Chapter 13

"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?"