatly, strangely, moved. + +"You must forgive me. I have had a very hard day's work!" he murmured. +"The coffee will do me good. Let us sit in the armchairs, and Ellen can +clear away. I wish I had two sitting-rooms." + +He rang to make Ellen hurry. Till she came Malling talked about Italian +pictures and looked at the curate's books. When she had cleared away, +left the coffee, and finally departed, he sat down with an air of +satisfaction. Chichester did not smoke, but begged Malling to light +up, and gave him a cigar. + +"Coffee always does one good," he said. "It acts directly on the heart, +and seems to strengthen the whole body. I have had a trying day." + +"You look tired," said Malling. + +The fact was that Chichester had never recovered the color he had so +suddenly lost when they were discussing Mr. Harding. + +"It's no wonder if I do," rejoined Chichester, in a voice that sounded +hopeless. + +He drank some coffee, seemed to make a strong effort to recover himself, +and, with more energy, said: + +"I asked you here because I wanted to renew a pleasant acquaintanceship, +but also--you won't think me discourteous, I know--because--well, I had +a purpose in begging you to come." + +"Won't you tell me what it is?" + +The curate shifted in his armchair, clasped and unclasped his hands. +A mental struggle was evidently going on within him. Indeed, during +the whole evening Malling had received from him a strong impression of +combat, of confusion. + +"I wanted to continue the discussion we began at Mr. Harding's the other +day. You remember, I asked you not to tell him you were coming?" + +"Yes." + +"I think it's best to keep certain matters private. People so easily +misunderstand one. And the rector has rather a jealous nature." + +Malling looked at his companion without speaking. At this moment he +was so strongly interested that he simply forgot to speak. Never, even +at a successful sitting when, the possibility of trickery having been +eliminated, a hitherto hidden truth seemed about to lift a torch in the +darkness and to illumine an unknown world, had he been more absorbed by +the matter in hand. Chichester did not seem to be struck by his silence, +and continued: + +"And then not every one is fitted to comprehend properly certain matters, +to see things in their true light. Now the other day you said a thing +that greatly impressed me, that I have never been able to get out of my +mind since. You said, 'Harm can never come from truth.' I have been +thinking about those words of yours, night and day, night and day. Tell +me--did you mean them?" + +The question came from Chichester's lips with such force that Malling was +almost startled. + +"Certainly I meant them," he answered. + +"And if truth slays?" + +"And is death the worst thing that can happen to a man, or to an +idea--some wretched fallacy, perhaps, that has governed the minds of +men, some gross superstition, some lie that darkens counsel?" + +"You think if a man lives by a lie he is better dead?" + +"Don't you think so?" + +"But don't we all need a crutch to help us along on the path of life?" + +"What! You, a clergyman, think that it is good to bolster up truth with +lies?" said Malling, with genuine scorn. + +"I didn't say that." + +"You implied it, I think." + +"Perhaps if you had worked among men and women as much as I have you +would know how much they need. If you went abroad, say to Italy, and saw +how the poor, ignorant people live happily oftentimes by their blind +belief in the efficacy of the saints, would you wish to tear it from +them?" + +"I think we should live by the truth, and I would gladly strike away a +lie from any human being who was using it as a crutch." + +"_I_ thought that once," said Chichester. + +The words were ordinary enough, but there was something either in the +way they were said, or in Chichester's face as he said them, that made +Malling turn cold. + +To cover his unusual emotion, which he was ashamed of, and which he +greatly desired to hide from his companion, he blew out a puff of cigar +smoke, lifted his cup, and drank the rest of his coffee. + +"May I have another cup?" he said. "It's excellent." + +The coffee-pot was on the table. Chichester poured out some more. + +"I will have another cup, too," he said. "How it wakes up the mind." + +He glanced at Mailing and added: + +"Almost terribly sometimes." + +"Yes. But--going back to our subject--don't you still think that men +should live by the truth?" + +"I think," began Chichester--"I think--" + +It seemed as if something physical prevented him from continuing. He +swallowed, as if forcing something down his throat. + +"I think," he got out at last, "that few men know how terrible the face +of truth can be." + +His own countenance was contorted as he spoke, as if he were regarding +something frightful. + +"I think"--he turned right round in his chair to confront Malling +squarely--"that _you_ do not know." + +For the first time he completely dominated Malling, Chichester the +gentle, cherubic clergyman, whom Malling had thought of as good, but +weak, and certainly as a negligible quantity. He dominated, because at +that moment he made Malling feel as if he had some great possession of +knowledge which Malling lacked. + +"And you?" said Malling. "Do you know?" + +The curate's lips worked, but he made no answer. + +Malling was aware of a great struggle in his mind, as of a combat in +which two forces were engaged. He got up, walked to the window, and +stood as if listening to the rain. + +"If only Stepton were here!" thought Malling. + +There was a truth hidden from him, perhaps partly divined, obscurely half +seen, but not thoroughly understood, as a whole invisible. Stepton would +be the man to elucidate it, Malling thought. It lured him on, and baffled +him. + +"How it rains!" said the curate at last, without turning. + +He bent down and opened the small window. The uneasy, almost sinister +noise of rain in darkness entered the room, with the soft smell of +moisture. + +"Do you mind if we have a little air?" he added. + +"I should like it," said Malling. + +Chichester came back and sat down again opposite Malling. His +expression had now quite changed. He looked calmer, gentler, weaker, +and much more uninteresting. Crossing his legs, and folding his thin +hands on his knees, he began to talk in his light tenor voice. And +he kept the conversation going on church music, sacred art in Italy, +and other eminently safe and respectable topics till it was time for +Malling to go. + +Only when he was letting his guest out into the night did he seem +troubled once more. He clasped Malling's hand in his, as if almost +unaware that he was doing so, and said with some hesitation: + +"Are you--are you going to see the rector again?" + +"Not that I know of," said Malling, speaking the strict truth, and +virtually telling a lie at the same time. + +For he was determined, if possible, to see Mr. Harding, and that before +very long. + +"If I may say so," Chichester said, shifting from one foot to another and +looking down at the rain-sodden pavement, "I wouldn't see him." + +"May I ask you why?" + +"You may get a wrong impression. Two years ago he was another man. +Strangers, of course, may not know it, not realize it. But we who have +lived with him do know it. Mr. Harding is going down the hill." + +There was a note of deep sadness in his voice. Had he been speaking of +himself, of his own decadence, his tone could scarcely have been more +melancholy. + +And for long Malling remembered the look in his eyes as he drew back to +shut his door. + +In the rain Malling walked home as he had come. But now it was deep in +the night and his depression had deepened. He was a self-reliant man, and +not easily felt himself small, though he was not conceited. To-night he +felt diminished. The worm-sensation overcame him. That such a man as +Chichester should have been able to convey to him such a sensation was +strange, yet it was from Chichester that this mental chastisement had +come. For a moment Chichester had towered, and at that moment Malling +surely had dwindled, shrunk together, like a sheet of paper exposed to +the heat of a flame. + +But that Chichester should have had such an effect on him--Malling! + +If Mr. Harding was going down the hill, Chichester surely was not. He had +changed drastically since Malling had known him two years ago. In power, +in force, he had gained. He now conveyed the impression of a man capable, +if he chose, of imposing himself on others. Formerly he had been the wax +that receives the impress. But whereas formerly he had been a contented +man, obviously at peace with himself and with the world, now he was +haunted by some great anxiety, by some strange grief, or perhaps even by +some fear. + +"Few men know how terrible the face of the truth can be." + +Chichester had said that. + +Was he one of the few men? + +And was that why now, as Malling walked home in the darkness and rain, he +felt himself humbled, diminished? + +For Malling loved knowledge and thought men should live by it. Had truth +a Medusa face, still would he have desired to look into it once, would +have been ready to endure a subsequent turning to stone. + +That Chichester should perhaps have seen what he had not seen--that +troubled him, even humbled him. + +Some words of Professor Stepton came back to his mind: "If there's +anything in it, development will take place in the link." And those last +words: "If in doubt, study Lady Sophia." + +Mailing was in doubt. Why not follow Stepton's advice? Why not study Lady +Sophia? + +He resolved to do it. And with the resolve came to him a sense of greater +well-being. The worm-sensation departed from him. He lifted his head and +walked more briskly. + + + + +V + + +On the night following the dinner in Hornton Street, Malling went to the +Covent Garden Opera House to hear "La Traviata." The well-worn work did +not grasp the attention of a man who was genuinely fond of the music of +Richard Strauss, with its almost miraculous intricacies, and who was +willingly captive to Debussy. He looked about the house from his stall, +and very soon caught sight of Lady Mansford, Lady Sophia's sister-in-law, +in a box on the Grand Tier. Malling knew Lady Mansford. He resolved to +pay her a visit, and as soon as the curtain was down, and Tetrazzini had +tripped before it, smiling not unlike a good-natured child, he made his +way upstairs, and asked the attendant to tap at a door on which was +printed, "The Earl of Mansford." The man did so, and opened the door, +showing a domestic scene highly creditable to the much maligned British +aristocracy--Lord Mansford seated alone with his wife, in evidently +amicable conversation. + +After a few polite words he made Malling sit down beside her, and, saying +he would have a cigarette in the foyer, he left them together. + +Lady Mansford was a pretty, dark woman, of the slightly irresponsible +and little-bird type. She willingly turned her charmingly dressed head +and chirped when noticed, and she was generally noticed because of her +beauty. Now she chirped of Ceylon, where Malling had been, and then, more +vivaciously, of Parisian milliners, where she had been. From these allied +subjects Malling led her on to a slightly different topic--religion. + +"I went to St. Joseph's last Sunday week," he presently said. + +"St. who--what?" said Lady Mansford, who was busy with her +opera-glasses, and had just noticed that Lady Sindon, a bird-like +rival of hers, had changed the color of her hair, fortunately to +her--Lady Sindon's--disadvantage. + +"To St. Joseph's, to hear your brother-in-law preach." + +"It doesn't do at all," murmured Lady Mansford. "It makes her look +Chinese." + +"You said--?" + +"Mollie Sindon. But what were you talking about? Do tell me." She laid +down her glasses. + +"I was saying that I went to church last Sunday week." + +"Why?" + +"To hear your brother-in-law preach at St. Joseph's." + +"Marcus!" exclaimed Lady Mansford. + +She pursed her lips. + +"I don't go to St. Joseph's. Poor Sophy! I'm sorry for her." + +"I lunched with Lady Sophia after the service." + +"Did you? Isn't it sad?" + +"Sad! I don't quite understand?" said Malling, interrogatively. + +"The change in him. Of course people say it's drink. Such nonsense! But +they must say something, mustn't they?" + +"Is Mr. Harding so very much changed?" + +"Do you mean to say you didn't notice it?" + +"I never met him till within the last fortnight." + +"He's transformed--simply. He might have risen to anything, with his +energy, his ambition, and his connections. And now! But the worst of it +is no one can make out why it is. Even Sophia and Isinglass--my husband, +you know!--haven't an idea. And it gets worse every day. Last Sunday I +hear his sermon was too awful, a mere muddle of adjectives, such as one +hears in Hyde Park, I believe. I never liked Marcus particularly. I +always thought him too autocratic, too determined to dominate. He had +that poor little Mr. Chichester--his curate--completely under his thumb. +Mr. Chichester couldn't call his soul his own. He worshiped Marcus. But +now they say even he is beginning to think that his god is of clay. What +can it be? Do you think Marcus is losing his mind?" + +"Oh, I should hope not," returned Malling, vaguely. "Has it been going on +long?" + +"Oh, for quite a time. But it all seemed to come on gradually--as things +_do_, you know! Poor Sophy has always adored him, and given way to him in +everything. In her eyes all that he does is right. She never says a word, +I believe, but she must be suffering the tortures of--_you_ know! There's +Winnie Rufford coming in! How astonishingly young she looks. Were you at +the Huntingham's ball? Well--" + +Lady Mansford twittered no more about the Harding menage. But Malling +felt that his visit had not been fruitless. + +After the opera he went to a party in Grosvenor Street where again he +managed to produce talk of the Hardings. It seemed that Lady Mansford +had not exaggerated very much. Among those who knew the Hardings a change +in the rector of St. Joseph's had evidently been generally noticed. +Malling took in to supper a Mrs. Armitage, a great friend of Lady +Sophia's, and she made no secret of the fact that Lady Sophia was greatly +distressed. + +"I thought she would have been here to-night," Mrs. Armitage said. "But +she isn't. I suppose she felt she couldn't face it. So many of his +congregation are here, or so many who were in his congregation." + +"The church was crammed to the doors last Sunday week when he preached," +observed Malling. + +"Was it? Curiosity, I suppose. It certainly can't have been the +intellectual merit of the sermon. I heard it was quite deplorable. But +last Sunday's, I was told, was worse still. No continuity at all, and +the church not full. People say the curate, Mr. Chichester, who often +preaches in the evening, is making a great effect, completely cutting out +his rector. And he used to be almost unbearably dull." + +"Will you have a quail?" + +"Please. You might give me two. My doctor says if I sit up late--thank +you!" + +"I've never heard Mr. Chichester preach," said Malling. + +"He seems to have come on marvelously, to be quite another man." + +"Quite another man, does he?" + +"Yes. It's very trying for the Hardings naturally. If it continues I +think there will have to be a change. I don't think things can go on as +they are. My friend Sophia won't be able to stand it." + +"You mean--the contrast?" + +"Between her husband and Mr. Chichester. She's very highly strung and +quite worships her husband; though, between you and me, _I_ think rather +in the slave spirit. But some women are like that. They can't admire a +man unless he beats them. Not that Mr. Harding ever dreamed of doing such +a thing to Sophia, of course. But his will had to be law in everything. +You know the type of man! It's scarcely my idea of what a clergyman +should be. I think a man who professes to direct the souls of others +should be more gentle and unselfish, especially to his wife. Another +quail? Well, really, I think perhaps I will. They are so absurdly small +this season, aren't they? There's scarcely anything on them." + +So that minute fraction of the world that knew of the existence of the +Hardings began to utter itself concerning them, and Malling was fortified +in his original belief which he had expressed to Professor Stepton. + +Among his many experiments made in connection with psychical research +those which had interested him the most had been those in which the +mystery of the human will had seemed to be deeply involved. Malling was +essentially a psychologist. And man was to him the great mystery, because +man contained surely something that belonged to, that was lent to, man, +as it were, by another, the mind beyond, the _anima mundi_. When Malling +drew mentally, or spiritually, very near to any man, however rude, +however humble, he always had the feeling that he was approaching holy +ground. Hidden beneath his generally imperturbable exterior, sunk beneath +the surface incredulity of his mind, there was the deep sense of mighty +truths waiting the appointed day of proclamation. Surely, he often +thought, if there is God in anything, in the last rays of the sunset, +in the silence of night upon the sea, in the waking of spring among the +forests and the gardens, in the song of the nightingale which knows +not lovers are listening, there is God in the will of man. + +And when he made investigations into the action of will upon will, or +of will--as it seemed--upon matter, he was held, as he was not held by +the appearance of so-called spirit faces and spirit forms, even when +he could not connect these with trickery which he knew how to expose. +Perhaps, however, his incredulity in regard to these latter phenomena was +incurable, though he did not know it. For he knew nearly all the devices +of the charlatans. And when the so-called spirits came, the medium was +always entranced, that is, apparently will-less, and so to Malling not +interesting. + +Now, from what Harding and Chichester had said to him, and from what +he had observed for himself, Malling believed that the two clergymen +must have had sittings together, probably with the usual tremendous +object of the ignorant amateur, that merely of communicating with the +other world. Considering who the two men were, Malling believed that in +all probability they had sat alone and in secret. He also felt little +doubt that from Mr. Harding's brain had come the suggestion of these +practices, that his will had led Chichester on to them. Although he +had not known the rector two years ago, he had gathered sufficient +testimony to the fact that he had been a man of powerful, even perhaps +of tyrannical, temperament, formed rather to rule than to be ruled. He +knew that Chichester, on the contrary, had been gentle, kindly, yielding, +and of somewhat weak, though of very amiable, nature. The physique of the +two men accorded with these former temperaments. Harding's commanding +height, large frame, big, powerful face and head, rather hard gray eyes, +even his large white teeth, his bony, determined hands, his firmly +treading feet, suggested force, a dominating will, the capacity, and +the intention, to rule. Henry Chichester's fleshly envelop, on the other +hand, cherubic, fair, and delicate, his blue eyes, small bones, the shape +of forehead and chin, the line of the lips, hinted at--surely more than +that, surely stated mildly--the existence within it of a nature retiring, +meek, and ready to be ruled by others. No wonder if Chichester had been, +as Lady Mansford had said, completely under the rector's thumb, no wonder +if he had been unable to "call his soul his own" and had "worshiped +Marcus." + +Yes, if there had been these secret sittings by these two men, it was +Harding who had persuaded Chichester to take part in them. And what had +these sittings led to, what had been their result? + +The ignorant outsider, the hastily skeptical, of course would say that +there could have been no result. Malling, knowing more, knew better. He +had seen strange cases of temporary confusion of a man's will brought +about by sittings, of what had seemed temporary change even of a man's +nature. When a hitherto sane man goes mad he often becomes the opposite +of what he was. Those whom he formerly loved he specially singles out +for hatred. That which he delighted to do he shrinks from with horror. +Once good-natured, he is now of an evil temper, once gentle, he is +fiercely obstinate, once gay, he cowers and weeps. So Malling had known +a man, while retaining his sanity, to be transformed by the apparently +trivial fact of sitting at a table with a friend, and placing his hands +upon it with the hands of another man. He himself had sat with an Oxford +friend,--who in later sittings became entranced,--and at the very first +experiment this man had said to him, "It's so strange, now that I am +sitting with you like this I feel filled with hatred toward you." This +hatred, which had come upon this man at every successive sitting, had +always faded away when the sitting was over. But was it certain that the +feelings generated in sittings never persisted after they were broken +up? Was it certain that in every case the waters that had been +mysteriously troubled settled into their former stillness? + +Harding and Chichester, for instance! Had the strong man troubled the +waters of the weaker man's soul, and were those waters still agitated? +That was perhaps possible. But Malling thought it was possible also, and +he had suggested this to Professor Stepton, that the weaker man had +infused some of his weakness, his self-doubtings, his readiness to be +affected by the opinion of others, into his dominating companion. Malling +believed it possible that the wills of the two clergymen, in some +mysterious and inexplicable way, had mingled during their sittings, and +that they had never become completely disentangled. If this were so, the +result was a different Harding from the former Harding, and a different +Henry Chichester from the former Henry Chichester. + +What puzzled Malling, however, was the fact, if fact it were, that the +difference in each man was not diminishing, but increasing. + +Could they be continuing the sittings, if there had ever been sittings? +All was surmise. As the professor had said, he, Malling, was perhaps +deducing a good deal from very little. And yet was he? His instinct told +him he was not. Yet there might no doubt be some ordinary cause for the +change in Mr. Harding. Some vice, such as love of drink, or morphia, +something that disintegrates a man, might have laid its claw upon him. +That was possible. What seemed to Malling much more unaccountable was the +extraordinary change in the direction of strength in Chichester. And the +relations between the two men, if indeed the curate had once worshiped +his rector, were mysteriously transformed. For now, was it not almost as +if something of Harding in Chichester watched, criticized, Chichester in +Harding? + +But now--to study Lady Sophia! For if there was really anything in +Malling's curious supposition, the woman must certainly be strangely +affected. He remembered the expression in her eyes when her husband +was preaching, her manner when she spoke of the curate as one of her +husband's swans. + +And he longed to see her again. She had said that she hoped he would come +again to St. Joseph's and to her house, but he knew well that any such +desire in her had arisen from her wounded pride in her husband. She +wished Malling to know what the rector could really do. When she thought +that the rector had recovered his former powers, his hold upon the minds +of men, then she would invite Malling to return to St. Joseph's, but not +before. + +And when would that moment come? + +It might not come for weeks, for months. It might never come. Malling did +not mean to await it. Nevertheless he did not want to do anything likely +to surprise Lady Sophia, to lead her to think that he had any special +object in view in furthering his acquaintance with her. + +While he was casting about in his mind what course to take, chance +favored him. + +Four days later, when he was strolling round the rooms in Burlington +House, he saw not far in front of him the tall and restless figure of +a woman. She was alone. For some time Malling did not recognize her. +She did not turn sufficiently for him to see her face, and her almost +feverish movements, though they attracted and fixed his attention, did +not strike him as familiar. His thought of her, as he slowly followed +in the direction she was taking, was, "What a difficult woman that would +be to live with!" For the hands were never still; the gait was uneasy; +nervousness, almost a sort of pitiful irritation, seemed expressed by her +every movement. + +In the big room this woman paused before the picture of the year, which +happened to be a very bad one, and Malling, coming up, at last recognized +her as Lady Sophia Harding. + +He took off his hat. She seemed startled, but greeted him pleasantly, and +entered into a discussion of the demerits which fascinate the crowd. + +"You prefer seeing pictures alone, perhaps?" said Malling, presently. + +"Indeed I don't," she answered. "I was coming to-day with my husband. We +drove up together. But at the last moment he thought he remembered +something,--some appointment with Mr. Chichester,--and left me." + +There were irony and bitterness in her voice. + +"He said he'd come back and meet me in the tea-room presently," she +added. + +"Shall we go there and wait for him?" asked Malling. + +"But I'm afraid I'm taking up your time." + +"I have no engagements this afternoon. I shall enjoy a quiet talk with +you." + +"It's very good of you." + +They descended, and sat down in a quiet corner. In the distance a few +respectable persons were slowly eating bath-buns with an air of fashion, +their duly marked catalogues laid beside them on marble. + +Far-off waiters, standing with their knees bent, conversed in +undertones. A sort of subterranean depression, peculiar to this +fastness of Burlington House, brooded over the china and the provisions. + +"It reminds me of the British Museum tearoom," said Lady Sophia. "Here is +tea! What a mercy! Modern pictures sap one's little strength." + +She looked haggard, and was obviously on the edge of her nerves. + +"Marcus might have come in," she added. "But of course he wouldn't--or +couldn't." + +"Doesn't he care for pictures?" + +She slightly shrugged her shoulders. + +"He used to. But I don't know that he does now." + +"I suppose he has a tremendous amount to do." + +"He used to do much more at Liverpool. If a man wishes to come to the +front he mustn't sit in an armchair with folded hands." + +There was a sharp sound of criticism in her voice which astonished +Malling. At the luncheon, only about a fortnight ago, she had shown +herself plainly as the adoring wife, anxious for her husband's success, +nervously hostile to any one who interfered with it, who stood between +him and the homage of his world. Now Malling noted, or thought he noted, +a change in her mental attitude. He was instantly on the alert. + +"I'm sure that's the last thing Mr. Harding would do," he said. + +She shot a glance at him out of her discontented dark eyes. + +"Are you?" she said. + +And sarcasm crept in the words. She gave to Malling at this moment the +impression of a woman so strung up as to be not her natural self, so +tormented by some feeling, perhaps long repressed, that her temperament +was almost furiously seeking an outlet, knowing instinctively, perhaps, +that only there lay its salvation. + +"His record proves it," said Malling, with serenely smiling assurance. + +Lady Sophia twisted her lips. The Academy tea was very strong. Perhaps +it had been standing. She drank a little, pulled at her long gloves +restlessly, and looked at Malling. He knew she was longing to confide +in somebody. If only he could induce her to confide in him! + +"Oh, my husband's been a very active man," she said. "Everybody knows +that. But in this modern world of ours one must not walk, or even +run along, one must keep on rushing along if one intends to reach the +goal." + +"And by that you mean--?" + +"Mean! The topmost height of your profession, or business, of whatever +career you are in." + +"You are ambitious," he said. + +"Not for myself," she answered quickly. "I have no ambition for myself." + +"But perhaps the ambition to spur on another successfully? That seems to +me the truest, the most legitimate ambition of the woman all men worship +in their hearts." + +Suddenly tears started into her eyes. She was sitting opposite Malling, +the tea-table between them. Now she leaned forward across it. By nature +she was very sensitive, but she was not a self-conscious, woman. She was +not self-conscious now. + +"It is much better to be selfish," she said earnestly. "That is where we +women make such a fatal mistake. Instead of trusting to ourselves, of +relying on ourselves, and of having a personal ambition, we seek always +another in whom we may trust; we are unhappy till we rely on another; it +is for another we cherish, we hug, ambition. And then, when all founders, +we realize too late what I dare say every man knows." + +"What is that?" + +"That we women are fools--fools!" + +"For being unselfish?" + +"For thinking we have power when we are impotent." + +She made a gesture that was surely one of despair. + +"No one--at any rate, no woman--has power for another," she added, with +almost terrible conviction. "That is all a legend, made up to please us, +I suppose. We draw a sword against darkness and think we are fighting. +Isn't it too absurd?" + +With the last words she changed her tone, trying to make it light, and +she smiled. + +"We take everything too seriously. That's the trouble!" she said. "And +men pretend we take nothing seriously." + +"Very often they don't understand." + +"Oh, please say never!" she exclaimed. "They never understand." + +Suddenly Malling resolved on a very bold stroke. + +"But I'm a man," he said, as if that obvious fact shattered her +contention. + +"What has that got to do with it?" she said, in obvious surprise. + +"Because I do not understand." + +For a moment she was silent. He thought he read what was passing through +her mind, as he knew he had read her character. She was one of those +women who must be proud of their men, who love to be ruled, but only +by a conqueror, who delight to sink themselves, but in power, not in +impotence. And now she was confronted by the shipwreck not merely of +her hopes, but also of her belief. She saw a hulk drifting at the mercy +of the waves that, perhaps, would soon engulf it. But she was not only +despairing, she was raging too. For she was a woman with nervous force +in her, and it is force that rages in the moments of despair, seeking, +perhaps unconsciously, some means of action and finding none. + +"Why should there not be some hope?" asked Malling, quietly. + +"To-morrow is Sunday. If you go to morning church at St. Joseph's, and +then to evening church, you will see if there is any hope." + +"To evening church?" + +"Yes, yes." + +She got up. + +"You are going?" + +"I must. Forgive me!" + +She held out her hand. + +"But--" + +"No, don't come with me, please." + +"If I go to St. Joseph's to-morrow, afterward may I see you again?" + +"If you think it's worth while." + +Her face twisted. Hastily she pulled down her veil, turned away and left +him. + + + + +VI + + +Malling went the next day to morning and evening service at St. Joseph's. +He was not invited to lunch in Onslow Gardens, and he did not see Lady +Sophia. On the whole, he was glad of this. He had enough to keep in his +mind that day. The matter in which he was interested seemed growing +before his eyes, like a thing coming out of the earth, but now beginning +to thrust itself up into regions where perhaps it would eventually be +hidden in darkness, with the great company of mysteries whose unraveling +is beyond the capacity of man. + +He had now, he felt sure, a clear comprehension of Lady Sophia. Their +short interview at Burlington House had been illuminating. She was a +typical example of the Adam's-rib woman; that is, of the woman who, +intensely, almost exaggeratedly feminine, can live in any fullness only +through another, and that other a man. Through Mr. Harding Lady Sophia +had hitherto lived, and had doubtless, in her view, triumphed. Obviously +a woman not free from a nervous vanity, and a woman of hungry ambition, +her vanity and ambition had been fed by his growing notoriety, his +increasing success and influence. The rib had thrilled with the body to +which it belonged. + +But that time of happy emotion, of admiration, of keen looking forward, +was the property of the past. Lawn sleeves, purple, perhaps,--for who +is more hopeful than this type of woman in the golden moments of +life?--perhaps even an archiepiscopal throne faded from before the eyes +they had gladdened--the eyes of faith in a man. + +And a different woman was beginning to appear--a woman who might be as +critical as she had formerly been admiring, a woman capable of becoming +embittered. + +On the Sunday of Malling's visit to Onslow Gardens, Mr. Harding's failure +in the pulpit had waked up in his wife eager sympathy and eager spite, +the one directed toward the man who had failed, the other toward the man +who, as Malling felt sure, had caused the failure. + +In Burlington House that woman, whom men with every reason adore, had +given place to another less favorable toward him who had been her hero. + +It seemed to Malling as if in the future a strange thing might happen, +almost as if it must happen: it seemed to him as if Chichester might +convey his view of his rector to his rector's wife. + +"Study the link," Stepton had said. "There will be development in the +link." + +Already the words had proved true. There had been a development in Lady +Sophia such as Malling had certainly not anticipated. Where would it end? +Again and again, as he listened to the morning and evening sermons, +Malling had asked himself that question; again and again he had recalled +his conversation at Burlington House with Lady Sophia. + +In the morning at St. Joseph's Mr. Harding had preached to a church +that was half filled; in the evening Henry Chichester had preached to a +church that was full to the doors. And each of the clergymen in turn had +listened to the other, but how differently! + +Mr. Harding had ascended to the pulpit with failure staring him in +the face, and whereas on the Sunday when Malling first heard him he +had obviously fought against the malign influence which eventually +had prevailed over him, this time he had not had the vigor to make a +struggle. Certainly he had not broken down. It might be said of him, +as it was once said of a nation, that he had "muddled through." He had +preached a very poor sermon in a very poor way, nervously, indeed, +almost timidly, and with the manner of a man who was cowed and hopeless. +The powerful optimism for which he had once been distinguished had +given way to an almost unhealthy pessimism, alien surely to the minds +of all believers, of all who profess to look forward to that life of +which, as Tolstoi long ago said, our present life is but a dream. Even +when he was uttering truths he spoke them as if he had an uneasy +suspicion that they were lies. At moments he seemed to be almost +pleading with his hearers to tolerate him, to "bear with him." Indeed, +several times during his disjointed remarks he made use of the latter +expression, promising that his discourse should be a short one. Very +carefully he included himself among those aware of sin, very humbly he +declared the unworthiness of any man to set himself up as a teacher and +leader of others. + +Now, humility is all very well, but if carried to excess, it suggests +something less than a man. Mr. Harding almost cringed before his +congregation. Malling did not feel that his humility was a pretense. +On the contrary, it struck him as abominably real, but so excessive as +to be not natural in any thorough man in a normal condition of mind and +of body. It was the sort of humility that creates in the unregenerate a +desire to offer a good kicking as a corrective. + +Very different was the effect created by Chichester's sermon in the +evening. Malling, aware though he had become of the great strengthening +of Chichester, was amazed when he heard him preach. + +Often it is said of a very fine preacher that he preached as one +inspired. Chichester preached as one who knew. Never before had Malling +been so impressed with the feeling that he was listening to truth, +absolute truth, as he was while he listened to Chichester. There was +something, though, that was almost deadly about it. It pierced like a +lancet. It seared like a red-hot iron. It humbled almost too much. +Here was no exaggerated humility, no pleading to be borne with, no +cringing, and no doubt. A man who knew was standing up, and, with a +sort of indifference to outside opinion that was almost frightening, +was saying some of the things he knew about men, women--and surely God! + +The subject was somewhat akin to that of the first sermon of Mr. Harding +which Malling had heard. The rector then had preached on self-knowledge. +The curate, now, preached on hypocrisy. Incidentally he destroyed his +rector's sermon, flung it away on the scrap-heap, and passed on. This was +not done viciously, but it was done relentlessly. Indeed, that was the +note of the whole sermon. It was relentless, as truth is relentless, as +death is relentless. And besides being terribly true, it was imaginative. +But the preacher almost succeeded in conveying the impression to his +congregation that what is generally called imagination is really vision, +that the true imagination is seeing what is, but is often hidden, knowing +what is, but is often unknown. The latter part of the sermon struck +Malling as very unusual, even as very daring. + +The preacher had spoken of the many varieties of hypocrisy. Finally he +drew a picture of a finished hypocrite. And the man lived as a man lives +in the pages of a great writer. One could walk round him, one knew him. +And then Chichester treated him as the writer treats his creation; he +proceeded to show his hypocrite in action. + +The man, happy, almost triumphant,--for he now often looked upon himself +with the eyes of others who knew him not,--was walking to his home on a +winter's evening along a country road, passing now and then rustics who +respectfully saluted him, neighbors who grasped his hand, children who +innocently smiled at him, women who whispered that he was a fine fellow, +the clergyman of his parish, who gave him God-speed upon his way as to +one who deserved that God should speed him because his way was right. +Snow was upon the ground. Such light as there was began to fade. It was +evident that the night, which was very still, was going to be very dark. +And the man stepped out briskly. Presently, at a lonely part of the road, +happening to look down, he saw footprints in the freshly fallen snow. +They were of feet that had recently passed on the way he was following. +They had attracted, they continued to attract, his attention, he knew not +why. And as he went on, his eyes were often upon them. + +Presently he began to wonder about the feet which had made the prints he +saw. Did they belong to a man or a woman? The prints were too large to +have been made by the feet of a child. He gazed at them searchingly, and +made up his mind that it was a man who had recently trodden this road. +And what sort of man was it that thus preceded him not very far away? He +became deeply engrossed with this question. His mind revolved about this +unknown traveler, floating forward in surmises, till, by chance, he +happened to set his right foot in one of the prints left in the snow. +His foot exactly filled it. This fact, he knew not why, startled him. +He stopped, bent down, examined the snow closely, measured very carefully +his feet with the prints before him, now rather faintly discerned in +the gathering darkness. The prints might have been made by his own feet. +Having ascertained this, and reflected for a moment, he went forward, now +assailed by a growing curiosity as to the personality and character of +the stranger. But perhaps he was not a stranger. He might surely well be +a neighbor, an acquaintance, perhaps even a friend. The man meant, if +possible, to come up with him, whoever he was, and he now hurried along +with the intention of joining the unknown whose footprints were the same +as his own. + +At this point in his sermon Chichester paused for a moment. And +Malling, who seldom felt any thrill at a séance, and who had often +remained calmly watchful and alert during manifestations which amazed +or terrified others, was aware of a feeling of cold, which seemed to +pass like a breath through his spirit. The congregation about him, +perhaps struck by the unusual form of the sermon, remained silent and +motionless, waiting. In his stall sat the rector with downcast eyes. +Malling could not at that moment discern his expression. His large +figure and important powerful head and face showed almost like those +of a carven effigy in the lowered light of the chancel. The choirboys +did not stir, and the small, fair man in the pulpit, raising his thin +hands, and resting them on the marble ledge, continued quietly, taking +up his sermon with a repetition of the last words uttered, "whose +footprints were the same as his own." + +Again the cold breath went through Malling's spirit. He leaned slightly +forward and gazed at Chichester. + +For some time the man thus went onward, following the footprints in +the snow, but not overtaking any one, and becoming momentarily more +eager to satisfy his curiosity. Then, on a sudden, he started, stopped, +and listened. It had now become very dark, and in this darkness, and +the great stillness of night, he heard the faint sound of a footfall +before him, brushing through the crisp snow, which lay lightly, and not +very deep, on the hard highroad leading to the village on the farther +outskirts of which his house was situated. He could not yet see any one, +but he felt sure that the person who made this faint sound was no other +than he in whose steps he had been treading. It would now be a matter of +only a minute or two to come up with him. And the man went on, but more +slowly, whether because he was now certain of attaining his object or +for some other reason. + +The sound of the footfall persisted, and was certainly not far off. The +prints in the snow were so fresh that they seemed not quite motionless, +as if the snow were only now settling after the pressure it had just +suffered. The man slackened his pace. He did not like the sound which +he heard. He began to feel as if he by whom it was made would not prove +a companion to his taste. Yet his curiosity continued. There began within +him a struggle between his curiosity and another sensation, which was +of repugnance, almost of fear. And so equal were the combatants that +the lights of the village were in sight, and he had not decreased the +distance between himself and the other. Seeing the lights, however, his +curiosity got the upper hand. He slightly quickened his pace, and almost +immediately beheld the shape of a man relieved against the night, and +treading onward through the snow. And as the sound of the footsteps had +been disagreeable to his nerves, so the contours of the moving blackness +repelled him. He did not like the look of this man whose footprints were +the same as his own, and he decided not to join him. But, moving rather +cautiously, he gained a little upon him, in order to make sure, if +possible, whether or not he was a neighbor or an acquaintance. + +The figure seemed somehow familiar to our man, indeed, oddly familiar. +Nevertheless, he was unable to identify it. As he followed it, more and +more certain did he become that he had seen it, that he knew it. And +yet--did he know it? Had he seen it? It was almost as if one part of him +denied while the other affirmed. He longed, yet feared, to see the face. +But the face never looked back. And so, one at a little distance behind +the other, they came into the village. + +Here a strange thing occurred. + +There were very few people about, but there were a few, and two or +three of them, meeting the person our man was following, greeted him +respectfully. But these same people, when immediately afterward they +encountered the other, who had known them for years, and whom they of +course knew, showed the greatest perturbation; one, a woman, even signs +of terror. They gave him no greeting, shrank from him as he passed, +and stared after him, as if bemused, when he was gone by. Their behavior +was almost incredible. But he was so set on what was before him that he +stopped to ask no questions. + +The village was a long one. Always one behind the other, walking at an +even pace, the two men traversed it, approaching at last the outskirts, +where, separated from the other habitations, and surrounded by a garden +in which the trees were laden with snow, stood the house of the man who +now watched and followed, with a growing wonder and curiosity, combined +with an ever-growing repugnance, him who made the footprints, who had +been saluted by the villagers, whose figure and general aspect seemed in +somewise familiar to him, and yet whom he could not recognize. Where +could this person be going? The man asked himself, and came to a resolve +not to follow on into the darkness of the open country, not to proceed +beyond his own home, of which now he saw the lights, but to make an +effort to see the face of the other before the garden gate was reached. + +In this attempt, however, he was destined to be frustrated. For as he +determinedly quickened his steps, so did the other, who gained the gate +of the garden, unlatched it, turned in, and walked on among the trees +going toward the principal door. + +A visitor, then! The man paused by his garden gate, whence he could see +his house front, with the light from the window of his own sitting-room +streaming over the porch. The stranger stood before it, made a movement +as if searching in his pocket, drew out his hand, lifted it. The door +opened at once. He disappeared within, and the door closed after him. + +He had opened the door with a key. + +The man at the gate felt overcome by a sensation almost of horror, +which he could not explain to himself. It was not that he was horrified +by the certainly extraordinary fact of some one possessing a key to his +house, and using it in this familiar fashion. It was not even that he +was horrified at seeing a man, perhaps a stranger, disappearing thus +into his home by night, uninvited, unexpected. What horrified him was +that this particular man, whose footprints he had followed and measured +with his foot, whose footfalls he had heard, whose form he had seen +outlined against the night, should be within his house, where his wife +and his children were, and where his venerable mother was sitting beside +the fire. That this man should be there! He knew now that from the first +moment when he had been aware of his existence he had hated him, that his +subconscious mind had hated him. + +But who was he? The natural thing would have been to follow quickly into +the house, to see who had entered, to demand an explanation. But he could +not do this. Why? He himself did not know why. But he knew that he dared +not do this. And he waited, expecting he knew not what; a cry, a summons, +perhaps, some manifestation that would force him to approach. + +None came. Steadily the lights shone from the house. There was no sound +but the soft fall of a block of snow from an overladen fir branch in the +garden. The man began to marvel. Who could this be whose familiar entry +into his--_his_ home thus at night caused no disturbance? There were dogs +within: they had not barked. There were servants: apparently they had not +stirred. It was almost as if this stranger's permanence was accepted by +the household. A long, long time had slipped by. + +The man at length, making an almost fierce effort, partly dominated the +unreasoning sense of horror which possessed him. He opened the gate, +stepped into the garden, and made his way slowly and softly toward the +house door. But suddenly he stopped. Through the unshuttered window of +his sitting-room, the room in which for years he had spent much of his +time, in which he had concocted many schemes to throw dust in the +eyes of his neighbors, and even of his own relatives, in which he had +learned very perfectly to seem what he was not, and to hide what he +really was, he perceived the figure of a man. It crossed the lighted +space slowly, and disappeared with a downward movement. He knew it was +the man he had been following and whom he had seen enter his house. + +For a long while he remained where he was on the path of the garden. +The night deepened about him. A long way off, at the other end of the +village, a clock chimed the hours. In the cottages the lights were +extinguished. The few loungers disappeared from the one long street +vanishing over the snow. And the man never moved. A numb terror possessed +him. Yet, despite his many faults and his life of evil, he had never been +physically a coward. Always the light shone steadily from the window of +his study, making a patch of yellow upon the snow. Always the occupant +of the room must be seated tranquilly there, like an owner. For no figure +had risen, had repassed across the unshuttered space. + +The man told himself again and again that he must go forward till +he gained the window, that he must at least look into the room; if he +dared not enter the house to confront the intruder, to demand an +explanation. But again and again something within him, which seemed to +be a voice from the innermost chamber of his soul, whispered to him not +to go, whispered to him to leave the intruder alone, to let the intruder +do what he would, but not to approach him, above all, not to look upon +his face. And the man obeyed the voice till a thing happened which roused +in him a powerful beast, called by many the natural man. + +He saw his wife, whom he loved in his way, though he had tricked and +deceived her again and again, cross the window space, smiling, and +disappear with a downward movement, as the other had disappeared. Then +she rose into his range of vision, and stood for a moment so that he +could see her clearly, smiling, talking, making little gestures that +he knew, carrying her hand to her face, stretching it out, dropping it. +Finally she lifted it to her lips, half-closing her eyes at the same +time, took it away quickly, with a sort of butterfly motion, and +vanished, going toward the left, where the room door was. + +So had she many and many a time bidden him, her husband, good night. +Instantly, with an impulse which seemed combined of rage and terror, +both now full of a driving force which was irresistible, the man sprang +forward to the window, seized the stone coping with his hands and stared +into his room. + +Seated in a round chair at his writing-table, by a lamp with a green +shade, was the man who had entered his house. He was writing busily in +a book with a silver clasp that could be locked with a key, and he leaned +a little over the table with his head turned away. The shape of his head, +his posture, even the manner in which he used his pen as he traced line +after line in the book, made an abominable impression upon the man +staring in at the window. But the face--the face! He must see that! And +he leaned forward, trembling, but fiercely, and, pressing his own face +against the pane, he looked at the occupant of his room as men look +sometimes with their souls. + +The man at the table lifted his head. He laid down the pen, blotted the +book in which he had been writing, shut it up, clasped it, locked it with +a tiny key, and put it carefully into a drawer of the table, which also +he locked. He got up, stood for an instant by the table with one hand +upon it, then turned slowly toward the window, smiling, as men smile to +themselves when they are thinking of their own ingenuities. + +The man outside the window fell back into the snow as if God's hand had +touched him. He had seen his own face! So he smiled sometimes at the end +of a day, when he had finished writing down in his diary some of the +hidden things of his life. + +He turned, and as the window through which he had been looking suddenly +darkened, he fled away into the night. + +When the lights, which at St. Joseph's were always kept lowered during +the sermon, once more strongly illuminated the chancel, Mr. Harding +turned a ghastly face toward the pulpit. In the morning Chichester had +listened to him, as a man of truth might listen to a man who is trying +to lie, but who cannot deceive him. In the evening Mr. Harding had +listened to Chichester--how? What had been the emotions only shadowed +faintly forth in that ghastly face? + +When Malling got home, he asked himself why Chichester had made such +an impression upon his mind. His story of the double, strange enough, +no doubt, in a sermon, could not surely have come upon Malling with any +of the force and the interest of the new. For years he had been familiar +with tales of ghosts, of voices, of appearances at the hour of death, of +doubles. Of course in the sermon there had been a special application of +the story. It had been very short. Chichester had suggested that if, as +by a miracle, the average self-contented man could look at himself with +the eyes of his soul full of subliminal self-knowledge and with the +bodily eyes, he would be stricken down by a great horror. + +And he had spoken as a man who knew. Indeed, it seemed to Malling that he +had spoken as might have delivered himself the man who had followed his +double through the snow, who had looked in upon him by night from the +garden, if he had faced, instead of flying from, the truth; if he had +stayed, if he had persistently watched his double leading the life he had +led, if he had learned a great lesson that perhaps only his double could +teach him. + +But if the man had stayed, what would have been the effect on the double? +Malling sat till deep in the night pondering these things. + + + + +VII + + +Lady Sophia had said to Malling that if he went to the two services at +St. Joseph's on the Sunday she would invite him to see her again. She +was as good as her word. In the middle of the week he received a note +from her, saying she would be at home at four on Thursday, if he was +able to come. He went, and found her alone. But as soon as he entered +the drawing-room and had taken her hand, she said: + +"I am expecting Mr. Chichester almost immediately. He's coming to tea." + +"I shall be glad to meet him," said Malling, concealing his surprise, +which was great. + +Yet he did not know why it should be. For what more natural than that +Chichester should be coming? + +"I heard of you at St. Joseph's," Lady Sophia continued. "A friend of +mine, Lily Armitage, saw you there. I didn't. I was sitting at the back. +I have taken to sitting quite at the back of the church. What did you +think of it?" + +"Do you wish me to be frank, and do you mean the two sermons?" + +She hesitated for an instant. Then she said: + +"I do mean the sermons, and I do wish you to be frank." + +"I thought Mr. Chichester's sermon very remarkable indeed." + +"And my husband's sermon?" + +Her lips twisted almost as if with contempt when she said the words, "my +husband's." + +"Why doesn't Mr. Harding take a long rest?" said Malling, speaking +conventionally, a thing that he seldom did. + +"You think he needs one?" + +"He has a tiresome malady, I understand." + +"What malady?" + +"Doesn't he suffer very much from nervous dyspepsia?" + +She looked at him with irony, which changed almost instantly into serious +reflection. But the irony returned. + +"Now and then he has a touch of it," she said. "Very few of us don't have +something. But we have to go on, and we do go on, nevertheless." + +"I think a wise doctor would probably order your husband away," said +Malling, though Mr. Harding's departure was the last thing he desired +just then. + +"Even if he were ordered away, I don't know that he would go." + +"Why not?" + +"I don't think he would. I don't feel as if he could get away," she said, +with what seemed to Malling a sort of odd obstinacy. "In fact, I know +he's not going," she abruptly added. "I have an instinct." + +Malling felt sure that she had considered, perhaps long before he had +suggested it, this very project of Mr. Harding's departure for a while +for rest, and that she had rejected it. Her words recalled to his mind +some other words of her husband, spoken in Mr. Harding's study: "Surely +one ought to get out of such an atmosphere, to get out of it, and to keep +out of it. But how extraordinary it is the difficulty men have in getting +away from things!" + +Perhaps Lady Sophia was right. Perhaps the rector could not get away from +the atmosphere which seemed to be destroying him. + +"I dare say he is afraid to trust everything to his curates," observed +Malling, prosaically. + +"He needn't be--now," she replied. + +In that "now," as she said it, there lay surely a whole history. Malling +understood that Lady Sophia, suddenly perhaps, had given her husband up. +Since Malling had first encountered her she had cried, _"Le roi est +mort!"_ in her heart. The way she had just uttered the word "now" made +Malling wonder whether she was not about to utter the supplementary cry, +_"Vive le roi!"_ + +As he looked at her, with this wonder in his mind, Henry Chichester came +into the room. + +There was an expression of profound sadness on his face, which seemed to +dignify it, to make it more powerful, more manly, than it had been. The +choir-boy look was gone. Malling of course knew how very much expression +can change a human being; nevertheless, he was startled by the alteration +in the curate's outward man. It seemed, to use the rector's phrase, that +he had "shed his character." And now, perhaps, the new character, +mysteriously using matter as the vehicle of its manifestation, was +beginning to appear to the eyes of men. He showed no surprise at the +sight of Malling, but rather a faint, though definite, pleasure. The +way in which Lady Sophia greeted him was a revelation to Malling, and +a curious exhibition of feminine psychology. + +She looked up at him from the low chair in which she was sitting, gave +him her left hand, and said, "Are you very tired?" That was all. Yet +it would have been impossible to express more clearly a woman's mental, +not affectional, subjugation by a man, her instinctive yielding to power, +her respect for authority, her recognition that the master of her master +had come into the room. + +Her "_Vive le roi!_" was said. + +Chichester accepted Lady Sophia's subtle homage with an air of +unconsciousness. His interior melancholy seemed to lift him above the +small things that flatter small men. He acknowledged that he was tired, +and would be glad of tea. He had been down in the East End. The rector +had asked him to talk over something with Mr. Carlile of the Church Army. + +"You mean that you suggested to the rector that it would be wise to see +Mr. Carlile," said Lady Sophia. + +"Is the rector coming in to tea?" asked Chichester. + +"Possibly he may," she replied. "He knew Mr. Malling was to be here. Did +you tell him you were coming?" + +"No. I was not certain I should get away in time." + +"I think he will probably turn up." + +A footman brought in tea at this moment, and Malling told the curate he +had heard him preach in the evening of last Sunday. + +"It was a deeply interesting sermon," he said. + +"Thank you," said Chichester, very impersonally. + +The footman went away, and Lady Sophia began to make tea. + +"When I went home," Malling continued, "I sat up till late thinking +it over. Part of it suggested to my mind one or two rather curious +speculations." + +"Which part?" asked Lady Sophia, dipping a spoon into a silver tea-caddy. + +"The part about the man and his double." + +She shivered, and some of the tea with which she had just filled the +spoon was shaken out of it. + +"That was terrible," she said. + +"What were your speculations?" said Chichester, showing a sudden and +definite waking up of keen interest. + +"One of them was this--" + +Before he could continue, the door opened again, and the tall and +powerful form of the rector appeared. And as the outer man of Chichester +seemed to Malling to have begun subtly to change, in obedience surely +to the change of his inner man, so seemed Mr. Harding a little altered +physically, as he now slowly came forward to greet his wife's two +visitors. The power of his physique seemed to be struck at by something +within, and to be slightly marred. One saw that largeness can become +but a wide surface for the tragic exhibition of weakness. As the rector +perceived the presence of Chichester, an expression of startled pain fled +over his face and was gone in an instant. He greeted the two men and sat +down. + +"Have you just begun tea?" he asked, looking now at his wife. + +"We are just going to begin it," she replied. "We are talking about the +sermon of last Sunday." + +"Oh," rejoined the rector. + +He turned to Malling. + +"Did you come to hear me preach again?" + +There was a note as of slight reassurance in his voice. + +"Mr. Chichester's sermon," said Lady Sophia. + +"Oh, I see," said the rector. He glanced hastily from one to the other of +the three people in the room, like a man searching for sympathy or help. +"What were you saying about our friend Chichester's sermon?" he asked, +with a forced air of interest. + +Lady Sophia distributed cups for tea. + +"I was speaking of that part of it which dealt with the man who followed +his double," said Malling. + +"Ah?" said the rector. + +He was holding his tea-cup. His hand trembled slightly at this moment, +and the china rattled. He set the cup down on the small table before +him. + +"You said," observed Chichester--toward whom Lady Sophia immediately +turned, with an almost rapt air--"that it suggested some curious +speculations to your mind. I should very much like to know what they +were." + +"One was this. Suppose the man in the garden, who looked in upon his +double, had not fled away. Suppose he had had the courage to remain, +and, in hiding--for the sake of argument we may assume the situation to +be possible--" + +"Ah, indeed! And why not?" interrupted Chichester. + +His voice, profoundly melancholy, fell like a weight upon those who heard +him. And again Malling thought of him almost as some one set apart from +his fellows by some mysterious knowledge, some heavy burthen of truth. + +"--and in hiding had watched the life of his double. I sat up speculating +what effect such an observation, terrible no doubt and grotesque, would +be likely to have on the soul of the watching man. But there was another +speculation with which I entertained my mind that night." + +"Let us have it," said Chichester, leaning forward, and, with the gesture +characteristic of him, dropping his hands down between his knees. "Let us +have it." + +"Suppose the man to remain and, in hiding, to watch the life of his +double, what effect would such an observation be likely to have upon the +double?" + +Malling paused. The rector, with an almost violent movement of his big +hand and arm, took his cup from the table and drank his tea. + +"It didn't occur to you, I suppose, when composing your sermon to follow +that train of thought?" said Malling to Chichester. + +"No," replied the curate, slowly, and like one thinking profoundly. "I +was too engrossed with the feelings of the man. But, then, you thought +of the double as a living man, with all the sensations of a man?" + +"That was your fault," said Malling. + +"His fault!" said Lady Sophia, with a sort of latent sharpness, and +laying an emphasis on the second word. + +"Certainly; for making the narrative so vital and human." + +He addressed himself again to the curate. + +"Did you not give to the double the attributes of a man? Did you not +make his wife come to bid him good night, bend down to kiss him, waft +him a characteristic farewell?" + +"It is true. I did," said Chichester, still speaking like a man in deep +thought. + +"That was the most terrible part of all," said Lady Sophia. In her voice +there was an accent almost of horror. "It sickened me to the soul," +she continued--"the idea of a woman bidding a tender good night to an +apparition." + +"I took it as a man," said Malling. + +They had all three, strangely, left the rector out of this discussion, +and he seemed willing that it should be so. He now sat back in his chair +listening to all that was being said, somewhat as he had listened to the +sermon of Chichester, in a sort of ghastly silence. + +"How could a man's double be a man?" said Lady Sophia. + +"We are in the region of assumption and of speculation," returned +Malling, quietly, "a not uninteresting region either, I think. The other +night for a whole hour, having assumed the double man, I speculated on +his existence, spied upon by his other self. And you never did that?" + +He looked at Chichester. + +"When I was making my sermon I was engrossed by the thought of the +watching man." + +Malling's idea had evidently laid a grip upon Chichester's mind. + +"Tell me what the double's existence would be, according to you," he +said. "Tell me." + +"You imagined the lesson learnt by the man so terrible that he fled away +into the night." + +"Yes." + +"Had he been strong enough to stay--" + +"Strong enough!" interposed Chichester. "Better say, had he been obliged +to stay." + +"Very well. Given that compulsion, in my imagination the double must have +learnt a lesson, too. If we can learn by contemplation, can we not, must +we not, learn by being contemplated? Life is permeated by reciprocity. I +can imagine another sermon growing out of yours of last Sunday." + +"Yes, you are right--you are right," said Chichester. + +"The double, then, in my imagination, would gradually become uneasy +under this secret observation. You described him as, his wife gone, +sitting down comfortably to write some account of the hidden doings +of his life, as, the writing finished, the diary committed to the +drawer and safely locked away, rising up to go to rest with a smile of +self-satisfaction. It seemed to me that, given my circumstance of the +persistent observation, a few nights later matters would have been very +different within that room. The hypocrite is happy, if he is happy at +all, when he is convinced that his hypocrisy is successful. Take away +that certainty, and he would be invaded by anxiety. Set any one to watch +him closely, he would certainly suffer, if he knew it." + +"If he knew it! That is the point," said Chichester. "You put the man +watching the double in hiding." + +"There are influences not yet fully understood which can traverse space, +which can touch not as a hand touches, but as unmistakably. I imagined +the soul of the double touched in this way, the waters troubled." + +"Troubled! Troubled!" + +It was Mr. Harding who had spoken, almost lamentably. His powerfully +shaped head now drooped forward on his breast. + +"I imagined," continued Malling, "a sort of gradual disintegration +beginning, and proceeding, in the double--a disintegration of the soul, +if such a thing can be conceived of." + +His piercing eyes went from Chichester to Harding. + +"Or, no," he corrected himself. "Perhaps that is an incorrect description +of my--very imaginative--flight through speculation the other night. +Possibly I should say a gradual transference, instead of disintegration +of soul. For it seemed to me as if the man who watched might gradually, +as it were, absorb into himself the soul of the double, but purified. For +the watcher has the tremendous advantage of seeing the hypocrite living +the hypocrite's life, while the hypocrite is only seen. Might not the +former, therefore, conceivably draw in strength, while the other faded +into weakness? Ignorance is the terrible thing in life, I think. Now the +man who watched would receive knowledge, fearful knowledge, but the man +who was watched, while perhaps suffering first uneasiness, then possibly +even terror, would not, in my conception, ever clearly understand. He +would not any longer dare at night to sit down alone to fill up that +dreadful diary. He would not any longer perhaps--I only say perhaps--dare +to commit the deeds the record of which in the past the diary held. But +his lesson would be one of fear, making for weakness, finally almost for +nothingness. And the other night I conceived of him at last fading away +in the gloom of his room with the darkened window." + +"That was your end!" said Mr. Harding, in a low voice. + +"Yes, that was my end." + +"Then," said Chichester, "you think the lesson men learn from being +contemplated tends only to destroy them?" + +But Malling, now with a smiling change to greater lightness and ease, +hastened to traverse this statement. + +"No, no," he replied. "For the contemplation of a man by his fellow-men +must always be an utterly different thing from his own contemplation by +himself. For our fellow-men always remain in a very delightful ignorance +of us. Don't they, Lady Sophia? And so they can never destroy us, luckily +for us." + +He had done what he wished to do, and he was now ready for other +activities. But he found it was not easy to switch his companions off +onto another trail. Lady Sophia, now that he looked at her closely, he +saw to be under the influence of fear, provoked doubtless by the subject +they had been discussing. Chichester, also, had a look as of fear in his +eyes. As to the rector, he sat gazing at his curate, and there had come +upon his countenance an expression of almost unnatural resolution, such +as a coward's might wear if terror forced him into defiance. + +In reply to Malling's half-laughing question, Lady Sophia said: + +"You've studied all these things, haven't you?" + +"Do you mean what are sometimes called occult questions?" + +"Yes." + +"I have." + +"And do you believe in them?" + +"I'm afraid I must ask you to be a little more definite." + +"Do you believe that there are such things as doubles?" + +"I have no reason to believe that there are, unless you include wrongly +in the term the merely physical replica. It appears to be established +that now and then two human beings are born who, throughout their +respective lives remain physically so much alike that it is difficult, +if not impossible, to distinguish between them." + +"I didn't mean only that," she said quickly. + +"You meant the double in mind and soul as well as in body," said +Chichester. + +"Yes." + +"How can one see if a soul is the double of another soul?" said Malling. + +"Then you think such a story as Mr. Chichester related in his sermon all +nonsense?" said Lady Sophia, almost hotly, and yet, it seemed to Malling, +with a slight lifting of the countenance, as if relief perhaps were +stealing through her. + +"I thought it a legitimate and powerful invention introduced to point a +moral." + +"Nothing more than that?" said Lady Sophia. + +Malling did not reply; for suddenly a strange question had risen up in +him. Did he really think it nothing more than that? He glanced at +Chichester, and the curate's eyes seemed asking him to say. + +The rector's heavy and powerful frame shifted in his chair, and his voice +was heard saying: + +"My dear Sophy, I think you had better leave such things alone. You do +not know where they might lead you." + +There was in his voice a sound of forced authority, as if he had been +obliged to "screw himself up" to speak as he had just spoken. Lady Sophia +was about to make a quick rejoinder when, still with a forced air of +resolution, Mr. Harding addressed himself to Chichester. + +"Since I saw you this morning," he said, "I find that I shall not be here +next Sunday." + +He looked about the circle at his wife and Malling. + +"The doctor has ordered me away for a week, and I've decided to go." + +His introduction of the subject had been abrupt. As if almost in despite +of themselves, Lady Sophia and Malling exchanged glances. Chichester +said nothing. + +"You can get on without me quite well, of course," continued the rector. + +"Are you going to be away long?" said Chichester. + +"No; I think only for a week or so. The doctor says I absolutely need a +breath of fresh air." + +Malling got up to go. + +"I hope you'll enjoy your little holiday," he said. "Are you going far?" + +"Oh, dear, no. My doctor recommends Tankerton on the Kentish coast. It +seems the air there is extraordinary. When the tide is down it comes off +the mud flats. A kind parishioner of mine--" he turned slightly toward +his wife: "Mrs. Amherst, Sophy--has a cottage there and has often offered +me the use of it. I hope to accept her offer now." + +Lady Sophia expressed no surprise at the project, and did not inquire +whether her husband wished her to accompany him. + +But when she shook hands with Malling, her dark eyes seemed to say to +him, "I was wrong." + +And he thought she looked humbled. + + + + +VIII + + +_"Could you come down stay with me Saturday till Monday all alone air +delicious feel rather solitary glad of your company Marcus Harding Minors +Tankerton Kent."_ + +Such was the telegram which Evelyn Malling was considering on the +following Friday afternoon. The sender had paid an answer. The +telegraph-boy was waiting in the hall. Malling only kept him five +minutes. He went away with this reply: + +_"Accept with pleasure will take four twenty train at Victoria Saturday +Malling."_ + +Malling could not have said with truth that he had expected a summons +from Mr. Harding, yet he found that he was not surprised to get it. The +man was in a bad way. He needed sympathy, he needed help. That was +certain. But whether he could help him was more than doubtful, Malling +thought. Perhaps, really, a doctor and the wonderful air from the mud +flats of Tankerton! But here Malling found that a strong incredulity +checked him. He did not believe that the rector would be restored by a +doctor's advice and a visit to the sea. + +That afternoon he went to Westminster, and asked for Professor Stepton. + +"He is away, sir," said the fair Scotch parlormaid. + +"For long?" + +"We don't know, sir. He has gone into Kent, on research business, I +believe." + +Agnes had been for a long time in the professor's service, and was +greatly trusted. The professor had come upon her originally when making +investigations into "second sight," a faculty which she claimed to +possess. By the way she was also an efficient parlor-maid. + +"Kent!" said Malling. "Do you know where he is staying?" + +"The address he left is the Tankerton Hotel, Tankerton, near +Whitstable-on-Sea, sir." + +"Thank you, Agnes," said Malling. + +"It is a haunted house somewhere Birchington way the professor is after, +I believe, sir." + +"Luck favors me!" said Malling to himself, unscientifically, as he walked +away from the house. + +On the following day it was in a singularly expectant and almost +joyously alert frame of mind that he bought a first-class ticket +for Whitstable-on-Sea, which is the station for Tankerton. + +He would involve Stepton in this affair. There was a mystery in it. +Malling was now convinced of that. And his original supposition did not +satisfy him. But perhaps Mr. Harding meant to help him. Perhaps Mr. +Harding intended to be explicit. The difficulty there was that he also +was walking in darkness, as Malling believed. His telegram had come like +a cry out of this darkness. + +"Faversham! Faversham!" the fair Kentish porters were calling. Only about +twenty minutes now! Would the rector be at the station? + +He was. As the train ran in alongside the wooden platform, Mailing caught +sight of the towering authoritative figure. Was it his fancy which made +him think that it looked slightly bowed, even perhaps a little shrunken? + +"Good of you to come!" said the rector in a would-be hearty voice, but +also with a genuine accent of pleasure. "All the afternoon I have been +afraid of a telegram." + +"Why?" asked Malling, as they shook hands. + +"Oh, when one is anxious for a thing, one does not always get it. Ha, +ha!" + +He broke into a covering laugh. + +"Here is a porter. You've only got this bag. Capital! I have a fly +waiting. We go down these steps." + +As they descended, Malling remarked: + +"By the way, we have a friend staying here. Have you come across him?" + +"No, I have seen nobody--that is, no acquaintance. Who is it?" + +"Stepton." + +"The professor down here!" exclaimed Mr. Harding, as if startled. + +"At the hotel, I believe. He's come down to make some investigation." + +"I haven't seen him." + +They stepped into the fly, and drove through the long street of +Whitstable toward the outlying houses of Tankerton, scattered over +grassy downs above a quiet, brown sea. + +"The air is splendid, certainly," observed Malling, drinking it in almost +like a gourmet savoring a wonderful wine. + +"It must do me good. Don't you think so?" + +The question sounded anxious to Malling's ears. + +"It ought to do every one good, I should think." + +"Here is Minors." + +The fly stopped before a delightfully gay little red doll's house--so +Malling thought of it--standing in a garden surrounded by a wooden +fence, with the downs undulating about it. Not far off, but behind it, +was the sea. And the rector, pointing to a red building in the distance, +on the left and much nearer to the beach, said: + +"That is the hotel where the professor must be staying, if he is here." + +"I'll go over presently and ask about him." + +"Oh," said Mr. Harding. "Bring in the bag, please, Jennings. The room on +the right, at the top of the stairs." + +Malling had believed in London that Mr. Harding's telegram to him was a +cry out of darkness. That first evening in the cheerful doll's house he +knew his belief was well founded. When they sat at dinner, like two +monsters, Malling thought, who had somehow managed to insert themselves +into a doll's dining-room, it was obvious that the rector was ill at +ease. Again and again he seemed to be on the verge of some remark, +perhaps of some outburst of speech, and to check himself only when the +words were almost visibly trembling on his lips. In his eyes Malling +saw plainly his longing for utterance, his hesitation; reserve and a +desire to liberate his soul, the one fighting against the other. And at +moments the whole man seemed to be wrapped in weakness like a garment, +the soul and the body of him. Then, as a light may dwindle till it seems +certain to go out, all that was Marcus Harding seemed to Malling to +dwindle. The large body, the powerful head and face, meant little, almost +nothing, because the spirit was surely fading. But these moments passed. +Then it was as if the light flared suddenly up again. + +When dinner was over, Mr. Harding asked Malling if he would like to take +a stroll. + +"The sea air will help us to sleep," he said. + +"I should like nothing better," said Malling. "Haven't you been sleeping +well lately?" + +"Very badly. We had better take our coats." + +They put the coats on, and went out, making their way to the broad, +grassy walk raised above the shingle of the beach. The tide was far +down, and the oozing flats were uncovered. So still, so waveless was +the brown water that at this hour it was impossible to perceive where +it met the brown land. In the distance, on the right, shone the lights +of Herne Bay, with its pier stretching far out into the shallows. Away +to the left was the lonely island of Sheppey, a dull shadow beyond the +harbor, where the oyster-boats lay at rest. There were very few people +about: some fisher-lads solemnly or jocosely escorting their girls, who +giggled faintly as they passed Mr. Harding and Malling; two or three +shopkeepers from Whitstable taking the air; a boatman or two vaguely +hovering, with blue eyes turned from habit to the offing. + +The two men paced slowly up and down. And again Malling was aware of +words trembling upon the rector's lips--words which he could not yet +resolve frankly to utter. Whether it was the influence of the faintly +sighing sea, of the almost sharply pure air, of the distant lights +gleaming patiently, or whether an influence came out from the man beside +him and moved him, Malling did not know; but he resolved to do a thing +quite contrary to his usual practice. He resolved to try to force a +thing on, instead of waiting till it came to him naturally. He became +impatient, he who was generally a patient seeker. + +"You remember our former conversations with regard to Henry Chichester?" +he said abruptly, changing the subject of their discourse. + +"Chichester? Yes--yes. What of him?" + +"I wish to tell you that I think you are right, that I think there is an +extraordinary, even an amazing, change in Chichester." + +"There is, indeed," said Mr. Harding. "And--and it will increase." + +He spoke with a sort of despairing conviction. + +"What makes you think so?" + +"It must. It cannot be otherwise--unless--" + +He paused. + +"Yes," said Malling; "unless--" + +"A thing almost impossible were to happen." + +"May I, without indiscretion, ask what that is?" + +"Unless he were to leave St. Joseph's, to go quite away." + +"Surely that would not be impossible!" + +"I often think it is. Chichester will not wish to go." + +"Are you certain of that?" asked Malling, remembering the curate's remark +in Horton Street, that perhaps he would not remain at St. Joseph's much +longer. + +The rector turned his head and fixed his eyes upon Malling. + +"Has he said anything to you about leaving?" he asked, suddenly raising +his voice, as if under the influence of excitement. "But of course he +has not." + +"Surely it is probable that such a man may be offered a living." + +"He would not take it." + +They walked on a few steps in silence, turned, and strolled back. It was +now growing dark. Their faces were set toward the distant gleam of the +Herne Bay lights. + +"I am not so sure," at length dropped out Malling. + +"Why are you not so sure?" + +"Why do you think Chichester's departure from St. Joseph's impossible?" + +Malling spoke strongly to determine, if possible, the rector to speak, to +say out all that was in his heart. + +"Can I tell you?" Mr. Harding almost murmured. "Can I tell you?" + +"I think you asked me here that you might tell me something." + +"It is true. I did." + +"Then--" + +"Let us sit down in this shelter. There is no one in it. People are going +home." + +Malling followed him into a shelter, with a bench facing the sea. + +"I thought perhaps here I might be able to tell you," said Mr. Harding. +"I am in great trouble, Mr. Malling, in great trouble. But I don't know +whether you, or whether any one, can assist me." + +"If I may advise you, I should say--tell me plainly what your trouble +is." + +"It began--" Mr. Harding spoke with a faltering voice--"it began a good +while ago, some months after Mr. Chichester came as a curate to St. +Joseph's. I was then a very different man from the man you see now. +Often I feel really as if I were not the same man, as if I were radically +changed. It may be health. I sometimes try to think so. And then I--" He +broke off. + +The strange weakness that Malling had already noticed seemed again to be +stealing over him, like a mist, concealing, attenuating. + +"Possibly it is a question of health," said Malling, rather sharply. +"Tell me how it began." + +"When Chichester first joined me, I was a man of power and ambition. I +was a man who could dominate others, and I loved to dominate." + +His strength seemed returning while he spoke, as if frankness were to him +a restorative of the spirit. + +"It was indeed my passion. I loved authority. I loved to be in command. +I was full of ecclesiastical ambition. Feeling that I had intellectual +strength, I intended to rise to the top of the church, to become a bishop +eventually, perhaps even something greater. When I was presented to St. +Joseph's,--my wife's social influence had something to do with that,--I +saw all the gates opening before me. I made a great effect in London. +I may say with truth that no clergyman was more successful than I was--at +one time. My wife spurred me on. She was immensely ambitious for me. I +must tell you that in marrying me she had gone against all her family. +They thought me quite unworthy of her notice. But from the first time I +met her I meant to marry her. And as I dominated others, I completely +dominated her. But she, once married to me, was desperately anxious that +I should rise in the world, in order that her choice of me might be +justified in the eyes of her people. You can understand the position, I +dare say?" + +"Perfectly," said Malling. + +"I may say that she irritated my ambition, that she stung it into almost +a furious activity. Women have great influence with us. I thought she was +my slave almost, but I see now that she also influenced me. She worshiped +me for my immediate success at St. Joseph's. You may think it very +ridiculous, considering that I am merely the rector of a fashionable +London church, but there was a time when I felt almost intoxicated by +my wife's worship of me, and by my domination over the crowds who came to +hear me preach. Domination! That was my fetish! That was what led me +to--oh, sometimes I think it must end in my ruin!" + +"Perhaps not," said Malling, quietly. "Let us see." + +His words, perhaps even more his manner, seemed greatly to help Mr. +Harding. + +"I will tell you everything," he exclaimed. "From the first I have +felt as if you were the man to assist me, if any man could. I had +always, since I was an undergraduate at Oxford,--I was a Magdalen +man,--been interested in psychical matters, and followed carefully +all the proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research. I had also +at that time,--in Oxford,--made some experiments with my college +friends, chiefly in connection with will power. My influence seemed to +be specially strong. But I need not go into all that. After leaving +Oxford and taking orders, for a long time I gave such matters up. I +feared, if I showed my strong interest in psychical research, especially +if I was known to attend séances or anything of that kind, it might be +considered unsuitable in a clergyman, and might injure my prospects. It +was not until Henry Chichester came to St. Joseph's that I was tempted +again into paths which I had chosen to consider forbidden to me. +Chichester tempted me! Chichester tempted me!" + +He spoke the last words with a sort of lamentable energy. + +"Such a gentle, yielding man as he was!" + +"It was just that. He came under my influence at once, and showed it in +almost all he said and did. He looked up to me, he strove to model +himself upon me, he almost worshiped me. One evening,--it was in the +pulpit!--the idea shot through my brain, 'I could do what I like with +that man, make of him just what I choose, use him just as I please.' And +I turned my eyes toward the choir where Chichester sat in the last stall, +hanging on my words. At that instant I can only suppose that what people +sometimes call the _maladie de grandeur_--the mania for power--took +hold upon me, and combined with my furtive longing after research in +those mysterious regions where perhaps all we desire is hidden. Anyhow, +at that instant I resolved to try to push my influence over Chichester to +its utmost limit, and by illegitimate means." + +"Illegitimate?" + +"I call them so. Yes, yes, they are not legitimate. I know that now. And +he--but I dare not think what he knows!" + +The rector was greatly moved. He half rose from the bench on which they +were sitting, then, making a strong effort, controlled himself, sank +back, and continued: + +"At that time, in the early days of his association with me, Chichester +thought that everything I did, everything I suggested, even everything +that came into my mind, must be good and right. He never dreamed of +criticizing me. In his view, I was altogether above criticism. And if I +approached him with any sort of intimacy he was in the greatest joy. You +know, perhaps, Mr. Malling, how the worshiper receives any confidence +from the one he worships. He looks upon it as the greatest compliment +that can be paid him. I resolved to pay that compliment to Henry +Chichester. + +"You must know that although I had entirely given up the occult +practices--that may not be the exact term, but you will understand +what I mean--I had indulged in at Oxford, I had never relaxed my deep, +perhaps my almost morbid interest in the efforts that were being made +by scientists and others to break through the barrier dividing us on +earth from the spirit world. Although I had chosen the career of a +clergyman,--alas! I looked upon the church, I suppose, as little more +than a career!--I was not a very faithful man. I had many doubts which, +as clergymen must, I concealed. By nature I suppose I had rather an +incredulous mind. Not that I was a skeptic, but I was sometimes a +doubter. Rather than faith, I should have much preferred to have +knowledge, exact knowledge. Often I even felt ironical when confronted +with the simple faith we clergymen should surely encourage, sustain, and +humbly glory in, whereas with skepticism, even when openly expressed, I +always felt some part of myself to be in secret sympathy. I continued to +study works, both English and foreign, on psychical research. I followed +the experiments of Lodge, William James, and others. Myers's great work +on human personality was forever at my elbow. And the longer I was +debarred--self-debarred because of my keen ambition and my determination +to do nothing that could ever make me in any way suspect in the eyes of +those to whom I looked confidently for preferment--from continuing the +practices which had such a fascination for me, the more intensely I +was secretly drawn toward them. The tug at my soul was at last almost +unbearable. It was then I looked toward Chichester, and resolved to take +him into my confidence--to a certain extent. + +"I approached the matter craftily. I dwelt first upon the great spread +of infidelity in our days, and the necessity of combating it by every +legitimate means. I spoke of the efforts being made by earnest men of +science--such men as Professor Stepton, for instance--to get at the truth +Christians are expected to take on trust, as it were. I said I respected +such men. Chichester agreed,--when did he not agree with me at that +time?--but remarked that he could not help pitying them for ignoring +revelation and striving to obtain by difficult means what all Christians +already possessed by a glorious and final deed of gift. + +"I saw that though Chichester was such a devoted worshiper of mine, if I +wanted to persuade him to my secret purpose,--no other than the effort, +to be made with him, to communicate with the spirit world,--I must be +deceptive, I must mask my purpose with another. + +"I did so. I turned his attention to the subject of the human will. Now, +at that time Chichester knew that his will was weak. He considered that +fact one of his serious faults. I hinted that I agreed with him. I +proposed to join with him in striving to strengthen it. He envied my +strength of will. He looked up to me, worshiped me almost, because of it. +I drew his mind to the close consideration of influence. I gave him two +or three curious works that I possessed on this subject. In one of them, +a pamphlet written by a Hindu who had been partly educated at Oxford, +and whom I had personally known when I was an undergraduate, there was a +course of will-exercises, much as in certain books on body-building there +are courses of physical exercises. I related to Chichester some of the +extraordinary and deeply interesting conversations I had had with this +Hindu on the subject of the education of the will, and finally I told a +lie. I told Chichester that I had gained my powerful will while at Oxford +by drawing it from my Hindu friend in a series of sittings that we two +had secretly undertaken together. This was false, because I had been born +with a strong, even a tyrannical, will, and I had never sat with the +Hindu. + +"Chichester, though at first startled, was fascinated by this untruth, +and, to cut the matter short, I persuaded him to begin with me a series +of secret sittings, in which I proposed to try to impart to him, to +infuse into him, as it were, some of my undoubted power--the power which +he daily saw me exercising in the pulpit and over the minds of men in my +intercourse with them. + +"What I really wished to do, what I meant to do, if possible, was to use +Chichester as a medium, and to try through him to communicate with the +spirit world. I had taken it into my head--no doubt you will say quite +unreasonably--that he must be entirely subject to my will in a sitting, +and that if I willed him to be entranced, it was certain that he would +become so. But my own entirely selfish desires I concealed under the +cloak of an unselfish wish to give power to him. I even pretended, as you +see, to have a highly moral purpose, though it is true I suggested trying +to effect it in an unconventional and very unecclesiastical manner. + +"Chichester, though, as I have said, at first startled, of course +eventually fell in with my view. We sat together in his room at Hornton +Street. + +"Now, Mr. Malling, some of what I have told you may appear to be almost +contradictory. I have spoken of my _maladie de grandeur_ as if it were +a reason why I wished to sit with Henry Chichester, and then of my desire +to communicate, if possible, with the spirit world as my reason." + +"I noticed that," observed Malling, "and purposed later to point it out +to you." + +"How can I explain exactly? It is so difficult to unravel the web of +motives in a mind. It was my _maladie de grandeur_, I think, that made +me long to use my worshiper Chichester as a mere tool for the opening of +that door which shuts off from us the region the dead have entered. My +mind at that time was filled with a mingled conceit, amounting at moments +almost to an intoxication, and a desire for knowledge. I reveled in my +power when preaching, but was haunted by genuine doubts as to truth. My +egoism longed to make an utter slave of Chichester (I nearly always +lusted to push my influence to its limit). But my desire to know made me +conceive the pushing of it in a direction, in this instance, which would +perhaps gratify a less unworthy desire than that merely of subjugating +another. The two birds and the one stone! I thought of them. I loved the +idea of making a tool. I loved also the idea of using the tool when made. +And I pretended I had only Chichester's moral interest at heart. I have +been punished, terribly punished. + +"We sat, as I say, in Hornton Street, secretly, and of course at night. +My wife knew nothing of it. I made excuses to get away--parish matters, +meetings, work in the East End. I had no difficulty with her. She thought +my many activities would bring me ever more and more into the public +eye, and she encouraged them. The people in the house where Chichester +lodged were simple folk, and were ready to go early to bed, leaving +rector and curate discussing their work for the salvation of bodies and +souls. + +"At first Chichester was reluctant, I know. I read his thoughts. He was +not sure that it was right to approach such mysteries; but, as usual, I +dominated him silently. And soon he fell completely under the fascination +peculiar to sittings." + +Again Mr. Harding paused. For a moment his head sank, his powerful body +drooped, he was immersed in reverie. Malling did not interrupt him. At +last, with a deep sigh, and now speaking more slowly, more unevenly, he +continued: + +"What happened exactly at those sittings I do not rightly know. Perhaps +I shall never rightly know. What did not happen I can tell you. In the +first place, although I secretly used my will upon Chichester, desiring, +mentally insisting, that he should become entranced, he never was +entranced when we sat together. Something within him--was it something +holy? I have wondered--resisted my desire, of which, so far as I know, +he was never aware. Perhaps 'beneath the threshold' he was aware. Who +can say? But though my great desire was frustrated in our sittings, the +desire of Chichester, so different, perhaps so much more admirable than +mine, and, at any rate, not masked by any deceit, began, so it seemed, +to be strangely gratified. He declared almost from the first that, when +sitting with me, he felt his will power strengthened. 'You are doing me +good,' he said. Now, as my professed object in contriving the sittings +had been to lift up Chichester toward my level,"--with indescribable +bitterness Mr. Harding dwelt on these last words,--"I could only express +rejoicing. And this I did with successful hypocrisy. Nevertheless, +I was greatly irritated. For it seemed to me that, when we sat, +Chichester triumphed over me. He obtained his desire while mine remained +ungratified. This was an outrage directed against my supremacy over him, +which I had designed to increase. I gathered together my will power to +check it. But in this attempt I failed. + +"Nothing is stranger, I think, Mr. Malling, than the fascination of a +sitting. Even when nothing, or scarcely anything, happens, the mind, the +whole nature seems to be mysteriously grasped and held. New senses in you +seem to be released. Something is alert which is never alert--or, at +all events, never alert in the same way--in other moments of life. One +seems to become inexplicably different. Chichester was aware of all this. +At the first sitting nothing happened, and I feared Chichester would wish +to give the matter up. But, no! When we rose from our chairs late in the +night he acknowledged that he had never known two hours to pass so +quickly before. At following sittings there were slight manifestations +such as, I suppose, are seldom absent from such affairs,--perfectly +trivial to you, of course,--movements of the table, rappings, gusts of +what seemed cold air, and so forth. All that is not worth talking about, +and I don't mean to trouble you further with it. My difficulty is, when +so little, apparently, took place, to make you understand the tremendous +thing that did happen, that must have been happening gradually during +our sittings. + +"At the very first, as I told you, or nearly so,--I wish to be +absolutely accurate,--Chichester began to be aware of a strengthening +of his will. At this time I was almost angrily unaware of any change +either in him or in myself. At subsequent sittings--I speak of the +earlier ones--Chichester reiterated more strongly his assertion of +beneficent alteration in himself. I did not believe him, though I did +believe he was absolutely sincere in his supposition. It seemed to me +that he was 'suggestioned,' partly perhaps by his implicit trust in me, +partly by his own desire that something curious should happen. However, +still playing a part in pursuance of my resolve not to let Chichester +know my real object in this matter, I pretended that I, too, perceived an +alteration in him, as if his personality were strengthening. And not +once, but on several occasions, I spoke of the change in him as almost +exactly corresponding with the change that had taken place in me when +I sat with my Hindu friend. + +"All this time, with a force encouraged by the secret anger within me, +I violently, at last almost furiously, willed that Chichester should +become entranced. + +"But at length, though I willed furiously, I felt as if I were not +willing with genuine strength, as if I could not will with genuine +strength any longer. It is difficult, almost impossible, to explain +to you exactly the sensation that gradually overspread me; but it used +always to seem to me, when I self-consciously exerted my will, as if +I held within me some weapon almost irresistible, as if I forced it +forward, as if its advance, caused by me, could not be withstood. I +now felt as if I still possessed this weapon, but could not induce it +to move. It was there, like a heavy, useless thing, almost like a burden +upon me. + +"And Chichester continued to assert that he felt stronger, more resolute, +less plastic. + +"Things went on thus till something within me, what we call instinct, I +suppose, became uneasy. I heard a warning voice which said to me, 'Stop +while there is time!' And I resolved to obey it. + +"One night, when very late Chichester and I took our hands from the +table in his little room, I said that I thought we had had enough of +the sittings, that very little happened, that perhaps he and I were not +really _en rapport_, and that it seemed to me useless to continue them. +I suppose I expected Chichester to acquiesce. I say I suppose so, because +till that moment he had always acquiesced in any proposition of mine. Yet +I remember that I did not feel genuine surprise at what actually +happened." + +Mr. Harding stopped, took a handkerchief from his pocket, lifted the brim +of his hat, and passed the handkerchief over his forehead two or three +times. + +"What happened was this, that Chichester resisted my proposal, and that +I found myself obliged to comply with his will instead of, as usual, +imposing mine upon him. + +"This was the beginning--" the rector turned a little toward Malling, +and spoke in a voice that was almost terrible in its sadness--"this was +the beginning of what you have been witness of, my unspeakable decline. +This was the definite beginning of my horrible subjection to Henry +Chichester." + +He stopped abruptly. After waiting for a minute or two, expecting him to +continue, Malling said: + +"You said that you found yourself _obliged_ to comply with Chichester's +will. Can you explain the nature of that obligation?" + +"I cannot. I strove to resist. We argued the matter. He took his stand +upon the moral ground that I was benefiting him enormously through our +sittings. As I had suggested having them ostensibly for that very +purpose, you will see my difficulty." + +"Certainly." + +"My yielding seemed perfectly natural, perhaps almost inevitable. The +point is that, without drastic change in me, it was quite unnatural. My +will was unaccustomed to brook any resistance, and troubled itself not +at all with argument. Till then what I wished to do I did, and there was +an end. I now for the first time found myself obliged to accept a moral +bondage imposed upon me by my curate. The term may sound exaggerated; +I can only say that was how the matter presented itself to me. From the +moment I did so, I took second place to him. + +"We continued to sit from time to time. And the strange, to me +inexplicable, situation rapidly developed. + +"To put it before you in few words and plainly: Chichester seemed to suck +my will away from me gradually but surely, till my former strength was +his. But that was not all. With the growth of his will there was another +and more terrible growth: there rose in him a curiously observant +faculty." + +Again the rector took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. + +"A curiously critical faculty. How shall I say? Perhaps you may know, +Mr. Malling, how the persistent attitude of one mind may influence +another. For instance, if a man always expects ill of another--treachery, +let us say, bad temper, hatred, fear, inducing trickery, perhaps, that +other is turned toward just such evil manifestations in connection with +that man. If some one with psychic force thinks all you do is wrong, +soon you begin to do things wrongly. A fearful uneasiness is bred. The +faculties begin to fail. The formerly sure-footed stumbles. The formerly +self-confident takes on nervousness, presently fear. + +"So it came about between Chichester and me. I felt that his mind was +beginning to watch me critically, and I became anxious about this +criticism. Like some subtle acid it seemed to act destructively upon +the metal, once so hard and resistant, of my self-confidence, of my +belief in myself. Often I felt as if an eye were upon me, seeing too +much, far too much, coldly, inexorably, persistently. This critical +observation became hateful to me. I suffered under it. I suffered +terribly. Mr. Malling, if I am to tell you all,--and I feel that unless +I do no help can come to me,--I must tell you that I have not been in my +life all that a clergyman should be. There have been occasions, and even +since my marriage, when I have yielded to impulses that have prompted me +to act very wrongly. + +"Now, Chichester was a saint. Hitherto I had neither been troubled by +my own grave shortcomings nor by Chichester's excellence of character. +I had always felt myself set far above him by my superior mental +faculties and my greater will power over the crowd, though, alas! not +always over my own demon. I began to writhe now under the thought of +Chichester's crystal purity and of my own besmirched condition of soul. +All self-confidence departed from me; but I endeavored, of course, to +conceal this from the world, and especially from Chichester. With the +world for a time no doubt I succeeded. But with Chichester--did I ever +succeed? Could I ever succeed with such an one as he had become? It +seemed to me, it seems to me far more terribly now, that nothing I did, +or was, escaped him. He attended mentally, spiritually even, to +everything that made up me. At first I felt this curiously, then +anxiously, then often with bitter contempt and indignation, sometimes +with a great melancholy, a sort of wide-spreading sadness in which I +was involved as in an icy sea. I can never make you fully understand +what I felt, how this mental and spiritual observation of Chichester +affected me. It--it simply ate me away, Malling! It simply ate me away!" + +The last words came from Mr. Harding's lips almost in a cry. + +"And how long did you continue the sittings?" + +Very quietly Malling spoke, and he just touched the rector's arm. + +"For a long while." + +"Had you ceased from them when I first met you?" + +"On Westminster Bridge? No." + +"Have you ceased from them now?" + +The rector shifted as if in physical distress. + +"Chichester constrains me to them even now," he replied, like a man +bitterly ashamed. "He constrains me to them. And is that goodness, +righteousness? I said he was a saint; but now! Is it saintliness to +torture a fellow-creature?" + +Malling remembered how he had once, and not long ago, asked himself +whether Chichester's mouth and eyes looked good. + +"Have you ever told Chichester what grave distress he is causing you?" +said Malling. + +"No, never, never! I can't!" + +"Why not?" + +"A great reserve has grown up between us. I could never try to break +through it." + +"You say a great reserve. But does he never criticize you in words? Does +he never express an adverse opinion upon what you say or do?" + +"Scarcely ever--after it is said or done. But sometimes--" + +"Yes?" + +"Sometimes--often I think--he tries to prevent me from saying or doing +something. Often he checks me with a look when I am in the midst of +some speech. It is intolerable. Why do I bear it? But I have to bear it. +Sometimes I exert myself against him. Why, that first day I met you--you +must have noticed it--he tried to prevent me from walking home with you." + +"I did notice it." + +"Then I resisted him, and he had to yield. But even when he yields in +some slight matter it makes no difference in our relations. He is always +there, at the window, watching me." + +"What do you say?" + +Malling's exclamation was sharp. + +"That sermon of his!" said the rector. "That fearful sermon! Ever since +I heard it I have felt as if I were the double within that house, as +if Chichester were the man regarding my life in hiding. Why you--you +yourself put my feeling into words! You suggested to Chichester and +my wife that if the man had stayed, had spied upon him who was within +the room, the hypocrite--" + +He broke off. He got up from his seat. + +"Let us walk," he said. "I cannot sit here. The air--the lights--let +us--" + +Almost as if blindly he went forth from the shelter, followed by Malling. + +"It's better here," he said. "Better here! Mr. Malling, forgive me, +but just then a hideous knowledge seemed really to catch me by the +throat. Chichester is turning my wife against me. There is a terrible +change in her. She is beginning to observe me through Chichester's eyes. +Till quite recently she worshiped me. She noticed the alteration in me, +of course,--every one did,--but she hated Chichester for his attitude +toward me. Till quite lately she hated him. Now she no longer hates him; +for she begins to think he is right. At first I think she believed the +excuse I put forward for my strange transformation." + +"Do you mean your nervous affection?" + +"Yes." + +"Just tell me, have you any trouble of that kind, or did you merely +invent it as an excuse for any failure you made from time to time?" + +"I used it insincerely as an excuse. But I really do suffer from time +to time physically. But physical suffering is nothing. Why should we +waste a thought on such nonsense?" + +"In such a strange case as this I believe everything should be taken +carefully into consideration," observed Malling in his most prosaic +voice. + +The rector's attention seemed to be suddenly fixed and powerfully +concentrated. The feverish excitement he had been displaying gave place +to a calmer, more natural mood. + +"Tell me," he said, "do you think your knowledge can help me? I am aware +that you have made many strange investigations. Is there anything to be +done for me, anything that will restore me to my former powers? Will you +credit me when I declare to you that it was only by making a terrible +effort that I was able to get away from Chichester's companionship and +to come down here? If I had not said that I meant to do so while you were +in the room, I doubt if I should ever have had the courage. There is +something inexplicable that seems to bind me to Chichester. Sometimes +there have been moments when I have thought that he longed to be far +away from me. And it has seemed to me that he, too, would find escape +difficult, if not impossible." + +"You wish very much that Chichester should resign his curacy and go +entirely out of your life?" asked Malling. + +"Wish!" cried Mr. Harding, almost fiercely. "Oh, the unutterable relief +to me if he were to go! Even down here, away from him for a day or two, + I sometimes feel released. And yet--" he paused in his walk--"I shall +have to go back--I know it--sooner than I meant to, very soon." + +He spoke with profound conviction. + +"Chichester will mean me to go back, and I shall not be able to stay." + +"And yet you say it has occurred to you that possibly Chichester may be +as anxious as yourself to break away from the strange condition of things +you have described to me." + +"Have you," exclaimed Mr. Harding--"have you some reason to believe +Chichester has ever contemplated departure?" + +Malling moved slowly on, and the rector was forced to accompany him. + +"It has occurred to me," he said, evading the point, "that possibly Henry +Chichester might be induced to go out of your life." + +"Never by me! I should never have the strength to attempt compulsion with +Chichester." + +"Some one else might tackle him." + +"Who?" cried out Mr. Harding. + +"Some man with authority." + +"Do you mean ecclesiastical authority?" + +"Oh, dear, no! I was thinking of a man like, say, Professor Stepton." + +As Malling spoke, a curious figure seemed almost to dawn upon them, +sidewise, becoming visible gently in the darkness; a short man, with +hanging arms, a head poked forward, as if in sharp inquiry, and rather +shambling legs, round which hung loosely a pair of very baggy, light +trousers. + +"And here is the professor!" said Malling, stopping short. + + + + +IX + + +That night when, very late, Mr. Harding and Malling returned to the red +doll's house and let themselves into it with a latch-key, they found +lying upon the table in the little hall a brown envelop. + +"A telegram!" said the rector. + +He took it into his hand and read the name on the envelop. + +"It's for me. Malling, do you know whom this telegram is from?" + +"How can I, or you, for that matter?" + +"It is from Henry Chichester, and it is to recall me to London." + +"It may be so." + +"It is so. Open it for me." + +Malling took the telegram from him and tore it open, while he sat heavily +down by the table. + +"_Please return if possible difficulties in the parish Benyon ill need +your presence Chichester._" + +Malling looked down at the rector. + +"You see!" Mr. Harding said slowly. + +"What do you mean to do?" + +Mr. Harding got up from his chair with an effort like that of a weary +man. + +"I wonder where the railway-guide is?" he said. "Excuse me for a moment, +Mr. Malling." + +He went away into the drawing-room, and returned with the railway-guide +open in his hand. + +"Malling," he said, using the greater familiarity he had for a moment +discarded, "I am about to do a rude thing, but I ask you, I beg of +you, to acquit me of any rude intention toward yourself. I have been +looking up the Sunday trains. I find I can catch a good one at Faversham +to-morrow morning. There is a motor I can hire in the town to get there. +It stands just by the post-office, where the road branches." He paused, +looking into Malling's face as if in search of some sign of vexation or +irony. "With a large parish on my hands," he went on, "I have a great +responsibility. And if Benyon, my second curate, is ill, they will +be short-handed." + +"I see." + +"What distresses me greatly--greatly--is leaving you, my guest, at such +short notice. I cannot say how I regret it." + +He stopped. Purposely, to test him, Malling said nothing, but waited with +an expressionless face. + +"I cannot say. But how can I do otherwise? My duty to the parish must +come before all things." + +"I see," said Malling again. + +Looking greatly disturbed, Mr. Harding continued: + +"I will ask you to do me a very great favor. Although I am obliged to go, +I hope you will stay, I entreat you to stay till Monday. The professor is +here. You will not be companionless. The servants will do everything to +make you comfortable. As to food, wine--everything is provided for. Will +you stay? I shall feel more at ease in going if I know my departure has +not shortened your visit." + +"It is very good of you," Malling replied. "I'll accept your kind offer. +To tell the truth, I'm in no hurry to leave the Tankerton air." + +"Thank you," said the rector, almost with fervor. "Thank you." + +So, the next morning, Mr. Harding went away in the hired motor, and +Malling found himself alone in the red doll's house. + +He was not sorry. The rector's revelation on the previous night had well +repaid him for his journey; then the air of Tankerton really rejoiced +him; and he would have speech of the professor. + +"I shall lay it before Stepton," he had said to Mr. Harding the previous +night, after they had parted from the professor. + +And he had spoken with authority. Mr. Harding's confidence, his +self-abasement, and his almost despairing appeal, had surely given +Malling certain rights. He intended to use them to the full. The +rector's abrupt relapse into reserve, his pitiful return to subterfuge, +after the receipt of that hypnotizing telegram, had not, in Malling's +view, abrogated those rights. + +When the motor disappeared, he strolled across the grass with a towel +and had a dip in the brown sea, going in off the long shoal that the +Whitstable and Tankerton folk call "the Street." Then he set out to +find the professor. + +His interview with Stepton on the previous night in the presence of +Mr. Harding had been rather brief. Stepton had been preoccupied and +monosyllabic. Agnes had been right as to his reason for honoring the +coast of Kent with his company, but wrong as to the haunted house's +location. It was not in Birchington, but lay inland, within easy reach +of Tankerton. When he met Malling and Harding, the professor was going +to his hotel, where a motor was waiting to convey him to the house, in +which he intended to pass the night. His mind was fixed tenaciously upon +the matter in hand. Malling had realized at once that it was not the +moment to disturb him by the introduction of any other affair, however +interesting. But his suggestion of a meeting the next morning was thus +welcomed: + +"Right! I shall be at home at churchtime--as you're not preaching." + +The second half of the sentence was directed to Mr. Harding, who said +nothing. + +"And you might give me a cup of tea in the afternoon," the professor +had added, looking at the rector rather narrowly before shambling off +to his hotel to get the plaid shawl which he often wore at night. + +"With the greatest pleasure. Minors is the name of the house," had been +Mr. Harding's reply. + +Whereupon the professor had vanished, muttering to himself: + +"Minors! And why not Majors, if you come to that? Perhaps too suggestive +of heart-breaking military men. Minors is safer in a respectable seaside +place." + +The professor had been up all night, but looked much as usual, and was +eating a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs in the cheerful coffee-room +when Malling arrived. He scarcely ever ate at orthodox hours, and had +frequently been caught lunching at restaurants in London between four and +five in the afternoon. + +"Where's the rector? At church?" was his greeting. + +"The rector has gone back to London," replied Malling, sitting down by +the table. + +"What about my cup of tea, then?" snapped Stepton. + +"I will be your host. I'm here till to-morrow. Any interesting +manifestations?" + +"A rat or two and a hysterical kitchen-maid seem to be the responsible +agents in the building up of the reputation of the house I kept awake +in last night." + +"I believe I have a more interesting problem for you." + +The professor stretched out a sinewy hand. + +"Cambridge marmalade! Most encouraging!" he muttered. "Have the reverend +gentlemen of St. Joseph's been at it again--successfully?" + +"I want you to judge." + +And thereupon Malling laid the case faithfully before the professor, +describing not only the dinner in Hornton Street and his interview with +Lady Sophia, but also the two sermons he had heard at St. Joseph's, and +the rector's lamentable outburst of the previous night. This last, having +a remarkably retentive memory, he reproduced in the main in Mr. Harding's +own words, omitting only the rector's reference to his moral lapses. +During the whole time he was speaking Stepton was closely engaged with +the Cambridge marmalade, and showed no symptoms of attention to anything +else. When he ceased, Stepton remarked: + +"Really, clergymen are far more to be depended upon for valuable +manifestations than a rat or two and a hysterical kitchen-maid. Come +to my room, Malling." + +The professor had a bedroom facing the sea. He led Malling to it, shut +the door, gave Malling a cane chair, sat down himself, in a peculiar, +crab-like posture, upon the bed, and said: + +"Now give me as minute a psychological study of the former and actual +Henry Chichester as you can." + +Malling complied with this request as lucidly and tersely as he could, +wasting no words. + +"Any unusual change in his outward man since you knew him two years ago?" +asked the professor, when he had finished. + +Malling mentioned the question as to the curate's eyes and mouth which +had risen in his mind, and added: + +"But the character of the man is so changed that it may have suggestioned +me into feeling as if there were physical change in him, too." + +"More than would be inevitable in any man in a couple of years. And now +as to his digestive organs." + +"Good heavens!" exclaimed Malling. + +The apparent vagaries of his companion very seldom surprised him, but +this time he was completely taken aback. + +"Are they what they were? Assuming, on your part, a knowledge of what +they were." + +"I don't know either in what condition they are now, or in what condition +they were once." + +"Ah! Now I must draw up a report about last night. I'll come for that cup +of tea to Minors--might almost as well have been Majors, even granting +the military flavor--about five." + +Malling took his departure. + +At a quarter to five he heard the click of the garden gate, and looking +out at the latticed window of the hall, he saw the professor walking +sidewise up the path, with a shawl round his shoulders. He went to let +him in, and took him into the tiny drawing-room. + +"An odd shell for Harding!" observed the professor. "More suitable to a +bantam than to a Cochin-China!" + +"It doesn't belong to him." + +"Nor he to it. Very wise and right of him to go back to Onslow Gardens." + +A maid brought in the tea, and the professor, spread strangely forth in a +small, chintz-covered arm-chair, enjoyed it while he talked about oysters +and oyster-beds. He was deeply interested in the oysters of Whitstable, +and held forth almost romantically on their birth and upbringing, the +fattening, the packing, the selling, and the eating of them--"with lemon, +not vinegar, mind! To eat vinegar with a Whitstable native is as vicious +as to offer a libation of catchup at the altar of a meadow mushroom just +picked up out of the dew." + +Malling did not attempt to turn his mind from edibles. The professor had +to be let alone. When tea was finished and cleared away, he observed: + +"And now, Malling, what is your view? Do you look upon it as a case of +transferred personality? I rather gathered from your general tone that +you were mentally drifting in that direction." + +"But are there such cases? Of double transfer, I mean?" + +"Personally I have never verified one. When you spoke of the reverend +gentlemen for the first time, I said, 'Study the link!' There will be +development in the link if--all the rest of it." + +"There has been development, as I told you. The link is on his side now." + +"That's remarkable, undoubtedly. Has it ever struck you that Harding was +almost too successful a clergyman to be a genuinely holy man?" + +"What do you mean?" + +"There's a modesty in holiness that is hardly adapted to catch smart +women." + +"You used to go to hear Harding preach." + +"And d'you know why I liked his sermons?" + +"Why?" + +"Because he understood doubt so well. That amused me. But the man who has +such a comprehensive understanding of skepticism, is very seldom a true +believer. One thing, though, Harding certainly does believe in, judging +by a sermon I once heard him preach." + +"And that is?" + +"Manicheism. Chichester, you say, was a saint?" + +"He was, if a man can be a saint who has a certain amiable weakness of +character." + +"And now? You think he would be a difficult customer to tackle now?" + +"Harding finds him so." + +"And Harding was an overwhelming chap, cocksure of himself. Chichester +must be difficult. Shall I tackle him?" + +"I wish you would. But how? Do you wish me to introduce him to you?" + +"Let me see." + +The professor dropped his head and remained silent for a minute or two. + +"Tell me something," he at length remarked, lifting his head and assuming +his most terrier-like aspect. "Do you think Harding a whited sepulcher?" + +"Possibly." + +"And do you think his saintly curate has found it out?" + +"Do you think that would supply a natural explanation of the mystery?" + +"Should you prefer to search for it in that malefic region which is the +abiding-place of nervous dyspepsia?" + +"How could--" + +"Acute nervous dyspepsia, complicated by a series of sittings under the +rose, might eat away the most brazen self-confidence. That's as certain +as that I wear whiskers and you don't. Shall we do an addition sum? Shall +we add Chichester's discovery of secret lapses in his worshiped rector's +life, to the nervous dyspepsia and the sittings? Shall we do that?" + +"And Lady Sophia?" + +"There's a sunflower type of woman. The rising sun can't escape her +inevitable worship." + +"The change in Harding may be a natural one. But there is something +portentous in the change in Chichester," said Malling. "You know I'm +a rather cool hand, and certainly not inclined to easy credulity. But +there's something about Chichester which--well, Professor, I'll make a +confession to you that isn't a pleasant one for any man to make. There's +something about Chichester which shakes my nerves." + +"And you haven't got nervous dyspepsia?" + +"Should I be even a meliorist--as I am--if I had?" + +"I must know Chichester. It's a pity I didn't know him formerly." + +"I don't believe that matters," said Malling, with intense conviction. +"There is that in him which must strike you and affect you, whether you +knew him as he was or not." + +"So long as I don't turn tail and run from him, all's well. I will +tackle Chichester. In the interests of science I will face this curate. +But how shall I approach him? As in golf, the approach is much, if not +everything." + +He sat thinking for some minutes, with his eyebrows twitching. Then he +said: + +"The question is, Should the approach be casual or direct? Shall I +describe a curve, or come to him as the crow comes when making for a +given point--or is said to come, for I've never investigated that +matter? What do you say?" + +"It's very difficult to say. On the day I dined in Hornton Street, +Chichester certainly wanted to tell me something. He asked me to dine, +I am almost sure, in order that he might tell it to me." + +"About the sittings with Harding, no doubt." + +"That, perhaps, and something more." + +"But he told you nothing." + +"Directly." + +"Do you think he would be more or less likely to unbosom himself now than +he was then?" + +"Less likely." + +"You might give me his address." + +Malling did so. The professor wrote the address down on a slip of paper, +pinned the slip carefully to the yellow lining of his jacket, and then +got up to go. + +But Malling detained him. + +"Professor," he said, speaking with an unusual hesitation, "you know why +I told you all this." + +"In the interests of science?" + +"No, in the interest of that miserable man, Marcus Harding. I want you +to break the link that binds him to Henry Chichester--if there is one. +I want you to effect his release." + +"I'm afraid you've come to the wrong man," returned Stepton, dryly. "My +object in entering into this matter is merely to increase my knowledge, +not to destroy my chance of increasing it." + +"But surely--" + +"We shall never get forward if we move in the midst of a fog of pity and +sentiment." + +Malling said no more; but as he watched the professor shambling to the +garden gate, he felt as if he had betrayed Marcus Harding. + + + + +X + + +Soon after Malling had returned to London, he received the following note +from Mr. Harding: + +_Onslow Gardens_, June --th. + +_Dear Mr. Malling:_ + +I seem to have some remembrance of your saying to me at Tankerton that +you wished to speak to Professor Stepton with regard to a certain matter. +I may be wrong in my recollection. If, however, I am right, I now beg +you not to speak to the professor. I have, of course, the very highest +regard for his discretion; nevertheless, one must not be selfish. One +must not think only of one's self. I have obligations to others, and I +fear, when we were together at Tankerton, I forgot them. A word of +assurance from you that Professor Stepton knows nothing of our +conversation will set at rest the mind of + +Yours sincerely, + +_Marcus Harding._ + +As soon as he had read this communication, Malling realized that he +had been right in his supposition that a new reserve was growing up +in Henry Chichester. He was aware of Chichester's reserve in the letter +of the rector. He was aware, too, of the latter's situation as he had +never been aware of it before. Often a trifle illuminates a life, as a +search-light brings some distant place from the darkness into a fierce +radiance that makes it seem near. So it was now. + +"Poor Harding!" thought Malling, with an unusual softness. "But this +letter comes too late." + +What answer should he return to the rector? He hated insincerity, but on +this occasion he stooped to it. He had not only the fear of Stepton upon +him; he had also the desire not to add to the deep misery of Marcus +Harding. This was his answer: + +_Cadogan Square_, June --. + +_Dear Mr. Harding:_ + +In reply to your letter, I will not now repeat our conversation of the +other evening to Professor Stepton. He is, as you say, a man of the +highest discretion, and should you feel inclined yourself to take him +into your confidence at any time, I think you will not regret it. + +Yours sincerely, + +_Evelyn Malling_. + +As he put this note into an envelope, Malling said to himself: + +"Some day I'll let him know I deceived him; I'll let him know I had +already told the professor." + +Two or three days later Malling heard of the professor having been at a +party in Piccadilly at which Lady Sophia was a guest. + +"And do you know, really,"--Malling's informant, a lively married woman, +concluded,--"those old scientific men are quite as bad as any of the boys +who only want to have a good time. The professor sat in Lady Sophia's +pocket the whole evening! Literally in her pocket!" + +"I didn't know modern women had pockets," returned Malling. + +"They don't, of course; but you know what I mean." + +Malling understood that the professor was beginning his "approach." + +A week went by, and at a man's dinner, Malling chanced to sit next to +Blandford Sikes, one of the most noted physicians of the day. In the +course of conversation the doctor remarked: + +"Is your friend Stepton going to set up in Harley Street?" + +"Not that I know of," said Malling. "What makes you ask?" + +"He came to consult me the other day, and when I told him he was as sound +as Big Ben he sat with me for over half an hour pumping me unmercifully +on the subject of nervous dyspepsia. The patient who followed, and who +happened to be a clergyman, looked fairly sick when he was let in at +last." + +Who happened to be a clergyman! Malling had longed to ask Blandford +Sikes a question--who that clergyman was. But he refrained. To do so, +would doubtless have seemed oddly inquisitive. It was surely enough for +him to know that the professor was busily at work in his peculiar way. +And Malling thought again of that "approach." Evidently the professor +must be describing the curve he had spoken of. When would he arrive at +Henry Chichester? There were moments when Malling felt irritated by +Stepton's silence. That it was emulated by Marcus Harding, Lady Sophia, +and Henry Chichester did not make matters easier for him. However, he +had deliberately chosen to put this strange affair into Stepton's hands. +Stepton had shown no special alacrity with regard to the matter. Malling +felt that he could do nothing now but wait. + +He waited. + +Now and then rumors reached him of Marcus Harding's fading powers, now +and then he heard people discussing one of Henry Chichester's "remarkable +sermons," now and then in society some feminine gossip murmuring that +"Sophia Harding seems to be perfectly sick of that husband of hers. She +probably wishes now that she had taken all her people's advice and +refused him. Of course if he had been made a _bishop_!" + +The season ended. Goodwood was over, and Malling went off to Munich and +Bayreuth for music. Then he made a walking-tour with friends in the +Oberammergau district, and returned to England only when the ruddy +banners of autumn were streaming over the land. + +Still there was no communication from the professor. Malling might of +course have written to him or sought him. He preferred to possess his +soul in patience. Stepton was an arbitrary personage, and the last man +in the world to consent to a process of pumping. + +Meanwhile Stepton had forgotten all about Malling. He was full of work +of various kinds, but the work that most interested him was connected +with the reverend gentlemen of St. Joseph's. As Malling surmised, he had +lost little time in beginning his "approach," and that approach had been +rather circuitous. He had taken his own advice and studied the link. +This done, the intricate and fascinating subject of nervous dyspepsia +had claimed his undivided attention. When he had finished his prolonged +interview with Blandford Sikes, sidling back to the waiting-room to +gather up various impedimenta, he had encountered the unfortunate +clergyman whom he had kept waiting. Marcus Harding was the man. They +exchanged only a couple of words, but the sight of the flaccid bulk, +the hanging cheeks and hands, the eyes in which dwelt a sort of faded +despair, whipped up into keen alertness every faculty of the professor's +mind. As he walked into Cavendish Square he muttered to himself: + +"I never saw a clergyman look more promising for investigation, by Jove! +Never! There's something in it. Malling was not entirely wrong. There's +certainly something in it." + +But what? Now for Henry Chichester! + +Stepton was by nature unemotional, but he was an implicit believer in +the hysteria of others, and he thought clergymen, as a class, more liable +to that malady than other classes of men. Curates, being as a rule young +clergymen, were, in his view, specially subject to the inroads of the +cloudy complaint, which causes the mind to see mountains where only +mole-hills exist, and to appreciate anything more readily and accurately +than the naked truth. Henry Chichester was young and he was a curate. +He was therefore likely to be emotional and to be attracted by the +mysterious, more especially since he had recently been knocking on +its door, according to Malling's statement. + +After a good deal of thought, the professor resolved to cast aside +convention, and to make Chichester's acquaintance without any +introduction; indeed, with the maximum of informality. + +He learned something about Chichester's habits, and managed to meet him +several times when he was walking from the daily service at St. Joseph's +to his rooms in Hornton Street. In this walk Chichester passed the South +Kensington Museum. What more natural than that the professor should +chance to be coming out of it? + +The first time they met, Stepton looked at the curate casually, the +second time more sharply, the third time with scrutiny. He knew how to +make a crescendo. The curate noticed it, as of course the professor +intended. He did not know who Stepton was, but he began to wonder about +this birdlike, sharp-looking man, who evidently took an interest in him. +And presently his wonder changed into suspicion. This again accorded with +the professor's intention. + +One day, after the even-song at St. Joseph's, Stepton saw flit across +the face of the curate, whom he was meeting, a flicker of something +like fear. The two men passed each other, and immediately, like one +irresistibly compelled, the professor looked back. As he did so, +Chichester also turned round to spy upon this unknown. Encountering +the gaze of the professor, he started, flushed scarlet, and pursued his +way, walking with a quickened step. + +The professor went homeward, chuckling. + +"To-day's Tuesday," he thought. "By Saturday, at latest, he'll have +spoken to me. He'll have to speak to me to relieve the tension of his +nerve-ganglions." + +Chichester did not wait till Saturday. On Friday afternoon, coming +suddenly upon Stepton at a corner, he stopped abruptly, and said: + +"May I ask if you want anything of me?" + +"Sir!" barked Stepton. "Mr. Chichester!" + +"You know my name?" said the curate. + +"And probably you know mine--Professor Stepton." + +A relief that was evidently intense dawned in the curate's face. + +"You are Professor Stepton! You are Mr. Malling's friend!" + +"Exactly. Good day." + +And the professor marched on. + +Chichester did not follow, but the next day, on the pavement not far from +the museum, he stopped once more in front of the professor with a "Good +afternoon." + +"Good day," said Stepton. + +"Since you know who I am," began the curate, "and I have heard so much of +you, I hope you will forgive me for asking you something." + +"Certainly." + +"What is it in me which has attracted your attention?" + +"I wish I knew," returned the professor. + +"You wish you knew! Do you mean that you don't know?" + +"I don't know at all." + +"But--but--you--I was not wrong in feeling sure that you were--that +something in me had aroused your attention?" + +"Not wrong at all; but 'something' is not the word." + +"What is the word?" + +"Everything. Everything in you rouses my attention, Mr. Chichester. But +I can't think why." + +"Did you know I was Mr. Harding's curate the first time you met me?" + +"Yes; I had seen you at St. Joseph's once or twice when I came to hear +your rector preach. You didn't interest me at all then, I'm bound to +say." + +Chichester stood in silence for a minute. Then he said: + +"I might walk a little way back with you, if you have no objection." + +Stepton jerked his head in assent. And so the acquaintance of these two +men was begun. Their first conversation was a delight to the professor. +After a short silence the curate said: + +"I could not help seeing each time we have met how your attention was +fastened upon me." + +"Just so," rejoined Stepton, making no apology. + +"And I really think," continued Chichester, with a sort of pressure--"I +really think I am entitled to ask for some explanation of the matter." + +"Certainly you are." + +"Well?" He paused, then said again, "Well, Professor Stepton?" + +"I'm afraid I've nothing to tell you, I like to stick to facts." + +"I only ask you for facts." + +"The facts amount to very little. Coming from the museum I ran across +a man. You were the man. My attention was riveted at once. I said to +myself, 'I must see that man again.' Next day I took my chance. I had +luck. You were there at pretty much the same hour." + +"I always come from St. Joseph's--" + +"Exactly. And so it's happened on several days. And that's all I have to +tell you." + +"But surely you can indicate why--" + +"No, I can't. All I can say is that for some reason, quite inexplicable +by me, if I had come upon you in a crowd of a thousand, I should have had +to attend to you." + +"That's very strange," said Chichester, in a low voice; "very strange +indeed." + +"There's a reason for it, of course. There's a reason for everything, but +very often it isn't found." At this point the professor thrust his head +toward Chichester, and added, "you can't tell me the reason, I suppose?" + +Chichester looked much startled and taken aback. + +"I--oh, no!" + +"Then we must get along in the dark and make the best of it." + +Having said this, the professor abruptly dismissed the subject and began +to talk of other things. When he chose he could be almost charming. +He chose on this occasion. And when at last he hailed a bus, declaring +that he was due at home, Chichester expressed a hope that some day +he would find himself in Hornton Street, and visit number 4a. + +The professor assented, and was carried westward. + +Several days passed, but he did not find himself near Horton Street, and +he had ceased to visit the South Kensington Museum. Then the curate +wrote and invited him to tea. Despite a pretence at indifference in the +phraseology of the note, the professor discovered a deep anxiety in the +writing. Among other things he had studied, and minutely, graphology. + +He sat down and very politely refused the invitation. + +Then Chichester came to call on him, and caught him at home. + +It was six o'clock in the evening, and the heavens were opened. Agnes, +the Scotch parlor-maid who claimed to have second sight, opened the door +to Chichester, who, speaking from beneath a dripping umbrella, inquired +for the professor. + +"He's in, sir, but he's busy." + +"Could you take him my card?" + +Agnes took it, much to her own surprise, and carried it to the +professor's study. + +"A gentleman, sir." + +"I told you, Agnes--" + +"I couldn't say no to him, sir." + +"Why not? Here!" he took the card. + +"Why not?" he repeated, when he had read the name. + +"It wasn't in me to, sir." + +"Well, then I shall have to see him. Show him up. But never again will +I call you by the proud name of Cerberus." + +So, putting the onus upon Agnes, the professor yielded, murmuring to +himself: + +"It wasn't in her to! Very expressive! And Cerberus, by the way, was +always ready to let 'em in. It was when they wanted to get out that--Good +evening. I hope you don't mind climbing." + +"Thank you, no," said Chichester. + +"Sit down." + +"I am afraid I disturb you." + +"I'm bound to say you do. But what does it matter?" + +"As you didn't find your way to Hornton Street, I thought I would +venture." + +"Very good of you. This is a soft chair." + +Chichester sat down. It had been evident to Stepton from the moment +when his visitor came in that he was in great agony of mind. There was +in his face a sort of still and abject misery which Stepton thought +exceedingly promising. As he turned round, leaning his sharp elbow on +his writing-table, Stepton was considering how to exploit this misery +for the furthering of his purpose. + +"I want you to tell me something," Chichester began. "I want to know +why your attention was first attracted to me. I feel sure that you must +be able to give a reason. What is it?" + +"Well, now, I wish I could," returned Stepton. + +To himself he gave the swift admonition, "Play for hysteria, and see what +comes of it." + +"I wish I could; but it's a mystery to me. But now--let's see." + +He knitted his heavy brows. + +"A long while ago I picked a man out, met him in a crowd, at the Crystal +Palace, followed him about, couldn't get away from him. That same evening +he was killed on the underground. I read of it in the paper, went to see +the body, and there was my man." + +"Do you claim to have some special faculty?" asked Chichester. + +"Oh, dear, no. Besides, you haven't been killed on the underground--yet." + +A curious expression that seemed mingled of disappointment and of +contempt passed across Chichester's face. Stepton saw it and told +himself, "No hysteria." + +"Possibly the reason may be a more intellectual one," observed the +professor. "I hear you have been preaching some very remarkable sermons. +I haven't heard them. Still, others who have may have 'suggestioned' me. +Three quarters of any man's fame, you know, are due to mere suggestion." + +"You're not the man to be the prey of that, I fancy--not the easy prey, +at any rate." + +"Then we're left again with no explanation at all, unless, as I believe +I hinted once before, you can give us one." + +Chichester looked down; without raising his eyes he presently said in a +constrained voice: + +"If I were to give you one you might not accept it." + +"Probably not," said Stepton, briskly. "In my life I've been offered a +great many explanations, and I'm bound to say I've accepted remarkably +few." + +Chichester looked up quickly, and with the air of a man nettled. + +"You'll forgive me, I hope, for saying that you scientific men very often +seem to have a great contempt for those who are more mystically minded," +he observed. + +"I've hit the line!" thought Stepton, with a touch of exultation, as he +dropped out a negligent, "Forgive you--of course." + +"I dare say it seems to you extraordinary that any man should be able +to be a clergyman, genuinely believing what he professes and what he +preaches." + +"Very few things seem to me extraordinary." + +"Perhaps because you are skeptical of so much in which others believe." + +"That may be it. Quite likely." + +"And yet isn't there a saying of Newton's, 'A little science sends man +far away from God, a great deal of science brings man back to God?' +You'll forgive the apparent rudeness. All I mean is--" + +"That the sooner I try to get more science the better for me," snapped +out Stepton, brusquely interrupting his visitor, but without heat. +"Let me tell you that I pass the greater part of my time in that very +effort--to acquire more exact knowledge than I possess. Well--now then! +Now then!" + +Turning round still more toward the curate he looked almost as if he were +about to "square up" to him. A dry aggressiveness informed him, and his +voice had a rasping timbre as he continued: + +"But I decline to take leaps in the dark like--" Here he mentioned a +well-known man of science--"and I decline to reject evidence like--" Here +he named a professor even more famous. + +The mention of the last name evidently excited Chichester's curiosity. + +"What evidence has he rejected?" he exclaimed. + +"Last week he held a sitting to examine the pretensions of Mrs. Groeber, +the German medium. Westcott was also present, a man on whose word the +very devil--if there is such a person, which I don't yet know--would +rely. Some apparently remarkable phenomena occurred.--" Here he mentioned +the professor--"was convinced that they could only have been brought +about by supernormal means. Unfortunately, or fortunately, Westcott had +seen the trickery which produced them. When the séance was over he +explained what it was to ----. What did this _so-called_ man of science +do? Refused to accept Westcott's evidence, clung to his own ridiculous +belief,--savage's fetish belief, nothing more,--and will include the +Groeber manifestations as evidence of supernormal powers in his next +volume. And I say, I say"--he raised his forefinger--"that clergymen are +doing much the same thing pretty nearly every day of their lives. Seek +for truth quietly, inexorably, and you may get it; but don't prod men +into falsehood, or try to, as you've been trying to in this very room." + +"I!" cried out Chichester. + +"You. I told you I had no reason to give you as to why you attracted my +attention in the street. Were you satisfied with that? Not at all. You +must needs come here,--very glad to see you!--and say, 'I feel sure you +must be able to give me a reason. What is it?' You clamor for a lie. +And that's what men are perpetually doing--clamoring for lies. And they +get 'em, from clergymen, from mediums, from so-called scientific men, +and from the dear delightful politicians. There now!" + +And the professor dropped his forefinger and flung himself back in his +chair. + +"And"--Chichester in his turn leaned forward, but he spoke with some +hesitation--"and suppose I were to tell you a truth, a strange, an +amazing truth?" + +He paused. + +"Go on!" said the professor. + +"Wouldn't you do just the opposite? You say men accept lies. I say you +would probably reject truth." + +"_Cela dépend_. What you believed to be truth might not be truth at +all. It might be hysteria, it might be nervous dyspepsia, it might be +overwork, it might be a dozen things." + +"Just what I say," exclaimed Chichester. "Men of science delight in +nothing so much as in finding excuses for rejecting the greatest truths." + +"Do you mean the greatest truths in the possession of Anglican +clergymen?" + +"I dare say you think it impossible that a clergyman should know more +than a scientific man?" + +"Oh, no. But he's out for faith, and I happen to be out for facts. I like +hard facts that can be set down with a fountain-pen in my note-book, and +that, taken together, are convincing to all men of reasonable intellect. +Very dull, no doubt; but there you have it. Clergymen, as a rule, move in +what are called lofty regions--the realms of heart, conscience, and what +not. Now, I'm very fond of the region of gray matter--gray matter." + +"And yet you are one of the chief of the investigators in the field of +psychical research." + +"Do you think there's no room for pencil and note-book there? What about +Podmore,--there's a loss!--and a dozen others? Psychic matters have got +to be lifted out of the hands of credulous fetish-worshiping fools, and +the sooner the better." + +"It's easy to call people credulous," said Chichester, with decided heat. +"By being so readily contemptuous, Professor Stepton, you may often keep +back evidence that might be of inestimable value to your cause. A man in +possession of a great truth may keep it to himself for fear of being +laughed at or called a liar." + +"Then all I can say is that he's a coward--an arrant abject coward." + +Chichester sat in silence. Again he was looking down. Now that his eyes +were hidden by their drooping lids, and that he was no longer speaking, +the sadness of his aspect seemed more profound. It dignified his rather +insignificant features. It even seemed, in some mysterious way, to infuse +power into his slight and unimportant figure. After sitting thus for +perhaps three minutes he raised his head and got up from his chair. + +"I must not take up your time any longer," he said. "It was very good of +you to see me at all." He held out his hand, which Stepton took, and +added, "I'll just say one thing." + +"Do!" + +"It isn't always cowardice which causes a man to keep a secret--a secret +which might be of value to the world." + +"I never said it was." + +"No; but still--you spoke just now of my sermons. I preached one not very +long ago which I have typed myself. If I send it to you do you think you +could find time to read it?" + +"Certainly." + +"I will send it, then. Good night." + +"I'll come down with you." + +The professor let Chichester out. The rain was still falling in torrents. +Shrouded in his mackintosh, protected by his umbrella, the curate walked +away. Looking after him, Stepton thought: + +"Very odd! It isn't only in the face. Even the figure, all covered up and +umbrella-roofed, seems to have something--he'll send me the sermon of the +man and his double to-morrow." + +And on the morrow that sermon came by the first post. Having read it, the +professor promptly returned it to Chichester with the following note: + +_The White House, Westminster. + +Dear Mr. Chichester:_ + +Very glad to have had the opportunity of reading your interesting +discourse. If I had not known it was yours, and a sermon, I should have +said "a posthumous work of Robert Louis Stevenson." It does credit to +your imagination. If you care to publish, I should suggest "The +Cornhill." I know nothing about their terms. + +Yours faithfully, + +_G.R.E. Stepton._ + +By return of post, there came an urgent invitation to the professor to +visit Chichester's rooms in Hornton Street, "to continue a discussion +which has a special interest for me at this moment." + +"Discussion!" thought Stepton, sitting down to accept, "What my man wants +is for me to goad him into revelation; and I'll do it." + +The professor knew enough of psychology to be aware that in the very +depths of the human heart there is a desire which may perhaps be called +socialistic--the desire to share truth with one's fellow-men. Chichester +was scourged by this desire. But whether what he wished to share was +truth, or only what he believed to be truth, was the question. Anyhow, +Stepton was determined to make him speak. And he set off to Hornton +Street little doubting that he would find means to carry his +determination into effect. + +He arrived about half-past five. He did not turn the corner into +Kensington High Street on his homeward way until darkness had fallen, +having passed through some of the most extraordinary moments that had +ever been his. + +When he was shown into the curate's sitting-room, his first remark was: + +"Sent that very interesting story to 'The Cornhill' yet?" + +"I don't think you quite understand, Professor," replied Chichester. +"I did not type it with a view to sending it in anywhere for publication. +You'll have tea with me, I hope? Here it is, all ready." + +"Thank you." + +"Oh, Ellen!" + +Chichester went to the door, and Stepton heard the words, "Nobody, you +understand," following on a subdued murmuring. + +"And Mr. Harding, sir?" said the maid's voice outside. + +"Mr. Harding won't come to-day. That will do, Ellen." + +The professor heard steps descending. His host shut the door and +returned. + +"You typed it for your own use?" said Stepton. + +"That sermon? Yes. I wished to keep it by me as a record." + +He sat down, and poured out the tea. + +"A record of an imagined experience. Exactly. Then why not publish?" + +"It is not fiction." + +"Well, it isn't fact." + +The professor drank his tea, looking at his host narrowly over the cup. + +"Do you say such an experience as that described in my sermon is +impossible?" + +"Do you say it is possible?" + +"If I were to say so would you believe me?" + +"Certainly not, unless I could make an investigation and personally +satisfy myself that what you said was true. You wouldn't expect anything +else, I'm sure." + +"You can believe nothing on the mere word of another?" + +"Very little. I am an investigator. I look for proof." + +"With your pencil in one hand, your note-book in the other." + +In Chichester's last remark there was a note of sarcasm which thoroughly +roused Stepton, for it sounded like the sarcasm of knowledge addressed +to ignorance. Stepton had a temper. This touch of superiority, not +vulgar, but very definite, fell on it like a lash. + +"Now I'll go for the reverend gentleman of St. Joseph's!" he thought. + +And for a moment he forgot his aim in remembering himself. Afterward, +in thinking matters over, he offered a pinch of incense at the altar +of his egoism. + +"So, the modern clergyman still believes in slip-slop, does he?" he +exclaimed in his most aggressive manner. "Even now hasn't he learnt the +value of the matter-of-fact? The clergyman is the doctor of the soul, +isn't he? And the doctor, isn't he the clergyman of the body? I wonder, +I do wonder, how long the average doctor would keep together his practice +if he worked with no more precision than the average clergyman. The +contempt of the pencil and note-book! The contempt of proper care in +getting together and coordinating facts! The contempt of proof--the +appeal to reason! And so we get to the contempt of reason. And let me +tell you--" he struck the tea-table with his lean hand till the curate's +cups jumped--"that scarcely ever have I heard a sermon in which was not +to be found somewhere the preacher's contempt for reason, the bread of +the intellect of man." + +"The soul is not the intellect." + +"Don't you think it higher?" + +"I do." + +"And so you put it on slops!" + +The professor got up from his chair, and began to sidle up and down the +small room. + +"You put it on slops, as if it were a thing with a disordered stomach. +That's your way of showing it respect. You approach the shrine with an +offering of water gruel. Now look ye here!"--The professor paused beside +the tea-table--"The soul wants its bread, depends upon it, as much as +the body, and the church that is free with the loaves is the church to +get a real hold on real men. Flummery is no good to anybody. Rhetoric's +no good to anybody. Claptrap and slipslop only make heads swim and +stomachs turn. The pencil and note-book, observation and the taking down +of it, these bring knowledge to the doors of men. And when you sneer at +them, you sneer at bread, on the eating of which--or its equivalent, +basis-nourishment--life depends." + +"I wonder whether you, and such as you, really know on what the true life +of the soul depends," said Chichester, with an almost dreadful quietness. + +The professor sat down again. + +"Such as I?" he said. "You are good enough to do me the honor of putting +me in a class?" + +"As you have so far honored me," returned Chichester. + +"Ha!" ejaculated Stepton. + +He had quite got the better of his egoism, but he by no means regretted +his outburst. + +"Do you claim to stand outside the ranks of the clergy?" he asked. + +"Do you claim to stand outside the ranks of the scientists?" + +"Oh, dear, no. And now--you?" + +Chichester said nothing for a moment. Then, lifting up his head, and +gazing at the professor with a sort of sternness of determination, he +said: + +"Remember this! You yourself told me that in a crowd of a thousand you +must have fixed your attention on me." + +For a moment the professor had it in his mind to say that this statement +of his had been a lie invented to make an impression on Chichester. But +he resisted the temptation to score--and lose. He preferred not to score, +and to win, if possible. + +"I did," he said. + +"Could this be so if I were like other men, other clergymen?" + +"Well, then, what is the mighty difference between you and your reverend +brethren--between you, let us say, and your rector, Mr. Harding?" + +Very casually and jerkily the professor threw out this question. + +Not casually did Chichester receive it. He moved almost like a man who +had been unexpectedly struck, then seemed to recover himself, and to +nerve himself for some ordeal. Leaning forward, and holding the edge of +the table with one hand, he said: + +"How well do you know Mr. Harding?" + +"Pretty well. Not intimately." + +"You have seen him since he--altered?" + +"I saw him only the other day when I was at a specialist's in Harley +Street." + +"A specialist's?" + +"For nervous dyspepsia." + +Again the look of contempt flickered over Chichester's face. + +"Do you think the alteration in Mr. Harding may be due to nervous +dyspepsia?" + +"Probably. There are few maladies that so sap the self-confidence of a +man." + +Chichester laughed. + +For the first time since he had entered the little room the professor +felt a cold sensation of creeping uneasiness. + +"Apparently you don't agree with me," he said. + +"I am not a doctor, and I know very little about that matter." + +"Then I'm bound to say I don't know what you find to laugh at." + +"For a man who has spent so much time in psychical research you seem to +have a rather material outlook upon--" + +"Mr. Harding?" + +"And all that he represents." + +"Suppose we stick to Mr. Harding," said the professor, grittily. "He is +typical enough, even if you are not." + +"In what respect do you consider Mr. Harding typical?" + +"I am speaking of the Harding before the fall into the abysses of nervous +dyspepsia." + +"Very well. In what respects was Mr. Harding typical?" + +"In the sublime self-confidence with which he proclaimed as facts, things +that have never been proved to be facts." + +"Do men want facts?" said Chichester, almost as one speaking alone to +himself. + +"I do. I want nothing else. Possibly Mr. +Harding had none to give me. I don't blame +him." + +"Perhaps it is a greater thing to give men faith than to give them +facts." + +"Give them the first by giving them the second, if you can! And that, +by the way, is the last thing the average clergyman is able to do." + +Chichester sat silent for nearly a minute looking at the professor with a +strange expression, almost fiery, yet meditative, as if he were trying to +appraise him, were weighing him in a balance. + +"Professor," he said at last, "I suppose your passion for facts has led +men to put a great deal of faith in you. Hasn't it?" + +"I dare say my word carries some weight. I really don't know," responded +Stepton, with an odd hint of something like modesty. + +"I had thought of Malling first," almost murmured Chichester. + +"What's that about Malling?" + +"I think he would have accepted what I have to give more readily than you +would. There seems to me something in him which stretches out arms toward +those things in which mystics believe. In you there seems to me something +which would almost rather repel such things." + +"I beg your pardon. I am quiescent. I neither seek to summon nor to +repel." + +"I couldn't tell Malling," said Chichester. "His readiness stopped me. It +struck me like a blow." + +"Malling prides himself on being severely neutral in mind." + +"And you on being skeptical?" + +"I await facts." + +"Shall I give you some strange facts, the strangest perhaps you have ever +met with?" + +Stepton smiled dryly. + +"You'll forgive me, but some such remark has been the prelude to so many +figments." + +"Figments?" + +"Of the imagination." + +An expression of anger--almost like a noble anger it seemed--transformed +Chichester's face. It was as a fine wrath which looked down from a +height, and in an instant it melted into pity. + +"How much you must have missed because of your skepticism!" he said. "But +I shall not let it affect me. You are a man of note-book and pencil. Will +you promise me one thing? Will you give me your word not to share what I +shall tell you with any one, unless, later on, I am willing that you +should?" + +"Oh, dear, yes!" said the professor. + +And again he smiled. For even now he believed the curate to be wavering, +swayed by conflicting emotions, and felt sure that a flick of the whip +to his egoism would be likely to hasten the coming of what he, the +professor, wanted. + +A loud call rose up from the street. A wandering vender of something +was crying his ware. In his voice was a sound of fierce melancholy. +Chichester went to the window and shut it down. + +"I wish it was night," he said as he turned. + +The professor jerked out his watch. + +"It must be getting late," he observed. "Past six! by Jove!" + +He made an abrupt movement. + +"What?" said Chichester. "You are going!" + +He came up to the table. + +"Sometimes I think," he said, "that men hate and dread nothing as they +hate and dread facts which may upset the theories they cherish." + +"You're perfectly right. Well, very glad to have seen you in your +own room." The professor got up. "By their rooms shall ye know them." +He glanced round. + +"Ah, I see you have Rossetti's delightfully anemic Madonna, and Holman +Hunt's 'Light of the World.' A day or two ago I was talking to a lady +who pronounced that--" he extended his finger toward the Hunt--"the +greatest work of art produced in the last hundred years. Her reason? +Its comforting quality. I am sure you agree with her. Good-by." + +He made a sidling movement toward the door. Perhaps it was that movement +which finally decided the curate to speak. + +"Professor," he said, "I don't want you to go yet." + +"Why not?" jerked out Stepton, with one hand on the door-knob. + +"You collect 'cases.' I have a case for you. You are a skeptic: you say +men should be brought to faith by facts. Sit down. I will give you some +facts." + +The professor came slowly back, looking dry and cold, and sat down by the +table, facing the Rossetti Madonna. + +"Always ready for facts," he said. + + + + +XI + + +"You have heard of doubles, of course, Professor?" said Chichester, +leaning his arms on the table and putting his hands one against the +other, as if making a physical effort to be very calm. + +"Of course. There was an account of one in that sermon of yours." + +"Have you ever seen a double?" + +"No; not to my knowledge." + +"I suppose you disbelieve in them?" + +"I have no reason to believe in them. I have not collected enough +evidence to convince me that there are such manifestations." + +"You know a double at this moment." + +"Do I, indeed? And may I ask the manifestation's name?" + +"Marcus Harding." + +"Marcus Harding is a double, you say. Whose?" + +"Mine," said Chichester in a low voice. + +He clasped and unclasped his hands. + +"I don't understand you," said Stepton, rather disdainfully. + +"I will try to make you." And Chichester began to speak, at first in a +low, level voice. "That sermon of mine," he said, "was a sort of shadow +of a truth that I wanted to reveal,--that I dared not fully reveal. +Already I had tried to tell Evelyn Malling something of it. I had failed. +When the moment came, when Malling was actually before me, I could not +speak out. His mind was trying to track the truth that was in me. He +got, as it were, upon the trail. Once he even struck into the truth. Then +he went away to Marcus Harding. I remained in London. When I knew that +those two were together I felt a sort of jealous fear of Malling. For +there was pity in him. Despite his intense curiosity he had a capacity +for pity. I realized that it might possibly interfere with--with +something that I was doing. And I recalled Marcus Harding to London. +From that moment I have avoided Malling. I could never tell him. But you, +hard searcher after truth as you are--you could never find it in you to +drag away another from the contemplation of truth. Could you? Could you?" + +"Probably not," said Stepton. "I usually let folks alone even when +they're glaring at falsehood. Ha!" + +He settled himself in his chair, looking sidewise toward Chichester. + +"You, like every one else, have noticed the tremendous change in Marcus +Harding," Chichester went on. "That change, the whole of that change, is +solely owing to me." + +"Very glad to have your explanation of that." + +"I am going to give it you. The beginning of that change came about +through the action of Marcus Harding. He wished for facts that are, +perhaps,--indeed, probably,--withheld deliberately from the cognizance +of man. You have sneered at those who live by faith, you have sneered at +priests. Well, you can let that Marcus Harding go free of your sarcasm. +Although a clergyman he was not a faithful man. And he wanted facts to +convince him that there was a life beyond the grave. Henry Chichester--" + +"You! You!" interjected Stepton, harshly. + +"I, then, came into his life. He thought he would use me to further his +purpose. He constrained me to sittings such as you have often taken part +in, with a view to sending me into a trance and employing me, when in +that condition, as a means of communication with the other world--if +there was one. We sat secretly in this room, at this table." + +"You need not give me ordinary details of your sittings," said the +professor. "I am familiar with them, of course." + +"Henry Chichester--" + +"You! You! Don't complicate matters!" + +"I never was entranced; but presently I felt myself changing subtly." + +"People very often imagine they are developing into something wonderful +at séances. Nothing new in that." + +"Please try to realize the facts of my case without assuming that it +resembles a thousand others. I believe, I feel sure, that it resembles no +other case that has come under your observation. To grasp it you must +grasp the characters of two men, Marcus Harding as he was--and myself, +as I was." + +"Put them before me, then." + +"That Marcus Harding you knew. He was the type of the man who, sublimely +self-confident, imposes his view of himself upon other men and especially +upon women. He had strength--strength of body and strength of mind. And +he had the strength which a devouring ambition sheds through a man. A +fine type of the worldly clergyman he was, of the ardent climber up +the ladder of preferment. To him the church was a career, and he meant +to succeed in it. If he had to begin as a curate he meant to end as a +bishop, perhaps as an archbishop. And he had will to help him, and +vitality to help him, and the sort of talent that brings quick notice +on a man. And he had also a woman to help him, his wife, Lady Sophia. +He chose well when he chose her for his helpmate, though he may not think +so now. He should have been content with what he had. But he wanted more, +and he thought he might perhaps get what he wanted through me. Marcus +Harding was a full-blooded type of the clerical autocrat. I once was an +equally complete type of the clerical slave--slave to conscience, slave +to humble-mindedness, slave to my rector as soon as I knew him. + +"St. Francis of Assisi was the character I worshiped. I strove after +simple goodness. I desired no glories of this world, no praises of men. +I did not wish to be clever or to shine, but only to do my duty to my +fellow-men, and so toward God. When I was first to make the acquaintance +of Marcus Harding, with a view to becoming his senior curate if he +thought fit, I felt some alarm. I had heard so much of his great energy +and his remarkable talents. The day came. I paid my visit to Onslow +Gardens. For the first time I saw--" Chichester paused. His face became +distorted. He turned toward the window as if anxious to hide his face +from the professor's small, keen eyes. "I saw--that man," he continued, +in a withdrawn and husky voice, and still looking away. + +Stepton sat motionless and silent, sidewise, with his arms hanging. + +Chichester, after another long pause, again faced him. + +"My very first impression was unfavorable. I attributed this to his +great size, which had startled me. I now know I was wrong in thinking +I took that impression from the outer man. It was the inner man who in +that moment announced himself to me. But almost instantly he had surely +withdrawn himself very far away, and I, then, had no means of following +him. So he escaped from me, and I fell under the influence that Marcus +Harding was able to exert at will. + +"I was dominated. Buoyancy, life, energy, self-confidence, radiated from +that man. He steeped me in his vigor. He seemed kind, cordial. He won my +heart. My intellect, of course, was dazzled. But--he won my heart. And I +felt not only, 'Here is a man far greater than myself to whom I can look +up,' but also, 'Here is a man to whom I must look up, because he is far +better than myself.' At that interview it was settled that I should +become senior curate at St. Joseph's. + +"As you know, I became, and still am, senior curate. As I grew to know +Marcus Harding better I admired him more. In fact, my feeling for him +was something greater than admiration. I almost worshiped him. His will +was law to me in everything. His slightest wish I regarded as a behest. +His talents amazed me. But I thought him not only the cleverest, but the +best of men. It seemed to me right that such a man should be autocratic. +A beneficent autocracy became my ideal of government. That my rector's +will should be law to his wife, his servants, his curates, his organist, +his choir, to those attached to his schools, to those who benefited by +the charities he organized, seemed to me more than right and proper. I +could have wished to see it law to all the world. If any one ventured +to question any decision of his, or to speak a word against him, I felt +almost hot with anger. In a word, I was at his feet, as the small and +humble-minded man often is at the feet of the man who has talents and +who is gifted with ambition and supreme self-confidence. + +"For a long time this condition of things continued, and I was happy in +it. Probably it might have continued till now, if--if that accursed idea +had not come to Marcus Harding." + +Again Chichester paused. In speaking he had evidently become gradually +less aware of his companion's presence and personality. His subject +had gripped him. Memory had grown warm within him. He lived in the days +that were past. + +"That accursed idea," he repeated slowly, "to use me as his tool in an +endeavor to break down the barrier which divides men from the other +world. + +"As I told you, we began to sit secretly. Marcus Harding wished me to +fall into the entranced condition. I did not know this at first, so at +first I did not consciously resist his desire. He had told me a lie. He +had told me that he desired only one thing in our sittings, to give to +me something of the will power that made him a force in the world. He had +declared that this was possible. I believed him unquestioningly. I +thought he was trying to send some of his power into me. Soon I felt that +he was succeeding in this supposed endeavor. Soon I felt that a strange +new power was filtering into me." + +Chichester fixed his eyes on Stepton as he said the last words, and +seemed to emerge from his former condition of self-absorption. + +"You have sat often. Have you ever felt such a sensation? It is like +growth," he said. + +"When one first begins to sit at séances, one is apt to imagine all sorts +of things in the darkness," returned Stepton. "I dare say I did, like +other folk." + +"I understand," said Chichester, with a sort of strange condescension. +"You think I was merely the victim of absurdity. The sense of this coming +of power grew slowly, but steadily, within me. And presently it was +complicated by another development, which involved--or began to involve, +let me say at this point--my companion, Marcus Harding. I think I ought +to tell you that in beginning the sittings I had had certain doubts, +which were swept away by my admiration of, and faith in, my rector. +Hitherto I had always thought that our human knowledge was deliberately +limited by God, and that it was very wrong to strive to know too much. +The man of science no doubt believes that it is impossible to know too +much; but I have thought that many great truths are kept from us because +we are not yet in a condition properly to understand them. I had, +therefore, begun these practices with a certain tremor, and possibly a +certain feeling of resistance, in the depths of my soul. As I felt the +power coming to me I had put away my fears. They did not return. Yet +surely the new development within me, of which I now became aware, was +connected with those fears, however subtly. It was a sensation almost of +hostility directed against Marcus Harding." + +"Ah, now!" ejaculated the professor, as if in despite of himself. "And +where's the connection you speak of?" + +"Marcus Harding had constrained me to do a thing that in my soul I had +believed to be wrong and that had roused my fear. As power dawned in me, +directing itself upon everything about me, it was instinctively hostile +to him who had dominated me before I had any power, and who, by +dominating me, had for a moment made me afraid." + +"Retrospective enmity! Very well!" muttered the professor. "I understand +you. Keep on!" + +"This hostility--if I may call a feeling at first not very definite by +so definite a name--induced in me a critical attitude of mind. I found +myself, to my surprise, secretly criticizing the man whom till now I had +regarded as altogether beyond the reach of criticism. I felt that Marcus +Harding was giving me power. I was grateful to him for doing so; yet I +began to see him in a new, and at moments an unpleasant light. Presently, +after trying in vain to combat this novel sensation, which seemed to me +almost treacherous, almost disloyal, I sought about for a reason, to give +myself at least some justification for it. I sought, and one night it +seemed to me that I found. + +"On that night I was more than ever aware that strength of some kind was +pouring into me. I had an almost heady sensation, such as one who drinks +a generous wine may experience. When we rose from the table I told my +rector so. He stared at me very strangely. Then he said: 'Good! Good! +Didn't I tell you I would give you some of my power?' He paused. Then he +added: 'It will come! It must come!' As he spoke the last words he +frowned, and all his face seemed to harden, as if he were making a +violent mental effort to which the body was obliged to respond. And at +that instant I was aware that the reason Marcus Harding had given to me +to persuade me to these sittings was not the true one, that his purpose +was quite other than that which I had hitherto supposed it to be. I was +suddenly aware of this, and I thought: 'I must already have been aware of +it subconsciously, and that accounts for my sensation of hostility toward +the rector.' A lie had been told to me. My new self-confidence resented +this; and I said to myself, 'If Marcus Harding can tell a lie to me, who +almost worshiped him, he must be an arrant hypocrite.' + +"We sat again, and again I knew that there was something in the mind +of my companion which he concealed from me, something to which I should +strongly object if I knew what it was, something which troubled the +atmosphere, the mental atmosphere, of the sitting. Instead of being +in accord, we were engaged in a silent, but violent, struggle. I was +determined not to be overcome. A sort of fierce desire for tyranny +sprang up in me. I longed to see Marcus Harding at my feet. + +"Again and again we sat. My hostile feeling grew. My critical feeling +grew. My longing to tyrannize increased, till I was almost afraid of it, +so cruel did I feel it to be. 'Down! Down under my feet!' That was what +my soul was secretly saying now to the man whose will had been as law to +me. And one night, as if he heard that ugly voice of my soul, he abruptly +got up from the table and said: 'It seems to me that you and I are not +_en rapport_. It seems to me that no more good can come of these +sittings. We had better not sit again." + +"We must sit again," I replied. + +"Marcus Harding turned scarlet with anger. He looked at me. He opened his +lips to speak. I let him speak. I even argued the question with him. I +pointed out to him that his only design--the only design acknowledged by +him, at any rate, in beginning these practices--had been to give me +strength such as, he had declared to me, he himself had drawn while at +Oxford from a Hindu comrade. In carrying out this design, I now told him, +he was being successful. I felt that I was growing in power of will, in +self-confidence. How, then, could he refuse to continue when success was +already in sight? 'Unless,' I concluded, 'you had some other design in +persuading me to sit, which I did in the first instance against my +secret desire, and you feel that there is now no probability of carrying +that design into effect.' + +"He gave in. I had him beaten. Hastily he muttered a good-night and left +me. I let him out into the night. As soon as the street door had shut on +him I ran upstairs. I went to that window,--" Chichester flung out his +hand--"pushed it up, leaned out, and watched him down the street. I saw +him pass under a gas-lamp and I said to myself: 'You have submitted to my +will, and you shall submit again. I am the master now.' + +"In that moment all the domination which I had so joyously endured, which +I had even surely reveled in,--for there are those who can revel in their +slavery,--abruptly became in my mind a reason for revenge. Marcus Harding +disappeared in the night; but still I leaned out, staring down the way he +had gone, and thinking, 'You shall pay me back for it. You shall pay me +back.' + +"From that night I made no effort to check the critical faculty, the +exercise of which at first had seemed to me a sort of treachery. And as +I let myself criticize, I saw more clearly. The scales fell from my eyes. +I realized that I had been nothing less than blind in regard to Marcus +Harding. I saw him now as he was, a victim of egomania, a worldling, +tyrannical, falsely sentimental, and unfaithful steward, a liar--perhaps +even an unbeliever. His whole desire--I knew it now--was not to be good, +but to be successful. His charity, his pity for the poor, his generosity, +his care for his church, for his schools--all was pretence. I saw Marcus +Harding as he was. And what followed?" + +Chichester leaned forward to the professor. + +"Fear followed," he said in a withdrawn voice. + +"Fear!" said Stepton, clearing his throat with a loud, rasping noise. + +"Whenever I was with Marcus Harding in any public place I was now +companioned by fear. I dreaded unspeakably lest others should begin to +see what I saw. When he preached, I could hardly sit to listen: I felt +as if any shame falling upon him would overwhelm me also. I strove in +vain to combat this strange, this, then, inexplicable sensation. With +every sitting this terror grew upon me. It tortured me. It obsessed me. +It drove me into action. When I was with my rector, I tried perpetually +to prevent him from exposing his true self to the world, by changing +the conversation, by attenuating his remarks, by covering up his actions +with my own, sometimes even by a brusque interruption. But in the pulpit +he escaped from me. I was forced to sit silent and to listen while he +preached doctrine in which he had no belief, and put forward theories +of salvation, redemption by faith, and the like, which meant less than +nothing to him. Finding this presently unendurable by me, I strove to +govern him mentally when he was in the pulpit, to track him, as it were, +with my mind, to head him off with my mind when he was beginning to take +the wrong path." + +"Did you succeed in that effort?" interrupted the professor. + +"I made an impression, a terrible impression, upon him. I almost broke +him down. I sapped his self-confidence. His power as a preacher deserted +him, as his power outside the pulpit deserted him. With every day I felt +that I saw more clearly into every recess, every cranny, of his mind and +nature. Just at first this frightfully clear sight was mine only when we +were sitting; but presently it was mine whenever I was with him. And he +knew it, and went in fear of me. Gradually, very gradually, it came about +that our former positions were reversed; for as he sank down in the human +scale, I mounted. As he lost in power, I gained. And especially in the +pulpit I felt that now I had force, that I could grip my hearers, could +make a mighty impression upon those with whom I was brought into contact. + +"But I must tell you that now I gained no satisfaction from my own +improvement, if so it may be called. My whole life was vitiated by my +secret terror lest Marcus Harding should be found out, should ever be +known for what he was. His actions, and even his thoughts, affected me +with an intimacy that was inexplicable." + +"You were in telepathic communication with him!" interjected Stepton. + +"Call it so if you like. Often I felt what he was thinking, almost as if +each thought of his were a hand laid upon me--a hand from which I shrank +with an almost trembling repugnance. Sometimes when he thought something +contemptible or evil, I shrank as if from a blow. + +"There was a link between us. Presently, soon, I knew it. We seemed in +some dreadful way to belong to each other, so that whatever was thought, +said, done by him, whatever happened to him, reacted upon me. + +"At this time Lady Sophia Harding hated me with a deadly hatred. Formerly +she had been indifferent to me. Concentrated upon her husband, adoring +him, vain of him, greedily ambitious for his advancement, she had had no +time to bestow on a clerical nonentity. But as I grew to understand +what her husband really was she grew to hate me. She was almost rude to +me. She spoke ill of me behind my back. She even tried to oust me from my +position as senior curate of St. Joseph's. Why did not she succeed? Are +you thinking that?" + +"Well, what if I was?" snapped the professor, moving in his chair. + +"Marcus Harding could not make a move to get rid of me. There was a link +between us which he could not even try to break. + +"One night--one night--I discovered what that link was." + +It was growing dark in the room. The Rossetti Madonna, thin, anemic, +with hanging hair, seemed fading away on the somber, green wall. The +window-panes looked spectral and white. The faint murmur of the city +sounded a little deeper and much sadder than in the light of day. +Stepton was aware of a furtive but strong desire for artificial light in +the room, but he did not choose to mention it. And Chichester, whose +voice--so it seemed to his hearer--began to have that peculiar almost +alarming timbre which belongs to a voice speaking not for the ears of +another, but for the satisfaction only of the soul which it expresses, +continued his narrative, or confession, as if unaware of the dying of +day. + +"During the day which preceded it I had been haunted by the thought of +myself doing what Marcus Harding could not do. Why should not I of my own +will leave St. Joseph's, get away from this dreadful contemplation which +obsessed me, from this continual anxiety--almost amounting to terror at +moments--which gnawed me? Why should not I break this mysterious link, +impalpable yet strong? If I did, should I not again find peace? But my +sittings with Marcus Harding would be at an end. Could I give them up? +I asked myself that, and I felt as if I could not. Through them, by means +of them, I felt as if I might attain to something wonderful--terrible +perhaps, but wonderful. I felt as if I were approaching the threshold of +absolute truth. A voice within me whispered, 'Go no further.' Was it the +voice of conscience? I did not heed it. Something irresistible urged me +forward. I thrust away from me with a sort of crude mental violence the +haunting thought. And when the darkness came I greeted it. + +"For he came with the darkness." + +On the wall opposite to the professor the thin Madonna faded away. + +"As I heard his heavy step on the stairs that night I said to myself, 'At +all hazards I will see, I will know, more. I will see, I will know--all.' +When he entered at that door"--a thin darkness moved in the darkness as +Chichester pointed--"he was dreadfully white and looked sad, almost +terrified. He suggested that we should break through our plan and not +sit. I refused. He then said he wished to sit in light. I refused. He was +become my creature. He dared not disobey my desires! We placed our hands +on this table, not touching. I could no longer endure the touch of his +hand. We remained motionless. A long time passed. There were no rappings. +A strange deadness seemed to prevail in the room. Presently it faded +away, and I had the sensation that I was sitting quite alone. + +"At first it seemed to me that my companion must have crept out of the +room silently, leaving me by myself in the darkness. I shuddered at the +thought that I was alone. But then I said to myself that Marcus Harding +must be there in the blackness opposite to me, and I moved my hands +furtively on the table, thinking to prove his presence to myself by +touch. I did not prove it. Suddenly I had no need to touch him in order +to know that he was there." + +"Why not?" said the professor, and started at the sound of his own voice +in the little room. + +"Something made me realize that he was still within the room. +Nevertheless, I felt that I was alone. How could that be? I asked myself +that question. This answer came as it were sluggishly into my mind, 'You +are alone not because Marcus Harding is away, but because Henry +Chichester is away.' For a long while I sat there stagnantly dwelling on +this knowledge which had come to me in the blackness. It was as if I knew +without understanding, as a man may know he is involved in a catastrophe +without realizing how it has affected his own fate. And then slowly there +came to me, or grew in me, an understanding of how I was alone. I was +alone with Marcus Harding at that moment because I was Marcus Harding. A +shutter seemed to slide back softly, and for the first time I, Marcus +Harding, stared upon myself out of the body of another man, of Henry +Chichester. I was alone with my soul double. Motionless, silent, I gazed +upon it. Now I understood why I had been tortured with anxiety lest +the world should learn to comprehend Marcus Harding as I comprehended +him. Now I understood why neither he nor I had been able to break that +mysterious link which our sittings had forged between us. I had been +trying ignorantly to protect myself, to conceal my own shortcomings, to +cover my own nakedness. I had sweated with fear lest my own truth should +be discovered by all those to whom for so many years I had been +presenting a lie. Yes, I had sweated with fear; but even then how little +I had known! A voice cried out suddenly, 'Turn on the light!' It was +the voice of my double. It seemed to awake, or to recall perhaps,--how +can I say?--Henry Chichester. I was aware of a shock; it seemed strongly +physical. I got up at once and turned the light on. Marcus Harding was +before me, trembling, ashen. 'What is it? What has happened?' he said in +a broken voice. I made no reply. He left me. I heard his step in the +street--out there!" + +Chichester was silent. The professor said nothing for a moment, but +passed his tongue twice over his lips and swallowed, sighing immediately +afterward. + +"Transferred personality!" he muttered--"transferred personality. Is that +what you'd have me believe?" + +"I'll tell you the rest. When Marcus Harding's steps died away down the +street I remained here. Since that shock I have spoken of, I felt that I +was again Henry Chichester, changed, as I had long been changed--charged +with new force, new knowledge, new discrimination, new power over others, +gifted with a penetrating vision into the very soul of the man I had +worshiped, yet Henry Chichester. And as Henry Chichester I suffered; I +condemned myself. This I said to myself that night, 'I was determined to +see. I disregarded the voice within me which warned me that I was +treading a forbidden path. God has punished me. He has allowed me to see. +But this shall be the end. I will never sit again. I will give up my +curacy. I will leave St. Joseph's at once. Never more will I set eyes on +Marcus Harding.' I was in a condition of fierce excitement--" + +"Ah, exactly," muttered the professor, almost as if consoled--"fierce +excitement!" + +"I could not think of sleep. For a long time I remained in here, +sitting, standing, pacing, opening books; I scarcely know what I did +or did not do. At last a sensation of terrible exhaustion crept over me. +I undressed. I threw myself on my bed. I tried to sleep. I turned, +shifted, got up, let in more air, again lay down, lay resolutely still +in the dark, tried not to think. But always my mind dwelt on that matter. +In those few frightful moments what had become of myself, of Henry +Chichester? Had the powerful personality of that man whom once I had +almost worshiped thrust him away, submerged him, stricken him down in a +sort of deathlike trance? What I had seen I remembered now as Henry +Chichester. What I had known in those moments I still knew now as Henry +Chichester. In vain I revolved this matter in my feverish mind. It was +too much for me. I was in deep waters. + +"I closed my eyes. The fatigue wrapped me more closely. Sleep at last was +surely drawing near. But suddenly I knew--how I cannot exactly say--that +once more the shutter was to be drawn back for me. This knowledge +resembled a horrible physical sensation. The entry of it into my mind, or +indeed into my very soul, was as the dawning of a dreadful and unnatural +pain in the body. This pain increased till it became agony. Although I +still lay motionless, I felt like one involved in a furious struggle in +which the whole sum of me took violent part. And there came to me the +simile of a man seized by tremendous hands, and held before a window +opening into a room in which something frightful was about to take place. +And the shutter slipped back from the window. + +"Again I looked upon myself. That was my exact sensation. The shutter +drawn back, I assisted at the spectacle of Marcus Harding's life. And it +was my life. I knew with such frightful intimacy that my knowledge was as +vision. Therefore, I say, I saw. Not only my spirit seemed to be gazing, +but also my bodily eyes. + +"I saw myself in the night slowly approaching my house in Onslow Gardens, +ashen pale, shaken, terrified. At a corner I passed a policeman. He knew +me and saluted me with respect. I made no gesture in response. He stared +at me in surprise. Then a smile came into his face--the smile of a man +who is suddenly able to think much less of another than he thought +before. I left him smiling thus, reached my house, and stood before it. + +"Now I must tell you, and I rely absolutely on your regarding this as +said in the strictest, most inviolable confidence--" + +"Certainly. Word of honor, and so forth!" said the professor, quickly and +sharply. + +"I must tell you that Marcus Harding is a sinner, and not merely in the +sense in which all men are sinners. There have been recurring moments in +his life when he has committed actions which, if publicly known, would +ruin him in the eyes of the world and put an end to his career. As I +looked at myself standing before my house, I saw that I was hesitating +whether to go in with my misery, or whether to seek for it the hideous +alleviation of my beloved sin. + +"Professor,"--it seemed to Stepton at this moment as if Chichester's +voice loomed upon him out of the darkness by which they were now +enshrouded,--"it has been said that nothing shocks a man so terribly as +the sight of his body-double; that to see what appears to be himself, +even if only standing at a window or sitting before a fire, causes +in a man a physical horror which seems to strike to the very roots of his +physical being. I looked now upon my soul-double, piercing the fleshly +envelop and it was my very soul that sweated and turned cold. For I +perceived the dreadful action which, if known, would certainly ruin me, +being committed by the spirit. The slavish body had not yet bowed down +and done its part; but it was about to obey the impulse of the spirit. +Slowly the body turned away from its home. The spirit was driving it. The +demon with the whip was at work in the night. I looked till the dawn +came. And only when at last my double crept, like a thief, into its +house, did sleep take me for a little while--sleep that was alive with +nightmare." + +Chichester was silent. The professor heard him breathing quickly, saw +him, almost as a shadow just shown by the faint light that entered from +the street through the two small windows, clasp and unclasp his hands, +touch his forehead, his eyelids, move in his chair, like a man profoundly +stirred and unable to be at ease. + +"When I woke," he continued, after a long pause, which the professor did +not break by a word or a movement, "I woke to combat. As I told you, I +had resolved at once to resign my curacy, and never to see that man +again. In the light of the morning I sat down to write my letter of +resignation; but I could not do it. A fearful compulsion to remain was +upon me. I wrote a few words. I stopped, tore the note up, began again. +But writing was impossible. Then I resolved to visit Marcus Harding and +to tell him that I must go. I went to his house. He was at home. When I +saw him I told him that I wished him to sit again that night. He strove +to refuse. He did not understand the truth, but he was terrified. I +ordered him to come to my rooms that night, and left him. As I was going +away I met Lady Sophia. To my amazement, she stopped me, spoke to me +kindly, even more than kindly, looked at me with an expression in her +eyes that almost frightened me. I said to myself, 'But those are a +slave's eyes!' as I left her. Never before had any woman looked at me +like that. In that moment, I think, she began to turn from him toward +me, to forsake weakness for strength. Yes, I say strength. I was rent by +the tumult within me, but I had strength. I have it now. For, despite +his hypocrisy, his unbelief, his active sinning, Marcus Harding had been +a strong man. And even Henry Chichester, with all his humbleness, his +readiness to yield to others, to think nothing of himself, had had the +strength that belongs to purity of soul. And then there is the strength +the soul draws from looking upon truth. There was strength, there is now, +for the woman to follow. And instinct has surely guided her. She does +not, she cannot know. And yet instinct sends her in search of the +strength." + +"What do you mean by that? What do you claim?" + +"You read that sermon?" + +"I did." + +"Don't you understand? I am that man at the window. He did not flee +away. He could not. He was, he is, compelled to remain. He watches that +dreadful life. And the other within the room is fading. The strength, +the authority, the power, are coming to me. Every sitting broadens that +bridge across which the deserters are passing. When I preached that +sermon my congregation sat as if numbed by terror. And he in the choir +listened, never moving. I saw his spirit, dazed, stretching out to grasp +the truth, slipping back powerless to do it. It was like a thing moving +through the gloom of deep waters--of deep, deep waters." + +Again Chichester's voice died away. In the silence that followed the +professor heard the faint ticking of a clock. He had not noticed it +before. He could not tell now whether it came from within the room or +from the room behind the folding-doors. It seemed to him as if this +ticking destroyed his power to think clearly, as if it threw his brain +into an unwonted confusion which made him feel strangely powerless. He +was aware of a great uneasiness approaching, if not actually amounting to +fear. This uneasiness made him long for light. Yet he knew that he +dreaded light; for he was aware of an almost unconquerable reluctance to +look upon the face of his companion. Beset by conflicting desires, +therefore, and the prey of unwonted emotion, he sat like one paralyzed, +listening always to the faint ticking of the clock, and striving to +reduce what was almost like chaos to order in his brain. + +"Why have you selected me to be the hearer of this--this very +extraordinary statement?" he forced himself at length to say prosaically. +The sound of his own dry voice somewhat reassured him, and he added: +"Though there is nothing very extraordinary in the facts you have +related. Telepathic communication between one mind and another is a +commonplace of to-day, an old story. Every one of course accepts it as +possible. What novelty do you claim to present to startle science?" + +"I say that telepathy does not explain the link between Marcus Harding +and myself." + +The professor struck his hand on the table. It seemed to him that if only +he could get into an argument this strange confusion and fear might leave +him. He would be on familiar ground. + +"What you call vision might be merely mind-reading, what you call +perceiving the action of the spirit, mind-reading. Your terror lest +others should find out bad truths about Marcus Harding would spring +naturally enough from your lingering regard for him. Your acute anxiety +when he is preaching arises of course from the fact that, owing to bodily +causes, no doubt, his mental powers are failing him, and he is no longer +able to do himself justice." + +"You don't understand. What I desired in our sittings was to draw into +myself strength, power, will from--him. What have I done? I have drawn +into myself the very man. That night when the shutter slipped back he +looked out from the body of Henry Chichester. His mind worked, his soul +was alive, within the cage of another man. And meanwhile Henry Chichester +lay as if submerged, but presently stirred, and, however feebly, lived +again. He lives now. But not from him comes my frightful comprehension of +Marcus Harding. Not him does Marcus Harding fear. Not to him does she, +the woman, look with the eyes of a slave. It is not he who dominates the +crowds in St. Joseph's. It is not he who conceived that sermon of the man +and his double. It is not he who has sometimes been terribly afraid." + +"Afraid! Afraid!" + +"There have been moments when I have been moved to snatch my double out +of the sight of men. That day when we met Evelyn Malling I feared as I +left them alone together; and when I found Malling intimately there in +that house, I felt like one coming upon an ambush which might be +destructive of his safety. My instinct was to detach Malling from my +double, to attach him to myself. My conduct startled him. I saw that +plainly. Yet I tried to win him over, as it were, to my side. He came to +me. I strove to tell him, but something secret prevented me. And +how could he assist me?" + +Chichester got up from the table. The professor saw a darkness moving as +he went to stand by the empty fireplace. + +"I must look on truth," he continued; "I have to. The fascination of +staring upon the truth of oneself is deadly, but it surpasses all other +fascination. He sins more often now. I watch him sin. Sometimes under +my contemplation I see him writhing like a thing in a trap--the semblance +of myself. How the woman despises him now! Sometimes I feel deeply sad +at my own ruthlessness. It is frightful to contemplate the physical wreck +of a being whom, in some strange and hideous way, one always feels to +be oneself. When I look at him it is as if his fallen face, his hanging +nerveless hands, his down-drooping figure and eyes lit with despair were +mine. His poses, his gestures, his physical tricks, they are all mine. +I watch them with a cold, enveloping disgust, frozen in criticism of +everything he does, anticipating every movement, every look, hating +it when it comes, because it is bred out of the remnant of a spirit +I despise as no man surely has ever despised before. Henry Chichester +would pity, but he is overborne. He is in me as a drop may be in the +ocean. I am most aware of him when my double sins. Only last night we +sat"--Chichester came back to the table, and stood there, very faintly +relieved against the darkness by the dim light which penetrated through +the windows--"we sat in the darkness, and more deeply than ever before +I went down into the darkness. I felt as if I were penetrating into the +last recesses of a ruined temple. And there, in the ultimate chamber +crouched all that was left of the inmate, terrified, helpless, and +ignorant. As I looked upon him I understood why man is never permitted +really to know himself unless, in an access of mad folly and overweening +pride, he succeeds in crossing the boundary which to pass is sheer +wickedness. And I tried to turn away, but I could not--I could not. +I made a supreme effort. It was in vain. + +"I saw him go home. At last he was sick of his sin. There rose within him +that strange longing for goodness, for purity and rest, that terrible, +aching desire to be what those who once loved him for long had thought +him to be, which perhaps never dies in the soul of a human being. Is it +the instinct of the Creator burning like an undying spark in the created? +And, as he drew near to his house, there came to him the resolve to +speak, to acknowledge, to say, 'This is what I am. Know me as I am! Care +for me still, in spite of what I am!' He went in, and sought her--the +woman. She was alone. Sleep had not come to her. Perhaps some instinct +had told her she must wake and be ready for something. Then he gathered +together the little that was left to him of courage, and he strove to +tell her, to make her understand some of the truth, to obtain from her +the greatest of human gifts--the love of one from whom a man has no +secrets that he can tell. + +"She listened for a moment, then she thrust out her hands as if to push +the truth of him out of her life. And last night she left him--going in +fear of him." + +The professor shook his narrow shoulders, and sprang abruptly to his +feet. The ticking of the clock now sounded almost like a hammer beating +in his ears. + +"It's time we had some light," he said in rather a loud voice. + +The darkness that was Chichester moved. A gleam of light shone in the +little room, revealing the thin Madonna, "The Light of the World," the +piano, the neatly bound books of the curate of St. Joseph's; revealing +Chichester, who now stood facing the professor, white, drawn, lined, but +with eyes full of almost hideous resolution and power. + +"I advise," said the professor--"I advise you from this time forward--" + +He stared into the eyes of the man opposite to him, and his voice died +away in his throat. + +When, immediately afterward, he found himself walking hurriedly toward +Kensington High Street the sweat was pouring down his face. + + + + +XII + + +One night of that autumn, driven by an overmastering impulse, Evelyn +Malling set out toward Kensington. He felt that he must know something +more of the matter between Marcus Harding and Henry Chichester. Stepton +still kept silence. Malling had not approached him. But why should he not +call upon Chichester, an acquaintance, almost a friend? It was true that +he had resolved, having put the affair into Stepton's hands, to wait. It +had come to this, then, to-night that he could be patient no longer? As +he stood at the corner of Hornton Street, he asked himself that question. +He drew out his watch. It was already past eleven, an unholy hour for an +unannounced visit. But slowly he turned into Hornton Street, slowly went +down that quiet thoroughfare till he was opposite to the windows of the +curate's sitting-room. A light shone in one of them. The rest of the +house was dark. Even the fanlight above the small front door displayed no +yellow gleam. No doubt the household had retired to rest and Henry +Chichester was sitting up alone. A rap would probably bring him down to +open to his nocturnal visitor. But now Malling bethought himself +seriously of the lateness of the hour, and paced slowly up and down, +considering whether to seek speech of the curate or to abandon that idea +and return to Cadogan Square. As in his mental debate he paused once more +opposite to the solitary gleam in the first-floor window, an incident +occurred which startled him, and gave a new bent to his thoughts. It was +this: The light in the window was obscured for a moment as if by some +solid body passing before it. Then the window was violently thrown up, +the large figure of a man, only vaguely perceived by Malling, appeared at +it, and a choking sound dropped out into the night. The man seemed to be +leaning out as if in an effort to fill his lungs with air, or to obtain +the relief of the cool night wind for his distracted nerves. His attitude +struck Malling as peculiar and desperate. Suddenly he moved. The light +showed, and Malling saw for an instant a second figure, small, slight, +commanding. The big man seemed to be sucked back toward the center of the +room. Down came the window; the tranquil gleam of the light shone as +before; then abruptly all was dark. + +Malling realized at once what was happening in the curate's lodgings. As +he paused, gazing at the dark house, he knew that the miserable Marcus +Harding was within, constrained to endure the observation which, to use +his own hideous but poignant phrase, was "eating him away." It was he who +had appeared at the window, like a tortured being endeavoring to escape +into the freedom of the night. It was Henry Chichester who had followed +him, who had drawn him back, who had plunged him into darkness. + +The street was deserted. No policeman passed, regarding him with +suspicion, and Mailing went on sentinel duty. The dark house fascinated +him. More than once a desire came to him to make an effort for the +release of Marcus Harding, to cross the street and to hammer brutally +at the green door. He recalled Henry Chichester's strange sermon, and +he felt as if he assisted at the torture of the double, which he himself +had imaginatively suggested to the two clergymen in Lady Sophia's +drawing-room. Ought he not to interrupt such a torture? + +Midnight struck, and he had not knocked. One o'clock struck; he had paced +the street, but had never gone out of sight of the curate's door. It was +nearly two, and Mailing was not far from the High Street end of the +thoroughfare when he heard a door bang. He turned sharply. A heavy +uncertain footstep rang on the pavement. Out of the darkness emerged a +tall figure with bowed head. As it moved slowly forward once or twice it +swayed, and a wavering arm shot out as if seeking for some support. +Malling stood where he was till he saw the broad ghastliness of Marcus +Harding's white face show under the ray of a lamp. He discerned no eyes. +The eyes of the unhappy man seemed sunken out of recognition in the +dreadful whiteness of his countenance. The gait was that of one who +believes himself dogged, and who tries to slink furtively, but who has +partly lost control of his bodily powers, and who starts in terror at his +own too heavy and sounding footfalls. + +This figure went by Malling, and was lost in the lighted emptiness of the +High Street. Malling did not follow it. Now he had a great desire, born +out of his inmost humanity, to speak with Henry Chichester. He made up +his mind to return to the curate's door: if he saw a light to knock and +ask for admittance; if the window was dark to go on his way. He retraced +his steps, looked up, and saw a light. Then it was to be. That man and he +were to speak together. But as he looked, the light was extinguished. +Nevertheless he struck upon the door. + +No one answered. He struck again, then stepped back into the roadway, and +looked up at Chichester's window. The curate must surely have heard. Yes, +for even as Malling gazed the window moved. No light appeared. But after +a pause a voice above said: + +"Is that you, Mr. Harding?" + +The dim figure of a man was apparent, standing a little back and half +concealed by a darkness of drooping curtains. + +"It is I--Evelyn Malling," said Malling. + +The form at the window started. + +"Mr. Malling!" the words came uncertainly. "What is it? Has--has anything +happened to--why do you want me at such an hour?" + +"I chanced to be in your street and saw your light. I thought I would +give you a hail." + +"Do you mean that you want to come in?" + +After a short pause Malling answered, "Yes." + +"I cannot let you in!" the voice above cried out lamentably. + +Then the window was shut very softly. + + * * * * * + +Three days later Malling saw in the papers the news of the complete +breakdown of Marcus Harding. "Nervous prostration," was the name given by +the doctors to his malady, and it was announced that he had been ordered +to take a sea voyage, and was preparing to start for Australia with a +nurse. + +Soon afterward Malling was walking in the afternoon down Pall Mall, +wondering deeply what would happen, whether the rector would ever start +on that voyage, when he came upon Professor Stepton sidling out of the +Athenaeum. + +"Heard about Harding?" jerked out the professor. + +"Yes. Has he sailed for Australia?" + +"Dead. Died at half-past three o'clock this morning." + +Malling turned cold. + +"Poor fellow!" he said. "Poor fellow!" + +The professor was drawing his plaid shawl round his shoulders. When it +was properly adjusted, he began to walk on. Malling kept almost +mechanically beside him. + +"Did you expect this?" Malling asked. + +"Well, I knew he was failing." + +"And Chichester? Have you seen Chichester since his death?" + +"No. Would you like to see him for me?" + +Malling was deep in thought and did not answer. + +"Do you think?" said the professor, "that Henry Chichester will be +greatly affected by this death?" + +"Affected? Do you mean by grief?" + +"Yes." + +"I should suppose that to be highly improbable." + +The professor shot a very sharp glance at Malling. + +"I'm not sure that I agree with you," he observed dryly. + +"Have you seen him lately?" asked Malling. + +"Not quite recently. But if I had seen him, say, yesterday, I don't think +that would greatly affect my present dubiety. I should, however, like to +set that dubiety at rest. Are you busy to-day?" + +"No." + +"I am. Will you make a little investigation for me? Will you go and pay a +visit of condolence to Chichester on the death of his rector, and then +come round to the White House and report?" + +"I will if you wish it." + +"I shall be in after seven." + +"Very well." + +"I dare say you will be surprised," observed Stepton. "I see my bus." + +Malling left him imperatively waving his arm, and, turning, walked toward +Kensington. + +What were his expectations? He did not know. Stepton had upset his mind. +As he went on slowly he strove to regain his mental equilibrium. But he +could not decide exactly what Stepton had meant. He felt inferior to the +professor as he turned into Hornton Street. + +He did not hesitate, but went at once to the curate's door and rapped. No +one answered. He rapped again, and touched the bell, half hoping, even +while he did so, that there was no one within to hear. + +But an inquiring head appeared in the area, observed, and was sharply +withdrawn. Steps sounded in the passage, and the maid Ellen presented +herself, looking somewhat disordered. + +"Yes, sir?" she said. + +"Is Mr. Chichester at home?" + +"He is in, sir, poor gentleman," replied the maid. "Did you want to see +him?" + +"Yes." + +"I'm sure I don't know whether he will see you, sir." + +"Is he ill?" + +"Not to say ill, sir. But haven't you heard?" + +"What?" + +"His poor rector's gone, sir, what used to come here to visit him so +regular. I never see a gentleman in such a way. Why, he's so changed I +don't hardly know him." + +"Have you been here long?" said Mailing, abruptly. + +"Only six months, sir." + +The maid began to look rather astonished. + +"And so Mr. Chichester is quite altered by his grief?" + +"You never did, sir! He was so firm, wasn't he, above every one! Even his +rector used to look to him and be guided by him. And now he's as gentle +and weak almost as a new-born child, as they say." + +Malling thought of Stepton. Had he looked forward to some such change? + +"Perhaps I could console Mr. Chichester in his grief," he said. "Will you +take him this card and ask if I can see him? I knew Mr. Harding, too. I +might be of use, possibly." + +"I'll ask him, sir. He's laying down on the bed, I do believe." + +Ellen hurried up-stairs with the card. It seemed to Malling that she was +away for a long time. At last she returned. + +"If you please, sir, Mr. Chichester wants to know if it's anything +important. He's feeling very bad, poor gentleman. But of course if it's +anything important, he wouldn't for all the world say no." + +"It is important." + +"Then I was to ask you to walk in, sir, please." + +Chichester's sitting-room was empty when Malling came into it, and the +folding-doors between it and the bedroom were shut. Ellen went away, +and Malling heard a faint murmur of voices, and then Ellen's footstep +retreating down the stairs. Silence followed. He waited, at first +standing. Then he sat down near the piano. Not a sound reached him from +the bedroom. On the curate's table lay a book. Malling took it up. The +title was "God's Will be Done." The author was a well-known high-church +divine, Father Rowton. To him, then, Henry Chichester betook himself for +comfort. The piano stood open. On it was music. Malling looked and saw, +"Oh, for the wings, for the wings of a dove!" by Mendelssohn. The little +room seemed full of pious orthodoxy. Surely its atmosphere was utterly +changed since Malling last was in it. The melody of "Oh, for the wings!" +went through his brain. That the Henry Chichester he had recently known, +that cruel searcher after and expounder of truth, that he should be +helped by those words, by that melody, in an hour of sorrow! + +There was a movement in the bedroom. The folding-doors opened inward, +and the curate appeared. He was very pale, and looked really ill. His +face had fallen in. His fair hair was slightly disordered, and his blue +eyes were surrounded by red rims. His expression suggested that he had +recently undergone an extremely violent shock, which had shaken badly +both body and mind. He looked dazed. Coming forward feebly, he held +out his hand. + +"I believe it is something important," he said in a gentle, rather +wavering voice; "otherwise--I am hardly fit, I fear, to be with my kind. +I"--He sat down--"I have had a terrible shock, Mr. Malling. You have +heard?" + +"You mean Mr. Harding's death?" + +"Yes." + +"I have just heard of it." + +"It occurred at half-past three o'clock last night, or, rather, this +morning. He had been declining for a long while. At the last he just +faded out, as it were. The strange thing is that I knew the exact moment +when he entered into rest." + +"You weren't with him?" + +"Oh, no. I was here, asleep. But at three o'clock I awoke. I felt +violently agitated. I can scarcely describe the sensation. It was +as if I was torn, as if mind and body, or spirit and body, were torn, +lacerated. I suffered the greatest conceivable agony. I tried to cry +out, but I could not. Nor could I move. Then everything suddenly seemed +to fail, all in a moment, and I was at peace. But it was like the peace +of death, I think. And I was aware--I don't know how--that Mr. Harding +was dead. I moved. I looked at my watch. It was a minute after half-past +three. I noted down the time. And this morning--I heard." + +"And then?" + +"Only then I understood my loss--the loss to us all. Ah, Mr. Mailing, +you knew him, but not as I did! Few or none knew him as I did. He was +the greatest and best of men, full of power, but full of kindness and +goodness, too. He guided me in everything. I can never tell you how I +looked up to him, how I trusted him. His judgment was extraordinary, his +reading of character was unerring. I do believe he knew me better than I +knew myself. What shall I do without him?" + +The curate's grief was almost as genuine and unself-conscious as a +child's, and Malling felt as if at that moment, like a child, he felt +himself adrift in a difficult world. His gentle, kindly, but not strong +face was distorted, but not hardened, by his distress, which seemed +begging for sympathy. And Malling remembered the Henry Chichester he had +known some years ago, before the days of St. Joseph's, the saintly but +rather weak man, beloved by every one, but ruling no one. That man was +surely before him, and that man knew not how to play a hypocrite's part. +Yet Malling felt he must test him. + +"His death is very sad," he replied; "but surely his powers had been on +the decline for a long while." + +"His powers, but not his capacity for goodness. His patience was +angelic. Even when the cruelest blow of all fell upon him, even when +his wife--whom, God forgive me! I don't think some of us can ever +forgive--even when she deserted him in his hour of need, he never +complained. He knew it was God's hand upon him, and he submitted. +He has taught me what true patience is. What I owe to him! What I owe +to him!" + +As if distressed beyond measure, the curate got up, almost wringing his +thin hands. + +"It was he who sacrificed his time for me!" he continued, moving +restlessly about the room. "But I seem to remember I told you. Didn't I +tell you--or was it some one else?--how he gave up the hours which should +have been hours of repose in order that my will might be strengthened, +that I might be developed into a man more worthy to be his coadjutor? +When I think, when I remember--" + +His light, tenor voice failed. Tears stood in his gentle, blue eyes. + +"If I am worth anything at all," he suddenly cried out, "if I have gained +any force of character, any power for good at all, I owe it all to my +rector's self-sacrificing endeavors on my behalf--of course, through +God's blessing." + +"Then," said Malling, "you think that Mr. Harding changed you by his +influence?" + +"He helped me to develop, he brought me on. Jealousy was unknown to him. +I was a very poor preacher. He taught me how to hold people's attention. +When I knew he was near me I sometimes seemed almost inspired. I was +inspired by him. I preached almost as if out of his mouth. And now!" + +He made a despairing gesture. + +"Now it will all be different!" he exclaimed. + +And almost involuntarily Malling found himself echoing: + +"Yes, now it will all be different." + +He had seen, he had heard, enough to make his report to the professor, +and he resolved to go. He held out his hand. + +"Oh, but," said Chichester, pressing one hand to his forehead, "I'm so +selfish, so forgetful in my great grief! Surely you said you had come +on some matter of importance." + +"It will wait," said Malling. "Another day. Go and rest now. You need +rest. Any one can see that." + +"Thank you, thank you," said Chichester, with quivering lips. "You are +very thoughtful, very good." + +Malling took his hand in farewell. As he did so there was a sharp knock +at the front door. Chichester started violently. + +"Oh, I do hope it is no one for me!" he cried out. "I cannot--" + +He opened the door of the sitting-room a little way and listened. Voices +were audible below, Ellen's voice and another woman's. + +"You, ma'am! Oh, of course he will see you!" + +"Of course." + +"I didn't know who it was, ma'am." + +"Is it this way?" + +"Yes, ma'am. I'll show you. We do feel it, ma'am. The poor gentleman used +to come here so often of nights." + +"Did he? I didn't know that." + +Malling recognized the second voice as Lady Sophia's. A moment, and she +was ushered into the room. She was dressed in black, but not in widow's +weeds, and wore a veil which she pushed hastily up as she came in almost +with a rush. When she saw Malling, for a moment she looked disconcerted. + +"Oh, I thought--" she began. She stood still. Chichester said nothing, +and did not move. Malling went toward her. + +"I was very much grieved," he said, "at the news I heard to-day." + +She gave him her hand. He knew his words were conventional. How could +they be anything else? But Lady Sophia's manner in giving him her hand +was not conventional. She stretched it out without even looking at him. +She said nothing. Her eyes were fixed upon Chichester, who stood on the +other side of the little room in a rigid attitude, with his eyes cast +down, as if he could not bear to see the woman who had just entered. + +"I offer you my sympathy," Malling added. + +"Sympathy!" said Lady Sophia, with a sharp note in her voice suggestive +of intense, almost febrile excitement. "Then didn't you know?" + +She stared at him, turning her head swiftly. + +"Know?" + +"That I had left him? Yes, I left him, and now he is dead. Do you expect +me to be sorry? Well, I am not sorry. Ah, I see you don't understand!" + +She made a movement toward Chichester. It was obvious that she was so +intensely excited that she had lost the power of self-control. + +"Nobody understands me but you!" she cried out to Chichester. "You +knew what he was, you knew what I endured, you know what I must feel +now. Oh, it's no use pretending. I'm sick of pretence. You have taught me +to care for absolute truth and only that. My relations, my friends--ah! +to-day I have been almost suffocated with hypocrisy! And now, when I +come here--" she flung out her hand toward Mailing--"to get away from it +all--'grieved,' 'my sympathy!' I can't bear any more of that. Tell him! +You tell him! You're so strong, so terribly sincere! One can rest upon +your strength when all else fails one!" + +She tottered. For an instant it seemed to Malling that she was going to +fall against Chichester's shoulder; but she caught at a chair, and saved +herself. + +"Mr. Chichester!" she said, "tell him! Tell him for me!" + +"I have nothing to tell him," said Chichester, with a sort of mild, +almost weak coldness, and wearily. + +"Nothing!" She went nearer to him. "But--you don't welcome me!" + +Chichester looked up, but immediately cast down his eyes again. + +"I cannot," he said. "At this moment I simply cannot." + +An expression of terrified surprise transformed Lady Sophia's face. She +went close up to Chichester, staring at him. + +"Why not?" she asked. + +"You must know that." + +She stood still, always staring at him, as if searching for something +which she did not find. + +"Why not?" she repeated. + +"You left--him when he needed you most. You left him to die alone." + +Lady Sophia suddenly turned round to Malling and scrutinized his face, as +if demanding from him sympathy in her horrified amazement. He regarded +her calmly, and she turned again to the curate. + +"What do you mean?" she said, and her voice had changed. + +"That his friends can never be yours", said Chichester, as if making a +great effort, driven to it by some intense feeling. + +"You call yourself his friend!" said Lady Sophia. Her voice vibrated with +scorn. + +"At any rate, he was mine, my best friend. And now he has gone forever!" + +Lady Sophia drew in her breath. + +"You hypocrite!" she said. "You hypocrite!" + +She spoke like one under the influence of an emotion so intense that it +could not be gainsaid. + +"To pretend you admired him, loved him--_you_!" + +"I did admire and love him." + +She seemed to be struck dumb by his quiet manner, by the conviction in +his voice. In a moment she turned round again toward Malling. Her face +had quite changed. It was working nervously. The mouth quivered. She +stood for a moment, then suddenly she made for the door. As she passed +Malling, she whispered: "The strength--where is it? Oh, I'm afraid of +him! I'm afraid of him!" + +She disappeared. Almost immediately Mailing heard the street door shut. + +"I--I cannot pretend to her," Chichester said, "even in my own house." + +He seemed greatly moved, almost on the verge of tears. + +"I'll leave you alone," said Mailing. "You need to be alone." + +"Thank you! Thank you!" said Chichester. + +And without another word he went into the bedroom, shutting the +folding-doors behind him. + +At half-past seven that same evening Malling was with Professor Stepton, +and made what the professor called his "report." + +"Ah!" said the professor when he had finished. + +"Did you expect Chichester to behave like that, to be like that?" asked +Mailing. + +"I hoped he would." + +"Hoped! Why?" + +"Because it enables me to accept as facts certain things about which I +must otherwise have remained in doubt. Of course I must see Chichester +for myself. But he'll be just the same, just the same." + +The professor's eyes shone, and he poked his chin forward. + +"The reverend gentlemen of St. Joseph's have provided me with a basis," +he exclaimed emphatically. + +"A basis! For what?" asked Mailing. + +"For future experiments and investigations of a highly interesting +nature. Ruskin was very often wrong, but he was right when he said, in a +lucid moment, that every creature is precious. Well, good-night, Malling. +I must get to work. I'll explain everything to you later." + +Almost joyously he shut the door on his friend. Almost joyously he sat +down once more before his writing-table and seized his pen and his +note-book. + +But he did not begin to write. His face suddenly changed. He put his pen +down, pushed his note-book away, sat back in his chair, and let his +pointed chin drop toward his breast. And presently he began to mutter to +himself. + +"A little science!" he muttered. "A little science sends man far away +from God. A great deal of science brings man back to God. Which is it +now--you professor, you? Which is it now?" + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14176 *** diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..afc6c4c --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #14176 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/14176) diff --git a/old/14176-8.txt b/old/14176-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5aa2b4d --- /dev/null +++ b/old/14176-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7152 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Dweller on the Threshold, by Robert +Smythe Hichens + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Dweller on the Threshold + +Author: Robert Smythe Hichens + +Release Date: November 27, 2004 [eBook #14176] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DWELLER ON THE THRESHOLD*** + + +E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Project Gutenberg Beginners Projects, +Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + +THE DWELLER ON THE THRESHOLD + +by + +ROBERT HICHENS + +Author of _The Garden of Allah_, _Bella Donna_, _Egypt and Its +Monuments_, _The Holy Land_, etc. + +1911 + + + + + + + +I + + +When Evelyn Malling, notorious because of his sustained interest in +Psychical Research and his work for Professor Stepton, first met the +Rev. Marcus Harding, that well-known clergyman was still in the full +flow of his many activities. He had been translated from his labors in +Liverpool to a West End church in London. There he had proved hitherto +an astonishing success. On Hospital Sundays the total sums collected +from his flock were by far the largest that came from the pockets of +any congregation in London. The music in St. Joseph's was allowed by +connoisseurs, who knew their Elgar as well as their Goss, their Perosi +as well as their Bach, and their Wesley, to be remarkable. Critical +persons, mostly men, who sat on the fence between Orthodoxy and Atheism, +thought highly of Mr. Harding's sermons, and even sometimes came down +on his side. And, of all signs surely the most promising for a West End +clergyman's success, smart people flocked to him to be married, and Arum +lilies were perpetually being carried in and out of his chancel, which +was adorned with Morris windows. He was married to a woman who managed +to be admirable without being dull, Lady Sophia, daughter of the late +Earl of Mansford, and sister of the present peer. He was comfortably off. +His health as a rule was good, though occasionally he suffered from some +obscure form of dyspepsia. And he was still comparatively young, just +forty-eight. + +Nevertheless, as Evelyn Malling immediately perceived, Mr. Harding was +not a happy man. + +In appearance he was remarkable. Of commanding height, with a big frame, +a striking head and countenance, and a pair of keen gray eyes, he looked +like a man who was intended by nature to dominate. White threads appeared +in his thick brown hair, which he wore parted in the middle. But his +face, which was clean-shaven, had not many telltale lines. And he did not +look more than his age. + +The sadness noted by Malling was at first evasive and fleeting, not +indellibly fixed in the puckers of a forehead, or in the down-drawn +corners of a mouth. It was as a thin, almost impalpable mist, that can +scarcely be seen, yet that alters all the features in a landscape ever +so faintly. Like a shadow it traveled across the eyes, obscured the +forehead, lay about the lips. And as a shadow lifts it lifted. But it +soon returned, like a thing uneasy that is becoming determined to +discover an abiding-place. + +Malling's first meeting with the clergyman took place upon Westminster +Bridge on an afternoon in early May, when London seemed, almost like +a spirited child, to be flinging itself with abandon into the first +gaieties of the season. Malling was alone, coming on foot from Waterloo. +Mr. Harding was also on foot, with his senior curate, the Rev. Henry +Chichester, who was an acquaintance of Malling, but whom Malling had +not seen for a considerable period of time, having been out on his estate +in Ceylon. At the moment when Malling arrived upon the bridge the two +clergymen were standing by the parapet on the Parliament side, looking +out over the river. As he drew near to them the curate glanced suddenly +round, saw him, and uttered an involuntary exclamation which attracted +Mr. Harding's attention. + +"Telepathy!" said Chichester, shaking Malling by the hand. "I believe I +looked round because I knew I should see you. Yet I supposed you to be +still in Ceylon." He glanced at the rector rather doubtfully, seemed to +take a resolution, and with an air almost of doggedness added, "May I?" +and introduced the two men to one another. + +Mr. Harding observed the new-comer with an interest that was +unmistakable. + +"You are the Mr. Malling of whom Professor Stepton has spoken to me," he +said,--"who has done so much experimental work for him?" + +"Yes." + +"The professor comes to my church now and then." + +"I have heard him say so." + +"You saw we were looking at the river? Before I came to London I was at +Liverpool, and learned there to love great rivers. There is something in +a great river that reminds us--" + +He caught his curate's eye and was silent. + +"Are you walking my way?" asked Malling. "I am going by the Abbey and +Victoria Street to Cadogan Square." + +"Then we will accompany you as far as Victoria Station," said the rector. + +"You don't think it would be wiser to take a hansom?" began Chichester. +"You remember--" + +"No, no, certainly not. Walking always does me good," rejoined Mr. +Harding, almost in a tone of rebuke. + +The curate said nothing more, and the three men set out toward Parliament +Square, Malling walking between the two clergymen. + +He felt embarrassed, and this surprised him, for he was an extremely +self-reliant man and entirely free from shyness. At first he thought that +possibly his odd discomfort arose from the fact that he was in company +with two men who, perhaps, had quite recently had a difference which they +were endeavoring out of courtesy to conceal from him. Perhaps there had +been a slight quarrel over some parish matter. Certainly when he first +spoke with them there had been something uneasy, a suspicion of strain, +in the manner of both. But then he remembered how, before Chichester had +turned round, they had been leaning amicably above the river. + +No, it could not be that. He sought mentally for some other reason. But +while he did so he talked, and endeavored to rid himself promptly of the +unwelcome feeling that beset him. + +In this effort, however, he did not at first succeed. The "conditions" +were evidently unsatisfactory. He wondered whether if he were not walking +between the two men he would feel more comfortable, and presently, at a +crossing, he managed to change his place. He was now next to Mr. Harding, +who had the curate on his other side, and at once he felt more at his +ease. The rector of St. Joseph's led the conversation, in which Malling +joined, and at first the curate was silent. But presently Malling noticed +a thing that struck him as odd. Chichester began to "chip in" now and +then, and whenever he did so it was either to modify what Mr. Harding +had just said, or to check him in what he was saying, or abruptly to +introduce a new topic of talk. Sometimes Mr. Harding did not appear to +notice these interruptions; at other times he obviously resented them; +at others again he yielded with an air of anxiety, almost of fear, to +his curate's attenuations or hastened to follow his somewhat surprising +leads down new conversational paths. Malling could not understand +Chichester. But it became evident to him that for some reason or other +the curate was painfully critical of his rector, as sometimes highly +sensitive people are critical of members of their own family. And Mr. +Harding was certainly aware of this critical attitude, and at moments +seemed to be defiant of it, at other moments to be almost terrorized +by it. + +All that passed, be it noted, passed as between gentlemen, rather +glided in the form of nuance than trampled heavily in more blatant +guise. But Evelyn Malling was a highly trained observer and a man in +whom investigation had become a habit. Now that he was no longer ill at +ease he became deeply interested in the relations between the two men +with whom he was walking. He was unable to understand them, and this +fact of course increased his interest. Moreover he was surprised by the +change he observed in Chichester. + +Although he had never been intimate with Henry Chichester, he had known +him fairly well, and had summed him up as a very good man and a decidedly +attractive man, but marred, as Malling thought, by a definite weakness of +character. He had been too amiable, too ready to take others on their own +valuation of themselves, too kind-hearted, and too easily deceived. The +gentleness of a saint had been his, but scarcely the firmness of a saint. +Industrious, dutiful, and conscientious, he had not struck Malling as a +man of strong intellect, though he was a cultivated and well-educated +man. Though not governed by his own passions,--when one looked at him one +had been inclined to doubt whether he had any,--he had seemed prone to be +governed by those about him, at any rate in little matters of every day. +His charm had consisted in his transparent goodness, and in an almost gay +kindliness which had seemed to float round him like an atmosphere. To +look into his face had been to look at the happiness which comes only to +those who do right things, and are at peace with their own souls. + +What could have happened to change this charming, if too pliant, +personality into the critical, watchful, almost--so at moments it seemed +to Malling--aggressive curate who was now, always in a gentlemanly way, +making things rather difficult for his rector? + +And the matter became the more mysterious when Malling considered Mr. +Harding. For here was a man obviously of dominant personality. Despite +his fleeting subservience to Chichester, inexplicable to Malling, he was +surely by far the stronger of the two, both in intellect and character. +Not so saintly, perhaps, he was more likely to influence others. Firmness +showed in his forcible chin, energy in the large lines of his mouth, +decision in his clear-cut features. Yet there was something contradictory +in his face. And the flitting melancholy, already remarked, surely hinted +at some secret instability, perhaps known only to Harding himself, +perhaps known to Chichester also. + +When the three men came to the turning at the corner of the Grosvenor +Hotel, Chichester stopped short. + +"Here is our way," he said, speaking across Mr. Harding to Malling. + +The rector looked at Malling. + +"Have you far to go?" he asked, with rather a tentative air. + +"I live in Cadogan Square." + +"Of course. I remember. You told us you were going there." + +"Good-by," said Chichester. "We are taking the underground to South +Kensington." + +"I think I shall walk," said the rector. + +"But you know we are due--" + +"There is plenty of time. Tell them I shall be there at four." + +"But really--" + +"Punctually at four. I will walk on with Mr. Malling." + +"I really think you had better not," began Chichester. "Over-exertion--" + +"Am I an invalid?" exclaimed Mr. Harding, almost sharply. + +"No, no, of course not. But you remember that yesterday you were not +quite well." + +"That is the very reason why I wish to walk. Exercise always does my +dyspepsia good." + +"Let us all walk," said the curate, abruptly. + +But this was obviously not Mr. Harding's intention. + +"I want you to go through the minutes and the accounts before the +meeting," he said, in a quieter but decisive voice. "We will meet at the +School at four. You will have plenty of time if you take the train. And +meanwhile Mr. Malling and I will go on foot together as far as Cadogan +Square." + +Chichester stood for a moment staring into Mr. Harding's face, then he +said, almost sulkily: + +"Very well. Good-by." + +He turned on his heel, and was lost in the throng near the station. + +It seemed to Malling that an expression of relief overspread his +companion's face. + +"You don't mind my company for a little longer, I hope?" said the rector. + +"I shall be glad to have it." + +They set out on their walk to Cadogan Square. After two or three minutes +of silence the rector remarked: + +"You know Chichester well?" + +"I can hardly say that. I used to meet him sometimes with some friends of +mine, the Crespignys. But I haven't seen him for more than two years." + +"He's a very good fellow." + +"An excellent fellow." + +"Perhaps a little bit limited in his outlook. He has been with me at St. +Joseph's exactly two years." + +The rector seemed about to say more, then shut his large mouth almost +with a snap. Malling made no remark. He was quite certain that snap was +merely the preliminary to some further remark about Chichester. And so it +proved. As they came to St. Peter's Eaton Square, the rector resumed: + +"I often think that it is a man's limitations which make him critical +of others. The more one knows, the wider one's outlook, the readier +one is to shut one's eyes to the foibles, even to the faults, of one's +neighbors. I have tried to impress that upon our friend Chichester." + +"Doesn't he agree with you?" + +"Well--it's difficult to say, difficult to say. Shall we go by Wilton +Place, or--?" + +"Certainly." + +"Professor Stepton has talked to me about you from time to time, Mr. +Malling." + +"He's a remarkable man," said Malling almost with enthusiasm. + +"Yes. He's finding his way to the truth rather by the pathway of science +than by the pathway of faith. But he's a man I respect. And I believe +he'll get out into the light. You've done a great deal of work for him, I +understand, in--in occult directions." + +"I have made a good many careful investigations at his suggestion." + +"Exactly. Now"--Mr. Harding paused, seemed to make an effort, and +continued--"we know very little even now, with all that has been done, +as to--to the possibilities--I scarcely know how to put it--the +possibilities of the soul." + +"Very little indeed," rejoined Malling. + +He was considerably surprised by his companion's manner, but was quite +resolved not to help him out. + +"The possibilities of one soul, let us say, in connection with another," +continued the rector, almost in a faltering voice. "I often feel as if +the soul were a sort of mysterious fluid, and that when we what is called +influence another person, we, as it were, submerge his soul fluid in our +own, as a drop of water might be submerged in an ocean." + +"Ah!" said Malling, laconically. + +Mr. Harding shot a rather sharp glance at him. + +"You don't object to my getting on this subject, I hope?" he observed. + +"Certainly not." + +"Perhaps you think it rather a strange one for a clergyman to select?" + +"Oh, no. I have known many clergymen deeply interested in Stepton's +investigations." + +Mr. Harding's face, which had been cloudy, cleared. + +"It seems to me," he said, "that we clergymen have a special reason +for desiring Stepton, and all Stepton's assistants, to make progress. +It is true, of course, that we live by faith. And nothing can be more +beautiful than a childlike faith in the Great Being who is above all +worlds, in the _anima mundi_. But it would be unnatural in us if we did +not earnestly desire that our faith be proved, scientifically proved, +to be well-founded. I speak now of the faith we Christians hold in a +life beyond the grave. I know many people who think it very wrong in a +clergyman to mix himself up in any occult experiments. But I don't agree +with them." + +It was now Malling's turn to look sharply at his companion. + +"Have you made many experiments yourself, may I ask?" he said very +bluntly. + +The clergyman started, and was obviously embarrassed by the question. + +"I! Oh, I was speaking generally. I am a very busy man, you see. What +with my church and my parish, and one thing and another, I get very +little time for outside things. Still I am greatly interested, I confess, +in all that Stepton is doing." + +"Does Mr. Chichester share your interest?" said Malling. + +"In a minor degree, in a minor degree," answered the rector, rather +evasively. + +They were now in Sloane Street and Malling said: + +"I must turn off here." + +"I'll go with you as far as your door if you've no objection," said the +rector, who seemed very loath to leave his companion. "It's odd how men +change, isn't it?" + +"As they grow older? But surely development is natural and to be +expected?" + +"Certainly. But when a man changes drastically, sheds his character and +takes on another?" + +"You are talking perhaps of what is called conversion?" + +"Well, that would be an instance of what I mean, no doubt. But there +are changes of another type. We clergymen, you know, mix intimately with +so many men that we are almost bound to become psychologists if we are +to do any good. It becomes a habit with many of us to study closely our +fellow-men. Now I, for instance; I cannot live at close quarters with a +man without, almost unconsciously, subjecting him to a minute scrutiny, +and striving to sum him up. My curates, for example--" + +"Yes?" said Malling. + +"There are four of them, our friend Chichester being the senior one." + +"And you have 'placed' them all?" + +"I thought I had, I thought so--but--" + +Mr. Harding was silent. Then, with a strange abruptness, and the air of a +man forced into an action against which something within him protested, +he said: + +"Mr. Malling, you are the only person I know who, having been acquainted +with Henry Chichester, has at last met him again after a prolonged +interval of separation. Two years, you said. People who see a man from +day to day observe very little or nothing. Changes occur and are not +noticed by them. A man and his wife live together and grow old. But does +either ever notice when the face of the other begins first to lose its +bloom, to take on that peculiar, unmistakable stamp that the passage of +the years sets on us all? Few of us really see what is always before us. +But the man who comes back--he sees. Tell me the honest truth, I beg of +you. Do you or do you not, see a great change in Henry Chichester?" + +The rector's voice had risen while he spoke, till it almost clamored for +reply. His eyes were more clamorous still, insistent in their demand upon +Malling. Nevertheless voice and eyes pushed Malling toward caution. +Something within him said, "Be careful what you do!" and, acting +surprise, he answered: + +"Chichester changed! In what way?" + +The rector's countenance fell. + +"You haven't observed it?" + +"Remember I've only seen him to-day and walking in the midst of crowds." + +"Quite true! Quite true!" + +Mr. Harding meditated for a minute, and then said: + +"Mr. Malling, I daresay my conduct to-day may surprise you. You may think +it odd of me to be so frank, seeing that you and I have not met before. +But Stepton has told me so much about you that I cannot feel we are quite +strangers. I should like you to have an opportunity of observing Henry +Chichester without prejudice. I will say nothing more. But if I invite +you to meet him, in my house or elsewhere, will you promise me to come?" + +"Certainly, if I possibly can." + +"And your address?" + +Malling stopped and, smiling, pointed to the number outside a house. + +"You live here?" + +Mr. Harding took a small book and a pencil from his pocket and noted down +the address. + +"Good-by," he said. "I live in Onslow Gardens--Number 89." + +"Thank you. Good-by." + +The two men shook hands. Then Mr. Harding went on his way toward South +Kensington, while Malling inserted his latch-key into the door of Number +7b, Cadogan Square. + + + + +II + + +Evelyn Malling was well accustomed to meeting with strange people and +making investigations into strange occurrences. He was not easily +surprised, nor was he easily puzzled. By nature more skeptical than +credulous, he had a cool brain, and he was seldom, if ever, the victim +of his imagination. But on the evening of the day in question he found +himself continually dwelling, and with a curiously heated mind, upon the +encounter of that afternoon. Mr. Harding's manner in the latter part of +their walk together had--he scarcely knew why--profoundly impressed him. +He longed to see the clergyman again. He longed, almost more ardently, to +pay a visit to Henry Chichester. Although the instinct of caution, which +had perhaps been developed in him by his work among mediums, cranks of +various kinds, and charlatans, had prevented him from letting the rector +know that he had been struck by the change in the senior curate, that +change had greatly astonished him. Yet was it really so very marked? He +had noticed it before his attention had been drawn to it. That he knew. +But was he not now, perhaps, exaggerating its character, "suggestioned" +as it were by the obvious turmoil of Mr. Harding? He wondered, and was +disturbed by his wonderment. Two or three times he got up, with the +intention of jumping into a cab, and going to Westminster to find out +if Professor Stepton was in town. But he only got as far as the hall. +Then something seemed to check him. He told himself that he was in no +fit condition to meet the sharp eyes of the man of science, who delighted +in his somewhat frigid attitude of mind toward all supposed supernormal +manifestations, and he returned to his study and tried to occupy himself +with a book. + +On the occasion of his last return, just as he was about to sit down, +his eyes chanced to fall on an almanac framed in silver which stood on +his writing-table. He took it up and stared at it. May 8, Friday--May 9, +Saturday--May 10, Sunday. It was May 9. He put the almanac back on the +table with a sudden sense of relief. For he had come to a decision. + +To-morrow he would attend morning service at St. Joseph's. + +Malling was not a regular church-goer. He belonged to the Stepton breed. +But he was an earnest man and no scoffer, and some of his best friends +were priests and clergymen. Nevertheless it was in a rather unusual +go-to-meeting frame of mind that he got into a tail-coat and top hat, and +set forth in a hansom to St. Joseph's the next morning. + +He had never been there before. As he drew near he found people flowing +toward the great church on foot, in cabs and carriages. Evidently Mr. +Harding had attractive powers, and Malling began to wonder whether he +would have any difficulty in obtaining the seat he wanted, in some corner +from which he could get a good view both of the chancel and the pulpit. +Were vergers "bribable"? What an ignoramus he was about church matters! + +He smiled to himself as he paid the cabman and joined the stream of +church-goers which was passing in through the open door. + +Just as he was entering the building someone in the crowd by accident +jostled him, and he was pushed rather roughly against a tall lady +immediately before him. She turned round with a startled face, and +Malling hastily begged her pardon. + +"I was pushed," he said. "Forgive me." + +The lady smiled, her lips moved, doubtless in some words of conventional +acceptance, then she disappeared in the throng, taking her way toward +the left of the church. She was a slim woman, with a white streak in her +dark hair just above the forehead. Her face, which was refined and +handsome, had given to Malling a strong impression of anxiety. Even when +it had smiled it had looked almost tragically anxious, he thought. The +church was seated with chairs, and a man, evidently an attendant, told +him that all the chairs in the right and left aisles were free. He made +his way to the right, and was fortunate enough to get one not far from +the pulpit. Unluckily, from it he could only see the left-hand side of +the choir. But the preacher would be full in his view. The organ sounded; +the procession appeared. Over the heads of worshipers--he was a tall +man--Malling perceived both Mr. Harding and Chichester. The latter took +his place at the end of the left-hand row of light-colored oaken stalls +next to the congregation. Malling could see him well. But the rector was +hidden from him. He fixed his eyes upon Chichester. + +The service went on its way. The music was excellent. A fair young man, +who looked as if he might be a first-rate cricketer, one of the curates +no doubt, read the lessons. Chichester intoned with an agreeable light +tenor voice. During the third hymn, "Fight the Good Fight," Mr. Harding +mounted into the pulpit. He let down the brass reading-desk. He had no +notes in his hands. Evidently he was going to preach extempore. After +the "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost" +had been pronounced, Malling settled himself to listen. He felt tensely +interested. Both Mr. Harding and Chichester were now before him, the +one as performer--he used the word mentally, with no thought of +irreverence--the other as audience. He could study both as he wished to +study them at that moment. + +Chichester was a small, cherubic man, with blue eyes, fair hair, and neat +features, the sort of man who looks as if when a boy he must have been +the leading choir-boy in a cathedral. There was nothing powerful in his +face, but much that was amiable and winning. His chin and his forehead +were rather weak. His eyes and his mouth looked good. Or--did they? + +Malling found himself wondering as Mr. Harding preached. + +And was Mr. Harding the powerful preacher he was reputed to be? + +At first he held his congregation. That was evident. Rows of rapt faces +gazed up at him, as he leaned over the edge of the pulpit, or stood +upright with his hands pressed palm downward upon it. But it seemed to +Malling that he held them rather because of his reputation, because of +what they confidently expected of him, because of what he had done in +the past, than because of what he was actually doing. And presently they +slipped out of his grasp. He lost them. + +The first thing that is necessary in an orator, if he is to be successful +with an audience, is confidence in himself, a conviction that he has +something to say which is worth saying, which has to be said. Malling +perceived that on this Sunday morning Mr. Harding possessed neither +self-confidence nor conviction; though he made a determined, almost a +violent, effort to pretend that he had both. He took as the theme of his +discourse self-knowledge, and as his motto--so he called it---the words, +"Know thyself." This was surely a promising subject. He began to treat it +with vigor. But very soon it became evident that he was ill at ease, as +an actor becomes who cannot get into touch with his audience. He stumbled +now and then in his sentences, harked back, corrected a phrase, modified +a thought, attenuated a statement. Then, evidently bracing himself up, +almost aggressively he delivered a few passages that were eloquent +enough. But the indecision returned, became more painful. He even +contradicted himself. A "No, that is not so. I should say--" communicated +grave doubts as to his powers of clear thinking to the now confused +congregation. People began to cough and to shift about in their chairs. A +lady just beneath the pulpit unfolded a large fan and waved it slowly to +and fro. Mr. Harding paused, gazed at the fan, looked away from it, wiped +his forehead with a handkerchief, grasped the pulpit ledge, and went on +speaking, but now with almost a faltering voice. + +The congregation were doubtless ignorant of the cause of their pastor's +perturbation, but Malling felt sure that he knew what it was. + +The cause was Henry Chichester. + +On the cherubic face of the senior curate, as he leaned back in his +stall while Mr. Harding gave out the opening words of the sermon, there +had been an expression that was surely one of anxiety, such as a master's +face wears when his pupil is about to give some public exhibition. That +simile came at once into Malling's mind. It was the master listening to +the pupil, fearing for, criticizing, striving mentally to convey help to +the pupil. And as the sermon went on it was obvious to Malling that the +curate was not satisfied with it, and that his dissatisfaction was, as +it were, breaking the rector down. At certain statements of Mr. Harding +looks of contempt flashed over Chichester's face, transforming it. +The anxiety of the master, product of vanity but also of sympathy, +was overlaid by the powerful contempt of a man who longs to traverse +misstatements but is forced by circumstances to keep silence. And so +certain was Malling that the cause of Mr. Harding's perturbation lay in +Chichester's mental attitude, that he longed to spring up, to take the +curate by the shoulders and to thrust him out of the church. Then all +would be well. He knew it. The rector's self-confidence would return and, +with it, his natural powers. + +But now the situation was becoming painful, almost unbearable. + +With every sentence the rector became more involved, more hesitating, +more impotent. The sweat ran down his face. Even his fine voice was +affected. It grew husky. It seemed to be failing. Yet he would not +cease. To Malling he gave the impression of a man governed by a secret +obstinacy, fighting on though he knew it was no use, that he had lost +the combat. Malling longed to cry out to him, "Give it up!" + +The congregation coughed more persistently, and the lady with the fan +began to ply her instrument of torture almost hysterically. + +Suddenly Malling felt obliged to look toward the left of the crowded +church. Sitting up very straight, and almost craning his neck, he stared +over the heads of the fidgeting people and met the eyes of a woman, the +lady with the streak of white hair against whom he had pushed when +coming in. + +There was a look almost of anguish on her face. She turned her eyes +toward Mr. Harding. At the same instant the rector saw Mailing in the +congregation. He stopped short, muttered an uneven sentence, then, +forcing his voice, uttered in unnaturally loud tones the "Now to God the +Father," et cetera. + +Henry Chichester rose in his stall with an expression of intense +thankfulness, which yet seemed somehow combined with a sneer. + +The collection was made. + +Before the celebration some of the choir and two of the clergy, of whom +Mr. Harding was one, left the church. Henry Chichester and the fair, +athletic-looking curate remained. Mailing took his hat and made his way +slowly to the door. As he emerged a young man stopped him and said: + +"If you please, sir, the rector would like to speak to you if you could +wait just a moment. You are Mr. Malling, I believe." + +"Yes. How could you know?" + +"Mr. Harding told me what you were like, sir, and that you were wearing +a tie with a large green stone in it. Begging your pardon, sir." + +"I will wait," said Malling, marveling at the rector's rapid and accurate +powers of observation. + +Those of the congregation who had not remained for the celebration were +quickly dispersing, but Malling now noticed that the lady with the white +lock was, like himself, waiting for some one. She stood not far from him. +She was holding a parasol, and looking down; she moved its point to and +fro on the ground. Several people greeted her. Almost as if startled she +glanced up quickly, smiled, replied. Then, as they went on, she again +looked down. There was a pucker in her brow. Her lips twitched now and +then. + +Suddenly she lifted her head, turned and forced her quivering mouth to +smile. Mr. Harding had come into sight round the corner of the church. + +"Ah, Mr. Malling," he said, "so you have stayed. Very good of you. +Sophia, let me introduce Mr. Malling to you--my wife, Lady Sophia." + +The lady with the white lock held out her hand. + +"You have heard Professor Stepton speak of Mr. Malling, haven't you?" +added the rector to his wife. + +"Indeed I have," she answered. + +She smiled again kindly, and as if resolved to throw off her depression +began to talk with some animation as they all walked together toward the +street. Directly they reached it the rector said: + +"Are you engaged to lunch to-day, Mr. Malling?" + +"No," answered Malling. + +Lady Sophia turned to him and said: + +"Then I shall be informal and beg you to lunch with us, if you don't mind +our being alone. We lunch early, at one, as my husband is tired after his +morning's work and eats virtually nothing at breakfast." + +"I shall be delighted," said Malling. "It's very kind of you." + +"We always walk home," said the rector. + +He sighed. It was obvious that he was in low spirits after the failure of +the morning, but he tried to conceal the fact, and his wife tactfully +helped him. Malling praised the music warmly, and remarked on the huge +congregation. + +"I scarcely thought I should find a seat," he added. + +"It is always full to the doors in the morning," said Lady Sophia, with a +cheerfulness that was slightly forced. + +She glanced at her husband, and suddenly added, not without a decided +touch of feminine spite: + +"Unless Mr. Chichester, the senior curate, is preaching." + +"My dear Sophy!" exclaimed Mr. Harding. + +"Well, it is so!" she said, with a sort of petulance. + +"Perhaps Mr. Chichester is not gifted as a preacher," said Malling. + +"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said the rector. + +"My husband never criticizes his--swans," said Lady Sophia, with delicate +malice, and a glance full of meaning at Malling. "But I'm a woman, and my +principles are not so high as his." + +"You do yourself an injustice," said the rector. "Here we are." + +He drew out his latch-key. + +Before lunch Malling was left alone for a few minutes in the drawing-room +with Lady Sophia. The rector had to see a parishioner who had called and +was waiting for him in his study. Directly her husband had left the room +Lady Sophia turned to Malling and said: + +"Had you ever heard my husband preach till this morning?" + +"No, never," Mailing answered. "I'm afraid I'm not a very regular +church-goer. I must congratulate you again on the music at St. Joseph's. +It is exceptional. Even at St. Anne's Soho--" + +Almost brusquely she interrupted him. She was obviously in a highly +nervous condition; and scarcely able to control herself. + +"Yes, yes, our music is always good, of course. So glad you liked it. +But what I want to say is that you haven't heard my husband preach this +morning." + +Malling looked at her with curiosity, but without astonishment. He might +have acted a part with her as he had the previous day with her husband. +But, as he looked, he came to a rapid decision, to be more frank with the +woman than he had been with the man. + +"You mean, of course, that your husband was not in his best vein," he +said. "I won't pretend that I didn't realize that." + +"You didn't hear him at all. He wasn't himself--simply." + +She sat down on a sofa and clasped her hands together. + +"I cannot tell you what I was feeling," she added. "And he used to be so +full of self-confidence. It was his great gift. His self-confidence +carried him through everything. Nothing could have kept him back if--" + +Suddenly she checked herself and looked, with a sort of covert inquiry, +at Malling. + +"You must think me quite mad to talk like this," she said, with a return +to her manner when he first met her. + +"Shall I tell you what I really think?" he asked, leaning forward in the +chair he had taken. + +"Yes, do, do!" + +"I think you are very ambitious for your husband and that your ambition +for him has received a perhaps mysterious--check." + +Before she could reply the door opened and Mr. Harding reappeared. + +At lunch he carefully avoided any reference to church matters, and +they talked on general subjects. Lady Sophia showed herself a nervously +intelligent and ardent woman. It seemed to Malling obvious that she was +devoted to her husband, "wrapped up in" him--to use an expressive phrase. +Any failure on his part upset her even more than it did him. Secretly she +must still be quivering from the public distresses of the morning. But +she now strove to aid the rector's admirable effort to be serene, and +proved herself a clever talker, and well informed on the events of the +day. Of her Malling got a fairly clear impression. + +But his impression of her husband was confused and almost nebulous. + +"Do you smoke?" asked Mr. Harding, when lunch was over. + +Malling said that he did. + +"Then come and have a cigar in my study." + +"Yes, do go," said Lady Sophia. "A quiet talk with you will rest my +husband." + +And she went away, leaving the two men together. + +Mr. Harding's study looked out at the back of the house upon a tiny strip +of garden. It was very comfortably, though not luxuriously, furnished, +and the walls were lined with bookcases. While his host went to a drawer +to get the cigar-box, Malling idly cast his eyes over the books in the +shelves nearest to him. He always liked to see what a man had to read. +The first book his eyes rested upon was Myers's "Human Personality." +Then came a series of works by Hudson, including "Psychic Phenomena," +then Oliver Lodge's "Survival of Man," "Man and the Universe," and "Life +and Matter." Farther along were works by Lowes Dickinson and Professor +William James, Bowden's "The Imitation of Buddha" and Inge's "Christian +Mysticism." At the end of the shelf, bound in white vellum, was Don +Lorenzo Scupoli's "The Spiritual Combat." + +A drawer shut, and Mailing turned about to take the cigar which Mr. +Harding offered him. + +"The light is rather strong, don't you think?" Mr. Harding said, when the +two men had lit up. "I'll lower the blind." + +He did so, and they sat down in a sort of agreeable twilight, aware of +the blaze of an almost un-English sun without. + +Malling settled down to his cigar with a very definite intention to +clear up his impressions of the rector. The essence of the man baffled +him. He had known more about Lady Sophia in five minutes than he knew +about Mr. Harding now, although he had talked with him, walked with him, +heard him preach, and watched him intently while he was doing so. His +confusion and distress of the morning were comprehended by Malling. They +were undoubtedly caused by the preacher's painful consciousness of the +presence and criticism of one whom, apparently, he feared, or of whose +adverse opinion at any rate he was in peculiar dread. But what was the +character of the man himself? Was he saint or sinner, or just ordinary, +normal man, with a usual allowance of faults and virtues? Was he a man +of real force, or was he painted lath? The Chichester episodes seemed +to point to the latter conclusion. But Malling was too intelligent to +take everything at its surface value. He knew much of the trickery of +man, but that knowledge did not blind him to the mystery of man. He +had exposed charlatans. Yet he had often said to himself, "Who can ever +really expose another? Who can ever really expose himself?" Essentially +he was the Seeker. And he was seldom or never dogmatic. A friend of his, +who professed to believe in transmigration, had once said of him, "I'm +quite certain Malling must have been a sleuth-hound once." Now he wished +to get on a trail. + +But Mr. Harding, who on the previous day had been almost strangely frank +about Henry Chichester, to-day had apparently no intention to be frank +about himself. Though he had desired Malling's company, now that they +were together alone he showed a reserve through which, Malling believed, +he secretly wanted to break. But something held him back. He talked of +politics, government and church, the spread of science, the follies of +the day. And Malling got little nearer to him. But presently Malling +happened to mention the modern craze for discussing intimately, or, as a +Frenchwoman whom he knew expressed it, "_avec un luxe de détail_," +matters of health. + +"Yes, yes," responded Mr. Harding. "It is becoming almost objectionable, +almost indecent. At the same time the health of the body is a very +interesting subject because of its effect upon the mind, even, so it +seems sometimes, upon the very nature of a man. Now I--" he struck the +ash off the end of his cigar--"was, I might almost say, the victim of my +stomach in the pulpit this morning." + +"You were feeling ill?" + +"Not exactly ill. I have a strong constitution. But I suffer at times +from what the doctors call nervous dyspepsia. It is a very tiresome +complaint, because it takes away for the time a man's confidence in +himself, reduces him to the worm-level almost; and it gives him absurd +ideas. Now this morning in the pulpit I had an attack of pain and +uneasiness, and my nerve quite gave out. You must have noticed it." + +"I saw that you were troubled by something." + +"Something! It was that. My poor wife was thoroughly upset by it. You +know how sensitive women are. To hold a crowd of people a man must be +strong and well, in full possession of his powers. And I had a good +subject." + +"Splendid." + +"I'll treat it again--treat it again." + +The rector shifted in his chair. + +"Do you think," he said after a pause, "that it is possible for another, +an outsider, to know a man better than he knows himself?" + +"In some cases, yes," answered Malling. + +"But--as a rule?" + +"There is the saying that outsiders see most of the game." + +"Then why should we mind when all are subject to criticism!" exclaimed +Mr. Harding, forcibly. + +Evidently he was startled by his own outburst, for instantly he set about +to attenuate it. + +"What I mean is that men ought not to care so much as most of them +undoubtedly do what others think about them." + +"It certainly is a sign of great weakness to care too much," said +Malling. "But some people have a quite peculiar power of impressing their +critical thoughts on others. These spread uneasiness around them like an +atmosphere." + +"I know, I know," said the rector, with an almost hungry eagerness. "Now +surely one ought to keep out of such an atmosphere, to get out of it, and +to keep out of it." + +"Why not?" + +"But--but--how extraordinary it is, the difficulty men have in getting +away from things! Haven't you noticed that?" + +"Want of moral strength," said Mailing, laconically. + +"You think so?" + +"Don't you?" + +At this moment there was a knock at the door. Mr. Harding started. + +"How impossible it is to get a quiet moment," he said with acute +irritation. "Come in!" he called out. + +The footman appeared. + +"Mr. Chichester has called to see you, sir." + +The rector's manner changed. He beckoned to the man to come into the room +and to shut the door. The footman, looking surprised, obeyed. + +"Where is he, Thomas?" asked Mr. Harding, in a lowered voice. "In the +hall?" + +"No, sir. As you were engaged I showed him up into the drawing-room." + +"Oh, very well. Thank you. You can go." + +The footman went out, still looking surprised. + +Just as he was about to close the door his master said: + +"Wait a moment!" + +"Sir?" + +"Was her ladyship in the drawing-room?" + +"No, sir. Her ladyship is lying down in the boudoir." + +"Ah. That will do." + +The footman shut the door. + +Directly he was gone the rector got up with an air of decision. + +"Mr. Malling," he said, "perhaps I ought to apologize to you for treating +you with the abruptness allowable in a friend, but surprising in an +acquaintance, indeed in one who is almost a stranger. I do apologize. My +only excuse is that I know you to be a man of exceptional trend of mind +and unusual ability. I know this from Professor Stepton. But there's +another thing. As I told you yesterday, you are the only person of my +acquaintance who, having been fairly intimate with Henry Chichester, has +not seen anything of him during the two years he has been with me as my +coadjutor. Now what I want you to do is this: will you go upstairs and +spend a few minutes alone with Chichester? Tell him I am detained, but +am coming in a moment. I'll see to it that you are not interrupted. I'll +explain to my wife. And, of course, I rely on you to make the matter +appear natural to Chichester, not to rouse his--but I am sure you +understand. Will you do this for me?" + +"Certainly," said Malling, with his most prosaic manner. "Why not?" + +"Why not? Exactly. There's nothing objectionable in the matter. But--" +Mr. Harding's manner became very earnest, almost tragic. "I'll ask you +one thing--afterward you will tell me the truth, exactly how Chichester +impresses you now in comparison with the impression you got of him two +years ago. You--you have no objection to promising to tell me?" + +Malling hesitated. + +"But is it quite fair to Chichester?" he said. "Suppose I obtained, for +instance, a less favorable, or even an unfavorable impression of him +now? You are his rector. I hardly think--" + +The rector interrupted him. + +"I'll leave it to you," he said. "Do just as you please. But, believe me, +I have a very strong reason for wishing to know your opinion. I need it. +I need it." + +There was a lamentable sound in his voice. + +"If I feel it is right I will give it to you," said Malling. + +The rector opened the door of the study. + +"You know your way?" + +"Yes." + +Malling went upstairs. Mr. Harding stood watching him from below till he +disappeared. + + + + +III + + +When Malling opened the door of the drawing-room Chichester was standing +by one of the windows, looking out into Onslow Gardens. He turned round, +saw Malling, and uttered an exclamation. + +"You are here!" + +His light tenor voice sounded almost denunciatory, as if he had a right +to demand an explanation of Malling's presence in Mr. Harding's house, +and as he came away quickly from the window, he repeated, with still more +emphasis: + +"You are here!" + +"Lunching--yes," replied Malling, imperturbably. + +He looked at Chichester and smiled. + +"You have no objection, I hope?" + +His words and manner evidently brought the curate to a sense of his own +unconventionality. He held out his hand. + +"I beg your pardon. Your coming in surprised me. I had no idea"--his blue +eyes went searchingly over Malling's calm face--"that you could be here. +I thought you and the rector were complete strangers till I introduced +you yesterday." + +"So we were." + +Malling sat down comfortably on a sofa. His action evidently recalled +Chichester's mind to the fact that he was to see the rector. + +"Isn't the rector coming to see me?" he asked. + +"Almost directly. He's busy for a few minutes. We were smoking together +in his study." + +"You seem to--you seem to have made great friends!" said Chichester, with +a sort of forced jocularity. + +"Great friends! They're hardly made in a moment. I happened to be at +church this morning--" + +"At church--where?" exclaimed the curate. + +"At St. Joseph's. And Mr. Harding kindly asked me to lunch." + +"You were at church at St. Joseph's this morning?" said Chichester. + +He sat down by Malling and stared into his face. + +"Did you--did you stay for the sermon?" + +"Certainly. I came for the sermon. I had never heard Mr. Harding preach." + +"No? No? Well, what did you think of it? What did you think of it?" + +The curate spoke nervously, and seemed to Malling to be regarding him +with furtive anxiety. + +"It was obvious that Mr. Harding wasn't in good form this morning," +Malling said. "He explained the matter after lunch." + +"He _explained_ the matter!" said Chichester, with a rising voice, in +which there was an almost shrill note of suspicion. + +"Yes. He told me he was often the victim of nervous dyspepsia, and that +he had an attack of it while in the pulpit this morning." + +"He told you it was nervous dyspepsia!" + +"I have just said so." + +The curate looked down. + +"I advised him not to walk all the way home yesterday," he said gloomily. +"You heard me." + +"You think it was that?" + +"He never will take advice from any one. That's his--one of his great +faults. Whatever he thinks, whatever he says, must be right. You, as a +layman, probably have no idea how a certain type of clergyman loves +authority." + +This remark struck Malling as in such singularly bad taste--considering +where they were, and that one of them was Mr. Harding's guest, the other +his curate--that only his secret desire to make obscure things clear +prevented him from resenting it. + +"It is one of the curses of the Church," continued Chichester, "this +passion for authority, for ruling, for having all men under one's feet as +it were. If men would only listen, take advice, see themselves as they +really are, how much finer, how much greater, they might become!" + +"See themselves as others see them! Eh?" said Malling. "But do you mean +that a rector should depend on his curate's advice rather than on his own +judgment?" + +"And why not?" said Chichester. "Rector--curate--archbishop--what does it +matter? The point is not what rank in the hierarchy a man has, but what, +and how, does he see? A street boy may perceive a truth that a king is +blind to. At that moment the street boy is greater than the king. Do you +deny it?" + +"No," said Malling, amazed at the curate's excitement, but showing no +astonishment. + +"But it's a terrible thing to see too clearly!" continued Chichester, +almost as if talking to himself, absorbed. "A terrible thing!" + +He looked up at Malling, and almost solemnly he said: + +"Are you still going on with all those investigations?" + +"When I have any spare time, I often spend some of it in that sort of +work," answered Malling, lightly. + +It was his way to make light of his research work, and indeed he seldom +mentioned it unless he was forced to do so. + +"Do you think it is right?" said Chichester, earnestly. + +"Right?" + +"To strive to push one's way into hidden regions." + +"If I didn't think it right I shouldn't do it," retorted Malling, but +without heat. + +"And--for clergymen?" questioned Chichester, leaning forward, and +dropping his small, thin hands down between his knees. + +"What do you mean?" + +"Do you think it right for clergymen to indulge themselves--for it is +indulgence--in investigations, in attempts to find out more than God +has chosen to reveal to us?" + +The man of science in Malling felt impatient with the man of faith in +Chichester. + +"Does it never occur to you that the _anima mundi_ may have hidden +certain things from the minds of mortals just in order to provide them +with a field to till?" he said, with a hint of sarcasm. "Wasn't the fact +that the earth revolves round the sun, instead of the sun round the +earth, hidden from every living creature till Galileo discovered it? Do +you think Galileo deserved our censure?" + +"Saul was punished for consulting the witch of Endor," returned +Chichester. "And the Roman Catholic Church forbids her children to deal +in occult things." + +"You can't expect a man like me, a disciple of Stepton, to take the Roman +Catholic view of such a matter." + +"You are not a clergyman," said Chichester. + +Malling could not help smiling. + +"You think the profession carries with it certain obligations," he said. +"No doubt it does. But I shall never believe that one of them is to shut +your eyes to any fact in the whole scheme of Creation. Harm can never +come from truth." + +"If I could believe that!" Chichester cried out. + +"Do you mean to tell me you don't believe it?" + +Chichester looked at Malling for quite a minute without replying. Then he +got up, and said, with a changed voice and manner: + +"If the rector doesn't come to see me I shall have to go. Sunday is not a +holiday, you know, for us clergymen." + +He drew out his watch and looked at it. + +"I shall have to go. I'm taking the Children's Service." + +Malling got up too. + +"Is it getting late?" he said. "Perhaps--" + +At this moment the door was gently opened and Mr. Harding appeared. + +"Oh, Chichester," he said. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. What is +it? Would you like to come to my study?" + +"I must be off," said Malling. "May I say good-by to Lady Sophia? Or +perhaps she is resting and would rather not be disturbed." + +"I'm sure she would wish to say good-by to you," said the rector. "I'll +just ask her." + +He shot a quick glance from one man to the other and went out of the +room, leaving the door open behind him. + +Directly he was gone the curate said: "It has been such a pleasure to me +to renew my acquaintance with you, Mr. Malling. Are you going to be long +in London?" + +"All the season, I think." + +"Then I hope we may meet again soon, very soon." + +He hesitated, put one hand in his pocket, and brought out a card-case. + +"I should like to give you my address." + +"And let me give you mine." + +They exchanged cards. + +"I expect you'll be very busy," said the curate, rather doubtfully. + +Then he added, like a man urged on by some strong, almost overpowering +desire to do a thing not quite natural to him: + +"But I wish you could spare an evening to come to dine with me. I live +very modestly, of course. I'm in rooms, in Hornton Street--do you know +it?--near Campden Hill?--Number 4a--as you'll see on my card. I wonder--" + +"I shall be delighted to come." + +"When?" + +"Whenever you are kind enough to ask me." + +"Could you come on Wednesday week? It's so unfortunate, I have such a +quantity of parish engagements--that is my first evening free." + +"Wednesday week, with pleasure." + +"At half after seven?" + +"That will suit me perfectly." + +"And"--he looked toward the door--"I shall be greatly obliged to you if +you won't mention to the rector the fact that you are coming. He--" + +"My wife's in the boudoir," said Mr. Harding, coming into the room at +this moment. + +He stood by the door. + +Malling shook hands with Chichester, and went to say good-by to his +hostess. + +Mr. Harding shut the drawing-room door. + +"This is the way," he said. "Well, Mr. Malling? Well?" + +"You mean you want to know--?" + +"Your impression of Chichester." + +The rector stopped on the landing. + +"Do you find him much changed?" + +Malling shrugged his shoulders. + +"Possibly--a little. He may have become rather firmer in manner, a trifle +more decisive." + +"Firmer! More decisive, you say!" + +"But surely that is only natural, working--as he has done, I understand, +under a man such as yourself for two years." + +"Such as myself! Then you think he's caught something of my manner and +way of looking at things? You think--" + +"Really, it's difficult to say," interrupted Malling. "He's developed, no +doubt. But very few people don't. I suppose you've trained him." + +"I!" said the rector. "I train a man like Chichester!" + +In his voice there was a bitter irony. + +"Is that you, Mr. Malling?" said the voice of Lady Sophia. "I was lying +down with a book. This is my little room." + +She looked pale, almost haggard, as the sunshine fell upon her through +the open window. + +Malling took his leave at once and she did not attempt to detain him. + +"I hope you'll come again," she said, as they shook hands. "Perhaps on +another Sunday morning, to church and lunch. I'll let you know." + +She said the last words with a significance which made Malling understand +that she did not wish him to come to church at St. Joseph's again till +she gave him the word. + +The rector let him out of the house. Not another word was spoken about +Henry Chichester. As his guest walked away the rector stood, bareheaded, +looking after him, then, as Malling turned the corner of the gardens, +with a heavy sigh, and the unconscious gesture of a man greatly troubled +in mind, he stepped back into his hall and shut the door behind him. + + + + +IV + + +A week later, Mailing paid a visit to Professor Stepton. He had heard +nothing of the Hardings and Chichester since the day of the luncheon in +Onslow Gardens, but they had seldom been absent from his thoughts, and +more than once he had looked at the words, "Dine with H.C." in his book +of engagements, and had found himself wishing that "Hornton Street, +Wednesday" was not so far distant. + +The professor lived in Westminster, in a house with Adam ceilings, not +far from the Houses of Parliament. He was unmarried, and Malling found +him alone after dinner, writing busily in his crowded library. He had but +recently returned from Paris, whither he had traveled to take part in a +series of "sittings" with the famous medium, Mrs. Groeber. + +In person the professor was odd, without being specially striking. He +was of medium height, thin and sallow, with gray whiskers, thick gray +hair, bushy eyebrows, and small, pointed and inquiring features which +gave him rather the aspect of a prying bird. His eyes were little and +sparkling. His mouth, strangely enough, was ecclesiastical. He nearly +always wore very light-colored clothes. Even in winter he was often +to be seen clad in yellow-gray tweeds, a yellow silk necktie, and a +fawn-colored Homburg hat. And no human being had ever encountered him +in a pair of boots unprotected by spats. One peculiarity of his was that +he did not possess a walking-stick, another that he had never--so at +least he declared--owned a pocket-handkerchief, having had no occasion +to use one at any moment of his long and varied life. When it rained he +sometimes carried an umbrella, generally shut. At other times he moved +briskly along with his arms swinging at his sides. + +As Malling came in he looked up and nodded. + +"Putting down all about Mrs. Groeber," he observed. + +"Anything new or interesting?" asked Malling. + +"Just the usual manifestations, done in full light, though." + +He laid aside his pen, while Malling sat down. + +"A letter from Flammarion this morning," he said. "But all about Halley's +comet, of course. What is it?" + +Now the professor's "What is it?" was not general, but particular, and +was at once understood to be so by Malling. It did not mean "Why have you +come?" but "Why are you obsessed at this moment, and by what?" + +"Let's have the mystery," he added, leaning his elbows on his just dried +manuscript, and resting his sharp little chin on his doubled fists. + +Yet Malling had hinted at no mystery, and had come without saying he was +coming. + +"You know a clergyman called Marcus Harding?" said Malling. + +"Of St. Joseph's. To be sure, I do." + +"Do you know also his senior curate, Henry Chichester?" + +"No." + +"Have you heard of him?" + +"Oh dear, yes. And I fancy I've seen him at a distance." + +"You heard of him from Harding, I suppose." + +"Exactly, and Harding's wife." + +"Oh, from Lady Sophia!" + +"Who hates him." + +"Since when?" said Malling, emphatically. + +"I couldn't say. But I was only aware of the fact about a month ago." + +"Have you any reason to suppose that Harding has been making any +experiments?" + +"In church music, biblical criticism, or what?" + +"Say in psychical research?" + +"No." + +"Or that Chichester has?" + +"No." + +"Hasn't Harding ever talked to you on the subject?" + +"He has tried to," said the professor, rather grimly. + +"And you didn't encourage him?" + +"When do I encourage clergymen to talk about psychical research?" + +Malling could not help smiling. + +"I have some reason--at least I believe so--to suppose that Harding and +his curate Chichester have been making some experiments in directions +not entirely unknown to us," he observed. "And what is more"--he +paused--"what is more," he continued, "I am inclined to think that +those experiments may have been crowned with a success they little +understand." + +Down went the professor's fists, his head was poked forward in Malling's +direction, and his small eyes glittered almost like those of a glutton +who sees a feast spread before him. + +"The experiments of two clergymen in psychical research crowned with +success!" he barked out. + +"If so, I shall see what I can do in the pulpit--the Abbey pulpit!" + +He got up, and walking slightly sidewise, with his hands hanging, and his +fingers opening and shutting, went over to a chair close to Malling's. + +"Get on!" he said. + +"I'm going to. I want your advice." + +When Malling had finished what he had to say, the professor, who had +interrupted him two or three times to ask pertinent questions, put his +hands on his knees and thrust his head forward. + +"You said you wanted advice," he said. "What about?" + +"I wish you to advise me how I had better proceed." + +"You really think the matter important?" asked the professor. + +Malling looked slightly disconcerted. + +"You don't?" he said. + +"You are deducing a great deal from not very much. That's certain," +observed the professor. + +"You never knew Chichester," retorted Malling. "I did--two years ago." + +"Suppose you are right, suppose these two reverend gentlemen have done +something such as you suppose--and that there has been a result, a +curious result, what have we to do with it? Tell me that." + +"You mean that I have no right to endeavor to make a secret investigation +into the matter. But I'm positive both the men want help from me. I don't +say either of them will ask it. But I'm certain both of them want it." + +"Two clergymen!" said the professor. "Two clergymen! That's the best of +it--if there is an it, which there may not be." + +"Harding spoke very warmly of you." + +"Good-believing man! Now, I do wonder what he's been up to. I do +wonder. Perhaps he'd have told me but for my confounded habit of +sarcasm, my way of repelling the amateur--repelling!" His arms flew out. +"There's so much silliness beyond all bearing, credulity beyond all the +patience of science. Table-turning women, feminine men! 'The spirits +guide me, Professor, in every smallest action of my life!'--Wuff!--the +charlatan battens and breeds. And the bile rises in one till Carlyle on +his worst day might have hailed one as a brother bilious, and so +denunciatory--Jeremiah nervously dyspeptic! And when you opened your +envelop and drew out a couple of clergymen, really, really! But perhaps +I was in a hurry! Clergymen in a serious fix, too, because of unexpected +and not understood success! And I talk of repelling the _amateur_!" + +Suddenly he paused and, with his bushy eyebrows twitching, looked +steadily at Malling. + +"I leave it to you," he said. "Take your own line. But don't forget that, +if there's anything in it, development will take place in the link. The +link will be a center of combat. The link will be an interesting field +for study." + +"The link?" said Malling, interrogatively. + +"Goodness gracious me! Her ladyship! Her ladyship!" cried out the +professor. "What are you about, Malling?" + +And he refused to say another word on the matter till Malling, after much +more conversation on other topics, got up to go. Then, accompanying him +to the front door, the professor said: + +"You know _I_ think it's probably all great nonsense." + +"What?" + +"Your two black-coated friends. You bustle along at such a pace. +Remember, I have made more experiments than you have, and I have never +come upon an exactly similar case. I don't know whether such a thing +can be. No more do you--you've guessed. Now, guessing is not at all +scientific. At the same time you've proved you can be patient. If there +is anything in this it's profoundly interesting, of course." + +"Then you advise me--?" + +"If in doubt, study Lady Sophia. Good night." + +As Malling went away into the darkness he heard the professor snapping +out to himself, as he stood before his house bareheaded: + +"Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings! _Très bien!_ But--reverend +gentlemen of St. Joseph's! I shall have to look for telergic power in my +acquaintance Randall Cantuar, when I want it! By Jove!" + +"If in doubt, study Lady Sophia." As Malling thought over these +parting words, he realized their wisdom and wondered at his own +short-sightedness. + +He had sent his cards to Onslow Gardens after the luncheon with the +Hardings. He wished now he had called and asked for Lady Sophia. But +doubtless he would have an opportunity of being with her again. If she +did not offer him one, he would make one for himself. + +He longed to see her with Henry Chichester. + +During the days that elapsed before "Hornton Street, Wednesday" he +considered a certain matter with sedulous care. His interview with +Stepton had not been fruitless. Stepton always made an effect on his +mind. Casual and jerky though his manner was, obstinate as were his +silences at certain moments, fragmentary as was his speech, he had a +way of darting at the essential that set him apart from most men. Malling +remembered a horrible thing he had once seen in the Sahara, a running +gazelle killed by a falcon. The falcon, rising high in the blue air, +had followed the gazelle, had circled, poised, then shot down and, with +miraculous skill, struck into the gazelle's eye. Unerringly from above +it had chosen out of the vast desert the home for its cruel beak. +Somewhat in similar fashion, so Malling thought, Stepton rose above +things, circled, poised, sank, and struck into the heart of the truth +unerringly. + +Perhaps he was able to do this because he was able to mount, falconwise! + +Malling would have given a good deal to have Stepton with him in this +affair, despite the professor's repellent attitude toward the amateur. +Well, if there really was anything in it, if strangeness rose out of the +orthodox bosom of St. Joseph's, if he--Malling--found himself walking in +thick darkness, he meant to bring Stepton into the matter, whether at +Stepton's desire or against it. Meanwhile he would see if there was +enlightenment in Hornton Street. + +On the Wednesday the spell of fine weather which had made London look +strangely vivacious broke up, and in the evening rain fell with a gentle +persistence. Blank grayness took the town. A breath as of deep autumn was +in the air. And the strange sadness of cities, which is like no other +sadness, held the spirit of Evelyn Malling as he walked under an umbrella +in the direction of Kensington High Street. He walked, to shake off +depression. But in his effort he did not succeed. All that he saw +deepened his melancholy; the soldiers starting out vaguely from barracks, +not knowing what to do, but free for a time, and hoping, a little +heavily, for some adventure to break the military monotony of their +lives; the shopgirls, also in hope of something to "take them out of +themselves"--pathetic desire of escape from the little prison, where the +soul sits, picking its oakum sometimes, in its cell of flesh!--young +men making for the parks, workmen for the public houses, an old woman, +in a cap, peering out of an upper window in Prince's Gate; Italians with +an organ, and a monkey that looked as if it were dying of nostalgia; +women hurrying--whither?--with anxious faces, and bodies whose very +shapes, and whose every movement, suggested, rather proclaimed, worry. + +Malling knew it was the rain, the possessive grayness, which troubled his +body to-night, and through his body troubled his spirit. His nostrils +inhaled the damp, and it seemed to go straight into his essence, into the +mystery that was he. His eyes saw no more blue, and it was as if they +drew a black shutter over all the blue in his heart, blotting it out. +People became doomed phantoms, because the weather had changed and +because London knows how to play Cassandra to the spirit of many a man. +To Malling, as he presently turned to the right, Hornton Street looked +like an alley leading straight to the pit of despair, and when he tapped +on the blistered green door of the small house where the curate lived, it +was as if he tapped seeking admittance to all the sorrowful things that +had been brought into being to beset his life with blackness. + +A neat servant-girl opened the door. There was a smell of roast mutton in +the passage. So far well. Malling took off his hat and coat, hung them up +on a hook indicated by the plump red hand of the maid, and then followed +her upstairs. The curate was in possession of the first floor. + +Malling knew that it would be a case of folding-doors and perhaps of +curtains of imitation lace. It was a case of folding-doors. But there +was a dull green hue on the walls that surely bespoke Henry Chichester's +personal taste. There were bookcases, there were mezzotints, there were +engravings of well-known pictures, and there were armchairs not covered +with horsehair. There was also a cottage piano, severely nude. In the +center of the room stood a small square table covered with a cloth and +laid for two persons. + +"I'll tell Mr. Chichester, sir." + +The maid went out. From behind the folding-doors came to Malling's ears +the sound of splashing water, then a voice saying, certainly to the maid, +"Thank you, Ellen, I will come." And in three minutes Chichester was in +the room, apologizing. + +"I was kept late in the parish. There's a good deal to do." + +"You're not overworked?" asked Malling. + +"Do I look so?" said Chichester, quickly. + +He turned round and gazed at himself in an oval Venetian mirror which +was fixed to the wall just behind him. His manner for a moment was oddly +absorbed as he examined his face. + +"London life tells on one, I suppose," he said, again turning. "We +change, of course, in appearance as we go on." + +His blue eyes seemed to be seeking something in Malling's impenetrable +face. + +"Do you think," he said, "I am much altered since we used to meet two +years ago? It would of course be natural enough if I were." + +Malling looked at him for a minute steadily. + +"In appearance, you mean?" + +"Of course." + +"To-night it seems to me that you have altered a good deal." + +"To-night?" said the curate, as if with anxiety. + +"If there is any change,--and I think there is,--it seems to me more +apparent to-night than it was when I saw you the other day." + +Ellen, the maid, entered the room bearing a tray on which was a +soup-tureen. + +"Oh, dinner!" said Chichester. "Let us sit down. You won't mind simple +fare, I hope. We are having soup, mutton,--I am not sure what else." + +"Stewed fruit, sir," interpolated Ellen. + +"To be sure! Stewed fruit and custard. Open the claret, Ellen, please." + +"Have you been in these rooms long?" asked Malling, as they unfolded +their napkins. + +"Two years. All the time I have been at St. Joseph's. The rector told me +of them. The curate who preceded me had occupied them." + +"What became of him?" + +"He has a living in Northampton now. But when he left he had nothing in +view." + +"He was tired of work at St. Joseph's?" + +"I don't think he got on with the rector." + +The drip of the rain became audible outside, and a faint sound of +footsteps on the pavement. + +"Possibly I shall not stay much longer," he added. + +"No doubt you'll take a living." + +"I don't know. I don't know. But, in any case, I may not stay much +longer--perhaps. That will do, Ellen; you may go and fetch the mutton. +Put the claret on the table, please." + +When the maid was gone, he added: + +"One doesn't want a servant in the room listening to all one says. As +she was standing behind me I had forgotten she was here. How it rains +to-night! I hate the sound of rain." + +"It is dismal," said Malling, thinking of his depression while he had +walked to Hornton Street. + +"Do you mind," said the curate, slightly lowering his voice, "if I speak +rather--rather confidentially to you?" + +"Not at all, if you wish to--" + +"Well, now, you are a man of the world, you've seen many people. I wish +you would tell me something." + +"What is it?" + +Ellen appeared with the mutton. As soon as she had put it on the table +and departed, Chichester continued: + +"How does Mr. Harding strike you? What impression does he make upon you?" + +Eagerness, even more, something that was surely anxiety, shone in his +eyes as he asked the question. + +"He's a very agreeable man." + +"Of course, of course! Would you say he was a man to have much power over +others, his fellow-men?" + +"Speaking quite confidentially--" + +"Nothing you say shall ever go beyond us two." + +"Then--I don't know that I should." + +"He doesn't strike you as a man of power?" + +"In the pulpit?" + +"And out of it--especially out of it?" + +"He may have been. But--perhaps he has lost in power. Dispersion, you +know, does not make for strength." + +Suddenly the curate became very pale. + +"Dispersion--you say!" he almost stammered. + +As if to cover some emotion, he looked at Malling's plate, and added: + +"Have some more? You won't? Then--" + +He got up and rang the bell. Ellen reappeared, cleared away, and put the +stewed fruit and custard on the table. + +"Bring the coffee in ten minutes, Ellen. I won't ring." + +"Very well, sir." + +"Dispersion," said Chichester to Malling in a firmer voice, as Ellen +disappeared. + +"Concentration makes for strength. Mr. Harding seems to me mentally--what +shall I say?--rather torn in pieces, as if preyed upon by some anxiety. +Now, if you'll allow me to be personal, I should say that you have +greatly gained in strength and power since I knew you two years ago." + +"You--you observe a difference?" asked Chichester, apparently in great +perturbation. + +"A striking difference." + +"And--and would you say I looked a happier, as well as a--a stronger +man?" + +"I couldn't with truth say that." + +"Very few of us are happy," said Chichester, with trembling lips. "Poor +miserable sinners as we are! And we clergymen, who set up to direct +others--" he broke off. + +He seemed greatly, strangely, moved. + +"You must forgive me. I have had a very hard day's work!" he murmured. +"The coffee will do me good. Let us sit in the armchairs, and Ellen can +clear away. I wish I had two sitting-rooms." + +He rang to make Ellen hurry. Till she came Malling talked about Italian +pictures and looked at the curate's books. When she had cleared away, +left the coffee, and finally departed, he sat down with an air of +satisfaction. Chichester did not smoke, but begged Malling to light +up, and gave him a cigar. + +"Coffee always does one good," he said. "It acts directly on the heart, +and seems to strengthen the whole body. I have had a trying day." + +"You look tired," said Malling. + +The fact was that Chichester had never recovered the color he had so +suddenly lost when they were discussing Mr. Harding. + +"It's no wonder if I do," rejoined Chichester, in a voice that sounded +hopeless. + +He drank some coffee, seemed to make a strong effort to recover himself, +and, with more energy, said: + +"I asked you here because I wanted to renew a pleasant acquaintanceship, +but also--you won't think me discourteous, I know--because--well, I had +a purpose in begging you to come." + +"Won't you tell me what it is?" + +The curate shifted in his armchair, clasped and unclasped his hands. +A mental struggle was evidently going on within him. Indeed, during +the whole evening Malling had received from him a strong impression of +combat, of confusion. + +"I wanted to continue the discussion we began at Mr. Harding's the other +day. You remember, I asked you not to tell him you were coming?" + +"Yes." + +"I think it's best to keep certain matters private. People so easily +misunderstand one. And the rector has rather a jealous nature." + +Malling looked at his companion without speaking. At this moment he +was so strongly interested that he simply forgot to speak. Never, even +at a successful sitting when, the possibility of trickery having been +eliminated, a hitherto hidden truth seemed about to lift a torch in the +darkness and to illumine an unknown world, had he been more absorbed by +the matter in hand. Chichester did not seem to be struck by his silence, +and continued: + +"And then not every one is fitted to comprehend properly certain matters, +to see things in their true light. Now the other day you said a thing +that greatly impressed me, that I have never been able to get out of my +mind since. You said, 'Harm can never come from truth.' I have been +thinking about those words of yours, night and day, night and day. Tell +me--did you mean them?" + +The question came from Chichester's lips with such force that Malling was +almost startled. + +"Certainly I meant them," he answered. + +"And if truth slays?" + +"And is death the worst thing that can happen to a man, or to an +idea--some wretched fallacy, perhaps, that has governed the minds of +men, some gross superstition, some lie that darkens counsel?" + +"You think if a man lives by a lie he is better dead?" + +"Don't you think so?" + +"But don't we all need a crutch to help us along on the path of life?" + +"What! You, a clergyman, think that it is good to bolster up truth with +lies?" said Malling, with genuine scorn. + +"I didn't say that." + +"You implied it, I think." + +"Perhaps if you had worked among men and women as much as I have you +would know how much they need. If you went abroad, say to Italy, and saw +how the poor, ignorant people live happily oftentimes by their blind +belief in the efficacy of the saints, would you wish to tear it from +them?" + +"I think we should live by the truth, and I would gladly strike away a +lie from any human being who was using it as a crutch." + +"_I_ thought that once," said Chichester. + +The words were ordinary enough, but there was something either in the +way they were said, or in Chichester's face as he said them, that made +Malling turn cold. + +To cover his unusual emotion, which he was ashamed of, and which he +greatly desired to hide from his companion, he blew out a puff of cigar +smoke, lifted his cup, and drank the rest of his coffee. + +"May I have another cup?" he said. "It's excellent." + +The coffee-pot was on the table. Chichester poured out some more. + +"I will have another cup, too," he said. "How it wakes up the mind." + +He glanced at Mailing and added: + +"Almost terribly sometimes." + +"Yes. But--going back to our subject--don't you still think that men +should live by the truth?" + +"I think," began Chichester--"I think--" + +It seemed as if something physical prevented him from continuing. He +swallowed, as if forcing something down his throat. + +"I think," he got out at last, "that few men know how terrible the face +of truth can be." + +His own countenance was contorted as he spoke, as if he were regarding +something frightful. + +"I think"--he turned right round in his chair to confront Malling +squarely--"that _you_ do not know." + +For the first time he completely dominated Malling, Chichester the +gentle, cherubic clergyman, whom Malling had thought of as good, but +weak, and certainly as a negligible quantity. He dominated, because at +that moment he made Malling feel as if he had some great possession of +knowledge which Malling lacked. + +"And you?" said Malling. "Do you know?" + +The curate's lips worked, but he made no answer. + +Malling was aware of a great struggle in his mind, as of a combat in +which two forces were engaged. He got up, walked to the window, and +stood as if listening to the rain. + +"If only Stepton were here!" thought Malling. + +There was a truth hidden from him, perhaps partly divined, obscurely half +seen, but not thoroughly understood, as a whole invisible. Stepton would +be the man to elucidate it, Malling thought. It lured him on, and baffled +him. + +"How it rains!" said the curate at last, without turning. + +He bent down and opened the small window. The uneasy, almost sinister +noise of rain in darkness entered the room, with the soft smell of +moisture. + +"Do you mind if we have a little air?" he added. + +"I should like it," said Malling. + +Chichester came back and sat down again opposite Malling. His +expression had now quite changed. He looked calmer, gentler, weaker, +and much more uninteresting. Crossing his legs, and folding his thin +hands on his knees, he began to talk in his light tenor voice. And +he kept the conversation going on church music, sacred art in Italy, +and other eminently safe and respectable topics till it was time for +Malling to go. + +Only when he was letting his guest out into the night did he seem +troubled once more. He clasped Malling's hand in his, as if almost +unaware that he was doing so, and said with some hesitation: + +"Are you--are you going to see the rector again?" + +"Not that I know of," said Malling, speaking the strict truth, and +virtually telling a lie at the same time. + +For he was determined, if possible, to see Mr. Harding, and that before +very long. + +"If I may say so," Chichester said, shifting from one foot to another and +looking down at the rain-sodden pavement, "I wouldn't see him." + +"May I ask you why?" + +"You may get a wrong impression. Two years ago he was another man. +Strangers, of course, may not know it, not realize it. But we who have +lived with him do know it. Mr. Harding is going down the hill." + +There was a note of deep sadness in his voice. Had he been speaking of +himself, of his own decadence, his tone could scarcely have been more +melancholy. + +And for long Malling remembered the look in his eyes as he drew back to +shut his door. + +In the rain Malling walked home as he had come. But now it was deep in +the night and his depression had deepened. He was a self-reliant man, and +not easily felt himself small, though he was not conceited. To-night he +felt diminished. The worm-sensation overcame him. That such a man as +Chichester should have been able to convey to him such a sensation was +strange, yet it was from Chichester that this mental chastisement had +come. For a moment Chichester had towered, and at that moment Malling +surely had dwindled, shrunk together, like a sheet of paper exposed to +the heat of a flame. + +But that Chichester should have had such an effect on him--Malling! + +If Mr. Harding was going down the hill, Chichester surely was not. He had +changed drastically since Malling had known him two years ago. In power, +in force, he had gained. He now conveyed the impression of a man capable, +if he chose, of imposing himself on others. Formerly he had been the wax +that receives the impress. But whereas formerly he had been a contented +man, obviously at peace with himself and with the world, now he was +haunted by some great anxiety, by some strange grief, or perhaps even by +some fear. + +"Few men know how terrible the face of the truth can be." + +Chichester had said that. + +Was he one of the few men? + +And was that why now, as Malling walked home in the darkness and rain, he +felt himself humbled, diminished? + +For Malling loved knowledge and thought men should live by it. Had truth +a Medusa face, still would he have desired to look into it once, would +have been ready to endure a subsequent turning to stone. + +That Chichester should perhaps have seen what he had not seen--that +troubled him, even humbled him. + +Some words of Professor Stepton came back to his mind: "If there's +anything in it, development will take place in the link." And those last +words: "If in doubt, study Lady Sophia." + +Mailing was in doubt. Why not follow Stepton's advice? Why not study Lady +Sophia? + +He resolved to do it. And with the resolve came to him a sense of greater +well-being. The worm-sensation departed from him. He lifted his head and +walked more briskly. + + + + +V + + +On the night following the dinner in Hornton Street, Malling went to the +Covent Garden Opera House to hear "La Traviata." The well-worn work did +not grasp the attention of a man who was genuinely fond of the music of +Richard Strauss, with its almost miraculous intricacies, and who was +willingly captive to Debussy. He looked about the house from his stall, +and very soon caught sight of Lady Mansford, Lady Sophia's sister-in-law, +in a box on the Grand Tier. Malling knew Lady Mansford. He resolved to +pay her a visit, and as soon as the curtain was down, and Tetrazzini had +tripped before it, smiling not unlike a good-natured child, he made his +way upstairs, and asked the attendant to tap at a door on which was +printed, "The Earl of Mansford." The man did so, and opened the door, +showing a domestic scene highly creditable to the much maligned British +aristocracy--Lord Mansford seated alone with his wife, in evidently +amicable conversation. + +After a few polite words he made Malling sit down beside her, and, saying +he would have a cigarette in the foyer, he left them together. + +Lady Mansford was a pretty, dark woman, of the slightly irresponsible +and little-bird type. She willingly turned her charmingly dressed head +and chirped when noticed, and she was generally noticed because of her +beauty. Now she chirped of Ceylon, where Malling had been, and then, more +vivaciously, of Parisian milliners, where she had been. From these allied +subjects Malling led her on to a slightly different topic--religion. + +"I went to St. Joseph's last Sunday week," he presently said. + +"St. who--what?" said Lady Mansford, who was busy with her +opera-glasses, and had just noticed that Lady Sindon, a bird-like +rival of hers, had changed the color of her hair, fortunately to +her--Lady Sindon's--disadvantage. + +"To St. Joseph's, to hear your brother-in-law preach." + +"It doesn't do at all," murmured Lady Mansford. "It makes her look +Chinese." + +"You said--?" + +"Mollie Sindon. But what were you talking about? Do tell me." She laid +down her glasses. + +"I was saying that I went to church last Sunday week." + +"Why?" + +"To hear your brother-in-law preach at St. Joseph's." + +"Marcus!" exclaimed Lady Mansford. + +She pursed her lips. + +"I don't go to St. Joseph's. Poor Sophy! I'm sorry for her." + +"I lunched with Lady Sophia after the service." + +"Did you? Isn't it sad?" + +"Sad! I don't quite understand?" said Malling, interrogatively. + +"The change in him. Of course people say it's drink. Such nonsense! But +they must say something, mustn't they?" + +"Is Mr. Harding so very much changed?" + +"Do you mean to say you didn't notice it?" + +"I never met him till within the last fortnight." + +"He's transformed--simply. He might have risen to anything, with his +energy, his ambition, and his connections. And now! But the worst of it +is no one can make out why it is. Even Sophia and Isinglass--my husband, +you know!--haven't an idea. And it gets worse every day. Last Sunday I +hear his sermon was too awful, a mere muddle of adjectives, such as one +hears in Hyde Park, I believe. I never liked Marcus particularly. I +always thought him too autocratic, too determined to dominate. He had +that poor little Mr. Chichester--his curate--completely under his thumb. +Mr. Chichester couldn't call his soul his own. He worshiped Marcus. But +now they say even he is beginning to think that his god is of clay. What +can it be? Do you think Marcus is losing his mind?" + +"Oh, I should hope not," returned Malling, vaguely. "Has it been going on +long?" + +"Oh, for quite a time. But it all seemed to come on gradually--as things +_do_, you know! Poor Sophy has always adored him, and given way to him in +everything. In her eyes all that he does is right. She never says a word, +I believe, but she must be suffering the tortures of--_you_ know! There's +Winnie Rufford coming in! How astonishingly young she looks. Were you at +the Huntingham's ball? Well--" + +Lady Mansford twittered no more about the Harding menage. But Malling +felt that his visit had not been fruitless. + +After the opera he went to a party in Grosvenor Street where again he +managed to produce talk of the Hardings. It seemed that Lady Mansford +had not exaggerated very much. Among those who knew the Hardings a change +in the rector of St. Joseph's had evidently been generally noticed. +Malling took in to supper a Mrs. Armitage, a great friend of Lady +Sophia's, and she made no secret of the fact that Lady Sophia was greatly +distressed. + +"I thought she would have been here to-night," Mrs. Armitage said. "But +she isn't. I suppose she felt she couldn't face it. So many of his +congregation are here, or so many who were in his congregation." + +"The church was crammed to the doors last Sunday week when he preached," +observed Malling. + +"Was it? Curiosity, I suppose. It certainly can't have been the +intellectual merit of the sermon. I heard it was quite deplorable. But +last Sunday's, I was told, was worse still. No continuity at all, and +the church not full. People say the curate, Mr. Chichester, who often +preaches in the evening, is making a great effect, completely cutting out +his rector. And he used to be almost unbearably dull." + +"Will you have a quail?" + +"Please. You might give me two. My doctor says if I sit up late--thank +you!" + +"I've never heard Mr. Chichester preach," said Malling. + +"He seems to have come on marvelously, to be quite another man." + +"Quite another man, does he?" + +"Yes. It's very trying for the Hardings naturally. If it continues I +think there will have to be a change. I don't think things can go on as +they are. My friend Sophia won't be able to stand it." + +"You mean--the contrast?" + +"Between her husband and Mr. Chichester. She's very highly strung and +quite worships her husband; though, between you and me, _I_ think rather +in the slave spirit. But some women are like that. They can't admire a +man unless he beats them. Not that Mr. Harding ever dreamed of doing such +a thing to Sophia, of course. But his will had to be law in everything. +You know the type of man! It's scarcely my idea of what a clergyman +should be. I think a man who professes to direct the souls of others +should be more gentle and unselfish, especially to his wife. Another +quail? Well, really, I think perhaps I will. They are so absurdly small +this season, aren't they? There's scarcely anything on them." + +So that minute fraction of the world that knew of the existence of the +Hardings began to utter itself concerning them, and Malling was fortified +in his original belief which he had expressed to Professor Stepton. + +Among his many experiments made in connection with psychical research +those which had interested him the most had been those in which the +mystery of the human will had seemed to be deeply involved. Malling was +essentially a psychologist. And man was to him the great mystery, because +man contained surely something that belonged to, that was lent to, man, +as it were, by another, the mind beyond, the _anima mundi_. When Malling +drew mentally, or spiritually, very near to any man, however rude, +however humble, he always had the feeling that he was approaching holy +ground. Hidden beneath his generally imperturbable exterior, sunk beneath +the surface incredulity of his mind, there was the deep sense of mighty +truths waiting the appointed day of proclamation. Surely, he often +thought, if there is God in anything, in the last rays of the sunset, +in the silence of night upon the sea, in the waking of spring among the +forests and the gardens, in the song of the nightingale which knows +not lovers are listening, there is God in the will of man. + +And when he made investigations into the action of will upon will, or +of will--as it seemed--upon matter, he was held, as he was not held by +the appearance of so-called spirit faces and spirit forms, even when +he could not connect these with trickery which he knew how to expose. +Perhaps, however, his incredulity in regard to these latter phenomena was +incurable, though he did not know it. For he knew nearly all the devices +of the charlatans. And when the so-called spirits came, the medium was +always entranced, that is, apparently will-less, and so to Malling not +interesting. + +Now, from what Harding and Chichester had said to him, and from what +he had observed for himself, Malling believed that the two clergymen +must have had sittings together, probably with the usual tremendous +object of the ignorant amateur, that merely of communicating with the +other world. Considering who the two men were, Malling believed that in +all probability they had sat alone and in secret. He also felt little +doubt that from Mr. Harding's brain had come the suggestion of these +practices, that his will had led Chichester on to them. Although he +had not known the rector two years ago, he had gathered sufficient +testimony to the fact that he had been a man of powerful, even perhaps +of tyrannical, temperament, formed rather to rule than to be ruled. He +knew that Chichester, on the contrary, had been gentle, kindly, yielding, +and of somewhat weak, though of very amiable, nature. The physique of the +two men accorded with these former temperaments. Harding's commanding +height, large frame, big, powerful face and head, rather hard gray eyes, +even his large white teeth, his bony, determined hands, his firmly +treading feet, suggested force, a dominating will, the capacity, and +the intention, to rule. Henry Chichester's fleshly envelop, on the other +hand, cherubic, fair, and delicate, his blue eyes, small bones, the shape +of forehead and chin, the line of the lips, hinted at--surely more than +that, surely stated mildly--the existence within it of a nature retiring, +meek, and ready to be ruled by others. No wonder if Chichester had been, +as Lady Mansford had said, completely under the rector's thumb, no wonder +if he had been unable to "call his soul his own" and had "worshiped +Marcus." + +Yes, if there had been these secret sittings by these two men, it was +Harding who had persuaded Chichester to take part in them. And what had +these sittings led to, what had been their result? + +The ignorant outsider, the hastily skeptical, of course would say that +there could have been no result. Malling, knowing more, knew better. He +had seen strange cases of temporary confusion of a man's will brought +about by sittings, of what had seemed temporary change even of a man's +nature. When a hitherto sane man goes mad he often becomes the opposite +of what he was. Those whom he formerly loved he specially singles out +for hatred. That which he delighted to do he shrinks from with horror. +Once good-natured, he is now of an evil temper, once gentle, he is +fiercely obstinate, once gay, he cowers and weeps. So Malling had known +a man, while retaining his sanity, to be transformed by the apparently +trivial fact of sitting at a table with a friend, and placing his hands +upon it with the hands of another man. He himself had sat with an Oxford +friend,--who in later sittings became entranced,--and at the very first +experiment this man had said to him, "It's so strange, now that I am +sitting with you like this I feel filled with hatred toward you." This +hatred, which had come upon this man at every successive sitting, had +always faded away when the sitting was over. But was it certain that the +feelings generated in sittings never persisted after they were broken +up? Was it certain that in every case the waters that had been +mysteriously troubled settled into their former stillness? + +Harding and Chichester, for instance! Had the strong man troubled the +waters of the weaker man's soul, and were those waters still agitated? +That was perhaps possible. But Malling thought it was possible also, and +he had suggested this to Professor Stepton, that the weaker man had +infused some of his weakness, his self-doubtings, his readiness to be +affected by the opinion of others, into his dominating companion. Malling +believed it possible that the wills of the two clergymen, in some +mysterious and inexplicable way, had mingled during their sittings, and +that they had never become completely disentangled. If this were so, the +result was a different Harding from the former Harding, and a different +Henry Chichester from the former Henry Chichester. + +What puzzled Malling, however, was the fact, if fact it were, that the +difference in each man was not diminishing, but increasing. + +Could they be continuing the sittings, if there had ever been sittings? +All was surmise. As the professor had said, he, Malling, was perhaps +deducing a good deal from very little. And yet was he? His instinct told +him he was not. Yet there might no doubt be some ordinary cause for the +change in Mr. Harding. Some vice, such as love of drink, or morphia, +something that disintegrates a man, might have laid its claw upon him. +That was possible. What seemed to Malling much more unaccountable was the +extraordinary change in the direction of strength in Chichester. And the +relations between the two men, if indeed the curate had once worshiped +his rector, were mysteriously transformed. For now, was it not almost as +if something of Harding in Chichester watched, criticized, Chichester in +Harding? + +But now--to study Lady Sophia! For if there was really anything in +Malling's curious supposition, the woman must certainly be strangely +affected. He remembered the expression in her eyes when her husband +was preaching, her manner when she spoke of the curate as one of her +husband's swans. + +And he longed to see her again. She had said that she hoped he would come +again to St. Joseph's and to her house, but he knew well that any such +desire in her had arisen from her wounded pride in her husband. She +wished Malling to know what the rector could really do. When she thought +that the rector had recovered his former powers, his hold upon the minds +of men, then she would invite Malling to return to St. Joseph's, but not +before. + +And when would that moment come? + +It might not come for weeks, for months. It might never come. Malling did +not mean to await it. Nevertheless he did not want to do anything likely +to surprise Lady Sophia, to lead her to think that he had any special +object in view in furthering his acquaintance with her. + +While he was casting about in his mind what course to take, chance +favored him. + +Four days later, when he was strolling round the rooms in Burlington +House, he saw not far in front of him the tall and restless figure of +a woman. She was alone. For some time Malling did not recognize her. +She did not turn sufficiently for him to see her face, and her almost +feverish movements, though they attracted and fixed his attention, did +not strike him as familiar. His thought of her, as he slowly followed +in the direction she was taking, was, "What a difficult woman that would +be to live with!" For the hands were never still; the gait was uneasy; +nervousness, almost a sort of pitiful irritation, seemed expressed by her +every movement. + +In the big room this woman paused before the picture of the year, which +happened to be a very bad one, and Malling, coming up, at last recognized +her as Lady Sophia Harding. + +He took off his hat. She seemed startled, but greeted him pleasantly, and +entered into a discussion of the demerits which fascinate the crowd. + +"You prefer seeing pictures alone, perhaps?" said Malling, presently. + +"Indeed I don't," she answered. "I was coming to-day with my husband. We +drove up together. But at the last moment he thought he remembered +something,--some appointment with Mr. Chichester,--and left me." + +There were irony and bitterness in her voice. + +"He said he'd come back and meet me in the tea-room presently," she +added. + +"Shall we go there and wait for him?" asked Malling. + +"But I'm afraid I'm taking up your time." + +"I have no engagements this afternoon. I shall enjoy a quiet talk with +you." + +"It's very good of you." + +They descended, and sat down in a quiet corner. In the distance a few +respectable persons were slowly eating bath-buns with an air of fashion, +their duly marked catalogues laid beside them on marble. + +Far-off waiters, standing with their knees bent, conversed in +undertones. A sort of subterranean depression, peculiar to this +fastness of Burlington House, brooded over the china and the provisions. + +"It reminds me of the British Museum tearoom," said Lady Sophia. "Here is +tea! What a mercy! Modern pictures sap one's little strength." + +She looked haggard, and was obviously on the edge of her nerves. + +"Marcus might have come in," she added. "But of course he wouldn't--or +couldn't." + +"Doesn't he care for pictures?" + +She slightly shrugged her shoulders. + +"He used to. But I don't know that he does now." + +"I suppose he has a tremendous amount to do." + +"He used to do much more at Liverpool. If a man wishes to come to the +front he mustn't sit in an armchair with folded hands." + +There was a sharp sound of criticism in her voice which astonished +Malling. At the luncheon, only about a fortnight ago, she had shown +herself plainly as the adoring wife, anxious for her husband's success, +nervously hostile to any one who interfered with it, who stood between +him and the homage of his world. Now Malling noted, or thought he noted, +a change in her mental attitude. He was instantly on the alert. + +"I'm sure that's the last thing Mr. Harding would do," he said. + +She shot a glance at him out of her discontented dark eyes. + +"Are you?" she said. + +And sarcasm crept in the words. She gave to Malling at this moment the +impression of a woman so strung up as to be not her natural self, so +tormented by some feeling, perhaps long repressed, that her temperament +was almost furiously seeking an outlet, knowing instinctively, perhaps, +that only there lay its salvation. + +"His record proves it," said Malling, with serenely smiling assurance. + +Lady Sophia twisted her lips. The Academy tea was very strong. Perhaps +it had been standing. She drank a little, pulled at her long gloves +restlessly, and looked at Malling. He knew she was longing to confide +in somebody. If only he could induce her to confide in him! + +"Oh, my husband's been a very active man," she said. "Everybody knows +that. But in this modern world of ours one must not walk, or even +run along, one must keep on rushing along if one intends to reach the +goal." + +"And by that you mean--?" + +"Mean! The topmost height of your profession, or business, of whatever +career you are in." + +"You are ambitious," he said. + +"Not for myself," she answered quickly. "I have no ambition for myself." + +"But perhaps the ambition to spur on another successfully? That seems to +me the truest, the most legitimate ambition of the woman all men worship +in their hearts." + +Suddenly tears started into her eyes. She was sitting opposite Malling, +the tea-table between them. Now she leaned forward across it. By nature +she was very sensitive, but she was not a self-conscious, woman. She was +not self-conscious now. + +"It is much better to be selfish," she said earnestly. "That is where we +women make such a fatal mistake. Instead of trusting to ourselves, of +relying on ourselves, and of having a personal ambition, we seek always +another in whom we may trust; we are unhappy till we rely on another; it +is for another we cherish, we hug, ambition. And then, when all founders, +we realize too late what I dare say every man knows." + +"What is that?" + +"That we women are fools--fools!" + +"For being unselfish?" + +"For thinking we have power when we are impotent." + +She made a gesture that was surely one of despair. + +"No one--at any rate, no woman--has power for another," she added, with +almost terrible conviction. "That is all a legend, made up to please us, +I suppose. We draw a sword against darkness and think we are fighting. +Isn't it too absurd?" + +With the last words she changed her tone, trying to make it light, and +she smiled. + +"We take everything too seriously. That's the trouble!" she said. "And +men pretend we take nothing seriously." + +"Very often they don't understand." + +"Oh, please say never!" she exclaimed. "They never understand." + +Suddenly Malling resolved on a very bold stroke. + +"But I'm a man," he said, as if that obvious fact shattered her +contention. + +"What has that got to do with it?" she said, in obvious surprise. + +"Because I do not understand." + +For a moment she was silent. He thought he read what was passing through +her mind, as he knew he had read her character. She was one of those +women who must be proud of their men, who love to be ruled, but only +by a conqueror, who delight to sink themselves, but in power, not in +impotence. And now she was confronted by the shipwreck not merely of +her hopes, but also of her belief. She saw a hulk drifting at the mercy +of the waves that, perhaps, would soon engulf it. But she was not only +despairing, she was raging too. For she was a woman with nervous force +in her, and it is force that rages in the moments of despair, seeking, +perhaps unconsciously, some means of action and finding none. + +"Why should there not be some hope?" asked Malling, quietly. + +"To-morrow is Sunday. If you go to morning church at St. Joseph's, and +then to evening church, you will see if there is any hope." + +"To evening church?" + +"Yes, yes." + +She got up. + +"You are going?" + +"I must. Forgive me!" + +She held out her hand. + +"But--" + +"No, don't come with me, please." + +"If I go to St. Joseph's to-morrow, afterward may I see you again?" + +"If you think it's worth while." + +Her face twisted. Hastily she pulled down her veil, turned away and left +him. + + + + +VI + + +Malling went the next day to morning and evening service at St. Joseph's. +He was not invited to lunch in Onslow Gardens, and he did not see Lady +Sophia. On the whole, he was glad of this. He had enough to keep in his +mind that day. The matter in which he was interested seemed growing +before his eyes, like a thing coming out of the earth, but now beginning +to thrust itself up into regions where perhaps it would eventually be +hidden in darkness, with the great company of mysteries whose unraveling +is beyond the capacity of man. + +He had now, he felt sure, a clear comprehension of Lady Sophia. Their +short interview at Burlington House had been illuminating. She was a +typical example of the Adam's-rib woman; that is, of the woman who, +intensely, almost exaggeratedly feminine, can live in any fullness only +through another, and that other a man. Through Mr. Harding Lady Sophia +had hitherto lived, and had doubtless, in her view, triumphed. Obviously +a woman not free from a nervous vanity, and a woman of hungry ambition, +her vanity and ambition had been fed by his growing notoriety, his +increasing success and influence. The rib had thrilled with the body to +which it belonged. + +But that time of happy emotion, of admiration, of keen looking forward, +was the property of the past. Lawn sleeves, purple, perhaps,--for who +is more hopeful than this type of woman in the golden moments of +life?--perhaps even an archiepiscopal throne faded from before the eyes +they had gladdened--the eyes of faith in a man. + +And a different woman was beginning to appear--a woman who might be as +critical as she had formerly been admiring, a woman capable of becoming +embittered. + +On the Sunday of Malling's visit to Onslow Gardens, Mr. Harding's failure +in the pulpit had waked up in his wife eager sympathy and eager spite, +the one directed toward the man who had failed, the other toward the man +who, as Malling felt sure, had caused the failure. + +In Burlington House that woman, whom men with every reason adore, had +given place to another less favorable toward him who had been her hero. + +It seemed to Malling as if in the future a strange thing might happen, +almost as if it must happen: it seemed to him as if Chichester might +convey his view of his rector to his rector's wife. + +"Study the link," Stepton had said. "There will be development in the +link." + +Already the words had proved true. There had been a development in Lady +Sophia such as Malling had certainly not anticipated. Where would it end? +Again and again, as he listened to the morning and evening sermons, +Malling had asked himself that question; again and again he had recalled +his conversation at Burlington House with Lady Sophia. + +In the morning at St. Joseph's Mr. Harding had preached to a church +that was half filled; in the evening Henry Chichester had preached to a +church that was full to the doors. And each of the clergymen in turn had +listened to the other, but how differently! + +Mr. Harding had ascended to the pulpit with failure staring him in +the face, and whereas on the Sunday when Malling first heard him he +had obviously fought against the malign influence which eventually +had prevailed over him, this time he had not had the vigor to make a +struggle. Certainly he had not broken down. It might be said of him, +as it was once said of a nation, that he had "muddled through." He had +preached a very poor sermon in a very poor way, nervously, indeed, +almost timidly, and with the manner of a man who was cowed and hopeless. +The powerful optimism for which he had once been distinguished had +given way to an almost unhealthy pessimism, alien surely to the minds +of all believers, of all who profess to look forward to that life of +which, as Tolstoi long ago said, our present life is but a dream. Even +when he was uttering truths he spoke them as if he had an uneasy +suspicion that they were lies. At moments he seemed to be almost +pleading with his hearers to tolerate him, to "bear with him." Indeed, +several times during his disjointed remarks he made use of the latter +expression, promising that his discourse should be a short one. Very +carefully he included himself among those aware of sin, very humbly he +declared the unworthiness of any man to set himself up as a teacher and +leader of others. + +Now, humility is all very well, but if carried to excess, it suggests +something less than a man. Mr. Harding almost cringed before his +congregation. Malling did not feel that his humility was a pretense. +On the contrary, it struck him as abominably real, but so excessive as +to be not natural in any thorough man in a normal condition of mind and +of body. It was the sort of humility that creates in the unregenerate a +desire to offer a good kicking as a corrective. + +Very different was the effect created by Chichester's sermon in the +evening. Malling, aware though he had become of the great strengthening +of Chichester, was amazed when he heard him preach. + +Often it is said of a very fine preacher that he preached as one +inspired. Chichester preached as one who knew. Never before had Malling +been so impressed with the feeling that he was listening to truth, +absolute truth, as he was while he listened to Chichester. There was +something, though, that was almost deadly about it. It pierced like a +lancet. It seared like a red-hot iron. It humbled almost too much. +Here was no exaggerated humility, no pleading to be borne with, no +cringing, and no doubt. A man who knew was standing up, and, with a +sort of indifference to outside opinion that was almost frightening, +was saying some of the things he knew about men, women--and surely God! + +The subject was somewhat akin to that of the first sermon of Mr. Harding +which Malling had heard. The rector then had preached on self-knowledge. +The curate, now, preached on hypocrisy. Incidentally he destroyed his +rector's sermon, flung it away on the scrap-heap, and passed on. This was +not done viciously, but it was done relentlessly. Indeed, that was the +note of the whole sermon. It was relentless, as truth is relentless, as +death is relentless. And besides being terribly true, it was imaginative. +But the preacher almost succeeded in conveying the impression to his +congregation that what is generally called imagination is really vision, +that the true imagination is seeing what is, but is often hidden, knowing +what is, but is often unknown. The latter part of the sermon struck +Malling as very unusual, even as very daring. + +The preacher had spoken of the many varieties of hypocrisy. Finally he +drew a picture of a finished hypocrite. And the man lived as a man lives +in the pages of a great writer. One could walk round him, one knew him. +And then Chichester treated him as the writer treats his creation; he +proceeded to show his hypocrite in action. + +The man, happy, almost triumphant,--for he now often looked upon himself +with the eyes of others who knew him not,--was walking to his home on a +winter's evening along a country road, passing now and then rustics who +respectfully saluted him, neighbors who grasped his hand, children who +innocently smiled at him, women who whispered that he was a fine fellow, +the clergyman of his parish, who gave him God-speed upon his way as to +one who deserved that God should speed him because his way was right. +Snow was upon the ground. Such light as there was began to fade. It was +evident that the night, which was very still, was going to be very dark. +And the man stepped out briskly. Presently, at a lonely part of the road, +happening to look down, he saw footprints in the freshly fallen snow. +They were of feet that had recently passed on the way he was following. +They had attracted, they continued to attract, his attention, he knew not +why. And as he went on, his eyes were often upon them. + +Presently he began to wonder about the feet which had made the prints he +saw. Did they belong to a man or a woman? The prints were too large to +have been made by the feet of a child. He gazed at them searchingly, and +made up his mind that it was a man who had recently trodden this road. +And what sort of man was it that thus preceded him not very far away? He +became deeply engrossed with this question. His mind revolved about this +unknown traveler, floating forward in surmises, till, by chance, he +happened to set his right foot in one of the prints left in the snow. +His foot exactly filled it. This fact, he knew not why, startled him. +He stopped, bent down, examined the snow closely, measured very carefully +his feet with the prints before him, now rather faintly discerned in +the gathering darkness. The prints might have been made by his own feet. +Having ascertained this, and reflected for a moment, he went forward, now +assailed by a growing curiosity as to the personality and character of +the stranger. But perhaps he was not a stranger. He might surely well be +a neighbor, an acquaintance, perhaps even a friend. The man meant, if +possible, to come up with him, whoever he was, and he now hurried along +with the intention of joining the unknown whose footprints were the same +as his own. + +At this point in his sermon Chichester paused for a moment. And +Malling, who seldom felt any thrill at a séance, and who had often +remained calmly watchful and alert during manifestations which amazed +or terrified others, was aware of a feeling of cold, which seemed to +pass like a breath through his spirit. The congregation about him, +perhaps struck by the unusual form of the sermon, remained silent and +motionless, waiting. In his stall sat the rector with downcast eyes. +Malling could not at that moment discern his expression. His large +figure and important powerful head and face showed almost like those +of a carven effigy in the lowered light of the chancel. The choirboys +did not stir, and the small, fair man in the pulpit, raising his thin +hands, and resting them on the marble ledge, continued quietly, taking +up his sermon with a repetition of the last words uttered, "whose +footprints were the same as his own." + +Again the cold breath went through Malling's spirit. He leaned slightly +forward and gazed at Chichester. + +For some time the man thus went onward, following the footprints in +the snow, but not overtaking any one, and becoming momentarily more +eager to satisfy his curiosity. Then, on a sudden, he started, stopped, +and listened. It had now become very dark, and in this darkness, and +the great stillness of night, he heard the faint sound of a footfall +before him, brushing through the crisp snow, which lay lightly, and not +very deep, on the hard highroad leading to the village on the farther +outskirts of which his house was situated. He could not yet see any one, +but he felt sure that the person who made this faint sound was no other +than he in whose steps he had been treading. It would now be a matter of +only a minute or two to come up with him. And the man went on, but more +slowly, whether because he was now certain of attaining his object or +for some other reason. + +The sound of the footfall persisted, and was certainly not far off. The +prints in the snow were so fresh that they seemed not quite motionless, +as if the snow were only now settling after the pressure it had just +suffered. The man slackened his pace. He did not like the sound which +he heard. He began to feel as if he by whom it was made would not prove +a companion to his taste. Yet his curiosity continued. There began within +him a struggle between his curiosity and another sensation, which was +of repugnance, almost of fear. And so equal were the combatants that +the lights of the village were in sight, and he had not decreased the +distance between himself and the other. Seeing the lights, however, his +curiosity got the upper hand. He slightly quickened his pace, and almost +immediately beheld the shape of a man relieved against the night, and +treading onward through the snow. And as the sound of the footsteps had +been disagreeable to his nerves, so the contours of the moving blackness +repelled him. He did not like the look of this man whose footprints were +the same as his own, and he decided not to join him. But, moving rather +cautiously, he gained a little upon him, in order to make sure, if +possible, whether or not he was a neighbor or an acquaintance. + +The figure seemed somehow familiar to our man, indeed, oddly familiar. +Nevertheless, he was unable to identify it. As he followed it, more and +more certain did he become that he had seen it, that he knew it. And +yet--did he know it? Had he seen it? It was almost as if one part of him +denied while the other affirmed. He longed, yet feared, to see the face. +But the face never looked back. And so, one at a little distance behind +the other, they came into the village. + +Here a strange thing occurred. + +There were very few people about, but there were a few, and two or +three of them, meeting the person our man was following, greeted him +respectfully. But these same people, when immediately afterward they +encountered the other, who had known them for years, and whom they of +course knew, showed the greatest perturbation; one, a woman, even signs +of terror. They gave him no greeting, shrank from him as he passed, +and stared after him, as if bemused, when he was gone by. Their behavior +was almost incredible. But he was so set on what was before him that he +stopped to ask no questions. + +The village was a long one. Always one behind the other, walking at an +even pace, the two men traversed it, approaching at last the outskirts, +where, separated from the other habitations, and surrounded by a garden +in which the trees were laden with snow, stood the house of the man who +now watched and followed, with a growing wonder and curiosity, combined +with an ever-growing repugnance, him who made the footprints, who had +been saluted by the villagers, whose figure and general aspect seemed in +somewise familiar to him, and yet whom he could not recognize. Where +could this person be going? The man asked himself, and came to a resolve +not to follow on into the darkness of the open country, not to proceed +beyond his own home, of which now he saw the lights, but to make an +effort to see the face of the other before the garden gate was reached. + +In this attempt, however, he was destined to be frustrated. For as he +determinedly quickened his steps, so did the other, who gained the gate +of the garden, unlatched it, turned in, and walked on among the trees +going toward the principal door. + +A visitor, then! The man paused by his garden gate, whence he could see +his house front, with the light from the window of his own sitting-room +streaming over the porch. The stranger stood before it, made a movement +as if searching in his pocket, drew out his hand, lifted it. The door +opened at once. He disappeared within, and the door closed after him. + +He had opened the door with a key. + +The man at the gate felt overcome by a sensation almost of horror, +which he could not explain to himself. It was not that he was horrified +by the certainly extraordinary fact of some one possessing a key to his +house, and using it in this familiar fashion. It was not even that he +was horrified at seeing a man, perhaps a stranger, disappearing thus +into his home by night, uninvited, unexpected. What horrified him was +that this particular man, whose footprints he had followed and measured +with his foot, whose footfalls he had heard, whose form he had seen +outlined against the night, should be within his house, where his wife +and his children were, and where his venerable mother was sitting beside +the fire. That this man should be there! He knew now that from the first +moment when he had been aware of his existence he had hated him, that his +subconscious mind had hated him. + +But who was he? The natural thing would have been to follow quickly into +the house, to see who had entered, to demand an explanation. But he could +not do this. Why? He himself did not know why. But he knew that he dared +not do this. And he waited, expecting he knew not what; a cry, a summons, +perhaps, some manifestation that would force him to approach. + +None came. Steadily the lights shone from the house. There was no sound +but the soft fall of a block of snow from an overladen fir branch in the +garden. The man began to marvel. Who could this be whose familiar entry +into his--_his_ home thus at night caused no disturbance? There were dogs +within: they had not barked. There were servants: apparently they had not +stirred. It was almost as if this stranger's permanence was accepted by +the household. A long, long time had slipped by. + +The man at length, making an almost fierce effort, partly dominated the +unreasoning sense of horror which possessed him. He opened the gate, +stepped into the garden, and made his way slowly and softly toward the +house door. But suddenly he stopped. Through the unshuttered window of +his sitting-room, the room in which for years he had spent much of his +time, in which he had concocted many schemes to throw dust in the +eyes of his neighbors, and even of his own relatives, in which he had +learned very perfectly to seem what he was not, and to hide what he +really was, he perceived the figure of a man. It crossed the lighted +space slowly, and disappeared with a downward movement. He knew it was +the man he had been following and whom he had seen enter his house. + +For a long while he remained where he was on the path of the garden. +The night deepened about him. A long way off, at the other end of the +village, a clock chimed the hours. In the cottages the lights were +extinguished. The few loungers disappeared from the one long street +vanishing over the snow. And the man never moved. A numb terror possessed +him. Yet, despite his many faults and his life of evil, he had never been +physically a coward. Always the light shone steadily from the window of +his study, making a patch of yellow upon the snow. Always the occupant +of the room must be seated tranquilly there, like an owner. For no figure +had risen, had repassed across the unshuttered space. + +The man told himself again and again that he must go forward till +he gained the window, that he must at least look into the room; if he +dared not enter the house to confront the intruder, to demand an +explanation. But again and again something within him, which seemed to +be a voice from the innermost chamber of his soul, whispered to him not +to go, whispered to him to leave the intruder alone, to let the intruder +do what he would, but not to approach him, above all, not to look upon +his face. And the man obeyed the voice till a thing happened which roused +in him a powerful beast, called by many the natural man. + +He saw his wife, whom he loved in his way, though he had tricked and +deceived her again and again, cross the window space, smiling, and +disappear with a downward movement, as the other had disappeared. Then +she rose into his range of vision, and stood for a moment so that he +could see her clearly, smiling, talking, making little gestures that +he knew, carrying her hand to her face, stretching it out, dropping it. +Finally she lifted it to her lips, half-closing her eyes at the same +time, took it away quickly, with a sort of butterfly motion, and +vanished, going toward the left, where the room door was. + +So had she many and many a time bidden him, her husband, good night. +Instantly, with an impulse which seemed combined of rage and terror, +both now full of a driving force which was irresistible, the man sprang +forward to the window, seized the stone coping with his hands and stared +into his room. + +Seated in a round chair at his writing-table, by a lamp with a green +shade, was the man who had entered his house. He was writing busily in +a book with a silver clasp that could be locked with a key, and he leaned +a little over the table with his head turned away. The shape of his head, +his posture, even the manner in which he used his pen as he traced line +after line in the book, made an abominable impression upon the man +staring in at the window. But the face--the face! He must see that! And +he leaned forward, trembling, but fiercely, and, pressing his own face +against the pane, he looked at the occupant of his room as men look +sometimes with their souls. + +The man at the table lifted his head. He laid down the pen, blotted the +book in which he had been writing, shut it up, clasped it, locked it with +a tiny key, and put it carefully into a drawer of the table, which also +he locked. He got up, stood for an instant by the table with one hand +upon it, then turned slowly toward the window, smiling, as men smile to +themselves when they are thinking of their own ingenuities. + +The man outside the window fell back into the snow as if God's hand had +touched him. He had seen his own face! So he smiled sometimes at the end +of a day, when he had finished writing down in his diary some of the +hidden things of his life. + +He turned, and as the window through which he had been looking suddenly +darkened, he fled away into the night. + +When the lights, which at St. Joseph's were always kept lowered during +the sermon, once more strongly illuminated the chancel, Mr. Harding +turned a ghastly face toward the pulpit. In the morning Chichester had +listened to him, as a man of truth might listen to a man who is trying +to lie, but who cannot deceive him. In the evening Mr. Harding had +listened to Chichester--how? What had been the emotions only shadowed +faintly forth in that ghastly face? + +When Malling got home, he asked himself why Chichester had made such +an impression upon his mind. His story of the double, strange enough, +no doubt, in a sermon, could not surely have come upon Malling with any +of the force and the interest of the new. For years he had been familiar +with tales of ghosts, of voices, of appearances at the hour of death, of +doubles. Of course in the sermon there had been a special application of +the story. It had been very short. Chichester had suggested that if, as +by a miracle, the average self-contented man could look at himself with +the eyes of his soul full of subliminal self-knowledge and with the +bodily eyes, he would be stricken down by a great horror. + +And he had spoken as a man who knew. Indeed, it seemed to Malling that he +had spoken as might have delivered himself the man who had followed his +double through the snow, who had looked in upon him by night from the +garden, if he had faced, instead of flying from, the truth; if he had +stayed, if he had persistently watched his double leading the life he had +led, if he had learned a great lesson that perhaps only his double could +teach him. + +But if the man had stayed, what would have been the effect on the double? +Malling sat till deep in the night pondering these things. + + + + +VII + + +Lady Sophia had said to Malling that if he went to the two services at +St. Joseph's on the Sunday she would invite him to see her again. She +was as good as her word. In the middle of the week he received a note +from her, saying she would be at home at four on Thursday, if he was +able to come. He went, and found her alone. But as soon as he entered +the drawing-room and had taken her hand, she said: + +"I am expecting Mr. Chichester almost immediately. He's coming to tea." + +"I shall be glad to meet him," said Malling, concealing his surprise, +which was great. + +Yet he did not know why it should be. For what more natural than that +Chichester should be coming? + +"I heard of you at St. Joseph's," Lady Sophia continued. "A friend of +mine, Lily Armitage, saw you there. I didn't. I was sitting at the back. +I have taken to sitting quite at the back of the church. What did you +think of it?" + +"Do you wish me to be frank, and do you mean the two sermons?" + +She hesitated for an instant. Then she said: + +"I do mean the sermons, and I do wish you to be frank." + +"I thought Mr. Chichester's sermon very remarkable indeed." + +"And my husband's sermon?" + +Her lips twisted almost as if with contempt when she said the words, "my +husband's." + +"Why doesn't Mr. Harding take a long rest?" said Malling, speaking +conventionally, a thing that he seldom did. + +"You think he needs one?" + +"He has a tiresome malady, I understand." + +"What malady?" + +"Doesn't he suffer very much from nervous dyspepsia?" + +She looked at him with irony, which changed almost instantly into serious +reflection. But the irony returned. + +"Now and then he has a touch of it," she said. "Very few of us don't have +something. But we have to go on, and we do go on, nevertheless." + +"I think a wise doctor would probably order your husband away," said +Malling, though Mr. Harding's departure was the last thing he desired +just then. + +"Even if he were ordered away, I don't know that he would go." + +"Why not?" + +"I don't think he would. I don't feel as if he could get away," she said, +with what seemed to Malling a sort of odd obstinacy. "In fact, I know +he's not going," she abruptly added. "I have an instinct." + +Malling felt sure that she had considered, perhaps long before he had +suggested it, this very project of Mr. Harding's departure for a while +for rest, and that she had rejected it. Her words recalled to his mind +some other words of her husband, spoken in Mr. Harding's study: "Surely +one ought to get out of such an atmosphere, to get out of it, and to keep +out of it. But how extraordinary it is the difficulty men have in getting +away from things!" + +Perhaps Lady Sophia was right. Perhaps the rector could not get away from +the atmosphere which seemed to be destroying him. + +"I dare say he is afraid to trust everything to his curates," observed +Malling, prosaically. + +"He needn't be--now," she replied. + +In that "now," as she said it, there lay surely a whole history. Malling +understood that Lady Sophia, suddenly perhaps, had given her husband up. +Since Malling had first encountered her she had cried, _"Le roi est +mort!"_ in her heart. The way she had just uttered the word "now" made +Malling wonder whether she was not about to utter the supplementary cry, +_"Vive le roi!"_ + +As he looked at her, with this wonder in his mind, Henry Chichester came +into the room. + +There was an expression of profound sadness on his face, which seemed to +dignify it, to make it more powerful, more manly, than it had been. The +choir-boy look was gone. Malling of course knew how very much expression +can change a human being; nevertheless, he was startled by the alteration +in the curate's outward man. It seemed, to use the rector's phrase, that +he had "shed his character." And now, perhaps, the new character, +mysteriously using matter as the vehicle of its manifestation, was +beginning to appear to the eyes of men. He showed no surprise at the +sight of Malling, but rather a faint, though definite, pleasure. The +way in which Lady Sophia greeted him was a revelation to Malling, and +a curious exhibition of feminine psychology. + +She looked up at him from the low chair in which she was sitting, gave +him her left hand, and said, "Are you very tired?" That was all. Yet +it would have been impossible to express more clearly a woman's mental, +not affectional, subjugation by a man, her instinctive yielding to power, +her respect for authority, her recognition that the master of her master +had come into the room. + +Her "_Vive le roi!_" was said. + +Chichester accepted Lady Sophia's subtle homage with an air of +unconsciousness. His interior melancholy seemed to lift him above the +small things that flatter small men. He acknowledged that he was tired, +and would be glad of tea. He had been down in the East End. The rector +had asked him to talk over something with Mr. Carlile of the Church Army. + +"You mean that you suggested to the rector that it would be wise to see +Mr. Carlile," said Lady Sophia. + +"Is the rector coming in to tea?" asked Chichester. + +"Possibly he may," she replied. "He knew Mr. Malling was to be here. Did +you tell him you were coming?" + +"No. I was not certain I should get away in time." + +"I think he will probably turn up." + +A footman brought in tea at this moment, and Malling told the curate he +had heard him preach in the evening of last Sunday. + +"It was a deeply interesting sermon," he said. + +"Thank you," said Chichester, very impersonally. + +The footman went away, and Lady Sophia began to make tea. + +"When I went home," Malling continued, "I sat up till late thinking +it over. Part of it suggested to my mind one or two rather curious +speculations." + +"Which part?" asked Lady Sophia, dipping a spoon into a silver tea-caddy. + +"The part about the man and his double." + +She shivered, and some of the tea with which she had just filled the +spoon was shaken out of it. + +"That was terrible," she said. + +"What were your speculations?" said Chichester, showing a sudden and +definite waking up of keen interest. + +"One of them was this--" + +Before he could continue, the door opened again, and the tall and +powerful form of the rector appeared. And as the outer man of Chichester +seemed to Malling to have begun subtly to change, in obedience surely +to the change of his inner man, so seemed Mr. Harding a little altered +physically, as he now slowly came forward to greet his wife's two +visitors. The power of his physique seemed to be struck at by something +within, and to be slightly marred. One saw that largeness can become +but a wide surface for the tragic exhibition of weakness. As the rector +perceived the presence of Chichester, an expression of startled pain fled +over his face and was gone in an instant. He greeted the two men and sat +down. + +"Have you just begun tea?" he asked, looking now at his wife. + +"We are just going to begin it," she replied. "We are talking about the +sermon of last Sunday." + +"Oh," rejoined the rector. + +He turned to Malling. + +"Did you come to hear me preach again?" + +There was a note as of slight reassurance in his voice. + +"Mr. Chichester's sermon," said Lady Sophia. + +"Oh, I see," said the rector. He glanced hastily from one to the other of +the three people in the room, like a man searching for sympathy or help. +"What were you saying about our friend Chichester's sermon?" he asked, +with a forced air of interest. + +Lady Sophia distributed cups for tea. + +"I was speaking of that part of it which dealt with the man who followed +his double," said Malling. + +"Ah?" said the rector. + +He was holding his tea-cup. His hand trembled slightly at this moment, +and the china rattled. He set the cup down on the small table before +him. + +"You said," observed Chichester--toward whom Lady Sophia immediately +turned, with an almost rapt air--"that it suggested some curious +speculations to your mind. I should very much like to know what they +were." + +"One was this. Suppose the man in the garden, who looked in upon his +double, had not fled away. Suppose he had had the courage to remain, +and, in hiding--for the sake of argument we may assume the situation to +be possible--" + +"Ah, indeed! And why not?" interrupted Chichester. + +His voice, profoundly melancholy, fell like a weight upon those who heard +him. And again Malling thought of him almost as some one set apart from +his fellows by some mysterious knowledge, some heavy burthen of truth. + +"--and in hiding had watched the life of his double. I sat up speculating +what effect such an observation, terrible no doubt and grotesque, would +be likely to have on the soul of the watching man. But there was another +speculation with which I entertained my mind that night." + +"Let us have it," said Chichester, leaning forward, and, with the gesture +characteristic of him, dropping his hands down between his knees. "Let us +have it." + +"Suppose the man to remain and, in hiding, to watch the life of his +double, what effect would such an observation be likely to have upon the +double?" + +Malling paused. The rector, with an almost violent movement of his big +hand and arm, took his cup from the table and drank his tea. + +"It didn't occur to you, I suppose, when composing your sermon to follow +that train of thought?" said Malling to Chichester. + +"No," replied the curate, slowly, and like one thinking profoundly. "I +was too engrossed with the feelings of the man. But, then, you thought +of the double as a living man, with all the sensations of a man?" + +"That was your fault," said Malling. + +"His fault!" said Lady Sophia, with a sort of latent sharpness, and +laying an emphasis on the second word. + +"Certainly; for making the narrative so vital and human." + +He addressed himself again to the curate. + +"Did you not give to the double the attributes of a man? Did you not +make his wife come to bid him good night, bend down to kiss him, waft +him a characteristic farewell?" + +"It is true. I did," said Chichester, still speaking like a man in deep +thought. + +"That was the most terrible part of all," said Lady Sophia. In her voice +there was an accent almost of horror. "It sickened me to the soul," +she continued--"the idea of a woman bidding a tender good night to an +apparition." + +"I took it as a man," said Malling. + +They had all three, strangely, left the rector out of this discussion, +and he seemed willing that it should be so. He now sat back in his chair +listening to all that was being said, somewhat as he had listened to the +sermon of Chichester, in a sort of ghastly silence. + +"How could a man's double be a man?" said Lady Sophia. + +"We are in the region of assumption and of speculation," returned +Malling, quietly, "a not uninteresting region either, I think. The other +night for a whole hour, having assumed the double man, I speculated on +his existence, spied upon by his other self. And you never did that?" + +He looked at Chichester. + +"When I was making my sermon I was engrossed by the thought of the +watching man." + +Malling's idea had evidently laid a grip upon Chichester's mind. + +"Tell me what the double's existence would be, according to you," he +said. "Tell me." + +"You imagined the lesson learnt by the man so terrible that he fled away +into the night." + +"Yes." + +"Had he been strong enough to stay--" + +"Strong enough!" interposed Chichester. "Better say, had he been obliged +to stay." + +"Very well. Given that compulsion, in my imagination the double must have +learnt a lesson, too. If we can learn by contemplation, can we not, must +we not, learn by being contemplated? Life is permeated by reciprocity. I +can imagine another sermon growing out of yours of last Sunday." + +"Yes, you are right--you are right," said Chichester. + +"The double, then, in my imagination, would gradually become uneasy +under this secret observation. You described him as, his wife gone, +sitting down comfortably to write some account of the hidden doings +of his life, as, the writing finished, the diary committed to the +drawer and safely locked away, rising up to go to rest with a smile of +self-satisfaction. It seemed to me that, given my circumstance of the +persistent observation, a few nights later matters would have been very +different within that room. The hypocrite is happy, if he is happy at +all, when he is convinced that his hypocrisy is successful. Take away +that certainty, and he would be invaded by anxiety. Set any one to watch +him closely, he would certainly suffer, if he knew it." + +"If he knew it! That is the point," said Chichester. "You put the man +watching the double in hiding." + +"There are influences not yet fully understood which can traverse space, +which can touch not as a hand touches, but as unmistakably. I imagined +the soul of the double touched in this way, the waters troubled." + +"Troubled! Troubled!" + +It was Mr. Harding who had spoken, almost lamentably. His powerfully +shaped head now drooped forward on his breast. + +"I imagined," continued Malling, "a sort of gradual disintegration +beginning, and proceeding, in the double--a disintegration of the soul, +if such a thing can be conceived of." + +His piercing eyes went from Chichester to Harding. + +"Or, no," he corrected himself. "Perhaps that is an incorrect description +of my--very imaginative--flight through speculation the other night. +Possibly I should say a gradual transference, instead of disintegration +of soul. For it seemed to me as if the man who watched might gradually, +as it were, absorb into himself the soul of the double, but purified. For +the watcher has the tremendous advantage of seeing the hypocrite living +the hypocrite's life, while the hypocrite is only seen. Might not the +former, therefore, conceivably draw in strength, while the other faded +into weakness? Ignorance is the terrible thing in life, I think. Now the +man who watched would receive knowledge, fearful knowledge, but the man +who was watched, while perhaps suffering first uneasiness, then possibly +even terror, would not, in my conception, ever clearly understand. He +would not any longer dare at night to sit down alone to fill up that +dreadful diary. He would not any longer perhaps--I only say perhaps--dare +to commit the deeds the record of which in the past the diary held. But +his lesson would be one of fear, making for weakness, finally almost for +nothingness. And the other night I conceived of him at last fading away +in the gloom of his room with the darkened window." + +"That was your end!" said Mr. Harding, in a low voice. + +"Yes, that was my end." + +"Then," said Chichester, "you think the lesson men learn from being +contemplated tends only to destroy them?" + +But Malling, now with a smiling change to greater lightness and ease, +hastened to traverse this statement. + +"No, no," he replied. "For the contemplation of a man by his fellow-men +must always be an utterly different thing from his own contemplation by +himself. For our fellow-men always remain in a very delightful ignorance +of us. Don't they, Lady Sophia? And so they can never destroy us, luckily +for us." + +He had done what he wished to do, and he was now ready for other +activities. But he found it was not easy to switch his companions off +onto another trail. Lady Sophia, now that he looked at her closely, he +saw to be under the influence of fear, provoked doubtless by the subject +they had been discussing. Chichester, also, had a look as of fear in his +eyes. As to the rector, he sat gazing at his curate, and there had come +upon his countenance an expression of almost unnatural resolution, such +as a coward's might wear if terror forced him into defiance. + +In reply to Malling's half-laughing question, Lady Sophia said: + +"You've studied all these things, haven't you?" + +"Do you mean what are sometimes called occult questions?" + +"Yes." + +"I have." + +"And do you believe in them?" + +"I'm afraid I must ask you to be a little more definite." + +"Do you believe that there are such things as doubles?" + +"I have no reason to believe that there are, unless you include wrongly +in the term the merely physical replica. It appears to be established +that now and then two human beings are born who, throughout their +respective lives remain physically so much alike that it is difficult, +if not impossible, to distinguish between them." + +"I didn't mean only that," she said quickly. + +"You meant the double in mind and soul as well as in body," said +Chichester. + +"Yes." + +"How can one see if a soul is the double of another soul?" said Malling. + +"Then you think such a story as Mr. Chichester related in his sermon all +nonsense?" said Lady Sophia, almost hotly, and yet, it seemed to Malling, +with a slight lifting of the countenance, as if relief perhaps were +stealing through her. + +"I thought it a legitimate and powerful invention introduced to point a +moral." + +"Nothing more than that?" said Lady Sophia. + +Malling did not reply; for suddenly a strange question had risen up in +him. Did he really think it nothing more than that? He glanced at +Chichester, and the curate's eyes seemed asking him to say. + +The rector's heavy and powerful frame shifted in his chair, and his voice +was heard saying: + +"My dear Sophy, I think you had better leave such things alone. You do +not know where they might lead you." + +There was in his voice a sound of forced authority, as if he had been +obliged to "screw himself up" to speak as he had just spoken. Lady Sophia +was about to make a quick rejoinder when, still with a forced air of +resolution, Mr. Harding addressed himself to Chichester. + +"Since I saw you this morning," he said, "I find that I shall not be here +next Sunday." + +He looked about the circle at his wife and Malling. + +"The doctor has ordered me away for a week, and I've decided to go." + +His introduction of the subject had been abrupt. As if almost in despite +of themselves, Lady Sophia and Malling exchanged glances. Chichester +said nothing. + +"You can get on without me quite well, of course," continued the rector. + +"Are you going to be away long?" said Chichester. + +"No; I think only for a week or so. The doctor says I absolutely need a +breath of fresh air." + +Malling got up to go. + +"I hope you'll enjoy your little holiday," he said. "Are you going far?" + +"Oh, dear, no. My doctor recommends Tankerton on the Kentish coast. It +seems the air there is extraordinary. When the tide is down it comes off +the mud flats. A kind parishioner of mine--" he turned slightly toward +his wife: "Mrs. Amherst, Sophy--has a cottage there and has often offered +me the use of it. I hope to accept her offer now." + +Lady Sophia expressed no surprise at the project, and did not inquire +whether her husband wished her to accompany him. + +But when she shook hands with Malling, her dark eyes seemed to say to +him, "I was wrong." + +And he thought she looked humbled. + + + + +VIII + + +_"Could you come down stay with me Saturday till Monday all alone air +delicious feel rather solitary glad of your company Marcus Harding Minors +Tankerton Kent."_ + +Such was the telegram which Evelyn Malling was considering on the +following Friday afternoon. The sender had paid an answer. The +telegraph-boy was waiting in the hall. Malling only kept him five +minutes. He went away with this reply: + +_"Accept with pleasure will take four twenty train at Victoria Saturday +Malling."_ + +Malling could not have said with truth that he had expected a summons +from Mr. Harding, yet he found that he was not surprised to get it. The +man was in a bad way. He needed sympathy, he needed help. That was +certain. But whether he could help him was more than doubtful, Malling +thought. Perhaps, really, a doctor and the wonderful air from the mud +flats of Tankerton! But here Malling found that a strong incredulity +checked him. He did not believe that the rector would be restored by a +doctor's advice and a visit to the sea. + +That afternoon he went to Westminster, and asked for Professor Stepton. + +"He is away, sir," said the fair Scotch parlormaid. + +"For long?" + +"We don't know, sir. He has gone into Kent, on research business, I +believe." + +Agnes had been for a long time in the professor's service, and was +greatly trusted. The professor had come upon her originally when making +investigations into "second sight," a faculty which she claimed to +possess. By the way she was also an efficient parlor-maid. + +"Kent!" said Malling. "Do you know where he is staying?" + +"The address he left is the Tankerton Hotel, Tankerton, near +Whitstable-on-Sea, sir." + +"Thank you, Agnes," said Malling. + +"It is a haunted house somewhere Birchington way the professor is after, +I believe, sir." + +"Luck favors me!" said Malling to himself, unscientifically, as he walked +away from the house. + +On the following day it was in a singularly expectant and almost +joyously alert frame of mind that he bought a first-class ticket +for Whitstable-on-Sea, which is the station for Tankerton. + +He would involve Stepton in this affair. There was a mystery in it. +Malling was now convinced of that. And his original supposition did not +satisfy him. But perhaps Mr. Harding meant to help him. Perhaps Mr. +Harding intended to be explicit. The difficulty there was that he also +was walking in darkness, as Malling believed. His telegram had come like +a cry out of this darkness. + +"Faversham! Faversham!" the fair Kentish porters were calling. Only about +twenty minutes now! Would the rector be at the station? + +He was. As the train ran in alongside the wooden platform, Mailing caught +sight of the towering authoritative figure. Was it his fancy which made +him think that it looked slightly bowed, even perhaps a little shrunken? + +"Good of you to come!" said the rector in a would-be hearty voice, but +also with a genuine accent of pleasure. "All the afternoon I have been +afraid of a telegram." + +"Why?" asked Malling, as they shook hands. + +"Oh, when one is anxious for a thing, one does not always get it. Ha, +ha!" + +He broke into a covering laugh. + +"Here is a porter. You've only got this bag. Capital! I have a fly +waiting. We go down these steps." + +As they descended, Malling remarked: + +"By the way, we have a friend staying here. Have you come across him?" + +"No, I have seen nobody--that is, no acquaintance. Who is it?" + +"Stepton." + +"The professor down here!" exclaimed Mr. Harding, as if startled. + +"At the hotel, I believe. He's come down to make some investigation." + +"I haven't seen him." + +They stepped into the fly, and drove through the long street of +Whitstable toward the outlying houses of Tankerton, scattered over +grassy downs above a quiet, brown sea. + +"The air is splendid, certainly," observed Malling, drinking it in almost +like a gourmet savoring a wonderful wine. + +"It must do me good. Don't you think so?" + +The question sounded anxious to Malling's ears. + +"It ought to do every one good, I should think." + +"Here is Minors." + +The fly stopped before a delightfully gay little red doll's house--so +Malling thought of it--standing in a garden surrounded by a wooden +fence, with the downs undulating about it. Not far off, but behind it, +was the sea. And the rector, pointing to a red building in the distance, +on the left and much nearer to the beach, said: + +"That is the hotel where the professor must be staying, if he is here." + +"I'll go over presently and ask about him." + +"Oh," said Mr. Harding. "Bring in the bag, please, Jennings. The room on +the right, at the top of the stairs." + +Malling had believed in London that Mr. Harding's telegram to him was a +cry out of darkness. That first evening in the cheerful doll's house he +knew his belief was well founded. When they sat at dinner, like two +monsters, Malling thought, who had somehow managed to insert themselves +into a doll's dining-room, it was obvious that the rector was ill at +ease. Again and again he seemed to be on the verge of some remark, +perhaps of some outburst of speech, and to check himself only when the +words were almost visibly trembling on his lips. In his eyes Malling +saw plainly his longing for utterance, his hesitation; reserve and a +desire to liberate his soul, the one fighting against the other. And at +moments the whole man seemed to be wrapped in weakness like a garment, +the soul and the body of him. Then, as a light may dwindle till it seems +certain to go out, all that was Marcus Harding seemed to Malling to +dwindle. The large body, the powerful head and face, meant little, almost +nothing, because the spirit was surely fading. But these moments passed. +Then it was as if the light flared suddenly up again. + +When dinner was over, Mr. Harding asked Malling if he would like to take +a stroll. + +"The sea air will help us to sleep," he said. + +"I should like nothing better," said Malling. "Haven't you been sleeping +well lately?" + +"Very badly. We had better take our coats." + +They put the coats on, and went out, making their way to the broad, +grassy walk raised above the shingle of the beach. The tide was far +down, and the oozing flats were uncovered. So still, so waveless was +the brown water that at this hour it was impossible to perceive where +it met the brown land. In the distance, on the right, shone the lights +of Herne Bay, with its pier stretching far out into the shallows. Away +to the left was the lonely island of Sheppey, a dull shadow beyond the +harbor, where the oyster-boats lay at rest. There were very few people +about: some fisher-lads solemnly or jocosely escorting their girls, who +giggled faintly as they passed Mr. Harding and Malling; two or three +shopkeepers from Whitstable taking the air; a boatman or two vaguely +hovering, with blue eyes turned from habit to the offing. + +The two men paced slowly up and down. And again Malling was aware of +words trembling upon the rector's lips--words which he could not yet +resolve frankly to utter. Whether it was the influence of the faintly +sighing sea, of the almost sharply pure air, of the distant lights +gleaming patiently, or whether an influence came out from the man beside +him and moved him, Malling did not know; but he resolved to do a thing +quite contrary to his usual practice. He resolved to try to force a +thing on, instead of waiting till it came to him naturally. He became +impatient, he who was generally a patient seeker. + +"You remember our former conversations with regard to Henry Chichester?" +he said abruptly, changing the subject of their discourse. + +"Chichester? Yes--yes. What of him?" + +"I wish to tell you that I think you are right, that I think there is an +extraordinary, even an amazing, change in Chichester." + +"There is, indeed," said Mr. Harding. "And--and it will increase." + +He spoke with a sort of despairing conviction. + +"What makes you think so?" + +"It must. It cannot be otherwise--unless--" + +He paused. + +"Yes," said Malling; "unless--" + +"A thing almost impossible were to happen." + +"May I, without indiscretion, ask what that is?" + +"Unless he were to leave St. Joseph's, to go quite away." + +"Surely that would not be impossible!" + +"I often think it is. Chichester will not wish to go." + +"Are you certain of that?" asked Malling, remembering the curate's remark +in Horton Street, that perhaps he would not remain at St. Joseph's much +longer. + +The rector turned his head and fixed his eyes upon Malling. + +"Has he said anything to you about leaving?" he asked, suddenly raising +his voice, as if under the influence of excitement. "But of course he +has not." + +"Surely it is probable that such a man may be offered a living." + +"He would not take it." + +They walked on a few steps in silence, turned, and strolled back. It was +now growing dark. Their faces were set toward the distant gleam of the +Herne Bay lights. + +"I am not so sure," at length dropped out Malling. + +"Why are you not so sure?" + +"Why do you think Chichester's departure from St. Joseph's impossible?" + +Malling spoke strongly to determine, if possible, the rector to speak, to +say out all that was in his heart. + +"Can I tell you?" Mr. Harding almost murmured. "Can I tell you?" + +"I think you asked me here that you might tell me something." + +"It is true. I did." + +"Then--" + +"Let us sit down in this shelter. There is no one in it. People are going +home." + +Malling followed him into a shelter, with a bench facing the sea. + +"I thought perhaps here I might be able to tell you," said Mr. Harding. +"I am in great trouble, Mr. Malling, in great trouble. But I don't know +whether you, or whether any one, can assist me." + +"If I may advise you, I should say--tell me plainly what your trouble +is." + +"It began--" Mr. Harding spoke with a faltering voice--"it began a good +while ago, some months after Mr. Chichester came as a curate to St. +Joseph's. I was then a very different man from the man you see now. +Often I feel really as if I were not the same man, as if I were radically +changed. It may be health. I sometimes try to think so. And then I--" He +broke off. + +The strange weakness that Malling had already noticed seemed again to be +stealing over him, like a mist, concealing, attenuating. + +"Possibly it is a question of health," said Malling, rather sharply. +"Tell me how it began." + +"When Chichester first joined me, I was a man of power and ambition. I +was a man who could dominate others, and I loved to dominate." + +His strength seemed returning while he spoke, as if frankness were to him +a restorative of the spirit. + +"It was indeed my passion. I loved authority. I loved to be in command. +I was full of ecclesiastical ambition. Feeling that I had intellectual +strength, I intended to rise to the top of the church, to become a bishop +eventually, perhaps even something greater. When I was presented to St. +Joseph's,--my wife's social influence had something to do with that,--I +saw all the gates opening before me. I made a great effect in London. +I may say with truth that no clergyman was more successful than I was--at +one time. My wife spurred me on. She was immensely ambitious for me. I +must tell you that in marrying me she had gone against all her family. +They thought me quite unworthy of her notice. But from the first time I +met her I meant to marry her. And as I dominated others, I completely +dominated her. But she, once married to me, was desperately anxious that +I should rise in the world, in order that her choice of me might be +justified in the eyes of her people. You can understand the position, I +dare say?" + +"Perfectly," said Malling. + +"I may say that she irritated my ambition, that she stung it into almost +a furious activity. Women have great influence with us. I thought she was +my slave almost, but I see now that she also influenced me. She worshiped +me for my immediate success at St. Joseph's. You may think it very +ridiculous, considering that I am merely the rector of a fashionable +London church, but there was a time when I felt almost intoxicated by +my wife's worship of me, and by my domination over the crowds who came to +hear me preach. Domination! That was my fetish! That was what led me +to--oh, sometimes I think it must end in my ruin!" + +"Perhaps not," said Malling, quietly. "Let us see." + +His words, perhaps even more his manner, seemed greatly to help Mr. +Harding. + +"I will tell you everything," he exclaimed. "From the first I have +felt as if you were the man to assist me, if any man could. I had +always, since I was an undergraduate at Oxford,--I was a Magdalen +man,--been interested in psychical matters, and followed carefully +all the proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research. I had also +at that time,--in Oxford,--made some experiments with my college +friends, chiefly in connection with will power. My influence seemed to +be specially strong. But I need not go into all that. After leaving +Oxford and taking orders, for a long time I gave such matters up. I +feared, if I showed my strong interest in psychical research, especially +if I was known to attend séances or anything of that kind, it might be +considered unsuitable in a clergyman, and might injure my prospects. It +was not until Henry Chichester came to St. Joseph's that I was tempted +again into paths which I had chosen to consider forbidden to me. +Chichester tempted me! Chichester tempted me!" + +He spoke the last words with a sort of lamentable energy. + +"Such a gentle, yielding man as he was!" + +"It was just that. He came under my influence at once, and showed it in +almost all he said and did. He looked up to me, he strove to model +himself upon me, he almost worshiped me. One evening,--it was in the +pulpit!--the idea shot through my brain, 'I could do what I like with +that man, make of him just what I choose, use him just as I please.' And +I turned my eyes toward the choir where Chichester sat in the last stall, +hanging on my words. At that instant I can only suppose that what people +sometimes call the _maladie de grandeur_--the mania for power--took +hold upon me, and combined with my furtive longing after research in +those mysterious regions where perhaps all we desire is hidden. Anyhow, +at that instant I resolved to try to push my influence over Chichester to +its utmost limit, and by illegitimate means." + +"Illegitimate?" + +"I call them so. Yes, yes, they are not legitimate. I know that now. And +he--but I dare not think what he knows!" + +The rector was greatly moved. He half rose from the bench on which they +were sitting, then, making a strong effort, controlled himself, sank +back, and continued: + +"At that time, in the early days of his association with me, Chichester +thought that everything I did, everything I suggested, even everything +that came into my mind, must be good and right. He never dreamed of +criticizing me. In his view, I was altogether above criticism. And if I +approached him with any sort of intimacy he was in the greatest joy. You +know, perhaps, Mr. Malling, how the worshiper receives any confidence +from the one he worships. He looks upon it as the greatest compliment +that can be paid him. I resolved to pay that compliment to Henry +Chichester. + +"You must know that although I had entirely given up the occult +practices--that may not be the exact term, but you will understand +what I mean--I had indulged in at Oxford, I had never relaxed my deep, +perhaps my almost morbid interest in the efforts that were being made +by scientists and others to break through the barrier dividing us on +earth from the spirit world. Although I had chosen the career of a +clergyman,--alas! I looked upon the church, I suppose, as little more +than a career!--I was not a very faithful man. I had many doubts which, +as clergymen must, I concealed. By nature I suppose I had rather an +incredulous mind. Not that I was a skeptic, but I was sometimes a +doubter. Rather than faith, I should have much preferred to have +knowledge, exact knowledge. Often I even felt ironical when confronted +with the simple faith we clergymen should surely encourage, sustain, and +humbly glory in, whereas with skepticism, even when openly expressed, I +always felt some part of myself to be in secret sympathy. I continued to +study works, both English and foreign, on psychical research. I followed +the experiments of Lodge, William James, and others. Myers's great work +on human personality was forever at my elbow. And the longer I was +debarred--self-debarred because of my keen ambition and my determination +to do nothing that could ever make me in any way suspect in the eyes of +those to whom I looked confidently for preferment--from continuing the +practices which had such a fascination for me, the more intensely I +was secretly drawn toward them. The tug at my soul was at last almost +unbearable. It was then I looked toward Chichester, and resolved to take +him into my confidence--to a certain extent. + +"I approached the matter craftily. I dwelt first upon the great spread +of infidelity in our days, and the necessity of combating it by every +legitimate means. I spoke of the efforts being made by earnest men of +science--such men as Professor Stepton, for instance--to get at the truth +Christians are expected to take on trust, as it were. I said I respected +such men. Chichester agreed,--when did he not agree with me at that +time?--but remarked that he could not help pitying them for ignoring +revelation and striving to obtain by difficult means what all Christians +already possessed by a glorious and final deed of gift. + +"I saw that though Chichester was such a devoted worshiper of mine, if I +wanted to persuade him to my secret purpose,--no other than the effort, +to be made with him, to communicate with the spirit world,--I must be +deceptive, I must mask my purpose with another. + +"I did so. I turned his attention to the subject of the human will. Now, +at that time Chichester knew that his will was weak. He considered that +fact one of his serious faults. I hinted that I agreed with him. I +proposed to join with him in striving to strengthen it. He envied my +strength of will. He looked up to me, worshiped me almost, because of it. +I drew his mind to the close consideration of influence. I gave him two +or three curious works that I possessed on this subject. In one of them, +a pamphlet written by a Hindu who had been partly educated at Oxford, +and whom I had personally known when I was an undergraduate, there was a +course of will-exercises, much as in certain books on body-building there +are courses of physical exercises. I related to Chichester some of the +extraordinary and deeply interesting conversations I had had with this +Hindu on the subject of the education of the will, and finally I told a +lie. I told Chichester that I had gained my powerful will while at Oxford +by drawing it from my Hindu friend in a series of sittings that we two +had secretly undertaken together. This was false, because I had been born +with a strong, even a tyrannical, will, and I had never sat with the +Hindu. + +"Chichester, though at first startled, was fascinated by this untruth, +and, to cut the matter short, I persuaded him to begin with me a series +of secret sittings, in which I proposed to try to impart to him, to +infuse into him, as it were, some of my undoubted power--the power which +he daily saw me exercising in the pulpit and over the minds of men in my +intercourse with them. + +"What I really wished to do, what I meant to do, if possible, was to use +Chichester as a medium, and to try through him to communicate with the +spirit world. I had taken it into my head--no doubt you will say quite +unreasonably--that he must be entirely subject to my will in a sitting, +and that if I willed him to be entranced, it was certain that he would +become so. But my own entirely selfish desires I concealed under the +cloak of an unselfish wish to give power to him. I even pretended, as you +see, to have a highly moral purpose, though it is true I suggested trying +to effect it in an unconventional and very unecclesiastical manner. + +"Chichester, though, as I have said, at first startled, of course +eventually fell in with my view. We sat together in his room at Hornton +Street. + +"Now, Mr. Malling, some of what I have told you may appear to be almost +contradictory. I have spoken of my _maladie de grandeur_ as if it were +a reason why I wished to sit with Henry Chichester, and then of my desire +to communicate, if possible, with the spirit world as my reason." + +"I noticed that," observed Malling, "and purposed later to point it out +to you." + +"How can I explain exactly? It is so difficult to unravel the web of +motives in a mind. It was my _maladie de grandeur_, I think, that made +me long to use my worshiper Chichester as a mere tool for the opening of +that door which shuts off from us the region the dead have entered. My +mind at that time was filled with a mingled conceit, amounting at moments +almost to an intoxication, and a desire for knowledge. I reveled in my +power when preaching, but was haunted by genuine doubts as to truth. My +egoism longed to make an utter slave of Chichester (I nearly always +lusted to push my influence to its limit). But my desire to know made me +conceive the pushing of it in a direction, in this instance, which would +perhaps gratify a less unworthy desire than that merely of subjugating +another. The two birds and the one stone! I thought of them. I loved the +idea of making a tool. I loved also the idea of using the tool when made. +And I pretended I had only Chichester's moral interest at heart. I have +been punished, terribly punished. + +"We sat, as I say, in Hornton Street, secretly, and of course at night. +My wife knew nothing of it. I made excuses to get away--parish matters, +meetings, work in the East End. I had no difficulty with her. She thought +my many activities would bring me ever more and more into the public +eye, and she encouraged them. The people in the house where Chichester +lodged were simple folk, and were ready to go early to bed, leaving +rector and curate discussing their work for the salvation of bodies and +souls. + +"At first Chichester was reluctant, I know. I read his thoughts. He was +not sure that it was right to approach such mysteries; but, as usual, I +dominated him silently. And soon he fell completely under the fascination +peculiar to sittings." + +Again Mr. Harding paused. For a moment his head sank, his powerful body +drooped, he was immersed in reverie. Malling did not interrupt him. At +last, with a deep sigh, and now speaking more slowly, more unevenly, he +continued: + +"What happened exactly at those sittings I do not rightly know. Perhaps +I shall never rightly know. What did not happen I can tell you. In the +first place, although I secretly used my will upon Chichester, desiring, +mentally insisting, that he should become entranced, he never was +entranced when we sat together. Something within him--was it something +holy? I have wondered--resisted my desire, of which, so far as I know, +he was never aware. Perhaps 'beneath the threshold' he was aware. Who +can say? But though my great desire was frustrated in our sittings, the +desire of Chichester, so different, perhaps so much more admirable than +mine, and, at any rate, not masked by any deceit, began, so it seemed, +to be strangely gratified. He declared almost from the first that, when +sitting with me, he felt his will power strengthened. 'You are doing me +good,' he said. Now, as my professed object in contriving the sittings +had been to lift up Chichester toward my level,"--with indescribable +bitterness Mr. Harding dwelt on these last words,--"I could only express +rejoicing. And this I did with successful hypocrisy. Nevertheless, +I was greatly irritated. For it seemed to me that, when we sat, +Chichester triumphed over me. He obtained his desire while mine remained +ungratified. This was an outrage directed against my supremacy over him, +which I had designed to increase. I gathered together my will power to +check it. But in this attempt I failed. + +"Nothing is stranger, I think, Mr. Malling, than the fascination of a +sitting. Even when nothing, or scarcely anything, happens, the mind, the +whole nature seems to be mysteriously grasped and held. New senses in you +seem to be released. Something is alert which is never alert--or, at +all events, never alert in the same way--in other moments of life. One +seems to become inexplicably different. Chichester was aware of all this. +At the first sitting nothing happened, and I feared Chichester would wish +to give the matter up. But, no! When we rose from our chairs late in the +night he acknowledged that he had never known two hours to pass so +quickly before. At following sittings there were slight manifestations +such as, I suppose, are seldom absent from such affairs,--perfectly +trivial to you, of course,--movements of the table, rappings, gusts of +what seemed cold air, and so forth. All that is not worth talking about, +and I don't mean to trouble you further with it. My difficulty is, when +so little, apparently, took place, to make you understand the tremendous +thing that did happen, that must have been happening gradually during +our sittings. + +"At the very first, as I told you, or nearly so,--I wish to be +absolutely accurate,--Chichester began to be aware of a strengthening +of his will. At this time I was almost angrily unaware of any change +either in him or in myself. At subsequent sittings--I speak of the +earlier ones--Chichester reiterated more strongly his assertion of +beneficent alteration in himself. I did not believe him, though I did +believe he was absolutely sincere in his supposition. It seemed to me +that he was 'suggestioned,' partly perhaps by his implicit trust in me, +partly by his own desire that something curious should happen. However, +still playing a part in pursuance of my resolve not to let Chichester +know my real object in this matter, I pretended that I, too, perceived an +alteration in him, as if his personality were strengthening. And not +once, but on several occasions, I spoke of the change in him as almost +exactly corresponding with the change that had taken place in me when +I sat with my Hindu friend. + +"All this time, with a force encouraged by the secret anger within me, +I violently, at last almost furiously, willed that Chichester should +become entranced. + +"But at length, though I willed furiously, I felt as if I were not +willing with genuine strength, as if I could not will with genuine +strength any longer. It is difficult, almost impossible, to explain +to you exactly the sensation that gradually overspread me; but it used +always to seem to me, when I self-consciously exerted my will, as if +I held within me some weapon almost irresistible, as if I forced it +forward, as if its advance, caused by me, could not be withstood. I +now felt as if I still possessed this weapon, but could not induce it +to move. It was there, like a heavy, useless thing, almost like a burden +upon me. + +"And Chichester continued to assert that he felt stronger, more resolute, +less plastic. + +"Things went on thus till something within me, what we call instinct, I +suppose, became uneasy. I heard a warning voice which said to me, 'Stop +while there is time!' And I resolved to obey it. + +"One night, when very late Chichester and I took our hands from the +table in his little room, I said that I thought we had had enough of +the sittings, that very little happened, that perhaps he and I were not +really _en rapport_, and that it seemed to me useless to continue them. +I suppose I expected Chichester to acquiesce. I say I suppose so, because +till that moment he had always acquiesced in any proposition of mine. Yet +I remember that I did not feel genuine surprise at what actually +happened." + +Mr. Harding stopped, took a handkerchief from his pocket, lifted the brim +of his hat, and passed the handkerchief over his forehead two or three +times. + +"What happened was this, that Chichester resisted my proposal, and that +I found myself obliged to comply with his will instead of, as usual, +imposing mine upon him. + +"This was the beginning--" the rector turned a little toward Malling, +and spoke in a voice that was almost terrible in its sadness--"this was +the beginning of what you have been witness of, my unspeakable decline. +This was the definite beginning of my horrible subjection to Henry +Chichester." + +He stopped abruptly. After waiting for a minute or two, expecting him to +continue, Malling said: + +"You said that you found yourself _obliged_ to comply with Chichester's +will. Can you explain the nature of that obligation?" + +"I cannot. I strove to resist. We argued the matter. He took his stand +upon the moral ground that I was benefiting him enormously through our +sittings. As I had suggested having them ostensibly for that very +purpose, you will see my difficulty." + +"Certainly." + +"My yielding seemed perfectly natural, perhaps almost inevitable. The +point is that, without drastic change in me, it was quite unnatural. My +will was unaccustomed to brook any resistance, and troubled itself not +at all with argument. Till then what I wished to do I did, and there was +an end. I now for the first time found myself obliged to accept a moral +bondage imposed upon me by my curate. The term may sound exaggerated; +I can only say that was how the matter presented itself to me. From the +moment I did so, I took second place to him. + +"We continued to sit from time to time. And the strange, to me +inexplicable, situation rapidly developed. + +"To put it before you in few words and plainly: Chichester seemed to suck +my will away from me gradually but surely, till my former strength was +his. But that was not all. With the growth of his will there was another +and more terrible growth: there rose in him a curiously observant +faculty." + +Again the rector took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. + +"A curiously critical faculty. How shall I say? Perhaps you may know, +Mr. Malling, how the persistent attitude of one mind may influence +another. For instance, if a man always expects ill of another--treachery, +let us say, bad temper, hatred, fear, inducing trickery, perhaps, that +other is turned toward just such evil manifestations in connection with +that man. If some one with psychic force thinks all you do is wrong, +soon you begin to do things wrongly. A fearful uneasiness is bred. The +faculties begin to fail. The formerly sure-footed stumbles. The formerly +self-confident takes on nervousness, presently fear. + +"So it came about between Chichester and me. I felt that his mind was +beginning to watch me critically, and I became anxious about this +criticism. Like some subtle acid it seemed to act destructively upon +the metal, once so hard and resistant, of my self-confidence, of my +belief in myself. Often I felt as if an eye were upon me, seeing too +much, far too much, coldly, inexorably, persistently. This critical +observation became hateful to me. I suffered under it. I suffered +terribly. Mr. Malling, if I am to tell you all,--and I feel that unless +I do no help can come to me,--I must tell you that I have not been in my +life all that a clergyman should be. There have been occasions, and even +since my marriage, when I have yielded to impulses that have prompted me +to act very wrongly. + +"Now, Chichester was a saint. Hitherto I had neither been troubled by +my own grave shortcomings nor by Chichester's excellence of character. +I had always felt myself set far above him by my superior mental +faculties and my greater will power over the crowd, though, alas! not +always over my own demon. I began to writhe now under the thought of +Chichester's crystal purity and of my own besmirched condition of soul. +All self-confidence departed from me; but I endeavored, of course, to +conceal this from the world, and especially from Chichester. With the +world for a time no doubt I succeeded. But with Chichester--did I ever +succeed? Could I ever succeed with such an one as he had become? It +seemed to me, it seems to me far more terribly now, that nothing I did, +or was, escaped him. He attended mentally, spiritually even, to +everything that made up me. At first I felt this curiously, then +anxiously, then often with bitter contempt and indignation, sometimes +with a great melancholy, a sort of wide-spreading sadness in which I +was involved as in an icy sea. I can never make you fully understand +what I felt, how this mental and spiritual observation of Chichester +affected me. It--it simply ate me away, Malling! It simply ate me away!" + +The last words came from Mr. Harding's lips almost in a cry. + +"And how long did you continue the sittings?" + +Very quietly Malling spoke, and he just touched the rector's arm. + +"For a long while." + +"Had you ceased from them when I first met you?" + +"On Westminster Bridge? No." + +"Have you ceased from them now?" + +The rector shifted as if in physical distress. + +"Chichester constrains me to them even now," he replied, like a man +bitterly ashamed. "He constrains me to them. And is that goodness, +righteousness? I said he was a saint; but now! Is it saintliness to +torture a fellow-creature?" + +Malling remembered how he had once, and not long ago, asked himself +whether Chichester's mouth and eyes looked good. + +"Have you ever told Chichester what grave distress he is causing you?" +said Malling. + +"No, never, never! I can't!" + +"Why not?" + +"A great reserve has grown up between us. I could never try to break +through it." + +"You say a great reserve. But does he never criticize you in words? Does +he never express an adverse opinion upon what you say or do?" + +"Scarcely ever--after it is said or done. But sometimes--" + +"Yes?" + +"Sometimes--often I think--he tries to prevent me from saying or doing +something. Often he checks me with a look when I am in the midst of +some speech. It is intolerable. Why do I bear it? But I have to bear it. +Sometimes I exert myself against him. Why, that first day I met you--you +must have noticed it--he tried to prevent me from walking home with you." + +"I did notice it." + +"Then I resisted him, and he had to yield. But even when he yields in +some slight matter it makes no difference in our relations. He is always +there, at the window, watching me." + +"What do you say?" + +Malling's exclamation was sharp. + +"That sermon of his!" said the rector. "That fearful sermon! Ever since +I heard it I have felt as if I were the double within that house, as +if Chichester were the man regarding my life in hiding. Why you--you +yourself put my feeling into words! You suggested to Chichester and +my wife that if the man had stayed, had spied upon him who was within +the room, the hypocrite--" + +He broke off. He got up from his seat. + +"Let us walk," he said. "I cannot sit here. The air--the lights--let +us--" + +Almost as if blindly he went forth from the shelter, followed by Malling. + +"It's better here," he said. "Better here! Mr. Malling, forgive me, +but just then a hideous knowledge seemed really to catch me by the +throat. Chichester is turning my wife against me. There is a terrible +change in her. She is beginning to observe me through Chichester's eyes. +Till quite recently she worshiped me. She noticed the alteration in me, +of course,--every one did,--but she hated Chichester for his attitude +toward me. Till quite lately she hated him. Now she no longer hates him; +for she begins to think he is right. At first I think she believed the +excuse I put forward for my strange transformation." + +"Do you mean your nervous affection?" + +"Yes." + +"Just tell me, have you any trouble of that kind, or did you merely +invent it as an excuse for any failure you made from time to time?" + +"I used it insincerely as an excuse. But I really do suffer from time +to time physically. But physical suffering is nothing. Why should we +waste a thought on such nonsense?" + +"In such a strange case as this I believe everything should be taken +carefully into consideration," observed Malling in his most prosaic +voice. + +The rector's attention seemed to be suddenly fixed and powerfully +concentrated. The feverish excitement he had been displaying gave place +to a calmer, more natural mood. + +"Tell me," he said, "do you think your knowledge can help me? I am aware +that you have made many strange investigations. Is there anything to be +done for me, anything that will restore me to my former powers? Will you +credit me when I declare to you that it was only by making a terrible +effort that I was able to get away from Chichester's companionship and +to come down here? If I had not said that I meant to do so while you were +in the room, I doubt if I should ever have had the courage. There is +something inexplicable that seems to bind me to Chichester. Sometimes +there have been moments when I have thought that he longed to be far +away from me. And it has seemed to me that he, too, would find escape +difficult, if not impossible." + +"You wish very much that Chichester should resign his curacy and go +entirely out of your life?" asked Malling. + +"Wish!" cried Mr. Harding, almost fiercely. "Oh, the unutterable relief +to me if he were to go! Even down here, away from him for a day or two, + I sometimes feel released. And yet--" he paused in his walk--"I shall +have to go back--I know it--sooner than I meant to, very soon." + +He spoke with profound conviction. + +"Chichester will mean me to go back, and I shall not be able to stay." + +"And yet you say it has occurred to you that possibly Chichester may be +as anxious as yourself to break away from the strange condition of things +you have described to me." + +"Have you," exclaimed Mr. Harding--"have you some reason to believe +Chichester has ever contemplated departure?" + +Malling moved slowly on, and the rector was forced to accompany him. + +"It has occurred to me," he said, evading the point, "that possibly Henry +Chichester might be induced to go out of your life." + +"Never by me! I should never have the strength to attempt compulsion with +Chichester." + +"Some one else might tackle him." + +"Who?" cried out Mr. Harding. + +"Some man with authority." + +"Do you mean ecclesiastical authority?" + +"Oh, dear, no! I was thinking of a man like, say, Professor Stepton." + +As Malling spoke, a curious figure seemed almost to dawn upon them, +sidewise, becoming visible gently in the darkness; a short man, with +hanging arms, a head poked forward, as if in sharp inquiry, and rather +shambling legs, round which hung loosely a pair of very baggy, light +trousers. + +"And here is the professor!" said Malling, stopping short. + + + + +IX + + +That night when, very late, Mr. Harding and Malling returned to the red +doll's house and let themselves into it with a latch-key, they found +lying upon the table in the little hall a brown envelop. + +"A telegram!" said the rector. + +He took it into his hand and read the name on the envelop. + +"It's for me. Malling, do you know whom this telegram is from?" + +"How can I, or you, for that matter?" + +"It is from Henry Chichester, and it is to recall me to London." + +"It may be so." + +"It is so. Open it for me." + +Malling took the telegram from him and tore it open, while he sat heavily +down by the table. + +"_Please return if possible difficulties in the parish Benyon ill need +your presence Chichester._" + +Malling looked down at the rector. + +"You see!" Mr. Harding said slowly. + +"What do you mean to do?" + +Mr. Harding got up from his chair with an effort like that of a weary +man. + +"I wonder where the railway-guide is?" he said. "Excuse me for a moment, +Mr. Malling." + +He went away into the drawing-room, and returned with the railway-guide +open in his hand. + +"Malling," he said, using the greater familiarity he had for a moment +discarded, "I am about to do a rude thing, but I ask you, I beg of +you, to acquit me of any rude intention toward yourself. I have been +looking up the Sunday trains. I find I can catch a good one at Faversham +to-morrow morning. There is a motor I can hire in the town to get there. +It stands just by the post-office, where the road branches." He paused, +looking into Malling's face as if in search of some sign of vexation or +irony. "With a large parish on my hands," he went on, "I have a great +responsibility. And if Benyon, my second curate, is ill, they will +be short-handed." + +"I see." + +"What distresses me greatly--greatly--is leaving you, my guest, at such +short notice. I cannot say how I regret it." + +He stopped. Purposely, to test him, Malling said nothing, but waited with +an expressionless face. + +"I cannot say. But how can I do otherwise? My duty to the parish must +come before all things." + +"I see," said Malling again. + +Looking greatly disturbed, Mr. Harding continued: + +"I will ask you to do me a very great favor. Although I am obliged to go, +I hope you will stay, I entreat you to stay till Monday. The professor is +here. You will not be companionless. The servants will do everything to +make you comfortable. As to food, wine--everything is provided for. Will +you stay? I shall feel more at ease in going if I know my departure has +not shortened your visit." + +"It is very good of you," Malling replied. "I'll accept your kind offer. +To tell the truth, I'm in no hurry to leave the Tankerton air." + +"Thank you," said the rector, almost with fervor. "Thank you." + +So, the next morning, Mr. Harding went away in the hired motor, and +Malling found himself alone in the red doll's house. + +He was not sorry. The rector's revelation on the previous night had well +repaid him for his journey; then the air of Tankerton really rejoiced +him; and he would have speech of the professor. + +"I shall lay it before Stepton," he had said to Mr. Harding the previous +night, after they had parted from the professor. + +And he had spoken with authority. Mr. Harding's confidence, his +self-abasement, and his almost despairing appeal, had surely given +Malling certain rights. He intended to use them to the full. The +rector's abrupt relapse into reserve, his pitiful return to subterfuge, +after the receipt of that hypnotizing telegram, had not, in Malling's +view, abrogated those rights. + +When the motor disappeared, he strolled across the grass with a towel +and had a dip in the brown sea, going in off the long shoal that the +Whitstable and Tankerton folk call "the Street." Then he set out to +find the professor. + +His interview with Stepton on the previous night in the presence of +Mr. Harding had been rather brief. Stepton had been preoccupied and +monosyllabic. Agnes had been right as to his reason for honoring the +coast of Kent with his company, but wrong as to the haunted house's +location. It was not in Birchington, but lay inland, within easy reach +of Tankerton. When he met Malling and Harding, the professor was going +to his hotel, where a motor was waiting to convey him to the house, in +which he intended to pass the night. His mind was fixed tenaciously upon +the matter in hand. Malling had realized at once that it was not the +moment to disturb him by the introduction of any other affair, however +interesting. But his suggestion of a meeting the next morning was thus +welcomed: + +"Right! I shall be at home at churchtime--as you're not preaching." + +The second half of the sentence was directed to Mr. Harding, who said +nothing. + +"And you might give me a cup of tea in the afternoon," the professor +had added, looking at the rector rather narrowly before shambling off +to his hotel to get the plaid shawl which he often wore at night. + +"With the greatest pleasure. Minors is the name of the house," had been +Mr. Harding's reply. + +Whereupon the professor had vanished, muttering to himself: + +"Minors! And why not Majors, if you come to that? Perhaps too suggestive +of heart-breaking military men. Minors is safer in a respectable seaside +place." + +The professor had been up all night, but looked much as usual, and was +eating a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs in the cheerful coffee-room +when Malling arrived. He scarcely ever ate at orthodox hours, and had +frequently been caught lunching at restaurants in London between four and +five in the afternoon. + +"Where's the rector? At church?" was his greeting. + +"The rector has gone back to London," replied Malling, sitting down by +the table. + +"What about my cup of tea, then?" snapped Stepton. + +"I will be your host. I'm here till to-morrow. Any interesting +manifestations?" + +"A rat or two and a hysterical kitchen-maid seem to be the responsible +agents in the building up of the reputation of the house I kept awake +in last night." + +"I believe I have a more interesting problem for you." + +The professor stretched out a sinewy hand. + +"Cambridge marmalade! Most encouraging!" he muttered. "Have the reverend +gentlemen of St. Joseph's been at it again--successfully?" + +"I want you to judge." + +And thereupon Malling laid the case faithfully before the professor, +describing not only the dinner in Hornton Street and his interview with +Lady Sophia, but also the two sermons he had heard at St. Joseph's, and +the rector's lamentable outburst of the previous night. This last, having +a remarkably retentive memory, he reproduced in the main in Mr. Harding's +own words, omitting only the rector's reference to his moral lapses. +During the whole time he was speaking Stepton was closely engaged with +the Cambridge marmalade, and showed no symptoms of attention to anything +else. When he ceased, Stepton remarked: + +"Really, clergymen are far more to be depended upon for valuable +manifestations than a rat or two and a hysterical kitchen-maid. Come +to my room, Malling." + +The professor had a bedroom facing the sea. He led Malling to it, shut +the door, gave Malling a cane chair, sat down himself, in a peculiar, +crab-like posture, upon the bed, and said: + +"Now give me as minute a psychological study of the former and actual +Henry Chichester as you can." + +Malling complied with this request as lucidly and tersely as he could, +wasting no words. + +"Any unusual change in his outward man since you knew him two years ago?" +asked the professor, when he had finished. + +Malling mentioned the question as to the curate's eyes and mouth which +had risen in his mind, and added: + +"But the character of the man is so changed that it may have suggestioned +me into feeling as if there were physical change in him, too." + +"More than would be inevitable in any man in a couple of years. And now +as to his digestive organs." + +"Good heavens!" exclaimed Malling. + +The apparent vagaries of his companion very seldom surprised him, but +this time he was completely taken aback. + +"Are they what they were? Assuming, on your part, a knowledge of what +they were." + +"I don't know either in what condition they are now, or in what condition +they were once." + +"Ah! Now I must draw up a report about last night. I'll come for that cup +of tea to Minors--might almost as well have been Majors, even granting +the military flavor--about five." + +Malling took his departure. + +At a quarter to five he heard the click of the garden gate, and looking +out at the latticed window of the hall, he saw the professor walking +sidewise up the path, with a shawl round his shoulders. He went to let +him in, and took him into the tiny drawing-room. + +"An odd shell for Harding!" observed the professor. "More suitable to a +bantam than to a Cochin-China!" + +"It doesn't belong to him." + +"Nor he to it. Very wise and right of him to go back to Onslow Gardens." + +A maid brought in the tea, and the professor, spread strangely forth in a +small, chintz-covered arm-chair, enjoyed it while he talked about oysters +and oyster-beds. He was deeply interested in the oysters of Whitstable, +and held forth almost romantically on their birth and upbringing, the +fattening, the packing, the selling, and the eating of them--"with lemon, +not vinegar, mind! To eat vinegar with a Whitstable native is as vicious +as to offer a libation of catchup at the altar of a meadow mushroom just +picked up out of the dew." + +Malling did not attempt to turn his mind from edibles. The professor had +to be let alone. When tea was finished and cleared away, he observed: + +"And now, Malling, what is your view? Do you look upon it as a case of +transferred personality? I rather gathered from your general tone that +you were mentally drifting in that direction." + +"But are there such cases? Of double transfer, I mean?" + +"Personally I have never verified one. When you spoke of the reverend +gentlemen for the first time, I said, 'Study the link!' There will be +development in the link if--all the rest of it." + +"There has been development, as I told you. The link is on his side now." + +"That's remarkable, undoubtedly. Has it ever struck you that Harding was +almost too successful a clergyman to be a genuinely holy man?" + +"What do you mean?" + +"There's a modesty in holiness that is hardly adapted to catch smart +women." + +"You used to go to hear Harding preach." + +"And d'you know why I liked his sermons?" + +"Why?" + +"Because he understood doubt so well. That amused me. But the man who has +such a comprehensive understanding of skepticism, is very seldom a true +believer. One thing, though, Harding certainly does believe in, judging +by a sermon I once heard him preach." + +"And that is?" + +"Manicheism. Chichester, you say, was a saint?" + +"He was, if a man can be a saint who has a certain amiable weakness of +character." + +"And now? You think he would be a difficult customer to tackle now?" + +"Harding finds him so." + +"And Harding was an overwhelming chap, cocksure of himself. Chichester +must be difficult. Shall I tackle him?" + +"I wish you would. But how? Do you wish me to introduce him to you?" + +"Let me see." + +The professor dropped his head and remained silent for a minute or two. + +"Tell me something," he at length remarked, lifting his head and assuming +his most terrier-like aspect. "Do you think Harding a whited sepulcher?" + +"Possibly." + +"And do you think his saintly curate has found it out?" + +"Do you think that would supply a natural explanation of the mystery?" + +"Should you prefer to search for it in that malefic region which is the +abiding-place of nervous dyspepsia?" + +"How could--" + +"Acute nervous dyspepsia, complicated by a series of sittings under the +rose, might eat away the most brazen self-confidence. That's as certain +as that I wear whiskers and you don't. Shall we do an addition sum? Shall +we add Chichester's discovery of secret lapses in his worshiped rector's +life, to the nervous dyspepsia and the sittings? Shall we do that?" + +"And Lady Sophia?" + +"There's a sunflower type of woman. The rising sun can't escape her +inevitable worship." + +"The change in Harding may be a natural one. But there is something +portentous in the change in Chichester," said Malling. "You know I'm +a rather cool hand, and certainly not inclined to easy credulity. But +there's something about Chichester which--well, Professor, I'll make a +confession to you that isn't a pleasant one for any man to make. There's +something about Chichester which shakes my nerves." + +"And you haven't got nervous dyspepsia?" + +"Should I be even a meliorist--as I am--if I had?" + +"I must know Chichester. It's a pity I didn't know him formerly." + +"I don't believe that matters," said Malling, with intense conviction. +"There is that in him which must strike you and affect you, whether you +knew him as he was or not." + +"So long as I don't turn tail and run from him, all's well. I will +tackle Chichester. In the interests of science I will face this curate. +But how shall I approach him? As in golf, the approach is much, if not +everything." + +He sat thinking for some minutes, with his eyebrows twitching. Then he +said: + +"The question is, Should the approach be casual or direct? Shall I +describe a curve, or come to him as the crow comes when making for a +given point--or is said to come, for I've never investigated that +matter? What do you say?" + +"It's very difficult to say. On the day I dined in Hornton Street, +Chichester certainly wanted to tell me something. He asked me to dine, +I am almost sure, in order that he might tell it to me." + +"About the sittings with Harding, no doubt." + +"That, perhaps, and something more." + +"But he told you nothing." + +"Directly." + +"Do you think he would be more or less likely to unbosom himself now than +he was then?" + +"Less likely." + +"You might give me his address." + +Malling did so. The professor wrote the address down on a slip of paper, +pinned the slip carefully to the yellow lining of his jacket, and then +got up to go. + +But Malling detained him. + +"Professor," he said, speaking with an unusual hesitation, "you know why +I told you all this." + +"In the interests of science?" + +"No, in the interest of that miserable man, Marcus Harding. I want you +to break the link that binds him to Henry Chichester--if there is one. +I want you to effect his release." + +"I'm afraid you've come to the wrong man," returned Stepton, dryly. "My +object in entering into this matter is merely to increase my knowledge, +not to destroy my chance of increasing it." + +"But surely--" + +"We shall never get forward if we move in the midst of a fog of pity and +sentiment." + +Malling said no more; but as he watched the professor shambling to the +garden gate, he felt as if he had betrayed Marcus Harding. + + + + +X + + +Soon after Malling had returned to London, he received the following note +from Mr. Harding: + +_Onslow Gardens_, June --th. + +_Dear Mr. Malling:_ + +I seem to have some remembrance of your saying to me at Tankerton that +you wished to speak to Professor Stepton with regard to a certain matter. +I may be wrong in my recollection. If, however, I am right, I now beg +you not to speak to the professor. I have, of course, the very highest +regard for his discretion; nevertheless, one must not be selfish. One +must not think only of one's self. I have obligations to others, and I +fear, when we were together at Tankerton, I forgot them. A word of +assurance from you that Professor Stepton knows nothing of our +conversation will set at rest the mind of + +Yours sincerely, + +_Marcus Harding._ + +As soon as he had read this communication, Malling realized that he +had been right in his supposition that a new reserve was growing up +in Henry Chichester. He was aware of Chichester's reserve in the letter +of the rector. He was aware, too, of the latter's situation as he had +never been aware of it before. Often a trifle illuminates a life, as a +search-light brings some distant place from the darkness into a fierce +radiance that makes it seem near. So it was now. + +"Poor Harding!" thought Malling, with an unusual softness. "But this +letter comes too late." + +What answer should he return to the rector? He hated insincerity, but on +this occasion he stooped to it. He had not only the fear of Stepton upon +him; he had also the desire not to add to the deep misery of Marcus +Harding. This was his answer: + +_Cadogan Square_, June --. + +_Dear Mr. Harding:_ + +In reply to your letter, I will not now repeat our conversation of the +other evening to Professor Stepton. He is, as you say, a man of the +highest discretion, and should you feel inclined yourself to take him +into your confidence at any time, I think you will not regret it. + +Yours sincerely, + +_Evelyn Malling_. + +As he put this note into an envelope, Malling said to himself: + +"Some day I'll let him know I deceived him; I'll let him know I had +already told the professor." + +Two or three days later Malling heard of the professor having been at a +party in Piccadilly at which Lady Sophia was a guest. + +"And do you know, really,"--Malling's informant, a lively married woman, +concluded,--"those old scientific men are quite as bad as any of the boys +who only want to have a good time. The professor sat in Lady Sophia's +pocket the whole evening! Literally in her pocket!" + +"I didn't know modern women had pockets," returned Malling. + +"They don't, of course; but you know what I mean." + +Malling understood that the professor was beginning his "approach." + +A week went by, and at a man's dinner, Malling chanced to sit next to +Blandford Sikes, one of the most noted physicians of the day. In the +course of conversation the doctor remarked: + +"Is your friend Stepton going to set up in Harley Street?" + +"Not that I know of," said Malling. "What makes you ask?" + +"He came to consult me the other day, and when I told him he was as sound +as Big Ben he sat with me for over half an hour pumping me unmercifully +on the subject of nervous dyspepsia. The patient who followed, and who +happened to be a clergyman, looked fairly sick when he was let in at +last." + +Who happened to be a clergyman! Malling had longed to ask Blandford +Sikes a question--who that clergyman was. But he refrained. To do so, +would doubtless have seemed oddly inquisitive. It was surely enough for +him to know that the professor was busily at work in his peculiar way. +And Malling thought again of that "approach." Evidently the professor +must be describing the curve he had spoken of. When would he arrive at +Henry Chichester? There were moments when Malling felt irritated by +Stepton's silence. That it was emulated by Marcus Harding, Lady Sophia, +and Henry Chichester did not make matters easier for him. However, he +had deliberately chosen to put this strange affair into Stepton's hands. +Stepton had shown no special alacrity with regard to the matter. Malling +felt that he could do nothing now but wait. + +He waited. + +Now and then rumors reached him of Marcus Harding's fading powers, now +and then he heard people discussing one of Henry Chichester's "remarkable +sermons," now and then in society some feminine gossip murmuring that +"Sophia Harding seems to be perfectly sick of that husband of hers. She +probably wishes now that she had taken all her people's advice and +refused him. Of course if he had been made a _bishop_!" + +The season ended. Goodwood was over, and Malling went off to Munich and +Bayreuth for music. Then he made a walking-tour with friends in the +Oberammergau district, and returned to England only when the ruddy +banners of autumn were streaming over the land. + +Still there was no communication from the professor. Malling might of +course have written to him or sought him. He preferred to possess his +soul in patience. Stepton was an arbitrary personage, and the last man +in the world to consent to a process of pumping. + +Meanwhile Stepton had forgotten all about Malling. He was full of work +of various kinds, but the work that most interested him was connected +with the reverend gentlemen of St. Joseph's. As Malling surmised, he had +lost little time in beginning his "approach," and that approach had been +rather circuitous. He had taken his own advice and studied the link. +This done, the intricate and fascinating subject of nervous dyspepsia +had claimed his undivided attention. When he had finished his prolonged +interview with Blandford Sikes, sidling back to the waiting-room to +gather up various impedimenta, he had encountered the unfortunate +clergyman whom he had kept waiting. Marcus Harding was the man. They +exchanged only a couple of words, but the sight of the flaccid bulk, +the hanging cheeks and hands, the eyes in which dwelt a sort of faded +despair, whipped up into keen alertness every faculty of the professor's +mind. As he walked into Cavendish Square he muttered to himself: + +"I never saw a clergyman look more promising for investigation, by Jove! +Never! There's something in it. Malling was not entirely wrong. There's +certainly something in it." + +But what? Now for Henry Chichester! + +Stepton was by nature unemotional, but he was an implicit believer in +the hysteria of others, and he thought clergymen, as a class, more liable +to that malady than other classes of men. Curates, being as a rule young +clergymen, were, in his view, specially subject to the inroads of the +cloudy complaint, which causes the mind to see mountains where only +mole-hills exist, and to appreciate anything more readily and accurately +than the naked truth. Henry Chichester was young and he was a curate. +He was therefore likely to be emotional and to be attracted by the +mysterious, more especially since he had recently been knocking on +its door, according to Malling's statement. + +After a good deal of thought, the professor resolved to cast aside +convention, and to make Chichester's acquaintance without any +introduction; indeed, with the maximum of informality. + +He learned something about Chichester's habits, and managed to meet him +several times when he was walking from the daily service at St. Joseph's +to his rooms in Hornton Street. In this walk Chichester passed the South +Kensington Museum. What more natural than that the professor should +chance to be coming out of it? + +The first time they met, Stepton looked at the curate casually, the +second time more sharply, the third time with scrutiny. He knew how to +make a crescendo. The curate noticed it, as of course the professor +intended. He did not know who Stepton was, but he began to wonder about +this birdlike, sharp-looking man, who evidently took an interest in him. +And presently his wonder changed into suspicion. This again accorded with +the professor's intention. + +One day, after the even-song at St. Joseph's, Stepton saw flit across +the face of the curate, whom he was meeting, a flicker of something +like fear. The two men passed each other, and immediately, like one +irresistibly compelled, the professor looked back. As he did so, +Chichester also turned round to spy upon this unknown. Encountering +the gaze of the professor, he started, flushed scarlet, and pursued his +way, walking with a quickened step. + +The professor went homeward, chuckling. + +"To-day's Tuesday," he thought. "By Saturday, at latest, he'll have +spoken to me. He'll have to speak to me to relieve the tension of his +nerve-ganglions." + +Chichester did not wait till Saturday. On Friday afternoon, coming +suddenly upon Stepton at a corner, he stopped abruptly, and said: + +"May I ask if you want anything of me?" + +"Sir!" barked Stepton. "Mr. Chichester!" + +"You know my name?" said the curate. + +"And probably you know mine--Professor Stepton." + +A relief that was evidently intense dawned in the curate's face. + +"You are Professor Stepton! You are Mr. Malling's friend!" + +"Exactly. Good day." + +And the professor marched on. + +Chichester did not follow, but the next day, on the pavement not far from +the museum, he stopped once more in front of the professor with a "Good +afternoon." + +"Good day," said Stepton. + +"Since you know who I am," began the curate, "and I have heard so much of +you, I hope you will forgive me for asking you something." + +"Certainly." + +"What is it in me which has attracted your attention?" + +"I wish I knew," returned the professor. + +"You wish you knew! Do you mean that you don't know?" + +"I don't know at all." + +"But--but--you--I was not wrong in feeling sure that you were--that +something in me had aroused your attention?" + +"Not wrong at all; but 'something' is not the word." + +"What is the word?" + +"Everything. Everything in you rouses my attention, Mr. Chichester. But +I can't think why." + +"Did you know I was Mr. Harding's curate the first time you met me?" + +"Yes; I had seen you at St. Joseph's once or twice when I came to hear +your rector preach. You didn't interest me at all then, I'm bound to +say." + +Chichester stood in silence for a minute. Then he said: + +"I might walk a little way back with you, if you have no objection." + +Stepton jerked his head in assent. And so the acquaintance of these two +men was begun. Their first conversation was a delight to the professor. +After a short silence the curate said: + +"I could not help seeing each time we have met how your attention was +fastened upon me." + +"Just so," rejoined Stepton, making no apology. + +"And I really think," continued Chichester, with a sort of pressure--"I +really think I am entitled to ask for some explanation of the matter." + +"Certainly you are." + +"Well?" He paused, then said again, "Well, Professor Stepton?" + +"I'm afraid I've nothing to tell you, I like to stick to facts." + +"I only ask you for facts." + +"The facts amount to very little. Coming from the museum I ran across +a man. You were the man. My attention was riveted at once. I said to +myself, 'I must see that man again.' Next day I took my chance. I had +luck. You were there at pretty much the same hour." + +"I always come from St. Joseph's--" + +"Exactly. And so it's happened on several days. And that's all I have to +tell you." + +"But surely you can indicate why--" + +"No, I can't. All I can say is that for some reason, quite inexplicable +by me, if I had come upon you in a crowd of a thousand, I should have had +to attend to you." + +"That's very strange," said Chichester, in a low voice; "very strange +indeed." + +"There's a reason for it, of course. There's a reason for everything, but +very often it isn't found." At this point the professor thrust his head +toward Chichester, and added, "you can't tell me the reason, I suppose?" + +Chichester looked much startled and taken aback. + +"I--oh, no!" + +"Then we must get along in the dark and make the best of it." + +Having said this, the professor abruptly dismissed the subject and began +to talk of other things. When he chose he could be almost charming. +He chose on this occasion. And when at last he hailed a bus, declaring +that he was due at home, Chichester expressed a hope that some day +he would find himself in Hornton Street, and visit number 4a. + +The professor assented, and was carried westward. + +Several days passed, but he did not find himself near Horton Street, and +he had ceased to visit the South Kensington Museum. Then the curate +wrote and invited him to tea. Despite a pretence at indifference in the +phraseology of the note, the professor discovered a deep anxiety in the +writing. Among other things he had studied, and minutely, graphology. + +He sat down and very politely refused the invitation. + +Then Chichester came to call on him, and caught him at home. + +It was six o'clock in the evening, and the heavens were opened. Agnes, +the Scotch parlor-maid who claimed to have second sight, opened the door +to Chichester, who, speaking from beneath a dripping umbrella, inquired +for the professor. + +"He's in, sir, but he's busy." + +"Could you take him my card?" + +Agnes took it, much to her own surprise, and carried it to the +professor's study. + +"A gentleman, sir." + +"I told you, Agnes--" + +"I couldn't say no to him, sir." + +"Why not? Here!" he took the card. + +"Why not?" he repeated, when he had read the name. + +"It wasn't in me to, sir." + +"Well, then I shall have to see him. Show him up. But never again will +I call you by the proud name of Cerberus." + +So, putting the onus upon Agnes, the professor yielded, murmuring to +himself: + +"It wasn't in her to! Very expressive! And Cerberus, by the way, was +always ready to let 'em in. It was when they wanted to get out that--Good +evening. I hope you don't mind climbing." + +"Thank you, no," said Chichester. + +"Sit down." + +"I am afraid I disturb you." + +"I'm bound to say you do. But what does it matter?" + +"As you didn't find your way to Hornton Street, I thought I would +venture." + +"Very good of you. This is a soft chair." + +Chichester sat down. It had been evident to Stepton from the moment +when his visitor came in that he was in great agony of mind. There was +in his face a sort of still and abject misery which Stepton thought +exceedingly promising. As he turned round, leaning his sharp elbow on +his writing-table, Stepton was considering how to exploit this misery +for the furthering of his purpose. + +"I want you to tell me something," Chichester began. "I want to know +why your attention was first attracted to me. I feel sure that you must +be able to give a reason. What is it?" + +"Well, now, I wish I could," returned Stepton. + +To himself he gave the swift admonition, "Play for hysteria, and see what +comes of it." + +"I wish I could; but it's a mystery to me. But now--let's see." + +He knitted his heavy brows. + +"A long while ago I picked a man out, met him in a crowd, at the Crystal +Palace, followed him about, couldn't get away from him. That same evening +he was killed on the underground. I read of it in the paper, went to see +the body, and there was my man." + +"Do you claim to have some special faculty?" asked Chichester. + +"Oh, dear, no. Besides, you haven't been killed on the underground--yet." + +A curious expression that seemed mingled of disappointment and of +contempt passed across Chichester's face. Stepton saw it and told +himself, "No hysteria." + +"Possibly the reason may be a more intellectual one," observed the +professor. "I hear you have been preaching some very remarkable sermons. +I haven't heard them. Still, others who have may have 'suggestioned' me. +Three quarters of any man's fame, you know, are due to mere suggestion." + +"You're not the man to be the prey of that, I fancy--not the easy prey, +at any rate." + +"Then we're left again with no explanation at all, unless, as I believe +I hinted once before, you can give us one." + +Chichester looked down; without raising his eyes he presently said in a +constrained voice: + +"If I were to give you one you might not accept it." + +"Probably not," said Stepton, briskly. "In my life I've been offered a +great many explanations, and I'm bound to say I've accepted remarkably +few." + +Chichester looked up quickly, and with the air of a man nettled. + +"You'll forgive me, I hope, for saying that you scientific men very often +seem to have a great contempt for those who are more mystically minded," +he observed. + +"I've hit the line!" thought Stepton, with a touch of exultation, as he +dropped out a negligent, "Forgive you--of course." + +"I dare say it seems to you extraordinary that any man should be able +to be a clergyman, genuinely believing what he professes and what he +preaches." + +"Very few things seem to me extraordinary." + +"Perhaps because you are skeptical of so much in which others believe." + +"That may be it. Quite likely." + +"And yet isn't there a saying of Newton's, 'A little science sends man +far away from God, a great deal of science brings man back to God?' +You'll forgive the apparent rudeness. All I mean is--" + +"That the sooner I try to get more science the better for me," snapped +out Stepton, brusquely interrupting his visitor, but without heat. +"Let me tell you that I pass the greater part of my time in that very +effort--to acquire more exact knowledge than I possess. Well--now then! +Now then!" + +Turning round still more toward the curate he looked almost as if he were +about to "square up" to him. A dry aggressiveness informed him, and his +voice had a rasping timbre as he continued: + +"But I decline to take leaps in the dark like--" Here he mentioned a +well-known man of science--"and I decline to reject evidence like--" Here +he named a professor even more famous. + +The mention of the last name evidently excited Chichester's curiosity. + +"What evidence has he rejected?" he exclaimed. + +"Last week he held a sitting to examine the pretensions of Mrs. Groeber, +the German medium. Westcott was also present, a man on whose word the +very devil--if there is such a person, which I don't yet know--would +rely. Some apparently remarkable phenomena occurred.--" Here he mentioned +the professor--"was convinced that they could only have been brought +about by supernormal means. Unfortunately, or fortunately, Westcott had +seen the trickery which produced them. When the séance was over he +explained what it was to ----. What did this _so-called_ man of science +do? Refused to accept Westcott's evidence, clung to his own ridiculous +belief,--savage's fetish belief, nothing more,--and will include the +Groeber manifestations as evidence of supernormal powers in his next +volume. And I say, I say"--he raised his forefinger--"that clergymen are +doing much the same thing pretty nearly every day of their lives. Seek +for truth quietly, inexorably, and you may get it; but don't prod men +into falsehood, or try to, as you've been trying to in this very room." + +"I!" cried out Chichester. + +"You. I told you I had no reason to give you as to why you attracted my +attention in the street. Were you satisfied with that? Not at all. You +must needs come here,--very glad to see you!--and say, 'I feel sure you +must be able to give me a reason. What is it?' You clamor for a lie. +And that's what men are perpetually doing--clamoring for lies. And they +get 'em, from clergymen, from mediums, from so-called scientific men, +and from the dear delightful politicians. There now!" + +And the professor dropped his forefinger and flung himself back in his +chair. + +"And"--Chichester in his turn leaned forward, but he spoke with some +hesitation--"and suppose I were to tell you a truth, a strange, an +amazing truth?" + +He paused. + +"Go on!" said the professor. + +"Wouldn't you do just the opposite? You say men accept lies. I say you +would probably reject truth." + +"_Cela dépend_. What you believed to be truth might not be truth at +all. It might be hysteria, it might be nervous dyspepsia, it might be +overwork, it might be a dozen things." + +"Just what I say," exclaimed Chichester. "Men of science delight in +nothing so much as in finding excuses for rejecting the greatest truths." + +"Do you mean the greatest truths in the possession of Anglican +clergymen?" + +"I dare say you think it impossible that a clergyman should know more +than a scientific man?" + +"Oh, no. But he's out for faith, and I happen to be out for facts. I like +hard facts that can be set down with a fountain-pen in my note-book, and +that, taken together, are convincing to all men of reasonable intellect. +Very dull, no doubt; but there you have it. Clergymen, as a rule, move in +what are called lofty regions--the realms of heart, conscience, and what +not. Now, I'm very fond of the region of gray matter--gray matter." + +"And yet you are one of the chief of the investigators in the field of +psychical research." + +"Do you think there's no room for pencil and note-book there? What about +Podmore,--there's a loss!--and a dozen others? Psychic matters have got +to be lifted out of the hands of credulous fetish-worshiping fools, and +the sooner the better." + +"It's easy to call people credulous," said Chichester, with decided heat. +"By being so readily contemptuous, Professor Stepton, you may often keep +back evidence that might be of inestimable value to your cause. A man in +possession of a great truth may keep it to himself for fear of being +laughed at or called a liar." + +"Then all I can say is that he's a coward--an arrant abject coward." + +Chichester sat in silence. Again he was looking down. Now that his eyes +were hidden by their drooping lids, and that he was no longer speaking, +the sadness of his aspect seemed more profound. It dignified his rather +insignificant features. It even seemed, in some mysterious way, to infuse +power into his slight and unimportant figure. After sitting thus for +perhaps three minutes he raised his head and got up from his chair. + +"I must not take up your time any longer," he said. "It was very good of +you to see me at all." He held out his hand, which Stepton took, and +added, "I'll just say one thing." + +"Do!" + +"It isn't always cowardice which causes a man to keep a secret--a secret +which might be of value to the world." + +"I never said it was." + +"No; but still--you spoke just now of my sermons. I preached one not very +long ago which I have typed myself. If I send it to you do you think you +could find time to read it?" + +"Certainly." + +"I will send it, then. Good night." + +"I'll come down with you." + +The professor let Chichester out. The rain was still falling in torrents. +Shrouded in his mackintosh, protected by his umbrella, the curate walked +away. Looking after him, Stepton thought: + +"Very odd! It isn't only in the face. Even the figure, all covered up and +umbrella-roofed, seems to have something--he'll send me the sermon of the +man and his double to-morrow." + +And on the morrow that sermon came by the first post. Having read it, the +professor promptly returned it to Chichester with the following note: + +_The White House, Westminster. + +Dear Mr. Chichester:_ + +Very glad to have had the opportunity of reading your interesting +discourse. If I had not known it was yours, and a sermon, I should have +said "a posthumous work of Robert Louis Stevenson." It does credit to +your imagination. If you care to publish, I should suggest "The +Cornhill." I know nothing about their terms. + +Yours faithfully, + +_G.R.E. Stepton._ + +By return of post, there came an urgent invitation to the professor to +visit Chichester's rooms in Hornton Street, "to continue a discussion +which has a special interest for me at this moment." + +"Discussion!" thought Stepton, sitting down to accept, "What my man wants +is for me to goad him into revelation; and I'll do it." + +The professor knew enough of psychology to be aware that in the very +depths of the human heart there is a desire which may perhaps be called +socialistic--the desire to share truth with one's fellow-men. Chichester +was scourged by this desire. But whether what he wished to share was +truth, or only what he believed to be truth, was the question. Anyhow, +Stepton was determined to make him speak. And he set off to Hornton +Street little doubting that he would find means to carry his +determination into effect. + +He arrived about half-past five. He did not turn the corner into +Kensington High Street on his homeward way until darkness had fallen, +having passed through some of the most extraordinary moments that had +ever been his. + +When he was shown into the curate's sitting-room, his first remark was: + +"Sent that very interesting story to 'The Cornhill' yet?" + +"I don't think you quite understand, Professor," replied Chichester. +"I did not type it with a view to sending it in anywhere for publication. +You'll have tea with me, I hope? Here it is, all ready." + +"Thank you." + +"Oh, Ellen!" + +Chichester went to the door, and Stepton heard the words, "Nobody, you +understand," following on a subdued murmuring. + +"And Mr. Harding, sir?" said the maid's voice outside. + +"Mr. Harding won't come to-day. That will do, Ellen." + +The professor heard steps descending. His host shut the door and +returned. + +"You typed it for your own use?" said Stepton. + +"That sermon? Yes. I wished to keep it by me as a record." + +He sat down, and poured out the tea. + +"A record of an imagined experience. Exactly. Then why not publish?" + +"It is not fiction." + +"Well, it isn't fact." + +The professor drank his tea, looking at his host narrowly over the cup. + +"Do you say such an experience as that described in my sermon is +impossible?" + +"Do you say it is possible?" + +"If I were to say so would you believe me?" + +"Certainly not, unless I could make an investigation and personally +satisfy myself that what you said was true. You wouldn't expect anything +else, I'm sure." + +"You can believe nothing on the mere word of another?" + +"Very little. I am an investigator. I look for proof." + +"With your pencil in one hand, your note-book in the other." + +In Chichester's last remark there was a note of sarcasm which thoroughly +roused Stepton, for it sounded like the sarcasm of knowledge addressed +to ignorance. Stepton had a temper. This touch of superiority, not +vulgar, but very definite, fell on it like a lash. + +"Now I'll go for the reverend gentleman of St. Joseph's!" he thought. + +And for a moment he forgot his aim in remembering himself. Afterward, +in thinking matters over, he offered a pinch of incense at the altar +of his egoism. + +"So, the modern clergyman still believes in slip-slop, does he?" he +exclaimed in his most aggressive manner. "Even now hasn't he learnt the +value of the matter-of-fact? The clergyman is the doctor of the soul, +isn't he? And the doctor, isn't he the clergyman of the body? I wonder, +I do wonder, how long the average doctor would keep together his practice +if he worked with no more precision than the average clergyman. The +contempt of the pencil and note-book! The contempt of proper care in +getting together and coordinating facts! The contempt of proof--the +appeal to reason! And so we get to the contempt of reason. And let me +tell you--" he struck the tea-table with his lean hand till the curate's +cups jumped--"that scarcely ever have I heard a sermon in which was not +to be found somewhere the preacher's contempt for reason, the bread of +the intellect of man." + +"The soul is not the intellect." + +"Don't you think it higher?" + +"I do." + +"And so you put it on slops!" + +The professor got up from his chair, and began to sidle up and down the +small room. + +"You put it on slops, as if it were a thing with a disordered stomach. +That's your way of showing it respect. You approach the shrine with an +offering of water gruel. Now look ye here!"--The professor paused beside +the tea-table--"The soul wants its bread, depends upon it, as much as +the body, and the church that is free with the loaves is the church to +get a real hold on real men. Flummery is no good to anybody. Rhetoric's +no good to anybody. Claptrap and slipslop only make heads swim and +stomachs turn. The pencil and note-book, observation and the taking down +of it, these bring knowledge to the doors of men. And when you sneer at +them, you sneer at bread, on the eating of which--or its equivalent, +basis-nourishment--life depends." + +"I wonder whether you, and such as you, really know on what the true life +of the soul depends," said Chichester, with an almost dreadful quietness. + +The professor sat down again. + +"Such as I?" he said. "You are good enough to do me the honor of putting +me in a class?" + +"As you have so far honored me," returned Chichester. + +"Ha!" ejaculated Stepton. + +He had quite got the better of his egoism, but he by no means regretted +his outburst. + +"Do you claim to stand outside the ranks of the clergy?" he asked. + +"Do you claim to stand outside the ranks of the scientists?" + +"Oh, dear, no. And now--you?" + +Chichester said nothing for a moment. Then, lifting up his head, and +gazing at the professor with a sort of sternness of determination, he +said: + +"Remember this! You yourself told me that in a crowd of a thousand you +must have fixed your attention on me." + +For a moment the professor had it in his mind to say that this statement +of his had been a lie invented to make an impression on Chichester. But +he resisted the temptation to score--and lose. He preferred not to score, +and to win, if possible. + +"I did," he said. + +"Could this be so if I were like other men, other clergymen?" + +"Well, then, what is the mighty difference between you and your reverend +brethren--between you, let us say, and your rector, Mr. Harding?" + +Very casually and jerkily the professor threw out this question. + +Not casually did Chichester receive it. He moved almost like a man who +had been unexpectedly struck, then seemed to recover himself, and to +nerve himself for some ordeal. Leaning forward, and holding the edge of +the table with one hand, he said: + +"How well do you know Mr. Harding?" + +"Pretty well. Not intimately." + +"You have seen him since he--altered?" + +"I saw him only the other day when I was at a specialist's in Harley +Street." + +"A specialist's?" + +"For nervous dyspepsia." + +Again the look of contempt flickered over Chichester's face. + +"Do you think the alteration in Mr. Harding may be due to nervous +dyspepsia?" + +"Probably. There are few maladies that so sap the self-confidence of a +man." + +Chichester laughed. + +For the first time since he had entered the little room the professor +felt a cold sensation of creeping uneasiness. + +"Apparently you don't agree with me," he said. + +"I am not a doctor, and I know very little about that matter." + +"Then I'm bound to say I don't know what you find to laugh at." + +"For a man who has spent so much time in psychical research you seem to +have a rather material outlook upon--" + +"Mr. Harding?" + +"And all that he represents." + +"Suppose we stick to Mr. Harding," said the professor, grittily. "He is +typical enough, even if you are not." + +"In what respect do you consider Mr. Harding typical?" + +"I am speaking of the Harding before the fall into the abysses of nervous +dyspepsia." + +"Very well. In what respects was Mr. Harding typical?" + +"In the sublime self-confidence with which he proclaimed as facts, things +that have never been proved to be facts." + +"Do men want facts?" said Chichester, almost as one speaking alone to +himself. + +"I do. I want nothing else. Possibly Mr. +Harding had none to give me. I don't blame +him." + +"Perhaps it is a greater thing to give men faith than to give them +facts." + +"Give them the first by giving them the second, if you can! And that, +by the way, is the last thing the average clergyman is able to do." + +Chichester sat silent for nearly a minute looking at the professor with a +strange expression, almost fiery, yet meditative, as if he were trying to +appraise him, were weighing him in a balance. + +"Professor," he said at last, "I suppose your passion for facts has led +men to put a great deal of faith in you. Hasn't it?" + +"I dare say my word carries some weight. I really don't know," responded +Stepton, with an odd hint of something like modesty. + +"I had thought of Malling first," almost murmured Chichester. + +"What's that about Malling?" + +"I think he would have accepted what I have to give more readily than you +would. There seems to me something in him which stretches out arms toward +those things in which mystics believe. In you there seems to me something +which would almost rather repel such things." + +"I beg your pardon. I am quiescent. I neither seek to summon nor to +repel." + +"I couldn't tell Malling," said Chichester. "His readiness stopped me. It +struck me like a blow." + +"Malling prides himself on being severely neutral in mind." + +"And you on being skeptical?" + +"I await facts." + +"Shall I give you some strange facts, the strangest perhaps you have ever +met with?" + +Stepton smiled dryly. + +"You'll forgive me, but some such remark has been the prelude to so many +figments." + +"Figments?" + +"Of the imagination." + +An expression of anger--almost like a noble anger it seemed--transformed +Chichester's face. It was as a fine wrath which looked down from a +height, and in an instant it melted into pity. + +"How much you must have missed because of your skepticism!" he said. "But +I shall not let it affect me. You are a man of note-book and pencil. Will +you promise me one thing? Will you give me your word not to share what I +shall tell you with any one, unless, later on, I am willing that you +should?" + +"Oh, dear, yes!" said the professor. + +And again he smiled. For even now he believed the curate to be wavering, +swayed by conflicting emotions, and felt sure that a flick of the whip +to his egoism would be likely to hasten the coming of what he, the +professor, wanted. + +A loud call rose up from the street. A wandering vender of something +was crying his ware. In his voice was a sound of fierce melancholy. +Chichester went to the window and shut it down. + +"I wish it was night," he said as he turned. + +The professor jerked out his watch. + +"It must be getting late," he observed. "Past six! by Jove!" + +He made an abrupt movement. + +"What?" said Chichester. "You are going!" + +He came up to the table. + +"Sometimes I think," he said, "that men hate and dread nothing as they +hate and dread facts which may upset the theories they cherish." + +"You're perfectly right. Well, very glad to have seen you in your +own room." The professor got up. "By their rooms shall ye know them." +He glanced round. + +"Ah, I see you have Rossetti's delightfully anemic Madonna, and Holman +Hunt's 'Light of the World.' A day or two ago I was talking to a lady +who pronounced that--" he extended his finger toward the Hunt--"the +greatest work of art produced in the last hundred years. Her reason? +Its comforting quality. I am sure you agree with her. Good-by." + +He made a sidling movement toward the door. Perhaps it was that movement +which finally decided the curate to speak. + +"Professor," he said, "I don't want you to go yet." + +"Why not?" jerked out Stepton, with one hand on the door-knob. + +"You collect 'cases.' I have a case for you. You are a skeptic: you say +men should be brought to faith by facts. Sit down. I will give you some +facts." + +The professor came slowly back, looking dry and cold, and sat down by the +table, facing the Rossetti Madonna. + +"Always ready for facts," he said. + + + + +XI + + +"You have heard of doubles, of course, Professor?" said Chichester, +leaning his arms on the table and putting his hands one against the +other, as if making a physical effort to be very calm. + +"Of course. There was an account of one in that sermon of yours." + +"Have you ever seen a double?" + +"No; not to my knowledge." + +"I suppose you disbelieve in them?" + +"I have no reason to believe in them. I have not collected enough +evidence to convince me that there are such manifestations." + +"You know a double at this moment." + +"Do I, indeed? And may I ask the manifestation's name?" + +"Marcus Harding." + +"Marcus Harding is a double, you say. Whose?" + +"Mine," said Chichester in a low voice. + +He clasped and unclasped his hands. + +"I don't understand you," said Stepton, rather disdainfully. + +"I will try to make you." And Chichester began to speak, at first in a +low, level voice. "That sermon of mine," he said, "was a sort of shadow +of a truth that I wanted to reveal,--that I dared not fully reveal. +Already I had tried to tell Evelyn Malling something of it. I had failed. +When the moment came, when Malling was actually before me, I could not +speak out. His mind was trying to track the truth that was in me. He +got, as it were, upon the trail. Once he even struck into the truth. Then +he went away to Marcus Harding. I remained in London. When I knew that +those two were together I felt a sort of jealous fear of Malling. For +there was pity in him. Despite his intense curiosity he had a capacity +for pity. I realized that it might possibly interfere with--with +something that I was doing. And I recalled Marcus Harding to London. +From that moment I have avoided Malling. I could never tell him. But you, +hard searcher after truth as you are--you could never find it in you to +drag away another from the contemplation of truth. Could you? Could you?" + +"Probably not," said Stepton. "I usually let folks alone even when +they're glaring at falsehood. Ha!" + +He settled himself in his chair, looking sidewise toward Chichester. + +"You, like every one else, have noticed the tremendous change in Marcus +Harding," Chichester went on. "That change, the whole of that change, is +solely owing to me." + +"Very glad to have your explanation of that." + +"I am going to give it you. The beginning of that change came about +through the action of Marcus Harding. He wished for facts that are, +perhaps,--indeed, probably,--withheld deliberately from the cognizance +of man. You have sneered at those who live by faith, you have sneered at +priests. Well, you can let that Marcus Harding go free of your sarcasm. +Although a clergyman he was not a faithful man. And he wanted facts to +convince him that there was a life beyond the grave. Henry Chichester--" + +"You! You!" interjected Stepton, harshly. + +"I, then, came into his life. He thought he would use me to further his +purpose. He constrained me to sittings such as you have often taken part +in, with a view to sending me into a trance and employing me, when in +that condition, as a means of communication with the other world--if +there was one. We sat secretly in this room, at this table." + +"You need not give me ordinary details of your sittings," said the +professor. "I am familiar with them, of course." + +"Henry Chichester--" + +"You! You! Don't complicate matters!" + +"I never was entranced; but presently I felt myself changing subtly." + +"People very often imagine they are developing into something wonderful +at séances. Nothing new in that." + +"Please try to realize the facts of my case without assuming that it +resembles a thousand others. I believe, I feel sure, that it resembles no +other case that has come under your observation. To grasp it you must +grasp the characters of two men, Marcus Harding as he was--and myself, +as I was." + +"Put them before me, then." + +"That Marcus Harding you knew. He was the type of the man who, sublimely +self-confident, imposes his view of himself upon other men and especially +upon women. He had strength--strength of body and strength of mind. And +he had the strength which a devouring ambition sheds through a man. A +fine type of the worldly clergyman he was, of the ardent climber up +the ladder of preferment. To him the church was a career, and he meant +to succeed in it. If he had to begin as a curate he meant to end as a +bishop, perhaps as an archbishop. And he had will to help him, and +vitality to help him, and the sort of talent that brings quick notice +on a man. And he had also a woman to help him, his wife, Lady Sophia. +He chose well when he chose her for his helpmate, though he may not think +so now. He should have been content with what he had. But he wanted more, +and he thought he might perhaps get what he wanted through me. Marcus +Harding was a full-blooded type of the clerical autocrat. I once was an +equally complete type of the clerical slave--slave to conscience, slave +to humble-mindedness, slave to my rector as soon as I knew him. + +"St. Francis of Assisi was the character I worshiped. I strove after +simple goodness. I desired no glories of this world, no praises of men. +I did not wish to be clever or to shine, but only to do my duty to my +fellow-men, and so toward God. When I was first to make the acquaintance +of Marcus Harding, with a view to becoming his senior curate if he +thought fit, I felt some alarm. I had heard so much of his great energy +and his remarkable talents. The day came. I paid my visit to Onslow +Gardens. For the first time I saw--" Chichester paused. His face became +distorted. He turned toward the window as if anxious to hide his face +from the professor's small, keen eyes. "I saw--that man," he continued, +in a withdrawn and husky voice, and still looking away. + +Stepton sat motionless and silent, sidewise, with his arms hanging. + +Chichester, after another long pause, again faced him. + +"My very first impression was unfavorable. I attributed this to his +great size, which had startled me. I now know I was wrong in thinking +I took that impression from the outer man. It was the inner man who in +that moment announced himself to me. But almost instantly he had surely +withdrawn himself very far away, and I, then, had no means of following +him. So he escaped from me, and I fell under the influence that Marcus +Harding was able to exert at will. + +"I was dominated. Buoyancy, life, energy, self-confidence, radiated from +that man. He steeped me in his vigor. He seemed kind, cordial. He won my +heart. My intellect, of course, was dazzled. But--he won my heart. And I +felt not only, 'Here is a man far greater than myself to whom I can look +up,' but also, 'Here is a man to whom I must look up, because he is far +better than myself.' At that interview it was settled that I should +become senior curate at St. Joseph's. + +"As you know, I became, and still am, senior curate. As I grew to know +Marcus Harding better I admired him more. In fact, my feeling for him +was something greater than admiration. I almost worshiped him. His will +was law to me in everything. His slightest wish I regarded as a behest. +His talents amazed me. But I thought him not only the cleverest, but the +best of men. It seemed to me right that such a man should be autocratic. +A beneficent autocracy became my ideal of government. That my rector's +will should be law to his wife, his servants, his curates, his organist, +his choir, to those attached to his schools, to those who benefited by +the charities he organized, seemed to me more than right and proper. I +could have wished to see it law to all the world. If any one ventured +to question any decision of his, or to speak a word against him, I felt +almost hot with anger. In a word, I was at his feet, as the small and +humble-minded man often is at the feet of the man who has talents and +who is gifted with ambition and supreme self-confidence. + +"For a long time this condition of things continued, and I was happy in +it. Probably it might have continued till now, if--if that accursed idea +had not come to Marcus Harding." + +Again Chichester paused. In speaking he had evidently become gradually +less aware of his companion's presence and personality. His subject +had gripped him. Memory had grown warm within him. He lived in the days +that were past. + +"That accursed idea," he repeated slowly, "to use me as his tool in an +endeavor to break down the barrier which divides men from the other +world. + +"As I told you, we began to sit secretly. Marcus Harding wished me to +fall into the entranced condition. I did not know this at first, so at +first I did not consciously resist his desire. He had told me a lie. He +had told me that he desired only one thing in our sittings, to give to +me something of the will power that made him a force in the world. He had +declared that this was possible. I believed him unquestioningly. I +thought he was trying to send some of his power into me. Soon I felt that +he was succeeding in this supposed endeavor. Soon I felt that a strange +new power was filtering into me." + +Chichester fixed his eyes on Stepton as he said the last words, and +seemed to emerge from his former condition of self-absorption. + +"You have sat often. Have you ever felt such a sensation? It is like +growth," he said. + +"When one first begins to sit at séances, one is apt to imagine all sorts +of things in the darkness," returned Stepton. "I dare say I did, like +other folk." + +"I understand," said Chichester, with a sort of strange condescension. +"You think I was merely the victim of absurdity. The sense of this coming +of power grew slowly, but steadily, within me. And presently it was +complicated by another development, which involved--or began to involve, +let me say at this point--my companion, Marcus Harding. I think I ought +to tell you that in beginning the sittings I had had certain doubts, +which were swept away by my admiration of, and faith in, my rector. +Hitherto I had always thought that our human knowledge was deliberately +limited by God, and that it was very wrong to strive to know too much. +The man of science no doubt believes that it is impossible to know too +much; but I have thought that many great truths are kept from us because +we are not yet in a condition properly to understand them. I had, +therefore, begun these practices with a certain tremor, and possibly a +certain feeling of resistance, in the depths of my soul. As I felt the +power coming to me I had put away my fears. They did not return. Yet +surely the new development within me, of which I now became aware, was +connected with those fears, however subtly. It was a sensation almost of +hostility directed against Marcus Harding." + +"Ah, now!" ejaculated the professor, as if in despite of himself. "And +where's the connection you speak of?" + +"Marcus Harding had constrained me to do a thing that in my soul I had +believed to be wrong and that had roused my fear. As power dawned in me, +directing itself upon everything about me, it was instinctively hostile +to him who had dominated me before I had any power, and who, by +dominating me, had for a moment made me afraid." + +"Retrospective enmity! Very well!" muttered the professor. "I understand +you. Keep on!" + +"This hostility--if I may call a feeling at first not very definite by +so definite a name--induced in me a critical attitude of mind. I found +myself, to my surprise, secretly criticizing the man whom till now I had +regarded as altogether beyond the reach of criticism. I felt that Marcus +Harding was giving me power. I was grateful to him for doing so; yet I +began to see him in a new, and at moments an unpleasant light. Presently, +after trying in vain to combat this novel sensation, which seemed to me +almost treacherous, almost disloyal, I sought about for a reason, to give +myself at least some justification for it. I sought, and one night it +seemed to me that I found. + +"On that night I was more than ever aware that strength of some kind was +pouring into me. I had an almost heady sensation, such as one who drinks +a generous wine may experience. When we rose from the table I told my +rector so. He stared at me very strangely. Then he said: 'Good! Good! +Didn't I tell you I would give you some of my power?' He paused. Then he +added: 'It will come! It must come!' As he spoke the last words he +frowned, and all his face seemed to harden, as if he were making a +violent mental effort to which the body was obliged to respond. And at +that instant I was aware that the reason Marcus Harding had given to me +to persuade me to these sittings was not the true one, that his purpose +was quite other than that which I had hitherto supposed it to be. I was +suddenly aware of this, and I thought: 'I must already have been aware of +it subconsciously, and that accounts for my sensation of hostility toward +the rector.' A lie had been told to me. My new self-confidence resented +this; and I said to myself, 'If Marcus Harding can tell a lie to me, who +almost worshiped him, he must be an arrant hypocrite.' + +"We sat again, and again I knew that there was something in the mind +of my companion which he concealed from me, something to which I should +strongly object if I knew what it was, something which troubled the +atmosphere, the mental atmosphere, of the sitting. Instead of being +in accord, we were engaged in a silent, but violent, struggle. I was +determined not to be overcome. A sort of fierce desire for tyranny +sprang up in me. I longed to see Marcus Harding at my feet. + +"Again and again we sat. My hostile feeling grew. My critical feeling +grew. My longing to tyrannize increased, till I was almost afraid of it, +so cruel did I feel it to be. 'Down! Down under my feet!' That was what +my soul was secretly saying now to the man whose will had been as law to +me. And one night, as if he heard that ugly voice of my soul, he abruptly +got up from the table and said: 'It seems to me that you and I are not +_en rapport_. It seems to me that no more good can come of these +sittings. We had better not sit again." + +"We must sit again," I replied. + +"Marcus Harding turned scarlet with anger. He looked at me. He opened his +lips to speak. I let him speak. I even argued the question with him. I +pointed out to him that his only design--the only design acknowledged by +him, at any rate, in beginning these practices--had been to give me +strength such as, he had declared to me, he himself had drawn while at +Oxford from a Hindu comrade. In carrying out this design, I now told him, +he was being successful. I felt that I was growing in power of will, in +self-confidence. How, then, could he refuse to continue when success was +already in sight? 'Unless,' I concluded, 'you had some other design in +persuading me to sit, which I did in the first instance against my +secret desire, and you feel that there is now no probability of carrying +that design into effect.' + +"He gave in. I had him beaten. Hastily he muttered a good-night and left +me. I let him out into the night. As soon as the street door had shut on +him I ran upstairs. I went to that window,--" Chichester flung out his +hand--"pushed it up, leaned out, and watched him down the street. I saw +him pass under a gas-lamp and I said to myself: 'You have submitted to my +will, and you shall submit again. I am the master now.' + +"In that moment all the domination which I had so joyously endured, which +I had even surely reveled in,--for there are those who can revel in their +slavery,--abruptly became in my mind a reason for revenge. Marcus Harding +disappeared in the night; but still I leaned out, staring down the way he +had gone, and thinking, 'You shall pay me back for it. You shall pay me +back.' + +"From that night I made no effort to check the critical faculty, the +exercise of which at first had seemed to me a sort of treachery. And as +I let myself criticize, I saw more clearly. The scales fell from my eyes. +I realized that I had been nothing less than blind in regard to Marcus +Harding. I saw him now as he was, a victim of egomania, a worldling, +tyrannical, falsely sentimental, and unfaithful steward, a liar--perhaps +even an unbeliever. His whole desire--I knew it now--was not to be good, +but to be successful. His charity, his pity for the poor, his generosity, +his care for his church, for his schools--all was pretence. I saw Marcus +Harding as he was. And what followed?" + +Chichester leaned forward to the professor. + +"Fear followed," he said in a withdrawn voice. + +"Fear!" said Stepton, clearing his throat with a loud, rasping noise. + +"Whenever I was with Marcus Harding in any public place I was now +companioned by fear. I dreaded unspeakably lest others should begin to +see what I saw. When he preached, I could hardly sit to listen: I felt +as if any shame falling upon him would overwhelm me also. I strove in +vain to combat this strange, this, then, inexplicable sensation. With +every sitting this terror grew upon me. It tortured me. It obsessed me. +It drove me into action. When I was with my rector, I tried perpetually +to prevent him from exposing his true self to the world, by changing +the conversation, by attenuating his remarks, by covering up his actions +with my own, sometimes even by a brusque interruption. But in the pulpit +he escaped from me. I was forced to sit silent and to listen while he +preached doctrine in which he had no belief, and put forward theories +of salvation, redemption by faith, and the like, which meant less than +nothing to him. Finding this presently unendurable by me, I strove to +govern him mentally when he was in the pulpit, to track him, as it were, +with my mind, to head him off with my mind when he was beginning to take +the wrong path." + +"Did you succeed in that effort?" interrupted the professor. + +"I made an impression, a terrible impression, upon him. I almost broke +him down. I sapped his self-confidence. His power as a preacher deserted +him, as his power outside the pulpit deserted him. With every day I felt +that I saw more clearly into every recess, every cranny, of his mind and +nature. Just at first this frightfully clear sight was mine only when we +were sitting; but presently it was mine whenever I was with him. And he +knew it, and went in fear of me. Gradually, very gradually, it came about +that our former positions were reversed; for as he sank down in the human +scale, I mounted. As he lost in power, I gained. And especially in the +pulpit I felt that now I had force, that I could grip my hearers, could +make a mighty impression upon those with whom I was brought into contact. + +"But I must tell you that now I gained no satisfaction from my own +improvement, if so it may be called. My whole life was vitiated by my +secret terror lest Marcus Harding should be found out, should ever be +known for what he was. His actions, and even his thoughts, affected me +with an intimacy that was inexplicable." + +"You were in telepathic communication with him!" interjected Stepton. + +"Call it so if you like. Often I felt what he was thinking, almost as if +each thought of his were a hand laid upon me--a hand from which I shrank +with an almost trembling repugnance. Sometimes when he thought something +contemptible or evil, I shrank as if from a blow. + +"There was a link between us. Presently, soon, I knew it. We seemed in +some dreadful way to belong to each other, so that whatever was thought, +said, done by him, whatever happened to him, reacted upon me. + +"At this time Lady Sophia Harding hated me with a deadly hatred. Formerly +she had been indifferent to me. Concentrated upon her husband, adoring +him, vain of him, greedily ambitious for his advancement, she had had no +time to bestow on a clerical nonentity. But as I grew to understand +what her husband really was she grew to hate me. She was almost rude to +me. She spoke ill of me behind my back. She even tried to oust me from my +position as senior curate of St. Joseph's. Why did not she succeed? Are +you thinking that?" + +"Well, what if I was?" snapped the professor, moving in his chair. + +"Marcus Harding could not make a move to get rid of me. There was a link +between us which he could not even try to break. + +"One night--one night--I discovered what that link was." + +It was growing dark in the room. The Rossetti Madonna, thin, anemic, +with hanging hair, seemed fading away on the somber, green wall. The +window-panes looked spectral and white. The faint murmur of the city +sounded a little deeper and much sadder than in the light of day. +Stepton was aware of a furtive but strong desire for artificial light in +the room, but he did not choose to mention it. And Chichester, whose +voice--so it seemed to his hearer--began to have that peculiar almost +alarming timbre which belongs to a voice speaking not for the ears of +another, but for the satisfaction only of the soul which it expresses, +continued his narrative, or confession, as if unaware of the dying of +day. + +"During the day which preceded it I had been haunted by the thought of +myself doing what Marcus Harding could not do. Why should not I of my own +will leave St. Joseph's, get away from this dreadful contemplation which +obsessed me, from this continual anxiety--almost amounting to terror at +moments--which gnawed me? Why should not I break this mysterious link, +impalpable yet strong? If I did, should I not again find peace? But my +sittings with Marcus Harding would be at an end. Could I give them up? +I asked myself that, and I felt as if I could not. Through them, by means +of them, I felt as if I might attain to something wonderful--terrible +perhaps, but wonderful. I felt as if I were approaching the threshold of +absolute truth. A voice within me whispered, 'Go no further.' Was it the +voice of conscience? I did not heed it. Something irresistible urged me +forward. I thrust away from me with a sort of crude mental violence the +haunting thought. And when the darkness came I greeted it. + +"For he came with the darkness." + +On the wall opposite to the professor the thin Madonna faded away. + +"As I heard his heavy step on the stairs that night I said to myself, 'At +all hazards I will see, I will know, more. I will see, I will know--all.' +When he entered at that door"--a thin darkness moved in the darkness as +Chichester pointed--"he was dreadfully white and looked sad, almost +terrified. He suggested that we should break through our plan and not +sit. I refused. He then said he wished to sit in light. I refused. He was +become my creature. He dared not disobey my desires! We placed our hands +on this table, not touching. I could no longer endure the touch of his +hand. We remained motionless. A long time passed. There were no rappings. +A strange deadness seemed to prevail in the room. Presently it faded +away, and I had the sensation that I was sitting quite alone. + +"At first it seemed to me that my companion must have crept out of the +room silently, leaving me by myself in the darkness. I shuddered at the +thought that I was alone. But then I said to myself that Marcus Harding +must be there in the blackness opposite to me, and I moved my hands +furtively on the table, thinking to prove his presence to myself by +touch. I did not prove it. Suddenly I had no need to touch him in order +to know that he was there." + +"Why not?" said the professor, and started at the sound of his own voice +in the little room. + +"Something made me realize that he was still within the room. +Nevertheless, I felt that I was alone. How could that be? I asked myself +that question. This answer came as it were sluggishly into my mind, 'You +are alone not because Marcus Harding is away, but because Henry +Chichester is away.' For a long while I sat there stagnantly dwelling on +this knowledge which had come to me in the blackness. It was as if I knew +without understanding, as a man may know he is involved in a catastrophe +without realizing how it has affected his own fate. And then slowly there +came to me, or grew in me, an understanding of how I was alone. I was +alone with Marcus Harding at that moment because I was Marcus Harding. A +shutter seemed to slide back softly, and for the first time I, Marcus +Harding, stared upon myself out of the body of another man, of Henry +Chichester. I was alone with my soul double. Motionless, silent, I gazed +upon it. Now I understood why I had been tortured with anxiety lest +the world should learn to comprehend Marcus Harding as I comprehended +him. Now I understood why neither he nor I had been able to break that +mysterious link which our sittings had forged between us. I had been +trying ignorantly to protect myself, to conceal my own shortcomings, to +cover my own nakedness. I had sweated with fear lest my own truth should +be discovered by all those to whom for so many years I had been +presenting a lie. Yes, I had sweated with fear; but even then how little +I had known! A voice cried out suddenly, 'Turn on the light!' It was +the voice of my double. It seemed to awake, or to recall perhaps,--how +can I say?--Henry Chichester. I was aware of a shock; it seemed strongly +physical. I got up at once and turned the light on. Marcus Harding was +before me, trembling, ashen. 'What is it? What has happened?' he said in +a broken voice. I made no reply. He left me. I heard his step in the +street--out there!" + +Chichester was silent. The professor said nothing for a moment, but +passed his tongue twice over his lips and swallowed, sighing immediately +afterward. + +"Transferred personality!" he muttered--"transferred personality. Is that +what you'd have me believe?" + +"I'll tell you the rest. When Marcus Harding's steps died away down the +street I remained here. Since that shock I have spoken of, I felt that I +was again Henry Chichester, changed, as I had long been changed--charged +with new force, new knowledge, new discrimination, new power over others, +gifted with a penetrating vision into the very soul of the man I had +worshiped, yet Henry Chichester. And as Henry Chichester I suffered; I +condemned myself. This I said to myself that night, 'I was determined to +see. I disregarded the voice within me which warned me that I was +treading a forbidden path. God has punished me. He has allowed me to see. +But this shall be the end. I will never sit again. I will give up my +curacy. I will leave St. Joseph's at once. Never more will I set eyes on +Marcus Harding.' I was in a condition of fierce excitement--" + +"Ah, exactly," muttered the professor, almost as if consoled--"fierce +excitement!" + +"I could not think of sleep. For a long time I remained in here, +sitting, standing, pacing, opening books; I scarcely know what I did +or did not do. At last a sensation of terrible exhaustion crept over me. +I undressed. I threw myself on my bed. I tried to sleep. I turned, +shifted, got up, let in more air, again lay down, lay resolutely still +in the dark, tried not to think. But always my mind dwelt on that matter. +In those few frightful moments what had become of myself, of Henry +Chichester? Had the powerful personality of that man whom once I had +almost worshiped thrust him away, submerged him, stricken him down in a +sort of deathlike trance? What I had seen I remembered now as Henry +Chichester. What I had known in those moments I still knew now as Henry +Chichester. In vain I revolved this matter in my feverish mind. It was +too much for me. I was in deep waters. + +"I closed my eyes. The fatigue wrapped me more closely. Sleep at last was +surely drawing near. But suddenly I knew--how I cannot exactly say--that +once more the shutter was to be drawn back for me. This knowledge +resembled a horrible physical sensation. The entry of it into my mind, or +indeed into my very soul, was as the dawning of a dreadful and unnatural +pain in the body. This pain increased till it became agony. Although I +still lay motionless, I felt like one involved in a furious struggle in +which the whole sum of me took violent part. And there came to me the +simile of a man seized by tremendous hands, and held before a window +opening into a room in which something frightful was about to take place. +And the shutter slipped back from the window. + +"Again I looked upon myself. That was my exact sensation. The shutter +drawn back, I assisted at the spectacle of Marcus Harding's life. And it +was my life. I knew with such frightful intimacy that my knowledge was as +vision. Therefore, I say, I saw. Not only my spirit seemed to be gazing, +but also my bodily eyes. + +"I saw myself in the night slowly approaching my house in Onslow Gardens, +ashen pale, shaken, terrified. At a corner I passed a policeman. He knew +me and saluted me with respect. I made no gesture in response. He stared +at me in surprise. Then a smile came into his face--the smile of a man +who is suddenly able to think much less of another than he thought +before. I left him smiling thus, reached my house, and stood before it. + +"Now I must tell you, and I rely absolutely on your regarding this as +said in the strictest, most inviolable confidence--" + +"Certainly. Word of honor, and so forth!" said the professor, quickly and +sharply. + +"I must tell you that Marcus Harding is a sinner, and not merely in the +sense in which all men are sinners. There have been recurring moments in +his life when he has committed actions which, if publicly known, would +ruin him in the eyes of the world and put an end to his career. As I +looked at myself standing before my house, I saw that I was hesitating +whether to go in with my misery, or whether to seek for it the hideous +alleviation of my beloved sin. + +"Professor,"--it seemed to Stepton at this moment as if Chichester's +voice loomed upon him out of the darkness by which they were now +enshrouded,--"it has been said that nothing shocks a man so terribly as +the sight of his body-double; that to see what appears to be himself, +even if only standing at a window or sitting before a fire, causes +in a man a physical horror which seems to strike to the very roots of his +physical being. I looked now upon my soul-double, piercing the fleshly +envelop and it was my very soul that sweated and turned cold. For I +perceived the dreadful action which, if known, would certainly ruin me, +being committed by the spirit. The slavish body had not yet bowed down +and done its part; but it was about to obey the impulse of the spirit. +Slowly the body turned away from its home. The spirit was driving it. The +demon with the whip was at work in the night. I looked till the dawn +came. And only when at last my double crept, like a thief, into its +house, did sleep take me for a little while--sleep that was alive with +nightmare." + +Chichester was silent. The professor heard him breathing quickly, saw +him, almost as a shadow just shown by the faint light that entered from +the street through the two small windows, clasp and unclasp his hands, +touch his forehead, his eyelids, move in his chair, like a man profoundly +stirred and unable to be at ease. + +"When I woke," he continued, after a long pause, which the professor did +not break by a word or a movement, "I woke to combat. As I told you, I +had resolved at once to resign my curacy, and never to see that man +again. In the light of the morning I sat down to write my letter of +resignation; but I could not do it. A fearful compulsion to remain was +upon me. I wrote a few words. I stopped, tore the note up, began again. +But writing was impossible. Then I resolved to visit Marcus Harding and +to tell him that I must go. I went to his house. He was at home. When I +saw him I told him that I wished him to sit again that night. He strove +to refuse. He did not understand the truth, but he was terrified. I +ordered him to come to my rooms that night, and left him. As I was going +away I met Lady Sophia. To my amazement, she stopped me, spoke to me +kindly, even more than kindly, looked at me with an expression in her +eyes that almost frightened me. I said to myself, 'But those are a +slave's eyes!' as I left her. Never before had any woman looked at me +like that. In that moment, I think, she began to turn from him toward +me, to forsake weakness for strength. Yes, I say strength. I was rent by +the tumult within me, but I had strength. I have it now. For, despite +his hypocrisy, his unbelief, his active sinning, Marcus Harding had been +a strong man. And even Henry Chichester, with all his humbleness, his +readiness to yield to others, to think nothing of himself, had had the +strength that belongs to purity of soul. And then there is the strength +the soul draws from looking upon truth. There was strength, there is now, +for the woman to follow. And instinct has surely guided her. She does +not, she cannot know. And yet instinct sends her in search of the +strength." + +"What do you mean by that? What do you claim?" + +"You read that sermon?" + +"I did." + +"Don't you understand? I am that man at the window. He did not flee +away. He could not. He was, he is, compelled to remain. He watches that +dreadful life. And the other within the room is fading. The strength, +the authority, the power, are coming to me. Every sitting broadens that +bridge across which the deserters are passing. When I preached that +sermon my congregation sat as if numbed by terror. And he in the choir +listened, never moving. I saw his spirit, dazed, stretching out to grasp +the truth, slipping back powerless to do it. It was like a thing moving +through the gloom of deep waters--of deep, deep waters." + +Again Chichester's voice died away. In the silence that followed the +professor heard the faint ticking of a clock. He had not noticed it +before. He could not tell now whether it came from within the room or +from the room behind the folding-doors. It seemed to him as if this +ticking destroyed his power to think clearly, as if it threw his brain +into an unwonted confusion which made him feel strangely powerless. He +was aware of a great uneasiness approaching, if not actually amounting to +fear. This uneasiness made him long for light. Yet he knew that he +dreaded light; for he was aware of an almost unconquerable reluctance to +look upon the face of his companion. Beset by conflicting desires, +therefore, and the prey of unwonted emotion, he sat like one paralyzed, +listening always to the faint ticking of the clock, and striving to +reduce what was almost like chaos to order in his brain. + +"Why have you selected me to be the hearer of this--this very +extraordinary statement?" he forced himself at length to say prosaically. +The sound of his own dry voice somewhat reassured him, and he added: +"Though there is nothing very extraordinary in the facts you have +related. Telepathic communication between one mind and another is a +commonplace of to-day, an old story. Every one of course accepts it as +possible. What novelty do you claim to present to startle science?" + +"I say that telepathy does not explain the link between Marcus Harding +and myself." + +The professor struck his hand on the table. It seemed to him that if only +he could get into an argument this strange confusion and fear might leave +him. He would be on familiar ground. + +"What you call vision might be merely mind-reading, what you call +perceiving the action of the spirit, mind-reading. Your terror lest +others should find out bad truths about Marcus Harding would spring +naturally enough from your lingering regard for him. Your acute anxiety +when he is preaching arises of course from the fact that, owing to bodily +causes, no doubt, his mental powers are failing him, and he is no longer +able to do himself justice." + +"You don't understand. What I desired in our sittings was to draw into +myself strength, power, will from--him. What have I done? I have drawn +into myself the very man. That night when the shutter slipped back he +looked out from the body of Henry Chichester. His mind worked, his soul +was alive, within the cage of another man. And meanwhile Henry Chichester +lay as if submerged, but presently stirred, and, however feebly, lived +again. He lives now. But not from him comes my frightful comprehension of +Marcus Harding. Not him does Marcus Harding fear. Not to him does she, +the woman, look with the eyes of a slave. It is not he who dominates the +crowds in St. Joseph's. It is not he who conceived that sermon of the man +and his double. It is not he who has sometimes been terribly afraid." + +"Afraid! Afraid!" + +"There have been moments when I have been moved to snatch my double out +of the sight of men. That day when we met Evelyn Malling I feared as I +left them alone together; and when I found Malling intimately there in +that house, I felt like one coming upon an ambush which might be +destructive of his safety. My instinct was to detach Malling from my +double, to attach him to myself. My conduct startled him. I saw that +plainly. Yet I tried to win him over, as it were, to my side. He came to +me. I strove to tell him, but something secret prevented me. And +how could he assist me?" + +Chichester got up from the table. The professor saw a darkness moving as +he went to stand by the empty fireplace. + +"I must look on truth," he continued; "I have to. The fascination of +staring upon the truth of oneself is deadly, but it surpasses all other +fascination. He sins more often now. I watch him sin. Sometimes under +my contemplation I see him writhing like a thing in a trap--the semblance +of myself. How the woman despises him now! Sometimes I feel deeply sad +at my own ruthlessness. It is frightful to contemplate the physical wreck +of a being whom, in some strange and hideous way, one always feels to +be oneself. When I look at him it is as if his fallen face, his hanging +nerveless hands, his down-drooping figure and eyes lit with despair were +mine. His poses, his gestures, his physical tricks, they are all mine. +I watch them with a cold, enveloping disgust, frozen in criticism of +everything he does, anticipating every movement, every look, hating +it when it comes, because it is bred out of the remnant of a spirit +I despise as no man surely has ever despised before. Henry Chichester +would pity, but he is overborne. He is in me as a drop may be in the +ocean. I am most aware of him when my double sins. Only last night we +sat"--Chichester came back to the table, and stood there, very faintly +relieved against the darkness by the dim light which penetrated through +the windows--"we sat in the darkness, and more deeply than ever before +I went down into the darkness. I felt as if I were penetrating into the +last recesses of a ruined temple. And there, in the ultimate chamber +crouched all that was left of the inmate, terrified, helpless, and +ignorant. As I looked upon him I understood why man is never permitted +really to know himself unless, in an access of mad folly and overweening +pride, he succeeds in crossing the boundary which to pass is sheer +wickedness. And I tried to turn away, but I could not--I could not. +I made a supreme effort. It was in vain. + +"I saw him go home. At last he was sick of his sin. There rose within him +that strange longing for goodness, for purity and rest, that terrible, +aching desire to be what those who once loved him for long had thought +him to be, which perhaps never dies in the soul of a human being. Is it +the instinct of the Creator burning like an undying spark in the created? +And, as he drew near to his house, there came to him the resolve to +speak, to acknowledge, to say, 'This is what I am. Know me as I am! Care +for me still, in spite of what I am!' He went in, and sought her--the +woman. She was alone. Sleep had not come to her. Perhaps some instinct +had told her she must wake and be ready for something. Then he gathered +together the little that was left to him of courage, and he strove to +tell her, to make her understand some of the truth, to obtain from her +the greatest of human gifts--the love of one from whom a man has no +secrets that he can tell. + +"She listened for a moment, then she thrust out her hands as if to push +the truth of him out of her life. And last night she left him--going in +fear of him." + +The professor shook his narrow shoulders, and sprang abruptly to his +feet. The ticking of the clock now sounded almost like a hammer beating +in his ears. + +"It's time we had some light," he said in rather a loud voice. + +The darkness that was Chichester moved. A gleam of light shone in the +little room, revealing the thin Madonna, "The Light of the World," the +piano, the neatly bound books of the curate of St. Joseph's; revealing +Chichester, who now stood facing the professor, white, drawn, lined, but +with eyes full of almost hideous resolution and power. + +"I advise," said the professor--"I advise you from this time forward--" + +He stared into the eyes of the man opposite to him, and his voice died +away in his throat. + +When, immediately afterward, he found himself walking hurriedly toward +Kensington High Street the sweat was pouring down his face. + + + + +XII + + +One night of that autumn, driven by an overmastering impulse, Evelyn +Malling set out toward Kensington. He felt that he must know something +more of the matter between Marcus Harding and Henry Chichester. Stepton +still kept silence. Malling had not approached him. But why should he not +call upon Chichester, an acquaintance, almost a friend? It was true that +he had resolved, having put the affair into Stepton's hands, to wait. It +had come to this, then, to-night that he could be patient no longer? As +he stood at the corner of Hornton Street, he asked himself that question. +He drew out his watch. It was already past eleven, an unholy hour for an +unannounced visit. But slowly he turned into Hornton Street, slowly went +down that quiet thoroughfare till he was opposite to the windows of the +curate's sitting-room. A light shone in one of them. The rest of the +house was dark. Even the fanlight above the small front door displayed no +yellow gleam. No doubt the household had retired to rest and Henry +Chichester was sitting up alone. A rap would probably bring him down to +open to his nocturnal visitor. But now Malling bethought himself +seriously of the lateness of the hour, and paced slowly up and down, +considering whether to seek speech of the curate or to abandon that idea +and return to Cadogan Square. As in his mental debate he paused once more +opposite to the solitary gleam in the first-floor window, an incident +occurred which startled him, and gave a new bent to his thoughts. It was +this: The light in the window was obscured for a moment as if by some +solid body passing before it. Then the window was violently thrown up, +the large figure of a man, only vaguely perceived by Malling, appeared at +it, and a choking sound dropped out into the night. The man seemed to be +leaning out as if in an effort to fill his lungs with air, or to obtain +the relief of the cool night wind for his distracted nerves. His attitude +struck Malling as peculiar and desperate. Suddenly he moved. The light +showed, and Malling saw for an instant a second figure, small, slight, +commanding. The big man seemed to be sucked back toward the center of the +room. Down came the window; the tranquil gleam of the light shone as +before; then abruptly all was dark. + +Malling realized at once what was happening in the curate's lodgings. As +he paused, gazing at the dark house, he knew that the miserable Marcus +Harding was within, constrained to endure the observation which, to use +his own hideous but poignant phrase, was "eating him away." It was he who +had appeared at the window, like a tortured being endeavoring to escape +into the freedom of the night. It was Henry Chichester who had followed +him, who had drawn him back, who had plunged him into darkness. + +The street was deserted. No policeman passed, regarding him with +suspicion, and Mailing went on sentinel duty. The dark house fascinated +him. More than once a desire came to him to make an effort for the +release of Marcus Harding, to cross the street and to hammer brutally +at the green door. He recalled Henry Chichester's strange sermon, and +he felt as if he assisted at the torture of the double, which he himself +had imaginatively suggested to the two clergymen in Lady Sophia's +drawing-room. Ought he not to interrupt such a torture? + +Midnight struck, and he had not knocked. One o'clock struck; he had paced +the street, but had never gone out of sight of the curate's door. It was +nearly two, and Mailing was not far from the High Street end of the +thoroughfare when he heard a door bang. He turned sharply. A heavy +uncertain footstep rang on the pavement. Out of the darkness emerged a +tall figure with bowed head. As it moved slowly forward once or twice it +swayed, and a wavering arm shot out as if seeking for some support. +Malling stood where he was till he saw the broad ghastliness of Marcus +Harding's white face show under the ray of a lamp. He discerned no eyes. +The eyes of the unhappy man seemed sunken out of recognition in the +dreadful whiteness of his countenance. The gait was that of one who +believes himself dogged, and who tries to slink furtively, but who has +partly lost control of his bodily powers, and who starts in terror at his +own too heavy and sounding footfalls. + +This figure went by Malling, and was lost in the lighted emptiness of the +High Street. Malling did not follow it. Now he had a great desire, born +out of his inmost humanity, to speak with Henry Chichester. He made up +his mind to return to the curate's door: if he saw a light to knock and +ask for admittance; if the window was dark to go on his way. He retraced +his steps, looked up, and saw a light. Then it was to be. That man and he +were to speak together. But as he looked, the light was extinguished. +Nevertheless he struck upon the door. + +No one answered. He struck again, then stepped back into the roadway, and +looked up at Chichester's window. The curate must surely have heard. Yes, +for even as Malling gazed the window moved. No light appeared. But after +a pause a voice above said: + +"Is that you, Mr. Harding?" + +The dim figure of a man was apparent, standing a little back and half +concealed by a darkness of drooping curtains. + +"It is I--Evelyn Malling," said Malling. + +The form at the window started. + +"Mr. Malling!" the words came uncertainly. "What is it? Has--has anything +happened to--why do you want me at such an hour?" + +"I chanced to be in your street and saw your light. I thought I would +give you a hail." + +"Do you mean that you want to come in?" + +After a short pause Malling answered, "Yes." + +"I cannot let you in!" the voice above cried out lamentably. + +Then the window was shut very softly. + + * * * * * + +Three days later Malling saw in the papers the news of the complete +breakdown of Marcus Harding. "Nervous prostration," was the name given by +the doctors to his malady, and it was announced that he had been ordered +to take a sea voyage, and was preparing to start for Australia with a +nurse. + +Soon afterward Malling was walking in the afternoon down Pall Mall, +wondering deeply what would happen, whether the rector would ever start +on that voyage, when he came upon Professor Stepton sidling out of the +Athenaeum. + +"Heard about Harding?" jerked out the professor. + +"Yes. Has he sailed for Australia?" + +"Dead. Died at half-past three o'clock this morning." + +Malling turned cold. + +"Poor fellow!" he said. "Poor fellow!" + +The professor was drawing his plaid shawl round his shoulders. When it +was properly adjusted, he began to walk on. Malling kept almost +mechanically beside him. + +"Did you expect this?" Malling asked. + +"Well, I knew he was failing." + +"And Chichester? Have you seen Chichester since his death?" + +"No. Would you like to see him for me?" + +Malling was deep in thought and did not answer. + +"Do you think?" said the professor, "that Henry Chichester will be +greatly affected by this death?" + +"Affected? Do you mean by grief?" + +"Yes." + +"I should suppose that to be highly improbable." + +The professor shot a very sharp glance at Malling. + +"I'm not sure that I agree with you," he observed dryly. + +"Have you seen him lately?" asked Malling. + +"Not quite recently. But if I had seen him, say, yesterday, I don't think +that would greatly affect my present dubiety. I should, however, like to +set that dubiety at rest. Are you busy to-day?" + +"No." + +"I am. Will you make a little investigation for me? Will you go and pay a +visit of condolence to Chichester on the death of his rector, and then +come round to the White House and report?" + +"I will if you wish it." + +"I shall be in after seven." + +"Very well." + +"I dare say you will be surprised," observed Stepton. "I see my bus." + +Malling left him imperatively waving his arm, and, turning, walked toward +Kensington. + +What were his expectations? He did not know. Stepton had upset his mind. +As he went on slowly he strove to regain his mental equilibrium. But he +could not decide exactly what Stepton had meant. He felt inferior to the +professor as he turned into Hornton Street. + +He did not hesitate, but went at once to the curate's door and rapped. No +one answered. He rapped again, and touched the bell, half hoping, even +while he did so, that there was no one within to hear. + +But an inquiring head appeared in the area, observed, and was sharply +withdrawn. Steps sounded in the passage, and the maid Ellen presented +herself, looking somewhat disordered. + +"Yes, sir?" she said. + +"Is Mr. Chichester at home?" + +"He is in, sir, poor gentleman," replied the maid. "Did you want to see +him?" + +"Yes." + +"I'm sure I don't know whether he will see you, sir." + +"Is he ill?" + +"Not to say ill, sir. But haven't you heard?" + +"What?" + +"His poor rector's gone, sir, what used to come here to visit him so +regular. I never see a gentleman in such a way. Why, he's so changed I +don't hardly know him." + +"Have you been here long?" said Mailing, abruptly. + +"Only six months, sir." + +The maid began to look rather astonished. + +"And so Mr. Chichester is quite altered by his grief?" + +"You never did, sir! He was so firm, wasn't he, above every one! Even his +rector used to look to him and be guided by him. And now he's as gentle +and weak almost as a new-born child, as they say." + +Malling thought of Stepton. Had he looked forward to some such change? + +"Perhaps I could console Mr. Chichester in his grief," he said. "Will you +take him this card and ask if I can see him? I knew Mr. Harding, too. I +might be of use, possibly." + +"I'll ask him, sir. He's laying down on the bed, I do believe." + +Ellen hurried up-stairs with the card. It seemed to Malling that she was +away for a long time. At last she returned. + +"If you please, sir, Mr. Chichester wants to know if it's anything +important. He's feeling very bad, poor gentleman. But of course if it's +anything important, he wouldn't for all the world say no." + +"It is important." + +"Then I was to ask you to walk in, sir, please." + +Chichester's sitting-room was empty when Malling came into it, and the +folding-doors between it and the bedroom were shut. Ellen went away, +and Malling heard a faint murmur of voices, and then Ellen's footstep +retreating down the stairs. Silence followed. He waited, at first +standing. Then he sat down near the piano. Not a sound reached him from +the bedroom. On the curate's table lay a book. Malling took it up. The +title was "God's Will be Done." The author was a well-known high-church +divine, Father Rowton. To him, then, Henry Chichester betook himself for +comfort. The piano stood open. On it was music. Malling looked and saw, +"Oh, for the wings, for the wings of a dove!" by Mendelssohn. The little +room seemed full of pious orthodoxy. Surely its atmosphere was utterly +changed since Malling last was in it. The melody of "Oh, for the wings!" +went through his brain. That the Henry Chichester he had recently known, +that cruel searcher after and expounder of truth, that he should be +helped by those words, by that melody, in an hour of sorrow! + +There was a movement in the bedroom. The folding-doors opened inward, +and the curate appeared. He was very pale, and looked really ill. His +face had fallen in. His fair hair was slightly disordered, and his blue +eyes were surrounded by red rims. His expression suggested that he had +recently undergone an extremely violent shock, which had shaken badly +both body and mind. He looked dazed. Coming forward feebly, he held +out his hand. + +"I believe it is something important," he said in a gentle, rather +wavering voice; "otherwise--I am hardly fit, I fear, to be with my kind. +I"--He sat down--"I have had a terrible shock, Mr. Malling. You have +heard?" + +"You mean Mr. Harding's death?" + +"Yes." + +"I have just heard of it." + +"It occurred at half-past three o'clock last night, or, rather, this +morning. He had been declining for a long while. At the last he just +faded out, as it were. The strange thing is that I knew the exact moment +when he entered into rest." + +"You weren't with him?" + +"Oh, no. I was here, asleep. But at three o'clock I awoke. I felt +violently agitated. I can scarcely describe the sensation. It was +as if I was torn, as if mind and body, or spirit and body, were torn, +lacerated. I suffered the greatest conceivable agony. I tried to cry +out, but I could not. Nor could I move. Then everything suddenly seemed +to fail, all in a moment, and I was at peace. But it was like the peace +of death, I think. And I was aware--I don't know how--that Mr. Harding +was dead. I moved. I looked at my watch. It was a minute after half-past +three. I noted down the time. And this morning--I heard." + +"And then?" + +"Only then I understood my loss--the loss to us all. Ah, Mr. Mailing, +you knew him, but not as I did! Few or none knew him as I did. He was +the greatest and best of men, full of power, but full of kindness and +goodness, too. He guided me in everything. I can never tell you how I +looked up to him, how I trusted him. His judgment was extraordinary, his +reading of character was unerring. I do believe he knew me better than I +knew myself. What shall I do without him?" + +The curate's grief was almost as genuine and unself-conscious as a +child's, and Malling felt as if at that moment, like a child, he felt +himself adrift in a difficult world. His gentle, kindly, but not strong +face was distorted, but not hardened, by his distress, which seemed +begging for sympathy. And Malling remembered the Henry Chichester he had +known some years ago, before the days of St. Joseph's, the saintly but +rather weak man, beloved by every one, but ruling no one. That man was +surely before him, and that man knew not how to play a hypocrite's part. +Yet Malling felt he must test him. + +"His death is very sad," he replied; "but surely his powers had been on +the decline for a long while." + +"His powers, but not his capacity for goodness. His patience was +angelic. Even when the cruelest blow of all fell upon him, even when +his wife--whom, God forgive me! I don't think some of us can ever +forgive--even when she deserted him in his hour of need, he never +complained. He knew it was God's hand upon him, and he submitted. +He has taught me what true patience is. What I owe to him! What I owe +to him!" + +As if distressed beyond measure, the curate got up, almost wringing his +thin hands. + +"It was he who sacrificed his time for me!" he continued, moving +restlessly about the room. "But I seem to remember I told you. Didn't I +tell you--or was it some one else?--how he gave up the hours which should +have been hours of repose in order that my will might be strengthened, +that I might be developed into a man more worthy to be his coadjutor? +When I think, when I remember--" + +His light, tenor voice failed. Tears stood in his gentle, blue eyes. + +"If I am worth anything at all," he suddenly cried out, "if I have gained +any force of character, any power for good at all, I owe it all to my +rector's self-sacrificing endeavors on my behalf--of course, through +God's blessing." + +"Then," said Malling, "you think that Mr. Harding changed you by his +influence?" + +"He helped me to develop, he brought me on. Jealousy was unknown to him. +I was a very poor preacher. He taught me how to hold people's attention. +When I knew he was near me I sometimes seemed almost inspired. I was +inspired by him. I preached almost as if out of his mouth. And now!" + +He made a despairing gesture. + +"Now it will all be different!" he exclaimed. + +And almost involuntarily Malling found himself echoing: + +"Yes, now it will all be different." + +He had seen, he had heard, enough to make his report to the professor, +and he resolved to go. He held out his hand. + +"Oh, but," said Chichester, pressing one hand to his forehead, "I'm so +selfish, so forgetful in my great grief! Surely you said you had come +on some matter of importance." + +"It will wait," said Malling. "Another day. Go and rest now. You need +rest. Any one can see that." + +"Thank you, thank you," said Chichester, with quivering lips. "You are +very thoughtful, very good." + +Malling took his hand in farewell. As he did so there was a sharp knock +at the front door. Chichester started violently. + +"Oh, I do hope it is no one for me!" he cried out. "I cannot--" + +He opened the door of the sitting-room a little way and listened. Voices +were audible below, Ellen's voice and another woman's. + +"You, ma'am! Oh, of course he will see you!" + +"Of course." + +"I didn't know who it was, ma'am." + +"Is it this way?" + +"Yes, ma'am. I'll show you. We do feel it, ma'am. The poor gentleman used +to come here so often of nights." + +"Did he? I didn't know that." + +Malling recognized the second voice as Lady Sophia's. A moment, and she +was ushered into the room. She was dressed in black, but not in widow's +weeds, and wore a veil which she pushed hastily up as she came in almost +with a rush. When she saw Malling, for a moment she looked disconcerted. + +"Oh, I thought--" she began. She stood still. Chichester said nothing, +and did not move. Malling went toward her. + +"I was very much grieved," he said, "at the news I heard to-day." + +She gave him her hand. He knew his words were conventional. How could +they be anything else? But Lady Sophia's manner in giving him her hand +was not conventional. She stretched it out without even looking at him. +She said nothing. Her eyes were fixed upon Chichester, who stood on the +other side of the little room in a rigid attitude, with his eyes cast +down, as if he could not bear to see the woman who had just entered. + +"I offer you my sympathy," Malling added. + +"Sympathy!" said Lady Sophia, with a sharp note in her voice suggestive +of intense, almost febrile excitement. "Then didn't you know?" + +She stared at him, turning her head swiftly. + +"Know?" + +"That I had left him? Yes, I left him, and now he is dead. Do you expect +me to be sorry? Well, I am not sorry. Ah, I see you don't understand!" + +She made a movement toward Chichester. It was obvious that she was so +intensely excited that she had lost the power of self-control. + +"Nobody understands me but you!" she cried out to Chichester. "You +knew what he was, you knew what I endured, you know what I must feel +now. Oh, it's no use pretending. I'm sick of pretence. You have taught me +to care for absolute truth and only that. My relations, my friends--ah! +to-day I have been almost suffocated with hypocrisy! And now, when I +come here--" she flung out her hand toward Mailing--"to get away from it +all--'grieved,' 'my sympathy!' I can't bear any more of that. Tell him! +You tell him! You're so strong, so terribly sincere! One can rest upon +your strength when all else fails one!" + +She tottered. For an instant it seemed to Malling that she was going to +fall against Chichester's shoulder; but she caught at a chair, and saved +herself. + +"Mr. Chichester!" she said, "tell him! Tell him for me!" + +"I have nothing to tell him," said Chichester, with a sort of mild, +almost weak coldness, and wearily. + +"Nothing!" She went nearer to him. "But--you don't welcome me!" + +Chichester looked up, but immediately cast down his eyes again. + +"I cannot," he said. "At this moment I simply cannot." + +An expression of terrified surprise transformed Lady Sophia's face. She +went close up to Chichester, staring at him. + +"Why not?" she asked. + +"You must know that." + +She stood still, always staring at him, as if searching for something +which she did not find. + +"Why not?" she repeated. + +"You left--him when he needed you most. You left him to die alone." + +Lady Sophia suddenly turned round to Malling and scrutinized his face, as +if demanding from him sympathy in her horrified amazement. He regarded +her calmly, and she turned again to the curate. + +"What do you mean?" she said, and her voice had changed. + +"That his friends can never be yours", said Chichester, as if making a +great effort, driven to it by some intense feeling. + +"You call yourself his friend!" said Lady Sophia. Her voice vibrated with +scorn. + +"At any rate, he was mine, my best friend. And now he has gone forever!" + +Lady Sophia drew in her breath. + +"You hypocrite!" she said. "You hypocrite!" + +She spoke like one under the influence of an emotion so intense that it +could not be gainsaid. + +"To pretend you admired him, loved him--_you_!" + +"I did admire and love him." + +She seemed to be struck dumb by his quiet manner, by the conviction in +his voice. In a moment she turned round again toward Malling. Her face +had quite changed. It was working nervously. The mouth quivered. She +stood for a moment, then suddenly she made for the door. As she passed +Malling, she whispered: "The strength--where is it? Oh, I'm afraid of +him! I'm afraid of him!" + +She disappeared. Almost immediately Mailing heard the street door shut. + +"I--I cannot pretend to her," Chichester said, "even in my own house." + +He seemed greatly moved, almost on the verge of tears. + +"I'll leave you alone," said Mailing. "You need to be alone." + +"Thank you! Thank you!" said Chichester. + +And without another word he went into the bedroom, shutting the +folding-doors behind him. + +At half-past seven that same evening Malling was with Professor Stepton, +and made what the professor called his "report." + +"Ah!" said the professor when he had finished. + +"Did you expect Chichester to behave like that, to be like that?" asked +Mailing. + +"I hoped he would." + +"Hoped! Why?" + +"Because it enables me to accept as facts certain things about which I +must otherwise have remained in doubt. Of course I must see Chichester +for myself. But he'll be just the same, just the same." + +The professor's eyes shone, and he poked his chin forward. + +"The reverend gentlemen of St. Joseph's have provided me with a basis," +he exclaimed emphatically. + +"A basis! For what?" asked Mailing. + +"For future experiments and investigations of a highly interesting +nature. Ruskin was very often wrong, but he was right when he said, in a +lucid moment, that every creature is precious. Well, good-night, Malling. +I must get to work. I'll explain everything to you later." + +Almost joyously he shut the door on his friend. Almost joyously he sat +down once more before his writing-table and seized his pen and his +note-book. + +But he did not begin to write. His face suddenly changed. He put his pen +down, pushed his note-book away, sat back in his chair, and let his +pointed chin drop toward his breast. And presently he began to mutter to +himself. + +"A little science!" he muttered. "A little science sends man far away +from God. A great deal of science brings man back to God. Which is it +now--you professor, you? Which is it now?" + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DWELLER ON THE THRESHOLD*** + + +******* This file should be named 14176-8.txt or 14176-8.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/1/7/14176 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Dweller on the Threshold + +Author: Robert Smythe Hichens + +Release Date: November 27, 2004 [eBook #14176] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DWELLER ON THE THRESHOLD*** + + +E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Project Gutenberg Beginners Projects, +Mary Meehan, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + +THE DWELLER ON THE THRESHOLD + +by + +ROBERT HICHENS + +Author of _The Garden of Allah_, _Bella Donna_, _Egypt and Its +Monuments_, _The Holy Land_, etc. + +1911 + + + + + + + +I + + +When Evelyn Malling, notorious because of his sustained interest in +Psychical Research and his work for Professor Stepton, first met the +Rev. Marcus Harding, that well-known clergyman was still in the full +flow of his many activities. He had been translated from his labors in +Liverpool to a West End church in London. There he had proved hitherto +an astonishing success. On Hospital Sundays the total sums collected +from his flock were by far the largest that came from the pockets of +any congregation in London. The music in St. Joseph's was allowed by +connoisseurs, who knew their Elgar as well as their Goss, their Perosi +as well as their Bach, and their Wesley, to be remarkable. Critical +persons, mostly men, who sat on the fence between Orthodoxy and Atheism, +thought highly of Mr. Harding's sermons, and even sometimes came down +on his side. And, of all signs surely the most promising for a West End +clergyman's success, smart people flocked to him to be married, and Arum +lilies were perpetually being carried in and out of his chancel, which +was adorned with Morris windows. He was married to a woman who managed +to be admirable without being dull, Lady Sophia, daughter of the late +Earl of Mansford, and sister of the present peer. He was comfortably off. +His health as a rule was good, though occasionally he suffered from some +obscure form of dyspepsia. And he was still comparatively young, just +forty-eight. + +Nevertheless, as Evelyn Malling immediately perceived, Mr. Harding was +not a happy man. + +In appearance he was remarkable. Of commanding height, with a big frame, +a striking head and countenance, and a pair of keen gray eyes, he looked +like a man who was intended by nature to dominate. White threads appeared +in his thick brown hair, which he wore parted in the middle. But his +face, which was clean-shaven, had not many telltale lines. And he did not +look more than his age. + +The sadness noted by Malling was at first evasive and fleeting, not +indellibly fixed in the puckers of a forehead, or in the down-drawn +corners of a mouth. It was as a thin, almost impalpable mist, that can +scarcely be seen, yet that alters all the features in a landscape ever +so faintly. Like a shadow it traveled across the eyes, obscured the +forehead, lay about the lips. And as a shadow lifts it lifted. But it +soon returned, like a thing uneasy that is becoming determined to +discover an abiding-place. + +Malling's first meeting with the clergyman took place upon Westminster +Bridge on an afternoon in early May, when London seemed, almost like +a spirited child, to be flinging itself with abandon into the first +gaieties of the season. Malling was alone, coming on foot from Waterloo. +Mr. Harding was also on foot, with his senior curate, the Rev. Henry +Chichester, who was an acquaintance of Malling, but whom Malling had +not seen for a considerable period of time, having been out on his estate +in Ceylon. At the moment when Malling arrived upon the bridge the two +clergymen were standing by the parapet on the Parliament side, looking +out over the river. As he drew near to them the curate glanced suddenly +round, saw him, and uttered an involuntary exclamation which attracted +Mr. Harding's attention. + +"Telepathy!" said Chichester, shaking Malling by the hand. "I believe I +looked round because I knew I should see you. Yet I supposed you to be +still in Ceylon." He glanced at the rector rather doubtfully, seemed to +take a resolution, and with an air almost of doggedness added, "May I?" +and introduced the two men to one another. + +Mr. Harding observed the new-comer with an interest that was +unmistakable. + +"You are the Mr. Malling of whom Professor Stepton has spoken to me," he +said,--"who has done so much experimental work for him?" + +"Yes." + +"The professor comes to my church now and then." + +"I have heard him say so." + +"You saw we were looking at the river? Before I came to London I was at +Liverpool, and learned there to love great rivers. There is something in +a great river that reminds us--" + +He caught his curate's eye and was silent. + +"Are you walking my way?" asked Malling. "I am going by the Abbey and +Victoria Street to Cadogan Square." + +"Then we will accompany you as far as Victoria Station," said the rector. + +"You don't think it would be wiser to take a hansom?" began Chichester. +"You remember--" + +"No, no, certainly not. Walking always does me good," rejoined Mr. +Harding, almost in a tone of rebuke. + +The curate said nothing more, and the three men set out toward Parliament +Square, Malling walking between the two clergymen. + +He felt embarrassed, and this surprised him, for he was an extremely +self-reliant man and entirely free from shyness. At first he thought that +possibly his odd discomfort arose from the fact that he was in company +with two men who, perhaps, had quite recently had a difference which they +were endeavoring out of courtesy to conceal from him. Perhaps there had +been a slight quarrel over some parish matter. Certainly when he first +spoke with them there had been something uneasy, a suspicion of strain, +in the manner of both. But then he remembered how, before Chichester had +turned round, they had been leaning amicably above the river. + +No, it could not be that. He sought mentally for some other reason. But +while he did so he talked, and endeavored to rid himself promptly of the +unwelcome feeling that beset him. + +In this effort, however, he did not at first succeed. The "conditions" +were evidently unsatisfactory. He wondered whether if he were not walking +between the two men he would feel more comfortable, and presently, at a +crossing, he managed to change his place. He was now next to Mr. Harding, +who had the curate on his other side, and at once he felt more at his +ease. The rector of St. Joseph's led the conversation, in which Malling +joined, and at first the curate was silent. But presently Malling noticed +a thing that struck him as odd. Chichester began to "chip in" now and +then, and whenever he did so it was either to modify what Mr. Harding +had just said, or to check him in what he was saying, or abruptly to +introduce a new topic of talk. Sometimes Mr. Harding did not appear to +notice these interruptions; at other times he obviously resented them; +at others again he yielded with an air of anxiety, almost of fear, to +his curate's attenuations or hastened to follow his somewhat surprising +leads down new conversational paths. Malling could not understand +Chichester. But it became evident to him that for some reason or other +the curate was painfully critical of his rector, as sometimes highly +sensitive people are critical of members of their own family. And Mr. +Harding was certainly aware of this critical attitude, and at moments +seemed to be defiant of it, at other moments to be almost terrorized +by it. + +All that passed, be it noted, passed as between gentlemen, rather +glided in the form of nuance than trampled heavily in more blatant +guise. But Evelyn Malling was a highly trained observer and a man in +whom investigation had become a habit. Now that he was no longer ill at +ease he became deeply interested in the relations between the two men +with whom he was walking. He was unable to understand them, and this +fact of course increased his interest. Moreover he was surprised by the +change he observed in Chichester. + +Although he had never been intimate with Henry Chichester, he had known +him fairly well, and had summed him up as a very good man and a decidedly +attractive man, but marred, as Malling thought, by a definite weakness of +character. He had been too amiable, too ready to take others on their own +valuation of themselves, too kind-hearted, and too easily deceived. The +gentleness of a saint had been his, but scarcely the firmness of a saint. +Industrious, dutiful, and conscientious, he had not struck Malling as a +man of strong intellect, though he was a cultivated and well-educated +man. Though not governed by his own passions,--when one looked at him one +had been inclined to doubt whether he had any,--he had seemed prone to be +governed by those about him, at any rate in little matters of every day. +His charm had consisted in his transparent goodness, and in an almost gay +kindliness which had seemed to float round him like an atmosphere. To +look into his face had been to look at the happiness which comes only to +those who do right things, and are at peace with their own souls. + +What could have happened to change this charming, if too pliant, +personality into the critical, watchful, almost--so at moments it seemed +to Malling--aggressive curate who was now, always in a gentlemanly way, +making things rather difficult for his rector? + +And the matter became the more mysterious when Malling considered Mr. +Harding. For here was a man obviously of dominant personality. Despite +his fleeting subservience to Chichester, inexplicable to Malling, he was +surely by far the stronger of the two, both in intellect and character. +Not so saintly, perhaps, he was more likely to influence others. Firmness +showed in his forcible chin, energy in the large lines of his mouth, +decision in his clear-cut features. Yet there was something contradictory +in his face. And the flitting melancholy, already remarked, surely hinted +at some secret instability, perhaps known only to Harding himself, +perhaps known to Chichester also. + +When the three men came to the turning at the corner of the Grosvenor +Hotel, Chichester stopped short. + +"Here is our way," he said, speaking across Mr. Harding to Malling. + +The rector looked at Malling. + +"Have you far to go?" he asked, with rather a tentative air. + +"I live in Cadogan Square." + +"Of course. I remember. You told us you were going there." + +"Good-by," said Chichester. "We are taking the underground to South +Kensington." + +"I think I shall walk," said the rector. + +"But you know we are due--" + +"There is plenty of time. Tell them I shall be there at four." + +"But really--" + +"Punctually at four. I will walk on with Mr. Malling." + +"I really think you had better not," began Chichester. "Over-exertion--" + +"Am I an invalid?" exclaimed Mr. Harding, almost sharply. + +"No, no, of course not. But you remember that yesterday you were not +quite well." + +"That is the very reason why I wish to walk. Exercise always does my +dyspepsia good." + +"Let us all walk," said the curate, abruptly. + +But this was obviously not Mr. Harding's intention. + +"I want you to go through the minutes and the accounts before the +meeting," he said, in a quieter but decisive voice. "We will meet at the +School at four. You will have plenty of time if you take the train. And +meanwhile Mr. Malling and I will go on foot together as far as Cadogan +Square." + +Chichester stood for a moment staring into Mr. Harding's face, then he +said, almost sulkily: + +"Very well. Good-by." + +He turned on his heel, and was lost in the throng near the station. + +It seemed to Malling that an expression of relief overspread his +companion's face. + +"You don't mind my company for a little longer, I hope?" said the rector. + +"I shall be glad to have it." + +They set out on their walk to Cadogan Square. After two or three minutes +of silence the rector remarked: + +"You know Chichester well?" + +"I can hardly say that. I used to meet him sometimes with some friends of +mine, the Crespignys. But I haven't seen him for more than two years." + +"He's a very good fellow." + +"An excellent fellow." + +"Perhaps a little bit limited in his outlook. He has been with me at St. +Joseph's exactly two years." + +The rector seemed about to say more, then shut his large mouth almost +with a snap. Malling made no remark. He was quite certain that snap was +merely the preliminary to some further remark about Chichester. And so it +proved. As they came to St. Peter's Eaton Square, the rector resumed: + +"I often think that it is a man's limitations which make him critical +of others. The more one knows, the wider one's outlook, the readier +one is to shut one's eyes to the foibles, even to the faults, of one's +neighbors. I have tried to impress that upon our friend Chichester." + +"Doesn't he agree with you?" + +"Well--it's difficult to say, difficult to say. Shall we go by Wilton +Place, or--?" + +"Certainly." + +"Professor Stepton has talked to me about you from time to time, Mr. +Malling." + +"He's a remarkable man," said Malling almost with enthusiasm. + +"Yes. He's finding his way to the truth rather by the pathway of science +than by the pathway of faith. But he's a man I respect. And I believe +he'll get out into the light. You've done a great deal of work for him, I +understand, in--in occult directions." + +"I have made a good many careful investigations at his suggestion." + +"Exactly. Now"--Mr. Harding paused, seemed to make an effort, and +continued--"we know very little even now, with all that has been done, +as to--to the possibilities--I scarcely know how to put it--the +possibilities of the soul." + +"Very little indeed," rejoined Malling. + +He was considerably surprised by his companion's manner, but was quite +resolved not to help him out. + +"The possibilities of one soul, let us say, in connection with another," +continued the rector, almost in a faltering voice. "I often feel as if +the soul were a sort of mysterious fluid, and that when we what is called +influence another person, we, as it were, submerge his soul fluid in our +own, as a drop of water might be submerged in an ocean." + +"Ah!" said Malling, laconically. + +Mr. Harding shot a rather sharp glance at him. + +"You don't object to my getting on this subject, I hope?" he observed. + +"Certainly not." + +"Perhaps you think it rather a strange one for a clergyman to select?" + +"Oh, no. I have known many clergymen deeply interested in Stepton's +investigations." + +Mr. Harding's face, which had been cloudy, cleared. + +"It seems to me," he said, "that we clergymen have a special reason +for desiring Stepton, and all Stepton's assistants, to make progress. +It is true, of course, that we live by faith. And nothing can be more +beautiful than a childlike faith in the Great Being who is above all +worlds, in the _anima mundi_. But it would be unnatural in us if we did +not earnestly desire that our faith be proved, scientifically proved, +to be well-founded. I speak now of the faith we Christians hold in a +life beyond the grave. I know many people who think it very wrong in a +clergyman to mix himself up in any occult experiments. But I don't agree +with them." + +It was now Malling's turn to look sharply at his companion. + +"Have you made many experiments yourself, may I ask?" he said very +bluntly. + +The clergyman started, and was obviously embarrassed by the question. + +"I! Oh, I was speaking generally. I am a very busy man, you see. What +with my church and my parish, and one thing and another, I get very +little time for outside things. Still I am greatly interested, I confess, +in all that Stepton is doing." + +"Does Mr. Chichester share your interest?" said Malling. + +"In a minor degree, in a minor degree," answered the rector, rather +evasively. + +They were now in Sloane Street and Malling said: + +"I must turn off here." + +"I'll go with you as far as your door if you've no objection," said the +rector, who seemed very loath to leave his companion. "It's odd how men +change, isn't it?" + +"As they grow older? But surely development is natural and to be +expected?" + +"Certainly. But when a man changes drastically, sheds his character and +takes on another?" + +"You are talking perhaps of what is called conversion?" + +"Well, that would be an instance of what I mean, no doubt. But there +are changes of another type. We clergymen, you know, mix intimately with +so many men that we are almost bound to become psychologists if we are +to do any good. It becomes a habit with many of us to study closely our +fellow-men. Now I, for instance; I cannot live at close quarters with a +man without, almost unconsciously, subjecting him to a minute scrutiny, +and striving to sum him up. My curates, for example--" + +"Yes?" said Malling. + +"There are four of them, our friend Chichester being the senior one." + +"And you have 'placed' them all?" + +"I thought I had, I thought so--but--" + +Mr. Harding was silent. Then, with a strange abruptness, and the air of a +man forced into an action against which something within him protested, +he said: + +"Mr. Malling, you are the only person I know who, having been acquainted +with Henry Chichester, has at last met him again after a prolonged +interval of separation. Two years, you said. People who see a man from +day to day observe very little or nothing. Changes occur and are not +noticed by them. A man and his wife live together and grow old. But does +either ever notice when the face of the other begins first to lose its +bloom, to take on that peculiar, unmistakable stamp that the passage of +the years sets on us all? Few of us really see what is always before us. +But the man who comes back--he sees. Tell me the honest truth, I beg of +you. Do you or do you not, see a great change in Henry Chichester?" + +The rector's voice had risen while he spoke, till it almost clamored for +reply. His eyes were more clamorous still, insistent in their demand upon +Malling. Nevertheless voice and eyes pushed Malling toward caution. +Something within him said, "Be careful what you do!" and, acting +surprise, he answered: + +"Chichester changed! In what way?" + +The rector's countenance fell. + +"You haven't observed it?" + +"Remember I've only seen him to-day and walking in the midst of crowds." + +"Quite true! Quite true!" + +Mr. Harding meditated for a minute, and then said: + +"Mr. Malling, I daresay my conduct to-day may surprise you. You may think +it odd of me to be so frank, seeing that you and I have not met before. +But Stepton has told me so much about you that I cannot feel we are quite +strangers. I should like you to have an opportunity of observing Henry +Chichester without prejudice. I will say nothing more. But if I invite +you to meet him, in my house or elsewhere, will you promise me to come?" + +"Certainly, if I possibly can." + +"And your address?" + +Malling stopped and, smiling, pointed to the number outside a house. + +"You live here?" + +Mr. Harding took a small book and a pencil from his pocket and noted down +the address. + +"Good-by," he said. "I live in Onslow Gardens--Number 89." + +"Thank you. Good-by." + +The two men shook hands. Then Mr. Harding went on his way toward South +Kensington, while Malling inserted his latch-key into the door of Number +7b, Cadogan Square. + + + + +II + + +Evelyn Malling was well accustomed to meeting with strange people and +making investigations into strange occurrences. He was not easily +surprised, nor was he easily puzzled. By nature more skeptical than +credulous, he had a cool brain, and he was seldom, if ever, the victim +of his imagination. But on the evening of the day in question he found +himself continually dwelling, and with a curiously heated mind, upon the +encounter of that afternoon. Mr. Harding's manner in the latter part of +their walk together had--he scarcely knew why--profoundly impressed him. +He longed to see the clergyman again. He longed, almost more ardently, to +pay a visit to Henry Chichester. Although the instinct of caution, which +had perhaps been developed in him by his work among mediums, cranks of +various kinds, and charlatans, had prevented him from letting the rector +know that he had been struck by the change in the senior curate, that +change had greatly astonished him. Yet was it really so very marked? He +had noticed it before his attention had been drawn to it. That he knew. +But was he not now, perhaps, exaggerating its character, "suggestioned" +as it were by the obvious turmoil of Mr. Harding? He wondered, and was +disturbed by his wonderment. Two or three times he got up, with the +intention of jumping into a cab, and going to Westminster to find out +if Professor Stepton was in town. But he only got as far as the hall. +Then something seemed to check him. He told himself that he was in no +fit condition to meet the sharp eyes of the man of science, who delighted +in his somewhat frigid attitude of mind toward all supposed supernormal +manifestations, and he returned to his study and tried to occupy himself +with a book. + +On the occasion of his last return, just as he was about to sit down, +his eyes chanced to fall on an almanac framed in silver which stood on +his writing-table. He took it up and stared at it. May 8, Friday--May 9, +Saturday--May 10, Sunday. It was May 9. He put the almanac back on the +table with a sudden sense of relief. For he had come to a decision. + +To-morrow he would attend morning service at St. Joseph's. + +Malling was not a regular church-goer. He belonged to the Stepton breed. +But he was an earnest man and no scoffer, and some of his best friends +were priests and clergymen. Nevertheless it was in a rather unusual +go-to-meeting frame of mind that he got into a tail-coat and top hat, and +set forth in a hansom to St. Joseph's the next morning. + +He had never been there before. As he drew near he found people flowing +toward the great church on foot, in cabs and carriages. Evidently Mr. +Harding had attractive powers, and Malling began to wonder whether he +would have any difficulty in obtaining the seat he wanted, in some corner +from which he could get a good view both of the chancel and the pulpit. +Were vergers "bribable"? What an ignoramus he was about church matters! + +He smiled to himself as he paid the cabman and joined the stream of +church-goers which was passing in through the open door. + +Just as he was entering the building someone in the crowd by accident +jostled him, and he was pushed rather roughly against a tall lady +immediately before him. She turned round with a startled face, and +Malling hastily begged her pardon. + +"I was pushed," he said. "Forgive me." + +The lady smiled, her lips moved, doubtless in some words of conventional +acceptance, then she disappeared in the throng, taking her way toward +the left of the church. She was a slim woman, with a white streak in her +dark hair just above the forehead. Her face, which was refined and +handsome, had given to Malling a strong impression of anxiety. Even when +it had smiled it had looked almost tragically anxious, he thought. The +church was seated with chairs, and a man, evidently an attendant, told +him that all the chairs in the right and left aisles were free. He made +his way to the right, and was fortunate enough to get one not far from +the pulpit. Unluckily, from it he could only see the left-hand side of +the choir. But the preacher would be full in his view. The organ sounded; +the procession appeared. Over the heads of worshipers--he was a tall +man--Malling perceived both Mr. Harding and Chichester. The latter took +his place at the end of the left-hand row of light-colored oaken stalls +next to the congregation. Malling could see him well. But the rector was +hidden from him. He fixed his eyes upon Chichester. + +The service went on its way. The music was excellent. A fair young man, +who looked as if he might be a first-rate cricketer, one of the curates +no doubt, read the lessons. Chichester intoned with an agreeable light +tenor voice. During the third hymn, "Fight the Good Fight," Mr. Harding +mounted into the pulpit. He let down the brass reading-desk. He had no +notes in his hands. Evidently he was going to preach extempore. After +the "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost" +had been pronounced, Malling settled himself to listen. He felt tensely +interested. Both Mr. Harding and Chichester were now before him, the +one as performer--he used the word mentally, with no thought of +irreverence--the other as audience. He could study both as he wished to +study them at that moment. + +Chichester was a small, cherubic man, with blue eyes, fair hair, and neat +features, the sort of man who looks as if when a boy he must have been +the leading choir-boy in a cathedral. There was nothing powerful in his +face, but much that was amiable and winning. His chin and his forehead +were rather weak. His eyes and his mouth looked good. Or--did they? + +Malling found himself wondering as Mr. Harding preached. + +And was Mr. Harding the powerful preacher he was reputed to be? + +At first he held his congregation. That was evident. Rows of rapt faces +gazed up at him, as he leaned over the edge of the pulpit, or stood +upright with his hands pressed palm downward upon it. But it seemed to +Malling that he held them rather because of his reputation, because of +what they confidently expected of him, because of what he had done in +the past, than because of what he was actually doing. And presently they +slipped out of his grasp. He lost them. + +The first thing that is necessary in an orator, if he is to be successful +with an audience, is confidence in himself, a conviction that he has +something to say which is worth saying, which has to be said. Malling +perceived that on this Sunday morning Mr. Harding possessed neither +self-confidence nor conviction; though he made a determined, almost a +violent, effort to pretend that he had both. He took as the theme of his +discourse self-knowledge, and as his motto--so he called it---the words, +"Know thyself." This was surely a promising subject. He began to treat it +with vigor. But very soon it became evident that he was ill at ease, as +an actor becomes who cannot get into touch with his audience. He stumbled +now and then in his sentences, harked back, corrected a phrase, modified +a thought, attenuated a statement. Then, evidently bracing himself up, +almost aggressively he delivered a few passages that were eloquent +enough. But the indecision returned, became more painful. He even +contradicted himself. A "No, that is not so. I should say--" communicated +grave doubts as to his powers of clear thinking to the now confused +congregation. People began to cough and to shift about in their chairs. A +lady just beneath the pulpit unfolded a large fan and waved it slowly to +and fro. Mr. Harding paused, gazed at the fan, looked away from it, wiped +his forehead with a handkerchief, grasped the pulpit ledge, and went on +speaking, but now with almost a faltering voice. + +The congregation were doubtless ignorant of the cause of their pastor's +perturbation, but Malling felt sure that he knew what it was. + +The cause was Henry Chichester. + +On the cherubic face of the senior curate, as he leaned back in his +stall while Mr. Harding gave out the opening words of the sermon, there +had been an expression that was surely one of anxiety, such as a master's +face wears when his pupil is about to give some public exhibition. That +simile came at once into Malling's mind. It was the master listening to +the pupil, fearing for, criticizing, striving mentally to convey help to +the pupil. And as the sermon went on it was obvious to Malling that the +curate was not satisfied with it, and that his dissatisfaction was, as +it were, breaking the rector down. At certain statements of Mr. Harding +looks of contempt flashed over Chichester's face, transforming it. +The anxiety of the master, product of vanity but also of sympathy, +was overlaid by the powerful contempt of a man who longs to traverse +misstatements but is forced by circumstances to keep silence. And so +certain was Malling that the cause of Mr. Harding's perturbation lay in +Chichester's mental attitude, that he longed to spring up, to take the +curate by the shoulders and to thrust him out of the church. Then all +would be well. He knew it. The rector's self-confidence would return and, +with it, his natural powers. + +But now the situation was becoming painful, almost unbearable. + +With every sentence the rector became more involved, more hesitating, +more impotent. The sweat ran down his face. Even his fine voice was +affected. It grew husky. It seemed to be failing. Yet he would not +cease. To Malling he gave the impression of a man governed by a secret +obstinacy, fighting on though he knew it was no use, that he had lost +the combat. Malling longed to cry out to him, "Give it up!" + +The congregation coughed more persistently, and the lady with the fan +began to ply her instrument of torture almost hysterically. + +Suddenly Malling felt obliged to look toward the left of the crowded +church. Sitting up very straight, and almost craning his neck, he stared +over the heads of the fidgeting people and met the eyes of a woman, the +lady with the streak of white hair against whom he had pushed when +coming in. + +There was a look almost of anguish on her face. She turned her eyes +toward Mr. Harding. At the same instant the rector saw Mailing in the +congregation. He stopped short, muttered an uneven sentence, then, +forcing his voice, uttered in unnaturally loud tones the "Now to God the +Father," et cetera. + +Henry Chichester rose in his stall with an expression of intense +thankfulness, which yet seemed somehow combined with a sneer. + +The collection was made. + +Before the celebration some of the choir and two of the clergy, of whom +Mr. Harding was one, left the church. Henry Chichester and the fair, +athletic-looking curate remained. Mailing took his hat and made his way +slowly to the door. As he emerged a young man stopped him and said: + +"If you please, sir, the rector would like to speak to you if you could +wait just a moment. You are Mr. Malling, I believe." + +"Yes. How could you know?" + +"Mr. Harding told me what you were like, sir, and that you were wearing +a tie with a large green stone in it. Begging your pardon, sir." + +"I will wait," said Malling, marveling at the rector's rapid and accurate +powers of observation. + +Those of the congregation who had not remained for the celebration were +quickly dispersing, but Malling now noticed that the lady with the white +lock was, like himself, waiting for some one. She stood not far from him. +She was holding a parasol, and looking down; she moved its point to and +fro on the ground. Several people greeted her. Almost as if startled she +glanced up quickly, smiled, replied. Then, as they went on, she again +looked down. There was a pucker in her brow. Her lips twitched now and +then. + +Suddenly she lifted her head, turned and forced her quivering mouth to +smile. Mr. Harding had come into sight round the corner of the church. + +"Ah, Mr. Malling," he said, "so you have stayed. Very good of you. +Sophia, let me introduce Mr. Malling to you--my wife, Lady Sophia." + +The lady with the white lock held out her hand. + +"You have heard Professor Stepton speak of Mr. Malling, haven't you?" +added the rector to his wife. + +"Indeed I have," she answered. + +She smiled again kindly, and as if resolved to throw off her depression +began to talk with some animation as they all walked together toward the +street. Directly they reached it the rector said: + +"Are you engaged to lunch to-day, Mr. Malling?" + +"No," answered Malling. + +Lady Sophia turned to him and said: + +"Then I shall be informal and beg you to lunch with us, if you don't mind +our being alone. We lunch early, at one, as my husband is tired after his +morning's work and eats virtually nothing at breakfast." + +"I shall be delighted," said Malling. "It's very kind of you." + +"We always walk home," said the rector. + +He sighed. It was obvious that he was in low spirits after the failure of +the morning, but he tried to conceal the fact, and his wife tactfully +helped him. Malling praised the music warmly, and remarked on the huge +congregation. + +"I scarcely thought I should find a seat," he added. + +"It is always full to the doors in the morning," said Lady Sophia, with a +cheerfulness that was slightly forced. + +She glanced at her husband, and suddenly added, not without a decided +touch of feminine spite: + +"Unless Mr. Chichester, the senior curate, is preaching." + +"My dear Sophy!" exclaimed Mr. Harding. + +"Well, it is so!" she said, with a sort of petulance. + +"Perhaps Mr. Chichester is not gifted as a preacher," said Malling. + +"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said the rector. + +"My husband never criticizes his--swans," said Lady Sophia, with delicate +malice, and a glance full of meaning at Malling. "But I'm a woman, and my +principles are not so high as his." + +"You do yourself an injustice," said the rector. "Here we are." + +He drew out his latch-key. + +Before lunch Malling was left alone for a few minutes in the drawing-room +with Lady Sophia. The rector had to see a parishioner who had called and +was waiting for him in his study. Directly her husband had left the room +Lady Sophia turned to Malling and said: + +"Had you ever heard my husband preach till this morning?" + +"No, never," Mailing answered. "I'm afraid I'm not a very regular +church-goer. I must congratulate you again on the music at St. Joseph's. +It is exceptional. Even at St. Anne's Soho--" + +Almost brusquely she interrupted him. She was obviously in a highly +nervous condition; and scarcely able to control herself. + +"Yes, yes, our music is always good, of course. So glad you liked it. +But what I want to say is that you haven't heard my husband preach this +morning." + +Malling looked at her with curiosity, but without astonishment. He might +have acted a part with her as he had the previous day with her husband. +But, as he looked, he came to a rapid decision, to be more frank with the +woman than he had been with the man. + +"You mean, of course, that your husband was not in his best vein," he +said. "I won't pretend that I didn't realize that." + +"You didn't hear him at all. He wasn't himself--simply." + +She sat down on a sofa and clasped her hands together. + +"I cannot tell you what I was feeling," she added. "And he used to be so +full of self-confidence. It was his great gift. His self-confidence +carried him through everything. Nothing could have kept him back if--" + +Suddenly she checked herself and looked, with a sort of covert inquiry, +at Malling. + +"You must think me quite mad to talk like this," she said, with a return +to her manner when he first met her. + +"Shall I tell you what I really think?" he asked, leaning forward in the +chair he had taken. + +"Yes, do, do!" + +"I think you are very ambitious for your husband and that your ambition +for him has received a perhaps mysterious--check." + +Before she could reply the door opened and Mr. Harding reappeared. + +At lunch he carefully avoided any reference to church matters, and +they talked on general subjects. Lady Sophia showed herself a nervously +intelligent and ardent woman. It seemed to Malling obvious that she was +devoted to her husband, "wrapped up in" him--to use an expressive phrase. +Any failure on his part upset her even more than it did him. Secretly she +must still be quivering from the public distresses of the morning. But +she now strove to aid the rector's admirable effort to be serene, and +proved herself a clever talker, and well informed on the events of the +day. Of her Malling got a fairly clear impression. + +But his impression of her husband was confused and almost nebulous. + +"Do you smoke?" asked Mr. Harding, when lunch was over. + +Malling said that he did. + +"Then come and have a cigar in my study." + +"Yes, do go," said Lady Sophia. "A quiet talk with you will rest my +husband." + +And she went away, leaving the two men together. + +Mr. Harding's study looked out at the back of the house upon a tiny strip +of garden. It was very comfortably, though not luxuriously, furnished, +and the walls were lined with bookcases. While his host went to a drawer +to get the cigar-box, Malling idly cast his eyes over the books in the +shelves nearest to him. He always liked to see what a man had to read. +The first book his eyes rested upon was Myers's "Human Personality." +Then came a series of works by Hudson, including "Psychic Phenomena," +then Oliver Lodge's "Survival of Man," "Man and the Universe," and "Life +and Matter." Farther along were works by Lowes Dickinson and Professor +William James, Bowden's "The Imitation of Buddha" and Inge's "Christian +Mysticism." At the end of the shelf, bound in white vellum, was Don +Lorenzo Scupoli's "The Spiritual Combat." + +A drawer shut, and Mailing turned about to take the cigar which Mr. +Harding offered him. + +"The light is rather strong, don't you think?" Mr. Harding said, when the +two men had lit up. "I'll lower the blind." + +He did so, and they sat down in a sort of agreeable twilight, aware of +the blaze of an almost un-English sun without. + +Malling settled down to his cigar with a very definite intention to +clear up his impressions of the rector. The essence of the man baffled +him. He had known more about Lady Sophia in five minutes than he knew +about Mr. Harding now, although he had talked with him, walked with him, +heard him preach, and watched him intently while he was doing so. His +confusion and distress of the morning were comprehended by Malling. They +were undoubtedly caused by the preacher's painful consciousness of the +presence and criticism of one whom, apparently, he feared, or of whose +adverse opinion at any rate he was in peculiar dread. But what was the +character of the man himself? Was he saint or sinner, or just ordinary, +normal man, with a usual allowance of faults and virtues? Was he a man +of real force, or was he painted lath? The Chichester episodes seemed +to point to the latter conclusion. But Malling was too intelligent to +take everything at its surface value. He knew much of the trickery of +man, but that knowledge did not blind him to the mystery of man. He +had exposed charlatans. Yet he had often said to himself, "Who can ever +really expose another? Who can ever really expose himself?" Essentially +he was the Seeker. And he was seldom or never dogmatic. A friend of his, +who professed to believe in transmigration, had once said of him, "I'm +quite certain Malling must have been a sleuth-hound once." Now he wished +to get on a trail. + +But Mr. Harding, who on the previous day had been almost strangely frank +about Henry Chichester, to-day had apparently no intention to be frank +about himself. Though he had desired Malling's company, now that they +were together alone he showed a reserve through which, Malling believed, +he secretly wanted to break. But something held him back. He talked of +politics, government and church, the spread of science, the follies of +the day. And Malling got little nearer to him. But presently Malling +happened to mention the modern craze for discussing intimately, or, as a +Frenchwoman whom he knew expressed it, "_avec un luxe de detail_," +matters of health. + +"Yes, yes," responded Mr. Harding. "It is becoming almost objectionable, +almost indecent. At the same time the health of the body is a very +interesting subject because of its effect upon the mind, even, so it +seems sometimes, upon the very nature of a man. Now I--" he struck the +ash off the end of his cigar--"was, I might almost say, the victim of my +stomach in the pulpit this morning." + +"You were feeling ill?" + +"Not exactly ill. I have a strong constitution. But I suffer at times +from what the doctors call nervous dyspepsia. It is a very tiresome +complaint, because it takes away for the time a man's confidence in +himself, reduces him to the worm-level almost; and it gives him absurd +ideas. Now this morning in the pulpit I had an attack of pain and +uneasiness, and my nerve quite gave out. You must have noticed it." + +"I saw that you were troubled by something." + +"Something! It was that. My poor wife was thoroughly upset by it. You +know how sensitive women are. To hold a crowd of people a man must be +strong and well, in full possession of his powers. And I had a good +subject." + +"Splendid." + +"I'll treat it again--treat it again." + +The rector shifted in his chair. + +"Do you think," he said after a pause, "that it is possible for another, +an outsider, to know a man better than he knows himself?" + +"In some cases, yes," answered Malling. + +"But--as a rule?" + +"There is the saying that outsiders see most of the game." + +"Then why should we mind when all are subject to criticism!" exclaimed +Mr. Harding, forcibly. + +Evidently he was startled by his own outburst, for instantly he set about +to attenuate it. + +"What I mean is that men ought not to care so much as most of them +undoubtedly do what others think about them." + +"It certainly is a sign of great weakness to care too much," said +Malling. "But some people have a quite peculiar power of impressing their +critical thoughts on others. These spread uneasiness around them like an +atmosphere." + +"I know, I know," said the rector, with an almost hungry eagerness. "Now +surely one ought to keep out of such an atmosphere, to get out of it, and +to keep out of it." + +"Why not?" + +"But--but--how extraordinary it is, the difficulty men have in getting +away from things! Haven't you noticed that?" + +"Want of moral strength," said Mailing, laconically. + +"You think so?" + +"Don't you?" + +At this moment there was a knock at the door. Mr. Harding started. + +"How impossible it is to get a quiet moment," he said with acute +irritation. "Come in!" he called out. + +The footman appeared. + +"Mr. Chichester has called to see you, sir." + +The rector's manner changed. He beckoned to the man to come into the room +and to shut the door. The footman, looking surprised, obeyed. + +"Where is he, Thomas?" asked Mr. Harding, in a lowered voice. "In the +hall?" + +"No, sir. As you were engaged I showed him up into the drawing-room." + +"Oh, very well. Thank you. You can go." + +The footman went out, still looking surprised. + +Just as he was about to close the door his master said: + +"Wait a moment!" + +"Sir?" + +"Was her ladyship in the drawing-room?" + +"No, sir. Her ladyship is lying down in the boudoir." + +"Ah. That will do." + +The footman shut the door. + +Directly he was gone the rector got up with an air of decision. + +"Mr. Malling," he said, "perhaps I ought to apologize to you for treating +you with the abruptness allowable in a friend, but surprising in an +acquaintance, indeed in one who is almost a stranger. I do apologize. My +only excuse is that I know you to be a man of exceptional trend of mind +and unusual ability. I know this from Professor Stepton. But there's +another thing. As I told you yesterday, you are the only person of my +acquaintance who, having been fairly intimate with Henry Chichester, has +not seen anything of him during the two years he has been with me as my +coadjutor. Now what I want you to do is this: will you go upstairs and +spend a few minutes alone with Chichester? Tell him I am detained, but +am coming in a moment. I'll see to it that you are not interrupted. I'll +explain to my wife. And, of course, I rely on you to make the matter +appear natural to Chichester, not to rouse his--but I am sure you +understand. Will you do this for me?" + +"Certainly," said Malling, with his most prosaic manner. "Why not?" + +"Why not? Exactly. There's nothing objectionable in the matter. But--" +Mr. Harding's manner became very earnest, almost tragic. "I'll ask you +one thing--afterward you will tell me the truth, exactly how Chichester +impresses you now in comparison with the impression you got of him two +years ago. You--you have no objection to promising to tell me?" + +Malling hesitated. + +"But is it quite fair to Chichester?" he said. "Suppose I obtained, for +instance, a less favorable, or even an unfavorable impression of him +now? You are his rector. I hardly think--" + +The rector interrupted him. + +"I'll leave it to you," he said. "Do just as you please. But, believe me, +I have a very strong reason for wishing to know your opinion. I need it. +I need it." + +There was a lamentable sound in his voice. + +"If I feel it is right I will give it to you," said Malling. + +The rector opened the door of the study. + +"You know your way?" + +"Yes." + +Malling went upstairs. Mr. Harding stood watching him from below till he +disappeared. + + + + +III + + +When Malling opened the door of the drawing-room Chichester was standing +by one of the windows, looking out into Onslow Gardens. He turned round, +saw Malling, and uttered an exclamation. + +"You are here!" + +His light tenor voice sounded almost denunciatory, as if he had a right +to demand an explanation of Malling's presence in Mr. Harding's house, +and as he came away quickly from the window, he repeated, with still more +emphasis: + +"You are here!" + +"Lunching--yes," replied Malling, imperturbably. + +He looked at Chichester and smiled. + +"You have no objection, I hope?" + +His words and manner evidently brought the curate to a sense of his own +unconventionality. He held out his hand. + +"I beg your pardon. Your coming in surprised me. I had no idea"--his blue +eyes went searchingly over Malling's calm face--"that you could be here. +I thought you and the rector were complete strangers till I introduced +you yesterday." + +"So we were." + +Malling sat down comfortably on a sofa. His action evidently recalled +Chichester's mind to the fact that he was to see the rector. + +"Isn't the rector coming to see me?" he asked. + +"Almost directly. He's busy for a few minutes. We were smoking together +in his study." + +"You seem to--you seem to have made great friends!" said Chichester, with +a sort of forced jocularity. + +"Great friends! They're hardly made in a moment. I happened to be at +church this morning--" + +"At church--where?" exclaimed the curate. + +"At St. Joseph's. And Mr. Harding kindly asked me to lunch." + +"You were at church at St. Joseph's this morning?" said Chichester. + +He sat down by Malling and stared into his face. + +"Did you--did you stay for the sermon?" + +"Certainly. I came for the sermon. I had never heard Mr. Harding preach." + +"No? No? Well, what did you think of it? What did you think of it?" + +The curate spoke nervously, and seemed to Malling to be regarding him +with furtive anxiety. + +"It was obvious that Mr. Harding wasn't in good form this morning," +Malling said. "He explained the matter after lunch." + +"He _explained_ the matter!" said Chichester, with a rising voice, in +which there was an almost shrill note of suspicion. + +"Yes. He told me he was often the victim of nervous dyspepsia, and that +he had an attack of it while in the pulpit this morning." + +"He told you it was nervous dyspepsia!" + +"I have just said so." + +The curate looked down. + +"I advised him not to walk all the way home yesterday," he said gloomily. +"You heard me." + +"You think it was that?" + +"He never will take advice from any one. That's his--one of his great +faults. Whatever he thinks, whatever he says, must be right. You, as a +layman, probably have no idea how a certain type of clergyman loves +authority." + +This remark struck Malling as in such singularly bad taste--considering +where they were, and that one of them was Mr. Harding's guest, the other +his curate--that only his secret desire to make obscure things clear +prevented him from resenting it. + +"It is one of the curses of the Church," continued Chichester, "this +passion for authority, for ruling, for having all men under one's feet as +it were. If men would only listen, take advice, see themselves as they +really are, how much finer, how much greater, they might become!" + +"See themselves as others see them! Eh?" said Malling. "But do you mean +that a rector should depend on his curate's advice rather than on his own +judgment?" + +"And why not?" said Chichester. "Rector--curate--archbishop--what does it +matter? The point is not what rank in the hierarchy a man has, but what, +and how, does he see? A street boy may perceive a truth that a king is +blind to. At that moment the street boy is greater than the king. Do you +deny it?" + +"No," said Malling, amazed at the curate's excitement, but showing no +astonishment. + +"But it's a terrible thing to see too clearly!" continued Chichester, +almost as if talking to himself, absorbed. "A terrible thing!" + +He looked up at Malling, and almost solemnly he said: + +"Are you still going on with all those investigations?" + +"When I have any spare time, I often spend some of it in that sort of +work," answered Malling, lightly. + +It was his way to make light of his research work, and indeed he seldom +mentioned it unless he was forced to do so. + +"Do you think it is right?" said Chichester, earnestly. + +"Right?" + +"To strive to push one's way into hidden regions." + +"If I didn't think it right I shouldn't do it," retorted Malling, but +without heat. + +"And--for clergymen?" questioned Chichester, leaning forward, and +dropping his small, thin hands down between his knees. + +"What do you mean?" + +"Do you think it right for clergymen to indulge themselves--for it is +indulgence--in investigations, in attempts to find out more than God +has chosen to reveal to us?" + +The man of science in Malling felt impatient with the man of faith in +Chichester. + +"Does it never occur to you that the _anima mundi_ may have hidden +certain things from the minds of mortals just in order to provide them +with a field to till?" he said, with a hint of sarcasm. "Wasn't the fact +that the earth revolves round the sun, instead of the sun round the +earth, hidden from every living creature till Galileo discovered it? Do +you think Galileo deserved our censure?" + +"Saul was punished for consulting the witch of Endor," returned +Chichester. "And the Roman Catholic Church forbids her children to deal +in occult things." + +"You can't expect a man like me, a disciple of Stepton, to take the Roman +Catholic view of such a matter." + +"You are not a clergyman," said Chichester. + +Malling could not help smiling. + +"You think the profession carries with it certain obligations," he said. +"No doubt it does. But I shall never believe that one of them is to shut +your eyes to any fact in the whole scheme of Creation. Harm can never +come from truth." + +"If I could believe that!" Chichester cried out. + +"Do you mean to tell me you don't believe it?" + +Chichester looked at Malling for quite a minute without replying. Then he +got up, and said, with a changed voice and manner: + +"If the rector doesn't come to see me I shall have to go. Sunday is not a +holiday, you know, for us clergymen." + +He drew out his watch and looked at it. + +"I shall have to go. I'm taking the Children's Service." + +Malling got up too. + +"Is it getting late?" he said. "Perhaps--" + +At this moment the door was gently opened and Mr. Harding appeared. + +"Oh, Chichester," he said. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. What is +it? Would you like to come to my study?" + +"I must be off," said Malling. "May I say good-by to Lady Sophia? Or +perhaps she is resting and would rather not be disturbed." + +"I'm sure she would wish to say good-by to you," said the rector. "I'll +just ask her." + +He shot a quick glance from one man to the other and went out of the +room, leaving the door open behind him. + +Directly he was gone the curate said: "It has been such a pleasure to me +to renew my acquaintance with you, Mr. Malling. Are you going to be long +in London?" + +"All the season, I think." + +"Then I hope we may meet again soon, very soon." + +He hesitated, put one hand in his pocket, and brought out a card-case. + +"I should like to give you my address." + +"And let me give you mine." + +They exchanged cards. + +"I expect you'll be very busy," said the curate, rather doubtfully. + +Then he added, like a man urged on by some strong, almost overpowering +desire to do a thing not quite natural to him: + +"But I wish you could spare an evening to come to dine with me. I live +very modestly, of course. I'm in rooms, in Hornton Street--do you know +it?--near Campden Hill?--Number 4a--as you'll see on my card. I wonder--" + +"I shall be delighted to come." + +"When?" + +"Whenever you are kind enough to ask me." + +"Could you come on Wednesday week? It's so unfortunate, I have such a +quantity of parish engagements--that is my first evening free." + +"Wednesday week, with pleasure." + +"At half after seven?" + +"That will suit me perfectly." + +"And"--he looked toward the door--"I shall be greatly obliged to you if +you won't mention to the rector the fact that you are coming. He--" + +"My wife's in the boudoir," said Mr. Harding, coming into the room at +this moment. + +He stood by the door. + +Malling shook hands with Chichester, and went to say good-by to his +hostess. + +Mr. Harding shut the drawing-room door. + +"This is the way," he said. "Well, Mr. Malling? Well?" + +"You mean you want to know--?" + +"Your impression of Chichester." + +The rector stopped on the landing. + +"Do you find him much changed?" + +Malling shrugged his shoulders. + +"Possibly--a little. He may have become rather firmer in manner, a trifle +more decisive." + +"Firmer! More decisive, you say!" + +"But surely that is only natural, working--as he has done, I understand, +under a man such as yourself for two years." + +"Such as myself! Then you think he's caught something of my manner and +way of looking at things? You think--" + +"Really, it's difficult to say," interrupted Malling. "He's developed, no +doubt. But very few people don't. I suppose you've trained him." + +"I!" said the rector. "I train a man like Chichester!" + +In his voice there was a bitter irony. + +"Is that you, Mr. Malling?" said the voice of Lady Sophia. "I was lying +down with a book. This is my little room." + +She looked pale, almost haggard, as the sunshine fell upon her through +the open window. + +Malling took his leave at once and she did not attempt to detain him. + +"I hope you'll come again," she said, as they shook hands. "Perhaps on +another Sunday morning, to church and lunch. I'll let you know." + +She said the last words with a significance which made Malling understand +that she did not wish him to come to church at St. Joseph's again till +she gave him the word. + +The rector let him out of the house. Not another word was spoken about +Henry Chichester. As his guest walked away the rector stood, bareheaded, +looking after him, then, as Malling turned the corner of the gardens, +with a heavy sigh, and the unconscious gesture of a man greatly troubled +in mind, he stepped back into his hall and shut the door behind him. + + + + +IV + + +A week later, Mailing paid a visit to Professor Stepton. He had heard +nothing of the Hardings and Chichester since the day of the luncheon in +Onslow Gardens, but they had seldom been absent from his thoughts, and +more than once he had looked at the words, "Dine with H.C." in his book +of engagements, and had found himself wishing that "Hornton Street, +Wednesday" was not so far distant. + +The professor lived in Westminster, in a house with Adam ceilings, not +far from the Houses of Parliament. He was unmarried, and Malling found +him alone after dinner, writing busily in his crowded library. He had but +recently returned from Paris, whither he had traveled to take part in a +series of "sittings" with the famous medium, Mrs. Groeber. + +In person the professor was odd, without being specially striking. He +was of medium height, thin and sallow, with gray whiskers, thick gray +hair, bushy eyebrows, and small, pointed and inquiring features which +gave him rather the aspect of a prying bird. His eyes were little and +sparkling. His mouth, strangely enough, was ecclesiastical. He nearly +always wore very light-colored clothes. Even in winter he was often +to be seen clad in yellow-gray tweeds, a yellow silk necktie, and a +fawn-colored Homburg hat. And no human being had ever encountered him +in a pair of boots unprotected by spats. One peculiarity of his was that +he did not possess a walking-stick, another that he had never--so at +least he declared--owned a pocket-handkerchief, having had no occasion +to use one at any moment of his long and varied life. When it rained he +sometimes carried an umbrella, generally shut. At other times he moved +briskly along with his arms swinging at his sides. + +As Malling came in he looked up and nodded. + +"Putting down all about Mrs. Groeber," he observed. + +"Anything new or interesting?" asked Malling. + +"Just the usual manifestations, done in full light, though." + +He laid aside his pen, while Malling sat down. + +"A letter from Flammarion this morning," he said. "But all about Halley's +comet, of course. What is it?" + +Now the professor's "What is it?" was not general, but particular, and +was at once understood to be so by Malling. It did not mean "Why have you +come?" but "Why are you obsessed at this moment, and by what?" + +"Let's have the mystery," he added, leaning his elbows on his just dried +manuscript, and resting his sharp little chin on his doubled fists. + +Yet Malling had hinted at no mystery, and had come without saying he was +coming. + +"You know a clergyman called Marcus Harding?" said Malling. + +"Of St. Joseph's. To be sure, I do." + +"Do you know also his senior curate, Henry Chichester?" + +"No." + +"Have you heard of him?" + +"Oh dear, yes. And I fancy I've seen him at a distance." + +"You heard of him from Harding, I suppose." + +"Exactly, and Harding's wife." + +"Oh, from Lady Sophia!" + +"Who hates him." + +"Since when?" said Malling, emphatically. + +"I couldn't say. But I was only aware of the fact about a month ago." + +"Have you any reason to suppose that Harding has been making any +experiments?" + +"In church music, biblical criticism, or what?" + +"Say in psychical research?" + +"No." + +"Or that Chichester has?" + +"No." + +"Hasn't Harding ever talked to you on the subject?" + +"He has tried to," said the professor, rather grimly. + +"And you didn't encourage him?" + +"When do I encourage clergymen to talk about psychical research?" + +Malling could not help smiling. + +"I have some reason--at least I believe so--to suppose that Harding and +his curate Chichester have been making some experiments in directions +not entirely unknown to us," he observed. "And what is more"--he +paused--"what is more," he continued, "I am inclined to think that +those experiments may have been crowned with a success they little +understand." + +Down went the professor's fists, his head was poked forward in Malling's +direction, and his small eyes glittered almost like those of a glutton +who sees a feast spread before him. + +"The experiments of two clergymen in psychical research crowned with +success!" he barked out. + +"If so, I shall see what I can do in the pulpit--the Abbey pulpit!" + +He got up, and walking slightly sidewise, with his hands hanging, and his +fingers opening and shutting, went over to a chair close to Malling's. + +"Get on!" he said. + +"I'm going to. I want your advice." + +When Malling had finished what he had to say, the professor, who had +interrupted him two or three times to ask pertinent questions, put his +hands on his knees and thrust his head forward. + +"You said you wanted advice," he said. "What about?" + +"I wish you to advise me how I had better proceed." + +"You really think the matter important?" asked the professor. + +Malling looked slightly disconcerted. + +"You don't?" he said. + +"You are deducing a great deal from not very much. That's certain," +observed the professor. + +"You never knew Chichester," retorted Malling. "I did--two years ago." + +"Suppose you are right, suppose these two reverend gentlemen have done +something such as you suppose--and that there has been a result, a +curious result, what have we to do with it? Tell me that." + +"You mean that I have no right to endeavor to make a secret investigation +into the matter. But I'm positive both the men want help from me. I don't +say either of them will ask it. But I'm certain both of them want it." + +"Two clergymen!" said the professor. "Two clergymen! That's the best of +it--if there is an it, which there may not be." + +"Harding spoke very warmly of you." + +"Good-believing man! Now, I do wonder what he's been up to. I do +wonder. Perhaps he'd have told me but for my confounded habit of +sarcasm, my way of repelling the amateur--repelling!" His arms flew out. +"There's so much silliness beyond all bearing, credulity beyond all the +patience of science. Table-turning women, feminine men! 'The spirits +guide me, Professor, in every smallest action of my life!'--Wuff!--the +charlatan battens and breeds. And the bile rises in one till Carlyle on +his worst day might have hailed one as a brother bilious, and so +denunciatory--Jeremiah nervously dyspeptic! And when you opened your +envelop and drew out a couple of clergymen, really, really! But perhaps +I was in a hurry! Clergymen in a serious fix, too, because of unexpected +and not understood success! And I talk of repelling the _amateur_!" + +Suddenly he paused and, with his bushy eyebrows twitching, looked +steadily at Malling. + +"I leave it to you," he said. "Take your own line. But don't forget that, +if there's anything in it, development will take place in the link. The +link will be a center of combat. The link will be an interesting field +for study." + +"The link?" said Malling, interrogatively. + +"Goodness gracious me! Her ladyship! Her ladyship!" cried out the +professor. "What are you about, Malling?" + +And he refused to say another word on the matter till Malling, after much +more conversation on other topics, got up to go. Then, accompanying him +to the front door, the professor said: + +"You know _I_ think it's probably all great nonsense." + +"What?" + +"Your two black-coated friends. You bustle along at such a pace. +Remember, I have made more experiments than you have, and I have never +come upon an exactly similar case. I don't know whether such a thing +can be. No more do you--you've guessed. Now, guessing is not at all +scientific. At the same time you've proved you can be patient. If there +is anything in this it's profoundly interesting, of course." + +"Then you advise me--?" + +"If in doubt, study Lady Sophia. Good night." + +As Malling went away into the darkness he heard the professor snapping +out to himself, as he stood before his house bareheaded: + +"Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings! _Tres bien!_ But--reverend +gentlemen of St. Joseph's! I shall have to look for telergic power in my +acquaintance Randall Cantuar, when I want it! By Jove!" + +"If in doubt, study Lady Sophia." As Malling thought over these +parting words, he realized their wisdom and wondered at his own +short-sightedness. + +He had sent his cards to Onslow Gardens after the luncheon with the +Hardings. He wished now he had called and asked for Lady Sophia. But +doubtless he would have an opportunity of being with her again. If she +did not offer him one, he would make one for himself. + +He longed to see her with Henry Chichester. + +During the days that elapsed before "Hornton Street, Wednesday" he +considered a certain matter with sedulous care. His interview with +Stepton had not been fruitless. Stepton always made an effect on his +mind. Casual and jerky though his manner was, obstinate as were his +silences at certain moments, fragmentary as was his speech, he had a +way of darting at the essential that set him apart from most men. Malling +remembered a horrible thing he had once seen in the Sahara, a running +gazelle killed by a falcon. The falcon, rising high in the blue air, +had followed the gazelle, had circled, poised, then shot down and, with +miraculous skill, struck into the gazelle's eye. Unerringly from above +it had chosen out of the vast desert the home for its cruel beak. +Somewhat in similar fashion, so Malling thought, Stepton rose above +things, circled, poised, sank, and struck into the heart of the truth +unerringly. + +Perhaps he was able to do this because he was able to mount, falconwise! + +Malling would have given a good deal to have Stepton with him in this +affair, despite the professor's repellent attitude toward the amateur. +Well, if there really was anything in it, if strangeness rose out of the +orthodox bosom of St. Joseph's, if he--Malling--found himself walking in +thick darkness, he meant to bring Stepton into the matter, whether at +Stepton's desire or against it. Meanwhile he would see if there was +enlightenment in Hornton Street. + +On the Wednesday the spell of fine weather which had made London look +strangely vivacious broke up, and in the evening rain fell with a gentle +persistence. Blank grayness took the town. A breath as of deep autumn was +in the air. And the strange sadness of cities, which is like no other +sadness, held the spirit of Evelyn Malling as he walked under an umbrella +in the direction of Kensington High Street. He walked, to shake off +depression. But in his effort he did not succeed. All that he saw +deepened his melancholy; the soldiers starting out vaguely from barracks, +not knowing what to do, but free for a time, and hoping, a little +heavily, for some adventure to break the military monotony of their +lives; the shopgirls, also in hope of something to "take them out of +themselves"--pathetic desire of escape from the little prison, where the +soul sits, picking its oakum sometimes, in its cell of flesh!--young +men making for the parks, workmen for the public houses, an old woman, +in a cap, peering out of an upper window in Prince's Gate; Italians with +an organ, and a monkey that looked as if it were dying of nostalgia; +women hurrying--whither?--with anxious faces, and bodies whose very +shapes, and whose every movement, suggested, rather proclaimed, worry. + +Malling knew it was the rain, the possessive grayness, which troubled his +body to-night, and through his body troubled his spirit. His nostrils +inhaled the damp, and it seemed to go straight into his essence, into the +mystery that was he. His eyes saw no more blue, and it was as if they +drew a black shutter over all the blue in his heart, blotting it out. +People became doomed phantoms, because the weather had changed and +because London knows how to play Cassandra to the spirit of many a man. +To Malling, as he presently turned to the right, Hornton Street looked +like an alley leading straight to the pit of despair, and when he tapped +on the blistered green door of the small house where the curate lived, it +was as if he tapped seeking admittance to all the sorrowful things that +had been brought into being to beset his life with blackness. + +A neat servant-girl opened the door. There was a smell of roast mutton in +the passage. So far well. Malling took off his hat and coat, hung them up +on a hook indicated by the plump red hand of the maid, and then followed +her upstairs. The curate was in possession of the first floor. + +Malling knew that it would be a case of folding-doors and perhaps of +curtains of imitation lace. It was a case of folding-doors. But there +was a dull green hue on the walls that surely bespoke Henry Chichester's +personal taste. There were bookcases, there were mezzotints, there were +engravings of well-known pictures, and there were armchairs not covered +with horsehair. There was also a cottage piano, severely nude. In the +center of the room stood a small square table covered with a cloth and +laid for two persons. + +"I'll tell Mr. Chichester, sir." + +The maid went out. From behind the folding-doors came to Malling's ears +the sound of splashing water, then a voice saying, certainly to the maid, +"Thank you, Ellen, I will come." And in three minutes Chichester was in +the room, apologizing. + +"I was kept late in the parish. There's a good deal to do." + +"You're not overworked?" asked Malling. + +"Do I look so?" said Chichester, quickly. + +He turned round and gazed at himself in an oval Venetian mirror which +was fixed to the wall just behind him. His manner for a moment was oddly +absorbed as he examined his face. + +"London life tells on one, I suppose," he said, again turning. "We +change, of course, in appearance as we go on." + +His blue eyes seemed to be seeking something in Malling's impenetrable +face. + +"Do you think," he said, "I am much altered since we used to meet two +years ago? It would of course be natural enough if I were." + +Malling looked at him for a minute steadily. + +"In appearance, you mean?" + +"Of course." + +"To-night it seems to me that you have altered a good deal." + +"To-night?" said the curate, as if with anxiety. + +"If there is any change,--and I think there is,--it seems to me more +apparent to-night than it was when I saw you the other day." + +Ellen, the maid, entered the room bearing a tray on which was a +soup-tureen. + +"Oh, dinner!" said Chichester. "Let us sit down. You won't mind simple +fare, I hope. We are having soup, mutton,--I am not sure what else." + +"Stewed fruit, sir," interpolated Ellen. + +"To be sure! Stewed fruit and custard. Open the claret, Ellen, please." + +"Have you been in these rooms long?" asked Malling, as they unfolded +their napkins. + +"Two years. All the time I have been at St. Joseph's. The rector told me +of them. The curate who preceded me had occupied them." + +"What became of him?" + +"He has a living in Northampton now. But when he left he had nothing in +view." + +"He was tired of work at St. Joseph's?" + +"I don't think he got on with the rector." + +The drip of the rain became audible outside, and a faint sound of +footsteps on the pavement. + +"Possibly I shall not stay much longer," he added. + +"No doubt you'll take a living." + +"I don't know. I don't know. But, in any case, I may not stay much +longer--perhaps. That will do, Ellen; you may go and fetch the mutton. +Put the claret on the table, please." + +When the maid was gone, he added: + +"One doesn't want a servant in the room listening to all one says. As +she was standing behind me I had forgotten she was here. How it rains +to-night! I hate the sound of rain." + +"It is dismal," said Malling, thinking of his depression while he had +walked to Hornton Street. + +"Do you mind," said the curate, slightly lowering his voice, "if I speak +rather--rather confidentially to you?" + +"Not at all, if you wish to--" + +"Well, now, you are a man of the world, you've seen many people. I wish +you would tell me something." + +"What is it?" + +Ellen appeared with the mutton. As soon as she had put it on the table +and departed, Chichester continued: + +"How does Mr. Harding strike you? What impression does he make upon you?" + +Eagerness, even more, something that was surely anxiety, shone in his +eyes as he asked the question. + +"He's a very agreeable man." + +"Of course, of course! Would you say he was a man to have much power over +others, his fellow-men?" + +"Speaking quite confidentially--" + +"Nothing you say shall ever go beyond us two." + +"Then--I don't know that I should." + +"He doesn't strike you as a man of power?" + +"In the pulpit?" + +"And out of it--especially out of it?" + +"He may have been. But--perhaps he has lost in power. Dispersion, you +know, does not make for strength." + +Suddenly the curate became very pale. + +"Dispersion--you say!" he almost stammered. + +As if to cover some emotion, he looked at Malling's plate, and added: + +"Have some more? You won't? Then--" + +He got up and rang the bell. Ellen reappeared, cleared away, and put the +stewed fruit and custard on the table. + +"Bring the coffee in ten minutes, Ellen. I won't ring." + +"Very well, sir." + +"Dispersion," said Chichester to Malling in a firmer voice, as Ellen +disappeared. + +"Concentration makes for strength. Mr. Harding seems to me mentally--what +shall I say?--rather torn in pieces, as if preyed upon by some anxiety. +Now, if you'll allow me to be personal, I should say that you have +greatly gained in strength and power since I knew you two years ago." + +"You--you observe a difference?" asked Chichester, apparently in great +perturbation. + +"A striking difference." + +"And--and would you say I looked a happier, as well as a--a stronger +man?" + +"I couldn't with truth say that." + +"Very few of us are happy," said Chichester, with trembling lips. "Poor +miserable sinners as we are! And we clergymen, who set up to direct +others--" he broke off. + +He seemed greatly, strangely, moved. + +"You must forgive me. I have had a very hard day's work!" he murmured. +"The coffee will do me good. Let us sit in the armchairs, and Ellen can +clear away. I wish I had two sitting-rooms." + +He rang to make Ellen hurry. Till she came Malling talked about Italian +pictures and looked at the curate's books. When she had cleared away, +left the coffee, and finally departed, he sat down with an air of +satisfaction. Chichester did not smoke, but begged Malling to light +up, and gave him a cigar. + +"Coffee always does one good," he said. "It acts directly on the heart, +and seems to strengthen the whole body. I have had a trying day." + +"You look tired," said Malling. + +The fact was that Chichester had never recovered the color he had so +suddenly lost when they were discussing Mr. Harding. + +"It's no wonder if I do," rejoined Chichester, in a voice that sounded +hopeless. + +He drank some coffee, seemed to make a strong effort to recover himself, +and, with more energy, said: + +"I asked you here because I wanted to renew a pleasant acquaintanceship, +but also--you won't think me discourteous, I know--because--well, I had +a purpose in begging you to come." + +"Won't you tell me what it is?" + +The curate shifted in his armchair, clasped and unclasped his hands. +A mental struggle was evidently going on within him. Indeed, during +the whole evening Malling had received from him a strong impression of +combat, of confusion. + +"I wanted to continue the discussion we began at Mr. Harding's the other +day. You remember, I asked you not to tell him you were coming?" + +"Yes." + +"I think it's best to keep certain matters private. People so easily +misunderstand one. And the rector has rather a jealous nature." + +Malling looked at his companion without speaking. At this moment he +was so strongly interested that he simply forgot to speak. Never, even +at a successful sitting when, the possibility of trickery having been +eliminated, a hitherto hidden truth seemed about to lift a torch in the +darkness and to illumine an unknown world, had he been more absorbed by +the matter in hand. Chichester did not seem to be struck by his silence, +and continued: + +"And then not every one is fitted to comprehend properly certain matters, +to see things in their true light. Now the other day you said a thing +that greatly impressed me, that I have never been able to get out of my +mind since. You said, 'Harm can never come from truth.' I have been +thinking about those words of yours, night and day, night and day. Tell +me--did you mean them?" + +The question came from Chichester's lips with such force that Malling was +almost startled. + +"Certainly I meant them," he answered. + +"And if truth slays?" + +"And is death the worst thing that can happen to a man, or to an +idea--some wretched fallacy, perhaps, that has governed the minds of +men, some gross superstition, some lie that darkens counsel?" + +"You think if a man lives by a lie he is better dead?" + +"Don't you think so?" + +"But don't we all need a crutch to help us along on the path of life?" + +"What! You, a clergyman, think that it is good to bolster up truth with +lies?" said Malling, with genuine scorn. + +"I didn't say that." + +"You implied it, I think." + +"Perhaps if you had worked among men and women as much as I have you +would know how much they need. If you went abroad, say to Italy, and saw +how the poor, ignorant people live happily oftentimes by their blind +belief in the efficacy of the saints, would you wish to tear it from +them?" + +"I think we should live by the truth, and I would gladly strike away a +lie from any human being who was using it as a crutch." + +"_I_ thought that once," said Chichester. + +The words were ordinary enough, but there was something either in the +way they were said, or in Chichester's face as he said them, that made +Malling turn cold. + +To cover his unusual emotion, which he was ashamed of, and which he +greatly desired to hide from his companion, he blew out a puff of cigar +smoke, lifted his cup, and drank the rest of his coffee. + +"May I have another cup?" he said. "It's excellent." + +The coffee-pot was on the table. Chichester poured out some more. + +"I will have another cup, too," he said. "How it wakes up the mind." + +He glanced at Mailing and added: + +"Almost terribly sometimes." + +"Yes. But--going back to our subject--don't you still think that men +should live by the truth?" + +"I think," began Chichester--"I think--" + +It seemed as if something physical prevented him from continuing. He +swallowed, as if forcing something down his throat. + +"I think," he got out at last, "that few men know how terrible the face +of truth can be." + +His own countenance was contorted as he spoke, as if he were regarding +something frightful. + +"I think"--he turned right round in his chair to confront Malling +squarely--"that _you_ do not know." + +For the first time he completely dominated Malling, Chichester the +gentle, cherubic clergyman, whom Malling had thought of as good, but +weak, and certainly as a negligible quantity. He dominated, because at +that moment he made Malling feel as if he had some great possession of +knowledge which Malling lacked. + +"And you?" said Malling. "Do you know?" + +The curate's lips worked, but he made no answer. + +Malling was aware of a great struggle in his mind, as of a combat in +which two forces were engaged. He got up, walked to the window, and +stood as if listening to the rain. + +"If only Stepton were here!" thought Malling. + +There was a truth hidden from him, perhaps partly divined, obscurely half +seen, but not thoroughly understood, as a whole invisible. Stepton would +be the man to elucidate it, Malling thought. It lured him on, and baffled +him. + +"How it rains!" said the curate at last, without turning. + +He bent down and opened the small window. The uneasy, almost sinister +noise of rain in darkness entered the room, with the soft smell of +moisture. + +"Do you mind if we have a little air?" he added. + +"I should like it," said Malling. + +Chichester came back and sat down again opposite Malling. His +expression had now quite changed. He looked calmer, gentler, weaker, +and much more uninteresting. Crossing his legs, and folding his thin +hands on his knees, he began to talk in his light tenor voice. And +he kept the conversation going on church music, sacred art in Italy, +and other eminently safe and respectable topics till it was time for +Malling to go. + +Only when he was letting his guest out into the night did he seem +troubled once more. He clasped Malling's hand in his, as if almost +unaware that he was doing so, and said with some hesitation: + +"Are you--are you going to see the rector again?" + +"Not that I know of," said Malling, speaking the strict truth, and +virtually telling a lie at the same time. + +For he was determined, if possible, to see Mr. Harding, and that before +very long. + +"If I may say so," Chichester said, shifting from one foot to another and +looking down at the rain-sodden pavement, "I wouldn't see him." + +"May I ask you why?" + +"You may get a wrong impression. Two years ago he was another man. +Strangers, of course, may not know it, not realize it. But we who have +lived with him do know it. Mr. Harding is going down the hill." + +There was a note of deep sadness in his voice. Had he been speaking of +himself, of his own decadence, his tone could scarcely have been more +melancholy. + +And for long Malling remembered the look in his eyes as he drew back to +shut his door. + +In the rain Malling walked home as he had come. But now it was deep in +the night and his depression had deepened. He was a self-reliant man, and +not easily felt himself small, though he was not conceited. To-night he +felt diminished. The worm-sensation overcame him. That such a man as +Chichester should have been able to convey to him such a sensation was +strange, yet it was from Chichester that this mental chastisement had +come. For a moment Chichester had towered, and at that moment Malling +surely had dwindled, shrunk together, like a sheet of paper exposed to +the heat of a flame. + +But that Chichester should have had such an effect on him--Malling! + +If Mr. Harding was going down the hill, Chichester surely was not. He had +changed drastically since Malling had known him two years ago. In power, +in force, he had gained. He now conveyed the impression of a man capable, +if he chose, of imposing himself on others. Formerly he had been the wax +that receives the impress. But whereas formerly he had been a contented +man, obviously at peace with himself and with the world, now he was +haunted by some great anxiety, by some strange grief, or perhaps even by +some fear. + +"Few men know how terrible the face of the truth can be." + +Chichester had said that. + +Was he one of the few men? + +And was that why now, as Malling walked home in the darkness and rain, he +felt himself humbled, diminished? + +For Malling loved knowledge and thought men should live by it. Had truth +a Medusa face, still would he have desired to look into it once, would +have been ready to endure a subsequent turning to stone. + +That Chichester should perhaps have seen what he had not seen--that +troubled him, even humbled him. + +Some words of Professor Stepton came back to his mind: "If there's +anything in it, development will take place in the link." And those last +words: "If in doubt, study Lady Sophia." + +Mailing was in doubt. Why not follow Stepton's advice? Why not study Lady +Sophia? + +He resolved to do it. And with the resolve came to him a sense of greater +well-being. The worm-sensation departed from him. He lifted his head and +walked more briskly. + + + + +V + + +On the night following the dinner in Hornton Street, Malling went to the +Covent Garden Opera House to hear "La Traviata." The well-worn work did +not grasp the attention of a man who was genuinely fond of the music of +Richard Strauss, with its almost miraculous intricacies, and who was +willingly captive to Debussy. He looked about the house from his stall, +and very soon caught sight of Lady Mansford, Lady Sophia's sister-in-law, +in a box on the Grand Tier. Malling knew Lady Mansford. He resolved to +pay her a visit, and as soon as the curtain was down, and Tetrazzini had +tripped before it, smiling not unlike a good-natured child, he made his +way upstairs, and asked the attendant to tap at a door on which was +printed, "The Earl of Mansford." The man did so, and opened the door, +showing a domestic scene highly creditable to the much maligned British +aristocracy--Lord Mansford seated alone with his wife, in evidently +amicable conversation. + +After a few polite words he made Malling sit down beside her, and, saying +he would have a cigarette in the foyer, he left them together. + +Lady Mansford was a pretty, dark woman, of the slightly irresponsible +and little-bird type. She willingly turned her charmingly dressed head +and chirped when noticed, and she was generally noticed because of her +beauty. Now she chirped of Ceylon, where Malling had been, and then, more +vivaciously, of Parisian milliners, where she had been. From these allied +subjects Malling led her on to a slightly different topic--religion. + +"I went to St. Joseph's last Sunday week," he presently said. + +"St. who--what?" said Lady Mansford, who was busy with her +opera-glasses, and had just noticed that Lady Sindon, a bird-like +rival of hers, had changed the color of her hair, fortunately to +her--Lady Sindon's--disadvantage. + +"To St. Joseph's, to hear your brother-in-law preach." + +"It doesn't do at all," murmured Lady Mansford. "It makes her look +Chinese." + +"You said--?" + +"Mollie Sindon. But what were you talking about? Do tell me." She laid +down her glasses. + +"I was saying that I went to church last Sunday week." + +"Why?" + +"To hear your brother-in-law preach at St. Joseph's." + +"Marcus!" exclaimed Lady Mansford. + +She pursed her lips. + +"I don't go to St. Joseph's. Poor Sophy! I'm sorry for her." + +"I lunched with Lady Sophia after the service." + +"Did you? Isn't it sad?" + +"Sad! I don't quite understand?" said Malling, interrogatively. + +"The change in him. Of course people say it's drink. Such nonsense! But +they must say something, mustn't they?" + +"Is Mr. Harding so very much changed?" + +"Do you mean to say you didn't notice it?" + +"I never met him till within the last fortnight." + +"He's transformed--simply. He might have risen to anything, with his +energy, his ambition, and his connections. And now! But the worst of it +is no one can make out why it is. Even Sophia and Isinglass--my husband, +you know!--haven't an idea. And it gets worse every day. Last Sunday I +hear his sermon was too awful, a mere muddle of adjectives, such as one +hears in Hyde Park, I believe. I never liked Marcus particularly. I +always thought him too autocratic, too determined to dominate. He had +that poor little Mr. Chichester--his curate--completely under his thumb. +Mr. Chichester couldn't call his soul his own. He worshiped Marcus. But +now they say even he is beginning to think that his god is of clay. What +can it be? Do you think Marcus is losing his mind?" + +"Oh, I should hope not," returned Malling, vaguely. "Has it been going on +long?" + +"Oh, for quite a time. But it all seemed to come on gradually--as things +_do_, you know! Poor Sophy has always adored him, and given way to him in +everything. In her eyes all that he does is right. She never says a word, +I believe, but she must be suffering the tortures of--_you_ know! There's +Winnie Rufford coming in! How astonishingly young she looks. Were you at +the Huntingham's ball? Well--" + +Lady Mansford twittered no more about the Harding menage. But Malling +felt that his visit had not been fruitless. + +After the opera he went to a party in Grosvenor Street where again he +managed to produce talk of the Hardings. It seemed that Lady Mansford +had not exaggerated very much. Among those who knew the Hardings a change +in the rector of St. Joseph's had evidently been generally noticed. +Malling took in to supper a Mrs. Armitage, a great friend of Lady +Sophia's, and she made no secret of the fact that Lady Sophia was greatly +distressed. + +"I thought she would have been here to-night," Mrs. Armitage said. "But +she isn't. I suppose she felt she couldn't face it. So many of his +congregation are here, or so many who were in his congregation." + +"The church was crammed to the doors last Sunday week when he preached," +observed Malling. + +"Was it? Curiosity, I suppose. It certainly can't have been the +intellectual merit of the sermon. I heard it was quite deplorable. But +last Sunday's, I was told, was worse still. No continuity at all, and +the church not full. People say the curate, Mr. Chichester, who often +preaches in the evening, is making a great effect, completely cutting out +his rector. And he used to be almost unbearably dull." + +"Will you have a quail?" + +"Please. You might give me two. My doctor says if I sit up late--thank +you!" + +"I've never heard Mr. Chichester preach," said Malling. + +"He seems to have come on marvelously, to be quite another man." + +"Quite another man, does he?" + +"Yes. It's very trying for the Hardings naturally. If it continues I +think there will have to be a change. I don't think things can go on as +they are. My friend Sophia won't be able to stand it." + +"You mean--the contrast?" + +"Between her husband and Mr. Chichester. She's very highly strung and +quite worships her husband; though, between you and me, _I_ think rather +in the slave spirit. But some women are like that. They can't admire a +man unless he beats them. Not that Mr. Harding ever dreamed of doing such +a thing to Sophia, of course. But his will had to be law in everything. +You know the type of man! It's scarcely my idea of what a clergyman +should be. I think a man who professes to direct the souls of others +should be more gentle and unselfish, especially to his wife. Another +quail? Well, really, I think perhaps I will. They are so absurdly small +this season, aren't they? There's scarcely anything on them." + +So that minute fraction of the world that knew of the existence of the +Hardings began to utter itself concerning them, and Malling was fortified +in his original belief which he had expressed to Professor Stepton. + +Among his many experiments made in connection with psychical research +those which had interested him the most had been those in which the +mystery of the human will had seemed to be deeply involved. Malling was +essentially a psychologist. And man was to him the great mystery, because +man contained surely something that belonged to, that was lent to, man, +as it were, by another, the mind beyond, the _anima mundi_. When Malling +drew mentally, or spiritually, very near to any man, however rude, +however humble, he always had the feeling that he was approaching holy +ground. Hidden beneath his generally imperturbable exterior, sunk beneath +the surface incredulity of his mind, there was the deep sense of mighty +truths waiting the appointed day of proclamation. Surely, he often +thought, if there is God in anything, in the last rays of the sunset, +in the silence of night upon the sea, in the waking of spring among the +forests and the gardens, in the song of the nightingale which knows +not lovers are listening, there is God in the will of man. + +And when he made investigations into the action of will upon will, or +of will--as it seemed--upon matter, he was held, as he was not held by +the appearance of so-called spirit faces and spirit forms, even when +he could not connect these with trickery which he knew how to expose. +Perhaps, however, his incredulity in regard to these latter phenomena was +incurable, though he did not know it. For he knew nearly all the devices +of the charlatans. And when the so-called spirits came, the medium was +always entranced, that is, apparently will-less, and so to Malling not +interesting. + +Now, from what Harding and Chichester had said to him, and from what +he had observed for himself, Malling believed that the two clergymen +must have had sittings together, probably with the usual tremendous +object of the ignorant amateur, that merely of communicating with the +other world. Considering who the two men were, Malling believed that in +all probability they had sat alone and in secret. He also felt little +doubt that from Mr. Harding's brain had come the suggestion of these +practices, that his will had led Chichester on to them. Although he +had not known the rector two years ago, he had gathered sufficient +testimony to the fact that he had been a man of powerful, even perhaps +of tyrannical, temperament, formed rather to rule than to be ruled. He +knew that Chichester, on the contrary, had been gentle, kindly, yielding, +and of somewhat weak, though of very amiable, nature. The physique of the +two men accorded with these former temperaments. Harding's commanding +height, large frame, big, powerful face and head, rather hard gray eyes, +even his large white teeth, his bony, determined hands, his firmly +treading feet, suggested force, a dominating will, the capacity, and +the intention, to rule. Henry Chichester's fleshly envelop, on the other +hand, cherubic, fair, and delicate, his blue eyes, small bones, the shape +of forehead and chin, the line of the lips, hinted at--surely more than +that, surely stated mildly--the existence within it of a nature retiring, +meek, and ready to be ruled by others. No wonder if Chichester had been, +as Lady Mansford had said, completely under the rector's thumb, no wonder +if he had been unable to "call his soul his own" and had "worshiped +Marcus." + +Yes, if there had been these secret sittings by these two men, it was +Harding who had persuaded Chichester to take part in them. And what had +these sittings led to, what had been their result? + +The ignorant outsider, the hastily skeptical, of course would say that +there could have been no result. Malling, knowing more, knew better. He +had seen strange cases of temporary confusion of a man's will brought +about by sittings, of what had seemed temporary change even of a man's +nature. When a hitherto sane man goes mad he often becomes the opposite +of what he was. Those whom he formerly loved he specially singles out +for hatred. That which he delighted to do he shrinks from with horror. +Once good-natured, he is now of an evil temper, once gentle, he is +fiercely obstinate, once gay, he cowers and weeps. So Malling had known +a man, while retaining his sanity, to be transformed by the apparently +trivial fact of sitting at a table with a friend, and placing his hands +upon it with the hands of another man. He himself had sat with an Oxford +friend,--who in later sittings became entranced,--and at the very first +experiment this man had said to him, "It's so strange, now that I am +sitting with you like this I feel filled with hatred toward you." This +hatred, which had come upon this man at every successive sitting, had +always faded away when the sitting was over. But was it certain that the +feelings generated in sittings never persisted after they were broken +up? Was it certain that in every case the waters that had been +mysteriously troubled settled into their former stillness? + +Harding and Chichester, for instance! Had the strong man troubled the +waters of the weaker man's soul, and were those waters still agitated? +That was perhaps possible. But Malling thought it was possible also, and +he had suggested this to Professor Stepton, that the weaker man had +infused some of his weakness, his self-doubtings, his readiness to be +affected by the opinion of others, into his dominating companion. Malling +believed it possible that the wills of the two clergymen, in some +mysterious and inexplicable way, had mingled during their sittings, and +that they had never become completely disentangled. If this were so, the +result was a different Harding from the former Harding, and a different +Henry Chichester from the former Henry Chichester. + +What puzzled Malling, however, was the fact, if fact it were, that the +difference in each man was not diminishing, but increasing. + +Could they be continuing the sittings, if there had ever been sittings? +All was surmise. As the professor had said, he, Malling, was perhaps +deducing a good deal from very little. And yet was he? His instinct told +him he was not. Yet there might no doubt be some ordinary cause for the +change in Mr. Harding. Some vice, such as love of drink, or morphia, +something that disintegrates a man, might have laid its claw upon him. +That was possible. What seemed to Malling much more unaccountable was the +extraordinary change in the direction of strength in Chichester. And the +relations between the two men, if indeed the curate had once worshiped +his rector, were mysteriously transformed. For now, was it not almost as +if something of Harding in Chichester watched, criticized, Chichester in +Harding? + +But now--to study Lady Sophia! For if there was really anything in +Malling's curious supposition, the woman must certainly be strangely +affected. He remembered the expression in her eyes when her husband +was preaching, her manner when she spoke of the curate as one of her +husband's swans. + +And he longed to see her again. She had said that she hoped he would come +again to St. Joseph's and to her house, but he knew well that any such +desire in her had arisen from her wounded pride in her husband. She +wished Malling to know what the rector could really do. When she thought +that the rector had recovered his former powers, his hold upon the minds +of men, then she would invite Malling to return to St. Joseph's, but not +before. + +And when would that moment come? + +It might not come for weeks, for months. It might never come. Malling did +not mean to await it. Nevertheless he did not want to do anything likely +to surprise Lady Sophia, to lead her to think that he had any special +object in view in furthering his acquaintance with her. + +While he was casting about in his mind what course to take, chance +favored him. + +Four days later, when he was strolling round the rooms in Burlington +House, he saw not far in front of him the tall and restless figure of +a woman. She was alone. For some time Malling did not recognize her. +She did not turn sufficiently for him to see her face, and her almost +feverish movements, though they attracted and fixed his attention, did +not strike him as familiar. His thought of her, as he slowly followed +in the direction she was taking, was, "What a difficult woman that would +be to live with!" For the hands were never still; the gait was uneasy; +nervousness, almost a sort of pitiful irritation, seemed expressed by her +every movement. + +In the big room this woman paused before the picture of the year, which +happened to be a very bad one, and Malling, coming up, at last recognized +her as Lady Sophia Harding. + +He took off his hat. She seemed startled, but greeted him pleasantly, and +entered into a discussion of the demerits which fascinate the crowd. + +"You prefer seeing pictures alone, perhaps?" said Malling, presently. + +"Indeed I don't," she answered. "I was coming to-day with my husband. We +drove up together. But at the last moment he thought he remembered +something,--some appointment with Mr. Chichester,--and left me." + +There were irony and bitterness in her voice. + +"He said he'd come back and meet me in the tea-room presently," she +added. + +"Shall we go there and wait for him?" asked Malling. + +"But I'm afraid I'm taking up your time." + +"I have no engagements this afternoon. I shall enjoy a quiet talk with +you." + +"It's very good of you." + +They descended, and sat down in a quiet corner. In the distance a few +respectable persons were slowly eating bath-buns with an air of fashion, +their duly marked catalogues laid beside them on marble. + +Far-off waiters, standing with their knees bent, conversed in +undertones. A sort of subterranean depression, peculiar to this +fastness of Burlington House, brooded over the china and the provisions. + +"It reminds me of the British Museum tearoom," said Lady Sophia. "Here is +tea! What a mercy! Modern pictures sap one's little strength." + +She looked haggard, and was obviously on the edge of her nerves. + +"Marcus might have come in," she added. "But of course he wouldn't--or +couldn't." + +"Doesn't he care for pictures?" + +She slightly shrugged her shoulders. + +"He used to. But I don't know that he does now." + +"I suppose he has a tremendous amount to do." + +"He used to do much more at Liverpool. If a man wishes to come to the +front he mustn't sit in an armchair with folded hands." + +There was a sharp sound of criticism in her voice which astonished +Malling. At the luncheon, only about a fortnight ago, she had shown +herself plainly as the adoring wife, anxious for her husband's success, +nervously hostile to any one who interfered with it, who stood between +him and the homage of his world. Now Malling noted, or thought he noted, +a change in her mental attitude. He was instantly on the alert. + +"I'm sure that's the last thing Mr. Harding would do," he said. + +She shot a glance at him out of her discontented dark eyes. + +"Are you?" she said. + +And sarcasm crept in the words. She gave to Malling at this moment the +impression of a woman so strung up as to be not her natural self, so +tormented by some feeling, perhaps long repressed, that her temperament +was almost furiously seeking an outlet, knowing instinctively, perhaps, +that only there lay its salvation. + +"His record proves it," said Malling, with serenely smiling assurance. + +Lady Sophia twisted her lips. The Academy tea was very strong. Perhaps +it had been standing. She drank a little, pulled at her long gloves +restlessly, and looked at Malling. He knew she was longing to confide +in somebody. If only he could induce her to confide in him! + +"Oh, my husband's been a very active man," she said. "Everybody knows +that. But in this modern world of ours one must not walk, or even +run along, one must keep on rushing along if one intends to reach the +goal." + +"And by that you mean--?" + +"Mean! The topmost height of your profession, or business, of whatever +career you are in." + +"You are ambitious," he said. + +"Not for myself," she answered quickly. "I have no ambition for myself." + +"But perhaps the ambition to spur on another successfully? That seems to +me the truest, the most legitimate ambition of the woman all men worship +in their hearts." + +Suddenly tears started into her eyes. She was sitting opposite Malling, +the tea-table between them. Now she leaned forward across it. By nature +she was very sensitive, but she was not a self-conscious, woman. She was +not self-conscious now. + +"It is much better to be selfish," she said earnestly. "That is where we +women make such a fatal mistake. Instead of trusting to ourselves, of +relying on ourselves, and of having a personal ambition, we seek always +another in whom we may trust; we are unhappy till we rely on another; it +is for another we cherish, we hug, ambition. And then, when all founders, +we realize too late what I dare say every man knows." + +"What is that?" + +"That we women are fools--fools!" + +"For being unselfish?" + +"For thinking we have power when we are impotent." + +She made a gesture that was surely one of despair. + +"No one--at any rate, no woman--has power for another," she added, with +almost terrible conviction. "That is all a legend, made up to please us, +I suppose. We draw a sword against darkness and think we are fighting. +Isn't it too absurd?" + +With the last words she changed her tone, trying to make it light, and +she smiled. + +"We take everything too seriously. That's the trouble!" she said. "And +men pretend we take nothing seriously." + +"Very often they don't understand." + +"Oh, please say never!" she exclaimed. "They never understand." + +Suddenly Malling resolved on a very bold stroke. + +"But I'm a man," he said, as if that obvious fact shattered her +contention. + +"What has that got to do with it?" she said, in obvious surprise. + +"Because I do not understand." + +For a moment she was silent. He thought he read what was passing through +her mind, as he knew he had read her character. She was one of those +women who must be proud of their men, who love to be ruled, but only +by a conqueror, who delight to sink themselves, but in power, not in +impotence. And now she was confronted by the shipwreck not merely of +her hopes, but also of her belief. She saw a hulk drifting at the mercy +of the waves that, perhaps, would soon engulf it. But she was not only +despairing, she was raging too. For she was a woman with nervous force +in her, and it is force that rages in the moments of despair, seeking, +perhaps unconsciously, some means of action and finding none. + +"Why should there not be some hope?" asked Malling, quietly. + +"To-morrow is Sunday. If you go to morning church at St. Joseph's, and +then to evening church, you will see if there is any hope." + +"To evening church?" + +"Yes, yes." + +She got up. + +"You are going?" + +"I must. Forgive me!" + +She held out her hand. + +"But--" + +"No, don't come with me, please." + +"If I go to St. Joseph's to-morrow, afterward may I see you again?" + +"If you think it's worth while." + +Her face twisted. Hastily she pulled down her veil, turned away and left +him. + + + + +VI + + +Malling went the next day to morning and evening service at St. Joseph's. +He was not invited to lunch in Onslow Gardens, and he did not see Lady +Sophia. On the whole, he was glad of this. He had enough to keep in his +mind that day. The matter in which he was interested seemed growing +before his eyes, like a thing coming out of the earth, but now beginning +to thrust itself up into regions where perhaps it would eventually be +hidden in darkness, with the great company of mysteries whose unraveling +is beyond the capacity of man. + +He had now, he felt sure, a clear comprehension of Lady Sophia. Their +short interview at Burlington House had been illuminating. She was a +typical example of the Adam's-rib woman; that is, of the woman who, +intensely, almost exaggeratedly feminine, can live in any fullness only +through another, and that other a man. Through Mr. Harding Lady Sophia +had hitherto lived, and had doubtless, in her view, triumphed. Obviously +a woman not free from a nervous vanity, and a woman of hungry ambition, +her vanity and ambition had been fed by his growing notoriety, his +increasing success and influence. The rib had thrilled with the body to +which it belonged. + +But that time of happy emotion, of admiration, of keen looking forward, +was the property of the past. Lawn sleeves, purple, perhaps,--for who +is more hopeful than this type of woman in the golden moments of +life?--perhaps even an archiepiscopal throne faded from before the eyes +they had gladdened--the eyes of faith in a man. + +And a different woman was beginning to appear--a woman who might be as +critical as she had formerly been admiring, a woman capable of becoming +embittered. + +On the Sunday of Malling's visit to Onslow Gardens, Mr. Harding's failure +in the pulpit had waked up in his wife eager sympathy and eager spite, +the one directed toward the man who had failed, the other toward the man +who, as Malling felt sure, had caused the failure. + +In Burlington House that woman, whom men with every reason adore, had +given place to another less favorable toward him who had been her hero. + +It seemed to Malling as if in the future a strange thing might happen, +almost as if it must happen: it seemed to him as if Chichester might +convey his view of his rector to his rector's wife. + +"Study the link," Stepton had said. "There will be development in the +link." + +Already the words had proved true. There had been a development in Lady +Sophia such as Malling had certainly not anticipated. Where would it end? +Again and again, as he listened to the morning and evening sermons, +Malling had asked himself that question; again and again he had recalled +his conversation at Burlington House with Lady Sophia. + +In the morning at St. Joseph's Mr. Harding had preached to a church +that was half filled; in the evening Henry Chichester had preached to a +church that was full to the doors. And each of the clergymen in turn had +listened to the other, but how differently! + +Mr. Harding had ascended to the pulpit with failure staring him in +the face, and whereas on the Sunday when Malling first heard him he +had obviously fought against the malign influence which eventually +had prevailed over him, this time he had not had the vigor to make a +struggle. Certainly he had not broken down. It might be said of him, +as it was once said of a nation, that he had "muddled through." He had +preached a very poor sermon in a very poor way, nervously, indeed, +almost timidly, and with the manner of a man who was cowed and hopeless. +The powerful optimism for which he had once been distinguished had +given way to an almost unhealthy pessimism, alien surely to the minds +of all believers, of all who profess to look forward to that life of +which, as Tolstoi long ago said, our present life is but a dream. Even +when he was uttering truths he spoke them as if he had an uneasy +suspicion that they were lies. At moments he seemed to be almost +pleading with his hearers to tolerate him, to "bear with him." Indeed, +several times during his disjointed remarks he made use of the latter +expression, promising that his discourse should be a short one. Very +carefully he included himself among those aware of sin, very humbly he +declared the unworthiness of any man to set himself up as a teacher and +leader of others. + +Now, humility is all very well, but if carried to excess, it suggests +something less than a man. Mr. Harding almost cringed before his +congregation. Malling did not feel that his humility was a pretense. +On the contrary, it struck him as abominably real, but so excessive as +to be not natural in any thorough man in a normal condition of mind and +of body. It was the sort of humility that creates in the unregenerate a +desire to offer a good kicking as a corrective. + +Very different was the effect created by Chichester's sermon in the +evening. Malling, aware though he had become of the great strengthening +of Chichester, was amazed when he heard him preach. + +Often it is said of a very fine preacher that he preached as one +inspired. Chichester preached as one who knew. Never before had Malling +been so impressed with the feeling that he was listening to truth, +absolute truth, as he was while he listened to Chichester. There was +something, though, that was almost deadly about it. It pierced like a +lancet. It seared like a red-hot iron. It humbled almost too much. +Here was no exaggerated humility, no pleading to be borne with, no +cringing, and no doubt. A man who knew was standing up, and, with a +sort of indifference to outside opinion that was almost frightening, +was saying some of the things he knew about men, women--and surely God! + +The subject was somewhat akin to that of the first sermon of Mr. Harding +which Malling had heard. The rector then had preached on self-knowledge. +The curate, now, preached on hypocrisy. Incidentally he destroyed his +rector's sermon, flung it away on the scrap-heap, and passed on. This was +not done viciously, but it was done relentlessly. Indeed, that was the +note of the whole sermon. It was relentless, as truth is relentless, as +death is relentless. And besides being terribly true, it was imaginative. +But the preacher almost succeeded in conveying the impression to his +congregation that what is generally called imagination is really vision, +that the true imagination is seeing what is, but is often hidden, knowing +what is, but is often unknown. The latter part of the sermon struck +Malling as very unusual, even as very daring. + +The preacher had spoken of the many varieties of hypocrisy. Finally he +drew a picture of a finished hypocrite. And the man lived as a man lives +in the pages of a great writer. One could walk round him, one knew him. +And then Chichester treated him as the writer treats his creation; he +proceeded to show his hypocrite in action. + +The man, happy, almost triumphant,--for he now often looked upon himself +with the eyes of others who knew him not,--was walking to his home on a +winter's evening along a country road, passing now and then rustics who +respectfully saluted him, neighbors who grasped his hand, children who +innocently smiled at him, women who whispered that he was a fine fellow, +the clergyman of his parish, who gave him God-speed upon his way as to +one who deserved that God should speed him because his way was right. +Snow was upon the ground. Such light as there was began to fade. It was +evident that the night, which was very still, was going to be very dark. +And the man stepped out briskly. Presently, at a lonely part of the road, +happening to look down, he saw footprints in the freshly fallen snow. +They were of feet that had recently passed on the way he was following. +They had attracted, they continued to attract, his attention, he knew not +why. And as he went on, his eyes were often upon them. + +Presently he began to wonder about the feet which had made the prints he +saw. Did they belong to a man or a woman? The prints were too large to +have been made by the feet of a child. He gazed at them searchingly, and +made up his mind that it was a man who had recently trodden this road. +And what sort of man was it that thus preceded him not very far away? He +became deeply engrossed with this question. His mind revolved about this +unknown traveler, floating forward in surmises, till, by chance, he +happened to set his right foot in one of the prints left in the snow. +His foot exactly filled it. This fact, he knew not why, startled him. +He stopped, bent down, examined the snow closely, measured very carefully +his feet with the prints before him, now rather faintly discerned in +the gathering darkness. The prints might have been made by his own feet. +Having ascertained this, and reflected for a moment, he went forward, now +assailed by a growing curiosity as to the personality and character of +the stranger. But perhaps he was not a stranger. He might surely well be +a neighbor, an acquaintance, perhaps even a friend. The man meant, if +possible, to come up with him, whoever he was, and he now hurried along +with the intention of joining the unknown whose footprints were the same +as his own. + +At this point in his sermon Chichester paused for a moment. And +Malling, who seldom felt any thrill at a seance, and who had often +remained calmly watchful and alert during manifestations which amazed +or terrified others, was aware of a feeling of cold, which seemed to +pass like a breath through his spirit. The congregation about him, +perhaps struck by the unusual form of the sermon, remained silent and +motionless, waiting. In his stall sat the rector with downcast eyes. +Malling could not at that moment discern his expression. His large +figure and important powerful head and face showed almost like those +of a carven effigy in the lowered light of the chancel. The choirboys +did not stir, and the small, fair man in the pulpit, raising his thin +hands, and resting them on the marble ledge, continued quietly, taking +up his sermon with a repetition of the last words uttered, "whose +footprints were the same as his own." + +Again the cold breath went through Malling's spirit. He leaned slightly +forward and gazed at Chichester. + +For some time the man thus went onward, following the footprints in +the snow, but not overtaking any one, and becoming momentarily more +eager to satisfy his curiosity. Then, on a sudden, he started, stopped, +and listened. It had now become very dark, and in this darkness, and +the great stillness of night, he heard the faint sound of a footfall +before him, brushing through the crisp snow, which lay lightly, and not +very deep, on the hard highroad leading to the village on the farther +outskirts of which his house was situated. He could not yet see any one, +but he felt sure that the person who made this faint sound was no other +than he in whose steps he had been treading. It would now be a matter of +only a minute or two to come up with him. And the man went on, but more +slowly, whether because he was now certain of attaining his object or +for some other reason. + +The sound of the footfall persisted, and was certainly not far off. The +prints in the snow were so fresh that they seemed not quite motionless, +as if the snow were only now settling after the pressure it had just +suffered. The man slackened his pace. He did not like the sound which +he heard. He began to feel as if he by whom it was made would not prove +a companion to his taste. Yet his curiosity continued. There began within +him a struggle between his curiosity and another sensation, which was +of repugnance, almost of fear. And so equal were the combatants that +the lights of the village were in sight, and he had not decreased the +distance between himself and the other. Seeing the lights, however, his +curiosity got the upper hand. He slightly quickened his pace, and almost +immediately beheld the shape of a man relieved against the night, and +treading onward through the snow. And as the sound of the footsteps had +been disagreeable to his nerves, so the contours of the moving blackness +repelled him. He did not like the look of this man whose footprints were +the same as his own, and he decided not to join him. But, moving rather +cautiously, he gained a little upon him, in order to make sure, if +possible, whether or not he was a neighbor or an acquaintance. + +The figure seemed somehow familiar to our man, indeed, oddly familiar. +Nevertheless, he was unable to identify it. As he followed it, more and +more certain did he become that he had seen it, that he knew it. And +yet--did he know it? Had he seen it? It was almost as if one part of him +denied while the other affirmed. He longed, yet feared, to see the face. +But the face never looked back. And so, one at a little distance behind +the other, they came into the village. + +Here a strange thing occurred. + +There were very few people about, but there were a few, and two or +three of them, meeting the person our man was following, greeted him +respectfully. But these same people, when immediately afterward they +encountered the other, who had known them for years, and whom they of +course knew, showed the greatest perturbation; one, a woman, even signs +of terror. They gave him no greeting, shrank from him as he passed, +and stared after him, as if bemused, when he was gone by. Their behavior +was almost incredible. But he was so set on what was before him that he +stopped to ask no questions. + +The village was a long one. Always one behind the other, walking at an +even pace, the two men traversed it, approaching at last the outskirts, +where, separated from the other habitations, and surrounded by a garden +in which the trees were laden with snow, stood the house of the man who +now watched and followed, with a growing wonder and curiosity, combined +with an ever-growing repugnance, him who made the footprints, who had +been saluted by the villagers, whose figure and general aspect seemed in +somewise familiar to him, and yet whom he could not recognize. Where +could this person be going? The man asked himself, and came to a resolve +not to follow on into the darkness of the open country, not to proceed +beyond his own home, of which now he saw the lights, but to make an +effort to see the face of the other before the garden gate was reached. + +In this attempt, however, he was destined to be frustrated. For as he +determinedly quickened his steps, so did the other, who gained the gate +of the garden, unlatched it, turned in, and walked on among the trees +going toward the principal door. + +A visitor, then! The man paused by his garden gate, whence he could see +his house front, with the light from the window of his own sitting-room +streaming over the porch. The stranger stood before it, made a movement +as if searching in his pocket, drew out his hand, lifted it. The door +opened at once. He disappeared within, and the door closed after him. + +He had opened the door with a key. + +The man at the gate felt overcome by a sensation almost of horror, +which he could not explain to himself. It was not that he was horrified +by the certainly extraordinary fact of some one possessing a key to his +house, and using it in this familiar fashion. It was not even that he +was horrified at seeing a man, perhaps a stranger, disappearing thus +into his home by night, uninvited, unexpected. What horrified him was +that this particular man, whose footprints he had followed and measured +with his foot, whose footfalls he had heard, whose form he had seen +outlined against the night, should be within his house, where his wife +and his children were, and where his venerable mother was sitting beside +the fire. That this man should be there! He knew now that from the first +moment when he had been aware of his existence he had hated him, that his +subconscious mind had hated him. + +But who was he? The natural thing would have been to follow quickly into +the house, to see who had entered, to demand an explanation. But he could +not do this. Why? He himself did not know why. But he knew that he dared +not do this. And he waited, expecting he knew not what; a cry, a summons, +perhaps, some manifestation that would force him to approach. + +None came. Steadily the lights shone from the house. There was no sound +but the soft fall of a block of snow from an overladen fir branch in the +garden. The man began to marvel. Who could this be whose familiar entry +into his--_his_ home thus at night caused no disturbance? There were dogs +within: they had not barked. There were servants: apparently they had not +stirred. It was almost as if this stranger's permanence was accepted by +the household. A long, long time had slipped by. + +The man at length, making an almost fierce effort, partly dominated the +unreasoning sense of horror which possessed him. He opened the gate, +stepped into the garden, and made his way slowly and softly toward the +house door. But suddenly he stopped. Through the unshuttered window of +his sitting-room, the room in which for years he had spent much of his +time, in which he had concocted many schemes to throw dust in the +eyes of his neighbors, and even of his own relatives, in which he had +learned very perfectly to seem what he was not, and to hide what he +really was, he perceived the figure of a man. It crossed the lighted +space slowly, and disappeared with a downward movement. He knew it was +the man he had been following and whom he had seen enter his house. + +For a long while he remained where he was on the path of the garden. +The night deepened about him. A long way off, at the other end of the +village, a clock chimed the hours. In the cottages the lights were +extinguished. The few loungers disappeared from the one long street +vanishing over the snow. And the man never moved. A numb terror possessed +him. Yet, despite his many faults and his life of evil, he had never been +physically a coward. Always the light shone steadily from the window of +his study, making a patch of yellow upon the snow. Always the occupant +of the room must be seated tranquilly there, like an owner. For no figure +had risen, had repassed across the unshuttered space. + +The man told himself again and again that he must go forward till +he gained the window, that he must at least look into the room; if he +dared not enter the house to confront the intruder, to demand an +explanation. But again and again something within him, which seemed to +be a voice from the innermost chamber of his soul, whispered to him not +to go, whispered to him to leave the intruder alone, to let the intruder +do what he would, but not to approach him, above all, not to look upon +his face. And the man obeyed the voice till a thing happened which roused +in him a powerful beast, called by many the natural man. + +He saw his wife, whom he loved in his way, though he had tricked and +deceived her again and again, cross the window space, smiling, and +disappear with a downward movement, as the other had disappeared. Then +she rose into his range of vision, and stood for a moment so that he +could see her clearly, smiling, talking, making little gestures that +he knew, carrying her hand to her face, stretching it out, dropping it. +Finally she lifted it to her lips, half-closing her eyes at the same +time, took it away quickly, with a sort of butterfly motion, and +vanished, going toward the left, where the room door was. + +So had she many and many a time bidden him, her husband, good night. +Instantly, with an impulse which seemed combined of rage and terror, +both now full of a driving force which was irresistible, the man sprang +forward to the window, seized the stone coping with his hands and stared +into his room. + +Seated in a round chair at his writing-table, by a lamp with a green +shade, was the man who had entered his house. He was writing busily in +a book with a silver clasp that could be locked with a key, and he leaned +a little over the table with his head turned away. The shape of his head, +his posture, even the manner in which he used his pen as he traced line +after line in the book, made an abominable impression upon the man +staring in at the window. But the face--the face! He must see that! And +he leaned forward, trembling, but fiercely, and, pressing his own face +against the pane, he looked at the occupant of his room as men look +sometimes with their souls. + +The man at the table lifted his head. He laid down the pen, blotted the +book in which he had been writing, shut it up, clasped it, locked it with +a tiny key, and put it carefully into a drawer of the table, which also +he locked. He got up, stood for an instant by the table with one hand +upon it, then turned slowly toward the window, smiling, as men smile to +themselves when they are thinking of their own ingenuities. + +The man outside the window fell back into the snow as if God's hand had +touched him. He had seen his own face! So he smiled sometimes at the end +of a day, when he had finished writing down in his diary some of the +hidden things of his life. + +He turned, and as the window through which he had been looking suddenly +darkened, he fled away into the night. + +When the lights, which at St. Joseph's were always kept lowered during +the sermon, once more strongly illuminated the chancel, Mr. Harding +turned a ghastly face toward the pulpit. In the morning Chichester had +listened to him, as a man of truth might listen to a man who is trying +to lie, but who cannot deceive him. In the evening Mr. Harding had +listened to Chichester--how? What had been the emotions only shadowed +faintly forth in that ghastly face? + +When Malling got home, he asked himself why Chichester had made such +an impression upon his mind. His story of the double, strange enough, +no doubt, in a sermon, could not surely have come upon Malling with any +of the force and the interest of the new. For years he had been familiar +with tales of ghosts, of voices, of appearances at the hour of death, of +doubles. Of course in the sermon there had been a special application of +the story. It had been very short. Chichester had suggested that if, as +by a miracle, the average self-contented man could look at himself with +the eyes of his soul full of subliminal self-knowledge and with the +bodily eyes, he would be stricken down by a great horror. + +And he had spoken as a man who knew. Indeed, it seemed to Malling that he +had spoken as might have delivered himself the man who had followed his +double through the snow, who had looked in upon him by night from the +garden, if he had faced, instead of flying from, the truth; if he had +stayed, if he had persistently watched his double leading the life he had +led, if he had learned a great lesson that perhaps only his double could +teach him. + +But if the man had stayed, what would have been the effect on the double? +Malling sat till deep in the night pondering these things. + + + + +VII + + +Lady Sophia had said to Malling that if he went to the two services at +St. Joseph's on the Sunday she would invite him to see her again. She +was as good as her word. In the middle of the week he received a note +from her, saying she would be at home at four on Thursday, if he was +able to come. He went, and found her alone. But as soon as he entered +the drawing-room and had taken her hand, she said: + +"I am expecting Mr. Chichester almost immediately. He's coming to tea." + +"I shall be glad to meet him," said Malling, concealing his surprise, +which was great. + +Yet he did not know why it should be. For what more natural than that +Chichester should be coming? + +"I heard of you at St. Joseph's," Lady Sophia continued. "A friend of +mine, Lily Armitage, saw you there. I didn't. I was sitting at the back. +I have taken to sitting quite at the back of the church. What did you +think of it?" + +"Do you wish me to be frank, and do you mean the two sermons?" + +She hesitated for an instant. Then she said: + +"I do mean the sermons, and I do wish you to be frank." + +"I thought Mr. Chichester's sermon very remarkable indeed." + +"And my husband's sermon?" + +Her lips twisted almost as if with contempt when she said the words, "my +husband's." + +"Why doesn't Mr. Harding take a long rest?" said Malling, speaking +conventionally, a thing that he seldom did. + +"You think he needs one?" + +"He has a tiresome malady, I understand." + +"What malady?" + +"Doesn't he suffer very much from nervous dyspepsia?" + +She looked at him with irony, which changed almost instantly into serious +reflection. But the irony returned. + +"Now and then he has a touch of it," she said. "Very few of us don't have +something. But we have to go on, and we do go on, nevertheless." + +"I think a wise doctor would probably order your husband away," said +Malling, though Mr. Harding's departure was the last thing he desired +just then. + +"Even if he were ordered away, I don't know that he would go." + +"Why not?" + +"I don't think he would. I don't feel as if he could get away," she said, +with what seemed to Malling a sort of odd obstinacy. "In fact, I know +he's not going," she abruptly added. "I have an instinct." + +Malling felt sure that she had considered, perhaps long before he had +suggested it, this very project of Mr. Harding's departure for a while +for rest, and that she had rejected it. Her words recalled to his mind +some other words of her husband, spoken in Mr. Harding's study: "Surely +one ought to get out of such an atmosphere, to get out of it, and to keep +out of it. But how extraordinary it is the difficulty men have in getting +away from things!" + +Perhaps Lady Sophia was right. Perhaps the rector could not get away from +the atmosphere which seemed to be destroying him. + +"I dare say he is afraid to trust everything to his curates," observed +Malling, prosaically. + +"He needn't be--now," she replied. + +In that "now," as she said it, there lay surely a whole history. Malling +understood that Lady Sophia, suddenly perhaps, had given her husband up. +Since Malling had first encountered her she had cried, _"Le roi est +mort!"_ in her heart. The way she had just uttered the word "now" made +Malling wonder whether she was not about to utter the supplementary cry, +_"Vive le roi!"_ + +As he looked at her, with this wonder in his mind, Henry Chichester came +into the room. + +There was an expression of profound sadness on his face, which seemed to +dignify it, to make it more powerful, more manly, than it had been. The +choir-boy look was gone. Malling of course knew how very much expression +can change a human being; nevertheless, he was startled by the alteration +in the curate's outward man. It seemed, to use the rector's phrase, that +he had "shed his character." And now, perhaps, the new character, +mysteriously using matter as the vehicle of its manifestation, was +beginning to appear to the eyes of men. He showed no surprise at the +sight of Malling, but rather a faint, though definite, pleasure. The +way in which Lady Sophia greeted him was a revelation to Malling, and +a curious exhibition of feminine psychology. + +She looked up at him from the low chair in which she was sitting, gave +him her left hand, and said, "Are you very tired?" That was all. Yet +it would have been impossible to express more clearly a woman's mental, +not affectional, subjugation by a man, her instinctive yielding to power, +her respect for authority, her recognition that the master of her master +had come into the room. + +Her "_Vive le roi!_" was said. + +Chichester accepted Lady Sophia's subtle homage with an air of +unconsciousness. His interior melancholy seemed to lift him above the +small things that flatter small men. He acknowledged that he was tired, +and would be glad of tea. He had been down in the East End. The rector +had asked him to talk over something with Mr. Carlile of the Church Army. + +"You mean that you suggested to the rector that it would be wise to see +Mr. Carlile," said Lady Sophia. + +"Is the rector coming in to tea?" asked Chichester. + +"Possibly he may," she replied. "He knew Mr. Malling was to be here. Did +you tell him you were coming?" + +"No. I was not certain I should get away in time." + +"I think he will probably turn up." + +A footman brought in tea at this moment, and Malling told the curate he +had heard him preach in the evening of last Sunday. + +"It was a deeply interesting sermon," he said. + +"Thank you," said Chichester, very impersonally. + +The footman went away, and Lady Sophia began to make tea. + +"When I went home," Malling continued, "I sat up till late thinking +it over. Part of it suggested to my mind one or two rather curious +speculations." + +"Which part?" asked Lady Sophia, dipping a spoon into a silver tea-caddy. + +"The part about the man and his double." + +She shivered, and some of the tea with which she had just filled the +spoon was shaken out of it. + +"That was terrible," she said. + +"What were your speculations?" said Chichester, showing a sudden and +definite waking up of keen interest. + +"One of them was this--" + +Before he could continue, the door opened again, and the tall and +powerful form of the rector appeared. And as the outer man of Chichester +seemed to Malling to have begun subtly to change, in obedience surely +to the change of his inner man, so seemed Mr. Harding a little altered +physically, as he now slowly came forward to greet his wife's two +visitors. The power of his physique seemed to be struck at by something +within, and to be slightly marred. One saw that largeness can become +but a wide surface for the tragic exhibition of weakness. As the rector +perceived the presence of Chichester, an expression of startled pain fled +over his face and was gone in an instant. He greeted the two men and sat +down. + +"Have you just begun tea?" he asked, looking now at his wife. + +"We are just going to begin it," she replied. "We are talking about the +sermon of last Sunday." + +"Oh," rejoined the rector. + +He turned to Malling. + +"Did you come to hear me preach again?" + +There was a note as of slight reassurance in his voice. + +"Mr. Chichester's sermon," said Lady Sophia. + +"Oh, I see," said the rector. He glanced hastily from one to the other of +the three people in the room, like a man searching for sympathy or help. +"What were you saying about our friend Chichester's sermon?" he asked, +with a forced air of interest. + +Lady Sophia distributed cups for tea. + +"I was speaking of that part of it which dealt with the man who followed +his double," said Malling. + +"Ah?" said the rector. + +He was holding his tea-cup. His hand trembled slightly at this moment, +and the china rattled. He set the cup down on the small table before +him. + +"You said," observed Chichester--toward whom Lady Sophia immediately +turned, with an almost rapt air--"that it suggested some curious +speculations to your mind. I should very much like to know what they +were." + +"One was this. Suppose the man in the garden, who looked in upon his +double, had not fled away. Suppose he had had the courage to remain, +and, in hiding--for the sake of argument we may assume the situation to +be possible--" + +"Ah, indeed! And why not?" interrupted Chichester. + +His voice, profoundly melancholy, fell like a weight upon those who heard +him. And again Malling thought of him almost as some one set apart from +his fellows by some mysterious knowledge, some heavy burthen of truth. + +"--and in hiding had watched the life of his double. I sat up speculating +what effect such an observation, terrible no doubt and grotesque, would +be likely to have on the soul of the watching man. But there was another +speculation with which I entertained my mind that night." + +"Let us have it," said Chichester, leaning forward, and, with the gesture +characteristic of him, dropping his hands down between his knees. "Let us +have it." + +"Suppose the man to remain and, in hiding, to watch the life of his +double, what effect would such an observation be likely to have upon the +double?" + +Malling paused. The rector, with an almost violent movement of his big +hand and arm, took his cup from the table and drank his tea. + +"It didn't occur to you, I suppose, when composing your sermon to follow +that train of thought?" said Malling to Chichester. + +"No," replied the curate, slowly, and like one thinking profoundly. "I +was too engrossed with the feelings of the man. But, then, you thought +of the double as a living man, with all the sensations of a man?" + +"That was your fault," said Malling. + +"His fault!" said Lady Sophia, with a sort of latent sharpness, and +laying an emphasis on the second word. + +"Certainly; for making the narrative so vital and human." + +He addressed himself again to the curate. + +"Did you not give to the double the attributes of a man? Did you not +make his wife come to bid him good night, bend down to kiss him, waft +him a characteristic farewell?" + +"It is true. I did," said Chichester, still speaking like a man in deep +thought. + +"That was the most terrible part of all," said Lady Sophia. In her voice +there was an accent almost of horror. "It sickened me to the soul," +she continued--"the idea of a woman bidding a tender good night to an +apparition." + +"I took it as a man," said Malling. + +They had all three, strangely, left the rector out of this discussion, +and he seemed willing that it should be so. He now sat back in his chair +listening to all that was being said, somewhat as he had listened to the +sermon of Chichester, in a sort of ghastly silence. + +"How could a man's double be a man?" said Lady Sophia. + +"We are in the region of assumption and of speculation," returned +Malling, quietly, "a not uninteresting region either, I think. The other +night for a whole hour, having assumed the double man, I speculated on +his existence, spied upon by his other self. And you never did that?" + +He looked at Chichester. + +"When I was making my sermon I was engrossed by the thought of the +watching man." + +Malling's idea had evidently laid a grip upon Chichester's mind. + +"Tell me what the double's existence would be, according to you," he +said. "Tell me." + +"You imagined the lesson learnt by the man so terrible that he fled away +into the night." + +"Yes." + +"Had he been strong enough to stay--" + +"Strong enough!" interposed Chichester. "Better say, had he been obliged +to stay." + +"Very well. Given that compulsion, in my imagination the double must have +learnt a lesson, too. If we can learn by contemplation, can we not, must +we not, learn by being contemplated? Life is permeated by reciprocity. I +can imagine another sermon growing out of yours of last Sunday." + +"Yes, you are right--you are right," said Chichester. + +"The double, then, in my imagination, would gradually become uneasy +under this secret observation. You described him as, his wife gone, +sitting down comfortably to write some account of the hidden doings +of his life, as, the writing finished, the diary committed to the +drawer and safely locked away, rising up to go to rest with a smile of +self-satisfaction. It seemed to me that, given my circumstance of the +persistent observation, a few nights later matters would have been very +different within that room. The hypocrite is happy, if he is happy at +all, when he is convinced that his hypocrisy is successful. Take away +that certainty, and he would be invaded by anxiety. Set any one to watch +him closely, he would certainly suffer, if he knew it." + +"If he knew it! That is the point," said Chichester. "You put the man +watching the double in hiding." + +"There are influences not yet fully understood which can traverse space, +which can touch not as a hand touches, but as unmistakably. I imagined +the soul of the double touched in this way, the waters troubled." + +"Troubled! Troubled!" + +It was Mr. Harding who had spoken, almost lamentably. His powerfully +shaped head now drooped forward on his breast. + +"I imagined," continued Malling, "a sort of gradual disintegration +beginning, and proceeding, in the double--a disintegration of the soul, +if such a thing can be conceived of." + +His piercing eyes went from Chichester to Harding. + +"Or, no," he corrected himself. "Perhaps that is an incorrect description +of my--very imaginative--flight through speculation the other night. +Possibly I should say a gradual transference, instead of disintegration +of soul. For it seemed to me as if the man who watched might gradually, +as it were, absorb into himself the soul of the double, but purified. For +the watcher has the tremendous advantage of seeing the hypocrite living +the hypocrite's life, while the hypocrite is only seen. Might not the +former, therefore, conceivably draw in strength, while the other faded +into weakness? Ignorance is the terrible thing in life, I think. Now the +man who watched would receive knowledge, fearful knowledge, but the man +who was watched, while perhaps suffering first uneasiness, then possibly +even terror, would not, in my conception, ever clearly understand. He +would not any longer dare at night to sit down alone to fill up that +dreadful diary. He would not any longer perhaps--I only say perhaps--dare +to commit the deeds the record of which in the past the diary held. But +his lesson would be one of fear, making for weakness, finally almost for +nothingness. And the other night I conceived of him at last fading away +in the gloom of his room with the darkened window." + +"That was your end!" said Mr. Harding, in a low voice. + +"Yes, that was my end." + +"Then," said Chichester, "you think the lesson men learn from being +contemplated tends only to destroy them?" + +But Malling, now with a smiling change to greater lightness and ease, +hastened to traverse this statement. + +"No, no," he replied. "For the contemplation of a man by his fellow-men +must always be an utterly different thing from his own contemplation by +himself. For our fellow-men always remain in a very delightful ignorance +of us. Don't they, Lady Sophia? And so they can never destroy us, luckily +for us." + +He had done what he wished to do, and he was now ready for other +activities. But he found it was not easy to switch his companions off +onto another trail. Lady Sophia, now that he looked at her closely, he +saw to be under the influence of fear, provoked doubtless by the subject +they had been discussing. Chichester, also, had a look as of fear in his +eyes. As to the rector, he sat gazing at his curate, and there had come +upon his countenance an expression of almost unnatural resolution, such +as a coward's might wear if terror forced him into defiance. + +In reply to Malling's half-laughing question, Lady Sophia said: + +"You've studied all these things, haven't you?" + +"Do you mean what are sometimes called occult questions?" + +"Yes." + +"I have." + +"And do you believe in them?" + +"I'm afraid I must ask you to be a little more definite." + +"Do you believe that there are such things as doubles?" + +"I have no reason to believe that there are, unless you include wrongly +in the term the merely physical replica. It appears to be established +that now and then two human beings are born who, throughout their +respective lives remain physically so much alike that it is difficult, +if not impossible, to distinguish between them." + +"I didn't mean only that," she said quickly. + +"You meant the double in mind and soul as well as in body," said +Chichester. + +"Yes." + +"How can one see if a soul is the double of another soul?" said Malling. + +"Then you think such a story as Mr. Chichester related in his sermon all +nonsense?" said Lady Sophia, almost hotly, and yet, it seemed to Malling, +with a slight lifting of the countenance, as if relief perhaps were +stealing through her. + +"I thought it a legitimate and powerful invention introduced to point a +moral." + +"Nothing more than that?" said Lady Sophia. + +Malling did not reply; for suddenly a strange question had risen up in +him. Did he really think it nothing more than that? He glanced at +Chichester, and the curate's eyes seemed asking him to say. + +The rector's heavy and powerful frame shifted in his chair, and his voice +was heard saying: + +"My dear Sophy, I think you had better leave such things alone. You do +not know where they might lead you." + +There was in his voice a sound of forced authority, as if he had been +obliged to "screw himself up" to speak as he had just spoken. Lady Sophia +was about to make a quick rejoinder when, still with a forced air of +resolution, Mr. Harding addressed himself to Chichester. + +"Since I saw you this morning," he said, "I find that I shall not be here +next Sunday." + +He looked about the circle at his wife and Malling. + +"The doctor has ordered me away for a week, and I've decided to go." + +His introduction of the subject had been abrupt. As if almost in despite +of themselves, Lady Sophia and Malling exchanged glances. Chichester +said nothing. + +"You can get on without me quite well, of course," continued the rector. + +"Are you going to be away long?" said Chichester. + +"No; I think only for a week or so. The doctor says I absolutely need a +breath of fresh air." + +Malling got up to go. + +"I hope you'll enjoy your little holiday," he said. "Are you going far?" + +"Oh, dear, no. My doctor recommends Tankerton on the Kentish coast. It +seems the air there is extraordinary. When the tide is down it comes off +the mud flats. A kind parishioner of mine--" he turned slightly toward +his wife: "Mrs. Amherst, Sophy--has a cottage there and has often offered +me the use of it. I hope to accept her offer now." + +Lady Sophia expressed no surprise at the project, and did not inquire +whether her husband wished her to accompany him. + +But when she shook hands with Malling, her dark eyes seemed to say to +him, "I was wrong." + +And he thought she looked humbled. + + + + +VIII + + +_"Could you come down stay with me Saturday till Monday all alone air +delicious feel rather solitary glad of your company Marcus Harding Minors +Tankerton Kent."_ + +Such was the telegram which Evelyn Malling was considering on the +following Friday afternoon. The sender had paid an answer. The +telegraph-boy was waiting in the hall. Malling only kept him five +minutes. He went away with this reply: + +_"Accept with pleasure will take four twenty train at Victoria Saturday +Malling."_ + +Malling could not have said with truth that he had expected a summons +from Mr. Harding, yet he found that he was not surprised to get it. The +man was in a bad way. He needed sympathy, he needed help. That was +certain. But whether he could help him was more than doubtful, Malling +thought. Perhaps, really, a doctor and the wonderful air from the mud +flats of Tankerton! But here Malling found that a strong incredulity +checked him. He did not believe that the rector would be restored by a +doctor's advice and a visit to the sea. + +That afternoon he went to Westminster, and asked for Professor Stepton. + +"He is away, sir," said the fair Scotch parlormaid. + +"For long?" + +"We don't know, sir. He has gone into Kent, on research business, I +believe." + +Agnes had been for a long time in the professor's service, and was +greatly trusted. The professor had come upon her originally when making +investigations into "second sight," a faculty which she claimed to +possess. By the way she was also an efficient parlor-maid. + +"Kent!" said Malling. "Do you know where he is staying?" + +"The address he left is the Tankerton Hotel, Tankerton, near +Whitstable-on-Sea, sir." + +"Thank you, Agnes," said Malling. + +"It is a haunted house somewhere Birchington way the professor is after, +I believe, sir." + +"Luck favors me!" said Malling to himself, unscientifically, as he walked +away from the house. + +On the following day it was in a singularly expectant and almost +joyously alert frame of mind that he bought a first-class ticket +for Whitstable-on-Sea, which is the station for Tankerton. + +He would involve Stepton in this affair. There was a mystery in it. +Malling was now convinced of that. And his original supposition did not +satisfy him. But perhaps Mr. Harding meant to help him. Perhaps Mr. +Harding intended to be explicit. The difficulty there was that he also +was walking in darkness, as Malling believed. His telegram had come like +a cry out of this darkness. + +"Faversham! Faversham!" the fair Kentish porters were calling. Only about +twenty minutes now! Would the rector be at the station? + +He was. As the train ran in alongside the wooden platform, Mailing caught +sight of the towering authoritative figure. Was it his fancy which made +him think that it looked slightly bowed, even perhaps a little shrunken? + +"Good of you to come!" said the rector in a would-be hearty voice, but +also with a genuine accent of pleasure. "All the afternoon I have been +afraid of a telegram." + +"Why?" asked Malling, as they shook hands. + +"Oh, when one is anxious for a thing, one does not always get it. Ha, +ha!" + +He broke into a covering laugh. + +"Here is a porter. You've only got this bag. Capital! I have a fly +waiting. We go down these steps." + +As they descended, Malling remarked: + +"By the way, we have a friend staying here. Have you come across him?" + +"No, I have seen nobody--that is, no acquaintance. Who is it?" + +"Stepton." + +"The professor down here!" exclaimed Mr. Harding, as if startled. + +"At the hotel, I believe. He's come down to make some investigation." + +"I haven't seen him." + +They stepped into the fly, and drove through the long street of +Whitstable toward the outlying houses of Tankerton, scattered over +grassy downs above a quiet, brown sea. + +"The air is splendid, certainly," observed Malling, drinking it in almost +like a gourmet savoring a wonderful wine. + +"It must do me good. Don't you think so?" + +The question sounded anxious to Malling's ears. + +"It ought to do every one good, I should think." + +"Here is Minors." + +The fly stopped before a delightfully gay little red doll's house--so +Malling thought of it--standing in a garden surrounded by a wooden +fence, with the downs undulating about it. Not far off, but behind it, +was the sea. And the rector, pointing to a red building in the distance, +on the left and much nearer to the beach, said: + +"That is the hotel where the professor must be staying, if he is here." + +"I'll go over presently and ask about him." + +"Oh," said Mr. Harding. "Bring in the bag, please, Jennings. The room on +the right, at the top of the stairs." + +Malling had believed in London that Mr. Harding's telegram to him was a +cry out of darkness. That first evening in the cheerful doll's house he +knew his belief was well founded. When they sat at dinner, like two +monsters, Malling thought, who had somehow managed to insert themselves +into a doll's dining-room, it was obvious that the rector was ill at +ease. Again and again he seemed to be on the verge of some remark, +perhaps of some outburst of speech, and to check himself only when the +words were almost visibly trembling on his lips. In his eyes Malling +saw plainly his longing for utterance, his hesitation; reserve and a +desire to liberate his soul, the one fighting against the other. And at +moments the whole man seemed to be wrapped in weakness like a garment, +the soul and the body of him. Then, as a light may dwindle till it seems +certain to go out, all that was Marcus Harding seemed to Malling to +dwindle. The large body, the powerful head and face, meant little, almost +nothing, because the spirit was surely fading. But these moments passed. +Then it was as if the light flared suddenly up again. + +When dinner was over, Mr. Harding asked Malling if he would like to take +a stroll. + +"The sea air will help us to sleep," he said. + +"I should like nothing better," said Malling. "Haven't you been sleeping +well lately?" + +"Very badly. We had better take our coats." + +They put the coats on, and went out, making their way to the broad, +grassy walk raised above the shingle of the beach. The tide was far +down, and the oozing flats were uncovered. So still, so waveless was +the brown water that at this hour it was impossible to perceive where +it met the brown land. In the distance, on the right, shone the lights +of Herne Bay, with its pier stretching far out into the shallows. Away +to the left was the lonely island of Sheppey, a dull shadow beyond the +harbor, where the oyster-boats lay at rest. There were very few people +about: some fisher-lads solemnly or jocosely escorting their girls, who +giggled faintly as they passed Mr. Harding and Malling; two or three +shopkeepers from Whitstable taking the air; a boatman or two vaguely +hovering, with blue eyes turned from habit to the offing. + +The two men paced slowly up and down. And again Malling was aware of +words trembling upon the rector's lips--words which he could not yet +resolve frankly to utter. Whether it was the influence of the faintly +sighing sea, of the almost sharply pure air, of the distant lights +gleaming patiently, or whether an influence came out from the man beside +him and moved him, Malling did not know; but he resolved to do a thing +quite contrary to his usual practice. He resolved to try to force a +thing on, instead of waiting till it came to him naturally. He became +impatient, he who was generally a patient seeker. + +"You remember our former conversations with regard to Henry Chichester?" +he said abruptly, changing the subject of their discourse. + +"Chichester? Yes--yes. What of him?" + +"I wish to tell you that I think you are right, that I think there is an +extraordinary, even an amazing, change in Chichester." + +"There is, indeed," said Mr. Harding. "And--and it will increase." + +He spoke with a sort of despairing conviction. + +"What makes you think so?" + +"It must. It cannot be otherwise--unless--" + +He paused. + +"Yes," said Malling; "unless--" + +"A thing almost impossible were to happen." + +"May I, without indiscretion, ask what that is?" + +"Unless he were to leave St. Joseph's, to go quite away." + +"Surely that would not be impossible!" + +"I often think it is. Chichester will not wish to go." + +"Are you certain of that?" asked Malling, remembering the curate's remark +in Horton Street, that perhaps he would not remain at St. Joseph's much +longer. + +The rector turned his head and fixed his eyes upon Malling. + +"Has he said anything to you about leaving?" he asked, suddenly raising +his voice, as if under the influence of excitement. "But of course he +has not." + +"Surely it is probable that such a man may be offered a living." + +"He would not take it." + +They walked on a few steps in silence, turned, and strolled back. It was +now growing dark. Their faces were set toward the distant gleam of the +Herne Bay lights. + +"I am not so sure," at length dropped out Malling. + +"Why are you not so sure?" + +"Why do you think Chichester's departure from St. Joseph's impossible?" + +Malling spoke strongly to determine, if possible, the rector to speak, to +say out all that was in his heart. + +"Can I tell you?" Mr. Harding almost murmured. "Can I tell you?" + +"I think you asked me here that you might tell me something." + +"It is true. I did." + +"Then--" + +"Let us sit down in this shelter. There is no one in it. People are going +home." + +Malling followed him into a shelter, with a bench facing the sea. + +"I thought perhaps here I might be able to tell you," said Mr. Harding. +"I am in great trouble, Mr. Malling, in great trouble. But I don't know +whether you, or whether any one, can assist me." + +"If I may advise you, I should say--tell me plainly what your trouble +is." + +"It began--" Mr. Harding spoke with a faltering voice--"it began a good +while ago, some months after Mr. Chichester came as a curate to St. +Joseph's. I was then a very different man from the man you see now. +Often I feel really as if I were not the same man, as if I were radically +changed. It may be health. I sometimes try to think so. And then I--" He +broke off. + +The strange weakness that Malling had already noticed seemed again to be +stealing over him, like a mist, concealing, attenuating. + +"Possibly it is a question of health," said Malling, rather sharply. +"Tell me how it began." + +"When Chichester first joined me, I was a man of power and ambition. I +was a man who could dominate others, and I loved to dominate." + +His strength seemed returning while he spoke, as if frankness were to him +a restorative of the spirit. + +"It was indeed my passion. I loved authority. I loved to be in command. +I was full of ecclesiastical ambition. Feeling that I had intellectual +strength, I intended to rise to the top of the church, to become a bishop +eventually, perhaps even something greater. When I was presented to St. +Joseph's,--my wife's social influence had something to do with that,--I +saw all the gates opening before me. I made a great effect in London. +I may say with truth that no clergyman was more successful than I was--at +one time. My wife spurred me on. She was immensely ambitious for me. I +must tell you that in marrying me she had gone against all her family. +They thought me quite unworthy of her notice. But from the first time I +met her I meant to marry her. And as I dominated others, I completely +dominated her. But she, once married to me, was desperately anxious that +I should rise in the world, in order that her choice of me might be +justified in the eyes of her people. You can understand the position, I +dare say?" + +"Perfectly," said Malling. + +"I may say that she irritated my ambition, that she stung it into almost +a furious activity. Women have great influence with us. I thought she was +my slave almost, but I see now that she also influenced me. She worshiped +me for my immediate success at St. Joseph's. You may think it very +ridiculous, considering that I am merely the rector of a fashionable +London church, but there was a time when I felt almost intoxicated by +my wife's worship of me, and by my domination over the crowds who came to +hear me preach. Domination! That was my fetish! That was what led me +to--oh, sometimes I think it must end in my ruin!" + +"Perhaps not," said Malling, quietly. "Let us see." + +His words, perhaps even more his manner, seemed greatly to help Mr. +Harding. + +"I will tell you everything," he exclaimed. "From the first I have +felt as if you were the man to assist me, if any man could. I had +always, since I was an undergraduate at Oxford,--I was a Magdalen +man,--been interested in psychical matters, and followed carefully +all the proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research. I had also +at that time,--in Oxford,--made some experiments with my college +friends, chiefly in connection with will power. My influence seemed to +be specially strong. But I need not go into all that. After leaving +Oxford and taking orders, for a long time I gave such matters up. I +feared, if I showed my strong interest in psychical research, especially +if I was known to attend seances or anything of that kind, it might be +considered unsuitable in a clergyman, and might injure my prospects. It +was not until Henry Chichester came to St. Joseph's that I was tempted +again into paths which I had chosen to consider forbidden to me. +Chichester tempted me! Chichester tempted me!" + +He spoke the last words with a sort of lamentable energy. + +"Such a gentle, yielding man as he was!" + +"It was just that. He came under my influence at once, and showed it in +almost all he said and did. He looked up to me, he strove to model +himself upon me, he almost worshiped me. One evening,--it was in the +pulpit!--the idea shot through my brain, 'I could do what I like with +that man, make of him just what I choose, use him just as I please.' And +I turned my eyes toward the choir where Chichester sat in the last stall, +hanging on my words. At that instant I can only suppose that what people +sometimes call the _maladie de grandeur_--the mania for power--took +hold upon me, and combined with my furtive longing after research in +those mysterious regions where perhaps all we desire is hidden. Anyhow, +at that instant I resolved to try to push my influence over Chichester to +its utmost limit, and by illegitimate means." + +"Illegitimate?" + +"I call them so. Yes, yes, they are not legitimate. I know that now. And +he--but I dare not think what he knows!" + +The rector was greatly moved. He half rose from the bench on which they +were sitting, then, making a strong effort, controlled himself, sank +back, and continued: + +"At that time, in the early days of his association with me, Chichester +thought that everything I did, everything I suggested, even everything +that came into my mind, must be good and right. He never dreamed of +criticizing me. In his view, I was altogether above criticism. And if I +approached him with any sort of intimacy he was in the greatest joy. You +know, perhaps, Mr. Malling, how the worshiper receives any confidence +from the one he worships. He looks upon it as the greatest compliment +that can be paid him. I resolved to pay that compliment to Henry +Chichester. + +"You must know that although I had entirely given up the occult +practices--that may not be the exact term, but you will understand +what I mean--I had indulged in at Oxford, I had never relaxed my deep, +perhaps my almost morbid interest in the efforts that were being made +by scientists and others to break through the barrier dividing us on +earth from the spirit world. Although I had chosen the career of a +clergyman,--alas! I looked upon the church, I suppose, as little more +than a career!--I was not a very faithful man. I had many doubts which, +as clergymen must, I concealed. By nature I suppose I had rather an +incredulous mind. Not that I was a skeptic, but I was sometimes a +doubter. Rather than faith, I should have much preferred to have +knowledge, exact knowledge. Often I even felt ironical when confronted +with the simple faith we clergymen should surely encourage, sustain, and +humbly glory in, whereas with skepticism, even when openly expressed, I +always felt some part of myself to be in secret sympathy. I continued to +study works, both English and foreign, on psychical research. I followed +the experiments of Lodge, William James, and others. Myers's great work +on human personality was forever at my elbow. And the longer I was +debarred--self-debarred because of my keen ambition and my determination +to do nothing that could ever make me in any way suspect in the eyes of +those to whom I looked confidently for preferment--from continuing the +practices which had such a fascination for me, the more intensely I +was secretly drawn toward them. The tug at my soul was at last almost +unbearable. It was then I looked toward Chichester, and resolved to take +him into my confidence--to a certain extent. + +"I approached the matter craftily. I dwelt first upon the great spread +of infidelity in our days, and the necessity of combating it by every +legitimate means. I spoke of the efforts being made by earnest men of +science--such men as Professor Stepton, for instance--to get at the truth +Christians are expected to take on trust, as it were. I said I respected +such men. Chichester agreed,--when did he not agree with me at that +time?--but remarked that he could not help pitying them for ignoring +revelation and striving to obtain by difficult means what all Christians +already possessed by a glorious and final deed of gift. + +"I saw that though Chichester was such a devoted worshiper of mine, if I +wanted to persuade him to my secret purpose,--no other than the effort, +to be made with him, to communicate with the spirit world,--I must be +deceptive, I must mask my purpose with another. + +"I did so. I turned his attention to the subject of the human will. Now, +at that time Chichester knew that his will was weak. He considered that +fact one of his serious faults. I hinted that I agreed with him. I +proposed to join with him in striving to strengthen it. He envied my +strength of will. He looked up to me, worshiped me almost, because of it. +I drew his mind to the close consideration of influence. I gave him two +or three curious works that I possessed on this subject. In one of them, +a pamphlet written by a Hindu who had been partly educated at Oxford, +and whom I had personally known when I was an undergraduate, there was a +course of will-exercises, much as in certain books on body-building there +are courses of physical exercises. I related to Chichester some of the +extraordinary and deeply interesting conversations I had had with this +Hindu on the subject of the education of the will, and finally I told a +lie. I told Chichester that I had gained my powerful will while at Oxford +by drawing it from my Hindu friend in a series of sittings that we two +had secretly undertaken together. This was false, because I had been born +with a strong, even a tyrannical, will, and I had never sat with the +Hindu. + +"Chichester, though at first startled, was fascinated by this untruth, +and, to cut the matter short, I persuaded him to begin with me a series +of secret sittings, in which I proposed to try to impart to him, to +infuse into him, as it were, some of my undoubted power--the power which +he daily saw me exercising in the pulpit and over the minds of men in my +intercourse with them. + +"What I really wished to do, what I meant to do, if possible, was to use +Chichester as a medium, and to try through him to communicate with the +spirit world. I had taken it into my head--no doubt you will say quite +unreasonably--that he must be entirely subject to my will in a sitting, +and that if I willed him to be entranced, it was certain that he would +become so. But my own entirely selfish desires I concealed under the +cloak of an unselfish wish to give power to him. I even pretended, as you +see, to have a highly moral purpose, though it is true I suggested trying +to effect it in an unconventional and very unecclesiastical manner. + +"Chichester, though, as I have said, at first startled, of course +eventually fell in with my view. We sat together in his room at Hornton +Street. + +"Now, Mr. Malling, some of what I have told you may appear to be almost +contradictory. I have spoken of my _maladie de grandeur_ as if it were +a reason why I wished to sit with Henry Chichester, and then of my desire +to communicate, if possible, with the spirit world as my reason." + +"I noticed that," observed Malling, "and purposed later to point it out +to you." + +"How can I explain exactly? It is so difficult to unravel the web of +motives in a mind. It was my _maladie de grandeur_, I think, that made +me long to use my worshiper Chichester as a mere tool for the opening of +that door which shuts off from us the region the dead have entered. My +mind at that time was filled with a mingled conceit, amounting at moments +almost to an intoxication, and a desire for knowledge. I reveled in my +power when preaching, but was haunted by genuine doubts as to truth. My +egoism longed to make an utter slave of Chichester (I nearly always +lusted to push my influence to its limit). But my desire to know made me +conceive the pushing of it in a direction, in this instance, which would +perhaps gratify a less unworthy desire than that merely of subjugating +another. The two birds and the one stone! I thought of them. I loved the +idea of making a tool. I loved also the idea of using the tool when made. +And I pretended I had only Chichester's moral interest at heart. I have +been punished, terribly punished. + +"We sat, as I say, in Hornton Street, secretly, and of course at night. +My wife knew nothing of it. I made excuses to get away--parish matters, +meetings, work in the East End. I had no difficulty with her. She thought +my many activities would bring me ever more and more into the public +eye, and she encouraged them. The people in the house where Chichester +lodged were simple folk, and were ready to go early to bed, leaving +rector and curate discussing their work for the salvation of bodies and +souls. + +"At first Chichester was reluctant, I know. I read his thoughts. He was +not sure that it was right to approach such mysteries; but, as usual, I +dominated him silently. And soon he fell completely under the fascination +peculiar to sittings." + +Again Mr. Harding paused. For a moment his head sank, his powerful body +drooped, he was immersed in reverie. Malling did not interrupt him. At +last, with a deep sigh, and now speaking more slowly, more unevenly, he +continued: + +"What happened exactly at those sittings I do not rightly know. Perhaps +I shall never rightly know. What did not happen I can tell you. In the +first place, although I secretly used my will upon Chichester, desiring, +mentally insisting, that he should become entranced, he never was +entranced when we sat together. Something within him--was it something +holy? I have wondered--resisted my desire, of which, so far as I know, +he was never aware. Perhaps 'beneath the threshold' he was aware. Who +can say? But though my great desire was frustrated in our sittings, the +desire of Chichester, so different, perhaps so much more admirable than +mine, and, at any rate, not masked by any deceit, began, so it seemed, +to be strangely gratified. He declared almost from the first that, when +sitting with me, he felt his will power strengthened. 'You are doing me +good,' he said. Now, as my professed object in contriving the sittings +had been to lift up Chichester toward my level,"--with indescribable +bitterness Mr. Harding dwelt on these last words,--"I could only express +rejoicing. And this I did with successful hypocrisy. Nevertheless, +I was greatly irritated. For it seemed to me that, when we sat, +Chichester triumphed over me. He obtained his desire while mine remained +ungratified. This was an outrage directed against my supremacy over him, +which I had designed to increase. I gathered together my will power to +check it. But in this attempt I failed. + +"Nothing is stranger, I think, Mr. Malling, than the fascination of a +sitting. Even when nothing, or scarcely anything, happens, the mind, the +whole nature seems to be mysteriously grasped and held. New senses in you +seem to be released. Something is alert which is never alert--or, at +all events, never alert in the same way--in other moments of life. One +seems to become inexplicably different. Chichester was aware of all this. +At the first sitting nothing happened, and I feared Chichester would wish +to give the matter up. But, no! When we rose from our chairs late in the +night he acknowledged that he had never known two hours to pass so +quickly before. At following sittings there were slight manifestations +such as, I suppose, are seldom absent from such affairs,--perfectly +trivial to you, of course,--movements of the table, rappings, gusts of +what seemed cold air, and so forth. All that is not worth talking about, +and I don't mean to trouble you further with it. My difficulty is, when +so little, apparently, took place, to make you understand the tremendous +thing that did happen, that must have been happening gradually during +our sittings. + +"At the very first, as I told you, or nearly so,--I wish to be +absolutely accurate,--Chichester began to be aware of a strengthening +of his will. At this time I was almost angrily unaware of any change +either in him or in myself. At subsequent sittings--I speak of the +earlier ones--Chichester reiterated more strongly his assertion of +beneficent alteration in himself. I did not believe him, though I did +believe he was absolutely sincere in his supposition. It seemed to me +that he was 'suggestioned,' partly perhaps by his implicit trust in me, +partly by his own desire that something curious should happen. However, +still playing a part in pursuance of my resolve not to let Chichester +know my real object in this matter, I pretended that I, too, perceived an +alteration in him, as if his personality were strengthening. And not +once, but on several occasions, I spoke of the change in him as almost +exactly corresponding with the change that had taken place in me when +I sat with my Hindu friend. + +"All this time, with a force encouraged by the secret anger within me, +I violently, at last almost furiously, willed that Chichester should +become entranced. + +"But at length, though I willed furiously, I felt as if I were not +willing with genuine strength, as if I could not will with genuine +strength any longer. It is difficult, almost impossible, to explain +to you exactly the sensation that gradually overspread me; but it used +always to seem to me, when I self-consciously exerted my will, as if +I held within me some weapon almost irresistible, as if I forced it +forward, as if its advance, caused by me, could not be withstood. I +now felt as if I still possessed this weapon, but could not induce it +to move. It was there, like a heavy, useless thing, almost like a burden +upon me. + +"And Chichester continued to assert that he felt stronger, more resolute, +less plastic. + +"Things went on thus till something within me, what we call instinct, I +suppose, became uneasy. I heard a warning voice which said to me, 'Stop +while there is time!' And I resolved to obey it. + +"One night, when very late Chichester and I took our hands from the +table in his little room, I said that I thought we had had enough of +the sittings, that very little happened, that perhaps he and I were not +really _en rapport_, and that it seemed to me useless to continue them. +I suppose I expected Chichester to acquiesce. I say I suppose so, because +till that moment he had always acquiesced in any proposition of mine. Yet +I remember that I did not feel genuine surprise at what actually +happened." + +Mr. Harding stopped, took a handkerchief from his pocket, lifted the brim +of his hat, and passed the handkerchief over his forehead two or three +times. + +"What happened was this, that Chichester resisted my proposal, and that +I found myself obliged to comply with his will instead of, as usual, +imposing mine upon him. + +"This was the beginning--" the rector turned a little toward Malling, +and spoke in a voice that was almost terrible in its sadness--"this was +the beginning of what you have been witness of, my unspeakable decline. +This was the definite beginning of my horrible subjection to Henry +Chichester." + +He stopped abruptly. After waiting for a minute or two, expecting him to +continue, Malling said: + +"You said that you found yourself _obliged_ to comply with Chichester's +will. Can you explain the nature of that obligation?" + +"I cannot. I strove to resist. We argued the matter. He took his stand +upon the moral ground that I was benefiting him enormously through our +sittings. As I had suggested having them ostensibly for that very +purpose, you will see my difficulty." + +"Certainly." + +"My yielding seemed perfectly natural, perhaps almost inevitable. The +point is that, without drastic change in me, it was quite unnatural. My +will was unaccustomed to brook any resistance, and troubled itself not +at all with argument. Till then what I wished to do I did, and there was +an end. I now for the first time found myself obliged to accept a moral +bondage imposed upon me by my curate. The term may sound exaggerated; +I can only say that was how the matter presented itself to me. From the +moment I did so, I took second place to him. + +"We continued to sit from time to time. And the strange, to me +inexplicable, situation rapidly developed. + +"To put it before you in few words and plainly: Chichester seemed to suck +my will away from me gradually but surely, till my former strength was +his. But that was not all. With the growth of his will there was another +and more terrible growth: there rose in him a curiously observant +faculty." + +Again the rector took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. + +"A curiously critical faculty. How shall I say? Perhaps you may know, +Mr. Malling, how the persistent attitude of one mind may influence +another. For instance, if a man always expects ill of another--treachery, +let us say, bad temper, hatred, fear, inducing trickery, perhaps, that +other is turned toward just such evil manifestations in connection with +that man. If some one with psychic force thinks all you do is wrong, +soon you begin to do things wrongly. A fearful uneasiness is bred. The +faculties begin to fail. The formerly sure-footed stumbles. The formerly +self-confident takes on nervousness, presently fear. + +"So it came about between Chichester and me. I felt that his mind was +beginning to watch me critically, and I became anxious about this +criticism. Like some subtle acid it seemed to act destructively upon +the metal, once so hard and resistant, of my self-confidence, of my +belief in myself. Often I felt as if an eye were upon me, seeing too +much, far too much, coldly, inexorably, persistently. This critical +observation became hateful to me. I suffered under it. I suffered +terribly. Mr. Malling, if I am to tell you all,--and I feel that unless +I do no help can come to me,--I must tell you that I have not been in my +life all that a clergyman should be. There have been occasions, and even +since my marriage, when I have yielded to impulses that have prompted me +to act very wrongly. + +"Now, Chichester was a saint. Hitherto I had neither been troubled by +my own grave shortcomings nor by Chichester's excellence of character. +I had always felt myself set far above him by my superior mental +faculties and my greater will power over the crowd, though, alas! not +always over my own demon. I began to writhe now under the thought of +Chichester's crystal purity and of my own besmirched condition of soul. +All self-confidence departed from me; but I endeavored, of course, to +conceal this from the world, and especially from Chichester. With the +world for a time no doubt I succeeded. But with Chichester--did I ever +succeed? Could I ever succeed with such an one as he had become? It +seemed to me, it seems to me far more terribly now, that nothing I did, +or was, escaped him. He attended mentally, spiritually even, to +everything that made up me. At first I felt this curiously, then +anxiously, then often with bitter contempt and indignation, sometimes +with a great melancholy, a sort of wide-spreading sadness in which I +was involved as in an icy sea. I can never make you fully understand +what I felt, how this mental and spiritual observation of Chichester +affected me. It--it simply ate me away, Malling! It simply ate me away!" + +The last words came from Mr. Harding's lips almost in a cry. + +"And how long did you continue the sittings?" + +Very quietly Malling spoke, and he just touched the rector's arm. + +"For a long while." + +"Had you ceased from them when I first met you?" + +"On Westminster Bridge? No." + +"Have you ceased from them now?" + +The rector shifted as if in physical distress. + +"Chichester constrains me to them even now," he replied, like a man +bitterly ashamed. "He constrains me to them. And is that goodness, +righteousness? I said he was a saint; but now! Is it saintliness to +torture a fellow-creature?" + +Malling remembered how he had once, and not long ago, asked himself +whether Chichester's mouth and eyes looked good. + +"Have you ever told Chichester what grave distress he is causing you?" +said Malling. + +"No, never, never! I can't!" + +"Why not?" + +"A great reserve has grown up between us. I could never try to break +through it." + +"You say a great reserve. But does he never criticize you in words? Does +he never express an adverse opinion upon what you say or do?" + +"Scarcely ever--after it is said or done. But sometimes--" + +"Yes?" + +"Sometimes--often I think--he tries to prevent me from saying or doing +something. Often he checks me with a look when I am in the midst of +some speech. It is intolerable. Why do I bear it? But I have to bear it. +Sometimes I exert myself against him. Why, that first day I met you--you +must have noticed it--he tried to prevent me from walking home with you." + +"I did notice it." + +"Then I resisted him, and he had to yield. But even when he yields in +some slight matter it makes no difference in our relations. He is always +there, at the window, watching me." + +"What do you say?" + +Malling's exclamation was sharp. + +"That sermon of his!" said the rector. "That fearful sermon! Ever since +I heard it I have felt as if I were the double within that house, as +if Chichester were the man regarding my life in hiding. Why you--you +yourself put my feeling into words! You suggested to Chichester and +my wife that if the man had stayed, had spied upon him who was within +the room, the hypocrite--" + +He broke off. He got up from his seat. + +"Let us walk," he said. "I cannot sit here. The air--the lights--let +us--" + +Almost as if blindly he went forth from the shelter, followed by Malling. + +"It's better here," he said. "Better here! Mr. Malling, forgive me, +but just then a hideous knowledge seemed really to catch me by the +throat. Chichester is turning my wife against me. There is a terrible +change in her. She is beginning to observe me through Chichester's eyes. +Till quite recently she worshiped me. She noticed the alteration in me, +of course,--every one did,--but she hated Chichester for his attitude +toward me. Till quite lately she hated him. Now she no longer hates him; +for she begins to think he is right. At first I think she believed the +excuse I put forward for my strange transformation." + +"Do you mean your nervous affection?" + +"Yes." + +"Just tell me, have you any trouble of that kind, or did you merely +invent it as an excuse for any failure you made from time to time?" + +"I used it insincerely as an excuse. But I really do suffer from time +to time physically. But physical suffering is nothing. Why should we +waste a thought on such nonsense?" + +"In such a strange case as this I believe everything should be taken +carefully into consideration," observed Malling in his most prosaic +voice. + +The rector's attention seemed to be suddenly fixed and powerfully +concentrated. The feverish excitement he had been displaying gave place +to a calmer, more natural mood. + +"Tell me," he said, "do you think your knowledge can help me? I am aware +that you have made many strange investigations. Is there anything to be +done for me, anything that will restore me to my former powers? Will you +credit me when I declare to you that it was only by making a terrible +effort that I was able to get away from Chichester's companionship and +to come down here? If I had not said that I meant to do so while you were +in the room, I doubt if I should ever have had the courage. There is +something inexplicable that seems to bind me to Chichester. Sometimes +there have been moments when I have thought that he longed to be far +away from me. And it has seemed to me that he, too, would find escape +difficult, if not impossible." + +"You wish very much that Chichester should resign his curacy and go +entirely out of your life?" asked Malling. + +"Wish!" cried Mr. Harding, almost fiercely. "Oh, the unutterable relief +to me if he were to go! Even down here, away from him for a day or two, + I sometimes feel released. And yet--" he paused in his walk--"I shall +have to go back--I know it--sooner than I meant to, very soon." + +He spoke with profound conviction. + +"Chichester will mean me to go back, and I shall not be able to stay." + +"And yet you say it has occurred to you that possibly Chichester may be +as anxious as yourself to break away from the strange condition of things +you have described to me." + +"Have you," exclaimed Mr. Harding--"have you some reason to believe +Chichester has ever contemplated departure?" + +Malling moved slowly on, and the rector was forced to accompany him. + +"It has occurred to me," he said, evading the point, "that possibly Henry +Chichester might be induced to go out of your life." + +"Never by me! I should never have the strength to attempt compulsion with +Chichester." + +"Some one else might tackle him." + +"Who?" cried out Mr. Harding. + +"Some man with authority." + +"Do you mean ecclesiastical authority?" + +"Oh, dear, no! I was thinking of a man like, say, Professor Stepton." + +As Malling spoke, a curious figure seemed almost to dawn upon them, +sidewise, becoming visible gently in the darkness; a short man, with +hanging arms, a head poked forward, as if in sharp inquiry, and rather +shambling legs, round which hung loosely a pair of very baggy, light +trousers. + +"And here is the professor!" said Malling, stopping short. + + + + +IX + + +That night when, very late, Mr. Harding and Malling returned to the red +doll's house and let themselves into it with a latch-key, they found +lying upon the table in the little hall a brown envelop. + +"A telegram!" said the rector. + +He took it into his hand and read the name on the envelop. + +"It's for me. Malling, do you know whom this telegram is from?" + +"How can I, or you, for that matter?" + +"It is from Henry Chichester, and it is to recall me to London." + +"It may be so." + +"It is so. Open it for me." + +Malling took the telegram from him and tore it open, while he sat heavily +down by the table. + +"_Please return if possible difficulties in the parish Benyon ill need +your presence Chichester._" + +Malling looked down at the rector. + +"You see!" Mr. Harding said slowly. + +"What do you mean to do?" + +Mr. Harding got up from his chair with an effort like that of a weary +man. + +"I wonder where the railway-guide is?" he said. "Excuse me for a moment, +Mr. Malling." + +He went away into the drawing-room, and returned with the railway-guide +open in his hand. + +"Malling," he said, using the greater familiarity he had for a moment +discarded, "I am about to do a rude thing, but I ask you, I beg of +you, to acquit me of any rude intention toward yourself. I have been +looking up the Sunday trains. I find I can catch a good one at Faversham +to-morrow morning. There is a motor I can hire in the town to get there. +It stands just by the post-office, where the road branches." He paused, +looking into Malling's face as if in search of some sign of vexation or +irony. "With a large parish on my hands," he went on, "I have a great +responsibility. And if Benyon, my second curate, is ill, they will +be short-handed." + +"I see." + +"What distresses me greatly--greatly--is leaving you, my guest, at such +short notice. I cannot say how I regret it." + +He stopped. Purposely, to test him, Malling said nothing, but waited with +an expressionless face. + +"I cannot say. But how can I do otherwise? My duty to the parish must +come before all things." + +"I see," said Malling again. + +Looking greatly disturbed, Mr. Harding continued: + +"I will ask you to do me a very great favor. Although I am obliged to go, +I hope you will stay, I entreat you to stay till Monday. The professor is +here. You will not be companionless. The servants will do everything to +make you comfortable. As to food, wine--everything is provided for. Will +you stay? I shall feel more at ease in going if I know my departure has +not shortened your visit." + +"It is very good of you," Malling replied. "I'll accept your kind offer. +To tell the truth, I'm in no hurry to leave the Tankerton air." + +"Thank you," said the rector, almost with fervor. "Thank you." + +So, the next morning, Mr. Harding went away in the hired motor, and +Malling found himself alone in the red doll's house. + +He was not sorry. The rector's revelation on the previous night had well +repaid him for his journey; then the air of Tankerton really rejoiced +him; and he would have speech of the professor. + +"I shall lay it before Stepton," he had said to Mr. Harding the previous +night, after they had parted from the professor. + +And he had spoken with authority. Mr. Harding's confidence, his +self-abasement, and his almost despairing appeal, had surely given +Malling certain rights. He intended to use them to the full. The +rector's abrupt relapse into reserve, his pitiful return to subterfuge, +after the receipt of that hypnotizing telegram, had not, in Malling's +view, abrogated those rights. + +When the motor disappeared, he strolled across the grass with a towel +and had a dip in the brown sea, going in off the long shoal that the +Whitstable and Tankerton folk call "the Street." Then he set out to +find the professor. + +His interview with Stepton on the previous night in the presence of +Mr. Harding had been rather brief. Stepton had been preoccupied and +monosyllabic. Agnes had been right as to his reason for honoring the +coast of Kent with his company, but wrong as to the haunted house's +location. It was not in Birchington, but lay inland, within easy reach +of Tankerton. When he met Malling and Harding, the professor was going +to his hotel, where a motor was waiting to convey him to the house, in +which he intended to pass the night. His mind was fixed tenaciously upon +the matter in hand. Malling had realized at once that it was not the +moment to disturb him by the introduction of any other affair, however +interesting. But his suggestion of a meeting the next morning was thus +welcomed: + +"Right! I shall be at home at churchtime--as you're not preaching." + +The second half of the sentence was directed to Mr. Harding, who said +nothing. + +"And you might give me a cup of tea in the afternoon," the professor +had added, looking at the rector rather narrowly before shambling off +to his hotel to get the plaid shawl which he often wore at night. + +"With the greatest pleasure. Minors is the name of the house," had been +Mr. Harding's reply. + +Whereupon the professor had vanished, muttering to himself: + +"Minors! And why not Majors, if you come to that? Perhaps too suggestive +of heart-breaking military men. Minors is safer in a respectable seaside +place." + +The professor had been up all night, but looked much as usual, and was +eating a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs in the cheerful coffee-room +when Malling arrived. He scarcely ever ate at orthodox hours, and had +frequently been caught lunching at restaurants in London between four and +five in the afternoon. + +"Where's the rector? At church?" was his greeting. + +"The rector has gone back to London," replied Malling, sitting down by +the table. + +"What about my cup of tea, then?" snapped Stepton. + +"I will be your host. I'm here till to-morrow. Any interesting +manifestations?" + +"A rat or two and a hysterical kitchen-maid seem to be the responsible +agents in the building up of the reputation of the house I kept awake +in last night." + +"I believe I have a more interesting problem for you." + +The professor stretched out a sinewy hand. + +"Cambridge marmalade! Most encouraging!" he muttered. "Have the reverend +gentlemen of St. Joseph's been at it again--successfully?" + +"I want you to judge." + +And thereupon Malling laid the case faithfully before the professor, +describing not only the dinner in Hornton Street and his interview with +Lady Sophia, but also the two sermons he had heard at St. Joseph's, and +the rector's lamentable outburst of the previous night. This last, having +a remarkably retentive memory, he reproduced in the main in Mr. Harding's +own words, omitting only the rector's reference to his moral lapses. +During the whole time he was speaking Stepton was closely engaged with +the Cambridge marmalade, and showed no symptoms of attention to anything +else. When he ceased, Stepton remarked: + +"Really, clergymen are far more to be depended upon for valuable +manifestations than a rat or two and a hysterical kitchen-maid. Come +to my room, Malling." + +The professor had a bedroom facing the sea. He led Malling to it, shut +the door, gave Malling a cane chair, sat down himself, in a peculiar, +crab-like posture, upon the bed, and said: + +"Now give me as minute a psychological study of the former and actual +Henry Chichester as you can." + +Malling complied with this request as lucidly and tersely as he could, +wasting no words. + +"Any unusual change in his outward man since you knew him two years ago?" +asked the professor, when he had finished. + +Malling mentioned the question as to the curate's eyes and mouth which +had risen in his mind, and added: + +"But the character of the man is so changed that it may have suggestioned +me into feeling as if there were physical change in him, too." + +"More than would be inevitable in any man in a couple of years. And now +as to his digestive organs." + +"Good heavens!" exclaimed Malling. + +The apparent vagaries of his companion very seldom surprised him, but +this time he was completely taken aback. + +"Are they what they were? Assuming, on your part, a knowledge of what +they were." + +"I don't know either in what condition they are now, or in what condition +they were once." + +"Ah! Now I must draw up a report about last night. I'll come for that cup +of tea to Minors--might almost as well have been Majors, even granting +the military flavor--about five." + +Malling took his departure. + +At a quarter to five he heard the click of the garden gate, and looking +out at the latticed window of the hall, he saw the professor walking +sidewise up the path, with a shawl round his shoulders. He went to let +him in, and took him into the tiny drawing-room. + +"An odd shell for Harding!" observed the professor. "More suitable to a +bantam than to a Cochin-China!" + +"It doesn't belong to him." + +"Nor he to it. Very wise and right of him to go back to Onslow Gardens." + +A maid brought in the tea, and the professor, spread strangely forth in a +small, chintz-covered arm-chair, enjoyed it while he talked about oysters +and oyster-beds. He was deeply interested in the oysters of Whitstable, +and held forth almost romantically on their birth and upbringing, the +fattening, the packing, the selling, and the eating of them--"with lemon, +not vinegar, mind! To eat vinegar with a Whitstable native is as vicious +as to offer a libation of catchup at the altar of a meadow mushroom just +picked up out of the dew." + +Malling did not attempt to turn his mind from edibles. The professor had +to be let alone. When tea was finished and cleared away, he observed: + +"And now, Malling, what is your view? Do you look upon it as a case of +transferred personality? I rather gathered from your general tone that +you were mentally drifting in that direction." + +"But are there such cases? Of double transfer, I mean?" + +"Personally I have never verified one. When you spoke of the reverend +gentlemen for the first time, I said, 'Study the link!' There will be +development in the link if--all the rest of it." + +"There has been development, as I told you. The link is on his side now." + +"That's remarkable, undoubtedly. Has it ever struck you that Harding was +almost too successful a clergyman to be a genuinely holy man?" + +"What do you mean?" + +"There's a modesty in holiness that is hardly adapted to catch smart +women." + +"You used to go to hear Harding preach." + +"And d'you know why I liked his sermons?" + +"Why?" + +"Because he understood doubt so well. That amused me. But the man who has +such a comprehensive understanding of skepticism, is very seldom a true +believer. One thing, though, Harding certainly does believe in, judging +by a sermon I once heard him preach." + +"And that is?" + +"Manicheism. Chichester, you say, was a saint?" + +"He was, if a man can be a saint who has a certain amiable weakness of +character." + +"And now? You think he would be a difficult customer to tackle now?" + +"Harding finds him so." + +"And Harding was an overwhelming chap, cocksure of himself. Chichester +must be difficult. Shall I tackle him?" + +"I wish you would. But how? Do you wish me to introduce him to you?" + +"Let me see." + +The professor dropped his head and remained silent for a minute or two. + +"Tell me something," he at length remarked, lifting his head and assuming +his most terrier-like aspect. "Do you think Harding a whited sepulcher?" + +"Possibly." + +"And do you think his saintly curate has found it out?" + +"Do you think that would supply a natural explanation of the mystery?" + +"Should you prefer to search for it in that malefic region which is the +abiding-place of nervous dyspepsia?" + +"How could--" + +"Acute nervous dyspepsia, complicated by a series of sittings under the +rose, might eat away the most brazen self-confidence. That's as certain +as that I wear whiskers and you don't. Shall we do an addition sum? Shall +we add Chichester's discovery of secret lapses in his worshiped rector's +life, to the nervous dyspepsia and the sittings? Shall we do that?" + +"And Lady Sophia?" + +"There's a sunflower type of woman. The rising sun can't escape her +inevitable worship." + +"The change in Harding may be a natural one. But there is something +portentous in the change in Chichester," said Malling. "You know I'm +a rather cool hand, and certainly not inclined to easy credulity. But +there's something about Chichester which--well, Professor, I'll make a +confession to you that isn't a pleasant one for any man to make. There's +something about Chichester which shakes my nerves." + +"And you haven't got nervous dyspepsia?" + +"Should I be even a meliorist--as I am--if I had?" + +"I must know Chichester. It's a pity I didn't know him formerly." + +"I don't believe that matters," said Malling, with intense conviction. +"There is that in him which must strike you and affect you, whether you +knew him as he was or not." + +"So long as I don't turn tail and run from him, all's well. I will +tackle Chichester. In the interests of science I will face this curate. +But how shall I approach him? As in golf, the approach is much, if not +everything." + +He sat thinking for some minutes, with his eyebrows twitching. Then he +said: + +"The question is, Should the approach be casual or direct? Shall I +describe a curve, or come to him as the crow comes when making for a +given point--or is said to come, for I've never investigated that +matter? What do you say?" + +"It's very difficult to say. On the day I dined in Hornton Street, +Chichester certainly wanted to tell me something. He asked me to dine, +I am almost sure, in order that he might tell it to me." + +"About the sittings with Harding, no doubt." + +"That, perhaps, and something more." + +"But he told you nothing." + +"Directly." + +"Do you think he would be more or less likely to unbosom himself now than +he was then?" + +"Less likely." + +"You might give me his address." + +Malling did so. The professor wrote the address down on a slip of paper, +pinned the slip carefully to the yellow lining of his jacket, and then +got up to go. + +But Malling detained him. + +"Professor," he said, speaking with an unusual hesitation, "you know why +I told you all this." + +"In the interests of science?" + +"No, in the interest of that miserable man, Marcus Harding. I want you +to break the link that binds him to Henry Chichester--if there is one. +I want you to effect his release." + +"I'm afraid you've come to the wrong man," returned Stepton, dryly. "My +object in entering into this matter is merely to increase my knowledge, +not to destroy my chance of increasing it." + +"But surely--" + +"We shall never get forward if we move in the midst of a fog of pity and +sentiment." + +Malling said no more; but as he watched the professor shambling to the +garden gate, he felt as if he had betrayed Marcus Harding. + + + + +X + + +Soon after Malling had returned to London, he received the following note +from Mr. Harding: + +_Onslow Gardens_, June --th. + +_Dear Mr. Malling:_ + +I seem to have some remembrance of your saying to me at Tankerton that +you wished to speak to Professor Stepton with regard to a certain matter. +I may be wrong in my recollection. If, however, I am right, I now beg +you not to speak to the professor. I have, of course, the very highest +regard for his discretion; nevertheless, one must not be selfish. One +must not think only of one's self. I have obligations to others, and I +fear, when we were together at Tankerton, I forgot them. A word of +assurance from you that Professor Stepton knows nothing of our +conversation will set at rest the mind of + +Yours sincerely, + +_Marcus Harding._ + +As soon as he had read this communication, Malling realized that he +had been right in his supposition that a new reserve was growing up +in Henry Chichester. He was aware of Chichester's reserve in the letter +of the rector. He was aware, too, of the latter's situation as he had +never been aware of it before. Often a trifle illuminates a life, as a +search-light brings some distant place from the darkness into a fierce +radiance that makes it seem near. So it was now. + +"Poor Harding!" thought Malling, with an unusual softness. "But this +letter comes too late." + +What answer should he return to the rector? He hated insincerity, but on +this occasion he stooped to it. He had not only the fear of Stepton upon +him; he had also the desire not to add to the deep misery of Marcus +Harding. This was his answer: + +_Cadogan Square_, June --. + +_Dear Mr. Harding:_ + +In reply to your letter, I will not now repeat our conversation of the +other evening to Professor Stepton. He is, as you say, a man of the +highest discretion, and should you feel inclined yourself to take him +into your confidence at any time, I think you will not regret it. + +Yours sincerely, + +_Evelyn Malling_. + +As he put this note into an envelope, Malling said to himself: + +"Some day I'll let him know I deceived him; I'll let him know I had +already told the professor." + +Two or three days later Malling heard of the professor having been at a +party in Piccadilly at which Lady Sophia was a guest. + +"And do you know, really,"--Malling's informant, a lively married woman, +concluded,--"those old scientific men are quite as bad as any of the boys +who only want to have a good time. The professor sat in Lady Sophia's +pocket the whole evening! Literally in her pocket!" + +"I didn't know modern women had pockets," returned Malling. + +"They don't, of course; but you know what I mean." + +Malling understood that the professor was beginning his "approach." + +A week went by, and at a man's dinner, Malling chanced to sit next to +Blandford Sikes, one of the most noted physicians of the day. In the +course of conversation the doctor remarked: + +"Is your friend Stepton going to set up in Harley Street?" + +"Not that I know of," said Malling. "What makes you ask?" + +"He came to consult me the other day, and when I told him he was as sound +as Big Ben he sat with me for over half an hour pumping me unmercifully +on the subject of nervous dyspepsia. The patient who followed, and who +happened to be a clergyman, looked fairly sick when he was let in at +last." + +Who happened to be a clergyman! Malling had longed to ask Blandford +Sikes a question--who that clergyman was. But he refrained. To do so, +would doubtless have seemed oddly inquisitive. It was surely enough for +him to know that the professor was busily at work in his peculiar way. +And Malling thought again of that "approach." Evidently the professor +must be describing the curve he had spoken of. When would he arrive at +Henry Chichester? There were moments when Malling felt irritated by +Stepton's silence. That it was emulated by Marcus Harding, Lady Sophia, +and Henry Chichester did not make matters easier for him. However, he +had deliberately chosen to put this strange affair into Stepton's hands. +Stepton had shown no special alacrity with regard to the matter. Malling +felt that he could do nothing now but wait. + +He waited. + +Now and then rumors reached him of Marcus Harding's fading powers, now +and then he heard people discussing one of Henry Chichester's "remarkable +sermons," now and then in society some feminine gossip murmuring that +"Sophia Harding seems to be perfectly sick of that husband of hers. She +probably wishes now that she had taken all her people's advice and +refused him. Of course if he had been made a _bishop_!" + +The season ended. Goodwood was over, and Malling went off to Munich and +Bayreuth for music. Then he made a walking-tour with friends in the +Oberammergau district, and returned to England only when the ruddy +banners of autumn were streaming over the land. + +Still there was no communication from the professor. Malling might of +course have written to him or sought him. He preferred to possess his +soul in patience. Stepton was an arbitrary personage, and the last man +in the world to consent to a process of pumping. + +Meanwhile Stepton had forgotten all about Malling. He was full of work +of various kinds, but the work that most interested him was connected +with the reverend gentlemen of St. Joseph's. As Malling surmised, he had +lost little time in beginning his "approach," and that approach had been +rather circuitous. He had taken his own advice and studied the link. +This done, the intricate and fascinating subject of nervous dyspepsia +had claimed his undivided attention. When he had finished his prolonged +interview with Blandford Sikes, sidling back to the waiting-room to +gather up various impedimenta, he had encountered the unfortunate +clergyman whom he had kept waiting. Marcus Harding was the man. They +exchanged only a couple of words, but the sight of the flaccid bulk, +the hanging cheeks and hands, the eyes in which dwelt a sort of faded +despair, whipped up into keen alertness every faculty of the professor's +mind. As he walked into Cavendish Square he muttered to himself: + +"I never saw a clergyman look more promising for investigation, by Jove! +Never! There's something in it. Malling was not entirely wrong. There's +certainly something in it." + +But what? Now for Henry Chichester! + +Stepton was by nature unemotional, but he was an implicit believer in +the hysteria of others, and he thought clergymen, as a class, more liable +to that malady than other classes of men. Curates, being as a rule young +clergymen, were, in his view, specially subject to the inroads of the +cloudy complaint, which causes the mind to see mountains where only +mole-hills exist, and to appreciate anything more readily and accurately +than the naked truth. Henry Chichester was young and he was a curate. +He was therefore likely to be emotional and to be attracted by the +mysterious, more especially since he had recently been knocking on +its door, according to Malling's statement. + +After a good deal of thought, the professor resolved to cast aside +convention, and to make Chichester's acquaintance without any +introduction; indeed, with the maximum of informality. + +He learned something about Chichester's habits, and managed to meet him +several times when he was walking from the daily service at St. Joseph's +to his rooms in Hornton Street. In this walk Chichester passed the South +Kensington Museum. What more natural than that the professor should +chance to be coming out of it? + +The first time they met, Stepton looked at the curate casually, the +second time more sharply, the third time with scrutiny. He knew how to +make a crescendo. The curate noticed it, as of course the professor +intended. He did not know who Stepton was, but he began to wonder about +this birdlike, sharp-looking man, who evidently took an interest in him. +And presently his wonder changed into suspicion. This again accorded with +the professor's intention. + +One day, after the even-song at St. Joseph's, Stepton saw flit across +the face of the curate, whom he was meeting, a flicker of something +like fear. The two men passed each other, and immediately, like one +irresistibly compelled, the professor looked back. As he did so, +Chichester also turned round to spy upon this unknown. Encountering +the gaze of the professor, he started, flushed scarlet, and pursued his +way, walking with a quickened step. + +The professor went homeward, chuckling. + +"To-day's Tuesday," he thought. "By Saturday, at latest, he'll have +spoken to me. He'll have to speak to me to relieve the tension of his +nerve-ganglions." + +Chichester did not wait till Saturday. On Friday afternoon, coming +suddenly upon Stepton at a corner, he stopped abruptly, and said: + +"May I ask if you want anything of me?" + +"Sir!" barked Stepton. "Mr. Chichester!" + +"You know my name?" said the curate. + +"And probably you know mine--Professor Stepton." + +A relief that was evidently intense dawned in the curate's face. + +"You are Professor Stepton! You are Mr. Malling's friend!" + +"Exactly. Good day." + +And the professor marched on. + +Chichester did not follow, but the next day, on the pavement not far from +the museum, he stopped once more in front of the professor with a "Good +afternoon." + +"Good day," said Stepton. + +"Since you know who I am," began the curate, "and I have heard so much of +you, I hope you will forgive me for asking you something." + +"Certainly." + +"What is it in me which has attracted your attention?" + +"I wish I knew," returned the professor. + +"You wish you knew! Do you mean that you don't know?" + +"I don't know at all." + +"But--but--you--I was not wrong in feeling sure that you were--that +something in me had aroused your attention?" + +"Not wrong at all; but 'something' is not the word." + +"What is the word?" + +"Everything. Everything in you rouses my attention, Mr. Chichester. But +I can't think why." + +"Did you know I was Mr. Harding's curate the first time you met me?" + +"Yes; I had seen you at St. Joseph's once or twice when I came to hear +your rector preach. You didn't interest me at all then, I'm bound to +say." + +Chichester stood in silence for a minute. Then he said: + +"I might walk a little way back with you, if you have no objection." + +Stepton jerked his head in assent. And so the acquaintance of these two +men was begun. Their first conversation was a delight to the professor. +After a short silence the curate said: + +"I could not help seeing each time we have met how your attention was +fastened upon me." + +"Just so," rejoined Stepton, making no apology. + +"And I really think," continued Chichester, with a sort of pressure--"I +really think I am entitled to ask for some explanation of the matter." + +"Certainly you are." + +"Well?" He paused, then said again, "Well, Professor Stepton?" + +"I'm afraid I've nothing to tell you, I like to stick to facts." + +"I only ask you for facts." + +"The facts amount to very little. Coming from the museum I ran across +a man. You were the man. My attention was riveted at once. I said to +myself, 'I must see that man again.' Next day I took my chance. I had +luck. You were there at pretty much the same hour." + +"I always come from St. Joseph's--" + +"Exactly. And so it's happened on several days. And that's all I have to +tell you." + +"But surely you can indicate why--" + +"No, I can't. All I can say is that for some reason, quite inexplicable +by me, if I had come upon you in a crowd of a thousand, I should have had +to attend to you." + +"That's very strange," said Chichester, in a low voice; "very strange +indeed." + +"There's a reason for it, of course. There's a reason for everything, but +very often it isn't found." At this point the professor thrust his head +toward Chichester, and added, "you can't tell me the reason, I suppose?" + +Chichester looked much startled and taken aback. + +"I--oh, no!" + +"Then we must get along in the dark and make the best of it." + +Having said this, the professor abruptly dismissed the subject and began +to talk of other things. When he chose he could be almost charming. +He chose on this occasion. And when at last he hailed a bus, declaring +that he was due at home, Chichester expressed a hope that some day +he would find himself in Hornton Street, and visit number 4a. + +The professor assented, and was carried westward. + +Several days passed, but he did not find himself near Horton Street, and +he had ceased to visit the South Kensington Museum. Then the curate +wrote and invited him to tea. Despite a pretence at indifference in the +phraseology of the note, the professor discovered a deep anxiety in the +writing. Among other things he had studied, and minutely, graphology. + +He sat down and very politely refused the invitation. + +Then Chichester came to call on him, and caught him at home. + +It was six o'clock in the evening, and the heavens were opened. Agnes, +the Scotch parlor-maid who claimed to have second sight, opened the door +to Chichester, who, speaking from beneath a dripping umbrella, inquired +for the professor. + +"He's in, sir, but he's busy." + +"Could you take him my card?" + +Agnes took it, much to her own surprise, and carried it to the +professor's study. + +"A gentleman, sir." + +"I told you, Agnes--" + +"I couldn't say no to him, sir." + +"Why not? Here!" he took the card. + +"Why not?" he repeated, when he had read the name. + +"It wasn't in me to, sir." + +"Well, then I shall have to see him. Show him up. But never again will +I call you by the proud name of Cerberus." + +So, putting the onus upon Agnes, the professor yielded, murmuring to +himself: + +"It wasn't in her to! Very expressive! And Cerberus, by the way, was +always ready to let 'em in. It was when they wanted to get out that--Good +evening. I hope you don't mind climbing." + +"Thank you, no," said Chichester. + +"Sit down." + +"I am afraid I disturb you." + +"I'm bound to say you do. But what does it matter?" + +"As you didn't find your way to Hornton Street, I thought I would +venture." + +"Very good of you. This is a soft chair." + +Chichester sat down. It had been evident to Stepton from the moment +when his visitor came in that he was in great agony of mind. There was +in his face a sort of still and abject misery which Stepton thought +exceedingly promising. As he turned round, leaning his sharp elbow on +his writing-table, Stepton was considering how to exploit this misery +for the furthering of his purpose. + +"I want you to tell me something," Chichester began. "I want to know +why your attention was first attracted to me. I feel sure that you must +be able to give a reason. What is it?" + +"Well, now, I wish I could," returned Stepton. + +To himself he gave the swift admonition, "Play for hysteria, and see what +comes of it." + +"I wish I could; but it's a mystery to me. But now--let's see." + +He knitted his heavy brows. + +"A long while ago I picked a man out, met him in a crowd, at the Crystal +Palace, followed him about, couldn't get away from him. That same evening +he was killed on the underground. I read of it in the paper, went to see +the body, and there was my man." + +"Do you claim to have some special faculty?" asked Chichester. + +"Oh, dear, no. Besides, you haven't been killed on the underground--yet." + +A curious expression that seemed mingled of disappointment and of +contempt passed across Chichester's face. Stepton saw it and told +himself, "No hysteria." + +"Possibly the reason may be a more intellectual one," observed the +professor. "I hear you have been preaching some very remarkable sermons. +I haven't heard them. Still, others who have may have 'suggestioned' me. +Three quarters of any man's fame, you know, are due to mere suggestion." + +"You're not the man to be the prey of that, I fancy--not the easy prey, +at any rate." + +"Then we're left again with no explanation at all, unless, as I believe +I hinted once before, you can give us one." + +Chichester looked down; without raising his eyes he presently said in a +constrained voice: + +"If I were to give you one you might not accept it." + +"Probably not," said Stepton, briskly. "In my life I've been offered a +great many explanations, and I'm bound to say I've accepted remarkably +few." + +Chichester looked up quickly, and with the air of a man nettled. + +"You'll forgive me, I hope, for saying that you scientific men very often +seem to have a great contempt for those who are more mystically minded," +he observed. + +"I've hit the line!" thought Stepton, with a touch of exultation, as he +dropped out a negligent, "Forgive you--of course." + +"I dare say it seems to you extraordinary that any man should be able +to be a clergyman, genuinely believing what he professes and what he +preaches." + +"Very few things seem to me extraordinary." + +"Perhaps because you are skeptical of so much in which others believe." + +"That may be it. Quite likely." + +"And yet isn't there a saying of Newton's, 'A little science sends man +far away from God, a great deal of science brings man back to God?' +You'll forgive the apparent rudeness. All I mean is--" + +"That the sooner I try to get more science the better for me," snapped +out Stepton, brusquely interrupting his visitor, but without heat. +"Let me tell you that I pass the greater part of my time in that very +effort--to acquire more exact knowledge than I possess. Well--now then! +Now then!" + +Turning round still more toward the curate he looked almost as if he were +about to "square up" to him. A dry aggressiveness informed him, and his +voice had a rasping timbre as he continued: + +"But I decline to take leaps in the dark like--" Here he mentioned a +well-known man of science--"and I decline to reject evidence like--" Here +he named a professor even more famous. + +The mention of the last name evidently excited Chichester's curiosity. + +"What evidence has he rejected?" he exclaimed. + +"Last week he held a sitting to examine the pretensions of Mrs. Groeber, +the German medium. Westcott was also present, a man on whose word the +very devil--if there is such a person, which I don't yet know--would +rely. Some apparently remarkable phenomena occurred.--" Here he mentioned +the professor--"was convinced that they could only have been brought +about by supernormal means. Unfortunately, or fortunately, Westcott had +seen the trickery which produced them. When the seance was over he +explained what it was to ----. What did this _so-called_ man of science +do? Refused to accept Westcott's evidence, clung to his own ridiculous +belief,--savage's fetish belief, nothing more,--and will include the +Groeber manifestations as evidence of supernormal powers in his next +volume. And I say, I say"--he raised his forefinger--"that clergymen are +doing much the same thing pretty nearly every day of their lives. Seek +for truth quietly, inexorably, and you may get it; but don't prod men +into falsehood, or try to, as you've been trying to in this very room." + +"I!" cried out Chichester. + +"You. I told you I had no reason to give you as to why you attracted my +attention in the street. Were you satisfied with that? Not at all. You +must needs come here,--very glad to see you!--and say, 'I feel sure you +must be able to give me a reason. What is it?' You clamor for a lie. +And that's what men are perpetually doing--clamoring for lies. And they +get 'em, from clergymen, from mediums, from so-called scientific men, +and from the dear delightful politicians. There now!" + +And the professor dropped his forefinger and flung himself back in his +chair. + +"And"--Chichester in his turn leaned forward, but he spoke with some +hesitation--"and suppose I were to tell you a truth, a strange, an +amazing truth?" + +He paused. + +"Go on!" said the professor. + +"Wouldn't you do just the opposite? You say men accept lies. I say you +would probably reject truth." + +"_Cela depend_. What you believed to be truth might not be truth at +all. It might be hysteria, it might be nervous dyspepsia, it might be +overwork, it might be a dozen things." + +"Just what I say," exclaimed Chichester. "Men of science delight in +nothing so much as in finding excuses for rejecting the greatest truths." + +"Do you mean the greatest truths in the possession of Anglican +clergymen?" + +"I dare say you think it impossible that a clergyman should know more +than a scientific man?" + +"Oh, no. But he's out for faith, and I happen to be out for facts. I like +hard facts that can be set down with a fountain-pen in my note-book, and +that, taken together, are convincing to all men of reasonable intellect. +Very dull, no doubt; but there you have it. Clergymen, as a rule, move in +what are called lofty regions--the realms of heart, conscience, and what +not. Now, I'm very fond of the region of gray matter--gray matter." + +"And yet you are one of the chief of the investigators in the field of +psychical research." + +"Do you think there's no room for pencil and note-book there? What about +Podmore,--there's a loss!--and a dozen others? Psychic matters have got +to be lifted out of the hands of credulous fetish-worshiping fools, and +the sooner the better." + +"It's easy to call people credulous," said Chichester, with decided heat. +"By being so readily contemptuous, Professor Stepton, you may often keep +back evidence that might be of inestimable value to your cause. A man in +possession of a great truth may keep it to himself for fear of being +laughed at or called a liar." + +"Then all I can say is that he's a coward--an arrant abject coward." + +Chichester sat in silence. Again he was looking down. Now that his eyes +were hidden by their drooping lids, and that he was no longer speaking, +the sadness of his aspect seemed more profound. It dignified his rather +insignificant features. It even seemed, in some mysterious way, to infuse +power into his slight and unimportant figure. After sitting thus for +perhaps three minutes he raised his head and got up from his chair. + +"I must not take up your time any longer," he said. "It was very good of +you to see me at all." He held out his hand, which Stepton took, and +added, "I'll just say one thing." + +"Do!" + +"It isn't always cowardice which causes a man to keep a secret--a secret +which might be of value to the world." + +"I never said it was." + +"No; but still--you spoke just now of my sermons. I preached one not very +long ago which I have typed myself. If I send it to you do you think you +could find time to read it?" + +"Certainly." + +"I will send it, then. Good night." + +"I'll come down with you." + +The professor let Chichester out. The rain was still falling in torrents. +Shrouded in his mackintosh, protected by his umbrella, the curate walked +away. Looking after him, Stepton thought: + +"Very odd! It isn't only in the face. Even the figure, all covered up and +umbrella-roofed, seems to have something--he'll send me the sermon of the +man and his double to-morrow." + +And on the morrow that sermon came by the first post. Having read it, the +professor promptly returned it to Chichester with the following note: + +_The White House, Westminster. + +Dear Mr. Chichester:_ + +Very glad to have had the opportunity of reading your interesting +discourse. If I had not known it was yours, and a sermon, I should have +said "a posthumous work of Robert Louis Stevenson." It does credit to +your imagination. If you care to publish, I should suggest "The +Cornhill." I know nothing about their terms. + +Yours faithfully, + +_G.R.E. Stepton._ + +By return of post, there came an urgent invitation to the professor to +visit Chichester's rooms in Hornton Street, "to continue a discussion +which has a special interest for me at this moment." + +"Discussion!" thought Stepton, sitting down to accept, "What my man wants +is for me to goad him into revelation; and I'll do it." + +The professor knew enough of psychology to be aware that in the very +depths of the human heart there is a desire which may perhaps be called +socialistic--the desire to share truth with one's fellow-men. Chichester +was scourged by this desire. But whether what he wished to share was +truth, or only what he believed to be truth, was the question. Anyhow, +Stepton was determined to make him speak. And he set off to Hornton +Street little doubting that he would find means to carry his +determination into effect. + +He arrived about half-past five. He did not turn the corner into +Kensington High Street on his homeward way until darkness had fallen, +having passed through some of the most extraordinary moments that had +ever been his. + +When he was shown into the curate's sitting-room, his first remark was: + +"Sent that very interesting story to 'The Cornhill' yet?" + +"I don't think you quite understand, Professor," replied Chichester. +"I did not type it with a view to sending it in anywhere for publication. +You'll have tea with me, I hope? Here it is, all ready." + +"Thank you." + +"Oh, Ellen!" + +Chichester went to the door, and Stepton heard the words, "Nobody, you +understand," following on a subdued murmuring. + +"And Mr. Harding, sir?" said the maid's voice outside. + +"Mr. Harding won't come to-day. That will do, Ellen." + +The professor heard steps descending. His host shut the door and +returned. + +"You typed it for your own use?" said Stepton. + +"That sermon? Yes. I wished to keep it by me as a record." + +He sat down, and poured out the tea. + +"A record of an imagined experience. Exactly. Then why not publish?" + +"It is not fiction." + +"Well, it isn't fact." + +The professor drank his tea, looking at his host narrowly over the cup. + +"Do you say such an experience as that described in my sermon is +impossible?" + +"Do you say it is possible?" + +"If I were to say so would you believe me?" + +"Certainly not, unless I could make an investigation and personally +satisfy myself that what you said was true. You wouldn't expect anything +else, I'm sure." + +"You can believe nothing on the mere word of another?" + +"Very little. I am an investigator. I look for proof." + +"With your pencil in one hand, your note-book in the other." + +In Chichester's last remark there was a note of sarcasm which thoroughly +roused Stepton, for it sounded like the sarcasm of knowledge addressed +to ignorance. Stepton had a temper. This touch of superiority, not +vulgar, but very definite, fell on it like a lash. + +"Now I'll go for the reverend gentleman of St. Joseph's!" he thought. + +And for a moment he forgot his aim in remembering himself. Afterward, +in thinking matters over, he offered a pinch of incense at the altar +of his egoism. + +"So, the modern clergyman still believes in slip-slop, does he?" he +exclaimed in his most aggressive manner. "Even now hasn't he learnt the +value of the matter-of-fact? The clergyman is the doctor of the soul, +isn't he? And the doctor, isn't he the clergyman of the body? I wonder, +I do wonder, how long the average doctor would keep together his practice +if he worked with no more precision than the average clergyman. The +contempt of the pencil and note-book! The contempt of proper care in +getting together and coordinating facts! The contempt of proof--the +appeal to reason! And so we get to the contempt of reason. And let me +tell you--" he struck the tea-table with his lean hand till the curate's +cups jumped--"that scarcely ever have I heard a sermon in which was not +to be found somewhere the preacher's contempt for reason, the bread of +the intellect of man." + +"The soul is not the intellect." + +"Don't you think it higher?" + +"I do." + +"And so you put it on slops!" + +The professor got up from his chair, and began to sidle up and down the +small room. + +"You put it on slops, as if it were a thing with a disordered stomach. +That's your way of showing it respect. You approach the shrine with an +offering of water gruel. Now look ye here!"--The professor paused beside +the tea-table--"The soul wants its bread, depends upon it, as much as +the body, and the church that is free with the loaves is the church to +get a real hold on real men. Flummery is no good to anybody. Rhetoric's +no good to anybody. Claptrap and slipslop only make heads swim and +stomachs turn. The pencil and note-book, observation and the taking down +of it, these bring knowledge to the doors of men. And when you sneer at +them, you sneer at bread, on the eating of which--or its equivalent, +basis-nourishment--life depends." + +"I wonder whether you, and such as you, really know on what the true life +of the soul depends," said Chichester, with an almost dreadful quietness. + +The professor sat down again. + +"Such as I?" he said. "You are good enough to do me the honor of putting +me in a class?" + +"As you have so far honored me," returned Chichester. + +"Ha!" ejaculated Stepton. + +He had quite got the better of his egoism, but he by no means regretted +his outburst. + +"Do you claim to stand outside the ranks of the clergy?" he asked. + +"Do you claim to stand outside the ranks of the scientists?" + +"Oh, dear, no. And now--you?" + +Chichester said nothing for a moment. Then, lifting up his head, and +gazing at the professor with a sort of sternness of determination, he +said: + +"Remember this! You yourself told me that in a crowd of a thousand you +must have fixed your attention on me." + +For a moment the professor had it in his mind to say that this statement +of his had been a lie invented to make an impression on Chichester. But +he resisted the temptation to score--and lose. He preferred not to score, +and to win, if possible. + +"I did," he said. + +"Could this be so if I were like other men, other clergymen?" + +"Well, then, what is the mighty difference between you and your reverend +brethren--between you, let us say, and your rector, Mr. Harding?" + +Very casually and jerkily the professor threw out this question. + +Not casually did Chichester receive it. He moved almost like a man who +had been unexpectedly struck, then seemed to recover himself, and to +nerve himself for some ordeal. Leaning forward, and holding the edge of +the table with one hand, he said: + +"How well do you know Mr. Harding?" + +"Pretty well. Not intimately." + +"You have seen him since he--altered?" + +"I saw him only the other day when I was at a specialist's in Harley +Street." + +"A specialist's?" + +"For nervous dyspepsia." + +Again the look of contempt flickered over Chichester's face. + +"Do you think the alteration in Mr. Harding may be due to nervous +dyspepsia?" + +"Probably. There are few maladies that so sap the self-confidence of a +man." + +Chichester laughed. + +For the first time since he had entered the little room the professor +felt a cold sensation of creeping uneasiness. + +"Apparently you don't agree with me," he said. + +"I am not a doctor, and I know very little about that matter." + +"Then I'm bound to say I don't know what you find to laugh at." + +"For a man who has spent so much time in psychical research you seem to +have a rather material outlook upon--" + +"Mr. Harding?" + +"And all that he represents." + +"Suppose we stick to Mr. Harding," said the professor, grittily. "He is +typical enough, even if you are not." + +"In what respect do you consider Mr. Harding typical?" + +"I am speaking of the Harding before the fall into the abysses of nervous +dyspepsia." + +"Very well. In what respects was Mr. Harding typical?" + +"In the sublime self-confidence with which he proclaimed as facts, things +that have never been proved to be facts." + +"Do men want facts?" said Chichester, almost as one speaking alone to +himself. + +"I do. I want nothing else. Possibly Mr. +Harding had none to give me. I don't blame +him." + +"Perhaps it is a greater thing to give men faith than to give them +facts." + +"Give them the first by giving them the second, if you can! And that, +by the way, is the last thing the average clergyman is able to do." + +Chichester sat silent for nearly a minute looking at the professor with a +strange expression, almost fiery, yet meditative, as if he were trying to +appraise him, were weighing him in a balance. + +"Professor," he said at last, "I suppose your passion for facts has led +men to put a great deal of faith in you. Hasn't it?" + +"I dare say my word carries some weight. I really don't know," responded +Stepton, with an odd hint of something like modesty. + +"I had thought of Malling first," almost murmured Chichester. + +"What's that about Malling?" + +"I think he would have accepted what I have to give more readily than you +would. There seems to me something in him which stretches out arms toward +those things in which mystics believe. In you there seems to me something +which would almost rather repel such things." + +"I beg your pardon. I am quiescent. I neither seek to summon nor to +repel." + +"I couldn't tell Malling," said Chichester. "His readiness stopped me. It +struck me like a blow." + +"Malling prides himself on being severely neutral in mind." + +"And you on being skeptical?" + +"I await facts." + +"Shall I give you some strange facts, the strangest perhaps you have ever +met with?" + +Stepton smiled dryly. + +"You'll forgive me, but some such remark has been the prelude to so many +figments." + +"Figments?" + +"Of the imagination." + +An expression of anger--almost like a noble anger it seemed--transformed +Chichester's face. It was as a fine wrath which looked down from a +height, and in an instant it melted into pity. + +"How much you must have missed because of your skepticism!" he said. "But +I shall not let it affect me. You are a man of note-book and pencil. Will +you promise me one thing? Will you give me your word not to share what I +shall tell you with any one, unless, later on, I am willing that you +should?" + +"Oh, dear, yes!" said the professor. + +And again he smiled. For even now he believed the curate to be wavering, +swayed by conflicting emotions, and felt sure that a flick of the whip +to his egoism would be likely to hasten the coming of what he, the +professor, wanted. + +A loud call rose up from the street. A wandering vender of something +was crying his ware. In his voice was a sound of fierce melancholy. +Chichester went to the window and shut it down. + +"I wish it was night," he said as he turned. + +The professor jerked out his watch. + +"It must be getting late," he observed. "Past six! by Jove!" + +He made an abrupt movement. + +"What?" said Chichester. "You are going!" + +He came up to the table. + +"Sometimes I think," he said, "that men hate and dread nothing as they +hate and dread facts which may upset the theories they cherish." + +"You're perfectly right. Well, very glad to have seen you in your +own room." The professor got up. "By their rooms shall ye know them." +He glanced round. + +"Ah, I see you have Rossetti's delightfully anemic Madonna, and Holman +Hunt's 'Light of the World.' A day or two ago I was talking to a lady +who pronounced that--" he extended his finger toward the Hunt--"the +greatest work of art produced in the last hundred years. Her reason? +Its comforting quality. I am sure you agree with her. Good-by." + +He made a sidling movement toward the door. Perhaps it was that movement +which finally decided the curate to speak. + +"Professor," he said, "I don't want you to go yet." + +"Why not?" jerked out Stepton, with one hand on the door-knob. + +"You collect 'cases.' I have a case for you. You are a skeptic: you say +men should be brought to faith by facts. Sit down. I will give you some +facts." + +The professor came slowly back, looking dry and cold, and sat down by the +table, facing the Rossetti Madonna. + +"Always ready for facts," he said. + + + + +XI + + +"You have heard of doubles, of course, Professor?" said Chichester, +leaning his arms on the table and putting his hands one against the +other, as if making a physical effort to be very calm. + +"Of course. There was an account of one in that sermon of yours." + +"Have you ever seen a double?" + +"No; not to my knowledge." + +"I suppose you disbelieve in them?" + +"I have no reason to believe in them. I have not collected enough +evidence to convince me that there are such manifestations." + +"You know a double at this moment." + +"Do I, indeed? And may I ask the manifestation's name?" + +"Marcus Harding." + +"Marcus Harding is a double, you say. Whose?" + +"Mine," said Chichester in a low voice. + +He clasped and unclasped his hands. + +"I don't understand you," said Stepton, rather disdainfully. + +"I will try to make you." And Chichester began to speak, at first in a +low, level voice. "That sermon of mine," he said, "was a sort of shadow +of a truth that I wanted to reveal,--that I dared not fully reveal. +Already I had tried to tell Evelyn Malling something of it. I had failed. +When the moment came, when Malling was actually before me, I could not +speak out. His mind was trying to track the truth that was in me. He +got, as it were, upon the trail. Once he even struck into the truth. Then +he went away to Marcus Harding. I remained in London. When I knew that +those two were together I felt a sort of jealous fear of Malling. For +there was pity in him. Despite his intense curiosity he had a capacity +for pity. I realized that it might possibly interfere with--with +something that I was doing. And I recalled Marcus Harding to London. +From that moment I have avoided Malling. I could never tell him. But you, +hard searcher after truth as you are--you could never find it in you to +drag away another from the contemplation of truth. Could you? Could you?" + +"Probably not," said Stepton. "I usually let folks alone even when +they're glaring at falsehood. Ha!" + +He settled himself in his chair, looking sidewise toward Chichester. + +"You, like every one else, have noticed the tremendous change in Marcus +Harding," Chichester went on. "That change, the whole of that change, is +solely owing to me." + +"Very glad to have your explanation of that." + +"I am going to give it you. The beginning of that change came about +through the action of Marcus Harding. He wished for facts that are, +perhaps,--indeed, probably,--withheld deliberately from the cognizance +of man. You have sneered at those who live by faith, you have sneered at +priests. Well, you can let that Marcus Harding go free of your sarcasm. +Although a clergyman he was not a faithful man. And he wanted facts to +convince him that there was a life beyond the grave. Henry Chichester--" + +"You! You!" interjected Stepton, harshly. + +"I, then, came into his life. He thought he would use me to further his +purpose. He constrained me to sittings such as you have often taken part +in, with a view to sending me into a trance and employing me, when in +that condition, as a means of communication with the other world--if +there was one. We sat secretly in this room, at this table." + +"You need not give me ordinary details of your sittings," said the +professor. "I am familiar with them, of course." + +"Henry Chichester--" + +"You! You! Don't complicate matters!" + +"I never was entranced; but presently I felt myself changing subtly." + +"People very often imagine they are developing into something wonderful +at seances. Nothing new in that." + +"Please try to realize the facts of my case without assuming that it +resembles a thousand others. I believe, I feel sure, that it resembles no +other case that has come under your observation. To grasp it you must +grasp the characters of two men, Marcus Harding as he was--and myself, +as I was." + +"Put them before me, then." + +"That Marcus Harding you knew. He was the type of the man who, sublimely +self-confident, imposes his view of himself upon other men and especially +upon women. He had strength--strength of body and strength of mind. And +he had the strength which a devouring ambition sheds through a man. A +fine type of the worldly clergyman he was, of the ardent climber up +the ladder of preferment. To him the church was a career, and he meant +to succeed in it. If he had to begin as a curate he meant to end as a +bishop, perhaps as an archbishop. And he had will to help him, and +vitality to help him, and the sort of talent that brings quick notice +on a man. And he had also a woman to help him, his wife, Lady Sophia. +He chose well when he chose her for his helpmate, though he may not think +so now. He should have been content with what he had. But he wanted more, +and he thought he might perhaps get what he wanted through me. Marcus +Harding was a full-blooded type of the clerical autocrat. I once was an +equally complete type of the clerical slave--slave to conscience, slave +to humble-mindedness, slave to my rector as soon as I knew him. + +"St. Francis of Assisi was the character I worshiped. I strove after +simple goodness. I desired no glories of this world, no praises of men. +I did not wish to be clever or to shine, but only to do my duty to my +fellow-men, and so toward God. When I was first to make the acquaintance +of Marcus Harding, with a view to becoming his senior curate if he +thought fit, I felt some alarm. I had heard so much of his great energy +and his remarkable talents. The day came. I paid my visit to Onslow +Gardens. For the first time I saw--" Chichester paused. His face became +distorted. He turned toward the window as if anxious to hide his face +from the professor's small, keen eyes. "I saw--that man," he continued, +in a withdrawn and husky voice, and still looking away. + +Stepton sat motionless and silent, sidewise, with his arms hanging. + +Chichester, after another long pause, again faced him. + +"My very first impression was unfavorable. I attributed this to his +great size, which had startled me. I now know I was wrong in thinking +I took that impression from the outer man. It was the inner man who in +that moment announced himself to me. But almost instantly he had surely +withdrawn himself very far away, and I, then, had no means of following +him. So he escaped from me, and I fell under the influence that Marcus +Harding was able to exert at will. + +"I was dominated. Buoyancy, life, energy, self-confidence, radiated from +that man. He steeped me in his vigor. He seemed kind, cordial. He won my +heart. My intellect, of course, was dazzled. But--he won my heart. And I +felt not only, 'Here is a man far greater than myself to whom I can look +up,' but also, 'Here is a man to whom I must look up, because he is far +better than myself.' At that interview it was settled that I should +become senior curate at St. Joseph's. + +"As you know, I became, and still am, senior curate. As I grew to know +Marcus Harding better I admired him more. In fact, my feeling for him +was something greater than admiration. I almost worshiped him. His will +was law to me in everything. His slightest wish I regarded as a behest. +His talents amazed me. But I thought him not only the cleverest, but the +best of men. It seemed to me right that such a man should be autocratic. +A beneficent autocracy became my ideal of government. That my rector's +will should be law to his wife, his servants, his curates, his organist, +his choir, to those attached to his schools, to those who benefited by +the charities he organized, seemed to me more than right and proper. I +could have wished to see it law to all the world. If any one ventured +to question any decision of his, or to speak a word against him, I felt +almost hot with anger. In a word, I was at his feet, as the small and +humble-minded man often is at the feet of the man who has talents and +who is gifted with ambition and supreme self-confidence. + +"For a long time this condition of things continued, and I was happy in +it. Probably it might have continued till now, if--if that accursed idea +had not come to Marcus Harding." + +Again Chichester paused. In speaking he had evidently become gradually +less aware of his companion's presence and personality. His subject +had gripped him. Memory had grown warm within him. He lived in the days +that were past. + +"That accursed idea," he repeated slowly, "to use me as his tool in an +endeavor to break down the barrier which divides men from the other +world. + +"As I told you, we began to sit secretly. Marcus Harding wished me to +fall into the entranced condition. I did not know this at first, so at +first I did not consciously resist his desire. He had told me a lie. He +had told me that he desired only one thing in our sittings, to give to +me something of the will power that made him a force in the world. He had +declared that this was possible. I believed him unquestioningly. I +thought he was trying to send some of his power into me. Soon I felt that +he was succeeding in this supposed endeavor. Soon I felt that a strange +new power was filtering into me." + +Chichester fixed his eyes on Stepton as he said the last words, and +seemed to emerge from his former condition of self-absorption. + +"You have sat often. Have you ever felt such a sensation? It is like +growth," he said. + +"When one first begins to sit at seances, one is apt to imagine all sorts +of things in the darkness," returned Stepton. "I dare say I did, like +other folk." + +"I understand," said Chichester, with a sort of strange condescension. +"You think I was merely the victim of absurdity. The sense of this coming +of power grew slowly, but steadily, within me. And presently it was +complicated by another development, which involved--or began to involve, +let me say at this point--my companion, Marcus Harding. I think I ought +to tell you that in beginning the sittings I had had certain doubts, +which were swept away by my admiration of, and faith in, my rector. +Hitherto I had always thought that our human knowledge was deliberately +limited by God, and that it was very wrong to strive to know too much. +The man of science no doubt believes that it is impossible to know too +much; but I have thought that many great truths are kept from us because +we are not yet in a condition properly to understand them. I had, +therefore, begun these practices with a certain tremor, and possibly a +certain feeling of resistance, in the depths of my soul. As I felt the +power coming to me I had put away my fears. They did not return. Yet +surely the new development within me, of which I now became aware, was +connected with those fears, however subtly. It was a sensation almost of +hostility directed against Marcus Harding." + +"Ah, now!" ejaculated the professor, as if in despite of himself. "And +where's the connection you speak of?" + +"Marcus Harding had constrained me to do a thing that in my soul I had +believed to be wrong and that had roused my fear. As power dawned in me, +directing itself upon everything about me, it was instinctively hostile +to him who had dominated me before I had any power, and who, by +dominating me, had for a moment made me afraid." + +"Retrospective enmity! Very well!" muttered the professor. "I understand +you. Keep on!" + +"This hostility--if I may call a feeling at first not very definite by +so definite a name--induced in me a critical attitude of mind. I found +myself, to my surprise, secretly criticizing the man whom till now I had +regarded as altogether beyond the reach of criticism. I felt that Marcus +Harding was giving me power. I was grateful to him for doing so; yet I +began to see him in a new, and at moments an unpleasant light. Presently, +after trying in vain to combat this novel sensation, which seemed to me +almost treacherous, almost disloyal, I sought about for a reason, to give +myself at least some justification for it. I sought, and one night it +seemed to me that I found. + +"On that night I was more than ever aware that strength of some kind was +pouring into me. I had an almost heady sensation, such as one who drinks +a generous wine may experience. When we rose from the table I told my +rector so. He stared at me very strangely. Then he said: 'Good! Good! +Didn't I tell you I would give you some of my power?' He paused. Then he +added: 'It will come! It must come!' As he spoke the last words he +frowned, and all his face seemed to harden, as if he were making a +violent mental effort to which the body was obliged to respond. And at +that instant I was aware that the reason Marcus Harding had given to me +to persuade me to these sittings was not the true one, that his purpose +was quite other than that which I had hitherto supposed it to be. I was +suddenly aware of this, and I thought: 'I must already have been aware of +it subconsciously, and that accounts for my sensation of hostility toward +the rector.' A lie had been told to me. My new self-confidence resented +this; and I said to myself, 'If Marcus Harding can tell a lie to me, who +almost worshiped him, he must be an arrant hypocrite.' + +"We sat again, and again I knew that there was something in the mind +of my companion which he concealed from me, something to which I should +strongly object if I knew what it was, something which troubled the +atmosphere, the mental atmosphere, of the sitting. Instead of being +in accord, we were engaged in a silent, but violent, struggle. I was +determined not to be overcome. A sort of fierce desire for tyranny +sprang up in me. I longed to see Marcus Harding at my feet. + +"Again and again we sat. My hostile feeling grew. My critical feeling +grew. My longing to tyrannize increased, till I was almost afraid of it, +so cruel did I feel it to be. 'Down! Down under my feet!' That was what +my soul was secretly saying now to the man whose will had been as law to +me. And one night, as if he heard that ugly voice of my soul, he abruptly +got up from the table and said: 'It seems to me that you and I are not +_en rapport_. It seems to me that no more good can come of these +sittings. We had better not sit again." + +"We must sit again," I replied. + +"Marcus Harding turned scarlet with anger. He looked at me. He opened his +lips to speak. I let him speak. I even argued the question with him. I +pointed out to him that his only design--the only design acknowledged by +him, at any rate, in beginning these practices--had been to give me +strength such as, he had declared to me, he himself had drawn while at +Oxford from a Hindu comrade. In carrying out this design, I now told him, +he was being successful. I felt that I was growing in power of will, in +self-confidence. How, then, could he refuse to continue when success was +already in sight? 'Unless,' I concluded, 'you had some other design in +persuading me to sit, which I did in the first instance against my +secret desire, and you feel that there is now no probability of carrying +that design into effect.' + +"He gave in. I had him beaten. Hastily he muttered a good-night and left +me. I let him out into the night. As soon as the street door had shut on +him I ran upstairs. I went to that window,--" Chichester flung out his +hand--"pushed it up, leaned out, and watched him down the street. I saw +him pass under a gas-lamp and I said to myself: 'You have submitted to my +will, and you shall submit again. I am the master now.' + +"In that moment all the domination which I had so joyously endured, which +I had even surely reveled in,--for there are those who can revel in their +slavery,--abruptly became in my mind a reason for revenge. Marcus Harding +disappeared in the night; but still I leaned out, staring down the way he +had gone, and thinking, 'You shall pay me back for it. You shall pay me +back.' + +"From that night I made no effort to check the critical faculty, the +exercise of which at first had seemed to me a sort of treachery. And as +I let myself criticize, I saw more clearly. The scales fell from my eyes. +I realized that I had been nothing less than blind in regard to Marcus +Harding. I saw him now as he was, a victim of egomania, a worldling, +tyrannical, falsely sentimental, and unfaithful steward, a liar--perhaps +even an unbeliever. His whole desire--I knew it now--was not to be good, +but to be successful. His charity, his pity for the poor, his generosity, +his care for his church, for his schools--all was pretence. I saw Marcus +Harding as he was. And what followed?" + +Chichester leaned forward to the professor. + +"Fear followed," he said in a withdrawn voice. + +"Fear!" said Stepton, clearing his throat with a loud, rasping noise. + +"Whenever I was with Marcus Harding in any public place I was now +companioned by fear. I dreaded unspeakably lest others should begin to +see what I saw. When he preached, I could hardly sit to listen: I felt +as if any shame falling upon him would overwhelm me also. I strove in +vain to combat this strange, this, then, inexplicable sensation. With +every sitting this terror grew upon me. It tortured me. It obsessed me. +It drove me into action. When I was with my rector, I tried perpetually +to prevent him from exposing his true self to the world, by changing +the conversation, by attenuating his remarks, by covering up his actions +with my own, sometimes even by a brusque interruption. But in the pulpit +he escaped from me. I was forced to sit silent and to listen while he +preached doctrine in which he had no belief, and put forward theories +of salvation, redemption by faith, and the like, which meant less than +nothing to him. Finding this presently unendurable by me, I strove to +govern him mentally when he was in the pulpit, to track him, as it were, +with my mind, to head him off with my mind when he was beginning to take +the wrong path." + +"Did you succeed in that effort?" interrupted the professor. + +"I made an impression, a terrible impression, upon him. I almost broke +him down. I sapped his self-confidence. His power as a preacher deserted +him, as his power outside the pulpit deserted him. With every day I felt +that I saw more clearly into every recess, every cranny, of his mind and +nature. Just at first this frightfully clear sight was mine only when we +were sitting; but presently it was mine whenever I was with him. And he +knew it, and went in fear of me. Gradually, very gradually, it came about +that our former positions were reversed; for as he sank down in the human +scale, I mounted. As he lost in power, I gained. And especially in the +pulpit I felt that now I had force, that I could grip my hearers, could +make a mighty impression upon those with whom I was brought into contact. + +"But I must tell you that now I gained no satisfaction from my own +improvement, if so it may be called. My whole life was vitiated by my +secret terror lest Marcus Harding should be found out, should ever be +known for what he was. His actions, and even his thoughts, affected me +with an intimacy that was inexplicable." + +"You were in telepathic communication with him!" interjected Stepton. + +"Call it so if you like. Often I felt what he was thinking, almost as if +each thought of his were a hand laid upon me--a hand from which I shrank +with an almost trembling repugnance. Sometimes when he thought something +contemptible or evil, I shrank as if from a blow. + +"There was a link between us. Presently, soon, I knew it. We seemed in +some dreadful way to belong to each other, so that whatever was thought, +said, done by him, whatever happened to him, reacted upon me. + +"At this time Lady Sophia Harding hated me with a deadly hatred. Formerly +she had been indifferent to me. Concentrated upon her husband, adoring +him, vain of him, greedily ambitious for his advancement, she had had no +time to bestow on a clerical nonentity. But as I grew to understand +what her husband really was she grew to hate me. She was almost rude to +me. She spoke ill of me behind my back. She even tried to oust me from my +position as senior curate of St. Joseph's. Why did not she succeed? Are +you thinking that?" + +"Well, what if I was?" snapped the professor, moving in his chair. + +"Marcus Harding could not make a move to get rid of me. There was a link +between us which he could not even try to break. + +"One night--one night--I discovered what that link was." + +It was growing dark in the room. The Rossetti Madonna, thin, anemic, +with hanging hair, seemed fading away on the somber, green wall. The +window-panes looked spectral and white. The faint murmur of the city +sounded a little deeper and much sadder than in the light of day. +Stepton was aware of a furtive but strong desire for artificial light in +the room, but he did not choose to mention it. And Chichester, whose +voice--so it seemed to his hearer--began to have that peculiar almost +alarming timbre which belongs to a voice speaking not for the ears of +another, but for the satisfaction only of the soul which it expresses, +continued his narrative, or confession, as if unaware of the dying of +day. + +"During the day which preceded it I had been haunted by the thought of +myself doing what Marcus Harding could not do. Why should not I of my own +will leave St. Joseph's, get away from this dreadful contemplation which +obsessed me, from this continual anxiety--almost amounting to terror at +moments--which gnawed me? Why should not I break this mysterious link, +impalpable yet strong? If I did, should I not again find peace? But my +sittings with Marcus Harding would be at an end. Could I give them up? +I asked myself that, and I felt as if I could not. Through them, by means +of them, I felt as if I might attain to something wonderful--terrible +perhaps, but wonderful. I felt as if I were approaching the threshold of +absolute truth. A voice within me whispered, 'Go no further.' Was it the +voice of conscience? I did not heed it. Something irresistible urged me +forward. I thrust away from me with a sort of crude mental violence the +haunting thought. And when the darkness came I greeted it. + +"For he came with the darkness." + +On the wall opposite to the professor the thin Madonna faded away. + +"As I heard his heavy step on the stairs that night I said to myself, 'At +all hazards I will see, I will know, more. I will see, I will know--all.' +When he entered at that door"--a thin darkness moved in the darkness as +Chichester pointed--"he was dreadfully white and looked sad, almost +terrified. He suggested that we should break through our plan and not +sit. I refused. He then said he wished to sit in light. I refused. He was +become my creature. He dared not disobey my desires! We placed our hands +on this table, not touching. I could no longer endure the touch of his +hand. We remained motionless. A long time passed. There were no rappings. +A strange deadness seemed to prevail in the room. Presently it faded +away, and I had the sensation that I was sitting quite alone. + +"At first it seemed to me that my companion must have crept out of the +room silently, leaving me by myself in the darkness. I shuddered at the +thought that I was alone. But then I said to myself that Marcus Harding +must be there in the blackness opposite to me, and I moved my hands +furtively on the table, thinking to prove his presence to myself by +touch. I did not prove it. Suddenly I had no need to touch him in order +to know that he was there." + +"Why not?" said the professor, and started at the sound of his own voice +in the little room. + +"Something made me realize that he was still within the room. +Nevertheless, I felt that I was alone. How could that be? I asked myself +that question. This answer came as it were sluggishly into my mind, 'You +are alone not because Marcus Harding is away, but because Henry +Chichester is away.' For a long while I sat there stagnantly dwelling on +this knowledge which had come to me in the blackness. It was as if I knew +without understanding, as a man may know he is involved in a catastrophe +without realizing how it has affected his own fate. And then slowly there +came to me, or grew in me, an understanding of how I was alone. I was +alone with Marcus Harding at that moment because I was Marcus Harding. A +shutter seemed to slide back softly, and for the first time I, Marcus +Harding, stared upon myself out of the body of another man, of Henry +Chichester. I was alone with my soul double. Motionless, silent, I gazed +upon it. Now I understood why I had been tortured with anxiety lest +the world should learn to comprehend Marcus Harding as I comprehended +him. Now I understood why neither he nor I had been able to break that +mysterious link which our sittings had forged between us. I had been +trying ignorantly to protect myself, to conceal my own shortcomings, to +cover my own nakedness. I had sweated with fear lest my own truth should +be discovered by all those to whom for so many years I had been +presenting a lie. Yes, I had sweated with fear; but even then how little +I had known! A voice cried out suddenly, 'Turn on the light!' It was +the voice of my double. It seemed to awake, or to recall perhaps,--how +can I say?--Henry Chichester. I was aware of a shock; it seemed strongly +physical. I got up at once and turned the light on. Marcus Harding was +before me, trembling, ashen. 'What is it? What has happened?' he said in +a broken voice. I made no reply. He left me. I heard his step in the +street--out there!" + +Chichester was silent. The professor said nothing for a moment, but +passed his tongue twice over his lips and swallowed, sighing immediately +afterward. + +"Transferred personality!" he muttered--"transferred personality. Is that +what you'd have me believe?" + +"I'll tell you the rest. When Marcus Harding's steps died away down the +street I remained here. Since that shock I have spoken of, I felt that I +was again Henry Chichester, changed, as I had long been changed--charged +with new force, new knowledge, new discrimination, new power over others, +gifted with a penetrating vision into the very soul of the man I had +worshiped, yet Henry Chichester. And as Henry Chichester I suffered; I +condemned myself. This I said to myself that night, 'I was determined to +see. I disregarded the voice within me which warned me that I was +treading a forbidden path. God has punished me. He has allowed me to see. +But this shall be the end. I will never sit again. I will give up my +curacy. I will leave St. Joseph's at once. Never more will I set eyes on +Marcus Harding.' I was in a condition of fierce excitement--" + +"Ah, exactly," muttered the professor, almost as if consoled--"fierce +excitement!" + +"I could not think of sleep. For a long time I remained in here, +sitting, standing, pacing, opening books; I scarcely know what I did +or did not do. At last a sensation of terrible exhaustion crept over me. +I undressed. I threw myself on my bed. I tried to sleep. I turned, +shifted, got up, let in more air, again lay down, lay resolutely still +in the dark, tried not to think. But always my mind dwelt on that matter. +In those few frightful moments what had become of myself, of Henry +Chichester? Had the powerful personality of that man whom once I had +almost worshiped thrust him away, submerged him, stricken him down in a +sort of deathlike trance? What I had seen I remembered now as Henry +Chichester. What I had known in those moments I still knew now as Henry +Chichester. In vain I revolved this matter in my feverish mind. It was +too much for me. I was in deep waters. + +"I closed my eyes. The fatigue wrapped me more closely. Sleep at last was +surely drawing near. But suddenly I knew--how I cannot exactly say--that +once more the shutter was to be drawn back for me. This knowledge +resembled a horrible physical sensation. The entry of it into my mind, or +indeed into my very soul, was as the dawning of a dreadful and unnatural +pain in the body. This pain increased till it became agony. Although I +still lay motionless, I felt like one involved in a furious struggle in +which the whole sum of me took violent part. And there came to me the +simile of a man seized by tremendous hands, and held before a window +opening into a room in which something frightful was about to take place. +And the shutter slipped back from the window. + +"Again I looked upon myself. That was my exact sensation. The shutter +drawn back, I assisted at the spectacle of Marcus Harding's life. And it +was my life. I knew with such frightful intimacy that my knowledge was as +vision. Therefore, I say, I saw. Not only my spirit seemed to be gazing, +but also my bodily eyes. + +"I saw myself in the night slowly approaching my house in Onslow Gardens, +ashen pale, shaken, terrified. At a corner I passed a policeman. He knew +me and saluted me with respect. I made no gesture in response. He stared +at me in surprise. Then a smile came into his face--the smile of a man +who is suddenly able to think much less of another than he thought +before. I left him smiling thus, reached my house, and stood before it. + +"Now I must tell you, and I rely absolutely on your regarding this as +said in the strictest, most inviolable confidence--" + +"Certainly. Word of honor, and so forth!" said the professor, quickly and +sharply. + +"I must tell you that Marcus Harding is a sinner, and not merely in the +sense in which all men are sinners. There have been recurring moments in +his life when he has committed actions which, if publicly known, would +ruin him in the eyes of the world and put an end to his career. As I +looked at myself standing before my house, I saw that I was hesitating +whether to go in with my misery, or whether to seek for it the hideous +alleviation of my beloved sin. + +"Professor,"--it seemed to Stepton at this moment as if Chichester's +voice loomed upon him out of the darkness by which they were now +enshrouded,--"it has been said that nothing shocks a man so terribly as +the sight of his body-double; that to see what appears to be himself, +even if only standing at a window or sitting before a fire, causes +in a man a physical horror which seems to strike to the very roots of his +physical being. I looked now upon my soul-double, piercing the fleshly +envelop and it was my very soul that sweated and turned cold. For I +perceived the dreadful action which, if known, would certainly ruin me, +being committed by the spirit. The slavish body had not yet bowed down +and done its part; but it was about to obey the impulse of the spirit. +Slowly the body turned away from its home. The spirit was driving it. The +demon with the whip was at work in the night. I looked till the dawn +came. And only when at last my double crept, like a thief, into its +house, did sleep take me for a little while--sleep that was alive with +nightmare." + +Chichester was silent. The professor heard him breathing quickly, saw +him, almost as a shadow just shown by the faint light that entered from +the street through the two small windows, clasp and unclasp his hands, +touch his forehead, his eyelids, move in his chair, like a man profoundly +stirred and unable to be at ease. + +"When I woke," he continued, after a long pause, which the professor did +not break by a word or a movement, "I woke to combat. As I told you, I +had resolved at once to resign my curacy, and never to see that man +again. In the light of the morning I sat down to write my letter of +resignation; but I could not do it. A fearful compulsion to remain was +upon me. I wrote a few words. I stopped, tore the note up, began again. +But writing was impossible. Then I resolved to visit Marcus Harding and +to tell him that I must go. I went to his house. He was at home. When I +saw him I told him that I wished him to sit again that night. He strove +to refuse. He did not understand the truth, but he was terrified. I +ordered him to come to my rooms that night, and left him. As I was going +away I met Lady Sophia. To my amazement, she stopped me, spoke to me +kindly, even more than kindly, looked at me with an expression in her +eyes that almost frightened me. I said to myself, 'But those are a +slave's eyes!' as I left her. Never before had any woman looked at me +like that. In that moment, I think, she began to turn from him toward +me, to forsake weakness for strength. Yes, I say strength. I was rent by +the tumult within me, but I had strength. I have it now. For, despite +his hypocrisy, his unbelief, his active sinning, Marcus Harding had been +a strong man. And even Henry Chichester, with all his humbleness, his +readiness to yield to others, to think nothing of himself, had had the +strength that belongs to purity of soul. And then there is the strength +the soul draws from looking upon truth. There was strength, there is now, +for the woman to follow. And instinct has surely guided her. She does +not, she cannot know. And yet instinct sends her in search of the +strength." + +"What do you mean by that? What do you claim?" + +"You read that sermon?" + +"I did." + +"Don't you understand? I am that man at the window. He did not flee +away. He could not. He was, he is, compelled to remain. He watches that +dreadful life. And the other within the room is fading. The strength, +the authority, the power, are coming to me. Every sitting broadens that +bridge across which the deserters are passing. When I preached that +sermon my congregation sat as if numbed by terror. And he in the choir +listened, never moving. I saw his spirit, dazed, stretching out to grasp +the truth, slipping back powerless to do it. It was like a thing moving +through the gloom of deep waters--of deep, deep waters." + +Again Chichester's voice died away. In the silence that followed the +professor heard the faint ticking of a clock. He had not noticed it +before. He could not tell now whether it came from within the room or +from the room behind the folding-doors. It seemed to him as if this +ticking destroyed his power to think clearly, as if it threw his brain +into an unwonted confusion which made him feel strangely powerless. He +was aware of a great uneasiness approaching, if not actually amounting to +fear. This uneasiness made him long for light. Yet he knew that he +dreaded light; for he was aware of an almost unconquerable reluctance to +look upon the face of his companion. Beset by conflicting desires, +therefore, and the prey of unwonted emotion, he sat like one paralyzed, +listening always to the faint ticking of the clock, and striving to +reduce what was almost like chaos to order in his brain. + +"Why have you selected me to be the hearer of this--this very +extraordinary statement?" he forced himself at length to say prosaically. +The sound of his own dry voice somewhat reassured him, and he added: +"Though there is nothing very extraordinary in the facts you have +related. Telepathic communication between one mind and another is a +commonplace of to-day, an old story. Every one of course accepts it as +possible. What novelty do you claim to present to startle science?" + +"I say that telepathy does not explain the link between Marcus Harding +and myself." + +The professor struck his hand on the table. It seemed to him that if only +he could get into an argument this strange confusion and fear might leave +him. He would be on familiar ground. + +"What you call vision might be merely mind-reading, what you call +perceiving the action of the spirit, mind-reading. Your terror lest +others should find out bad truths about Marcus Harding would spring +naturally enough from your lingering regard for him. Your acute anxiety +when he is preaching arises of course from the fact that, owing to bodily +causes, no doubt, his mental powers are failing him, and he is no longer +able to do himself justice." + +"You don't understand. What I desired in our sittings was to draw into +myself strength, power, will from--him. What have I done? I have drawn +into myself the very man. That night when the shutter slipped back he +looked out from the body of Henry Chichester. His mind worked, his soul +was alive, within the cage of another man. And meanwhile Henry Chichester +lay as if submerged, but presently stirred, and, however feebly, lived +again. He lives now. But not from him comes my frightful comprehension of +Marcus Harding. Not him does Marcus Harding fear. Not to him does she, +the woman, look with the eyes of a slave. It is not he who dominates the +crowds in St. Joseph's. It is not he who conceived that sermon of the man +and his double. It is not he who has sometimes been terribly afraid." + +"Afraid! Afraid!" + +"There have been moments when I have been moved to snatch my double out +of the sight of men. That day when we met Evelyn Malling I feared as I +left them alone together; and when I found Malling intimately there in +that house, I felt like one coming upon an ambush which might be +destructive of his safety. My instinct was to detach Malling from my +double, to attach him to myself. My conduct startled him. I saw that +plainly. Yet I tried to win him over, as it were, to my side. He came to +me. I strove to tell him, but something secret prevented me. And +how could he assist me?" + +Chichester got up from the table. The professor saw a darkness moving as +he went to stand by the empty fireplace. + +"I must look on truth," he continued; "I have to. The fascination of +staring upon the truth of oneself is deadly, but it surpasses all other +fascination. He sins more often now. I watch him sin. Sometimes under +my contemplation I see him writhing like a thing in a trap--the semblance +of myself. How the woman despises him now! Sometimes I feel deeply sad +at my own ruthlessness. It is frightful to contemplate the physical wreck +of a being whom, in some strange and hideous way, one always feels to +be oneself. When I look at him it is as if his fallen face, his hanging +nerveless hands, his down-drooping figure and eyes lit with despair were +mine. His poses, his gestures, his physical tricks, they are all mine. +I watch them with a cold, enveloping disgust, frozen in criticism of +everything he does, anticipating every movement, every look, hating +it when it comes, because it is bred out of the remnant of a spirit +I despise as no man surely has ever despised before. Henry Chichester +would pity, but he is overborne. He is in me as a drop may be in the +ocean. I am most aware of him when my double sins. Only last night we +sat"--Chichester came back to the table, and stood there, very faintly +relieved against the darkness by the dim light which penetrated through +the windows--"we sat in the darkness, and more deeply than ever before +I went down into the darkness. I felt as if I were penetrating into the +last recesses of a ruined temple. And there, in the ultimate chamber +crouched all that was left of the inmate, terrified, helpless, and +ignorant. As I looked upon him I understood why man is never permitted +really to know himself unless, in an access of mad folly and overweening +pride, he succeeds in crossing the boundary which to pass is sheer +wickedness. And I tried to turn away, but I could not--I could not. +I made a supreme effort. It was in vain. + +"I saw him go home. At last he was sick of his sin. There rose within him +that strange longing for goodness, for purity and rest, that terrible, +aching desire to be what those who once loved him for long had thought +him to be, which perhaps never dies in the soul of a human being. Is it +the instinct of the Creator burning like an undying spark in the created? +And, as he drew near to his house, there came to him the resolve to +speak, to acknowledge, to say, 'This is what I am. Know me as I am! Care +for me still, in spite of what I am!' He went in, and sought her--the +woman. She was alone. Sleep had not come to her. Perhaps some instinct +had told her she must wake and be ready for something. Then he gathered +together the little that was left to him of courage, and he strove to +tell her, to make her understand some of the truth, to obtain from her +the greatest of human gifts--the love of one from whom a man has no +secrets that he can tell. + +"She listened for a moment, then she thrust out her hands as if to push +the truth of him out of her life. And last night she left him--going in +fear of him." + +The professor shook his narrow shoulders, and sprang abruptly to his +feet. The ticking of the clock now sounded almost like a hammer beating +in his ears. + +"It's time we had some light," he said in rather a loud voice. + +The darkness that was Chichester moved. A gleam of light shone in the +little room, revealing the thin Madonna, "The Light of the World," the +piano, the neatly bound books of the curate of St. Joseph's; revealing +Chichester, who now stood facing the professor, white, drawn, lined, but +with eyes full of almost hideous resolution and power. + +"I advise," said the professor--"I advise you from this time forward--" + +He stared into the eyes of the man opposite to him, and his voice died +away in his throat. + +When, immediately afterward, he found himself walking hurriedly toward +Kensington High Street the sweat was pouring down his face. + + + + +XII + + +One night of that autumn, driven by an overmastering impulse, Evelyn +Malling set out toward Kensington. He felt that he must know something +more of the matter between Marcus Harding and Henry Chichester. Stepton +still kept silence. Malling had not approached him. But why should he not +call upon Chichester, an acquaintance, almost a friend? It was true that +he had resolved, having put the affair into Stepton's hands, to wait. It +had come to this, then, to-night that he could be patient no longer? As +he stood at the corner of Hornton Street, he asked himself that question. +He drew out his watch. It was already past eleven, an unholy hour for an +unannounced visit. But slowly he turned into Hornton Street, slowly went +down that quiet thoroughfare till he was opposite to the windows of the +curate's sitting-room. A light shone in one of them. The rest of the +house was dark. Even the fanlight above the small front door displayed no +yellow gleam. No doubt the household had retired to rest and Henry +Chichester was sitting up alone. A rap would probably bring him down to +open to his nocturnal visitor. But now Malling bethought himself +seriously of the lateness of the hour, and paced slowly up and down, +considering whether to seek speech of the curate or to abandon that idea +and return to Cadogan Square. As in his mental debate he paused once more +opposite to the solitary gleam in the first-floor window, an incident +occurred which startled him, and gave a new bent to his thoughts. It was +this: The light in the window was obscured for a moment as if by some +solid body passing before it. Then the window was violently thrown up, +the large figure of a man, only vaguely perceived by Malling, appeared at +it, and a choking sound dropped out into the night. The man seemed to be +leaning out as if in an effort to fill his lungs with air, or to obtain +the relief of the cool night wind for his distracted nerves. His attitude +struck Malling as peculiar and desperate. Suddenly he moved. The light +showed, and Malling saw for an instant a second figure, small, slight, +commanding. The big man seemed to be sucked back toward the center of the +room. Down came the window; the tranquil gleam of the light shone as +before; then abruptly all was dark. + +Malling realized at once what was happening in the curate's lodgings. As +he paused, gazing at the dark house, he knew that the miserable Marcus +Harding was within, constrained to endure the observation which, to use +his own hideous but poignant phrase, was "eating him away." It was he who +had appeared at the window, like a tortured being endeavoring to escape +into the freedom of the night. It was Henry Chichester who had followed +him, who had drawn him back, who had plunged him into darkness. + +The street was deserted. No policeman passed, regarding him with +suspicion, and Mailing went on sentinel duty. The dark house fascinated +him. More than once a desire came to him to make an effort for the +release of Marcus Harding, to cross the street and to hammer brutally +at the green door. He recalled Henry Chichester's strange sermon, and +he felt as if he assisted at the torture of the double, which he himself +had imaginatively suggested to the two clergymen in Lady Sophia's +drawing-room. Ought he not to interrupt such a torture? + +Midnight struck, and he had not knocked. One o'clock struck; he had paced +the street, but had never gone out of sight of the curate's door. It was +nearly two, and Mailing was not far from the High Street end of the +thoroughfare when he heard a door bang. He turned sharply. A heavy +uncertain footstep rang on the pavement. Out of the darkness emerged a +tall figure with bowed head. As it moved slowly forward once or twice it +swayed, and a wavering arm shot out as if seeking for some support. +Malling stood where he was till he saw the broad ghastliness of Marcus +Harding's white face show under the ray of a lamp. He discerned no eyes. +The eyes of the unhappy man seemed sunken out of recognition in the +dreadful whiteness of his countenance. The gait was that of one who +believes himself dogged, and who tries to slink furtively, but who has +partly lost control of his bodily powers, and who starts in terror at his +own too heavy and sounding footfalls. + +This figure went by Malling, and was lost in the lighted emptiness of the +High Street. Malling did not follow it. Now he had a great desire, born +out of his inmost humanity, to speak with Henry Chichester. He made up +his mind to return to the curate's door: if he saw a light to knock and +ask for admittance; if the window was dark to go on his way. He retraced +his steps, looked up, and saw a light. Then it was to be. That man and he +were to speak together. But as he looked, the light was extinguished. +Nevertheless he struck upon the door. + +No one answered. He struck again, then stepped back into the roadway, and +looked up at Chichester's window. The curate must surely have heard. Yes, +for even as Malling gazed the window moved. No light appeared. But after +a pause a voice above said: + +"Is that you, Mr. Harding?" + +The dim figure of a man was apparent, standing a little back and half +concealed by a darkness of drooping curtains. + +"It is I--Evelyn Malling," said Malling. + +The form at the window started. + +"Mr. Malling!" the words came uncertainly. "What is it? Has--has anything +happened to--why do you want me at such an hour?" + +"I chanced to be in your street and saw your light. I thought I would +give you a hail." + +"Do you mean that you want to come in?" + +After a short pause Malling answered, "Yes." + +"I cannot let you in!" the voice above cried out lamentably. + +Then the window was shut very softly. + + * * * * * + +Three days later Malling saw in the papers the news of the complete +breakdown of Marcus Harding. "Nervous prostration," was the name given by +the doctors to his malady, and it was announced that he had been ordered +to take a sea voyage, and was preparing to start for Australia with a +nurse. + +Soon afterward Malling was walking in the afternoon down Pall Mall, +wondering deeply what would happen, whether the rector would ever start +on that voyage, when he came upon Professor Stepton sidling out of the +Athenaeum. + +"Heard about Harding?" jerked out the professor. + +"Yes. Has he sailed for Australia?" + +"Dead. Died at half-past three o'clock this morning." + +Malling turned cold. + +"Poor fellow!" he said. "Poor fellow!" + +The professor was drawing his plaid shawl round his shoulders. When it +was properly adjusted, he began to walk on. Malling kept almost +mechanically beside him. + +"Did you expect this?" Malling asked. + +"Well, I knew he was failing." + +"And Chichester? Have you seen Chichester since his death?" + +"No. Would you like to see him for me?" + +Malling was deep in thought and did not answer. + +"Do you think?" said the professor, "that Henry Chichester will be +greatly affected by this death?" + +"Affected? Do you mean by grief?" + +"Yes." + +"I should suppose that to be highly improbable." + +The professor shot a very sharp glance at Malling. + +"I'm not sure that I agree with you," he observed dryly. + +"Have you seen him lately?" asked Malling. + +"Not quite recently. But if I had seen him, say, yesterday, I don't think +that would greatly affect my present dubiety. I should, however, like to +set that dubiety at rest. Are you busy to-day?" + +"No." + +"I am. Will you make a little investigation for me? Will you go and pay a +visit of condolence to Chichester on the death of his rector, and then +come round to the White House and report?" + +"I will if you wish it." + +"I shall be in after seven." + +"Very well." + +"I dare say you will be surprised," observed Stepton. "I see my bus." + +Malling left him imperatively waving his arm, and, turning, walked toward +Kensington. + +What were his expectations? He did not know. Stepton had upset his mind. +As he went on slowly he strove to regain his mental equilibrium. But he +could not decide exactly what Stepton had meant. He felt inferior to the +professor as he turned into Hornton Street. + +He did not hesitate, but went at once to the curate's door and rapped. No +one answered. He rapped again, and touched the bell, half hoping, even +while he did so, that there was no one within to hear. + +But an inquiring head appeared in the area, observed, and was sharply +withdrawn. Steps sounded in the passage, and the maid Ellen presented +herself, looking somewhat disordered. + +"Yes, sir?" she said. + +"Is Mr. Chichester at home?" + +"He is in, sir, poor gentleman," replied the maid. "Did you want to see +him?" + +"Yes." + +"I'm sure I don't know whether he will see you, sir." + +"Is he ill?" + +"Not to say ill, sir. But haven't you heard?" + +"What?" + +"His poor rector's gone, sir, what used to come here to visit him so +regular. I never see a gentleman in such a way. Why, he's so changed I +don't hardly know him." + +"Have you been here long?" said Mailing, abruptly. + +"Only six months, sir." + +The maid began to look rather astonished. + +"And so Mr. Chichester is quite altered by his grief?" + +"You never did, sir! He was so firm, wasn't he, above every one! Even his +rector used to look to him and be guided by him. And now he's as gentle +and weak almost as a new-born child, as they say." + +Malling thought of Stepton. Had he looked forward to some such change? + +"Perhaps I could console Mr. Chichester in his grief," he said. "Will you +take him this card and ask if I can see him? I knew Mr. Harding, too. I +might be of use, possibly." + +"I'll ask him, sir. He's laying down on the bed, I do believe." + +Ellen hurried up-stairs with the card. It seemed to Malling that she was +away for a long time. At last she returned. + +"If you please, sir, Mr. Chichester wants to know if it's anything +important. He's feeling very bad, poor gentleman. But of course if it's +anything important, he wouldn't for all the world say no." + +"It is important." + +"Then I was to ask you to walk in, sir, please." + +Chichester's sitting-room was empty when Malling came into it, and the +folding-doors between it and the bedroom were shut. Ellen went away, +and Malling heard a faint murmur of voices, and then Ellen's footstep +retreating down the stairs. Silence followed. He waited, at first +standing. Then he sat down near the piano. Not a sound reached him from +the bedroom. On the curate's table lay a book. Malling took it up. The +title was "God's Will be Done." The author was a well-known high-church +divine, Father Rowton. To him, then, Henry Chichester betook himself for +comfort. The piano stood open. On it was music. Malling looked and saw, +"Oh, for the wings, for the wings of a dove!" by Mendelssohn. The little +room seemed full of pious orthodoxy. Surely its atmosphere was utterly +changed since Malling last was in it. The melody of "Oh, for the wings!" +went through his brain. That the Henry Chichester he had recently known, +that cruel searcher after and expounder of truth, that he should be +helped by those words, by that melody, in an hour of sorrow! + +There was a movement in the bedroom. The folding-doors opened inward, +and the curate appeared. He was very pale, and looked really ill. His +face had fallen in. His fair hair was slightly disordered, and his blue +eyes were surrounded by red rims. His expression suggested that he had +recently undergone an extremely violent shock, which had shaken badly +both body and mind. He looked dazed. Coming forward feebly, he held +out his hand. + +"I believe it is something important," he said in a gentle, rather +wavering voice; "otherwise--I am hardly fit, I fear, to be with my kind. +I"--He sat down--"I have had a terrible shock, Mr. Malling. You have +heard?" + +"You mean Mr. Harding's death?" + +"Yes." + +"I have just heard of it." + +"It occurred at half-past three o'clock last night, or, rather, this +morning. He had been declining for a long while. At the last he just +faded out, as it were. The strange thing is that I knew the exact moment +when he entered into rest." + +"You weren't with him?" + +"Oh, no. I was here, asleep. But at three o'clock I awoke. I felt +violently agitated. I can scarcely describe the sensation. It was +as if I was torn, as if mind and body, or spirit and body, were torn, +lacerated. I suffered the greatest conceivable agony. I tried to cry +out, but I could not. Nor could I move. Then everything suddenly seemed +to fail, all in a moment, and I was at peace. But it was like the peace +of death, I think. And I was aware--I don't know how--that Mr. Harding +was dead. I moved. I looked at my watch. It was a minute after half-past +three. I noted down the time. And this morning--I heard." + +"And then?" + +"Only then I understood my loss--the loss to us all. Ah, Mr. Mailing, +you knew him, but not as I did! Few or none knew him as I did. He was +the greatest and best of men, full of power, but full of kindness and +goodness, too. He guided me in everything. I can never tell you how I +looked up to him, how I trusted him. His judgment was extraordinary, his +reading of character was unerring. I do believe he knew me better than I +knew myself. What shall I do without him?" + +The curate's grief was almost as genuine and unself-conscious as a +child's, and Malling felt as if at that moment, like a child, he felt +himself adrift in a difficult world. His gentle, kindly, but not strong +face was distorted, but not hardened, by his distress, which seemed +begging for sympathy. And Malling remembered the Henry Chichester he had +known some years ago, before the days of St. Joseph's, the saintly but +rather weak man, beloved by every one, but ruling no one. That man was +surely before him, and that man knew not how to play a hypocrite's part. +Yet Malling felt he must test him. + +"His death is very sad," he replied; "but surely his powers had been on +the decline for a long while." + +"His powers, but not his capacity for goodness. His patience was +angelic. Even when the cruelest blow of all fell upon him, even when +his wife--whom, God forgive me! I don't think some of us can ever +forgive--even when she deserted him in his hour of need, he never +complained. He knew it was God's hand upon him, and he submitted. +He has taught me what true patience is. What I owe to him! What I owe +to him!" + +As if distressed beyond measure, the curate got up, almost wringing his +thin hands. + +"It was he who sacrificed his time for me!" he continued, moving +restlessly about the room. "But I seem to remember I told you. Didn't I +tell you--or was it some one else?--how he gave up the hours which should +have been hours of repose in order that my will might be strengthened, +that I might be developed into a man more worthy to be his coadjutor? +When I think, when I remember--" + +His light, tenor voice failed. Tears stood in his gentle, blue eyes. + +"If I am worth anything at all," he suddenly cried out, "if I have gained +any force of character, any power for good at all, I owe it all to my +rector's self-sacrificing endeavors on my behalf--of course, through +God's blessing." + +"Then," said Malling, "you think that Mr. Harding changed you by his +influence?" + +"He helped me to develop, he brought me on. Jealousy was unknown to him. +I was a very poor preacher. He taught me how to hold people's attention. +When I knew he was near me I sometimes seemed almost inspired. I was +inspired by him. I preached almost as if out of his mouth. And now!" + +He made a despairing gesture. + +"Now it will all be different!" he exclaimed. + +And almost involuntarily Malling found himself echoing: + +"Yes, now it will all be different." + +He had seen, he had heard, enough to make his report to the professor, +and he resolved to go. He held out his hand. + +"Oh, but," said Chichester, pressing one hand to his forehead, "I'm so +selfish, so forgetful in my great grief! Surely you said you had come +on some matter of importance." + +"It will wait," said Malling. "Another day. Go and rest now. You need +rest. Any one can see that." + +"Thank you, thank you," said Chichester, with quivering lips. "You are +very thoughtful, very good." + +Malling took his hand in farewell. As he did so there was a sharp knock +at the front door. Chichester started violently. + +"Oh, I do hope it is no one for me!" he cried out. "I cannot--" + +He opened the door of the sitting-room a little way and listened. Voices +were audible below, Ellen's voice and another woman's. + +"You, ma'am! Oh, of course he will see you!" + +"Of course." + +"I didn't know who it was, ma'am." + +"Is it this way?" + +"Yes, ma'am. I'll show you. We do feel it, ma'am. The poor gentleman used +to come here so often of nights." + +"Did he? I didn't know that." + +Malling recognized the second voice as Lady Sophia's. A moment, and she +was ushered into the room. She was dressed in black, but not in widow's +weeds, and wore a veil which she pushed hastily up as she came in almost +with a rush. When she saw Malling, for a moment she looked disconcerted. + +"Oh, I thought--" she began. She stood still. Chichester said nothing, +and did not move. Malling went toward her. + +"I was very much grieved," he said, "at the news I heard to-day." + +She gave him her hand. He knew his words were conventional. How could +they be anything else? But Lady Sophia's manner in giving him her hand +was not conventional. She stretched it out without even looking at him. +She said nothing. Her eyes were fixed upon Chichester, who stood on the +other side of the little room in a rigid attitude, with his eyes cast +down, as if he could not bear to see the woman who had just entered. + +"I offer you my sympathy," Malling added. + +"Sympathy!" said Lady Sophia, with a sharp note in her voice suggestive +of intense, almost febrile excitement. "Then didn't you know?" + +She stared at him, turning her head swiftly. + +"Know?" + +"That I had left him? Yes, I left him, and now he is dead. Do you expect +me to be sorry? Well, I am not sorry. Ah, I see you don't understand!" + +She made a movement toward Chichester. It was obvious that she was so +intensely excited that she had lost the power of self-control. + +"Nobody understands me but you!" she cried out to Chichester. "You +knew what he was, you knew what I endured, you know what I must feel +now. Oh, it's no use pretending. I'm sick of pretence. You have taught me +to care for absolute truth and only that. My relations, my friends--ah! +to-day I have been almost suffocated with hypocrisy! And now, when I +come here--" she flung out her hand toward Mailing--"to get away from it +all--'grieved,' 'my sympathy!' I can't bear any more of that. Tell him! +You tell him! You're so strong, so terribly sincere! One can rest upon +your strength when all else fails one!" + +She tottered. For an instant it seemed to Malling that she was going to +fall against Chichester's shoulder; but she caught at a chair, and saved +herself. + +"Mr. Chichester!" she said, "tell him! Tell him for me!" + +"I have nothing to tell him," said Chichester, with a sort of mild, +almost weak coldness, and wearily. + +"Nothing!" She went nearer to him. "But--you don't welcome me!" + +Chichester looked up, but immediately cast down his eyes again. + +"I cannot," he said. "At this moment I simply cannot." + +An expression of terrified surprise transformed Lady Sophia's face. She +went close up to Chichester, staring at him. + +"Why not?" she asked. + +"You must know that." + +She stood still, always staring at him, as if searching for something +which she did not find. + +"Why not?" she repeated. + +"You left--him when he needed you most. You left him to die alone." + +Lady Sophia suddenly turned round to Malling and scrutinized his face, as +if demanding from him sympathy in her horrified amazement. He regarded +her calmly, and she turned again to the curate. + +"What do you mean?" she said, and her voice had changed. + +"That his friends can never be yours", said Chichester, as if making a +great effort, driven to it by some intense feeling. + +"You call yourself his friend!" said Lady Sophia. Her voice vibrated with +scorn. + +"At any rate, he was mine, my best friend. And now he has gone forever!" + +Lady Sophia drew in her breath. + +"You hypocrite!" she said. "You hypocrite!" + +She spoke like one under the influence of an emotion so intense that it +could not be gainsaid. + +"To pretend you admired him, loved him--_you_!" + +"I did admire and love him." + +She seemed to be struck dumb by his quiet manner, by the conviction in +his voice. In a moment she turned round again toward Malling. Her face +had quite changed. It was working nervously. The mouth quivered. She +stood for a moment, then suddenly she made for the door. As she passed +Malling, she whispered: "The strength--where is it? Oh, I'm afraid of +him! I'm afraid of him!" + +She disappeared. Almost immediately Mailing heard the street door shut. + +"I--I cannot pretend to her," Chichester said, "even in my own house." + +He seemed greatly moved, almost on the verge of tears. + +"I'll leave you alone," said Mailing. "You need to be alone." + +"Thank you! Thank you!" said Chichester. + +And without another word he went into the bedroom, shutting the +folding-doors behind him. + +At half-past seven that same evening Malling was with Professor Stepton, +and made what the professor called his "report." + +"Ah!" said the professor when he had finished. + +"Did you expect Chichester to behave like that, to be like that?" asked +Mailing. + +"I hoped he would." + +"Hoped! Why?" + +"Because it enables me to accept as facts certain things about which I +must otherwise have remained in doubt. Of course I must see Chichester +for myself. But he'll be just the same, just the same." + +The professor's eyes shone, and he poked his chin forward. + +"The reverend gentlemen of St. Joseph's have provided me with a basis," +he exclaimed emphatically. + +"A basis! For what?" asked Mailing. + +"For future experiments and investigations of a highly interesting +nature. Ruskin was very often wrong, but he was right when he said, in a +lucid moment, that every creature is precious. Well, good-night, Malling. +I must get to work. I'll explain everything to you later." + +Almost joyously he shut the door on his friend. Almost joyously he sat +down once more before his writing-table and seized his pen and his +note-book. + +But he did not begin to write. His face suddenly changed. He put his pen +down, pushed his note-book away, sat back in his chair, and let his +pointed chin drop toward his breast. And presently he began to mutter to +himself. + +"A little science!" he muttered. "A little science sends man far away +from God. A great deal of science brings man back to God. Which is it +now--you professor, you? Which is it now?" + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DWELLER ON THE THRESHOLD*** + + +******* This file should be named 14176.txt or 14176.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/4/1/7/14176 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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