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.