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.