"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?"