Part 2 (1/2)
”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 pa.s.sage 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.
II
Evelyn Malling was well accustomed to meeting with strange people and making investigations into strange occurrences. He was not easily surprised, nor was he easily puzzled. By nature more skeptical than credulous, he had a cool brain, and he was seldom, if ever, the victim of his imagination. But on the evening of the day in question he found himself continually dwelling, and with a curiously heated mind, upon the encounter of that afternoon. Mr. Harding's manner in the latter part of their walk together had--he scarcely knew why--profoundly impressed him.