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 atténuations 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.