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?"