The Dweller on the Threshold. Robert Hichens
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character of the man himself? Was he saint or sinner, or just ordinary, normal man, with a usual allowance of faults and virtues? Was he a man of real force, or was he painted lath? The Chichester episodes seemed to point to the latter conclusion. But Malling was too intelligent to take everything at its surface value. He knew much of the trickery of man, but that knowledge did not blind him to the mystery of man. He had exposed charlatans. Yet he had often said to himself, "Who can ever really expose another? Who can ever really expose himself?" Essentially he was the Seeker. And he was seldom or never dogmatic. A friend of his, who professed to believe in transmigration, had once said of him, "I'm quite certain Malling must have been a sleuth-hound once." Now he wished to get on a trail.
But Mr. Harding, who on the previous day had been almost strangely frank about Henry Chichester, to-day had apparently no intention to be frank about himself. Though he had desired Malling's company, now that they were together alone he showed a reserve through which, Malling believed, he secretly wanted to break. But something held him back. He talked of politics, government and church, the spread of science, the follies of the day. And Malling got little nearer to him. But presently Malling happened to mention the modern craze for discussing intimately, or, as a Frenchwoman whom he knew expressed it, "avec un luxe de détail," matters of health.
"Yes, yes," responded Mr. Harding. "It is becoming almost objectionable, almost indecent. At the same time the health of the body is a very interesting subject because of its effect upon the mind, even, so it seems sometimes, upon the very nature of a man. Now I—" he struck the ash off the end of his cigar—"was, I might almost say, the victim of my stomach in the pulpit this morning."
"You were feeling ill?"
"Not exactly ill. I have a strong constitution. But I suffer at times from what the doctors call nervous dyspepsia. It is a very tiresome complaint, because it takes away for the time a man's confidence in himself, reduces him to the worm-level almost; and it gives him absurd ideas. Now this morning in the pulpit I had an attack of pain and uneasiness, and my nerve quite gave out. You must have noticed it."
"I saw that you were troubled by something."
"Something! It was that. My poor wife was thoroughly upset by it. You know how sensitive women are. To hold a crowd of people a man must be strong and well, in full possession of his powers. And I had a good subject."
"Splendid."
"I'll treat it again—treat it again."
The rector shifted in his chair.
"Do you think," he said after a pause, "that it is possible for another, an outsider, to know a man better than he knows himself?"
"In some cases, yes," answered Malling.
"But—as a rule?"
"There is the saying that outsiders see most of the game."
"Then why should we mind when all are subject to criticism!" exclaimed
Mr. Harding, forcibly.
Evidently he was startled by his own outburst, for instantly he set about to attenuate it.
"What I mean is that men ought not to care so much as most of them undoubtedly do what others think about them."
"It certainly is a sign of great weakness to care too much," said Malling. "But some people have a quite peculiar power of impressing their critical thoughts on others. These spread uneasiness around them like an atmosphere."
"I know, I know," said the rector, with an almost hungry eagerness. "Now surely one ought to keep out of such an atmosphere, to get out of it, and to keep out of it."
"Why not?"
"But—but—how extraordinary it is, the difficulty men have in getting away from things! Haven't you noticed that?"
"Want of moral strength," said Mailing, laconically.
"You think so?"
"Don't you?"
At this moment there was a knock at the door. Mr. Harding started.
"How impossible it is to get a quiet moment," he said with acute irritation. "Come in!" he called out.
The footman appeared.
"Mr. Chichester has called to see you, sir."
The rector's manner changed. He beckoned to the man to come into the room and to shut the door. The footman, looking surprised, obeyed.
"Where is he, Thomas?" asked Mr. Harding, in a lowered voice. "In the hall?"
"No, sir. As you were engaged I showed him up into the drawing-room."
"Oh, very well. Thank you. You can go."
The footman went out, still looking surprised.
Just as he was about to close the door his master said:
"Wait a moment!"
"Sir?"
"Was her ladyship in the drawing-room?"
"No, sir. Her ladyship is lying down in the boudoir."
"Ah. That will do."
The footman shut the door.
Directly he was gone the rector got up with an air of decision.
"Mr. Malling," he said, "perhaps I ought to apologize to you for treating you with the abruptness allowable in a friend, but surprising in an acquaintance, indeed in one who is almost a stranger. I do apologize. My only excuse is that I know you to be a man of exceptional trend of mind and unusual ability. I know this from Professor Stepton. But there's another thing. As I told you yesterday, you are the only person of my acquaintance who, having been fairly intimate with Henry Chichester, has not seen anything of him during the two years he has been with me as my coadjutor. Now what I want you to do is this: will you go upstairs and spend a few minutes alone with Chichester? Tell him I am detained, but am coming in a moment. I'll see to it that you are not interrupted. I'll explain to my wife. And, of course, I rely on you to make the matter appear natural to Chichester, not to rouse his—but I am sure you understand. Will you do this for me?"
"Certainly," said Malling, with his most prosaic manner. "Why not?"
"Why not? Exactly. There's nothing objectionable in the matter. But—" Mr. Harding's manner became very earnest, almost tragic. "I'll ask you one thing—afterward you will tell me the truth, exactly how Chichester impresses you now in comparison with the impression you got of him two years ago. You—you have no objection to promising to tell me?"
Malling hesitated.
"But is it quite fair to Chichester?" he said. "Suppose I obtained, for instance, a less favorable, or even an unfavorable impression of him now? You are his rector. I hardly think—"
The rector interrupted him.
"I'll leave it to you," he said. "Do just as you please. But, believe me,
I have a very strong reason for wishing to know your opinion. I need it.
I need it."
There was a lamentable sound in his voice.
"If I feel it is right I will give it to you," said Malling.
The rector opened the door of the study.
"You know your way?"
"Yes."
Malling went upstairs. Mr. Harding stood watching him from below till he disappeared.
III
When Malling opened the door of the drawing-room Chichester was standing by one of the windows, looking out into Onslow Gardens. He turned round, saw Malling, and uttered an exclamation.