■Hill
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE 
 
 FROM THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 DR. J. LLOYD EATON
 
 o^/ 
 
 THE DWELLER ON THE THRESHOLD
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 The Prophet of Berkeley Square 
 
 Tongues of Conscience 
 
 Felix 
 
 The Woman with the Fan 
 
 Byeways 
 
 The Garden of Allah 
 
 The Black Spaniel 
 
 The Call of the Blood 
 
 Barbary Sheep 
 
 The Way of Ambition
 
 THE DWELLER ON 
 THE THRESHOLD 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT HIGHENS 
 
 AUTHOR OF "the CAKDEN OP ALLAH " 
 
 SECOND AND CHEAPER EDITION 
 
 METHUEN & CO. LTD. 
 
 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. 
 
 LONDON
 
 T 
 
 ( — f 
 
 
 Fi'rs/ Puhlished . . . March S3r<f iQlt 
 Second Edition (2^. net) . . March i()U
 
 THE DWELLER 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 
 
 I 
 
 WHEN Evelyn Mailing, 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 labours 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 
 Hock were by far the largest that came from 
 the pockets of any congregation in London. 
 The music in vSt. Joseph's was allowed by 
 connoisseurs, who knew their Elgar as well as 
 their Goss, their Perosi as well as their Bach, 
 
 B I
 
 2 THE DWELLER 
 
 and their Wesley, to be remarkable. Critical 
 persons, mostly men, who sat on the fence be- 
 tween 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 Mailing immedi- 
 ately perceived, Mr. Harding was not a happy 
 man. 
 
 In appearance he was remarkable. Of com- 
 manding height, with a big frame, a striking 
 head and countenance, and a pair of keen
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 3 
 
 grey 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 tell-tale lines. And he did not look 
 more than his age. 
 
 The sadness noted by Mailing was at first 
 evasive and fleeting, not indelibly 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 travelled 
 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. 
 
 Mailing's first meeting with the clergyman 
 took place on 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. Mailing was alone, coming on
 
 4 THE DWELLER 
 
 foot from Waterloo. Mr. Harding was also 
 on foot, with his senior curate, the Rev. Henry 
 Chichester, who was an acquaintance of Mailing, 
 but whom Mailing had not seen for a consider- 
 able period of time, having been out on his 
 estate in Ceylon. At the moment when 
 Mailing 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 Mail- 
 ing by the hand. " I believe I looked round 
 because I knew I should see you. Yet I sup- 
 posed you to be still in Ceylon." He glanced 
 at the rector rather doubtfully, seemed to take 
 a resolution, and with an air almost of dogged- 
 ncss 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. Mailing of whom 
 Professor Stepton has spoken to me," he said,
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 5 
 
 — "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 Mailing. 
 " 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 tliink it wouM be wiser to take 
 a hansom ? " began Chichester. " You remem- 
 ber " 
 
 "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 tiirce
 
 6 THE DWELLER 
 
 men set out toward Parliament Square, Mailing 
 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 endeavouring 
 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 endeavoured 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
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 7 
 
 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 
 Mailing joined, and at first the curate was 
 silent. But presently Mailing 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 attenua- 
 tions or hastened to follow his somewhat sur- 
 prising leads down new conversational paths. 
 Mailing 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
 
 8 THE DWELLER 
 
 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 Mailing 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 Mailing thought, by a definite 
 weakness of character. He had been too 
 amiable, too ready to take others on their
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 9 
 
 own valuation of themselves, too kind-hearted, 
 and too easily deceived. The gentleness of 
 a saint had been his, but scarcely the firm- 
 ness of a saint. Industrious, dutiful, and 
 conscientious, he had not struck Mailing 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 good- 
 ness, and in an almost gay kindliness which 
 had seemed to float round him like an atmo- 
 sphere. 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 Mailing— aggressive curate who 
 was now, always in a gentlemanly way, 
 making things rather dillicult for his rector.
 
 10 THE DWELLER 
 
 And the matter became the more mysterious 
 when Mailing considered Mr. Harding. For 
 here was a man obviously of dominant person- 
 ality. Despite his fleeting subservience to 
 Chichester, inexplicable to Mailing, 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, 
 surel}^ 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 Mailing. 
 
 The rector looked at Mailing. 
 
 " Have you far to go ? " he asked, with rather 
 a tentative air. 
 
 " I live in Cadogan Square "
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD ii 
 
 " Of course. I remember. You told us you 
 were going there." 
 
 "Good-bye," 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. Mailing." 
 
 " 1 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 1 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
 
 12 THE DWELLER 
 
 the school at four. You will have plenty of 
 time if you take the train. And, meanwhile, 
 Mr. Mailing 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-bye." 
 
 He turned on his heel, and was lost in the 
 throng near the station. 
 
 It seemed to Mailing 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.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 13 
 
 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. 
 Mailing 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 : 
 
 " 1 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 neighbours. 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. Mailing." 
 
 "He's a remarkable man," said Mailing, al- 
 most with enthusiasm. 
 
 "Yes. fic's finding his way to the truth 
 rather by the pathway of science than by the
 
 14 THE DWELLER 
 
 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 investi- 
 gations 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 Mailing. 
 
 He was considerably surprised by his com- 
 panion's manner, but was quite resolved not 
 to help him out. 
 
 "The possibilities of one soul, let us say, in 
 connexion 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 sub- 
 merged in an ocean." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Mailing, laconically.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 15 
 
 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 investiga- 
 tions." 
 
 Mr. Harding's face, v^^hich had been cloudy, 
 cleared. 
 
 "It seems to me," he said, "that we clergy- 
 men 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 child- 
 like faith in the Great Being who is above all 
 worlds, in the anima imtndi. But it would be 
 unnatural in us if \vc 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
 
 i6 THE DWELLER 
 
 occult experiments. But I don't agree with 
 them." 
 
 It was now Mailing's turn to look sharply 
 at his companion. 
 
 "Have you made many experiments your- 
 self, 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, 1 confess, 
 in all that Stepton is doing." 
 
 "Does Mr. Chichester share your interest?" 
 said Mailing. 
 
 "In a minor degree, in a minor degree," an- 
 swered the rector, rather evasively. 
 
 They were now in Sloane Street and 
 Mailing 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?"
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 17 
 
 "As they grow older? But surely develop- 
 ment is natural and to be expected?" 
 
 "Certainly. But when a man changes dras- 
 tically, 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 uncon- 
 sciously, subjecting him to a minute scrutiny, 
 and striving to sum him up. My curates, for 
 exam])lc " 
 
 "Yes?" said Mailing. 
 
 " There are four of them, our friend Chiches- 
 ter 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 
 c
 
 i8 THE DWELLER 
 
 strange abruptness, and the air of a man forced 
 into an action against which something within 
 him protested, he said : 
 
 "Mr. Mailing, 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 clamoured for reply. His eyes 
 were more clamorous still, insistent in their 
 demand upon Mailing. Nevertheless voice 
 and eyes pushed Mailing toward caution.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 19 
 
 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. Mailing, I dare say 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 flenry Chichester 
 without prejudice. I will say nothing more. 
 But if I invite you to meet liim, in my house 
 or elsewhere, will you promise me to come?" 
 
 "Certainly, if I possibly can." 
 
 "And your address?" 
 
 Mailing stopped and, smiling, pointed to 
 the number outside a house. 
 
 "You live here?"
 
 20 THE DWELLER 
 
 Mr. Harding took a small book and a pencil 
 from his pocket, and noted down the address. 
 
 " Good-bye," he said ; " I live in Onslow Gar- 
 dens — Number 89." 
 
 " Thank you. Good-bye." 
 
 The two men shook hands. Then Mr. Hard- 
 ing went on his way toward South Kensington, 
 while Mailing inserted his latch-key into the 
 door of Number 7b, Cadogan Square.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 21 
 
 II 
 
 EVELYN M ALLING 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 sceptical 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 
 liim. He longed to see the clergyman again. 
 He longed, almost more ardently, to pay a 
 visit to Henry Chichester. Although the in- 
 stinct of caution, which had perhaps been 
 developed in him by his work among mediums,
 
 22 THE DWELLER 
 
 cranks of various kinds, and charlatans, had 
 prevented him from letting the rector know 
 that he had been struck by the change in the 
 senior curate, that change had greatly 
 astonished him. Yet was it really so very 
 marked? He had noticed it before his at- 
 tention had been drawn to it. That he knew. 
 But was he not now, perhaps, exaggerating 
 its character, " suggestioned " as it were by 
 the obvious turmoil of Mr. Harding? He 
 wondered, and was disturbed by his wonder- 
 ment. Two or three times he got up, with 
 the intention of jumping into a cab, and going 
 to Westminster to find out if Professor 
 Stepton was in town. But he only got as far 
 as the hall. Then something seemed to check 
 him. He told himself that he was in no fit 
 condition to meet the sharp eyes of the man of 
 science, who delighted in his somewhat frigid 
 attitude of mind toward all supposed super- 
 normal manifestations, and he returned to his 
 study and tried to occupy himself with a 
 book. 
 
 On the occasion of his last return, just as he 
 was about to sit down, his eyes chanced to
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 23 
 
 fall on an almanac framed in silver which 
 stood on his writing-table. He took it up and 
 stared at it. May 8, Friday — May 9, Saturday 
 — May 10, Sunday. It was May 9. He put 
 the almanac back on the table, with a sudden 
 sense of relief For he had come to a 
 decision. 
 
 To-morrow he would attend morning 
 service at St. Joseph's. 
 
 Mailing was not a regular church-goer. He 
 belonged to the Stepton breed. But he was 
 an earnest man and no scoffer, and some of 
 his best friends were priests and clergymen. 
 Nevertheless it was in a rather unusual go-to- 
 meeting frame ofmind that he got into a tail- 
 coat and top hat, and set forth in a hansom to 
 St. Joseph's the next morning. ^ 
 
 He had never been there before. As he 
 drew near he found people flowing toward the 
 great church on foot, in cabs and carriages. 
 Evidently Mr. Harding had attractive powers, 
 and Mailing began to wonder wh(,'thcr he 
 would have any difficulty in obtaining the seat 
 he wanted, in some corner from which he 
 could get a good view both of the chancel and
 
 24 THE DWELLER 
 
 the pulpit. Were vergers "bribable"? What 
 an ignoramus he was about church matters ! 
 
 He smiled to himself as he paid the cabman 
 and joined the stream of church-goers which 
 was passing through the open door. 
 
 Just as he was entering the building some 
 one in the crowd by accident jostled him, and 
 he was pushed rather roughly against a tall 
 lady immediately before him. She turned 
 round with a startled face, and Mailing hastily 
 begged her pardon. 
 
 " I was pushed," he said. " Forgive me." 
 
 The lady smiled, her lips moved, doubtless 
 in some words of conventional acceptance, then 
 she disappeared in the throng, taking her way 
 toward the left of the church. She was a slim 
 woman, with a white streak in her dark hair 
 just above the forehead. Her face, which was 
 refined and handsome, had given to Mailing a 
 strong impression of anxiety. Even when it 
 had smiled, it had looked almost tragically 
 anxious, he thought. The church was seated 
 with chairs, and a man, evidently an 
 attendant, told him that all the chairs in the 
 right and left aisles were free. He made his
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 25 
 
 way to the right, and was fortunate enough to 
 get one not far from the pulpit. Unluckily, 
 from it he could only see the left-hand side of 
 the choir. But the preacher would be full in 
 his view. The organ sounded; the procession 
 appeared. Over the heads of worshippers — 
 he was a tall man — Mailing perceived both 
 Mr. Harding and Chichester. The latter took 
 his place at the end of the left-hand row of 
 light-coloured oaken stalls next to the congre- 
 gation. Mailing could see him well. But the 
 rector was hidden from him. He fixed his 
 eyes upon Chichester. 
 
 The service went on its way. The music 
 was excellent. A fair young man, who looked 
 as if he might be a first-rate cricketer — one of 
 the curates, no doubt — read the lessons. 
 Chichester intoned with an agreeable, light, 
 tenor voice. During the third hymn, " Fight 
 the Good f^ght," Mr. Harding mounted into 
 the pulpit. He let down the brass reading- 
 desk. He had no notes in his hands. Evi- 
 dently he was t^oing to preach extempore. 
 After the " In the name of the Father, and of 
 the Son, and of the Holy Ghost" iiad been
 
 26 THE DWELLER 
 
 pronounced, Mailing settled himself to listen. 
 He felt intensely interested. Both Mr. Hard- 
 ing and Chichester were now before him, the 
 one as performer — he used the word mentally, 
 with no thought of irreverence — the other as 
 audience. He could study both as he wished 
 to study them at that momemt 
 
 Chichester was a small, cherubic man, with 
 blue eyes, fair hair, and neat features, the sort 
 of man who looks as if, when a boy, he must 
 have been the leading choir-boy in a cathedral. 
 There was nothing powerful in his face, but 
 much that was amiable and winning. His 
 chin and his forehead were rather weak. His 
 eyes and his mouth looked good. Or — did 
 they ? 
 
 Mailing found himself wondering as Mr. 
 Harding preached. 
 
 And was Mr. Harding the powerful preacher 
 he was reputed to be ? 
 
 At first he held his congregation. That was 
 evident. Rows of rapt faces gazed up at him, 
 as he leaned over the edge of the pulpit, or 
 stood upright with his hands pressed palm 
 downward upon it. But it seemed to Mailing
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 27 
 
 that he held them rather because of his reputa- 
 tion, because of what they confidently expected 
 of him, because of what he had done in the 
 past, than because of what he was actually 
 doing. And presently they had slipped out of 
 his grasp. He lost them. 
 
 The first thing that is necessary in an orator, 
 if he is to be successful with an audience, is 
 confidence in himself, a conviction that he has 
 something to say which is worth saying, which 
 has to be said. Mailing perceived that on this 
 Sunday morning Mr. Harding possessed 
 neither self-confidence nor conviction; though 
 he made a determined, almost violent, effort to 
 pretend that he had both. He took as the 
 theme of his discourse self-knowledge, and as 
 his motto — so he called it — the words, " Know 
 thys( If " This was surely a promising subject. 
 He began to treat it with vigour. But very 
 soon it became evident that he was ill at ease, 
 as an actor becomes who cannot get into touch 
 with his audience. He stumbled now and then 
 in his sentences, harked back, corrected a 
 phrase, modified a thought, altrnuated a state- 
 ment. Then, evidently bracing himself up,
 
 28 THE DWELLER 
 
 almost aggressively he delivered afew passages 
 that were eloquent enough. But the indecision 
 returned, became more painful. He even con- 
 tradicted himself. A "No, that is not so. I 
 should say — " communicated grave doubts as 
 to his powers of clear thinking to the now 
 confused congregation. People began to cough 
 and to shift about in their chairs. A lady just 
 beneath the pulpit unfolded a large fan and 
 waved it slowly to and fro. Mr. Harding 
 paused, gazed at the fan, looked away from it, 
 wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, grasped 
 the pulpit ledge, and went on speaking, but 
 now with almost a faltering voice. 
 
 The congregation were doubtless ignorant 
 of the cause of their pastor's perturbation, 
 but Mailing felt sure that he knew what it 
 was. 
 
 The cause was Henry Chichester. 
 
 On the cherubic face of the senior curate, 
 as he leaned back in his stall while Mr. 
 Harding gave out the opening words of the 
 sermon, there had been an expression that 
 was surely one of anxiety, such as a master's 
 face wears when his pupil is about to give
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 29 
 
 some public exhibition. That simile came at 
 once into Mailing's mind. It was the master 
 listening to the pupil, fearing for, criticizing, 
 striving mentally to convey help to the pupil. 
 And as the sermon went on it was obvious 
 to Mailing that the curate was not satisfied 
 with it, and that his dissatisfaction was, as it 
 were, breaking the rector down. At certain 
 statements of Mr. Harding looks of contempt 
 flashed over Chichester's face, transforming it. 
 The anxiety of the master, product of vanity 
 but also of sympathy, was overlaid by the 
 powerful contempt of a man who longs to 
 traverse misstatements but is forced by circum- 
 stances to keep silence. And so certain was 
 Mailing that the cause of Mr. Harding's per- 
 turbation lay in Chichester's mental attitude, 
 that he longed to spring up, to take the curate 
 by the shoulders and to thrust him out of the 
 church. Then all would be well. He knew 
 it. The rector's self-confidence would return 
 and, with it, his natural powers. 
 
 But now the situation was becoming 
 painful, almost unbearable. 
 
 With every sentence the rector became
 
 30 THE DWELLER 
 
 more involved, more hesitating, more impo- 
 tent. The sweat ran down his face. Even 
 his fine voice was affected. It grew husky. 
 It seemed to be failing. Yet he would not 
 cease. To Mailing he gave the impression 
 of a man governed by a secret obstinacy, 
 fighting on though he knew it was no use, 
 that he had lost the combat. Mailing longed 
 to cry out to him, " Give it up 1 " 
 
 The congregation coughed more persis- 
 tently, and the lady with the fan began to ply 
 her instrument of torture almost hysterically. 
 
 Suddenly Mailing felt obliged to look 
 toward the left of the crowded church. Sitting 
 up very straight, and almost craning his neck, 
 he stared over the heads of the fidgeting 
 people and met the eyes of a woman, the lady 
 with the streak of white hair against whom he 
 had pushed when coming in. 
 
 There was a look almost of anguish on her 
 face. She turned her eyes towards Mr. 
 Harding. At the same instant the rector saw 
 Mailing in the congregation. He stopped 
 short, muttered an uneven sentence, then, 
 forcing his voice, uttered in unnaturally loud
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 31 
 
 tones the "Now to God the father," et 
 cetera. 
 
 Henry Chichester rose in his stall with an 
 expression of intense thankfulness, which yet 
 seemed somehow combined with a sneer. 
 
 The collection was made. 
 
 Before the celebration some of the choir 
 and two of the clergy, of whom Mr. Harding 
 was one, left the church. Henry Chichester 
 and the fair, athletic-looking curate remained. 
 Mailing took his hat and made his way slowly 
 to the door. As he emerged a young man 
 stopped him, and said : 
 
 " If you please, sir, the rector would like 
 to speak to you if you could wait just a 
 moment. You are Mr. Mailing, 1 believe." 
 
 " Yes. How could you know ? " 
 
 " Mr. Harding told me what you were 
 like, sir, and that you were wearing a tic with 
 a large green stone in it. Begging your 
 pardon, sir." 
 
 " 1 will wail," said Mailing, marvelling at 
 the rector's rapid and accurate powers of 
 observation. 
 
 Those of the congregation who had not
 
 32 THE DWELLER 
 
 remained for the celebration were quiclcly 
 dispersing, but Mailing now noticed that the 
 lady with the white lock was, like himself, 
 waiting for some one. She stood not far 
 from him. She was holding a parasol, and 
 looking down ; she moved its point to and fro 
 on the ground. Several people greeted her. 
 Almost as if startled she glanced up quickly, 
 smiled, replied. Then, as they went on, she 
 again looked down. There was a pucker in 
 her brow. Her lips twitched now and then. 
 
 Suddenly she lifted her head, turned, and 
 forced her quivering mouth to smile. Mr. 
 Harding had come into sight round the corner 
 of the church. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Mailing," he said, "so you have 
 stayed. Very good of you. Sophia, let me 
 introduce Mr. Mailing to you — my wife, Lady 
 Sophia." 
 
 The lady with the white lock held out her 
 hand. 
 
 " You have heard Professor Stepton speak 
 of Mr. Mailing, haven't you ? " added the rector 
 to his wife. 
 
 " Indeed I have," she answered.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 33 
 
 She smiled again kindly, and as if resolved 
 to throw off her depression began to talk with 
 some animation as they all walked together 
 toward the street. Directly they reached it 
 the rector said : 
 
 "Are you engaged to lunch to-day, Mr. 
 Mailing?" 
 
 "No," answered Mailing. 
 
 Lady Sophia turned to him and said : 
 
 "Then I shall be informal and beg you to 
 lunch with us, if you don't mind our being 
 alone. We lunch early, at one, as my husband 
 is tired after his morning's work and eats 
 virtually nothing at breakfast." 
 
 " 1 shall be delighted," said Mailing. " It's 
 very kind of you." 
 
 " We always walk home," said the rector. 
 
 He sighed. It was obvious that he was in 
 low spirits after the failure of the morning, but 
 he tried to conceal the fact, and his wife 
 tactfully helped him. Mailing praised the 
 music warmly, and remarked on the huge 
 congregation. 
 
 " 1 scarcely thouglit I should find a seat," he 
 added.
 
 34 THE DWELLER 
 
 " It is always full to the doors in the 
 morning," said Lady Sophia, with a cheerful- 
 ness that was slightly forced. 
 
 She glanced at her husband, and suddenly 
 added, not without a decided touch of feminine 
 spite : 
 
 " Unless Mr. Chichester, the senior curate, 
 is preaching." 
 
 "My dear Sophy !" exclaimed Mr. Harding. 
 
 "Well, it is so!" she said, with a sort of 
 petulance. 
 
 " Perhaps Mr. Chichester is not gifted as a 
 preacher," said Mailing. 
 
 " Oh, I wouldn't say that," said the rector. 
 
 "My husband never criticizes his — swans," 
 said Lady Sophia, with delicate malice, and a 
 glance full of meaning at Mailing. " But I'm a 
 woman, and my principles are not so high as 
 his." 
 
 " You do yourself an injustice," said the 
 rector. 
 
 " Here we are." 
 
 He drew out his latch-key. 
 
 Before lunch Mailing was left alone for a few 
 minutes in the drawing-room with Lady
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 35 
 
 Sophia. The rector had to see a parishioner 
 who had called and was waiting for him in his 
 study. Directly her husband had left the room 
 Lady Sophia turned to Mailing and said : 
 
 " Had you ever heard my husband preach 
 till this morning ? " 
 
 " No, never," Mailing answered. " I'm 
 afraid I'm not a very regular church-goer. 
 I must congratulate you again on the music 
 at St. Joseph's. It is exceptional. Even at 
 St. Anne's, Soho " 
 
 Almost brusquely she interrupted him. She 
 was obviously in a highly nervous condition, 
 and scarcely able to control herself. 
 
 " Yes, yes, our music is always good, of 
 course. So glad you liked it. But what I 
 want to say is that you haven't heard my 
 husband preach this morning." 
 
 Mailing looked at her with curiosity, but 
 without astonishment. He might have acted 
 a part with her as he had the previous day 
 with her husband. But, as he looked, he 
 came to a rapid decision, to be more frank 
 witii the woman than he had been with the 
 man.
 
 36 THE DWELLER 
 
 "You mean, of course, that your husband 
 was not in his best vein," he said. " 1 won't 
 pretend that 1 didn't realize that." 
 
 " You didn't hear him at all. He wasn't 
 himself — simply." 
 
 She sat down on a sofa and clasped her 
 hands together. 
 
 " I cannot tell you what I was feeling," she 
 added. "And he used to be so full of self- 
 confidence. It was his great gift. His 
 self-confidence carried him through every- 
 thing. Nothing could have kept him back 
 if " 
 
 Suddenly she checked herself and looked, 
 with a sort of covert inquiry, at Mailing. 
 
 " You must think me quite mad to talk like 
 this," she said, with a return to her manner 
 when he first met her. 
 
 "Shall I tell you what I really think?" 
 he asked, leaning forward in the chair he had 
 taken. 
 
 "Yes; do, do!" 
 
 "I think you are very ambitious for your 
 husband and that your ambition for him has 
 received a perhaps mysterious — check."
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 37 
 
 Before she could reply the door opened and 
 Mr. Harding reappeared. 
 
 At lunch he carefully avoided any reference 
 to church matters, and they talked on general 
 subjects. Lady Sophia showed herself a 
 nervously intelligent and ardent woman. It 
 seemed to Mailing obvious that she was devoted 
 to her husband, "wrapped up in " him — to use 
 an expressive phrase. Any failure on his part 
 upset her even more than it did him. Secretly 
 she must still be quivering from the public 
 distresses of the morning. But she now strove 
 to aid the rector's admirable effort to be 
 serene, and proved herself a clever talker, and 
 well informed on the events of the day. 
 Of her Mailing got a fairly clear impression. 
 
 But his impression of her husband was 
 confused and almost nebulous. 
 
 " Do you smoke ? " asked Mr. Harding, when 
 lunch was over. 
 
 Mailing said that he did. 
 
 "Then come and iiavc a cigar in my 
 study." 
 
 " Yes, do go," said Lady Sophia. " A quiet 
 talk with you will rest my husband."
 
 38 THE DWELLER 
 
 And she went away, leaving the two men 
 together. 
 
 Mr. Harding's study looked out at the back 
 of the house upon a tiny strip of garden. It 
 was very comfortably, though not luxuriously 
 furnished, and the walls were lined with book- 
 cases. While his host went to a drawer to get 
 the cigar-box, Mailing idly cast his eyes over 
 the books in the shelves nearest to him. He 
 always liked to see what a man had to read. 
 The first book his eyes rested upon was Myers's 
 " Human Personality." Then came a series 
 of works by Hudson, including " Psychic 
 Phenomena," then Oliver Lodge's "Survival of 
 Man," " Man and the Universe," and " Life and 
 Matter." Farther along were works by Lowes 
 Dickinson and Professor William James, 
 Bowden's "The Imitation of Buddha" and 
 Inge's "Christian Mysticism." At the end of 
 the shelf, bound in white vellum, was Don 
 Lorenzo Scupoli's " The Spiritual Combat." 
 
 A drawer shut, and Mailing turned about 
 to take the cigar which Mr. Harding offered 
 him. 
 
 "The light is rather strong, don't you
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 39 
 
 think?" Mr. Harding said, when the two men 
 had lit up. " I'll lower the blind." 
 
 He did so, and they sat down in a sort of 
 agreeable twilight, aware of the blaze of an 
 almost un-English sun without. 
 
 Mailing settled down to his cigar with a 
 very definite intention to clear up his im- 
 pressions of the rector. The essence of the 
 man bafiled him. He had known more about 
 Lady Sophia in five minutes than he knew 
 about Mr. Harding now, although he had 
 talked with him, walked with him, heard him 
 preach, and watched him intently while he 
 was doing so. His confusion and distress 
 of the morning were comprehended by 
 Mailing. They were undoubtedly caused 
 by the preacher's painful consciousness of 
 the presence and criticism of one whom, 
 apparently, he feared, or of whose adverse 
 opinion at any rate he was in peculiar dread. 
 But what was the 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
 
 40 THE DWELLER 
 
 episodes seemed to point to the latter con- 
 clusion. But Mailing was too intelligent to 
 take everything at its surface value. He knew 
 much of the trickery of man, but that know- 
 ledge 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 him- 
 self?" Essentially he was the Seeker. And 
 he was seldom or never dogmatic. A friend 
 of his, who professed to believe in transmigra- 
 tion, had once said of him, " I'm quite certain 
 Mailing 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 Mailing's company, now that they were 
 together alone he showed a reserve through 
 which, Mailing 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 
 Mailing got little nearer to him. But presently
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 41 
 
 Mailing happened to mention the modern craze 
 for discussing intimately, or, as a French- 
 woman whom he knew expressed it, " avec iin 
 luxe de detail" matters of health. 
 
 " Yes, yes," responded Mr. Harding. " It is 
 becoming almost objectionable, almost in- 
 decent. 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 constitu- 
 tion. 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."
 
 42 THE DWELLER 
 
 " I saw that you were troubled by some- 
 thing." 
 
 " 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 Mailing. 
 
 " But— as a rule ? " 
 
 " There is a 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 out- 
 burst, for instantly he set about to attenu- 
 ate it. 
 
 " What I mean is that men ought not to
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 43 
 
 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 Mailing. " 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 1 " 
 he called out.
 
 44 THE DWELLER 
 
 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 sur- 
 prised. Just as he was about to close the door 
 his master said : 
 
 " Wait a moment 1 " 
 
 "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. Mailing," he said, " perhaps I ought to 
 apologize to you for treating you with the
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 45 
 
 abruptness allowable in a friend, but sur- 
 prising in an acquaintance, indeed in one who 
 is almost a stranger. 1 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 1 told you yester- 
 day, you are the only person of my acquaint- 
 ance 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 1 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 Mailing, 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
 
 46 THE DWELLER 
 
 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 ? " 
 
 Mailing hesitated. 
 
 " But is it quite fair to Chichester?" he said. 
 "Suppose I obtained, for instance, a less 
 favourable, or even an unfavourable impres- 
 sion 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 Mailing. 
 
 The rector opened the door of the study. 
 
 " You know your way ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Mailing went upstairs. Mr. Harding stood 
 watching him from below till he disappeared.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 47 
 
 III 
 
 WHEN Mailing opened the door of the 
 drawing-room Chichester was stand- 
 ing by one of the windows, looking out into 
 Onslow Gardens. He turned round, saw 
 Mailing and uttered an exclamation. 
 
 " You are here ! " 
 
 His light tenor voice sounded almost 
 denunciatory, as if he had a right to demand 
 an explanation of Mailing's presence in Mr. 
 Harding's house, and as he came away quickly 
 from the window, he repeated, with still more 
 emphasis : 
 
 " You are here 1 " 
 
 "Lunching — yes," replied Mailing, imper- 
 turbably. 
 
 He looked at Chichester and smiled. 
 
 " You have no objection, I hope ? " 
 
 His words and manner evidently brought
 
 48 THE DWELLER 
 
 the curate to a sense of his own unconvention- 
 ality. He held out his hand. 
 
 " I beg your pardon. Your coming in 
 surprised me. I had no idea " — his blue eyes 
 went searching over Mailing's calm face — 
 "that you could be here. I thought you and 
 the rector were complete strangers till 1 intro- 
 duced you yesterday." 
 
 " So we were." 
 
 Mailing sat down comfortably on a sofa. 
 His actions evidently recalled Chichester's 
 mind to the fact that he was to see the 
 rector. 
 
 " Isn't the rector coming to see me ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 "Almost directly. He's busy for a few 
 minuies. We were smoking together in his 
 study." 
 
 " You seem to — you seem to have made 
 great friends ! " said Chichester, with a sort of 
 forced jocularity. 
 
 "Great friends! They're hardly made in a 
 moment I happened to be at church this 
 morning " 
 
 " At church — where ? " exclaimed the curate.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 49 
 
 "At St. Joseph's. And Mr. Harding kindly 
 asked me to lunch." 
 
 "You were at church at St. Joseph's this 
 
 morning?" said Chichester. 
 
 He sat down by Mailing and stared into his 
 face. 
 
 "Did you— did you stay for the sermon?" 
 
 " Certainly. 1 came for the sermon. I had 
 never heard Mr. Harding preach." 
 
 "No? No? Well, what did you think of 
 it? What did you think of it?" 
 
 The curate spoke nervously, and seemed to 
 Mailing to be regarding him with furtive 
 anxiety. 
 
 " It was obvious that Mr. Harding wasn't in 
 good form this morning," Mailing said. "He 
 explained the matter after lunch." 
 
 " He explained the matter ! " said Chichester, 
 with a rising voice, in which there was an 
 almost shrill note of suspicion. 
 
 "Yes. He told me he was often the victim 
 of nervous dyspepsia, and that he had an 
 attack of it while in the pulpit this morning." 
 
 "He told you it was nervous dyspepsia!" 
 
 "I have just said so."
 
 50 THE DWELLER 
 
 The curate looked down. 
 
 " 1 advised him not to walk all the way 
 home yesterday," he said gloomily. "You 
 heard me." 
 
 "You think it was that?" 
 
 " He never will take advice from any one. 
 That's his — one of his great faults. Whatever 
 he thinks, whatever he says, must be right. 
 You, as a layman, probably have no idea how 
 a certain type of clergyman loves authority." 
 
 This remark struck Mailing as in such 
 singularly bad taste — considering where they 
 were, and that one of them was Mr. Harding's 
 guest, the other his curate— that only his secret 
 desire to make obscure things clear prevented 
 him from resenting it. 
 
 " It is one of the curses of the Church," con- 
 tinued Chichester, "this passion for authority, 
 for ruling, for having all men under one's feet 
 as it were. If men would only listen, take 
 advice, see themselves as they really are, how 
 much finer, how much greater, they might 
 become 1 " 
 
 " See themselves as others see them ! Eh ? " 
 said Mailing. " But do you mean that a rector
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 51 
 
 should depend on his curate's advice rather 
 than on his own judgment?" 
 
 "And why not ?" said Chichester. " Rector 
 — curate — archbishop — what does it matter ? 
 The point is not what rank in the hierarchy a 
 man has, but what, and how, does he see? A 
 street boy may perceive a truth that a king 
 is blind to. At the moment the street boy 
 is greater than the king. Do you deny 
 it?" 
 
 " No," said Mailing, amazed at the curate's 
 excitement, but showing no astonishment. 
 
 " But it's a terrible thing to see too clearly ! " 
 continued Chichester, almost as if talking to 
 himself, absorbed. " A terrible thing ! " 
 
 He looked up at Mailing, and almost solemnly 
 he said : 
 
 "Are you still going on with all those inves- 
 tigations?" 
 
 " When I have any spare time, I often spend 
 some of it in that sort of work," answered 
 Mailing, lightly. 
 
 It was his way to make light of his research 
 work, and indeed he seldom mentioned it 
 unless he was forced to do so.
 
 52 THE DWELLER 
 
 " Do you think it is right ? " said Chichester, 
 earnestly. 
 "Right?" 
 
 "To strive to push one's way into hidden 
 regions." 
 
 •' If I didn't think it was right I shouldn't do 
 it," retorted Mailing, but without heat. 
 
 " And — for clergymen ?" questioned Chiches- 
 ter, leaning forward, and dropping his small, 
 thin hands down between his knees. 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 "Do you think it right for clergymen to 
 indulge themselves— for it is indulgence — 
 in investigations, in attempts to find out 
 more than God has chosen to reveal to 
 us .'* 
 
 The man of science in Mailing felt impatient 
 with the man of faith in Chichester. 
 
 "Does it never occur to you that the anima 
 niundi may have hidden certain things from the 
 minds of mortals just in order to provide them 
 with a field to till?" he said, with a hint of 
 sarcasm. " Wasn't the fact that the earth 
 revolves round the sun, instead of the sun 
 round the earth, hidden from every living
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 53 
 
 creature till Galileo discovered it? Do you 
 think Galileo deserved our censure ? " 
 
 " Saul was punished for consulting the witch 
 of Endor," returned Chichester. "And the 
 Roman Catholic Church forbids her children 
 to deal in occult things." 
 
 " You can't expect a man like me, a disciple 
 of Stepton, to take the Roman Catholic view 
 of such a matter." 
 
 " You are not a clergyman," said Chichester. 
 
 Mailing could not help smiling. 
 
 "You think the profession carries with it 
 certain obligations," he said. " No doubt it 
 does. But I shall never believe that one of 
 them is to shut your eyes to any fact in the 
 whole scheme of Creation. Harm can never 
 come from truth." 
 
 "If I could believe that!" Chichester cried 
 out. 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me you don't believe 
 it?" 
 
 Chichester looked at Mailing for quite a 
 minute without replying. Then he got up, 
 and said, with a changed voice and manner: 
 
 " If the rector doesn't come to see me I
 
 54 THE DWELLER 
 
 shall have to go. Sunday is not a holiday, 
 you know, for us clergymen." 
 
 He drew out his watch and looked at it. 
 
 " I shall have to go. I'm taking the Chil- 
 dren's Service." 
 
 Mailing got up too. 
 
 " Is it getting late ? " he said. " Per- 
 haps " 
 
 At this moment the door was gently opened 
 and Mr. Harding appeared. 
 
 " Oh, Chichester," he said. " I'm sorry to 
 have kept you waiting. What is it ? Would 
 you like to come to my study?" 
 
 " I must be off," said Mailing. " May I say 
 good-bye to Lady Sophia ? Or perhaps she 
 is resting and would rather not be disturbed." 
 
 " I'm sure she would wish to say good-bye 
 to you," said the rector. " I'll just ask her." 
 
 He shot a quick glance from one man to 
 the other and went out of the room, leaving 
 the door open behind him. 
 
 Directly he was gone the curate said : " It 
 has been such a pleasure to me to renew 
 my acquaintance with you, Mr. Mailing. Are 
 you going to be long in London ? "
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 55 
 
 "All the season, I think." 
 
 "Then I hope we may meet again soon, 
 very soon." 
 
 He hesitated, put one hand in his pocket, 
 and brought out a card-case. 
 
 " I should like to give you my address." 
 
 " And let me give you mine." 
 
 They exchanged cards. 
 
 " I expect you'll be very busy," said the 
 curate, rather doubtfully. 
 
 Then he added, like a man urged on by 
 some strong, almost overpowering desire to 
 do a thing not quite natural to him : 
 
 "But I wish you could spare an evening to 
 come to dine with me. I live very modestly, 
 of course. I'm in rooms, in Hornton Street 
 — do you know it? — near Campden Hill? — 
 Number 4a — as you'll see on my card. I 
 wonder " 
 
 " I shall be delighted to come." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Whenever you are kind enough to ask 
 
 me." 
 
 "Could you come on Wednesday week? 
 It's so unfortunate, I have such a quantity
 
 56 THE DWELLER 
 
 of parish engagements — that is my first 
 evening free." 
 
 " Wednesday week, with pleasure '" 
 
 " At half after seven ? " 
 
 "That will suit me perfectly." 
 
 <«And"— he looked toward the door — "I 
 shall be greatly obliged to you if you won't 
 mention to the rector the fact that you are 
 coming. He " 
 
 " My wife's in the boudoir," said Mr. Hard- 
 ing, coming into the room at this moment. 
 
 He stood by the door. 
 
 Mailing shook hands with Chichester, and 
 went to say good-bye to his hostess. 
 
 Mr. Harding shut the drawing-room door. 
 
 "This is the way," he said. "Well, Mr. 
 Mailing? Well?" 
 
 " You mean you want to know ?" 
 
 "Your impression of Chichester." 
 
 The rector stopped on the landing. 
 
 " Do you find him much changed?" 
 
 Mailing shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Possibly — a little. He may have become 
 rather firmer in manner, a trifle more decisive." 
 
 " Firmer ! More decisive, you say ! "
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 57 
 
 " But surely that is only natural, working — 
 as he has done, I understand, under a man 
 such as yourself for two years." 
 
 "Such as myself! Then you think he's 
 caught something of my manner and way of 
 looking at things ? You think " 
 
 " Really, it's difficult to say," interrupted 
 Mailing. " He's developed, no doubt. But 
 very few people don't. I suppose you've 
 trained him." 
 
 " I ! " said the rector. " I train a man like 
 Chichester!" 
 
 In his voice there was a bitter irony. 
 
 "Is that you, Mr. Mailing?" said the voice 
 of Lady Sophia. " I was lying down with a 
 book. This is my little room," 
 
 She looked pale, almost haggard, as the 
 sunshine fell upon her through the open 
 window. 
 
 Mailing took his leave at once and she did 
 not attempt to detain him. 
 
 " I hope you'll come again," she said, as 
 they shook hands. " Perhaps on another 
 Sunday morning, to church and lunch. I'll 
 let you know."
 
 58 THE DWELLER 
 
 She said the last words with a significance 
 which made Mailing understand that she did 
 not wish him to come to church at St. Joseph's 
 again till she gave him the word. 
 
 The rector let him out of the house. Not 
 another word was spoken about Henry 
 Chichester. As his guest walked away the 
 rector stood, bareheaded, looking after him, 
 then, as Mailing turned the corner of the 
 gardens, with a heavy sigh, and the uncon- 
 scious gesture of a man greatly troubled in 
 mind, he stepped back into his hall and shut 
 the door behind him.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 59 
 
 IV 
 
 A WEEK later, Mailing paid a visit to Pro- 
 fessor 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 Mailing found him alone after dinner, 
 writing busily in his crowded library. He 
 had but recently returned from Paris, whither 
 he had travelled to take part in a series of 
 "sittings" with the famous medium, Mrs. 
 Groeber.
 
 6o THE DWELLER 
 
 In person the professor was odd, without 
 being specially striking. He was of. medium 
 height, thin and sallow, with grey whiskers, 
 thick grey 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-coloured 
 clothes. Even in winter he was often to be 
 seen clad in yellow-grey tweeds, a yellow silk 
 necktie, and a fawn-coloured 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 Mailing came in he looked up and 
 nodded.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 6i 
 
 " Putting down all about Mrs. Groeber," he 
 observed. 
 
 "Anything new or interesting?" asked 
 Mailing. 
 
 "Just the usual manifestations, done in full 
 light, though." 
 
 He laid aside his pen, while Mailing 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 under- 
 stood to be so by Mailing. 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 Mailing had hinted at no mystery, and 
 had come without saying he was coming. 
 
 "You know a clergyman called Marcus 
 Harding?" said Mailing. 
 
 " Of St. Joseph's. To be sure, I do."
 
 62 THE DWELLER 
 
 " Do you know also his senior curate, Henry 
 Chichester?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Have you heard of him ? " 
 
 " Oh dear, yes. And 1 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 Mailing, 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, bibLcal 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.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 63 
 
 "And you didn't encourage him ? " 
 
 " When do I encourage clergymen to talk 
 about psychical research ? " 
 
 Mailing 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 experi- 
 ments 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 Mailing'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 1 can 
 do in the pulpit— the Abbey pulpit ! " 
 
 He got up, and walking slightly sidewise, 
 with his hands hanging, and his fingers open- 
 ing and shutting, went over to a chair close to 
 Mailing's.
 
 64 THE DWELLER 
 
 " Get on ! " he said. 
 
 " I'm going to. I want your advice." 
 
 When Mailing 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 bettor 
 proceed." 
 
 "You really think the matter important?" 
 asked the professor. 
 
 Mailing 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 
 Mailing. " 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"
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 65 
 
 " You mean that I have no right to endeavour 
 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. Per- 
 haps he'd have told me but for my con- 
 founded 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 
 envelope and drew out a couple of clergymen, 
 
 F
 
 66 THE DWELLER 
 
 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 Mai- 
 ling. 
 
 "I leave it to you," he said. "Take your 
 own line. But don't forget that, if there's any- 
 thing in it, development will take place in the 
 link. The link will be a centre of combat. 
 The link will be an interesting field for 
 study." 
 
 "The link?" said Mailing, interrogatively. 
 
 "Goodness gracious me! Her ladyship! 
 Her ladyship!" cried out the professor. 
 " What are you about, Mailing ? " 
 
 And he refused to say another word on the 
 matter till Mailing, after much more conversa- 
 tion on other topics, got up to go. Then 
 accompanying him to the front door, the 
 professor said : 
 
 " You know / think it's probably all great 
 nonsense." 
 
 "What?"
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 6y 
 
 " 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 Mailing 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 ! 
 Tr'es bicn ! But— reverend gentlemen of St. 
 Joseph's! I shall have to look for telcrgic 
 power in my acquaintance Randall Cantuar, 
 when I want it ! By Jove ! " 
 
 "If in doubt, study Lady Sophia." As 
 Mailing thought over these parting words, he 
 realized their wisdom and wondered at his 
 own short-sightedness.
 
 68 THE DWELLER 
 
 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 " Horn- 
 ton Street, Wednesday" he considered a 
 certain matter with sedulous care. His inter- 
 view with Stepton had not been fruitless. 
 Stepton always made an effect on his mind. 
 Casual and jerky though his manner was, obsti- 
 nate 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. Mailing 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
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 69 
 
 for its cruel beak. Somewhat in similar 
 fashion, so Mailing 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! 
 
 Mailing would have given a good deal to 
 have Stepton with him in this affair, despite 
 the professor's repellent attitude towards the 
 amateur. Well, if there really was anything 
 in it, if strangeness rose out of the orthodox 
 bosom of St. Joseph'^., if he — Mailing — 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 viva- 
 cious broke up, and in the evening the rain 
 fell with a gentle persistence. Blank greyness 
 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 Mailing as he walked under
 
 70 THE DWELLER 
 
 an umbrella in the direction of Kensington 
 High Street. He walked, to shake off depres- 
 sion. 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 mono- 
 tony of their lives ; the shop-girls, 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. 
 
 Mailing knew it was the rain, the possessive 
 greyness, which troubled his body to-night, 
 and through his body troubled his spirit.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD ^\ 
 
 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 Mailing, 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. Mailing 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. 
 
 Mailing knew that it would be a case of
 
 72 THE DWELLER 
 
 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 arm- 
 chairs not covered with horsehair. There 
 was also a cottage piano, severely nude. In 
 the centre 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 Mailing'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 Mailing. 
 
 "Do I look so?" said Chichester, quickly. 
 
 He turned round and gazed at himself in an 
 oval Venetian mirror which was fixed to the
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 73 
 
 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 some- 
 thing in Mailing'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." 
 
 Mailing looked at him for a moment 
 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-turcen.
 
 74 THE DWELLER 
 
 " 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 Mailing, 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 pave- 
 ment. 
 
 " 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
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 75 
 
 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 stand- 
 ing behind me I had forgotten she was here. 
 How it rains to-night ! I hate the sound of 
 rain." 
 
 "It is dismal," said Mailing, 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 docs Mr. Harding strike you ? What 
 impression docs he make upon you?"
 
 •j6 THE DWELLER 
 
 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 I " he almost stam- 
 mered. 
 
 As if to cover some emotion, he looked at 
 Mailing's plate, and added: 
 
 " Have some more? You won't? Then " 
 
 He got up and rang the bell. Ellen
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 'jj 
 
 reappeared, cleared away, and put the stewed 
 fruit and custard on the table. 
 
 " Bring the coffee in ten minutes, Ellen. 1 
 won't ring." 
 
 "Very well, sir." 
 
 "Dispersion," said Chichester to Mailing 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 arc happy," said Chichester, 
 with trembling lips. " Poor miserable sinners 
 as we are ! And we clergymen, who set u[) to 
 direct others " he broke off. 
 
 He seemed greatly, strangely, moved.
 
 78 THE DWELLER 
 
 " 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 
 Mailing 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 Mailing to light up, 
 and gave him a cigar. 
 
 " CofTee 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 Mailing. 
 
 The fact was that Chichester had never re- 
 covered the colour 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 :
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 79 
 
 " 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 Mailing 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." 
 
 MalHng 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,
 
 8o THE DWELLER 
 
 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 con- 
 tinued : 
 
 "And then not every one is fitted to com- 
 prehend 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 Mailing 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 ?"
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 8i 
 
 " 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 
 Mailing, 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." 
 
 "/ 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 Mailing turn cold. 
 
 G
 
 82 THE DWELLER 
 
 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—"! 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
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 83 
 
 " I think " — he turned right round in his 
 chair to confront Mailing squarely — " that you 
 do not know." 
 
 For the first time he completely dominated 
 Mailing, Chichester the gentle, cherubic 
 clergyman, whom Mailing had thought of as 
 good, but weak, and certainly as a negligible 
 quantity. He dominated, because at that 
 moment he made Mailing feel as if he had 
 some great possession of knowledge which 
 Mailing lacked. 
 
 "And you?" said Mailing. "Do you 
 know?" 
 
 The curate's lips worked, but he made no 
 answer. 
 
 Mailing 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 
 ra.n. 
 
 "If only Stcpton were here!" thought 
 Mailing. 
 
 There was a truth hidden from him, perhaps 
 partly rlivined, obscurely half seen, but not 
 thoroughly understood, as a whole invisible.
 
 84 THE DWELLER 
 
 Stei)ton would be the man to elucidate it, 
 Mailing 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 Mailing. 
 
 Chichester came back and sat down again 
 opposite Mailing. His expression had now 
 quite changed. He looked calmer, gentler, 
 weaker, and much more uninteresting. Cross- 
 ing 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 
 Mailing to go. 
 
 Only when he was letting his guest out into 
 the night did he seem troubled once more. 
 He clasped Mailing's hand in his, as if almost
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 85 
 
 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 Mailing, 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 Mailing remembered the look 
 In his eyes as he drew back to shut his door.
 
 86 THE DWELLER 
 
 In the rain Mailing 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 over- 
 came 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 Mailing surely had dwin- 
 dled, 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— Mailing ! 
 
 If Mr. Harding was going down the hill, 
 Chichester surely was not. He had changed 
 drastically since Mailing 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
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 87 
 
 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 Mailing walked 
 home in the darkness and rain, he felt himself 
 humbled, diminished ? 
 
 For Mailing 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. Wliy not follow
 
 88 THE DWELLER 
 
 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.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 89 
 
 ON the night following the dinner in 
 Hornton Street, Mailing went to the 
 Covent Garden Opera House to hear " La 
 Traviata." The well-worn work did not grasp 
 the attention of a man who was genuinely 
 fond of the music of Richard Strauss, with its 
 almost miraculous intricacies, and who was 
 willingly captive to Debussy. He looked 
 about the house from his stall, and very soon 
 caught sight of Lady Mansford, Lady Sophia's 
 sister-in-law, in a box on the Grand Tier. 
 Mailing knew Lady Mansford. He resolved 
 to pay her a visit, and as soon as the curtain 
 was down, and Tetrazzini had tripped before 
 it, smiling not unlike a good-natured child, he 
 made his way upstairs, and asked the attendant 
 to tap at a door on which was printed, "The 
 Earl of Mansford." The man did so, and
 
 90 THE DWELLER 
 
 opened the door, showing a domestic scene 
 highly creditable to the much-maligned British 
 aristocracy— Lord Mansford seated alone with 
 his wife, in evidently amicable conversation. 
 
 After a few polite words he made Mailing 
 sit down beside her, and, saying he would 
 have a cigarette in the foyer, he left them 
 together. 
 
 Lady Mansford was a pretty, dark woman, 
 of the slightly irresponsible and little-bird 
 type. She willingly turned her charmingly 
 dressed head and chirped when noticed, and 
 she was generally noticed because of her 
 beauty. Now she chirped of Ceylon, where 
 Mailing had been, and then, more vivaciously, 
 of Parisian milliners, where she had been. 
 From these allied subjects Mailing led her on 
 to a slightly different topic — religion. 
 
 " I went to St. Joseph's last Sunday week," 
 he presently said. 
 
 " St. who — what ? " said Lady Mansford, who 
 was busy with her opera-glasses, and had just 
 noticed that Lady Sindon, a bird-like rival of 
 hers, had changed the colour of her hair, fortu- 
 nately to her — Lady Sindon's— disadvantage.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 91 
 
 "To St. Joseph's, to hear your brother-in- 
 law preach." 
 
 "It doesn't do at all," murmured Lady 
 Mansford. " It makes her look Chinese." 
 
 "You said ?" 
 
 "Mollie Sindon. But what were you talk- 
 ing about ? Do tell me." She laid down her 
 glasses, 
 
 " I was saying that I went to church last 
 Sunday week," 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 "To hear your brother-in-law preach at St. 
 Joseph's." 
 
 " Marcus!" exclaimed Lady Mansford. She 
 pursed her lips. " I don't go to St. Joseph's, 
 Poor Sophy ! I'm sorry for her," 
 
 " 1 lunched with Lady Sophia after the 
 service." 
 
 "Did you? Isn't it sad?" 
 
 "Sad! I don't quite understand?" said 
 Mailing, interrogatively. 
 
 "The change in him. Of course people say 
 it's drink. Such nonsense ! But they must 
 say something, mustn't they?" 
 
 "Is Mr. Harding so very much changed ?"
 
 92 THE DWELLER 
 
 " Do you mean to say you didn't notice it?" 
 
 " 1 never met him till within the last fort- 
 night." 
 
 " He's transformed — simply. He might have 
 risen to anything, with his energy, his ambi- 
 tion, and his connexions. And now! But 
 the worst of it is no one can make out why it 
 is. Even Sophia and Isinglass — my husband, 
 you know ! — haven't an idea. And it gets 
 worse every day. Last Sunday I hear his 
 sermon was too awful, a mere muddle of 
 adjectives, such as one hears in Hyde Park, 
 I believe. I never liked Marcus particularly. 
 I always thought him too autocratic, too 
 determined to dominate. He had that poor 
 little Mr. Chichester — his curate — completely 
 under his thumb. Mr. Chichester couldn't 
 call his soul his own. He worshipped Marcus. 
 But now they say even he is beginning to 
 think that his god is of clay. What can it be? 
 Do 3^ou think Marcus is losing his mind ?" 
 
 "Oh, I should hope not," returned Mailing, 
 vaguely. " Has it been going on long ? " 
 
 " Oh, for quite a time. But it all seemed to 
 come on gradually — as things do, you know !
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 93 
 
 Poor Sophy has always adored him, and given 
 way to him in everything. In her eyes all 
 that he does is right. She never says a word, 
 I believe, but she must be suffering the 
 tortures oi—you know ! There's Winnie 
 Rufford coming in ! How astonishingly 
 young she looks. Were you at the Hunting- 
 ham's ball? Well " 
 
 Lady Mansford twittered no more about the 
 Harding menage. But Mailing felt that his 
 visit had not been fruitless. 
 
 After the opera he went to a party in Gros- 
 venor Street, where again he managed to 
 produce talk of the Hardings. It seemed that 
 Lady Mansford had not exaggerated very 
 much. Among those who knew the Hardings 
 a change in the rector of St. Joseph's had 
 evidently been generally noticed. Mailing 
 took in to supper a Mrs. Armitage, a great 
 friend of Lady Sophia's, and she made no 
 secret of the fact that Lady Sophia was greatly 
 distressed, 
 
 "I thought she would have been here 
 to-night," Mrs. Armitage said. " But she 
 isn't. I suppose she felt she couldn't face it.
 
 94 THE DWELLER 
 
 So many of his congregation are here, or so 
 many who were in his congregation." 
 
 " The church was crammed to the doors last 
 Sunday week when he preached," observed 
 Mailing. 
 
 "Was it? Curiosity, I suppose. It certainly 
 can't have been the intellectual merit of the 
 sermon. I heard it was quite deplorable. But 
 last Sunday's, I was told, was worse still. No 
 continuity at all, and the church not full. 
 People say the curate, Mr. Chichester, who 
 often preaches in the evening, is making a 
 great effect, completely cutting out his rector. 
 And he used to be almost unbearably dull." 
 
 " Will you have a quail ? " 
 
 " Please. You might give me two. My 
 doctor says if I sit up late — thank you ! " 
 
 " I've never heard Mr. Chichester preach," 
 said Mailing. 
 
 " He seems to have come on marvellously, 
 to be quite another man." 
 
 "Quite another man, does he?" 
 
 " Yes. It's very trying for the Hardings 
 naturally. If it continues I think there will 
 have to be a change. I don't think things can
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 95 
 
 go on as they are. My friend Sophia won't 
 be able to stand it." 
 
 " You mean — the contrast ? " 
 
 " Between her husband and Mr. Chichester. 
 She's very highly strung and quite worships 
 her husband ; though, between you and me, 
 /think rather in the slave spirit. But some 
 women are like that. They can't admire a 
 man unless he beats them. Not that Mr. 
 Harding ever dreamed of doing such a thing 
 to Sophia, of course. But his will had to be 
 law in everything. You know the type of man ! 
 It's scarcely my idea of what a clergyman 
 should be. I think a man who professes to 
 direct the souls of others should be more 
 gentle and unselfish, especially to his wife. 
 Another quail? Well, really, I think perhaps 
 I will. They are so absurdly small this 
 season, aren't they ? There's scarcely anything 
 on them." 
 
 So that minute fraction of the world that 
 knew of the existence of the Hardings began 
 to utter itself concerning them, and Mailing 
 was fortified in his original belief which he 
 had expressed to Professor Stepton.
 
 96 THE DWELLER 
 
 Among his many experiments made in con- 
 nexion with psychical research those which 
 had interested him the most had been those 
 in which the mystery of the human will had 
 seemed to be deeply involved. Mailing was 
 essentially a psychologist. And man was to 
 him the great mystery, because man contained 
 surely something that belonged to, that was 
 lent to, man, as it were, by another, the mind 
 beyond, the anirna iniincit. When Mailing 
 drew mentally, or spiritually, very near to any 
 man, however rude, however humble, he always 
 had the feeling that he was approaching holy 
 ground. Hidden beneath his generally im- 
 perturbable exterior, sunk beneath the surface 
 incredulity of his mind, there was the deep 
 sense of mighty truths awaiting the appointed 
 day of proclamation. Surely, he often thought, 
 if there is God in anything, in the last rays of 
 the sunset, in the silence of night upon the 
 sea, in the waking of spring among the forests 
 and the gardens, in the song of the nightingale 
 which knows not lovers are listening, there is 
 God in the will of man. 
 
 And when he made investigations into the 
 
 I
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 97 
 
 action of will upon will, or of will — as it seemed 
 — upon matter, he was held, as he was not 
 held by the appearance of so-called spirit faces 
 and spirit forms, even when he could not con- 
 nect these with trickery which he knew how 
 to expose. Perhaps, however, his incredulity 
 in regard to these latter phenomena wa,s 
 incurable, though he did not know it. For he 
 knew nearly all the devices of the charlatans. 
 And when the so-called spirits came, the 
 medium was always entranced, that is, ap- 
 parently will-less, and so to Mailing not 
 interesting. 
 
 Now, from what Harding and Chichester 
 had said to him, and from what he had observed 
 for himself. Mailing believed that the two 
 clergymen must have had sittings together, 
 probably with the usual tremendous object of 
 the ignorant amateur, that merely of com- 
 municating with the other world. Consider- 
 ing who the two men were. Mailing believed 
 that in all probability they had sat alone and 
 in secret. He also felt little doubt that from 
 Mr. Harding's brain had come the suggestion 
 of these practices, that his will had led 
 
 H
 
 98 THE DWELLER 
 
 Chichester on to them. Although he had not 
 known the rector two years ago, he had 
 gathered sufficient testimony to the fact that 
 he had been a man of powerful, even perhaps 
 of tyrannical, temperament, formed rather to 
 rule than to be ruled. He knew that Chichester, 
 on the contrary, had been gentle, kindly, yield- 
 ing, and of somewhat weak, though of very 
 amiable nature. The physique of the two men 
 accorded with these former temperaments. 
 Harding's commanding height, large frame, 
 big, powerful face and head, rather hard grey 
 eyes, even his large white teeth, his bony, 
 determined hands, his firmly treading feet, 
 suggested force, a dominating will, the capacity, 
 and the intention, to rule. Henry Chichester's 
 fleshly envelope, on the other hand, cherubic, 
 fair, and delicate, his blue eyes, small bones, 
 the shape of forehead and chin, the line of the 
 lips, hinted at — surely more than that, surely 
 stated mildly — the existence within it of a 
 nature retiring, meek, and ready to be ruled 
 by others. No wonder if Chichester had been, 
 as Lady Mansford had said, completely under 
 the rector's thumb, no wonder if he had been
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 99 
 
 unable to "call his soul his own" and had 
 "worshipped Marcus." 
 
 Yes, if there had been these secret sittings 
 by these two men, it was Harding who had 
 persuaded Chichester to take part in them. 
 And what had these sittings led to, what had 
 been their result ? 
 
 The ignorant outsider, the hastily sceptical, 
 of course would say that there could have 
 been no result. Mailing, knowing more, 
 knew better. He had seen strange cases of 
 temporary confusion of a man's will brought 
 about by sittings, of what had seemed 
 temporary change even of a man's nature. 
 When a hitherto sane man goes mad he often 
 becomes the opposite of what he was. Those 
 whom he formerly loved he specially singles 
 out for hatred. That which he delighted to 
 do he shrinks from with horror. Once good- 
 natured, he is now of an evil temper; once 
 gentle, he is fiercely obstinate ; once gay, he 
 cowers and weeps. So Mailing had known 
 a man, while retaining his sanity, to be trans- 
 formed by the apparently trivial fact of sitting 
 at a table with a friend, and placing his hands
 
 loo THE DWELLER 
 
 upon it with the hands of another man. He 
 himself had sat with an Oxford friend— who 
 in later sittings becaine entranced — and at 
 the very first experiment this man had said 
 to him, "It's so strange, now that I am sitting 
 with you like this I feel filled with hatred 
 towards you." This hatred, which had come 
 upon, this man at every successive sitting, 
 had always faded away when the sitting was 
 over. But was it certain that the feelings' 
 generated in sittings never persisted after 
 they were broken up ? Was it certain that 
 in every case the waters that had been 
 mysteriously troubled settled into their 
 former stillness ? 
 
 Harding and Chichester, for instance! Had 
 the strong man troubled the waters of the 
 weaker man's soul, and were those waters 
 still agitated? That was perhaps possible. 
 But Mailing thought it was possible also, and 
 he had suggested this to Professor Stepton, 
 that the weaker man had infused some of his 
 weakness, his self-doubtings, his readiness to 
 be affected by the opinion of others, into his 
 dominating companion. Mailing believed it
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD loi 
 
 possible that the wills of the two clergymen, 
 in some mysterious and inexplicable way, 
 had mingled during their sittings, and that 
 they had never become completely dis- 
 entangled. If this were so, the result was 
 a different Harding from the former Harding, 
 and a different Henry Chichester from the 
 former Henry Chichester. 
 
 What puzzled Mailing, however, was the 
 fact, if fact it were, that the difference in each 
 man was not diminishing, but increasing. 
 
 Could they be continuing the sittings, if 
 there had ever been sittings? All was sur- 
 mise. As the professor had said, he. Mailing, 
 was perhaps deducing a good deal from very 
 little. And yet was he? His instinct told 
 him he was not. Yet there might no doubt 
 be some ordinary cause for the change in 
 Mr. Harding. Some vice, such as love of 
 drink, or morphia, something that disin- 
 tegrates a man, might iiave laid its claw 
 upon him. That was possil)le. What seemed 
 to Mailing much more unaccountable was 
 the extraordinary change in the direction of 
 strength in Chichester. And the relations
 
 I02 THE DWELLER 
 
 between the two men, if indeed the curate 
 had once worshipped his rector, were 
 mysteriously transformed. For now, was 
 it not almost as if something of Harding in 
 Chichester watched, criticized, Chichester in 
 Harding? 
 
 But now — to study Lady Sophia! For if 
 there was really anything in Mailing's curious 
 supposition, the woman must certainly be 
 strangely affected. He remembered the 
 expression in her eyes when her husband 
 was preaching, her manner when she spoke 
 of the curate as one of her husband's swans. 
 
 And he longed to see her again. She had 
 said that she hoped he would come again to 
 St. Joseph's and to her house, but he knew 
 well that any such desire in her had arisen 
 from her wounded pride in her husband. 
 She wished Mailing to know what the rector 
 could really do. When she thought that 
 the rector had recovered his former powers, 
 his hold upon the minds of men, then she 
 would invite Mailing to return to St. Joseph's, 
 but not before. 
 
 And when would that moment come ?
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 103 
 
 It might not come for weeks, for months. 
 It might never come. Mailing did not mean 
 to await it. Nevertheless he did not want 
 to do anything likely to surprise Lady Sophia, 
 to lead her to think that he had any special 
 object in view in furthering his acquaintance 
 with her. 
 
 While he was casting about in his mind 
 what course to take, chance favoured him. 
 
 Four days later, when he was strolling round 
 the rooms in Burlington House, he saw not 
 far in front of him the tall and restless figure 
 of a woman. She was alone. For some 
 time Mailing did not recognize her. She 
 did not turn sufficiently for him to see her 
 face, and iicr almost feverish movements, 
 though they attracted and fixed his attention, 
 did not strike him as familiar. His thought 
 of her, as he slowly followed in the direction 
 she was taking, was, " What a difficult woman 
 that would be to live with ! " For the hands 
 were never still ; the gait was uneasy ; nervous- 
 ness, almost a sort of pitiful irritation, seemed 
 expressed by her every movement. 
 
 in the big room this woman paused before
 
 104 THE DWELLER 
 
 the picture of the year, which happened to 
 be a very bad one, and Mailing, coming up, 
 at last recognized her as Lady Sophia Harding. 
 
 He took off his hat. She seemed startled, 
 but greeted him pleasantly, and entered into 
 a discussion of the demerits which fascinate 
 the crowd. 
 
 "You prefer seeing pictures alone, perhaps?" 
 said Mailing, presently. 
 
 "Indeed I don't," she answered. "I was 
 coming to-day with my husband. We drove 
 up together. But at the last moment he 
 thought he remembered something — some 
 appointment with Mr. Chichester — and left 
 
 me." 
 
 There were irony and bitterness in her 
 voice, 
 
 " He said he'd come back and meet me in 
 the tea-room presently," she added. 
 
 "Shall we go there and wait for him?" 
 asked Mailing. 
 
 " But I'm afraid I'm taking up your time." 
 
 " I have no engagements this afternoon. I 
 shall enjoy a quiet talk with you." 
 
 " It's very good of you."
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 105 
 
 They descended, and sat down in a quiet 
 corner. In the distance a few respectable 
 persons were slowly eating bath-buns with an 
 air of fashion, their duly marked catalogues 
 laid beside them on marble. 
 
 Far-off waiters, standing with their knees 
 bent, conversed in undertones. A sort of 
 subterranean depression, peculiar to this fast- 
 ness of Burlington House, brooded over the 
 china and the provisions. 
 
 " It reminds me of the British Museum tea- 
 room," said Lady Sophia. " Here is tea ! 
 What a mercy! Modern pictures sap one's 
 little strength." 
 
 She looked haggard, and was obviously on 
 the edge of her nerves. 
 
 "Marcus migiit have come in," she added. 
 "But of course he wouldn't— or couldn't." 
 
 " Doesn't he care for pictures ? " 
 
 She slightly shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " He used to. But 1 don't know that he 
 does now." 
 
 " I suppose he has a tremendous amount to 
 do." 
 
 "He used to do much more at Liverpool.
 
 io6 THE DWELLER 
 
 If a man wishes to come to the front he 
 mustn't sit in an armchair with folded hands." 
 
 There was a sharp sound of criticism in her 
 voice which astonished Mailing. At the 
 luncheon, only about a fortnight ago, she had 
 shown herself plainly as the adoring wife, 
 anxious for her husband's success, nervously 
 hostile to any one who interfered with it, who 
 stood between him and the homage of his 
 world. Now Mailing noted, or thought he 
 noted, a change in her mental attitude. He 
 was instantly on the alert. 
 
 "I'm sure that's the last thing Mr. Harding 
 would do," he said. 
 
 She shot a glance at him out of her dis- 
 contented dark eyes. 
 
 "Are you?" 
 
 And sarcasm crept in the words. She gave 
 to Mailing at this moment the impression of 
 a woman so strung up as to be not her natural 
 self, so tormented by some feeling, perhaps 
 long repressed, that her temperament was 
 almost furiously seeking an outlet, knowing 
 instinctively, perhaps, that only there lay its 
 salvation.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 107 
 
 "His record proves it," said Mailing, with 
 serenely smiling assurance. 
 
 Lady Sophia twisted her lips. The Academy 
 tea was very strong. Perhaps it had been 
 standing. She drank a little, pulled at her 
 long gloves restlessly, and looked at Mailing. 
 He knew she was longing to confide in some- 
 body. If only he could induce her to confide 
 in him ! 
 
 "Oh, my husband's been a very active man," 
 she said. " Everybody knows that. But in 
 this modern world of ours one must not walk, 
 or even run along, one must keep on rushing 
 along if one intends to reach the goal." 
 
 "And by that you mean ?" 
 
 "Mean ! The topmost height of your pro- 
 fession, or business, of whatever career you 
 
 are in." 
 
 "You are ambitious," he said. 
 
 "Not for myself," she answered quickly. 
 " I have no ambition for myself" 
 
 " But perhaps the ambition to spur on 
 another successfully ? Tliat seems to me the 
 truest, the most legitimate ambition of the 
 woman all men worship in their hearts."
 
 108 THE DWELLER 
 
 Suddenly tears started into her eyes. She 
 was sitting opposite Mailing. The tea-table 
 was between them. Now she leaned forward 
 across it. By nature she was a very sensitive, 
 but she was not a self-conscious, woman. She 
 was not self-conscious now. 
 
 " It is much better to be selfish," she said 
 earnestly. "That is where we women make 
 such a fatal mistake. Instead of trusting to 
 ourselves, of relying on ourselves, and of 
 having a personal ambition, we seek always 
 another in whom we may trust; we are un- 
 happy till we rely on another ; it is for another 
 we cherish, we hug, ambition. And then, 
 when all founders, we realize too late what I 
 dare say every man knows." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "That we women are fools — fools 1** 
 
 " For being unselfish ? " 
 
 " For thinking we have power when we are 
 impotent." 
 
 She made a gesture that was surely one of 
 despair. 
 
 " No one— at any rate, no woman — has 
 power for another," she added, with almost
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 109 
 
 terrible conviction, " That is all a legend, 
 made up to please us, I suppose. We draw 
 a sword against darkness and think we are 
 fighting. Isn't it too absurd ? " 
 
 With the last words she changed her tone, 
 trying to make it light, and she smiled, 
 
 " We take everything too seriously. That's 
 the trouble!" she said. "And men pretend 
 we take nothing seriously," 
 
 " Very often they don't understand." 
 
 " Oh, please say never ! " she exclaimed. 
 "They never understand." 
 
 Suddenly Mailing resolved on a very bold 
 stroke. 
 
 " But I'm a man," he said, as if that obvious 
 fact shattered her contention. 
 
 "What has that got to do with it?" she 
 said, in obvious surprise. 
 
 " Because I do understand." 
 
 For a moment she was silent. He thought 
 he read what was passing through her mind, 
 as he knew he had read her character. She 
 was one of those women who must be proud 
 of their men, who love to be ruled, but only by 
 a conqueror, who delight to sink themselves,
 
 no THE DWELLER 
 
 but in power, not in impotence. And now 
 she was confronted by the shipwreck not 
 merely of her hopes, but also of her belief. 
 She saw a hulk drifting at the mercy of the 
 waves that, perhaps, would soon engulf it. 
 But she was not only despairing, she was 
 raging too. For she was a woman with 
 nervous force in her, and it is force that rages 
 in the moments of despair, seeking, perhaps 
 unconsciously, some means of action and 
 finding none. 
 
 "Why should there not be some hope?" 
 asked Mailing, quietly. 
 
 "To-morrow is Sunday. If you go to 
 morning church at St. Joseph's, and then to 
 evening church, you will see if there is any 
 hope." 
 
 " To evening church ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes." 
 
 She got up. 
 
 " You are going? " 
 
 "I must. Forgive me!" 
 
 She held out her hand. 
 
 "But " 
 
 ** No, don't come with me, please.**
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD in 
 
 " If I go to St. Joseph's to-morrow, after- 
 ward may I see 3'ou again ? " 
 
 "If you think it's worth while." 
 
 Her face twisted. Hastily she pulled down 
 her veil, turned away and left him.
 
 112 THE DWELLER 
 
 VI 
 
 MALLING went the next day to morn- 
 ing and evening service at St. Joseph's. 
 He was not invited to lunch in Onslow 
 Gardens, and he did not see Lady Sophia. 
 On the whole, he was glad of this. He had 
 enough to keep in his mind that day. The 
 matter in which he was interested seemed 
 growing before his eyes, like a thing coming 
 out of the earth, but now beginning to thrust 
 itself up into regions where perhaps it would 
 eventually be hidden in darkness, with the 
 great company of mysteries whose unravelling 
 is beyond the capacity of man. 
 
 He had now, he felt sure, a clear comprehen- 
 sion of Lady Sophia. Their short interview 
 at Burlington House had been illuminating. 
 She was a typical example of the Adam's-rib 
 woman ; that is, of the woman who, intensely,
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 113 
 
 almost exaggeratedly feminine, can live in any 
 fulness onl}' through another, and that other 
 a man. Through Mr. Harding Lady Sophia 
 had hitherto lived, and had doubtless, in her 
 view, triumphed. Obviously a woman not 
 free from a nervous vanity, and a woman of 
 hungry ambition, her vanity and ambition 
 had been fed by his growing notoriety, his 
 increasing success and influence. The rib had 
 thrilled with the body to which it belonged. 
 
 But that time of happy emotion, of admira- 
 tion, of keen looking forward, was the property 
 of the past. Lawn sleeves, purple, perhaps — 
 for who is more hopeful than this type of 
 woman in the golden moments of life ? — 
 perhaps even an archiepiscopal throne faded 
 from before the eyes they had gladdened — the 
 eyes of faith in a man. 
 
 And a different woman was beginning to 
 appear — a woman who might be as critical as 
 she had formerly been admiring, a woman 
 capable of becoming embittered. 
 
 On the Sunday of Mailing's visit to Onslow 
 Gardens, Mr. Harding's failure in the pulpit 
 had waked up in his wife eager sympathy and 
 1
 
 114 THE DWELLER 
 
 eager spite, the one directed toward the man 
 who, as Mailing felt sure, had caused the 
 failure. 
 
 In Burlington House that woman, whom 
 men with every reason to adore, had given 
 place to another less favourable toward him 
 who had been her hero. 
 
 It seemed to Mailing as if in the future a 
 strange thing might happen, almost as if it 
 must happen : it seemed to him as if Chi- 
 chester might convey his view of his rector 
 to his rector's wife. 
 
 " Study the link," Stepton had said. " There 
 will be development in the link." 
 
 Already the words had proved true. There 
 had been a development in Lady Sophia such 
 as Mailing had certainly not anticipated. 
 Where would it end? Again and again, as he 
 listened to the morning and evening sermons. 
 Mailing had asked himself that question ; again 
 and again he had recalled his conversation at 
 Burlington House with Lady Sophia. 
 
 In the morning at St. Joseph's Mr. Harding 
 had preached to a church that was half filled; 
 in the evening Henry Chichester had preached
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 115 
 
 to a church that was full to the doors. And 
 each of the clergymen in turn had listened to 
 the other, but how differently ! 
 
 Mr. Harding had ascended to the pulpit with 
 failure staring him in the face, and whereas on 
 the Sunday when Mailing first heard him he 
 had obviously fought against the malign 
 influence which eventually had prevailed over 
 him, this time he had not had the vigour to 
 make a struggle. Certainly he had not broken 
 down. It might be said of him, as it was once 
 said of a nation, that he had "muddled 
 through." He had preached a very poor 
 sermon in a very poor way, nervously, indeed, 
 almost timidly, and with the manner of a man 
 who was cowed and hopeless. The powerful 
 optimism for which he had once been dis- 
 tinguished had given way to an almost un- 
 healthy pessimism, alien surely to the minds 
 of all believers, of all who profess to look 
 forward to that life of which, as Tolstoi long 
 ago said, our present life is but a dream. Even 
 when he was uttering truths he spoke them as 
 if he had an uneasy suspicion that they were 
 lies. At moments he seemed to be almost
 
 ii6 THE DWELLER 
 
 pleading with liis hearers to tolerate him, to 
 "bear with him." Indeed, several times 
 during his disjointed remarks he made use of 
 the latter expression, promising that his dis- 
 course should be a short one. Very carefully 
 he included himself among those aware of sin, 
 very humbly he declared the unworthiness of 
 any man to set himself up as a teacher and 
 leader of others. 
 
 Now, humility is all very well, but if carried 
 to excess, it suggests something less than a 
 man. Mr. Harding almost cringed before his 
 congregation. Mailing did not feel that his 
 humility was a pretence. On the contrary, it 
 struck him as abominably real, but so excessive 
 as to be not natural in any thorough man in a 
 normal condition of mind and of body. It was 
 the sort of humility that creates in the 
 unregenerate a desire to offer a good kicking 
 as a corrective. 
 
 Very different was the effect created by 
 Chichester's sermon in the evening. Mailing, 
 aware though he had become of the great 
 strengthening of Chichester, was amazed when 
 he heard him preach.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 117 
 
 Often it is said of a very fine preacher that 
 he preached as one inspired. Chichester 
 preached as one who knew. Never before had 
 MaUing been so impressed with the feeling 
 that he was listening to truth, absolute truth, 
 as he was while he listened to Chichester. 
 There was something, though, that was almost 
 deadly about it. It pierced like a lancet. It 
 seared like a red-hot iron. It humbled almost 
 too much. Here was no exaggerated humility, 
 no pleading to be borne with, no cringing, and 
 no doubt. A man who knew was standing up, 
 and, with a sort of indifference to outside 
 opinion that was almost frightening, was say- 
 ing some of the things he knew about men, 
 women— and surely God ! 
 
 The subject was somewhat akin to that of 
 the first sermon of Mr. Harding which Mailing 
 had heard. The rector then had preached on 
 self-knowledge. The curate, now, preached on 
 hypocrisy. Incidentally he destroyed his 
 rector's sermon, flung it away on the scrap- 
 heap, and passed on. This was not done 
 viciously, but it was done relentlessly, indeed, 
 that was the note of the whole sermon. It was
 
 ii8 THE DWELLER 
 
 relentless, as truth is relentless, as death is 
 relentless. And besides being terribly true, it 
 was imaginative. But the preacher almost 
 succeeded in conveying the impression to his 
 congregation that what is generally called 
 imagination is really vision; that the true 
 imagination is seeing what is, but is often 
 hidden ; knowing what is, but is often unknown. 
 The latter part of the sermon struck Mailing 
 as very unusual, even as very daring. 
 
 The preacher had spoken of the many 
 varieties of hypocrisy. Finally he drew a 
 picture of a finished hypocrite. And the man 
 lived as a man lives in the pages of a great 
 writer. One could walk round him, one knew 
 him. And then Chichester treated him as the 
 writer treats his creation ; he proceeded to 
 show his hypocrite in action. 
 
 The man, happy, almost triumphant — for he 
 now often looked upon himself with the eyes 
 of others who knew him not — was walking to 
 his home on a winter's evening along a country 
 road, passing now and then rustics who 
 respectfully saluted him, neighbours who 
 grasped his hand, children who innocently
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 119 
 
 smiled at him, women who whispered that he 
 was a fine fellow, the clergyman of his parish, 
 who gave him God-speed upon his way as to 
 one who deserved that God should speed him 
 because his way was right. Snow was upon 
 the ground. Such light as there was began to 
 fade. It was evident that the night, which was 
 very still, was going to be very dark. And the 
 man stepped out briskly. Presently, at a 
 lonely part of the road, happening to look 
 down, he saw footprints in the freshly fallen 
 snow. They were of feet that had recently 
 passed on the way he was following. They 
 had attracted, they continued to attract, his 
 attention, he knew not why. And as he went 
 on, his eyes were often upon them. 
 
 Presently he began to wonder about the 
 feet which had made the prints he saw. Did 
 they belong to a man or a woman? The 
 prints were too large to have been made by 
 the feet of a child. He gazed at them scarch- 
 ingly, and made up his mind that it was a 
 man who had recently trodden this road. 
 And what sort of man was it that thus pre- 
 ceded him not very far away? He became
 
 120 THE DWELLER 
 
 deeply engrossed with this question. His 
 
 mind revolved about this unknown traveller, 
 
 floating forward in surmises, till, by chance, 
 
 he happened to set his right foot in one of 
 
 the prints left in the snow. His foot exactly 
 
 filled it. This fact, he knew not why, startled 
 
 him. He stopped, bent down, examined the 
 
 snow closely, measured very carefully his feet 
 
 with the prints before him, now rather faintly 
 
 discerned in the gathering darkness. The 
 
 prints might have been made by his own feet. 
 
 Having ascertained this, and reflected for a 
 
 moment, he went forward, now assailed by a 
 
 growing curiosity as to the personality and 
 
 character of the stranger. But perhaps he 
 
 was not a stranger. He might surely well 
 
 be a neighbour, an acquaintance, perhaps even 
 
 a friend. The man meant, if possible, to come 
 
 up with him, whoever he was, and he now 
 
 hurried along with the intention of joining 
 
 the unknown whose footprints were the same 
 
 as his own. 
 
 At this point in his sermon Chichester 
 paused for a moment. And Mailing, who 
 seldom felt any thrill at a seance, and who
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 121 
 
 had often remained calmly watchful and alert 
 during manifestations which amazed or terri- 
 fied others, was aware of a feeling of cold, 
 which seemed to pass like a breath through 
 his spirit. The congregation about him, 
 perhaps struck by the unusual form of the 
 sermon, remained silent and motionless, wait- 
 ing. In his stall sat the rector with downcast 
 eyes. Mailing could not at that moment 
 discern his expression. His large figure and 
 important powerful head and face showed 
 almost like those of a carven effigy in the 
 lowered light of the chancel. The choir-boys 
 did not stir, and the small, fair man in the 
 pulpit, raising his thin hands, and resting 
 them on the marble ledge, continued quietly, 
 taking up his sermon with a repetition of tiie 
 last words uttered, " whose footprints were 
 the same as his own." 
 
 Again the cold breath went through 
 Mailing's spirit. He leaned slightly forward 
 and gazed at Chichester. 
 
 For some time the man thus went on- 
 ward, following the footprints in the snow, 
 but not overtaking any one, and becoming
 
 122 THE DWELLER 
 
 momentarily more eager to satisfy his curiosity. 
 Then, on a sudden, he started, stopped, and 
 listened. It had now become very dark, and 
 in this darkness, and the great stillness of 
 night, he heard the faint sound of a footfall 
 before him, brushing through the crisp snow, 
 which lay lightly, and not very deep, on the 
 hard highroad leading to the village on the 
 farther outskirts of which his house was 
 situated. He could not yet see any one, but 
 he felt sure that the person who made this 
 faint sound was no other than he in whose 
 steps he had been treading. It would now 
 be a matter of only a minute or two to come 
 up with him. And the man went on, but 
 more slowly, whether because he was now 
 certain of attaining his object or for some 
 other reason. 
 
 The sound of the footfall persisted, and was 
 certainly not far off. The prints in the snow 
 were so fresh that they seemed not quite 
 motionless, as if the snow were only now 
 settling after the pressure it had just suffered. 
 The man slackened his pace. He did not like 
 the sound which he heard. He began to feel
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 123 
 
 as if he by whom it was made would not 
 prove a companion to his taste. Yet his 
 curiosity continued. There began within him 
 a struggle between his curiosity and another 
 sensation, which was of repugnance, almost of 
 fear. And so equal were the combatants that 
 the lights of the village were in sight, and he 
 had not decreased the distance between him- 
 self and the other. Seeing the lights, how- 
 ever, his curiosity got the upper hand. He 
 slightly quickened his pace, and almost imme- 
 diately he beheld the shape of a man relieved 
 against the night, and treading onward 
 through the snow. And as the sound of the 
 footsteps had been disagreeable to his nerves, 
 so the contours of the moving blaci^ness 
 repelled him. He did not like the look of 
 this man whose footprints were the same as 
 his own, and he decided not to join him. But, 
 moving ratiier cautiously, he gained a little 
 upon him, in order to make sure, if possible, 
 whether or not he was a neighbour or an 
 acquaintance. 
 
 The figure seemed somehow familiar to our 
 man, indeed, oddly familiar. Nevertheless,
 
 124 THE DWELLER 
 
 he was unable to identify it. As he followed 
 it, more and more certain did he become that 
 he had seen it, that he knew it. And yet — did 
 he know it ? Had he seen it ? It was almost 
 as if one part of him denied while the other 
 affirmed. He longed, yet feared to see the 
 face. But the face never looked back. And 
 so, one at a little distance behind the other, 
 they came into the village. 
 
 Here a strange thing occurred. 
 
 There were very few people about, but 
 there were a few, and two or three of them, 
 meeting the person our man was following, 
 greeted him respectfully. But these same 
 people, when immediately afterward they 
 encountered the other, who had known them 
 for 3^ears, and whom they of course knew, 
 showed the greatest perturbation ; one, a 
 woman, even signs of terror. They gave him 
 no greeting, shrank from him as he passed, 
 and stared after him, as if bemused, when he 
 was gone by. Their behaviour was almost 
 incredible. But he was so set on what was 
 before him that he stopped to ask no ques- 
 tions.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 125 
 
 The village was a long one. Always one 
 behind the other, walking at an even pace, the 
 two men traversed it, approaching at last the 
 outskirts, where, separated from the other 
 habitations, and surrounded by a garden in 
 which the trees were laden with snow, stood 
 the house of the man who now watched 
 and followed, with a growing wonder and 
 curiosity, combined with an ever-growing 
 repugnance, him who made the footprints, 
 who had been saluted by the villagers, whose 
 figure and general aspect seemed in some- 
 wise familiar to him, and yet whom he could 
 not recognize. Where could this person be 
 going? The man asked himself, and came 
 to a resolve not to follow on into the darkness 
 of the open country, not to proceed beyond 
 his own home, of which now he saw the 
 lights, but to make an effort to see the face 
 of the other before the garden gate was 
 reached. 
 
 In this attempt, however, he was destined 
 to be frustrated. For as lie determinedly 
 quickened his steps, so did the other, who 
 gained the gate of the garden, unlatched it.
 
 126 THE DWELLER 
 
 turned in, and walked on among the trees 
 going toward the principal door. 
 
 A visitor, then! The man paused by his 
 garden gate, whence he could see his house 
 front, with the light from the window of his 
 own sitting-room streaming over the porch. 
 The stranger stood before it, made a move- 
 ment as if searching in his pocket, drew out 
 his hand, lifted it The door opened at once. 
 He disappeared within, and the door closed 
 after him. 
 
 He had opened the door with a key. 
 
 The man at the gate felt overcome by a 
 sensation almost of horror, which he could 
 not explain to himself It was not that he 
 was horrified by the certainly extraordinary 
 fact of some one possessing a key to his house, 
 and using it in this familiar fashion. It was 
 not even that he was horrified at seeing a man, 
 perhaps a stranger, disappearing thus into 
 his home by night, uninvited, unexpected. 
 What horrified him was that this particular 
 man, whose footprints he had followed and 
 measured with his foot, whose footfalls he 
 had heard, whose form he had seen outlined
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 127 
 
 against the night, should be within his house, 
 where his wife and his children were, and 
 where his venerable mother was sitting beside 
 the fire. That this man should be there ! He 
 knew now that from the first moment when 
 he had been aware of his existence he had 
 hated him, that his subconscious mind had 
 hated him. 
 
 But who was he? The natural thing would 
 have been to follow quickly into the house, 
 to see who had entered, to demand an explana- 
 tion. But he could not do this. Why? He 
 himself did not know why. But he knew that 
 he dared not do tliis. And he waited, expect- 
 ing he knew not what : a cry, a summons, 
 perhaps, some manifestation that would force 
 him to approach. 
 
 None came. Steadily the lights shone from 
 the house. There was no sound but the soft 
 fall of a block of snow from an overladen fir 
 branch in the garden. The man began to 
 marvel. Who could this be whose familiar 
 entry into his — his home thus at night caused 
 no disturbance? There were dogs within: 
 they had not barked. There were servants ;
 
 128 THE DWELLER 
 
 apparently they had not stirred. It was 
 ahnost as if this stranger's permanence was 
 accepted by the household. A long, long 
 time had slipped by. 
 
 The man at length, making an almost fierce 
 effort, partly dominated the unreasoning sense 
 of horror which possessed him. He opened 
 the gate, stepped into the garden, and made 
 his way slowly and softly toward the house 
 door. But suddenly he stopped. Through 
 the unshuttered window of his sitting-room, 
 the room in which for years he had spent 
 much of his time, in which he had concocted 
 many schemes to throw dust in the eyes of 
 his neighbours, and even of his own relatives, 
 in which he had learned very perfectly to 
 seem what he was not, and to hide what he 
 really was, he perceived the figure of a man. 
 It crossed the lighted space slowly, and 
 disappeared with a downward movement. 
 He knew it was the man he had been 
 following and whom he had seen enter his 
 house. 
 
 For a long while he remained where he was 
 on the path of the garden. The night
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 129 
 
 deepened about him. A long way off, at the 
 other end of the village, a clock chimed 
 the hours. In the cottages the lights were 
 extinguished. The few loungers disappeared 
 from the one long street vanishing over the 
 snow. And the man never moved. A numb 
 terror possessed him. Yet, despite his many 
 faults and his life of evil, he had never been 
 physically a coward. Alwa3's the light shone 
 steadily from the window of his study, making 
 a patch of yellow upon the snow. Always 
 the occupant of the room must be seated 
 tranquilly there, like an owner. For no figure 
 had risen, had repassed across the unshuttered 
 space. 
 
 The man told himself again and again that 
 he must go forward till he gained the window, 
 that he must at least look into the room ; if 
 he dared not enter the house to confront the 
 intruder, to demand an explanation. But 
 again and again something within him, which 
 seemed to be a voice from the innermost 
 chamber of his soul, whispered to him not 
 to go, whispered to him to leave the intruder 
 alone, to let the intruder do what he would, 
 
 K
 
 130 THE DWELLER 
 
 but not to approach him, above all, not to look 
 upon his face. And the man obeyed the voice 
 till a thing happened which roused in him a 
 powerful beast, called by many the natural man. 
 
 He saw his wife, whom he loved in his way, 
 though he had tricked and deceived her again 
 and again, cross the window space, smiling, 
 and disappear with a downward movement, as 
 the other had disappeared. Then she rose into 
 his range of vision, and stood for a moment so 
 that he could see her clearly, smiling, talking, 
 making little gestures that he knew, carrying 
 her hand to her face, stretching it out, dropping 
 it. Finally she lifted it to her lips, half-closing 
 her eyes at the same time, took it away 
 quickly, with a sort of butterfly motion, and 
 vanished, going toward the left, where the 
 room door was. 
 
 So had she many and many a time bidden 
 him, her husband, good night. Instantly, with 
 an impulse which seemed combined of rage 
 and terror, both now full of a driving force 
 which was irresistible, the man sprang forward 
 to the window, seized the stone coping with 
 his hands and stared into his room.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 131 
 
 Seated in a round chair at his writing-table, 
 by a lamp with a green shade, was the man 
 who had entered his house. He was writing 
 busily in a book with a silver clasp that could 
 be locked with a key, and he leaned a little 
 over the table with his head turned away. 
 The shape of his head, his posture, even the 
 manner in which he used his pen as he traced 
 line after line in the book, made an abominable 
 impression upon the man staring in at the 
 window. But the face— the face! He must 
 see that! And he leaned forward, trembling, 
 but fiercely, and, pressing his own face against 
 the pane, he looked at the occupant of his 
 room as men look sometimes with their souls. 
 
 The man at the table lifted his head. He 
 laid down the pen, blotted the book in which 
 he had been writing, shut it up, clasped it, 
 locked it with a tiny key, and put it carefully 
 into a drawer of the table, which also he locked. 
 He got up, stood for an instant by the table 
 with one hand upon it, then turned slowly 
 toward the window, smiling, as men smile to 
 themselves when they are thinking of their 
 own ingenuities.
 
 132 THE DWELLER 
 
 The man outside the window fell back into 
 the snow as if God's hand had touched him. 
 He had seen his own face! So he smiled 
 sometimes at the end of a day, when he had 
 finished writing down in his diary some of the 
 hidden things of his life. 
 
 He turned, and as the window through which 
 he had been looking suddenly darkened, he 
 fled away into the night. 
 
 When the lights, which at St. Joseph's were 
 always kept lowered during the sermon, once 
 more strongly illuminated the chancel, Mr. 
 Harding turned a ghastly face toward the 
 pulpit. In the morning Chichester had listened 
 to him, as a man of truth might listen teaman 
 who is trying to lie, but who cannot deceive 
 him. In the evening Mr. Harding had listened 
 to Chichester — how? What had been the 
 emotions only shadowed faintly forth in that 
 ghastly face? 
 
 When Mailing got home, he asked himself 
 why Chichester had made such an impression 
 upon his mind. His story of the double, 
 strange enough, no doubt, in a sermon, could 
 not surely have come upon Mailing with any
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 133 
 
 of the force and the interest of the new. For 
 years he had been familiar with tales of ghosts, 
 of voices, of appearances at the hour of death, 
 of doubles. Of course in the sermon there 
 had been a special application of the story. 
 It had been very short. Chichester had 
 suggested that if, as by a miracle, the average 
 self-contented man could look at himself with 
 the eyes of his soul full of subliminal self- 
 knowledge and with the bodily eyes, he would 
 be stricken down by a great horror. 
 
 And he had spoken as a man who knew. In- 
 deed, it seemed to Mailing that he had spoken 
 as might have delivered himself the man who 
 had followed his double through the snow, who 
 had looked in upon him by night from the 
 garden, if he had faced, instead of flying from, 
 the truth ; if he had stayed, if he had persis- 
 tently watched his double leading the life he 
 had led, if he had learned a great lesson that 
 perhaps only his double could teach him. 
 
 But if the man had stayed, what would have 
 been the effect on the double? Mailing sat 
 till deep in the night pondering these things.
 
 134 THE DWELLER 
 
 VII 
 
 LADY SOPHIA had said to Mailing that 
 if he went to the two services at St. 
 Joseph's on the Sunday she would invite him 
 to see her again. She was as good as her 
 word. In the middle of the week he received 
 a note from her, saying she would be at home 
 at four on Thursday, if he was able to come. 
 He went, and found her alone. But as soon 
 as he entered the drawing-room and had taken 
 her hand, she said : 
 
 "I am expecting Mr. Chichester almost 
 immediately. He's coming to tea." 
 
 " I shall be glad to meet him," said Mailing, 
 concealing his surprise, which was great. 
 
 Yet he did not know why it should be. 
 For what more natural than that Chichester 
 should be coming? 
 
 " I heard of you at St. Joseph's," Lady
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 135 
 
 Sophia continued. "A friend of mine, Lily 
 Armitage, saw you there. I didn't. I was 
 sitting at the back. I have taken to sitting 
 quite at the back of the church. What did 
 you think of it ?" 
 
 " Do you wish me to be frank, and do you 
 mean the two sermons ?" 
 
 She hesitated for an instant. Then she 
 said : 
 
 " I do mean the sermons, and I do wish you 
 to be frank." 
 
 " I thought Mr. Chichester's sermon very 
 remarkable indeed." 
 
 "And my iiusband's sermon?" 
 
 Her lips twisted almost as if with contempt 
 when she said the words, " my husband's." 
 
 "Why doesn't Mr. Harding take a long 
 rest?" said Mailing, speaking conventionally, 
 a thing that he seldom did. 
 
 " You think he needs one ? " 
 
 " He has a tiresome malady, I understand." 
 
 "What malady?" 
 
 "Doesn't he suffer very much from nervous 
 dyspepsia ? " 
 
 She looked at him with irony, which changed
 
 136 THE DWELLER 
 
 almost instantly into serious reflection. But 
 the irony returned. 
 
 "Now and then he has a touch of it," she 
 said. " Very few of us don't have something. 
 But we have to go on, and we do go on, 
 nevertheless." 
 
 " I think a wise doctor would probably 
 order your husband away," said Mailing, 
 though Mr. Harding's departure was the last 
 thing he desired just then. 
 
 " Even if he were ordered away, I don't 
 know that he would go." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " I don't think he would. I don't feel as if 
 he could get away," she said, with what 
 seemed to Mailing a sort of odd obstinacy. 
 "In fact, I know he's not going," she abruptly 
 added. " I have an instinct." 
 
 Mailing felt sure that she had considered, 
 perhaps long before he had suggested it, this 
 very project of Mr. Harding's departure for a 
 while for rest, and that she had rejected it. 
 Her words recalled to his mind some other 
 words of her husband, spoken in Mr. Harding's 
 study: "Surely one ought to get out of such
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 137 
 
 an atmosphere, to get out of it, and keep out 
 of it. But how extraordinary it is the diffi- 
 culty men have in getting away from things ! " 
 
 Perhaps Lady Sophia was right. Perhaps 
 the rector could not get away from the atmo- 
 sphere which seemed to be destroying him. 
 
 " 1 dare say he is afraid to trust everything 
 to his curates," observed Mailing, prosaically. 
 
 " He needn't be — now," she replied. 
 
 In that "now," as she said it, there lay 
 surely a whole history. Mailing understood 
 that Lady Sophia, suddenly perhaps, had 
 given her husband up. Since Mailing had 
 first encountered her she had cried, ^' Le roi 
 est tnorti" in her heart. The way she had 
 just uttered the word " now " made Mailing 
 wonder whether she was not about to utter 
 the supplementary cry, " Vive le roi!" 
 
 As he looked at her, with this wonder in 
 his mind, Henry Chiclicster came into the 
 room. 
 
 There was an expression of profound sad- 
 ness on his face, which seemed to dignify it, 
 to mnkc it more powerful, more manly, than 
 it had been. The choir-boy look was gone.
 
 138 THE DWELLER 
 
 Mailing of course knew how very much 
 expression can change a human being ; never- 
 theless, he was startled by the alteration in 
 the curate's outward man. It seemed, to use 
 the rector's phrase, that he had " shed his 
 character," And now, perhaps, the new 
 character, mysteriously using matter as the 
 vehicle of its manifestation, was beginning 
 to appear to the eyes of men. He showed 
 no surprise at the sight of Mailing, but rather 
 a faint, though definite, pleasure. The way 
 in which Lady Sophia greeted him was a 
 revelation to Mailing, and a curious exhibi- 
 tion of feminine psychology. 
 
 She looked up at him from the low chair 
 in which she was sitting, gave him her left 
 hand, and said, "Are you very tired ?" That 
 was all. Yet it would have been impossible 
 to express more clearly a woman's mental, 
 not affectional, subjugation by a man, her 
 instinctive yielding to power, her respect 
 for authority, her recognition that the master 
 of her master had come into the room. 
 
 Her "Vive le roi !" was said, 
 
 Chichester accepted Lady Sophia's subtle
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 139 
 
 homage with an air of unconsciousness. His 
 interior melancholy seemed to lift him above 
 the small things that flatter small men. He 
 acknowledged that he was tired, and would be 
 glad of tea. He had been down in the East 
 End. The rector had asked him to talk over 
 something with Mr. Carlile of the Church 
 Army. 
 
 " You mean that you suggested to the rector 
 that it would be wise to see Mr. Carlile," said 
 Lady Sophia. 
 
 "Is the rector coming in to tea?" asked 
 Chichester. 
 
 " Possibly he may," she replied. " He knew 
 Mr. Mailing was to be here. Did you tell him 
 you were coming ? " 
 
 " No. 1 was not certain I should get away 
 in time." 
 
 " I think he will probably turn up." 
 
 A footman brought in tea at this moment, 
 and Mailing told the curate he had heard him 
 preach in the evening of last Sunday. 
 
 " It was a deeply interesting sermon," he said. 
 
 "Thank you," said Chichester, very imper- 
 sonally.
 
 140 THE DWELLER 
 
 The footman went away, and Lady Sophia 
 began to make tea. 
 
 "When I went home," Mailing continued, 
 " I sat up till late thinking it over. Part of it 
 suggested to my mind one or two rather 
 curious speculations." 
 
 "Which part?" asked Lady Sophia, dipping 
 a spoon into a silver tea-caddy. 
 
 "The part about the man and his double." 
 
 She shivered, and some of the tea with 
 which she had just filled the spoon was shaken 
 out of it. 
 
 "That was terrible," she said. 
 
 " What were your speculations ? " said 
 Chichester, showing a sudden and definite 
 waking up of keen interest. 
 
 " One of them was this " 
 
 Before he could continue, the door opened 
 again, and the tall and powerful form of the 
 rector appeared. And as the outer man of 
 Chichester seemed to Mailing to have begun 
 subtly to change, in obedience surely to the 
 change of his inner man, so seemed Mr- 
 Harding a little altered physically, as he now 
 slowly came forward to greet his wife's two
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 141 
 
 visitors. The power of liis pliysique seemed 
 to be struck at by something within, and to be 
 slightly marred. One saw that largeness can 
 become but a wide surface for the tragic 
 exhibition of weakness. As the rector per- 
 ceived the presence of Chichester, an ex- 
 pression of startled pain fled over his face 
 and was gone in an instant. He greeted the 
 two men and sat down. 
 
 "Have you just begun tea?" he asked, 
 looking now at his wife. 
 
 " We are just going to begin it," she replied. 
 " We are talking about the sermon of last 
 Sunday." 
 
 "Oh," rejoined the rector. 
 
 He turned to Mailing. 
 
 " Did you come to hear me preach again ? " 
 
 There was a note as of slight reassurance in 
 his voice. 
 
 " Mr. Chichester's sermon," said Lady 
 Sophia 
 
 "Oh, I sec," said the rector. He glanced 
 hastily from one to the other of the three 
 people in the room, like a man searching for 
 sympathy or help. " What were you saying
 
 142 THE DWELLER 
 
 about our friend Chichester's sermon ? " he 
 asked, with a forced air of interest. 
 
 Lady Sophia distributed cups for tea. 
 
 "I was speaking of that part of it which 
 dealt with the man who followed his double," 
 said Mailing. 
 
 "Ah?" said the rector. 
 
 He was holding his tea-cup. His hand 
 trembled slightly at this moment, and the 
 china rattled. He set the cup down on the 
 small table before him. 
 
 " You said," observed Chichester — toward 
 whom Lady Sophia immediately turned, with 
 an almost rapt air — " that it suggested some 
 curious speculations to your mind. I should 
 very much like to know what they were." 
 
 "One was this. Suppose the man in the 
 garden, who looked in upon his double, had 
 not fled away. Suppose he had had the 
 courage to remain, and, in hiding — for the 
 sake of argument we may assume the situation 
 to be possible " 
 
 "Ah, indeed ! And why not?" interrupted 
 Chichester. 
 
 His voice, profoundly melancholy, fell like a
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 143 
 
 weight upon those who heard him. And 
 again Mailing thought of him almost as some 
 one set apart from his fellows by some 
 mysterious knowledge, some heavy burthen of 
 truth. 
 
 " — and in hiding had watched the life of 
 his double. I sat up speculating what effect 
 such an observation, terrible no doubt and 
 grotesque, would be likely to have on the soul 
 of the watching man. But there was another 
 speculation with which I entertained my mind 
 that night." 
 
 " Let us have it," said Chichester, leaning 
 forward, and, with the gesture characteristic 
 of him, dropping his hands down between his 
 knees. " Let us have it." 
 
 "Suppose the man to remain and, in hiding, 
 to watch the life of his double, what effect 
 would such an observation be likely to have 
 upon the double ?" 
 
 Mailing paused. The rector, with an almost 
 violent movement of his big hand and arm, 
 took his cup from the table and drank his 
 tea. 
 
 " It didn't occur to you, 1 suppose, when
 
 144 THE DWELLER 
 
 composing your sermon to follow that train 
 of thought?" said Mailing to Chichester. 
 
 "No," replied the curate, slowly, and like 
 one thinking profoundly. " I was too en- 
 grossed with the feelings of the man. But, 
 then, you thought of the double as a living 
 man, with all the sensations of a man?" 
 
 "That was your fault," said Mailing. 
 
 "His fault!" said Lady Sophia, with a sort 
 of latent sharpness, and laying an emphasis on 
 the second word. 
 
 "Certainly; for making the narrative so 
 vital and human." 
 
 He addressed himself again to the curate. 
 
 " Did you not give to the double the attri- 
 butes of a man ? Did you not make his wife 
 come to bid him good night, bend down to 
 kiss him, waft him a characteristic fare- 
 well?" 
 
 " It is true. I did," said Chichester, still 
 speaking like a man in deep thought. 
 
 "That was the most terrible part of all," 
 said Lady Sophia. In her voice there was 
 an accent almost of horror. " It sickened me 
 to the soul," she continued — " the idea of a
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 145 
 
 woman bidding a tender good night to an 
 apparition." 
 
 "I took it as a man," said Mailing. 
 
 They had all three, strangely, left the rector 
 out of this discussion, and he seemed willing 
 that it should be so. He now sat back in 
 his chair listening to all that was being 
 said, somewhat as he had listened to the 
 sermon of Chichester, in a sort of ghastly 
 silence. 
 
 " How could a man's double be a man ? " 
 said Lady Sophia. 
 
 " We are in the region of assumption and 
 of speculation," returned Mailing, quietly; "a 
 not uninteresting region either, I think. The 
 other night for a whole hour, having assumed 
 the double man, I speculated on his existence, 
 spied upon by his other self And you never 
 did that?" 
 
 He looked at Chichester. 
 
 " When I was making my sermon I was 
 engrossed by the thought of the watching 
 
 man. 
 
 Mailing's idea had evidently laid a grip upon 
 Chichester's mind.
 
 146 THE DWELLER 
 
 "Tell me what the double's existence would 
 be, according to you," he said. " Tell me." 
 
 " You imagined the lesson learnt by the man 
 so terrible that he fled away into the night." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Had he been strong enough to stay " 
 
 "Strong enough!" interposed Chichester. 
 " Better say, had he been obliged to stay." 
 
 "Very well. Given that compulsion, in my 
 imagination the double must have learnt a 
 lesson, too. If we can learn by contempla- 
 tion, can we not, must we not, learn by being 
 contemplated? Life is permeated by reci- 
 procity. I can imagine another sermon 
 growing out of yours of last Sunday." 
 
 "Yes, you are right — you are right," said 
 Chichester. 
 
 " The double, then, in my imagination, would 
 gradually become uneasy under this secret 
 observation. You described him as, his wife 
 gone, sitting down comfortably to write some 
 account of the hidden doings of his life, as, the 
 writing finished, the diary committed to the 
 drawer and safely locked away, rising up to 
 go to rest with a smile of self-satisfaction. It
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 147 
 
 seemed to me that, given my circumstance of 
 the persistent observation, a few nights later 
 matters would have been very different within 
 that room. The hypocrite is happy, if he is 
 happy at all, when he is convinced that his 
 hypocrisy is successful. Take away that 
 certainty, and he would be invaded by anxiety. 
 Set any one to watch him closely, he would 
 certainly suffer, if he knew it." 
 
 "If he knew it! That is the point," said 
 Chichester. " You put the man watching the 
 double in hiding." 
 
 "There are influences not yet fully under- 
 stood which can traverse space, which can 
 touch not as a hand touches, but as unmis- 
 takably. I imagined the soul of the double 
 touched in this way, the waters troubled." 
 
 "Troubled! Troubled!" 
 
 It was Mr. Harding who had spoken, almost 
 lamentably. His powerfully shaped head now 
 drooped forward on his breast. 
 
 "I imagined," continued Mailing, "a sort of 
 gradual disintegration beginning, and proceed- 
 ing, in the double— a disintegration of the soul, 
 if such a tiling can be conceived of"
 
 148 THE DWELLER 
 
 His piercing eyes went from Chichester to 
 Harding. 
 
 "Or, no," he corrected himself. "Perhaps 
 that is an incorrect description of my — very 
 imaginative — flight through speculation the 
 other night. Possibly I should say a gradual 
 transference, instead of disintegration of soul. 
 For it seemed to me as if the man who 
 watched might gradually, as it were, absorb 
 into himself the soul of the double, but puri- 
 fied. For the watcher has the tremendous 
 advantage of seeing the hypocrite living the 
 hypocrite's life, while the hypocrite is only 
 seen. Might not the former, therefore, con- 
 ceivably draw in strength, while the other 
 faded into weakness ? Ignorance is the terrible 
 thing in life, I think. Now the man who 
 watched would receive knowledge, fearful 
 knowledge ; but the man who was watched, 
 while perhaps suffering first uneasiness, then 
 possibly even terror, would not, in my con- 
 ception, ever clearly understand. He would 
 not any longer dare at night to sit down alone 
 to fill up that dreadful diary. He would not 
 any longer perhaps — I only say perhaps —
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 149 
 
 dare to commit the deeds the record of which 
 in the past the diary held. But his lesson 
 would be one of fear, making for weakness, 
 finally almost for nothingness. And the other 
 night I conceived of him at last fading away 
 in the gloom of his room with the darkened 
 window." 
 
 "That was your end!" said Mr. Harding, 
 in a low voice. 
 
 " Yes, that was my end." 
 
 "Then," said Chichester, "you think the 
 lesson men learn from being contemplated 
 tends only to destroy them?" 
 
 But Mailing, now with a smiling change to 
 greater lightness and ease, hastened to traverse 
 this statement. 
 
 "No, no," he replied. " For the contempla- 
 tion of a man by his fellow-men must always 
 be an utterly dilferent thing from his own 
 contemplation by himself For our fcUow- 
 men always remain in a very delightful 
 ignorance of us. Don't they, Lady Sophia? 
 And so they can never destroy us, luckily 
 for us." 
 
 He had done what he wished to do, and he
 
 150 THE DWELLER 
 
 was now ready for other activities. But he 
 found it was not easy to switch his com- 
 panions off on to another trail. Lady Sophia, 
 now that he looked at her closely, he saw to 
 be under the influence of fear, provoked 
 doubtless by the subject they had been dis- 
 cussing. Chichester, also, had a look as of 
 fear in his eyes. As to the rector, he sat 
 gazing at his curate, and there had come upon 
 his countenance an expression of almost 
 unnatural resolution, such as a coward's 
 might wear if terror forced him into defiance. 
 
 In reply to Mailing's half-laughing question, 
 Lady Sophia said : 
 
 " You've studied all these things, haven't 
 you ? " 
 
 "Do you mean what are sometimes called 
 occult questions ?" 
 
 «' Yes." 
 
 " I have." 
 
 "And do you believe in them ?" 
 
 "I'm afraid I must ask you to be a little 
 more definite." 
 
 "Do you believe that there are such things 
 as doubles?"
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 151 
 
 "I have no reason to believe that there 
 are, unless you include wrongly in the term 
 the merely physical replica. It appears to be 
 established that now and then two human 
 beings are born who, throughout their respec- 
 tive lives remain physically so much alike 
 that it is difficult, if not impossible, to distin- 
 guish between them." 
 
 " 1 didn't mean only that," she said 
 quickly. 
 
 "You meant the double in mind and soul as 
 well as in body," said Chichester. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " How can one see if a soul is the double of 
 another soul ?" said Mailing. 
 
 "Then you think such a story as Mr. 
 Chichester related in his sermon all non- 
 sense?" said Lady Sophia, almost hotly, and 
 yet, it seemed to Mailing, with a slight lifting 
 of the countenance, as if relief perhaps were 
 stealing through her. 
 
 " I thought it a legitimate and powerful 
 invention introduced to point a moral." 
 
 "Nothing more than that?" said Lady 
 Sophia.
 
 152 THE DWELLER 
 
 Mailing did not reply ; for suddenly a 
 strange question had risen up in him. Did 
 he really think it nothing more than that? 
 He glanced at Chichester, and the curate's 
 eyes seemed asking him to say. 
 
 The rector's heavy and powerful frame 
 shifted in his chair, and his voice was heard 
 saying : 
 
 " My dear Sophy, I think you had better 
 leave such things alone. You do not know 
 where they might lead you." 
 
 There was in his voice a sound of forced 
 authority, as if he had been obliged to " screw 
 himself up" to speak as he had just spoken. 
 Lady Sophia was about to make a quick 
 rejoinder when, still with a forced air of 
 resolution, Mr. Harding addressed himself to 
 Chichester. 
 
 "Since I saw you this morning," he said, 
 "I find that I shall not be here next 
 Sunday." 
 
 He looked about the circle at his wife and 
 
 Mailing. 
 
 " The doctor has ordered me away for a 
 week, and I've decided to go."
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 153 
 
 His introduction of the subject had been 
 abrupt. As if almost in despite of themselves, 
 Lady Sophia and Mailing exchanged glances. 
 Chichester said nothing. 
 
 " You can get on without me quite well, of 
 course," continued the rector. 
 
 "Are you going to be away long?" said 
 Chichester. 
 
 "No; I think only for a week or so. The 
 doctor says 1 absolutely need a breath of 
 fresh air." 
 
 Mailing got up to go. 
 
 " I hope you'll enjoy your little holiday," he 
 said. " Are you going far ? " 
 
 "Oh, dear, no. My doctor recommends 
 Tankerton on the Kentish coast. It seems 
 the air tiiere is extraordinary. When the 
 tide is down it comes olf the mud flats. A 
 kind parishioner of mine" — he turned slightly 
 toward his wife — "Mrs. Amherts, Sophy— has 
 a cottage there and has often offered me 
 the use of it. I hope to accept her offer 
 
 now." 
 
 Lady Sophia expressed no surprise at 
 the project, and did not inquire whether
 
 154 THE DWELLER 
 
 her husband wished her to accompany 
 him. 
 
 But when she shook hands with Mailing, 
 her dark eyes seemed to say to him, " I was 
 wrong." 
 
 And he thought she looked humbled.
 
 OxN THE THRESHOLD 155 
 
 VIII 
 
 " /^^OULD yon come down stay with me Satur- 
 ^^ day till Monday all alone air delicious feel 
 rather solitary glad of your company Marcus 
 Harding Minors Tankerton Kenty 
 
 Suchwas the telegram which Evelyn Mailing 
 was considering on the following Friday after- 
 noon. The sender had paid an answer. The 
 telegraph-boy was waiting in the hall. Mailing 
 only kept him five minutes. He went away 
 with this reply : 
 
 " Accept with pleasure will take four twenty 
 train at Victoria Saturday Mailing." 
 
 Mailing could not have said with truth that 
 he had expected a summons from Mr. Harding, 
 yet he found that he was not surprised to get 
 it. The man was in a bad way. He needed 
 sympathy, he needed help. That was certain.
 
 156 THE DWELLER 
 
 But whether he could help him was more than 
 doubtful, Mailing thought. Perhaps, really, a 
 doctor and the wonderful air from the mud 
 flats of Tankerton ! But here Mailing found 
 that a strong incredulity checked him. He did 
 not believe that the rector would be restored 
 by a doctor's advice and a visit to the sea. 
 
 That afternoon he went to Westminster, and 
 asked for Professor Stepton. 
 
 "He is away, sir," said the fair Scotch 
 parlour-maid. 
 
 "For long?" 
 
 "We don't know, sir. He has gone into 
 Kent, on research business, I believe." 
 
 Agnes had been for a long time in the profes- 
 sor's service, and was greatly trusted. The 
 professor had come upon her originally when 
 making investigations into "second sight," a 
 faculty which she claimed to possess. By the 
 way she was also an efficient parlour-maid. 
 
 "Kent!" said Mailing. "Do you know 
 where he is staying?" 
 
 " The address he left is the Tankerton Hotel, 
 Tankerton, near Whitstable-on-Sea, sir." 
 
 "Thank you, Agnes," said Mailing.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 157 
 
 " It is a haunted house somewhere Birch- 
 ington way the professor is after, I believe, 
 
 sir." 
 
 " Luck favours me ! " said Mailing to himself, 
 unscientifically, as he walked away from the 
 house. 
 
 On the following day it was in a singularly 
 expectant and almost joyously alert frame of 
 mind that he bought a first class ticket for 
 Whitstable-on-Sea, which is the station for 
 Tankerton. 
 
 He would involve Stepton in this affair. 
 There was a mystery in it. Mailing was now 
 convinced of that. And his original supposi- 
 tion did not satisfy him. But perhaps Mr. 
 Harding meant to help him. Perhaps Mr. 
 Harding intended to be explicit. The diffi- 
 culty there was that he also was walking in 
 darkness, as Mailing believed. His telegram 
 had come like a cry out of this darkness. 
 
 " Faversham ! Faversham 1 " the fair Kentish 
 porters were calling. Only about twenty 
 minutes now 1 Would the rector be at the 
 station ? 
 
 He was. As the train ran in alongside the
 
 158 THE DWELLER 
 
 wooden platform, Mailing caught sight of the 
 towering authoritative figure. Was it his 
 fancy which made him think that it looked 
 slightly bowed, even perhaps a little 
 shrunken ? 
 
 "Good of you to come! "said the rector in 
 a would-be hearty voice, but also with a 
 genuine accent of pleasure. " All the after- 
 noon I have been afraid of a telegram." 
 
 " Why ? " asked Mailing, as they shook 
 hands. 
 
 "Oh, when one is anxious for a thing, one 
 does not always get it. Ha, ha ! " 
 
 He broke into a covering laugh. 
 
 " Here is a porter. You've only got this 
 bag. Capital ! I have a fly waiting. We go 
 down these steps." 
 
 As they descended, Mailing remarked : 
 
 " By the way, we have a friend staying 
 here. Have you come across him?" 
 
 " No, I have seen nobody — that is, no ac- 
 quaintance. Who is it ? " 
 
 "Stepton." 
 
 " The professor down here ! " exclaimed Mr. 
 Harding, as if startled.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 159 
 
 " At the hotel, I believe. He's come down 
 to make some investigation." 
 
 " I haven't seen him." 
 
 They stepped into the fly, and drove 
 through the long street of Whitstable toward 
 the outlying houses of Tankerton, scattered 
 over grassy downs about a quiet, brown sea. 
 
 "The air is splendid, certainly," observed 
 Mailing, drinking it in almost like a gourmet 
 savouring a wonderful wine. 
 
 " It must do me good. Don't you think 
 so?" 
 
 The question sounded anxious to Mailing's 
 ears. 
 
 "It ought to do every one good, I should 
 think." 
 
 " Here is Minors." 
 
 The fly stopped before a delightfully gay 
 little red doll's house — so Mailing thought of 
 it — standing in a garden surrounded by a 
 wooden fence, with the downs undulating 
 about it. Not far off, but behind it, was the 
 sea. And the rector, pointing to a red build- 
 ing in the distance, on the left and much 
 nearer to the beach, said :
 
 i6o THE DWELLER 
 
 " That is the hotel where the professor 
 must be staying, if he is here." 
 
 " I'll go over presently and ask about him." 
 
 "Oh," said Mr. Harding. "Bring in the 
 bag, please, Jennings. The room on the right, 
 at the top of the stairs." 
 
 Mailing had believed in London that Mr. 
 Harding's telegram to him was a cry out of 
 darkness. The first evening in the cheerful 
 doll's house he knew his belief was well 
 founded. When they sat at dinner, like two 
 monsters, Mailing thought, who had some- 
 how managed to insert themselves into a 
 doll's dining-room, it was obvious that the 
 rector was ill at ease. Again and again he 
 seemed to be on the verge of some remark, 
 perhaps of some outburst of speech, and to 
 check himself only when the words were 
 almost visibly trembling on his lips. In his 
 eyes Mailing saw plainly his longing for utter- 
 ance, his hesitation ; reserve and a desire to 
 liberate his soul the one fighting against the 
 other. And at moments the whole man 
 seemed to be wrapped in weakness like a 
 garment, the soul and the body of him. Then,
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD i6i 
 
 as a light may dwindle till it seems certain 
 to go out, all that was Marcus Harding seemed 
 to Mailing to dwindle. The large body, the 
 powerful head and face, meant little, almost 
 nothing, because the spirit was surely fading. 
 But these moments passed. Then it was as 
 if the light flared suddenly up again. 
 
 When dinner was over, Mr. Harding asked 
 Mailing if he would like to take a stroll. 
 
 "The sea air will help us to sleep," he 
 said. 
 
 "I should like nothing better," said Mailing, 
 "Haven't you been sleeping well lately?" 
 
 "Very badly. We had better take our 
 coats." 
 
 They put the coats on, and went out, 
 making their way to the broad, grassy walk 
 raised above the shingle of the beach. The 
 tide was far down, and the oozing flats were 
 uncovered. So still, so wavelcss was the 
 brown water that at this hour it was im- 
 possible to perceive where it met the brown 
 land. In the distance, on the right, shone 
 the lights of Ilcrne Bay, with its pier stretch- 
 ing far out into the shadows. Away to the
 
 i62 THE DWELLER 
 
 left was the lonely island of Sheppey, a dull 
 shadow beyond the harbour, where the oyster- 
 boats lay at rest. There were very few 
 people about : some fisher-lads solemnly or 
 jocosely escorting their girls, who giggled 
 faintly as they passed Mr. Harding and 
 Mailing ; two or three shopkeepers from 
 Whitstable taking the air ; a boatman or two 
 vaguely hovering, with blue eyes turned from 
 habit to the offing. 
 
 The two men paced slowly up and down. 
 And again Mailing was aware of words 
 trembling upon the rector's lips — words 
 which he could not yet resolve frankly to 
 utter. Whether it was the influence of the 
 faintly sighing sea, of the almost sharply pure 
 air, of the distant lights gleaming patiently, 
 or whether an influence came out from the 
 man beside him and moved him, Mailing did 
 not know ; but he resolved to do a thing 
 quite contrary to his usual practice. He 
 resolved to try to force a thing on, instead 
 of waiting till it came to him naturally. He 
 became impatient, he who was generally a 
 patient seeker.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 163 
 
 "You remember our former conversations 
 with regard to Henry Chichester?" he said 
 abruptly, changing the subject of their dis- 
 course. 
 
 " Chichester ? Yes— yes. What of him ? " 
 
 " I wish to tell you that I think you are 
 right, that I think there is an extraordinary, 
 even an amazing, change in Chichester." 
 
 "There is, indeed," said Mr. Harding. 
 "And — and it will increase." 
 
 He spoke with a sort of despairing convic- 
 tion. 
 
 " What makes you think so ? " 
 
 " It must. It cannot be otherwise — 
 unless " 
 
 He paused. 
 
 "Yes," said Mailing; "unless " 
 
 " A thing almost impossible were to happen." 
 " May I, without indiscretion, ask what that 
 
 is?" 
 
 " Unless he were to leave St. Joseph's, to go 
 
 quite away." 
 
 "Surely that would not be impossible!" 
 " I often think it is. Chichester will not 
 
 wish to go."
 
 i64 THE DWELLER 
 
 "Are you certain of that?" asked Mailing, 
 remembering the curate's remarJ; in liornton 
 Street, that perhaps he would not remain at 
 St. Joseph's much longer. 
 
 The rector turned his head and fixed his 
 eyes upon Mailing. 
 
 " Has he said anything to you about 
 leaving?" he asked, suddenly raising his 
 voice, as if under the influence of excitement. 
 " But of course he has not." 
 
 "Surely it is probable that such a man may 
 be offered a living." 
 
 " He would not take it." 
 
 They walked on a few steps in silence, 
 turned, and strolled back. It was now grow- 
 ing dark. Their faces were set toward the 
 distant gleam of the Heme Bay lights. 
 
 " I am not so sure," at length dropped out 
 Mailing. 
 
 " Why are you not so sure ? " 
 
 " Why do you think Chichester's departure 
 from St. Joseph's impossible?" 
 
 Mailing spoke strongly to determine, if 
 possible, the rector to speak, to say out all 
 that was in his heart.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 165 
 
 "Can I tell you?" Mr. Harding almost 
 murmured. "Can I tell you?" 
 
 " I think you asked me here that you might 
 tell me something." 
 
 " It is true. I did." 
 
 " Then " 
 
 " Let us sit down in this shelter. There 
 is no one in it. People are going home." 
 
 Mailing followed him into a shelter, with a 
 bench facing the sea. 
 
 " I thourht perhaps here I might be able to 
 tell you," said Mr. Harding " 1 am in great 
 trouble, Mr. Mailing, in great trouble. But I 
 don't know whether you, or whether any one, 
 can assist me." 
 
 "If I may advise you, I should say— tell me 
 plainly what your trouble is." 
 
 "It began" — Mr. Harding spoke with a 
 faltering voice — "it began a good while ago, 
 some months after Mr. Chichester came as a 
 curate to St. Joseph's. I was then a very 
 different man from the man you see now. 
 Often I feel really as if I were not the same 
 man, as if I were radically chanL-icd. It mny 
 be health. I sometimes try to think so. And 
 then I " He broke ofT.
 
 i66 THE DWELLER 
 
 The strange weakness that Mailing had 
 already noticed seemed again to be stealing 
 over him, like a mist, concealing, attenuating. 
 
 " Possibly it is a question of health," said 
 Mailing, rather sharply. "Tell me how it 
 began." 
 
 "When Chichester first joined me, I was 
 a man of power and ambition. I was a man 
 who could dominate others, and I loved to 
 dominate." 
 
 His strength seemed returning while he 
 spoke, as if frankness were to him a restorative 
 of the spirit. 
 
 " It was indeed my passion. I loved 
 authority. I loved to be in command. I was 
 full of ecclesiastical ambition. Feeling that I 
 had intellectual strength, I intended to rise to 
 the top of the church, to become a bishop 
 eventually, perhaps even something greater. 
 When I was presented to St. Joseph's — my 
 wife's social influence had something to do 
 with that — I saw all the gates opening before 
 me. I made a great effect in London. I may 
 say with truth that no clergyman was more 
 successful than I was — at one time. My wife
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 167 
 
 spurred me on. She was immensely ambi- 
 tious for me. I must tell you that in marrying 
 me she had gone against all her family. They 
 thought me quite unworthy of her notice. 
 But from the first time I met her I meant to 
 marry her. And as I dominated others, I 
 completely dominated her. But she, once 
 married to me, was desperately anxious that I 
 should rise in the world, in order that her 
 choice of me might be justified in the eyes of 
 her people. You can understand the position, 
 I dare say ? " 
 
 " Perfectly," said Mailing. 
 
 " I may say that she irritated my ambition, 
 that she stung it into almost a furious activity. 
 Women have great influence with us. I 
 thought she was my slave almost, but 1 see 
 now that she also influenced me. She wor- 
 shipped mc for my immediate success at St. 
 Joseph's. You may think it very ridiculous, 
 considering that I am merely the rector of a 
 fashionable London church, but there was a 
 time when I felt almost intoxicated by my 
 wife's worship of me, and by my domination 
 over the crowds who came to hear me preach.
 
 i68 THE DWELLER 
 
 Domination! That was my fetish! That was 
 what led me to— oh, sometimes I think it must 
 end in my ruin ! " 
 
 "Perhaps not," said Mailing, quietly. " Let 
 us see." 
 
 His words, perhaps even more his manner, 
 seemed greatly to help Mr. Harding. 
 
 "I will tell you everything," he exclaimed. 
 " From the first I have felt as if you were the 
 man to assist me, if any man could. I had 
 always, since I was an undergraduate at 
 Oxford— 1 was a Magdalen man — been in- 
 terested in psychical matters, and followed 
 carefully all the proceedings of the Society for 
 Psychical Research. 1 had also at that time 
 — in Oxford — made some experiments with 
 my college friends, chiefly in connexion with 
 will power. My influence seemed to be 
 specially strong. But I need not go into all 
 that. After leaving Oxford and taking orders, 
 for a long time I gave such matters up. I 
 feared, if I showed my strong interest in 
 psychical research, especially if I was known 
 to attend seances or anything of that kind, it 
 might be considered unsuitable in a clergyman,
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 169 
 
 and might injure my prospects. It was not 
 until Henry Chichester came to St. Joseph's 
 that I was tempted again into paths which I 
 had chosen to consider forbidden to me. 
 Chichester tempted me ! Chichester tempted 
 me!" 
 
 He spoke the last words with a sort of 
 lamentable energy. 
 
 " Such a gentle, yielding man as he was ! " 
 "It was just that. He came under my 
 influence at once, and showed it in almost all 
 he said and did. He looked up to me, he 
 strove to model himself upon me, he almost 
 worshipped me. One evening — it was in the 
 pulpit! — the idea shot through my brain, 'I 
 could do what 1 like with that man, make of 
 him just what 1 choose, use him just as I 
 please.' And I turned my c^-cs toward the 
 choir where Chichester sat in the last stall, 
 hanging on my words. At that instant I can 
 only suppose that what people sometimes call 
 the maladic dc grandeur— \\\ii mania for power 
 — took hold upon mc, and combined with my 
 furtive longing after rcsearcii in those mys- 
 terious regions where perhaps all we desire
 
 170 THE DWELLER 
 
 is hidden. Anyhow, at that instant I resolved 
 to try to push my influence over Chichester 
 to its utmost limit, and by illegitimate means." 
 
 " Illegitimate ? " 
 
 " I call them so. Yes, yes, they are not 
 legitimate. I know that now. And he — but 
 I dare not think what he knows ! " 
 
 The rector was greatly moved. He half 
 rose from the bench on which they were sit- 
 ting, then, making a strong effort, controlled 
 himself, sank back, and continued : 
 
 "At that time, in the early days of his 
 association with me, Chichester thought that 
 everything I did, everything I suggested, even 
 everything that came into my mind, must be 
 good and right. He never dreamed of criti- 
 cizing me. In his view, I was altogether 
 above criticism. And if I approached him 
 with any sort of intimacy he was in the 
 greatest joy. You know, perhaps, Mr. Mailing, 
 how the worshipper receives any confidence 
 from the one he worships. He looks upon it 
 as the greatest compliment that can be paid 
 him. I resolved to pay that compliment to 
 Henry Chichester.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 171 
 
 "You must know that although I had entirely 
 given up the occult practices — that may not 
 be the exact term, but you will understand 
 what I mean — I had indulged in at Oxford, I 
 had never relaxed my deep, perhaps my 
 almost morbid interest in the efforts that were 
 being made by scientists and others to break 
 through the barrier dividing us on earth from 
 the spirit world. Although I had chosen the 
 career of a clergyman — alas ! I looked upon 
 the church, I suppose, as little more than a 
 career ! — I was not a very faithful man. 1 had 
 many doubts which, as clergymen must, I 
 concealed. By nature I suppose I had rather 
 an incredulous mind. Not that I was a sceptic, 
 but 1 was sometimes a doubter. Rather than 
 faith, I should have much preferred to have 
 knowledge, exact knowledge. Often I even 
 felt ironical when confronted with the simple 
 faith we clergymen should surely encourage, 
 sustain, and humbly glory in, whereas with 
 scepticism, even when openly expressed, I 
 alwa^'s felt some part of myself to be in secret 
 sympathy. I continued to study works, both 
 English and foreign, on psychical research. I
 
 172 THE DWELLER 
 
 followed the experiments of Lodge, William 
 James, and others. Myers's great work on 
 human personality was forever at my elbow. 
 And the longer I was debarred — self-debarred 
 because of my keen ambition and my determi- 
 nation to do nothing that could ever make me 
 in any way suspect in the eyes of those to 
 whom I looked confidently for preferment — 
 from continuing the practices which had such 
 a fascination for me, the more intensely I was 
 secretly drawn toward them. The tug at my 
 soul was at last almost unbearable. It was 
 then I looked toward Chichester, and resolved 
 to take him into my confidence — to a certain 
 extent. 
 
 " I approached the matter craftily. I dwelt 
 first upon the great spread of infidelity in our 
 days, and the necessity of combating it by 
 every legitimate means. I spoke of the efforts 
 being made by earnest men of science — such 
 men as Professor Stepton, for instance — to 
 get at the truth Christians are expected to 
 take on trust, as it were. I said 1 respected 
 such men. Chichester agreed — when did he 
 not agree with me at that time ?— but remarked
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 173 
 
 that he could not help pitying them for ignor- 
 ing revelation and striving to obtain by 
 difficult means what all Christians already 
 possessed by a glorious and final deed of 
 gift 
 
 " I saw that though Chichester was such a 
 devoted worshipper of mine, if I wanted to 
 persuade him to my secret purpose — no other 
 than the effort, to be made with him, to com- 
 municate with the spirit world — I must be 
 deceptive, I must mask my purpose with 
 another. 
 
 "I did so. I turned his attention to the 
 subject of tlie human will. Now, at that time 
 Chichester knew that his will was weak. He 
 considered that fact one of his serious faults. 
 I hinted that I agreed with him. I proposed 
 to join with him in striving to strengthen it. 
 He envied my strength of will. He looked 
 up to me, worshipped me almost, because of 
 it. 1 drew his mind to the close consideration 
 of influence. 1 gave him two or three curious 
 works that I possessed on this subject. In 
 one of them, a pamphlet written by a Hindu 
 who had been partly educated at Oxford, and
 
 174 THE DWELLER 
 
 whom I had personally known when I was an 
 undergraduate, there was a course of will- 
 exercises, much as in certain books on body- 
 building there are courses of physical exercises. 
 I related to Chichester some of the extra- 
 ordinary and deeply interesting conversations 
 I had had with this Hindu on the subject of 
 the education of the will, and finally I told a 
 lie. I told Chichester that I had gained my 
 powerful will while at Oxford by drawing it 
 from my Hindu friend in a series of sittings 
 that we two had secretly undertaken together. 
 This was false, because I had been born with 
 a strong, even a tyrannical, will, and I had 
 never sat with the Hindu. 
 
 " Chichester, though at first startled, was 
 fascinated by this untruth, and, to cut the 
 matter short, I persuaded him to begin with 
 me a series of secret sittings, in which I pro- 
 posed to try to impart to him, to infuse into 
 him, as it were, some of my undoubted power 
 — the power which he daily saw me exercising 
 in the pulpit and over the minds of men in 
 my intercourse with them. 
 
 "What I really wished to do, what I meant
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 175 
 
 to do, if possible, was to use Chichester as a 
 medium, and to try through him to communi- 
 cate with the spirit world. I had taken it into 
 my head — no doubt you will say quite un- 
 reasonably — that he must be entirely subject 
 to my will in a sitting, and that if I willed him 
 to be entranced, it was certain that he would 
 become so. But my own entirely selfish 
 desires I concealed under the cloak of an 
 unselfish wish to give power to him. I even 
 pretended, as you see, to have a highly moral 
 purpose, though it is true I suggested trying 
 to eff'ect it in an unconventional and very un- 
 ecclesiastical manner. 
 
 "Chichester, though, as I have said, at first 
 startled, of course eventually fell in with my 
 view. We sat together in his room at 
 Hornton Street. 
 
 "Now, Mr. Mailing, some of what I have 
 told you may appear to be almost contra- 
 dictory. I have spoken of my vialadic de 
 /grandeur as if it were a reason why I wished 
 to sit with Henry Chichester, and then of my 
 desire to communicate, if possible, with the 
 spirit world as my reason."
 
 176 THE DWELLER 
 
 "I noticed that," observed Mailing, "and 
 purposed later to point it out to you." 
 
 "How can I explain exactly? It is so 
 difficult to unravel the web of motives in a 
 mind. It was my maladie de grandeur, I think, 
 that made me long to use my worshipper 
 Chichester as a mere tool for the opening of 
 that door which shuts off from us the region 
 the dead have entered. My mind at that time 
 was filled with a mingled conceit, amounting 
 at moments almost to an intoxication, and a 
 desire for knowledge. I revelled in my power 
 when preaching, but was haunted by genuine 
 doubts as to the truth. My egotism longed to 
 make an utter slave of Chichester (I nearly 
 always lusted to push my influence to its 
 limit). But my desire to know made me con- 
 ceive the pushing of it in a direction, in 
 this instance, which would perhaps gratify a 
 less unworthy desire than that merely of sub- 
 jugating another. The two birds and the 
 one stone ! I thought of them. I loved the 
 idea of making a tool. I loved also the idea 
 of using the tool when made. And I pre- 
 tended 1 had only Chichester's moral interest
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 177 
 
 at heart. I have been punished, terribly 
 punished. 
 
 " We sat, as I say, in Hornton Street, 
 secretly, and of course at night. My wife 
 knew nothing of it. I made excuses to get 
 away — parish matters, meetings, work in the 
 East End. I had no difficulty with her. She 
 thought my many activities would bring me 
 ever more and more into the public eye, 
 and she encouraged them. The people in 
 the house where Chichester lodged were 
 simple folk, and were ready to go early to 
 bed, leaving rector and curate discussing 
 their work for the salvation of bodies and 
 souls. 
 
 "At first Chichester was reluctant, 1 know. 
 I read his thoughts. He was not sure that it 
 was right to approach such mysteries ; but, as 
 usual, I dominated him silently. And soon lie 
 fell completely under the fascination peculiar 
 to sittings." 
 
 Again Mr. Harding paused. For a moment 
 his head sank, his powerful body drooped, he 
 was immersed in reverie. Mailing did not 
 interrupt him. At last, with a deep sigh, and 
 
 N
 
 178 THE DWELLER 
 
 now speaking more slowly, more unevenly, he 
 continued : 
 
 " What happened exactly at those sittings I 
 do not rightly know. Perhaps I shall never 
 rightly know. What did not happen 1 can tell 
 you. In the first place, although 1 secretly 
 used my will upon Chichester, desiring, men- 
 tally insisting, that he should become entranced, 
 he never was entranced when we sat together. 
 Something within him — was it something 
 holy ? I have wondered — resisted my desire, 
 of which, so far as I know, he was never 
 aware. Perhaps 'beneath the threshold' he 
 was aware. Who can say ? But though my 
 great desire was frustrated in our sittings, the 
 desire of Chichester, so different, perhaps so 
 much more admirable than mine, and, at any 
 rate, not masked by any deceit, began, so it 
 seemed, to be strangely gratified. He declared 
 almost from the first that, when sitting with 
 me, he felt his will power strengthened. 'You 
 are doing me good,' he said. Now, as my pro- 
 fessed object in contriving the sittings had 
 been to lift up Chichester coward my level " — 
 with indescribable bitterness Mr. Harding
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 179 
 
 dwelt on these last words — " I could only 
 express rejoicing. And this I did with success- 
 ful hypocrisy. Nevertheless, I was greatly 
 irritated. For it seemed to me that, when we 
 sat, Chichester triumphed over me. He 
 obtained his desire while mine remained un- 
 gratified. This was an outrage directed 
 against my supremacy over him, which I had 
 designed to increase. I gathered together my 
 will power to check it. But in this attempt i 
 failed. 
 
 "Nothing is stranger, I think, Mr. Mailing, 
 than the fascination of a sitting. Even when 
 nothing, or scarcely anything, happens, the 
 mind, the whole nature seems to be mysteri- 
 ously grasped and held. New senses in you 
 seem to be released. Something is alert 
 which is never alert — or, at all events, never 
 alert in the same way — in other moments of 
 life. One seems to become inexplicably 
 different. Chichester was aware of all this. At 
 the first sitting nothing happened, and I feared 
 Chichester would wish to give the matter up. 
 But, no ! When we rose from our chairs late 
 in the night he acknowledged that he had never
 
 i8o THE DWELLER 
 
 known two hours to pass so quickly before. At 
 following sittings there were slight manifesta- 
 tions such as, I suppose, are seldom absent 
 from such affairs — perfectly trivial to you, of 
 course — movements of the table, rappings, 
 gusts of what seemed cold air, and so forth. 
 All that is not worth talking about, and I don't 
 mean to trouble you further with it. My 
 difficulty is, when so little, apparently, took 
 place, to make you understand the tremendous 
 thing that did happen, that must have been 
 happening gradually during our sittings. 
 
 " At the very first, as I told you, or nearly 
 so — I wish to be absolutely accurate — 
 Chichester began to be aware of a strengthen- 
 ing of his will. At this time I was almost 
 angrily unaware of any change either in him 
 or in myself At subsequent sittings — I speak 
 of the earlier ones — Chichester reiterated more 
 strongly his assertion of beneficent alteration 
 in himself I did not believe him, though I did 
 believe he was absolutely sincere in his sup- 
 position. It seemed to me that he was 
 ' suggestioned,' partly perhaps by his implicit 
 trust in me, partly by his own desire that
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD i8i 
 
 something curious should happen. However, 
 still playing a part in pursuance of my resolve 
 not to let Chichester know my real object in 
 this matter, 1 pretended that I, too, perceived 
 an alteration in him, as if his personality were 
 strengthening. And not once, but on several 
 occasions, I spoke of the change in him as 
 almost exactly corresponding with the change 
 that had taken place in me when I sat with my 
 Hindu friend. 
 
 " All this time, with a force encouraged by 
 the secret anger within me, 1 violently, at last 
 almost furiously, willed that Chichester should 
 become entranced. 
 
 " But at length, though I willed furiously, I 
 felt as if 1 were not willing with genuine 
 strength, as if 1 could not will with genuine 
 strength any longer. It is difficult, almost 
 impossible, to ex{)lain to you exactly the 
 sensation tliat gradually overspread me ; but 
 it used always to seem to me, when 1 self- 
 consciously exerted my will, as if I held within 
 me some weapon almost irresistible, as if I 
 forced it forward, as if its advance, caused by 
 me, could not be withstood. I now felt as if
 
 i82 THE DWELLER 
 
 I still possessed this weapon, but could not 
 induce it to move. It was there, like a heavy, 
 useless thing, almost like a burden upon 
 me. 
 
 " And Chichester continued to assert that he 
 felt stronger, more resolute, less plastic. 
 
 "Things went on thus till something within 
 me, what we call instinct, I suppose, became 
 uneasy. I heard a warning voice which said 
 to me, 'Stop while there is time!' And I 
 resolved to obey it. 
 
 "One night, when very late Chichester and 
 I took our hands from the table in his little 
 room, I said that I thought we had had enough 
 of the sittings, that very little happened, that 
 perhaps he and I were not really en rapport, 
 and that it seemed to me useless to continue 
 them. I suppose I expected Chichester to 
 acquiesce. I say I suppose so, because till 
 that moment he had always acquiesced in any 
 proposition of mine. Yet I remember that 1 
 did not feel genuine surprise at what actually 
 happened." 
 
 Mr, Harding stopped, took a handkerchief 
 from his pocket, lifted the brim of his hat, and
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 183 
 
 passed the handkerchief over his forehead two 
 or three times. 
 
 "What happened was this, that Chichester 
 resisted my proposal, and that I found myself 
 obliged to comply with his will instead of, as 
 usual, imposing mine upon him. 
 
 "This was the beginning" — the rector 
 turned a little toward Mailing, and spoke in 
 a voice that was almost terrible in its sadness 
 — "this was the beginning of what you have 
 been witness of, my unspeakable decline. 
 This was the definite beginning of my horrible 
 subjection to Henry Chichester." 
 
 He stopped abruptly. After waiting for a 
 minute or two, expecting him to continue. 
 Mailing said : 
 
 "You said that you found yourself obliged 
 to comply with Chichester's will. Can you 
 explain the nature of that obligation ? " 
 
 " I cannot. I strove to resist. We argued 
 the matter. He took his stand upon the 
 moral ground that I was benefiting him 
 enormously through our sittings. As I had 
 suggested iiaving them ostensibly for that 
 very purpose, you will sec my difficulty."
 
 i84 THE DWELLER 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 " My yielding seemed perfectly natural, 
 perhaps almost inevitable. The point is that, 
 without drastic change in me, it was quite 
 unnatural. My will was unaccustomed to 
 brook any resistance, and troubled itself not 
 at all with argument. Till then what I wished 
 to do I did, and there was an end. I now for 
 the first time found myself obliged to accept 
 a moral bondage imposed upon me by my 
 curate. The term may sound exaggerated ; I 
 can only say that was how the matter pre- 
 sented itself to me. From the moment I did 
 so, I took second place to him. 
 
 " We continued to sit from time to time. 
 And the strange, to me inexplicable, situation 
 rapidly developed. 
 
 " To put it before you in few words and 
 plainly : Chichester seemed to suck my will 
 away from me gradually but surely, till my 
 former strength was his. But that was not 
 all. With the growth of his will there 
 was another and more terrible growth : 
 there rose in him a curiously observant 
 faculty."
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 185 
 
 Again the rector took out his handkerchief 
 and wiped his brow. 
 
 "A curiously critical faculty. How shall I 
 say? Perhaps you may know, Mr. Mailing, 
 how the persistent attitude of one mind may 
 influence another. For instance, if a man 
 always expects ill of another — treachery, let 
 us say, bad temper, hatred, fear, inducing 
 trickery, perhaps, that other is turned toward 
 just such evil manifestations in connexion 
 with that man. If some one with psychic 
 force thinks all you do is wrong, soon you 
 begin to do things wrongly. A fearful un- 
 easiness is bred. The faculties begin to fail. 
 The formerly sure-footed stumbles. The 
 formerly self-confident takes on nervousness, 
 presently fear. 
 
 " So it came about between Chichester and 
 me. 1 felt that his mind was beginning to 
 watch me critically, and I became anxious 
 about this criticism. Like some subtle acid 
 it seemed to act destructively upon the metal, 
 once so hard and resistant, of my self-con- 
 fidence, of my belief in myself Often I felt 
 as if an eye were ui)on me, seeing too much,
 
 186 THE DWELLER 
 
 far too much, coldly, inexorably, persistently. 
 This crilical observation became hateful to 
 me. I suffered under it. I suffered terribly. 
 Mr, Mailing, if I am to tell you all — and I 
 feel that unless I do no help can come to me 
 — I must tell you that I have not been in my 
 life all that a clergyman should be. There 
 have been occasions, and even since my 
 marriage, when I have yielded to impulses 
 that have prompted me to act very wrongly. 
 
 "Now, Chichester was a saint. Hitherto I 
 had neither been troubled by my own grave 
 shortcomings nor by Chichester's excellence 
 of character. I had always felt myself set far 
 above him by my superior mental faculties 
 and my greater will power over the crowd, 
 though, alas ! not always over my own demon. 
 I began to writhe now under the thought of 
 Chichester's crystal purity and of my own 
 besmirched condition of soul. All self-con- 
 fidence departed from me ; but I endeavoured, 
 of course, to conceal this from the world, and 
 especially from Chichester. With the world 
 for a time no doubt I succeeded. But with 
 Chichester — did I ever succeed ? Could I
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 187 
 
 ever succeed with such an one as he had 
 become ? It seemed to me, it seems to me 
 far more terribly now, that nothing I did, or 
 was, escaped him. He attended mentally, 
 spiritually even, to everything that made up 
 me. At first I felt this curiously, then 
 anxiously, then often with bitter contempt 
 and indignation, sometimes with a great 
 melancholy, a sort of wide-spreading sadness 
 in which 1 was involved as in an icy sea. 1 
 can never make you fully understand what 
 1 felt, how this mental and spiritual observa- 
 tion of Chichester affected me. It — it simply 
 ate me away, Mailing ! It simply ate me 
 away ! " 
 
 The last words came from Mr. Harding's 
 lips almost in a cry. 
 
 "And how long did you continue the 
 sittings ?" 
 
 Very quietly Mailing spoke, and he just 
 touched the rector's arm. 
 
 "For a long while." 
 
 " Had you ceased from them when 1 first met 
 you ? " 
 
 "On Westminster Bridge? No."
 
 i88 THE DWELLER 
 
 " Have you ceased from them now ? *' 
 
 The rector shifted as if in physical distress. 
 
 " Chichester constrains me to them even 
 now," he replied, like a man bitterly ashamed. 
 " He constrains me to them. And is that good- 
 ness, righteousness? 1 said he was a saint; 
 but now ! Is it saintliness to torture a fellow- 
 creature ? " 
 
 Mailing remembered how he had once, and 
 not long ago, asked himself whether Chiches- 
 ter's mouth and eyes looked good. 
 
 " Have you ever told Chichester what 
 grave distress he is causing you?" said 
 Mailing. 
 
 " No, never, never ! I can't ! " 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 "A great reserve has grown up between us. 
 I could never try to break through it." 
 
 "You say a great reserve. But does he 
 never criticize you in words? Does he never 
 express an adverse opinion upon what you say 
 or do ? " 
 
 " Scarcely ever — after it is said or done. But 
 sometimes " 
 
 " Yes ? "
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 189 
 
 *^ Sometimes— often I think — he tries to pre- 
 vent me from saying or doing something. Often 
 he checks me with a look when I am in the 
 midst of some speech. It is intolerable. Why 
 do I bear it? But I have to bear it. Some- 
 times I exert myself against him. Why, that 
 first day I met you — you must have noticed it 
 — he tried to prevent me from walking home 
 with you." 
 
 "I did notice it." 
 
 "Then 1 resisted him, and he had to yield. 
 But even when he yields in some slight matter 
 it makes no difference in our relations. He 
 is always there, at the window, watching me." 
 
 "What do you say?" 
 
 Mailing's exclamation was sharp. 
 
 "That sermon of his!" said the rector. 
 " That fearful sermon ! Ever since I heard it 
 I have felt as if I were the double within that 
 house, as if Chichester were the man regarding 
 my life in hiding. Why you — you yourself 
 put my feeling into words ! You suggested to 
 Chichester and my wife that if the man iiud 
 stayed, and spied upon him who was within 
 the room, the hypocrite "
 
 190 THE DWELLER 
 
 He broke off. He got up from his seat. 
 
 " Let us walk," he said. " I cannot sit here. 
 The air — the lights — let us " 
 
 Almost as if blindly he went forth from the 
 shelter, followed by Mailing. 
 
 "It's better here," he said. "Better here! 
 Mr. Mailing, forgive me, but just then a hideous 
 knowledge seemed really to catch me by the 
 throat. Chichester is turning my wife against 
 me. There is a terrible change in her. She is 
 beginning to observe me through Chichester's 
 eyes. Till quite recently she worshipped me. 
 She noticed the alteration in me, of course — 
 every one did — but she hated Chichester for 
 his attitude toward me. Till quite lately 
 she hated him. Now she no longer hates 
 him ; for she begins to think he is right. 
 At first I think she believed the excuse I put 
 forward for my strange transformation." 
 
 " Do you mean your nervous affection ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Just tell me, have you any trouble of that 
 kind, or did you merely invent it as an excuse 
 for any failure you made from time to 
 time ? "
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 191 
 
 " I used it insincerely as an excuse. But I 
 really do suffer from time to time physically. 
 But physical suffering is nothing. Why should 
 we waste a thought on such nonsense?" 
 
 " In such a strange case as this I believe 
 everything should be taken carefully into 
 consideration," observed Mailing in his most 
 prosaic voice. 
 
 The rector's attention seemed to be suddenly 
 fixed and powerfully concentrated. The feverish 
 excitement he had been displaying gave place 
 to a calmer, more natural mood. 
 
 "Tell me," he said, "do you think your 
 knowledge can help me ? I am aware that 
 you have made many strange investigations. 
 Is there anything to be done for me, anything 
 that will restore me to my former powers? 
 Will you credit me when I declare to you that 
 it was only by making a terrible effort that 1 
 was able to get away from Chichester's com- 
 panionship and to come down here ? If I iiad 
 not said that I meant to do so while you were 
 in the room, I doubt if I should ever have had 
 the courage. There is something inexplic- 
 able that seems to bind me to Chichester.
 
 192 THE DWELLER 
 
 Sometimes there have been moments when I 
 have thought that he longed to be far away 
 from me. And it has seemed to me that 
 he, too, would find escape difficult, if not 
 impossible." 
 
 "You wish very much that Chichester 
 should resign his curacy and go entirely out 
 of your life?" asked Mailing. 
 
 " Wish ! " cried Mr. Harding, almost fiercely. 
 " Oh, the unutterable relief to me if he were to 
 go ! Even down here, away from him for a 
 day or two, I sometimes feel released. And 
 yet" — he paused in his walk — "I shall have 
 to go back — I know it — sooner than I meant 
 to, very soon." 
 
 He spoke with profound conviction. 
 
 "Chichester will mean me to go back, and 
 I shall not be able to stay." 
 
 " And yet you say it has occurred to you 
 that possibly Chichester may be as anxious as 
 yourself to break away from the strange 
 condition of things you have described to me." 
 
 " Have you," exclaimed Mr. Harding — 
 "have you some reason to believe Chichester 
 has ever contemplated departure ? "
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 193 
 
 Mailing moved slowly on, and the rector 
 was forced to accompany him. 
 
 " It has occurred to me," he said, evading 
 the point, "that possibly Henry Chichester 
 might be induced to go out of your life." 
 
 " Never by me ! I should never have 
 the strength to attempt compulsion with 
 Chichester." 
 
 " Some one else might tackle him." 
 
 "Who?" cried out Mr. Harding. 
 
 "Some man with authority." 
 
 "Do you mean ecclesiastical authority?" 
 
 "Oh, dear, no! I was thinking of a man 
 like, say, Professor Stepton." 
 
 As Mailing spoke, a curious figure seemed 
 almost to dawn upon them, sidewise, becom- 
 ing visible gently in the darkness; a short 
 man, with hanging arms, a head poked 
 forward, as if in sharp inquiry, and rather 
 shambling legs, round which hung loosely a 
 pair of very baggy, light trousers. 
 
 "And here is the professor!" said Mailing, 
 stopi)ing short.
 
 194 THE DWELLER 
 
 IX 
 
 THAT night when, very late, Mr. Harding 
 and Mailing returned to the red doll's 
 house and let themselves into it with a latch- 
 key, they found lying upon the table in the 
 little hall a brown envelope. 
 
 "A telegram ! " said the rector. 
 
 He took it into his hand and read the name 
 on the envelope. 
 
 " It's for me. Mailing, do you know whom 
 this telegram is from ? " 
 
 " How can I, or you, for that matter ? " 
 
 " It is from Henry Chichester, and it is to 
 recall me to London." 
 
 " It may be so." 
 
 " It is so. Open it for me." 
 
 Mailing took the telegram from him and 
 tore it open, while he sat heavily down by the 
 table.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 195 
 
 ** Please return if possible difficulties in the 
 parish Benyon ill need your presence Chichester^ 
 
 Mailing looked down at the rector. 
 
 "You see!" Mr, Harding said slowly. 
 
 " What do you mean to do ? " 
 
 Mr. Harding got up from his chair with an 
 effort like that of a weary man. 
 
 "I wonder where the railway-guide is?" 
 he said. " Excuse me for a moment, Mr. 
 Mailing." 
 
 He went away into the drawing-room, and 
 returned with the railway-guide open in his 
 hand. 
 
 " Mailing," he said, using the greater famil- 
 iarity he had for a moment discarded; " I am 
 about to do a rude thing, but I ask you, I beg 
 of you, to acquit me of any rude intention 
 toward yourself I have been looking up the 
 Sunday trains. I find I can catch a good one 
 at Faversham to-morrow morning. There is 
 a motor I can hire in the town to get there. 
 It stands just by the post-office, where the 
 road branches." He paused, looking into 
 Mailing's face as if in search of some sign of
 
 196 THE DWELLER 
 
 vexation or irony. " With a large parish on 
 my hands," he went on, " I have a great 
 responsibility. And if Benyon, my second 
 curate, is ill, thej' will be short-handed." 
 
 " I see." 
 
 " What distresses me greatly — greatly — is 
 leaving you, my guest, at such short notice. 
 I cannot say how I regret it." 
 
 He stopped. Purposely, to test him. Mailing 
 said nothing, but waited with an expression- 
 less face. 
 
 " I cannot say. But how can I do other- 
 wise ? My duty to the parish must come 
 before all things." 
 
 " I see," said Mailing again. 
 
 Looking greatly disturbed, Mr. Harding 
 continued : 
 
 " I will ask you to do me a very great 
 favour. Although I am obliged to go, I hope 
 you will stay. I entreat you to stay till 
 Monday. The professor is here. You will 
 not be companionless. The servants will do 
 everything to make you comfortable. As to 
 food, wine — everything is provided for. Will 
 you stay ? I shall feel more at ease in going
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 197 
 
 if I know my departure has not shortened 
 your visit." 
 
 "It is very good of you," Mailing replied. 
 " I'll accept your kind offer. To tell the truth, 
 I'm in no hurry to leave the Tankerton air." 
 
 "Thank you," said the rector, almost with 
 fervour. "Thank you." 
 
 So, the next morning, Mr. Harding went 
 away in the hired motor, and Mailing found 
 himself alone in the red doll's house. 
 
 He was not sorry. The rector's revelation 
 on the previous night had well repaid him for 
 his journey ; then the air of Tankerton really 
 rejoiced him ; and he would have speech of 
 the professor. 
 
 " I shall lay it before Stepton," he had said 
 to Mr. Harding the previous night, after they 
 had parted from the professor. 
 
 And he had spoken with authority. Mr. 
 Harding's confidence, liis self-abasement, and 
 his almost des[)airing appeal, had surely given 
 Mailing certain rights. He intended to use 
 them to the full. The rector's abrupt relapse 
 into reserve, his pitiful return to subterfuge, 
 after the receipt of that hypnotizing telegram,
 
 198 THE DWELLER 
 
 had not, in Mailing's view, abrogated those 
 rights. 
 
 When the motor disappeared, he strolled 
 across the grass with a towel and had a dip in 
 the brown sea, going in off the long shoal 
 that the Whitstable and Tankerton folk call 
 "the Street." Then he set out to find the 
 professor. 
 
 His interview with Stepton on the previous 
 night in the presence of Mr. Harding had been 
 rather brief Stepton had been preoccupied 
 and monosyllabic. Agnes had been right as 
 to his reason for honouring the coast of Kent 
 with his company, but wrong as to the 
 haunted house's location. It was not in Birch- 
 ington, but lay inland, within easy reach of 
 Tankerton. When he met Mailing and Hard- 
 ing, the professor was going to his hotel, 
 where a motor was waiting to convey him to 
 the house, in which he intended to pass the 
 night. His mind was fixed tenaciously upon 
 the matter in hand. Mailing had realized at 
 once that it was not the moment to disturb 
 him by the introduction of any other affair, 
 however interesting. But his suggestion of
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 199 
 
 a meeting the next morning was thus wel- 
 comed : 
 
 "Right! I shall be at home at church-time 
 — as you're not preaching." 
 
 The second half of the sentence was directed 
 to Mr. Harding, who said nothing. 
 
 "And you might give me a cup of tea in 
 the afternoon," the professor had added, look- 
 ing at the rector rather narrowly before 
 shambling off to his hotel to get the plaid 
 shawl which he often wore at night. 
 
 " With the greatest pleasure. Minors is the 
 name of the house," had been Mr. Harding's 
 reply. 
 
 Whereupon the professor had vanished, 
 muttering to himself: 
 
 "Minors! And why not Majors, if you 
 come to that? Perhaps too suggestive of 
 heart-breaking military men. Minors is safer 
 in a respectable seaside place," 
 
 The professor had been up all night, but 
 looked much as usual, and was eating a iicarly 
 breakfast of bacon and eggs in the cheer- 
 ful coffee-room when Mailing arrived. He 
 scarcely ever ate at orthodox hours, and had
 
 200 THE DWELLER 
 
 frequently been caught lunching at restaurants 
 in London between four and five in the 
 afternoon. 
 
 "Where's the rector? At church?" was 
 his greeting. 
 
 "The rector has gone back to London," 
 replied Mailing, sitting down by the table. 
 
 " What about my cup of tea, then ?" snapped 
 Stepton. 
 
 " I will be your host. I'm here till to-mor- 
 row. Any interesting manifestations?" 
 
 " A rat or two and a hysterical kitchen-maid 
 seem to be the responsible agents in the 
 building-up of the reputation of the house 1 
 kept awake in last night." 
 
 " I believe 1 have a more interesting problem 
 for you." 
 
 The professor stretched out a sinewy hand. 
 
 "Cambridge marmalade! Most encourag- 
 ing!" he muttered. "Have the reverend 
 gentlemen of St. Joseph's been at it again — 
 successfully?" 
 
 " I want you to judge." 
 
 And thereupon Mailing laid the case faith- 
 fully before the professor, describing not only
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 201 
 
 the dinner in Hornton Street and his inter- 
 view with Lady Sophia, but also the two 
 sermons he had heard at St. Joseph's, and 
 the rector's lamentable outburst of the 
 previous night. This last, having a remark- 
 ably retentive memory, he reproduced in 
 the main in Mr. Harding's own words, omit- 
 ting only the rector's reference to his moral 
 lapses. During the whole time he was speak- 
 ing Stepton was closely engaged with the 
 Cambridge marmalade, and showed no symp- 
 toms of attention to anything else. When he 
 ceased, Stepton remarked: 
 
 "Really, clergymen are far more to be 
 depended upon for valuable manifestations 
 than a rat or two and a hysterical kitchen- 
 maid. Come to my room, Mailing." 
 
 The professor had a bedroom facing the 
 sea. He led Mailing to it, shut the door, gave 
 Mailing a cane chair, sat down himself, in a 
 peculiar, crab-like posture, upon the bed, and 
 said : 
 
 "Now give me as minute a psychological 
 study of the former and actual Henry 
 Chichester as you ran."
 
 202 THE DWELLER 
 
 Mailing complied with this request as 
 lucidly and tersely as he could, wasting no 
 words. 
 
 "Any unusual change in his outward man 
 since you knew him two years ago?" asked 
 the professor, when he had finished. 
 
 Mailing mentioned the question as to the 
 curate's eyes and mouth which had risen in 
 his mind, and added : 
 
 " But the character of the man is so changed 
 that it may have suggestioned me into feeling 
 as if there were physical change in him, too." 
 
 " More than would be inevitable in any man 
 in a couple of years. And now as to his 
 digestive organs." 
 
 "Good heavens ! " exclaimed Mailing. 
 
 The apparent vagaries of his companion 
 very seldom surprised him, but this time he 
 was completely taken aback. 
 
 " Are they what they were ? Assuming, on 
 your part, a knowledge of what they were." 
 
 " I don't know either in what condition they 
 are now, or in what condition they were 
 once." 
 
 "Ah! Now I must draw up a report about
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 203 
 
 last night. I'll come for that cup of tea to 
 Minors — might almost as well have been 
 Majors, even granting the military flavour — 
 about five." 
 
 Mailing took his departure. 
 
 At a quarter to five he heard the click of the 
 garden gate, and looking out at the latticed 
 window of the hall, he saw the professor 
 walking sidewise up the path, with a shawl 
 round his shoulders. He went to let him in, 
 and took him into the tiny drawing-room. 
 
 "An old shell for Harding!" observed the 
 professor. " More suitable to a bantam than 
 to a Cochin-China ! " 
 
 " It doesn't belong to him." 
 
 " Nor he to it. Very wise and right of 
 him to go back to Onslow Gardens." 
 
 A maid brought in the tea, and the pro- 
 fessor, spread strangely forth in a small, 
 chintz-covered arm-chair, enjoyed it while he 
 talked about oysters and 03^stcr-beds. He 
 was deeply interested in the oysters of Whit- 
 stable, and held forth almost romantically on 
 their biith and upbringing, the fattening, the 
 packing, tiie selling, and the eating of them —
 
 204 THE DWELLER 
 
 "with lemon, not vinegar, mind! To eat 
 vinegar with a Whitstable native is as vicious 
 as to offer a libation of catchup at the altar 
 of a meadow mushroom just picked up out 
 of the dew." 
 
 Mailing did not attempt to turn his mind 
 from edibles. The professor had to be let 
 alone. When tea was finished and cleared 
 away, he observed : 
 
 "And now. Mailing, what is your view? 
 Do you look upon it as a case of transferred 
 personality ? 1 rather gathered from your 
 general tone that you were mentally drifting 
 in that direction." 
 
 "But are there such cases? Of double 
 transfer, 1 mean ? " 
 
 " Personally I have never verified one. 
 When you spoke of the reverend gentlemen 
 for the first time, I said, ' Study the link ! ' 
 There will be development in the link if — 
 all the rest of it." 
 
 " There has been development, as I told 
 you. The link is on his side now." 
 
 " That's remarkable, undoubtedly. Has it 
 ever struck you that Harding was almost too
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 205 
 
 successful a clergyman to be a genuinely holy 
 man?" 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 "There's a modesty in holiness that is 
 hardly adapted to catch smart women." 
 
 " You used to go to hear Harding preach." 
 
 " And d'3'ou know why I liked his sermons ? " 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because he understood doubt so well. 
 That amused me. But the man who has such 
 a comprehensive understanding of scepticism 
 is very seldom a true believer. One thing, 
 though, Harding certainly does believe in, 
 judging by a sermon I once heard him preach." 
 
 "And that is?" 
 
 " Manicheism. Chichester, you say, was a 
 saint?" 
 
 "He was, if a man, can be a saint who has 
 a certain amiable weakness of character," 
 
 "And now? You think he would be a 
 difficult customer to tackle now?" 
 
 " Harding finds him so." 
 
 "And Harding was an overwhelming chap, 
 cocksure of himself. Chichester must be 
 difficult. Shall 1 tackle him ? "
 
 2o6 THE DWELLER 
 
 "I wish you would. But how? Do you 
 wish me to introduce him to you?" 
 
 " Let me see." 
 
 The professor dropped his head and re- 
 mained silent for a minute or two. 
 
 " Tell me something," he at length remarked, 
 lifting his head and assuming his most terrier- 
 like aspect. " Do you think Harding a whited 
 sepulchre ? " 
 
 " Possibly." 
 
 "And do you think his saintly curate has 
 found it out ? " 
 
 "Do you think that would supply a natural 
 explanation of the mystery ? " 
 
 " Should you prefer to search for it in that 
 malefic region which is the abiding-place of 
 nervous dyspepsia?" 
 
 " How could " 
 
 ''Acute nervous dyspepsia, complicated by 
 a series of sittings under the rose, might eat 
 away the most brazen self-confidence. That's 
 as certain as that I wear whiskers and you 
 don't. Shall we do an addition sum ? Shall 
 we add Chichester's discovery of secret lapses 
 in his worshipped rector's life, to the nervous
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 207 
 
 dyspepsia and the sittings? Shall we do 
 that?" 
 
 "And Lady Sophia?" 
 
 "There's a sun-flower type of woman. The 
 rising sun can't escape her inevitable wor- 
 ship." 
 
 "The change in Harding maybe a natural 
 one. But there is something portentous in 
 the change in Chichester," said Mailing. 
 "You know I'm a rather cool hand, and 
 certainly not inclined to easy credulity. But 
 there's something about Chichester which — 
 well. Professor, I'll make a confession to you 
 that isn't a pleasant one for any man to make. 
 There's something about Chichester which 
 shakes my nerves." 
 
 "And you haven't got nervous dyspepsia?" 
 
 " Should I be even a meliorist — as I am — 
 if I had?" 
 
 " I must know Chichester. It's a pity I 
 didn't know him formerly." 
 
 "I don't believe that matters," said Mailing, 
 with intense conviction. "There is that in 
 him which must strike you and affect you, 
 whether you knew him as he was or not."
 
 2o8 THE DWELLER 
 
 " So long as I don't turn tail and run from 
 him, all's well. I will tackle Chichester. In 
 the interests of science I will face this curate. 
 But how shall I approach him ? As in golf, 
 the approach, is much, if not everything." 
 
 He sat thinking for some minutes, with his 
 eyebrows twitching. Then he said : 
 
 "The question is, Should the approach be 
 casual or direct? Shall 1 describe a curve, or 
 come to him as the crow comes when making 
 for a given point — or is said to come, for I've 
 never investigated that matter? What do 
 you say ? " 
 
 "It's very difficult to say. On the day I 
 dined in Hornton Street, Chichester certainly 
 wanted to tell me something. He asked me 
 to dine, I am almost sure, in order that he 
 might tell it to me." 
 
 " About the sittings with Harding, no doubt." 
 
 " That, perhaps, and something more." 
 
 " But he told you nothing." 
 
 " Directly." 
 
 "Do you think he would be more or less likely 
 to unbosom himself now than he was then ?" 
 
 " Less likely."
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 209 
 
 " You might give me his address." 
 
 Mailing did so. The professor wrote the 
 address down on a slip of paper, pinned the 
 slip carefully to the yellow lining of his jacket, 
 and then got up to go. 
 
 But Mailing detained him. 
 
 " Professor," he said, speaking with an un- 
 usual hesitation, "you know why I told you 
 all this." 
 
 " In the interests of science ?" 
 
 " No, in the interest of that miserable man, 
 Marcus Harding. I want you to break the 
 link that binds him to Henry Chichester — if 
 there is one. I want you to effect his release." 
 
 " I'm afraid you've come to the wrong man," 
 returned Stepton, dryly. " My object in 
 entering into this matter is merely to increase 
 my knowledge, not to destroy my chance of 
 increasing it." 
 
 "But surely " 
 
 " We shall never get forward if we move 
 in the midst of a fog of pity and sentiment." 
 
 Mailing said no more; but as he watched 
 the professor shambling to the garden gate, 
 he felt as if he had betrayed Marcus Harding. 
 p
 
 2IO THE DWELLER 
 
 X 
 
 SOON after Mailing had returned to 
 London, he received the following note 
 from Mr. Harding: 
 
 Onslow Gardens, June — . 
 
 Dear Mr. Malling: 
 
 I seem to have some remembrance of 
 your saying to me at Tankerton that you 
 wished to speak to Professor Stepton with 
 regard to a certain matter. 1 may be wrong 
 in my recollection. If, however, I am right, 
 I now beg you not to speak to the professor. 
 I have, of course, the very highest regard for 
 his discretion ; nevertheless, one must not be 
 selfish. One must not think only of one's self. 
 I have obligations to others, and I fear, when 
 we were together at Tankerton, I forgot them. 
 A word of assurance from you that Professor
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 211 
 
 Stepton knows nothing of our conversation 
 will set at rest the mind of 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 Marcus Harding. 
 
 As soon as he had read this communication, 
 Mailing realized that he had been right in his 
 supposition that a new reserve was growing 
 up in Henry Chichester. He was aware of 
 Chichester's reserve in the letter of the rector. 
 He was aware, too, of the latter's situation as 
 he had never been aware of it before. Often 
 a trifle illuminates a life, as a search-light 
 brings some distant place from the darkness 
 into a fierce radiance that makes it seem near. 
 So it was now. 
 
 "Poor Harding!" thought Mailing, with an 
 unusual softness. " But this letter comes too 
 late." 
 
 What answer should he return to the rector? 
 He hated insincerity, but on this occasion he 
 stooped to it. lie had not only the fear of 
 Stepton upon him ; he had also the desire not 
 to add to the deep misery of Marcus Harding. 
 This was his answer :
 
 212 THE DWELLER 
 
 Cadogan Square, June — . 
 
 Dear Mr. Harding : 
 
 In reply to your letter, I will not now 
 repeat our conversation of the other evening 
 to Professor Stepton. He is, as you say, a 
 man of the highest discretion, and should you 
 feel inclined yourself to take him into your 
 confidence at any time, 1 think you will not 
 regret it. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 Evelyn Malling. 
 
 As he put this note into an envelope. Mailing 
 said to himself: 
 
 "Some day I'll let him know I deceived 
 him ; I'll let him know 1 had already told the 
 professor." 
 
 Two or three days later Mailing heard of 
 the professor having been at a party at 
 Piccadilly, at which Lady Sophia was a guest. 
 
 " And do you know, really " — Mailing's 
 informant, a lively married woman, concluded 
 — "those old scientific men are quite as bad 
 as any of the boys who only want to have a 
 good time. The professor sat in Lady
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 213 
 
 Sophia's pocket the whole evening! Literally 
 in her pocket ! " 
 
 " 1 didn't know modern women had pockets," 
 returned Mailing. 
 
 " They don't, of course ; but you know what 
 I mean." 
 
 Mailing understood that the professor was 
 beginning his "approach." 
 
 A week went by, and at a man's dinner. 
 Mailing chanced to sit next to Blandford Sikes, 
 one of the most noted physicians of the day. 
 In the course of conversation the doctor 
 remarked : 
 
 " Is your friend Stepton going to set up in 
 Harley Street?" 
 
 "Not that I know of," said Mailing. "What 
 makes you ask?" 
 
 " He came to consult me the other day, and 
 when I told him he was as sound as Big Ben 
 he sat with me for over half an hour pumping 
 me unmercifully on the subject of nervous 
 dyspepsia^ The patient who followed, and 
 who happened to be a clergyman, looked 
 fairly sick when he was let in at last." 
 
 Who happened to be a clergyman I Mailing
 
 214 THE DWELLER 
 
 had longed to ask Blandford Sikes a question 
 — who that clergyman was. But he refrained. 
 To do so, would doubtless have seemed oddly 
 inquisitive. It was surely enough for him to 
 know that the professor was busily at work in 
 his peculiar way. And Mailing thought again 
 of that "approach." Evidently the professor 
 must be describing the curve he had spoken of. 
 When would he arrive at Henry Chichester? 
 There were moments when Mailing felt 
 irritated by Stepton's silence. That it was 
 emulated by Marcus Harding, Lady Sophia, 
 and Henry Chichester did not make matters 
 easier for him. However, he had deliberately 
 chosen to put this strange affair into Stepton's 
 hands. Stepton had shown no special alacrity 
 with regard to the matter. Mailing felt that 
 he could do nothing now but wait. 
 
 He waited. 
 
 Now and then rumours reached him of 
 Marcus Harding's fading powers, now and 
 then he heard people discussing one of Henry 
 Chichester's "remarkable sermons," now and 
 then in society some feminine gossip mur- 
 muring that " Sophia Harding seems to be
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 215 
 
 perfectly sick of that husband of hers. She 
 probably wishes now that she had taken all 
 her people's advice and refused him. Of 
 course if he had been made a bishop ! " 
 
 The season ended. Goodwood was over, 
 and Mailing went off to Munich and Bayreuth 
 for music. Then he made a walking-tour with 
 friends in the Oberammergau district, and 
 returned to England only when the ruddy 
 banners of autumn were streaming over the 
 land. 
 
 Still there was no communication from the 
 professor. Mailing might of course have 
 written to him or sought him. He preferred 
 to possess his soul in patience. Stepton was 
 an arbitrary personage, and the last man in 
 the world to consent to a process of pumping. 
 
 Meanwhile Stepton had forgotten all about 
 Mailing. He was full of work of various 
 kinds, but the work that most interested him 
 was connected with the reverend gentlemen 
 of St. Joseph's. As Mailing surmised, he had 
 lost little time in beginning his "approach," 
 and that approach had been rather circuitous. 
 He had taken his own advice and studied the
 
 2i6 THE DWELLER 
 
 link. This done, the intricate and fascinating 
 subject of nervous dyspepsia had claimed his 
 undivided attention. When he had finished 
 his prolonged interview with Blandford Sikes, 
 sidling back to the waiting-room to gather up 
 various impedimenta, he had encountered the 
 unfortunate clergyman whom he had kept 
 waiting. Marcus Harding was the man. They 
 exchanged only a couple of words, but the 
 sight of the flaccid bulk, the hanging cheeks 
 and hands, the eyes in which dwelt a sort of 
 faded despair, whipped up into keen alertness 
 every faculty of the professor's mind. As he 
 walked into Cavendish Square he muttered to 
 himself: 
 
 " I never saw a clergyman look more 
 promising for investigation, by Jove ! Never I 
 There's something in it. Mailing was not 
 entirely wrong. There's certainly something 
 in it." 
 
 But what ? Now for Henry Chichester ! 
 
 Stepton was by nature unemotional, but he 
 was an implicit believer in the hysteria of 
 others, and he thought clergymen, as a class, 
 more liable to that malady than other classes
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 217 
 
 of men. Curates, being as a rule young 
 clergymen, were, in his view, specially subject 
 to the inroads of the cloudy complaint, which 
 causes the mind to see mountains where only 
 mole-hills exist, and to appreciate anything 
 more readily and accurately than the naked 
 truth. Henry Chichester was young and he 
 was a curate. He was therefore likely to be 
 emotional and to be attracted by the mys- 
 terious, more especially since he had recently 
 been knocking on its door, according to 
 Mailing's statement. 
 
 After a good deal of thought, the professor 
 resolved to cast aside convention, and to 
 make Chichester's acquaintance without any 
 introduction ; indeed, with the maximum of 
 informality. 
 
 He learned something about Chichester's 
 habits, and managed to meet him several 
 times when he was walking from the daily 
 service at St. Joseph's to his rooms in 
 Hornton Street. In his walk Chichester passed 
 the South Kensington Museum. What more 
 natural than that the professor should chance 
 to be coming out of it ?
 
 2i8 THE DWELLER 
 
 The first time they met, Stepton looked at 
 the curate casually, the second time more 
 sharply, the third time with scrutiny. He 
 knew how to make a crescendo. The curate 
 noticed it, as of course the professor intended. 
 He did not know who Stepton was, but he 
 began to wonder about this birdlike, sharp- 
 looking man, who evidently took an interest 
 in him. And presently his wonder changed 
 into suspicion. This again accorded with the 
 professor's intention. 
 
 One day, after the even-song at St. Joseph's, 
 Stepton saw flit across the face of the curate, 
 whom he was meeting, a flicker of something 
 like fear. The two men passed each other, 
 and immediately, like one irresistibly com- 
 pelled, the professor looked back. As he 
 did so, Chichester also turned round to spy 
 upon this unknown. Encountering the gaze 
 of the professor, he started, flushed scarlet, 
 and pursued his way, walking with a quickened 
 step. 
 
 The professor went homeward, chuckling. 
 
 "To-day's Tuesday," he thought. "By 
 Saturday, at latest, he'll have spoken to me.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 219 
 
 He'll have to speak to me to relieve the 
 
 tension of his nerve-ganglions." 
 
 Chichester did not wait till Saturday. On 
 
 Friday afternoon, coming suddenly upon 
 
 Stepton at a corner, he stopped abruptly, 
 and said : 
 
 " May I ask if you want anything of 
 me?" 
 
 " Sir ! " barked Stepton. " Mr. Chichester ! " 
 
 "You know my name?" said the curate. 
 
 " And probably you know mine — Professor 
 Stepton." 
 
 A relief that was evidently intense dawned 
 in the curate's face. 
 
 " You are Professor Stepton 1 You are 
 Mr. Mailing's friend ! " 
 
 " Exactly. Good day." 
 
 And the professor marched on. 
 
 Chichester did not follow, but the next day, 
 on the pavement not far from the museum, 
 he stopped once more in front of the professor 
 with a "Good afternoon." 
 
 "Good day," said Stepton. 
 
 "Since you know who I am," began the 
 curate, "and I have heard so much of you,
 
 220 THE DWELLER 
 
 I hope you will forgive me for asking you 
 something," 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 "What is it in me which has attracted your 
 attention?" 
 
 "I wish I knew," returned the pro- 
 fessor. 
 
 " You wish you knew ! Do you mean that 
 you don't know ? " 
 
 " I don't know at all." 
 
 " But — but — you — I was not wrong in feel- 
 ing sure that you were — that something in 
 me had aroused your attention ? " 
 
 "Not wrong at all; but 'something' is not 
 the word." 
 
 " What is the word ? " 
 
 "Everything. Everything in you rouses 
 my attention, Mr. Chichester. But I can't 
 think why." 
 
 "Did you know I was Mr. Harding's curate 
 the first time you met me ? " 
 
 "Yes; I had seen you at St. Joseph's once 
 or twice when I came to hear your rector 
 preach. You didn't interest me at all then, 
 I'm bound to say."
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 221 
 
 Chichester stood in silence for a minute. 
 Then he said : 
 
 "I might walk a little way back with you, 
 if you have no objection." 
 
 Stepton jerked his head in assent. And so 
 the acquaintance of these two men was begun. 
 Their first conversation was a delight to the 
 professor. After a short silence the curate 
 said : 
 
 " I could not help seeing each time we 
 have met how your attention was fastened 
 upon me." 
 
 "Just so," rejoined Stepton, making no 
 apology. 
 
 "And I really think," continued Chichester, 
 with a sort of pressure — "I really think I am 
 entitled to ask for some explanation of the 
 matter." 
 
 " Certainly you are." 
 
 "Well?" He paused, then said again, 
 " Well, Professor Stepton ? " 
 
 "I'm afraid I've nothing to tell you, I like 
 to stick to facts." 
 
 " I only ask you for facts." 
 
 "The facts amount to very little. Coming
 
 222 THE DWELLER 
 
 from the museum I ran across a man. You 
 were the man. My attention was rivetted at 
 once. I said to myself, ' I must see that man 
 again.' Next day I took my chance. I had 
 luck. You were there at pretty much the 
 same hour." 
 
 " I always come from St. Joseph's " 
 
 " Exactly. And so it's happened on several 
 days. And that's all I have to tell you." 
 
 " But surely you can indicate why " 
 
 " No, I can't. All I can say is that for 
 some reason, quite inexplicable by me, 
 if I had come upon you in a crowd of a 
 thousand, I should have had to attend to 
 you." 
 
 " That's very strange," said Chichester, in a 
 low voice ; " very strange indeed." 
 
 " There's a reason for it, of course. There's 
 a reason for everything, but very often it isn't 
 found." At this point the professor thrust his 
 head toward Chichester, and added, "You 
 can't tell me the reason, I suppose?" 
 
 Chichester looked much startled and taken 
 aback. 
 
 "I— oh. no!"
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 223 
 
 "Then we must get along in the dark and 
 make the best of it." 
 
 Having said this, the professor abruptly 
 dismissed the subject and began to talk of 
 other things. When he chose he could be 
 almost charming. He chose on this occasion. 
 And when at last he hailed a bus, declaring 
 that he was due at home, Chichester expressed 
 a hope that some day he would find himself in 
 Hornton Street, and visit number 4a. 
 
 The professor assented, and was carried 
 westward. 
 
 Several days passed, but he did not find 
 himself near Hornton Street, and he had ceased 
 to visit the South Kensington Museum. Then 
 tiie curate wrote and invited him to tea. 
 Despite a pretence at indifference in the 
 phraseology of the note, the professor dis- 
 covered a deep anxiety in the writing. Among 
 other things he had studied, and minutely, 
 graphology. 
 
 He sat down and very politely refused the 
 invitation. 
 
 Then Chichester came to call on him, and 
 caught him at home.
 
 224 THE DWELLER 
 
 It was six o'clock in the evening, and the 
 heavens were opened. Agnes, the Scotch 
 parlour-maid who claimed to have second 
 sight, opened the door to Chichester, who, 
 speaking from beneath a dripping umbrella, 
 inquired for the professor. 
 
 " He's in, sir, but he's busy." 
 
 " Could you take him my card ? " 
 
 Agnes took it, much to her own surprise, 
 and carried it to the professor's study. 
 
 "A gentleman, sir." 
 
 " 1 told you, Agnes " 
 
 " I couldn't say no to him, sir." 
 
 " Why not ? Here ! " he took the card. 
 
 "Why not?" he repeated, when he had 
 read the name. 
 
 " It wasn't in me to, sir." 
 
 " Well, then I shall have to see him. Show 
 him up. But never again will I call you by 
 the proud name of Cerberus." 
 
 So, putting the onus upon Agnes, the 
 professor yielded, murmuring to himself: 
 
 " It wasn't in her to ! Very expressive ! 
 And Cerberus, by the way, was always ready 
 to let 'em in. It was when they wanted to
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 225 
 
 get out that . Good evening. I hope you 
 
 don't mind climbing." 
 
 "Thank you, no," said Chichester. 
 
 "Sit down." 
 
 " I am afraid I disturb you." 
 
 " I'm bound to say you do. But what does 
 it matter?" 
 
 "As you didn't find your way to Hornton 
 Street, I thought I would venture." 
 
 "Very good of you. This is a soft 
 chair." 
 
 Chichester sat down. It had been evident 
 to Stcpton from the moment when his visitor 
 came in that he was in great agony of mind. 
 There was in his face a sort of still and abject 
 misery which Stepton thought exceedingly 
 promising. As he turned round, leaning his 
 sharp elbow on his writing-table, Stcpton 
 was considering how to exploit this misery 
 for the furthering of his purpose. 
 
 " I want you to tell me something," 
 Chichester began. "I want to know why 
 your attention was first attractcrl to mc. 1 
 feel sure that you must be able to give a 
 reason. What is it ? "
 
 226 THE DWELLER 
 
 "Well, now, I wish I could," returned 
 Stepton. 
 
 To himself he gave the swift admonition, 
 " Play for hysteria, and see what comes of it." 
 
 " I wish I could ; but it's a mystery to me. 
 But now— let's see." 
 
 He knitted his heavy brows. 
 
 " A long while ago I picked a man out, met 
 him in a crowd, at the Crystal Palace, followed 
 him about, couldn't get away from him. That 
 same evening he was killed on the under- 
 ground. I read of it in the paper, went to see 
 the body, and there was my man." 
 
 "Do you claim to have some special 
 faculty ? " asked Chichester. 
 
 "Oh, dear, no, Besides, you haven't been 
 killed on the underground — yet." 
 
 A curious expression that seemed mingled 
 of disappointment and of contempt passed 
 across Chichester's face. Stepton saw it and 
 told himself, " No hysteria." 
 
 " Possibly the reason may be a more in- 
 tellectual one," observed the professor. " I 
 hear you have been preaching some very 
 remarkable sermons. I haven't heard them.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 227 
 
 Still, others who have may have ' suggestioned ' 
 me. Three-quarters of any man's fame, you 
 know, are due to mere suggestion." 
 
 " You're not the man to be the prey of 
 that, I fancy— not the easy prey, at any 
 rate." 
 
 "Then we're left again with no explanation 
 at all, unless, as I believe I hinted once before, 
 you can give us one." 
 
 Chichester looked down ; without raising 
 his eyes he presently said in a constrained 
 voice : 
 
 "If I were to give you one you might not 
 accept it." 
 
 "Probably not," said Stepton, briskly. "In 
 my life I've been offered a great many explana- 
 tions, and I'm bound to say I've accepted 
 remarkably few." 
 
 Chichester looked up quickly, and with the 
 air of a man nettled. 
 
 " You'll forgive mc, I hope, for saying that 
 you scientific men vrry often seem to have a 
 great contempt for those who arc more mysti- 
 cally minded," he observed. 
 
 " I've hit the line ! " thought Stepton, with a
 
 228 THE DWELLER 
 
 touch of exultation, as he dropped out a negli- 
 gent, " Forgive you — of course." 
 
 " I dare say it seems to you extraordinary 
 that any man should be able to be a clergyman, 
 genuinely believing what he professes and 
 what he preaches." 
 
 " Very few things seem to me extra- 
 ordinary." 
 
 " Perhaps because you are sceptical of so 
 much in which others believe." 
 
 "That may be it. Quite likely." 
 
 " And yet isn't there a saying of Newton's, 
 * A little science sends man faraway from God, 
 a great deal of science brings man back to 
 God ' ? You'll forgive the apparent rudeness. 
 All I mean is " 
 
 " That the sooner I try to get more science 
 the better for me," snapped out Stepton, 
 brusquely interrupting his visitor, but without 
 heat. " Let me tell you that I pass the greater 
 part of my time in that very effort — to acquire 
 more exact knowledge than 1 possess. Well — 
 now then ! Now then ! " 
 
 Turning round still more toward the curate 
 he looked almost as if he were about to
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 229 
 
 "square up" to him. A dry aggressiveness 
 informed him, and his voice had a rasping 
 timbre as he continued : 
 
 " But I decline to take leaps in the dark 
 
 like " here he mentioned a well-known 
 
 man of science; "and I decline to reject 
 
 evidence like ." Here he named a professor 
 
 even more famous. 
 
 The mention of the last name evidently 
 excited Chichester's curiosity, 
 
 " What evidence has he rejected ? " he 
 exclaimed. 
 
 " Last week he held a sitting to examine the 
 pretensions of Mrs. Groeber, the German 
 medium. Westcott was also present, a man 
 on whose word the very devil — if there is such 
 a person, which I don't yet know — would rely. 
 Some apparently remarkable phenomena 
 occurred. " (here he mentioned the pro- 
 fessor) "was convinced that they could only 
 have been brought about by supernormal 
 means. Unfortunately, or fortunately, West- 
 cott had seen the trickery which produced 
 them. When the stance was over he explained 
 what it was to . What did this so-called
 
 230 THE DWELLER 
 
 man of science do ? Refused to accept West- 
 cott's evidence, clung to his own ridiculous 
 belief— savage's fetish belief, nothing more — 
 and will include the Groeber manifestations as 
 evidence of supernormal powers in his next 
 volume. And I say, I say " — he raised his 
 forefinger — " that clergymen are doing much 
 the same thing pretty nearly every day of their 
 lives. Seek for truth quietly, inexorably, and 
 you may get it ; but don't prod men into false- 
 hood, or try to, as you've been trying to in 
 this very room." 
 
 " I ! " cried out Chichester. 
 
 " You. I told you I had no reason to give 
 you as to why you attracted my attention in 
 the street. Were you satisfied with that? 
 Not at all. You must needs come here — very 
 glad to see you ! — and say, ' I feel sure you 
 must be able to give me a reason. What is 
 it ? * You clamour for a lie. And that's what 
 men are perpetually doing — clamouring for 
 lies. And they get 'em, from clergymen, from 
 mediums, from so-called scientific men, and 
 from the dear delightful politicians. There 
 now!"
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 231 
 
 And the professor dropped his forefinger 
 and flung himself back in his chair. 
 
 "And" — Chichester in his turn leaned 
 forward, but he spoke with some hesitation — 
 "and suppose I were to tell you a truth, a 
 strange, an amazing truth ? " 
 
 He paused. 
 
 "Go on!" said the professor. 
 
 "Wouldn't you do just the opposite? You 
 say men accept lies. I say you would probably 
 reject truth." 
 
 " Cela depend. What you believe to be truth 
 might not be truth at all. It might be hysteria, 
 it might be nervous dyspepsia, it might be 
 overwork, it might he a dozen things." 
 
 "Just what I say," exclaimed Chichester. 
 " Men of science delight in nothing so much 
 as in finding excuses for rejecting the greatest 
 truths." 
 
 "Do you mean the greatest truths in the 
 possession of Anglican clergymen?" 
 
 "I dare say you think it impossible that a 
 clergyman should know more than a scientific 
 man ? " 
 
 " Oh, no. But he's out for faith, and 1
 
 232 THE DWELLER 
 
 happen to be out for facts. I like hard facts 
 that can be set down with a fountain-pen in 
 my note-book, and that, taken together, are 
 convincing to all men of reasonable intellect. 
 Very dull, no doubt, but there you have it. 
 Clergymen, as a rule, move in what are called 
 lofty regions — the realms of heart, conscience, 
 and what not. Now, I'm very fond of the 
 region of grey matter — grey matter." 
 
 "And yet you are one of the chief of the in- 
 vestigators in the field of psychical research." 
 
 " Do you think there's no room for pencil 
 and note-book there? What about Podmore 
 — there's a loss! — and a dozen others? 
 Psychic matters have got to be lifted out of 
 the hands of credulous fetish-worshipping 
 fools, and the sooner the better." 
 
 " It's easy to call people credulous," said 
 Chichester, with decided heat. "By being so 
 readily contemptuous, Professor Stepton, you 
 may often keep back evidence that might be 
 of inestimable value to your cause. A man in 
 possession of a great truth may keep it to 
 himself for fear of being laughed at or called a 
 liar."
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 233 
 
 " Then all I can say is that he's a coward — 
 an arrant abject coward." 
 
 Chichester sat in silence. Again he was 
 looking down. Now that his eyes were hidden 
 by their drooping lids, and that he was no 
 longer speaking, the sadness of his aspect 
 seemed more profound. It dignified his rather 
 insignificant features. It even seemed, in some 
 mysterious way, to infuse power into his 
 slight and unimportant figure. After sitting 
 thus for perhaps three minutes he raised his 
 head and got up from his chair. 
 
 " I must not take up your time any longer," 
 he said. " It was very good of you to see 
 me at all." He held out his hand, which 
 Stcpton took, and added, " I'll just say one 
 thing." 
 
 "Do!" 
 
 "It isn't always cowardice which causes a 
 man to keep a secret — a secret which might be 
 of value to the world." 
 
 " I never said it was." 
 
 "No; but still — you spoke just now of my 
 sermons. I preached one not very long ago 
 which I have typed myself If I send it to
 
 234 THE DWELLER 
 
 you, do you think you could find time to 
 read it ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " I will send it, then. Good night." 
 
 " I'll come down with you." 
 
 The professor let Chichester out. The rain 
 was still falling in torrents. Shrouded in his 
 mackintosh, protected by his umbrella, the 
 curate walked away. Looking after him, 
 Stepton thought : 
 
 " Very odd ! It isn't only in the face. Even 
 the figure, all covered up and umbrella-roofed,, 
 seems to have something — he'll send me the 
 sermon of the man and his double to-morrow." 
 
 And on the morrow that sermon came by 
 the first post. Having read it, the professor 
 promptly returned it to Chichester with the 
 following note : 
 
 The White House, Westminster. 
 
 Dear Mr. Chichester : 
 
 Very glad to have had the opportunity 
 of reading your interesting discourse. If I 
 had not known it was yours, and a sermon, I 
 should have said "a posthumous work of
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 235 
 
 Robert Louis Stevenson." It does credit to 
 your imagination. If you care to publish, I 
 should suggest "The Cornhill." I know 
 nothing about their terms. 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 G. R. E. Stepton. 
 
 By return of post, there came an urgent 
 invitation to the professor to visit Chichester's 
 rooms in Hornton Street, "to continue a 
 discussion which has a special interest for me 
 at this moment." 
 
 " Discussion ! " thought Stepton, sitting 
 down to accept. "What my man wants is 
 for me to goad him into revelation ; and I'll 
 do it." 
 
 The professor knew enough of psychology 
 to be aware that in the very depths of the 
 human heart there is a desire which may 
 perhaps be called socialistic — the desire to 
 share truth with one's fellow-men. Chichester 
 was scourged by this desire. But whether 
 what he wished to share was truth, or only 
 what he believed to be truth, was the question. 
 Anyhow, Stepton was determined to make
 
 236 THE DWELLER 
 
 him speak. And he set off to Hornton Street 
 little doubting that he would find means to 
 carry his determination into effect. 
 
 He arrived about half-past five. He did not 
 turn the corner into Kensington High Street 
 on his homeward way until darkness had 
 fallen, having passed through some of the 
 most extraordinary moments that had ever 
 been his. 
 
 When he was shown into the curate's sitting- 
 room, his first remark was : 
 
 " Sent that very interesting story to * The 
 CornhiU'yet?" 
 
 " I don't think you quite understand, pro- 
 fessor," replied Chichester. "I did not type 
 it with a view to sending it anywhere for 
 publication. You'll have tea with me, I 
 hope ? Here it is, all ready." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 "Oh, Ellen!" 
 
 Chichester went to the door, and Stepton 
 heard the words, " Nobody, you understand," 
 following on a subdued murmuring. 
 
 "And Mr. Harding, sir?" said the maid's 
 voice outside.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 237 
 
 " Mr. Harding won't come to-day. That 
 will do, Ellen." 
 
 The professor heard steps descending. 
 His host shut the door and returned. 
 
 "You typed it for your own use?" said 
 Stepton. 
 
 "That sermon ? Yes. I wished to keep it 
 by me as a record." 
 
 He sat down and poured out the tea. 
 
 "A record of an imagined experience. 
 Exactly. Then why not publish ? " 
 
 " It is not fiction." 
 
 " Well, it isn't fact." 
 
 The professor drank his tea, looking at his 
 host narrowly over the cup. 
 
 " Do you say such an experience as that 
 described in my sermon is impossible?" 
 
 " Do you say it is possible ? " 
 
 " I f 1 were to say so would you believe me ? " 
 
 "Certainly not, unless I could make an 
 investigation and personally satisfy myself 
 that what you said was true. You wouldn't 
 expect anything else, I'm sure." 
 
 " You can believe nothing on the mere word 
 of another ? "
 
 238 THE DWELLER 
 
 " Very little. I am an investigator. I look 
 for proof." 
 
 " With your pencil in one hand, your note- 
 book in the other." 
 
 In Chichester's last remark there was a note 
 of sarcasm which thoroughly roused Stepton, 
 for it sounded like the sarcasm of knowledge 
 addressed to ignorance. Stepton had a temper. 
 This touch of superiority, not vulgar, but very 
 definite, fell on it like a lash. 
 
 " Now I'll go for the reverend gentleman of 
 St. Joseph's ! " he thought. 
 
 And for a moment he forgot his aim in 
 remembering himself Afterward, in thinking 
 matters over, he offered a pinch of incense at 
 the altar of his egotism. 
 
 " So, the modern clergyman still believes in 
 slip-slop, does he?" he exclaimed in his most 
 aggressive manner. " Even now hasn't he 
 learnt the value of the matter-of-fact ? The 
 clergyman is the doctor of the soul, isn't he ? 
 And the doctor, isn't he the clergyman of the 
 body ? I wonder, I do wonder, how long 
 the average doctor would keep together his 
 practice if he worked with no more precision
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 239 
 
 than the average clergyman. The contempt 
 of the pencil and note-book ! The contempt 
 of proper care in getting together and co- 
 ordinating facts ! The contempt of proof — 
 the appeal to reason ! And so we get to the 
 contempt of reason. And let me tell you" — 
 he struck the tea-table with his lean hand till 
 the curate's cups jumped — " that scarcely ever 
 have I heard a sermon in which was not to be 
 found somewhere the preacher's contempt for 
 reason, the bread of the intellect of man." 
 
 " The soul is not the intellect." 
 
 " Don't you think it higher?" 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " And so you put it on slops ! " 
 
 The professor got up from his chair, and 
 began to sidle up and down the small room. 
 
 " You put it on slops, as if it were a thing 
 with a disordered stomach. That's your way 
 of showing it respect. You approach the 
 shrine with an offering of water gruel. Now 
 look ye here ! " — the professor paused beside 
 the tea-table — "The soul wants its bread, 
 depends upon it, as much as the body, and 
 the church that is free with the loaves is the
 
 240 THE DWELLER 
 
 church to get a real hold on real men. Flum- 
 mery is no good to anybody. Rhetoric's no 
 good to anybody. Clap-trap and slip-slop only 
 make heads swim and stomachs turn. The 
 pencil and note-book, observation and the 
 taking down of it, these bring knowledge to 
 the doors of men. And when you sneer at 
 them, you sneer at bread, on the eating of 
 which — or its equivalent, basis-nourishment 
 — life depends." 
 
 " I wonder whether you, and such as you, 
 really know on what the true life of the soul 
 depends," said Chichester, with an almost 
 dreadful quietness. 
 
 The professor sat down again. 
 
 "Such as I?" he said. "You are good 
 enough to do me the honour of putting me in 
 a class ?" 
 
 "As you have so far honoured me," returned 
 Chichester. 
 
 "Ha!" ejaculated Stepton. 
 
 He had quite got the better of his egotism, 
 but he by no means regretted his outburst. 
 
 " Do you claim to stand outside the ranks of 
 the clergy ? " he asked.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 241 
 
 " Do you claim to stand outside the ranks of 
 the scientists?" 
 
 "Oh, dear, no. And now — you?" 
 
 Chichester said nothing for a moment. 
 Then, lifting up his head, and gazing at the 
 professor with a sort of sternness of deter- 
 mination, he said : 
 
 "Remember this! You yourself told me 
 that in a crowd of a thousand you must have 
 fixed your attention on me." 
 
 For a moment the professor had it in his 
 mind to say that this statement of his had 
 been a lie invented to make an impression on 
 Chichester. But he resisted the temptation 
 to score— and lose. He preferred not to 
 score, and to win, if possible. 
 
 " I did," he said. 
 
 " Could this be so if I were like other men, 
 other clergymen ?" 
 
 "Well, then, what is the mighty difTcrcncc 
 between you and your reverend brethren — 
 between you, let us say, and your rector, Mr. 
 Harding?" 
 
 Very casually and jerkily the professor 
 threw out this (|ucstion. 
 
 R
 
 242 THE DWELLER 
 
 Not casually did Chichester receive it. He 
 moved almost like a man who had been un- 
 expectedly struck, then seemed to recover 
 himself, and to nerve himself for some ordeal. 
 Leaning forward, and holding the edge of the 
 table with one hand, he said : 
 
 " How well do you know Mr. Harding?" 
 
 " Pretty well. Not intimately." 
 
 " You have seen him since he — altered ? " 
 
 " I saw him only the other day when I was 
 at a specialist's in Harley Street." 
 
 "A specialist's?" 
 
 " For nervous dyspepsia." 
 
 Again the look of contempt flickered over 
 Chichester's face. 
 
 "Do you think the alteration in Mr. Harding 
 may be due to nervous dyspepsia ? " 
 
 " Probably. There are few maladies that so 
 sap the self-confidence of a man." 
 
 Chichester laughed. 
 
 For the first time since he had entered the 
 little room the professor felt a cold sensation 
 of creeping uneasiness. 
 
 "Apparently you don't agree with me," he 
 said.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 243 
 
 " I am not a doctor, and I know very little 
 about that matter." 
 
 "Then I'm bound to say I don't know what 
 you find to laugh at." 
 
 " For a man who has spent so much time in 
 psychical research you seem to have a rather 
 material outlook upon " 
 
 "Mr. Harding?" 
 
 "And all that he represents." 
 
 "Suppose we stick to Mr. Harding," said 
 the professor, grittily. " He is typical enough, 
 even if you are not." 
 
 "In what respect do you consider Mr. 
 Harding typical ?" 
 
 " I am speaking of the Harding before tiie 
 fall into the abysses of nervous dyspepsia." 
 
 "Very well. In what respects was Mr. 
 Harding typical ?" 
 
 " In the sublime self-confidence witii which 
 he proclaimed, as facts, things that have never 
 been proved to be facts." 
 
 "Do men want facts?" said (Jiirlicster, 
 almost as one speaking alone to him- 
 self 
 
 " I do. I want nothing else. Possibly Mr.
 
 244 THE DWELLER 
 
 Harding had none to give me. I don't blame 
 him." 
 
 " Perhaps it is a greater thing to give men 
 faith than to give them facts." 
 
 " Give them the first by giving them the 
 second, if you can ! And that, by the way, 
 is the last thing the average clergyman is able 
 to do." 
 
 Chichester sat silent for nearly a minute 
 looking at the professor with p. strange ex- 
 pression, almost fiery, yet meditative, as if he 
 were trying to appraise him, were weighing 
 him in a balance. 
 
 " Professor," he said at last, " I suppose 
 your passion for facts has led men to put a 
 great deal of faith in you. Hasn't it ? " 
 
 " I dare say my word carries some weight. 
 I really don't know," responded Stepton, with 
 an odd hint of something like modesty. 
 
 "I had thought of Mailing first," almost 
 murmured Chichester. 
 
 " What's that about Mailing?" 
 
 " 1 think he would have accepted what I 
 have to give more readily than you would. 
 There seems to me something in him which
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 245 
 
 stretches out arms toward those things in 
 which mystics believe. In you there seems 
 to me something which would almost rather 
 repel such things." 
 
 " I beg your pardon. I am quiescent. I 
 neither seek to summon nor to repel." 
 
 "I couldn't tell Mailing," said Chichester. 
 " His readiness stopped me. It struck me 
 
 like a blow." 
 
 "Mailing prides himself on being severely 
 neutral in mind." 
 
 " And you on being sceptical ?" 
 
 " I await facts." 
 
 "Shall I give you some strange facts, the 
 strangest perhaps you have ever met with?" 
 
 Stepton smiled dryly. 
 
 " You'll forgive me, but some such remark 
 has been the prelude to so many figments." 
 
 "Figments?" 
 
 "Of the imagination." 
 
 An expression of anger — almost like a noble 
 anger it seemed — transformed Chichester's 
 face. It was as a fine wrath which looked 
 down from a height, and in an instant it melted 
 into pity.
 
 246 THE DWELLER 
 
 "How much you must have missed because 
 of your scepticism ! " he said. " But I shall 
 not let it affect me. You are a man of note- 
 book and pencil. Will you promise me one 
 thing? Will you give me your word not to 
 share what I shall tell you with any one, 
 unless, later on, I am willing that you 
 should?" 
 
 " Oh, dear, yes ! " said the professor. 
 
 And again he smiled. For even now he 
 believed the curate to be wavering, swayed 
 by conflicting emotions, and felt sure that a 
 flick of the whip to his egotism would be likely 
 to hasten the coming of what he, the professor, 
 wanted. 
 
 A loud call rose up from the street. A 
 wandering vendor of something was crying 
 his ware. In his voice was a sound of fierce 
 melancholy. Chichester went to the window 
 and shut it down. 
 
 " I wish it was night," he said as he turned. 
 
 The professor jerked out his watch. 
 
 " It must be getting late," he observed. 
 "Past six! by Jove!" 
 
 He made an abrupt movement.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 247 
 
 •• What ? " said Chichester. " You are 
 going ! " 
 
 He came up to the table. 
 
 "Sometimes 1 think," he said, "that men 
 hate and dread nothing as they hate and dread 
 facts which may upset the theories they 
 cherish." 
 
 " You're perfectly right. Well, very glad 
 to have seen you in your own room." The 
 professor got up. " By their rooms shall ye 
 know them." He glanced round. 
 
 "Ah, I see you have Rossetti's delightfully 
 anaemic Madonna, and Holman Hunt's ' Light 
 of the World.' A day or two ago I was 
 talking to a lady who pronounced that " — 
 he extended his finger toward the Hunt— "the 
 greatest work of art produced in the last 
 hundred years. Her reason ? Its comforting 
 quality. I am sure you agree with her. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 He made a sidling movement toward the 
 door. Perhaps it was that movement which 
 finally decided the curate to speak. 
 
 " Professor," he said, " 1 don't want you to 
 go yet."
 
 248 THE DWELLER 
 
 "Why not?" jerked out Stepton, with one 
 hand on the door-knob. 
 
 " You collect 'cases.' I have a case for you. 
 You are a sceptic : you say men should be 
 brought to faith by facts. Sit down. I will 
 give you some facts." 
 
 The professor came slowly back, looking 
 dry and cold, and sat down by the table, facing 
 the Rossetti Madonna. 
 
 " Always ready for facts," he said.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 249 
 
 XI 
 
 "^ rOU have heard of doubles, of course, 
 JL Professor?" said Chichester, leaning 
 his arms on the table and putting his hands 
 one against the other, as if making a physical 
 effort to be very calm. 
 
 "Of course. There was an account of one 
 in that sermon of yours." 
 " Have you ever seen a double ? " 
 "No; not to my knowledge." 
 "I suppose you disbelieve in them?" 
 "I have no reason to believe in them. I 
 have not collected enough evidence to convince 
 me that there are such manifestations." 
 " You know a double at this moment." 
 "Do I, indeed? And may I ask the mani- 
 festation's name?" 
 " Marcus Harding." 
 
 "Marcus Harding is a double, you say. 
 Whose?"
 
 250 THE DWELLER 
 
 " Mine," said Chichester in a low voice. 
 
 He clasped and unclasped his hands. 
 
 " I don't understand you," said Stepton, 
 rather disdainfully. 
 
 "I will try to make you." And Chichester 
 began to speak, at first in a low, level voice. 
 "That sermon of mine," he said, "was a sort 
 of shadow of a truth that I wanted to reveal 
 — that I dared not fully reveal. Already I 
 had tried to tell Evelyn Mailing something of 
 it. I had failed. When the moment came, 
 when Mailing was actually before me, I could 
 not speak out. His mind was trying to track 
 the truth that was in me. He got, as it were, 
 upon the trail. Once he even struck into the 
 truth. Then he went away to Marcus Harding. 
 I remained in London. When I knew that 
 those two were together I felt a sort of jealous 
 fear of Mailing. For there was pity in him. 
 Despite his intense curiosity he had a capacity 
 for pity. I realized that it might possibly 
 interfere with — with something that I was 
 doing. And I recalled Marcus Harding to 
 London. From that moment I have avoided 
 Mailing. I could never tell him. But you,
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 251 
 
 hard searclier after truth as you are — you 
 could never find it in you to drag away another 
 from the contemplation of truth. Could you? 
 Could you ?" 
 
 " Probably not," said Stepton. " I usually 
 let folks alone even when they're glaring at 
 falsehood. Ha ! " 
 
 He settled himself in his chair, looking 
 sidewise toward Chichester. 
 
 " You, like every one else, have noticed the 
 tremendous change in Marcus Harding," 
 Chichester went on. "That change, the 
 whole of that change, is solely owing to me." 
 
 "Very glad to have your explanation of 
 that." 
 
 " I am going to give it to you. The begin- 
 ning of that change came about through the 
 action of Marcus Harding. He wished for 
 facts that are, perhaps — indeed, probably — 
 withheld deliberately from the cognizance of 
 man. You have sneered at those who live by 
 faith, you have sneered at priests. Well, you 
 can let Marcus Harding go free of your 
 sarcasm. Although a clergyman he was not 
 a faithful man. And he wanted facts to
 
 252 THE DWELLER 
 
 convince him that there was a life beyond the 
 grave. Henry Chichester " 
 
 " You ! You ! " interjected Stepton, harshly. 
 
 "I, then, came into his life. He thought he 
 would use me to further his purpose. He 
 constrained me to sittings such as you have 
 often taken part in, with a view to sending me 
 into a trance, and employing me, when in that 
 condition, as a means of communication with 
 the other world — if there was one. We sat 
 secretly in this room, at this table." 
 
 " You need not give me ordinary details of 
 your sittings," said the professor. "I am 
 familiar with them, of course." 
 
 "Henry Chichester " 
 
 " You ! You ! Don't complicate matters ! " 
 
 " I never was entranced ; but presently I 
 felt myself changing subtly." 
 
 " People very often imagine they are de- 
 veloping into something wonderful at seances. 
 Nothing new in that." 
 
 " Please try to realize the facts of my case 
 without assuming that it resembles a thousand 
 others. I believe, I feel sure, that it resembles 
 no other case that has come under your
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 253 
 
 observation. To grasp it you must grasp the 
 characters of two men, Marcus Harding as he 
 was — and myself, as I was." 
 
 " Put them before me, then." 
 
 "That Marcus Harding you knew. He was 
 the type of man who, sublimely self-confident, 
 imposes his view of himself upon other men and 
 especially upon women. He had strength — 
 strength of body and strength of mind. And 
 he had the strength which a devouring am- 
 bition sheds through a man. A fine type of 
 the worldly clergyman he was, of the ardent 
 climber up the ladder of preferment. To him 
 the church was a career, and he meant to 
 succeed in it. If he had to begin as a curate 
 he meant to end as a bishop, perhaps as an 
 archbishop. And he had will to help him, and 
 the sort of talent that brings quick notice on a 
 man. And he had also a woman to help him, 
 his wife, Lady Sophia. He chose well when 
 he chose her for his helpmate, though he may 
 not think so now. He should have been 
 content with what he had. But he wanted 
 more, and he thought he might perhaps get 
 what he wanted through me. Marcus Harding
 
 254 THE DWELLER 
 
 was a full-blooded type of the clerical auto- 
 crat. I once was an equally complete type 
 of the clerical slave — slave to conscience, 
 slave to humble-mindedness, slave to my 
 rector as soon as I knew him. 
 
 "St. Francis of Assisi was the character I 
 worshipped. I strove after simple goodness. 
 I desired no glories of this world, no praises 
 of men. I did not wish to be clever or to 
 shine, but only to do my duty to my fellow- 
 men, and so toward God. When I was first 
 to make the acquaintance of Marcus Harding, 
 with a view to becoming his senior curate if 
 he thought fit, I felt some alarm. I had heard 
 so much of his great energy and his remarkable 
 talents. The day came, I paid my visit to 
 
 Onslow Gardens. For the first time I saw " 
 
 Chichester paused. His face became distorted. 
 He turned toward the window as if anxious to 
 hide his face from the professor's small, keen 
 eyes. " I saw — that man," he continued, in a 
 withdrawn and husky voice, and still looking 
 away. 
 
 Stepton sat motionless and silent, sidewise, 
 with his arms hanging. 
 
 S
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 255 
 
 Chichester, after another long pause, again 
 faced him. 
 
 " My very first impression was unfavourable. 
 I attributed this to his great size, which had 
 startled me. I now know I was wrong in 
 thinking I took that impression from the outer 
 man. It was the inner man who in that 
 moment announced himself to me. But 
 almost instantly he had surely withdrawn him- 
 self very far away, and I, then, had no means 
 of following him. So he escaped from me, and 
 I fell under the influence that Marcus Hard- 
 ing was able to exert at will. 
 
 " I was dominated. Buoyancy, life, energy, 
 self-confidence, radiated from that man. He 
 steeped me in his vigour. He seemed kind, 
 cordial. He won my heart. My intellect, of 
 course, was dazzled. But — he won my heart. 
 And I felt not only, ' fiere is a man far greater 
 than myself to whom I can look up,' but also, 
 'Here is a man to whom I must look up, 
 because he is far better than myself At that 
 interview it was settled that I should become 
 senior curate at St. Joseph's. 
 
 "As you know, 1 became, and still am,
 
 256 THE DWELLER 
 
 senior curate. As I grew to know Marcus 
 Harding better I admired him more. In fact, 
 my feeling for him was something greater 
 than admiration. I almost worshipped him. 
 His will was law to me in everything. His 
 slightest wish I regarded as a behest. His 
 talents amazed me. But I thought him not 
 only the cleverest, but the best of men. It 
 seemed to me right that such a man should 
 be autocratic. A beneficent autocracy became 
 my ideal of government. That my rector's 
 will should be law to his wife, his servants, 
 his curates, his organist, his choir, to those 
 attached to his schools, to those who bene- 
 fited by the charities he organized, seemed 
 to me more than right and proper. I could 
 have wished to see it law to all the world. 
 If any one ventured to question any decision 
 of his, or to speak a word against him, I felt 
 almost hot with anger. In a word, I was at 
 his feet, as the small and humble-minded man 
 often is at the feet of the man who has talents 
 and who is gifted with ambition and supreme 
 self-confidence. 
 
 " For a long time this condition of things
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 257 
 
 continued, and I was happy in it. Probably 
 it might have continued till now, if — if that 
 accursed idea had not come to Marcus 
 Harding." 
 
 Again Chichester paused. In speaking he 
 had evidently become gradually less aware 
 of his companion's presence and personality. 
 His subject had gripped him. Memory had 
 grown warm within him. He lived in the 
 days that were past. 
 
 " That accursed idea," he repeated slowly, 
 "to use me as his tool in an endeavour to 
 break down the barrier which divides men 
 from the other world. 
 
 "As 1 told you, we began to sit secretly. 
 Marcus Harding wished me to fall into the 
 entranced condition. 1 did not know this at 
 first, so at first I did not consciously resist 
 his desire. He had told me a lie. He had 
 told me that lie desired only one thing in our 
 sittings, to give to mc something of the will 
 power that made him a force in the world. 
 He had declared that this was possible. I 
 believed him unquestioningly. I thought he 
 was trying to send some of his power into 
 s
 
 258 THE DWELLER 
 
 me. Soon I felt that he was succeeding in 
 this supposed endeavour. Soon 1 felt that 
 a strange new power was filtering into me." 
 
 Chichester fixed his eyes on Stepton as he 
 said the last words, and seemed to emerge 
 from his former condition of self-absorption. 
 
 " You have sat often. Have you ever felt 
 such a sensation ? It is like growth," he said. 
 
 "When one first begins to sit at seances, 
 one is apt to imagine all sorts of things in 
 the darkness," returned Stepton. "I dare 
 say I did, like other folk." 
 
 " I understand," said Chichester, with a sort 
 of strange condescension. "You think I was 
 merely the victim of absurdity. The sense 
 of this coming of power grew slowly, but 
 steadily, within me. And presently it was 
 complicated by another development, which 
 involved — or began to involve, let me say at 
 this point — my companion, Marcus Harding. 
 I think I ought to tell j^ou that in beginning 
 the sittings I had had certain doubts, which 
 were swept away by my admiration of, and 
 faith in, my rector. Hitherto I had always 
 thought that our human knowledge was 
 
 i
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 259 
 
 deliberately limited by God, and that it was 
 very wrong to strive to know too much. The 
 man of science no doubt believes that it is 
 impossible to know too much; but I have 
 thought that many great truths are kept 
 from us because we are not yet in a condition 
 properly to understand them. I had, there- 
 fore, begun these practices with a certain 
 tremor, and possibly a certain feeling of 
 resistance, in the depths of my soul. As I 
 felt the power coming to me I had put away 
 my fears. They did not return. Yet surely 
 the new development within me, of which I 
 now became aware, was connected with those 
 fears, however subtly. It was a sensation 
 almost of hostility directed against Marcus 
 Harding." 
 
 "Ah, now!" ejaculated the professor, as 
 if in despite of himself. "And where's the 
 connexion you speak of?" 
 
 " Marcus Harding had constrained me to 
 do a thing that in my soul I had believed to 
 be wrong and that had roused my fear. As 
 power dawned in me, directing itself upon 
 everything about me, il was instinctively
 
 26o THE DWELLER 
 
 hostile to him who had dominated me before 
 I had any power, and who, by dominating 
 me, had for a moment made me afraid." 
 
 "Retrospective enmity! Very well!" mut- 
 tered the professor. " I understand you. Keep 
 on!" 
 
 " This hostility — if I may call a feeling at 
 first not very definite by so definite a name 
 — induced in me a critical attitude of mind. 
 I found myself, to my surprise, secretly criti- 
 cizing the man whom till now I had regarded 
 as altogether beyond the reach of criticism. 
 I felt that Marcus Harding was giving me 
 power. I was grateful to him for doing so ; 
 yet I began to see him in a new, and at 
 moments an unpleasant light. Presently, 
 after trying in vain to combat this novel sen- 
 sation, which seemed to me almost treacherous, 
 almost disloyal, I sought about for a reason, to 
 give myself at least some justification for it. 
 I sought, and one night it seemed to me that 
 I found. 
 
 " On that night I was more than ever aware 
 that strength of some kind was pouring into 
 me. I had an almost heady sensation, such
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 261 
 
 as one who drinks a generous wine may 
 experience. When we rose from the table 
 I told my rector so. He stared at me very 
 strangely. Then he said : ' Good ! Good ! 
 Didn't I tell you I would give you some of 
 my power ? ' He paused. Then he added : 
 'It will come! It must come!' As he spoke 
 the last words he frowned, and all his face 
 seemed to harden, as if he were making a 
 violent mental effort to which the body was 
 obliged to respond. And at that instant I 
 was aware that the reason Marcus Harding 
 had given to me to persuade me to these 
 sittings was not the true one, that his purpose 
 was quite other than that which I had hitherto 
 supposed it to be. I was suddenly aware of 
 this, and 1 thought: *i must already have 
 been aware of it subconsciously, and that 
 accounts for my sensation of hostility toward 
 the rector.' A lie had been told to me. My 
 new self-confidence resented this; and I said 
 to myself, 'If Marcus Harding can tell a lie 
 to me, who almost worshipped him, he must 
 be an arrant hypocrite.' 
 
 " We sat again, and again I knew that there
 
 262 THE DWELLER 
 
 was something in the mind of my companion 
 which he concealed from me, something to 
 which I should strongly object if I knew what 
 it was, something which troubled the atmo- 
 sphere, the mental atmosphere, of the sitting. 
 Instead of being in accord, we were engaged 
 in a silent, but violent, struggle. I was 
 determined not to be overcome. A sort of 
 fierce desire for tyranny sprang up in me. 
 I longed to see Marcus Harding at my feet. 
 
 " Again and again we sat. My hostile feeling 
 grew. My critical feeling grew. My longing 
 to tyrannize increased, till I was almost afraid 
 of it, so cruel did I feel it to be. * Down I 
 Down under my feet!' That was what my 
 soul was secretly saying now to the man 
 whose will had been as law to me. And one 
 night, as if he heard that ugly voice of my 
 soul, he abruptly got up from the table and 
 said : ' It seems to me that you and I are not 
 en rapport. It seems to me that no more good 
 can come of these sittings. We had better 
 not sit again.' 
 
 '"We must sit again,' I replied. 
 
 " Marcus Harding turned scarlet with anger.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 263 
 
 He looked at me. He opened his lips to 
 speak. I let him speak. I even argued the 
 question with him. I pointed out to him that 
 his only design— the only design acknow- 
 ledged by him, at any rate, in beginning these 
 practices— had been to give me strength such 
 as, he had declared to me, he himself had 
 drawn while at Oxford from a Hindu comrade. 
 In carrying out this design, I now told him, 
 he was being successful. I felt that I was 
 growing in power of will, in self-confidence. 
 How, then, could he refuse to continue when 
 success was already in sight? 'Unless,' I 
 concluded, 'you had some other design in 
 persuading me to sit, which I did in the first 
 instance against my secret desire, and you 
 feel that there is now no probability of 
 carrying that design into effect.' 
 
 " He gave in. I had him beaten. Hastily 
 he muttered a good night and left me. 1 let 
 him out into the night. As soon as the street 
 door had shut on him I ran upstairs. I went 
 to that window '—Chichester flung out his 
 hand—" pushed it up, leaned out, and watched 
 him down the street. I saw him pass under
 
 264 THE DWELLER 
 
 a gas-lamp and I said to myself: 'You have 
 submitted to my will, and you shall submit 
 again. I am the master now.' 
 
 "In that moment all the domination which 
 1 had so joyously endured, which I had even 
 surely revelled in — for there are those who can 
 revel in their slavery — abruptly became in my 
 mind a reason for revenge. Marcus Harding 
 disappeared in the night; but still I leaned 
 out, staring down the way he had gone, and 
 thinking, 'You shall pay me back for it. You 
 shall pay me back.' 
 
 " From that night I made no effort to check 
 the critical faculty, the exercise of which at 
 first had seemed to me a sort of treachery. 
 And as I let myself criticize, I saw more 
 clearly. The scales fell from my eyes. I 
 realized that I had been nothing less than 
 blind in regard to Marcus Harding. I saw 
 him now as he was, a victim of egomania, a 
 worldling, tyrannical, falsely sentimental, and 
 unfaithful steward, a liar — perhaps even an 
 unbeliever. His whole desire — I knew it 
 now — was not to be good, but to be success- 
 ful. His charity, his pity for the poor, his
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 265 
 
 generosity, his care for his church, for his 
 schools — all was pretence, I saw Marcus 
 Harding as he was. And what followed ?" 
 
 Chichester leaned forward to the professor. 
 
 " Fear followed," he said in a withdrawn 
 voice. 
 
 "Fear!" said Stepton, clearing his throat 
 with a loud, rasping noise. 
 
 "Whenever I was with Marcus Harding in 
 any public place 1 was now companioned by 
 fear. 1 dreaded unspeakably lest others 
 should begin to see what 1 saw. When he 
 preached, 1 could hardly' sit to listen : 1 lelt 
 as if any shame falling upon him would over- 
 whelm me also. 1 strove in vain to combat 
 this strange, this, then, inexplicable sensation. 
 With every sitting this terror grew upon me. 
 It tortured me. It obsessed me. It drove me 
 into action. When 1 was with my rector, 1 
 tried perpetually to prevent him from exposing 
 his true self to the world, by changing the 
 conversation, by attenuating his remarks, by 
 covering up his actions with my own, some- 
 times even by a brusque interruption. But in 
 the pulpit he escaped from me. 1 was forced
 
 266 THE DWELLER 
 
 to sit silent and to listen while he preached 
 doctrine in which he had no belief, and put 
 forward theories of salvation, redemption by 
 faith, and the like, which meant less than 
 nothing to him. Finding this presently unen- 
 durable by me, I strove to govern him men- 
 tally when he was in the pulpit, to track him, 
 as it were, with my mind, to head him off with 
 my mind when he was beginning to take the 
 wrong path." 
 
 " Did you succeed in that effort?" interrupted 
 the professor. 
 
 " I made an impression, a terrible impression, 
 upon him. I almost broke him down. I sapped 
 his self-confidence. His power as a preacher 
 deserted him, as his power outside the pulpit 
 deserted him. With every day I felt that I saw 
 more clearly into every recess, every cranny, 
 of his mind and nature. Just at first this 
 frightfully clear sight was mine only when we 
 were sitting; but presently it was mine when- 
 ever I was with him. And he knew it, and 
 went in fear of me. Gradually, very gradually, 
 it came about that our former positions were 
 reversed ; for as he sank down in the human
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 267 
 
 scale, I mounted. As he lost in power, I 
 gained. And especially in the pulpit I felt 
 that now I had force, that I could grip my 
 hearers, could make a mighty impression 
 upon those with whom I was brought into 
 contact. 
 
 "But I must tell you that now I gained no 
 satisfaction from my own improvement, if so it 
 may be called. My whole life was vitiated by 
 my secret terror lest Marcus Harding should 
 be found out, should ever be known for what 
 he was. His actions, and even his thoughts, 
 affected me with an intimacy that was inexplic- 
 able." 
 
 " You were in telepathic communication with 
 him 1 " interjected Stepton. 
 
 "Call it so if you like. Often I felt what he 
 was thinking, almost as if each thought of his 
 were a hand laid upon me — a hand from which 
 I shrank with an almost trembling repugnance. 
 Sometimes when he thought something con- 
 temptible or evil, I slir.ink as if from a 
 blow. 
 
 "There was a link between us. Presently, 
 soon, I knew it. We seemed in some dreadful
 
 268 THE DWELLER 
 
 way to belong to each other, so that whatever 
 was thought, said, done by him, whatever 
 happened to him, reacted upon me. 
 
 "At this time Lady Sophia Harding hated 
 me with a deadly hatred. Formerly she had 
 been indifferent to me. Concentrated upon 
 her husband, adoring him, vain of him, greedily 
 ambitious for his advancement, she had had 
 no time to bestow on a clerical nonentity. 
 But as I grew to understand what her husband 
 really was she grew to hate me. She was 
 almost rude to me. She spoke ill of me be- 
 hind my back. She even tried to oust me 
 from my position as senior curate of St. 
 Joseph's. Why did not she succeed ? Are 
 you thinking that? " 
 
 "Well, what if I was?" snapped the pro- 
 fessor, moving in his chair. 
 
 " Marcus Harding could not make a move to 
 get rid of me. There was a link between us 
 which he could not even try to break. 
 
 "One night — one night — 1 discovered what 
 that link was." 
 
 It was growing dark in the room. The Ros- 
 setti Madonna, thin, anaemic, with hanging
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 269 
 
 hair, seemed fading away on the sombre, green 
 wall. The window-panes looked spectral and 
 white. The faint murmur of the city sounded 
 a little deeper and much sadder than in the 
 light of day. Stepton was aware of a furtive 
 but strong desire for artificial light in the 
 room, but he did not choose to mention it. 
 And Chichester, whose voice — so it seemed to 
 his hearer — began to have the peculiar almost 
 alarming timbre which belongs to a voice 
 speaking not for the ears of another, but for 
 the satisfaction only of the soul which it 
 expresses, continued his narrative, or con- 
 fession, as if unaware of the dying of day. 
 
 " During the day which preceded it 1 had been 
 haunted by the thought of myself doing what 
 Marcus Harding could not do. Why should not 
 I of my own will leave St. Joseph's, get away 
 from this dreadful contemplation which 
 obsessed mc, from this continunl anxiety — 
 almost amounting to terror at moments — 
 which gnawed mc ? Why should not I break 
 this mysterious link, impalpable yet strong? 
 If 1 did, should I not again find peace ? But 
 my sittings with Marcus Harding would be at
 
 270 THE DWELLER 
 
 an end. Could I give them up? I asked my- 
 self that, and I felt as if I could not. Through 
 them, by means of them, I felt as if I might 
 attain to something wonderful — terrible 
 perhaps, but wonderful. I felt as if I were 
 approaching the threshold of absolute truth. 
 A voice within me whispered, ' Go no further,' 
 Was it the voice of conscience ? I did not heed 
 it. Something irresistible urged me forward. 
 1 thrust away from me with a sort of crude 
 mental violence the haunting thought. And 
 when the darkness came I greeted it. 
 " For he came with the darkness." 
 On the wall opposite to the professor the 
 thin Madonna faded away. 
 
 " As I heard his heavy step on the stairs 
 that night I said to myself, 'At all hazards I 
 will see, I will know, more. I will see, I will 
 know — all.' When he entered at that door" — 
 a thin darkness moved in the darkness as 
 Chichester pointed — " he was dreadfully white 
 and looked sad, almost terrified. He sug- 
 gested that we should break through our plan 
 and not sit. I refused. He then said he 
 wished to sit in light. I refused. He was
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 271 
 
 become my creature. He dared not disobey 
 my desires. We placed our hands on this 
 table, not touching. I could no longer endure 
 the touch of his hand. We remained motion- 
 less. A long time passed. There were no 
 rappings. A strange deadness seemed to 
 prevail in the room. Presently it faded away, 
 and I had the sensation that I was sitting 
 quite alone. 
 
 "At first it seemed to me that my companion 
 must have crept out of the room silently, 
 leaving me by myself in the darkness. I 
 shuddered at the thought that I was alone. 
 But tiien I said to myself that Marcus 
 Harding must be there in the blackness 
 opposite to me, and I moved my hands 
 furtively on the table, thinking to prove his 
 presence to myself by touch. I did not prove 
 it. Suddenly 1 had no need to touch him in 
 order to know that he was there." 
 
 " Why not?" said tiic professor, and started 
 at the sound of iiis own voice in the little 
 room. 
 
 "Something made me realize that he was 
 still within the room. Nevertheless, I felt
 
 2/2 THE DWELLER 
 
 that I was alone. How could that be ? I 
 asked myself that question. This answer 
 came as it were sluggishly into my mind, 
 ' You are alone not because Marcus Harding 
 is away, but because Henry Chichester is 
 away.' For a long while I sat there stagnantly 
 dwelling on this knowledge which had come 
 to me in the blackness. It was as if I knew 
 without understanding, as a man may know he 
 is involved in a catastrophe without realizing 
 how it has affected his own fate. And then 
 slowly there came to me, or grew in me, an 
 understanding of how I was alone. I was alone 
 with Marcus Harding at that moment because 
 I was Marcus Harding. A shutter seemed to 
 slide back softly, and for the first time I, 
 Marcus Harding, stared upon myself out of 
 the body of another man, of Henry Chichester. 
 I was alone with my soul double. Motionless, 
 silent, I gazed upon it. Now I understood 
 why I had been tortured with anxiety lest the 
 world should learn to comprehend Marcus 
 Harding as I comprehended him. Now I 
 understood why neither he nor I had been 
 able to break that mysterious link which our
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 273 
 
 sittings had forged between us. I had been 
 trying ignorantly to protect myself, to conceal 
 my own shortcomings, to cover my own 
 nakedness. I had sweated with fear lest my 
 own truth should be discovered by all those 
 to whom for so many years I had been pre- 
 senting a lie. Yes, I had sweated with fear ; 
 but even then how little I had known ! A 
 voice cried out suddenly, 'Turn on the light!' 
 It was the voice of my double. It seemed to 
 awake, or to recall perhaps— how can I say ? 
 — Henry Chichester. I was aware of a shock ; 
 it seemed strongly physical. I got up at once 
 and turned the light on. Marcus Harding 
 was before me, trembling, ashen. 'What is 
 it? What has happened?' he said in a 
 broken voice. I made no reply. He left me. 
 I heard his step in the street— out there ! " 
 
 Chichester was silent. The professor said 
 nothing for a moment, but passed his tongue 
 twice over his lips and swallowed, sighing 
 immediately afterward. 
 
 "Transferred personality!" he muttered— 
 "transferred personality. Is that what you'd 
 have me believe?" 
 
 T
 
 274 THE DWELLER 
 
 " I'll tell you the rest. When Marcus 
 Harding's steps died away down the street I 
 remained here. Since that shock I have 
 spoken of, I felt that I was again Henry 
 Chichester, changed, as I had long been 
 changed — charged with new force, new know- 
 ledge, new discrimination, new power over 
 others, gifted with a penetrating vision into 
 the very soul of the man I had worshipped, 
 yet Henry Chichester, And as Henry Chi- 
 chester I suffered ; I condemned myself 
 This I said to myself that night, ' 1 was deter- 
 mined to see. I disregarded the voice within 
 me which warned me that I was treading a 
 forbidden path. God has punished me. He 
 has allowed me to see. But this shall be the 
 end. I will never sit again. I will give up 
 my curacy. I will leave St. Joseph's at once. 
 Never more will I set eyes on Marcus 
 Harding.' I was in a condition of fierce 
 excitement — -" 
 
 "Ah, exactly," muttered the professor, 
 almost as if consoled — " fierce excitement!" 
 
 "I could not think of sleep. For a long 
 time I remained in here, sitting, standing.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 275 
 
 pacing, opening books ; I scarcely know what 
 I did or did not do. At last a sensation of 
 terrible exhaustion crept over me. I un- 
 dressed. I threw myself on my bed. I tried 
 to sleep. I turned, shifted, got up, let in more 
 air, again lay down, lay resolutely still in the 
 dark, tried not to think. But always my mind 
 dwelt on that matter. In those few frightful 
 moments what had become of myself, of 
 Henry Chichester? Had the powerful per- 
 sonality of that man whom once I had almost 
 worshipped thrust him away, submerged him, 
 stricken him down in a sort of deathlike 
 trance ? What I had seen I remembered now 
 as Henry Chichester. What I had known in 
 those moments I still knew now as Henry 
 Chichester. In vain I revolved this matter in 
 my feverish mind. It was too much for me. 
 I was in deep waters. 
 
 " I closed my eyes. The fatigue wrapped 
 me more closely. Sleep at last was surely 
 drawing near. Hut suddenly I knew — how I 
 cannot exactly say — that once more the shutter 
 was to be drawn back for me. This knowledge 
 resembled a horrible physical sensation. The
 
 276 THE DWELLER 
 
 entry of it into my mind, or indeed into my 
 very soul, was as the dawning of a dreadful 
 and unnatural pain in the body. This pain 
 increased till it became agony. Although I 
 still lay motionless, I felt like one involved in a 
 furious struggle in which the whole sum of me 
 took violent part. And there came to me the 
 simile of a man seized by tremendous hands, 
 and held before a window opening into a room 
 in which something frightful was about to take 
 place. And the shutter slipped back from the 
 window. 
 
 "Again I looked upon myself That was my 
 exact sensation. The shutter drawn back, I 
 assisted at the spectacle of Marcus Harding's 
 life. And it was my life. I knew with such 
 frightful intimacy that my knowledge was as 
 vision. Therefore, I say, I saw. Not only my 
 spirit seemed to be gazing, but also my bodily 
 eyes. 
 
 " I saw myself in the night slowly approach- 
 ing my house in Onslow Gardens, ashen pale, 
 shaken, terrified. At a corner I passed a 
 policeman. He knew me and saluted me with 
 respect I made no gesture in response. He
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 277 
 
 stared at me in surprise. Then a smile came 
 into his face — the smile of a man who is 
 suddenly able to think much less of another 
 than he thought before. I left him smiling 
 thus, reached my house, and stood before it. 
 
 "Now I must tell you, and I rely absolutely 
 on your regarding this as said in the strictest, 
 most inviolable confidence " 
 
 "Certainly. Word of honour, and so 
 forth ! " said the professor, quickly and sharply. 
 
 "I must tell you that Marcus Harding is a 
 sinner, and not merely in the sense in which 
 all men are sinners. There have been recur- 
 ring moments in his life when he has committed 
 actions which, if publicly known, would ruin 
 him in the eyes of the world and put an end to 
 his career. As I looked at myself standing 
 before my house, I saw that I was hesitating 
 whether to go in with my misery, or whether 
 to seek for it the hideous alleviation of my 
 beloved sin. 
 
 "Professor" — it seemed to Stepton at this 
 moment as if Chichester's voice loomed upon 
 him out of the darkness by which they were 
 now enshrouded — "it has been said that
 
 278 THE DWELLER 
 
 nothing shocks a man so terribly as the sight 
 of his body-double; that to see what appears 
 to be himself, even if only standing at a 
 window or sitting before a fire, causes in a 
 man a physical horror which seems to strike 
 to the very roots of his physical being. I 
 looked now upon my soul-double, piercing the 
 fleshy envelope, and it was my very soul that 
 sweated and turned cold. For I perceived the 
 dreadful action which, if known, would 
 certainly ruin me, being committed by the 
 spirit. The slavish body had not yet bowed 
 down and done its part ; but it was about to 
 obey the impulse of the spirit. Slowly the 
 body turned away from its home. The spirit 
 was driving it. The demon with the whip 
 was at work in the night. I looked till the 
 dawn came. And only when at last my double 
 crept, like a thief, into its house, did sleep take 
 me for a little while— sleep that was alive with 
 nightmare." 
 
 Chichester was silent. The professor heard 
 him breathing quickly, saw him, almost as a 
 shadow just shown by the faint light that 
 entered from the street through the two small
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 279 
 
 windows, clasp and unclasp his hands, touch 
 his forehead, his eyelids, move in his chair, 
 like a man profoundly stirred and unable to be 
 at ease. 
 
 "When I woke," he continued, after a long 
 pause, which the professor did not break by a 
 word or a movement, " I woke to combat. As 
 I told you, I had resolved at once to resign my 
 curacy, and never to see that man again. In 
 the light of the morning I sat down to write 
 my letter of resignation ; but I could not do it. 
 A fearful compulsion to remain was upon me. 
 I wrote a few words. I stopped, tore the note 
 up, began again. But writing was impossible. 
 Then I resolved to visit Marcus Harding and 
 to tell him that I must go. 1 went to his 
 house. He was at home. When 1 saw him I 
 told him that I wished him to sit again that 
 night. lie strove to refuse. He did not 
 understand the truth, but he was terrified, I 
 ordered him to come to my rooms that night, 
 and left him. As 1 was going away 1 met 
 Lady Sophia. To my amazement she stopped 
 me, spoke to me kindly, even more than kindly, 
 looked at me with an expression in her eyes
 
 28o THE DWELLER 
 
 that almost frightened me. I said to myself, 
 ' But those are a slave's eyes ! ' as I left her. 
 Never before had any woman looked at me 
 like that. In that moment, I think, she began 
 to turn from him toward me, to forsake weak- 
 ness for strength. Yes, 1 say strength. I was 
 rent by the tumult within me, but I had 
 strength. I have it now. For, despite his 
 hypocrisy, his unbelief, his active sinning, 
 Marcus Harding had been a strong man. And 
 even Henry Chichester, with all his humble- 
 ness, his readiness to yield to others, to think 
 nothing of himself, had had the strength that 
 belongs to purity of soul. And then there is 
 the strength the soul draws from looking upon 
 truth. There was strength, there is now, for 
 the woman to follow. And instinct has surely 
 guided her. She does not, she cannot know. 
 And yet instinct sends her in search of the 
 strength." 
 
 " What do you mean by that ? What do 
 you claim ? " 
 
 " You read that sermon ? " 
 
 " I did." 
 
 " Don't you understand ? I am that man at
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 281 
 
 the window. He did not flee away. He could 
 not. He was, he is, compelled to remain. He 
 watches that dreadful life. And the other 
 within the room is fading. The strength, the 
 authority, the power, are coming to me. 
 Every sitting broadens that bridge across 
 which the deserters are passing. When I 
 preached that sermon my congregation sat as 
 if numbed by terror. And he in the choir 
 listened, never moving. I saw his spirit, 
 dazed, stretching out to grasp the truth, 
 slipping back powerless to do it. It was like 
 a thing moving through the gloom of deep 
 waters — of deep, deep waters." 
 
 Again Chichester's voice died away. In the 
 silence that followed the professor heard the 
 faint ticking of a clock. He had not noticed 
 it before. He could not tell now whether it 
 came from within the room or from the room 
 behind the folding doors. It seemed to him 
 as if this ticking destroyed his power to think 
 clearly, as if it threw his brain into an 
 unwonted confusion which made him feel 
 strangely powerless. He was aware of a 
 great uneasiness approaching, if not actually
 
 282 THE DWELLER 
 
 amounting to fear. This uneasiness made him 
 long for light. Yet he knew that he dreaded 
 light ; for he was aware of an almost uncon- 
 querable reluctance to look upon the face of his 
 companion. Beset by conflicting desires, there- 
 fore, and the prey of unwonted emotion, he 
 sat like one paralyzed, listening always to the 
 faint ticking of the clock, and striving to 
 reduce what was almost like chaos to order in 
 his brain. 
 
 " Why have you selected me to be the hearer 
 of this — this very extraordinary statement ? " 
 he forced himself at length to say prosaically. 
 The sound of his own dry voice somewhat 
 reassured him, and he added : "Though there 
 is nothing very extraordinary in the facts 
 you have related. Telepathic communication 
 between one mind and another is a common- 
 place of to-day, an old story. Every one of 
 course accepts it as possible. What novelty 
 do you claim to present to startle science?" 
 
 " I say that telepathy does not explain 
 the link between Marcus Harding and my- 
 self." 
 
 The professor struck his hand on the table.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 283 
 
 It seemed to him that if only he could get into 
 an argument this strange confusion and fear 
 might leave him. He would be on familiar 
 ground. 
 
 "What you call vision might be merely 
 mind-reading, what you call perceiving the 
 action of the spirit, mind-reading. Your 
 terror lest others should find out bad truths 
 about Marcus Harding would spring naturally 
 enough from your lingering regard for him. 
 Your acute anxiety when he is preaching arises 
 of course from the fact that, owing to bodily 
 causes, no doubt, his mental powers are failing 
 him, and he is no longer able to do himself 
 justice." 
 
 " You don't understand. What I desired in 
 our sittings was to draw into myself strength, 
 power, will from — him. What have I done ? 
 1 have drawn into myself the very man. That 
 night when the sliutter slipped back he looked 
 out from the body of Henry Chichester. His 
 mind worked, his soul was alive, within the 
 cage of another man. And meanwhile Henry 
 Chichester lay as if submerged, but presently 
 stirred, and, however feebly, lived again. He
 
 284 THE DWELLER 
 
 lives now. But not from him comes my 
 frightful comprehension of Marcus Harding. 
 Not him does Marcus Harding fear. Not to 
 him does she, the woman, look with the eyes 
 of a slave. It is not he who dominates the 
 crowds in St. Joseph's. It is not he who 
 conceived that sermon of the man and his 
 double. It is not he who has sometimes been 
 terribly afraid." 
 
 "Afraid! Afraid!" 
 
 "There have been moments when I have 
 been moved to snatch my double out of the 
 sight of men. That day when we met Evelyn 
 Mailing 1 feared as I left them alone together ; 
 and when I found Mailing intimately there in 
 that house, I felt like one coming upon an 
 ambush which might be destructive of his 
 safety. My instinct was to detach Mailing 
 from my double, to attach him to myself My 
 conduct startled him. I saw that plainly. 
 Yet I tried to win him over, as it were, to my 
 side. He came to me. I strove to tell him, 
 but something secret prevented me. And 
 how could he assist me ? " 
 
 Chichester got up from the table. The
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 285 
 
 professor saw a darkness moving as he went 
 to stand by the empty fireplace. 
 
 "I must look on truth," he continued; "I 
 have to. The fascination of staring upon the 
 truth of oneself is deadly, but it surpasses all 
 other fascination. He sins more often now. 
 I watch him sin. Sometimes under my con- 
 templation 1 see him writhing like a thing in a 
 trap — the semblance of myself How the 
 woman despises him now! Sometimes I feel 
 deeply sad at my own ruthlessness. It is 
 frightful to contemplate the physical wreck of 
 a being whom, in some strange and hideous 
 way, one always feels to be oneself. When I 
 look at him it is as if his fallen face, his hang- 
 ing nerveless hands, his down-drooping figure 
 and eyes lit with despair were mine. His 
 poses, his gestures, his physical tricks, they 
 are all mine. I watch them with a cold, en- 
 veloping disgust, frozen in criticism of every- 
 thing he does, anticipating every movement, 
 every look, hating it when it comes, because 
 it is bred out of the remnant of a spirit I 
 despise as no man surely has ever despised 
 before. Henry Chichester would pity, but he
 
 286 THE DWELLER 
 
 is overborne. He is in me as a drop may be 
 in the ocean. I am most aware of him when 
 my double sins. Only last night we sat"— 
 Chichester came back to the table, and stood 
 there, very faintly relieved against the dark- 
 ness by the dim light which penetrated through 
 the windows — "we sat in the darkness, and 
 more deeply than ever before I went down 
 into the darkness. I felt as if I were pene- 
 trating into the last recesses of a ruined 
 temple. And there, in the ultimate chamber 
 crouched all that was left of the inmate, 
 terrified, helpless, and ignorant. As I looked 
 upon him I understood why man is never 
 permitted really to know himself unless, in an 
 access of mad folly and overweening pride, he 
 succeeds in crossing the boundary which to 
 pass is sheer wickedness. And I tried to turn 
 away, but I could not — I could not. I made a 
 supreme effort. It was in vain. 
 
 " I saw him go home. At last he was sick 
 of his sin. There rose within him that strange 
 longing for goodness, for purity and rest, that 
 terrible, aching desire to be what those who 
 once loved him for long had thought him to
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 287 
 
 be, which perhaps never dies in the soul of a 
 human being. Is it the instinct of the Creator 
 burning like an undying spark in the created ? 
 And, as he drew near to his house, there came 
 to him the resolve to speak, to acknowledge, to 
 say, ' This is what I am. Know me as I am ! 
 Care for me still, in spite of what I am !' He 
 went in, and sought her — the woman. She 
 was alone. Sleep had not come to her. 
 Perhaps some instinct had told her she must 
 wake and be ready for something. Then he 
 gathered together the little that was left to 
 him of courage, and he strove to tell her, to 
 make her understand some of the truth, to 
 obtain from her the greatest of human gifts 
 — the love of one from whom a man has no 
 secrets that he can tell. 
 
 " She listened for a moment, then she 
 thrust out her hands as if to push the truth of 
 him out of her life. And last night she left 
 him — going in fear of him." 
 
 The professor shook his narrow shoulders, 
 and sprang abruptly to his feet. The ticking 
 of the clock now sounded almost like a hammer 
 beating in his ears.
 
 288 THE DWELLER 
 
 " It's time we had some light," he said in 
 rather a loud voice. 
 
 The darkness that was Chichester moved. 
 A gleam of light shone in the little room, 
 revealing the thin Madonna, " The Light of the 
 World," the piano, the neatly bound books of 
 the curate of St. Joseph's; revealing Chichester, 
 who now stood facing the professor, white, 
 drawn, lined, but with eyes full of almost 
 hideous resolution and power. 
 
 " 1 advise," said the professor " I advise 
 you from this time forward " 
 
 He stared into the eyes of the man opposite 
 to him, and his voice died away in his throat. 
 
 When, immediately afterward, he found 
 himself walking hurriedly toward Kensington 
 High Street the sweat was pouring down his 
 face.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 289 
 
 XII 
 
 ONE night of that autumn, driven by an 
 overmastering impulse, Evelyn Mai- 
 ling set out toward Kensington. He felt 
 that he must know something more of the 
 matter between Marcus Harding and Henry 
 Chichester. Stepton still kept silence. Mailing 
 had not approached him. But why should he 
 not call upon Chichester, an acquaintance; 
 almost a friend ? It was true that he had 
 resolved, having put the affair into Stepton's 
 hands, to wait. It had come to this, then 
 to-night that he could be patient no longer? 
 As he stood at the corner of Hornton Street, 
 he asked himself that question. He drew out 
 his watch. It was already past eleven, an 
 unholy hour for an unannounced visit. But 
 slowly he turned into Hornton Street, slowly 
 went down that quiet thoroughfare till he was
 
 290 THE DWELLER 
 
 opposite to the windows of the curate's 
 sitting-room. A light shone in one of them. 
 The rest of the house was dark. Even the 
 fanlight above the small front door displayed 
 no yellow gleam. No doubt the household 
 had retired to rest and Henry Chichester was 
 sitting up alone. A rap would probably 
 bring him down to open to his nocturnal 
 visitor. But now Mailing bethought himself 
 seriously of the lateness of the hour, and paced 
 slowly up and down, considering whether to 
 seek speech of the curate or to abandon that 
 idea and return to Cadogan Square. As in 
 his mental debate he paused once more 
 opposite to the solitary gleam in the first- 
 floor window, an incident occurred which 
 startled him, and gave a new bent to his 
 thoughts. It was this : The light in the 
 window was obscured for a moment as if by 
 some solid body passing before it. Then the 
 window was violently thrown up, the large 
 figure of a man, only vaguely perceived by 
 Mailing, appeared at it, and a choking sound 
 dropped out into the night. The man seemed 
 to be leaning out as if in an effort to fill his
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 291 
 
 lungs with air, or to obtain the relief of the 
 cool night wind for his distracted nerves. 
 His attitude struck Mailing as peculiar and 
 desperate. Suddenly he moved. The light 
 showed, and Mailing saw for an instant a 
 second figure, small, slight, commanding. The 
 big man seemed to be sucked back toward 
 the centre of the room. Down came the 
 window ; the tranquil gleam of the light shone 
 as before ; then abruptly all was dark. 
 
 Mailing realized at once what was happen- 
 ing in the curate's lodgings. As he paused, 
 gazing at the dark house, he knew that the 
 miserable Marcus Harding was within, con- 
 strained to endure the observation which, to 
 use his own hideous but poignant phrase, was 
 " eating him away." It was he who had 
 appeared at the window, like a tortured being 
 endeavouring to escape into the freedom of 
 the night. It was Henry Chichester who had 
 followed him, wiio had drawn him back, who 
 had plunged him into darkness. 
 
 The street was deserted. No policeman 
 passed, regarding him with suspicion, and 
 Mailing went on sentinel duty. The dark
 
 292 THE DWELLER 
 
 house fascinated him. More than once a 
 desire came to him to make an effort for the 
 release of Marcus Harding, to cross the street 
 and to hammer brutally at the green door. 
 He recalled Henry Chichester's strange 
 sermon, and he felt as if he assisted at the 
 torture of the double, which he himself had 
 imaginatively suggested to the two clergy- 
 men in Lady Sophia's drawing-room. Ought 
 he not to interrupt such a torture ? 
 
 Midnight struck, and he had not knocked. 
 One o'clock struck; he had paced the street, 
 but had never gone out of sight of the curate's 
 door. It was nearly two, and Mailing was 
 not far from the High Street end of the tho- 
 roughfare when he heard a door bang. He 
 turned sharply. A heavy uncertain footstep 
 rang on the pavement. Out of the darkness 
 emerged a tall figure with bowed head. As 
 it moved slowly forward once or twice it 
 swayed, and a wavering arm shot out as if 
 seeking for some support. Mailing stood 
 where he was till he saw the broad ghastli- 
 ness of Marcus Harding's white face show 
 under the ray of a lamp. He discerned no
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 293 
 
 eyes. The eyes of the unhappy man seemed 
 sunken out of recognition in the dreadful 
 whiteness of his countenance. The gait was 
 that of one who believes himself dogged, and 
 who tries to slinlc furtively, but who has 
 partly lost control of his bodily powers, and 
 who starts in terror at his own too heavy and 
 sounding footfalls. 
 
 This figure went by Mailing, and was lost 
 in the lighted emptiness of the High Street. 
 Mailing did not follow it. Now he had a 
 great desire, born out of his inmost humanity, 
 to speak with Henry Chichester. He made 
 up his mind to return to the curate's door : 
 if he saw a light to knock and ask for admit- 
 tance ; if the window was dark to go on his 
 way. He retraced his steps, looked up, and 
 saw a light. Then it was to be. That man 
 and he were to speak together. But as he 
 looked, the light was extinguished. Never- 
 theless he struck upon the door. 
 
 No one answered. He struck again, then 
 stepped back into the roadway, and looked up 
 at Chichester's window. The curate must 
 surely iiave heard. Yes, for even as Mailing
 
 294 THE DWELLER 
 
 gazed the window moved. No light appeared. 
 But after a pause a voice above said : 
 
 " Is that you, Mr. Harding ? " 
 
 The dim figure of a man was apparent, 
 standing a little back and half concealed by a 
 darkness of drooping curtains. 
 
 " It is I— Evelyn Mailing," said Mailing. 
 
 The form at the window started. 
 
 " Mr. Mailing ! " the words came uncertainly. 
 "What is it? Has — has anything happened, 
 to — why do you want me at such an hour? " 
 
 "I chanced to be in your street and saw 
 your light. I thought I would give you a 
 hail." 
 
 " Do you mean that you want to come in ?" 
 
 After a short pause Mailing answered, 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I cannot let you in !" the voice above cried 
 out lamentably. 
 
 Then the window was shut very softly. 
 
 Three days later Mailing saw in the papers 
 the news of the complete breakdown of Marcus 
 Harding. " Nervous prostration," was the 
 name given by the doctors to his malady, and
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 295 
 
 it was announced that he had been ordered to 
 take a sea voyage, and was preparing to start 
 for Australia with a nurse. 
 
 Soon afterward Mailing was walking in the 
 afternoon down Pall Mall, wondering deeply 
 what would happen, whether the rector would 
 ever start on that voyage, when he came upon 
 Professor Stepton sidling out of the Athenaeum. 
 
 "Heard about Harding?" jerked out the 
 professor. 
 
 "Yes. Has he sailed for Australia?" 
 
 "Dead. Died at half-past three o'clock this 
 morning." 
 
 Mailing turned cold. 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " he said. " Poor fellow ! " 
 
 The professor was drawing his plaid shawl 
 round his shoulders. When it was properly 
 adjusted, he began to walk on. Mailing kept 
 almost mechanically beside him. 
 
 "Did you expect this?" Mailing asked. 
 
 "Well, I knew he was failing." 
 
 "And Chichester? Have you seen Chi- 
 chester since his death?" 
 
 "No. Would you like to sec him for 
 me?"
 
 296 THE DWELLER 
 
 Mailing was deep in thought and did not 
 answer. 
 
 "Do you think?" said the professor, "that 
 Henry Chichester will be greatly affected by 
 this death?" 
 
 " Affected ? Do you mean by grief? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I should suppose that to be highly 
 improbable." 
 
 The professor shot a very sharp glance at 
 Mailing. 
 
 "I'm not sure that I agree with you," he 
 observed dryly. 
 
 " Have you seen him lately?" asked Mailing. 
 
 " Not quite recently. But if I had seen him, 
 say, yesterday, I don't think that would greatly 
 affect niy present dubiety. I should, how- 
 ever, like to set that dubiety at rest. Are you 
 busy to-day ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " I am. Will you make a little investigation 
 for me? Will you go and pay a visit of con- 
 dolence to Chichester on the death of his 
 rector, and then come round to the White 
 House and report?"
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 297 
 
 " I will if you wish it." 
 
 "I shall be in after seven," 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 " I dare say you will be surprised," observed 
 Stepton. " I see my bus." 
 
 Mailing left him imperatively waving his 
 arm, and, turning, walked toward Kensington. 
 
 What were his expectations ? He did not 
 know. Stepton had upset his mind. As he 
 went on slowly he strove to regain his mental 
 equilibrium. But he could not decide exactly 
 what Stepton had meant. He felt inferior to 
 the professor as he turned into Hornton 
 Street. 
 
 He did not hesitate, but went at once to the 
 curate's door and rapped. No one answered. 
 He rapped again, and touched the bell, half 
 hoping, even while he did so, that there was 
 no one within to hear. 
 
 But an inquiring head appeared in the area, 
 observed, and was sharply withdrawn. Steps 
 sounded in the passage, and the maid Ellen 
 presented herself, looking somewhat dis- 
 ordered. 
 
 " Yes, sir ? " she said
 
 298 THE DWELLER 
 
 "Is Mr. Chichester at home?" 
 
 " He is in, sir, poor gentleman," replied the 
 maid. " Did you want to see him ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know whether he will see 
 you, sir." 
 
 " Is he ill ? " 
 
 " Not to say ill, sir. But haven't you 
 heard ? " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " His poor rector's gone, sir, what used to 
 come here to visit him so regular. I never 
 see a gentleman in such a way. Why, he's so 
 changed I don't hardly know him." 
 
 "Have you been here long?" said Mailing, 
 abruptly. 
 
 " Only six months, sir." 
 
 The maid began to look rather astonished. 
 
 "And so Mr. Chichester is quite altered by 
 his grief?" 
 
 " You never did, sir ! He was so firm, wasn't 
 he, above every one ! Even his rector used to 
 look to him and be guided by him. And now 
 he's as gentle and weak almost as a new-born 
 child, as they say."
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 299 
 
 Mailing thought of Stepton. Had he looked 
 forward to some such change? 
 
 " Perhaps I could console Mr, Chichester in 
 his grief," he said. " Will you take him this 
 card and ask him if I can see him ? I knew 
 Mr. Harding, too. I might be of use, 
 possibly." 
 
 " I'll ask him, sir. He's laying down on the 
 bed, 1 do believe." 
 
 Ellen hurried upstairs with the card. It 
 seemed to Mailing that she was away for a 
 long time. At last she returned. 
 
 " If you please, sir, Mr. Chichester wants to 
 know if it's anything important. He's feeling 
 very bad, poor gentleman. But of course if 
 it's anything important, he wouldn't for all the 
 world say no." 
 
 " It is important." 
 
 "Then I was to ask you to walk in, sir, 
 please." 
 
 Chichester's sitting-room was empty when 
 Mailing came into it, and the folding-doors 
 between it and the bedroom were shut. Ellen 
 went away, and Mailing heard a faint murmur 
 of voices, and then Ellen's footstep retreating
 
 300 THE DWELLER 
 
 down the stairs. Silence followed. He 
 
 waited, at first standing. Then he sat down 
 
 near the piano. Not a sound reached him 
 
 from the bedroom. On the curate's table lay 
 
 a book. Mailing took it up. The title was 
 
 "God's Will be Done." The author was a 
 
 well-known High -Church divine, Father 
 
 Rowton. To him, then, Henry Chichester 
 
 betook himself for comfort. The piano stood 
 
 open. On it was music. Mailing looked and 
 
 saw, " Oh, for the wings, for the wings of a 
 
 dove ! " by Mendelssohn. The little room 
 
 seemed full of pious orthodoxy. Surely its 
 
 atmosphere was utterly changed since Mailing 
 
 last was in it. The melody of " Oh, for the 
 
 wings!" went through his brain. That the 
 
 Henry Chichester he had recently known, that 
 
 cruel searcher after and expounder of truth, 
 
 that he should be helped by those words, by 
 
 that melody, in an hour of sorrow ! 
 
 There was a movement in the bedroom. 
 The folding-doors opened inward, and the 
 curate appeared, He was very pale, and 
 looked really ill. His face had fallen in. His 
 fair hair was slightly disordered, and his blue
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 301 
 
 eyes were surrounded by red rims. His 
 expression suggested that he had recently 
 undergone an extremely violent shock, which 
 had shaken badly both body and mind. He 
 looked dazed. Coming forward feebly, he 
 held out his hand. 
 
 " I believe it is something important," he 
 said in a gentle, rather wavering voice ; 
 " otherwise — I am hardly fit, I fear, to be with 
 my kind. I'll " — he sat down — " I have had 
 a terrible shock, Mr. Mailing. You have 
 heard?" 
 
 "You mean Mr. Harding's death?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " 1 have just heard of it." 
 
 " It occurred at half-past three o'clock last 
 night, or, rather, this morning. He had been 
 declining for a long while. At last he just 
 faded out as it were. The strange thing is 
 that I knew the exact moment when he entered 
 into rest." 
 
 "You weren't with him?" 
 
 "Oh, no. I was here, asleep. But at three 
 o'clock I awoke. I felt violently agitated. I 
 can scarcely describe the sensation. It was
 
 302 THE DWELLER 
 
 as if I was torn, as if mind and body, or spirit 
 and body, were torn, lacerated 1 suffered the 
 greatest conceivable agony. I tried to cry 
 out, but I could not. Nor could I move. 
 Then everything suddenly seemed to fail, all 
 in a moment, and I was at peace. But it was 
 like the peace of death, I think. And I was 
 aware — I don't know how — that Mr. Harding 
 was dead. I moved. I looked at my watch. 
 It was a minute after half-past three. I noted 
 down the time. And this morning — I heard." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 " 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 good- 
 ness, too. He guided me in everything. I 
 can never tell you how I looked up to him, 
 how I trusted him. His judgment was extra- 
 ordinary, his reading of character was unerr- 
 ing. 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 Mailing
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 303 
 
 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 Mailing re- 
 membered 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 Mailing 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 good- 
 ness. His patience was angelic. Even when 
 the cruellest blow of all fell upon him, even 
 when his wife — whom, God forgive me ! 1 
 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. Whul 1 
 owe to him ! VVhal I owe to him 1 "
 
 304 THE DWELLER 
 
 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 de- 
 veloped into a man more worthy to be his 
 coadjutor? When I think, when I re- 
 member " 
 
 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 endeavours 
 on my behalf — of course, through God's 
 blessing." 
 
 "Then," said Mailing, "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
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 305 
 
 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 Mailing 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 for- 
 getful in my great grief! Surely you said 
 you had come on some matter of importance." 
 
 " It will wait," said Mailing. " 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 thought- 
 ful, very good." 
 
 Mailing took his hand in farewell. As he 
 did so there was a sharp knock at the front 
 door. Chichester started violently. 
 
 X
 
 306 THE DWELLER 
 
 "Oh, I do hope it is no one for me!" he 
 cried out. " 1 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." 
 
 Mailing 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 Mailing, for a 
 moment she looked disconcerted. 
 
 "Oh, I thought " she began. She stood 
 
 still. Chichester said nothing, and did not 
 move. Mailing went toward her. 
 
 " I was very much grieved," he said, "at the 
 news 1 heard to-day.''
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 307 
 
 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," Mailing 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, 1 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 youl" she
 
 308 THE DWELLER 
 
 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 pre- 
 tending. 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 I 
 One can rest upon your strength when all 
 else fails one ! " 
 
 She tottered. For an instant it seemed to 
 Mailing 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 " 
 
 " 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 I "
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 309 
 
 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 trans- 
 formed 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 
 Mailing and scrutinized his face, as if demand- 
 ing from him sympathy in her horrified amaze- 
 ment. 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 sonic intense feeling.
 
 310 THE DWELLER 
 
 " 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 for ever!" 
 
 Lady Sophia drew in her breath. 
 
 "You hypocrite!" she said. "You hypo- 
 crite ! " 
 
 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 
 Mailing. 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 Mailing, 
 she whispered : "The strength— where is it? 
 Oh, I'm afraid of him! I'm afraid of 
 him ! " 
 
 She disappeared. Almost immediately Mai- 
 ling heard the street door shut.
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 311 
 
 "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 Chi- 
 chester. 
 
 And without another word he went into the 
 bedroom, shutting the folding-doors behind 
 him. 
 
 At half-past seven that same evening 
 Mailing was with Professor Stepton, and 
 made what the professor called his "re- 
 port." 
 
 "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 tilings about which I must otherwise 
 have remained in doubt. Of course 1 must
 
 312 THE DWELLER 
 
 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, Mailing. 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
 
 ON THE THRESHOLD 313 
 
 "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 ? "
 
 THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH
 
 SPRING 1914 
 
 METHUEN'S 
 POPULAR NOVELS 
 
 Crown 8vo, 6s. each 
 IT HAPPENED IN EGYPT [nird Edition. 
 
 By C. N. and A. M. Williamson, Authors of 'The 
 Heather Moon,' 'The Lightning Conductor,' etc. 
 
 This book tells, in the charming manner of the authors, a story of en- 
 trancing interest for travellers in Egypt and for home-dwellers too. A 
 young English diplomatist finds himself compelled by an unusual combina- 
 tion of circumstances to become the temporary conductor of a party of 
 tourists cruising on the Mediterranean and seeing Egypt. His strange 
 new duties plunge him into the midst of adventures both comic and 
 serious. He composes quarrels, intervenes in love affairs, baffles the 
 agents of a secret society, conducts his charges successfully up the Nile 
 to Khartoum, and in the end finds love and treasure both for himself and 
 a faithful friend. 
 
 CHANCE {Fifth Edition. 
 
 By Joseph Conrad, Author of 'The Nigger of the 
 
 "Narcissus."' 
 In this new romance, which Mr. Conrad unfolds in his fascinating and 
 curious way, partly by inonoloj^iie, partly by narrative, we find the author 
 of Lord Jim a^^ain revealing one of those strange cases of human passion 
 and disaster which he alone, of living writers, can present. The sea is in 
 the book, but it is not entirely a book of the sea. 
 
 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 By Arnold Bknnett, Author of ' Clayhanger.' 
 
 This novel, originally published some years ago, is a study of the divorce 
 problem from the points of view of the father, the mother, and the children. 
 Withf>ut unduly straining probabilities, the author has contrived to weave 
 into one plot the full history of two marriages. Most of the story jiasscs in 
 the Five Towns. The issue is tragic, but not unduly so ; and ihroughout 
 the severity of the narrative is enlivened by humour. In ' Whom God 
 Hath Joined,' as in no other book, Mr. Heimett makes use of his long ex- 
 perience in the legal profession. And the novel is one of the very few — if 
 indeed any other exists — in which the subject of divorce has been imagin- 
 atively treated l)y a novelist who has himself actually hcl|)ed to conduct a 
 divorce case and watched it with the impartiality of a lawyer. 
 
 THE WAY HOME 
 
 By Basil King, Author of ' The Wild Olive.' 
 This is the story, minutely and understandingly told, of a sinner, his life 
 and death. He is an ordinary man and no hero, and the final issue raised 
 concerns the right of one who has pcrsistcnily disregarded religion during 
 his strength, in accepting its consolations when his end is near : a question 
 of interest to everyone. The book, however, is not a tract, but a very 
 real novel.
 
 2 METHUEN'S POPULAR NOVELS 
 
 OLD ANDY 
 
 By Dorothea Conyers, Author of ' Sandy Married,' etc. 
 
 No one knows rural Ireland and its humours better than Mrs. Conyers, 
 whose intensely Hibernian stories are becoming so well known, and throw 
 such amusing light on that eternal and delightful Ireland which ne%'er gets 
 into the papers or poliiics. In Old Andy there is a very charming vein ol 
 sentiment as well as much fun and farce. 
 
 THE GOLDEN BARRIER 
 
 By Agnes and Egerton Castle, Authors of ' If Youth 
 but Knew.' 
 
 The main theme of this romance is the situation created by the marriage 
 — a marriage of love — of a comparatively poor man, proud, chivalrous, and 
 tender, to a wealthy heiress : a girl of refined and generous instincts, but 
 something of a wayward 'spoilt child,' loving to use the power which her 
 fortune gives her to play the Lady Maecenas to a crowd of impecunious 
 flatterers, fortune hunters, and unrecognized geniuses. On a critical 
 occasion, thwarted in one of her mad schemes of patronage by her husband, 
 who tries to clear her society of these sycophants and parasites, she 
 petulantly taunts him with having been a poor man himself, who happily 
 married money. Outraged in his love and pride, he offers her the choice 
 of coming to share his poverty or of living on, alone, amid her luxuries. 
 There begins a conflict of wills between these two, who remain in love 
 with each other^prolonged naturally, and embittered, by the elTorts of 
 the interested hangers-on to keep the inconvenient husband out of Lady 
 Maecenas' house — but ending in a happy surrender on both sides. 
 
 THE HAPPY HUNTING GROUND 
 
 By Alice Perrin, Author of 'The Anglo-Indians.' 
 
 A lively and entertaining story of Anglo-Indian life dealing with the 
 matrimonial adventures of a young lady whose forbears have all been 
 connected with the Indian services, and who is sent out to India to find a 
 husband in her own class of life, but marries an official of humble origin 
 ignorant of the circumstances of his birth. Troubles and disappointments, 
 which come near to real tragedy, end in the triumph of grit and sincerity 
 over social barriers. 
 
 THE FLYING INN {Third Edition. 
 
 By G. K. Chesterton, 
 
 This story is partly a farcical romance of the adventures of the last 
 English Inn-keeper, when all Western Europe had been conquered by the 
 Moslem Empire and its dogma of abstinence from wine. It might well 
 be called ' What Might Have Been,' for it was sketclied out before the 
 legend of the Invincible Turk was broken. It involves a narrative de- 
 velopment which is also something of a challenge in ethics. The lyrics 
 called ' Songs of the Simple Life,' which appeared in The New Witness, 
 are sung between the Inn-keeper and his friend, the Irish Captain, who 
 are the principal characters in the romance.
 
 METHUEN'S POPULAR NOVELS 3 
 
 THE WAY OF THESE WOMEN 
 
 By E. Phillips Oppenheim, Author of 'The Missing 
 
 Delora.' 
 
 In this story Mr. Phillips Oppenheim, who is never content to remain in 
 the same rut for long, has boldly deserted the somewhat complicated 
 mechanism which goes to the making of the modern romance. He has 
 contented himself with weaving a tensely written story around one Event, 
 and concentrating the whole love interest of the book upon two people. 
 The Event in itself is one simple enough, its use in fiction almost hackneyed, 
 yet the circumstances surrounding it are so tragical and surprising, its 
 hidden history so unexpected, that it easily serves as the pivot of an 
 interest arresting from the first, startling in its latter stages, almost breath- 
 less in its last development. 
 
 A CROOKED MILE 
 
 By Oliver Onions, Author of ' The Two Kisses.' 
 
 This is a story of a very modern marriage following the author's previous 
 story. The Two Kisses, of a very modern courtship. In it two tnhiages are 
 contrasted, the one run on new and liberal and enlightened lines, the other 
 still dominated by the ideas of the benighted past. What the difference 
 between them comes to in the end depends entirely on the interpretation 
 put upon the story, but the comedy ' note ' speaks for itself. It may be 
 remembered that The Two Kisses touches on the foibles of certain artists. 
 A Crooked Mile deals with the vagaries of a certain airy amateurism in 
 Imperial Politics. 
 
 THE SEA CAPTAIN 
 
 By li. C. Bailey, Author of 'The Lonely Queen.' 
 One of the great company of Elizabethan seamen is the hero of this 
 novel. There is, however, no attempt at glorifying; him or his comrades. 
 Mr. Bailey has endeavoured to mingle realism with the romance of the 
 time. C.iptain Rymingtowne is presented as no crusader but something of 
 a merchant, something of an adventurer and a little of a pirate. He has 
 nothing to do with the familiar tales of the Spanish M:iin and the Indies. 
 His voyages were to the Mediterranean when the Moorish corsairs were at 
 the height of their power, and of thcni and tlieir great leaders, Khcyr-ed 
 din Barbarossa and Dragut Reis, the story has much to tell. Captain 
 Rymingtowne was concerned in the famous Moorish raid to capture the 
 most beautiful woman in Europe and in the amazing affair of the Cliristian 
 prisoners at Alexandria. 
 
 FIREMEN HOT 
 
 By C. J. CuiCLiiFE IIvNK, Author of 'The Adventures 
 
 of Captain Kettle.' 
 
 In Firemen Hot, Mr. Cutcliffc Hyne has added three clearly etched 
 portraits to a gallery which already contains those marine 'musketeers,' 
 Thompson, McTodd, and (Japtain Kettle. The marine fireman is probably 
 at about the bottom of the social scale, but, in Mr. Hync's pages, he is 
 very much the human being. In each chapter the redoubtable trio play 
 before a different background, but whether they are in New Orleans or 
 Hull, in Vera Cruz or Marseilles, one can tell in a paragraph th.it the 
 author is writing of his ground from firsthand knowledge, and his char- 
 acters from intimate and jt)yous study of them. A few Captain Keltic 
 stories have been added.
 
 4 METIIUEN'S POPULAR NOVELS 
 
 SIMPSON 
 
 By Elinor Mordaunt, Author of * The Cost of It.* 
 
 Simpson is a retired business man in the prime of life, who, beneath a 
 rugged exterior, possesses a sympathetic heart. Yet, finding no woman to 
 fill it, he organizes a bachelor's club of congenial spirits and leases a fine 
 old English country estate, there to live in dole e far niente untroubled by 
 feminism in any form. How first one member of the club and then another 
 drops away for sentimental reasons until only Simpson is left, and then his 
 final capitulation to the only woman -all this makes a delightful bit of 
 comedy. The book, however, is more than a comedy. Running through 
 it is a sound knowledge of human life and character, and the writing is 
 always brilliant. It is a book out of the ordinary in every way. 
 
 TWO WOMEN 
 
 By Max Pemberton, Author of ' The Mystery of the 
 
 Green Heart.' 
 
 A new novel by Mr. Pemberton is always an event, for he is a master of 
 
 exciting narrative and sensational incident. All readers must be glad that 
 
 his great success as a writer of revues has not stilled his pen in other ways. 
 
 DAVID AND JONATHAN ON THE 
 RIVIERA 
 
 By L. B. Walford, Author of * Mr. Smith.' 
 
 Two simple, unsophisticated bachelors, respectively minister and elder of 
 a Scotch country parish, go to the Riviera for health's sake, and the rich 
 and jovial 'Jonathan,' older by fifteen years than his friend, means to have 
 a merry time, and to force the reluctant, shy, and sensitive ' David ' into 
 having a merry time too. He 'opines' that David needs waking up. 
 Jonathan Buckie reminds us of Mrs. Walford's earlier hero 'Mr. Smith,' 
 but unluckily his heart of gold is not united to the latter's personal charms, 
 and he continually jars upon his companion, especially when making new 
 acquaintances. His habit of doing this in and out of season eventually 
 leads to disaster, and both men pass through a never-to-be-forgotten 
 CKperience of the sirens of the South before they return home. An old 
 Scotch serving-man, who attends Mr. Buckie as valet, plays no small part 
 in the story, and his sardonic comments, grim humour, and the way in 
 which he handles his master, whose measure he has taken to a nicety, 
 make many amusing episodes. 
 
 THE ORLEY TRADITION 
 
 By Ralph Straus. 
 
 The Orleys are an old noljle family, once powerful, but now living 
 quietly in a corner of England (Kent). They do nothing at all, in spite 
 of people's endeavours to make them reach to the older heights. But they 
 are happy in their retirement, and the real reason for this is that they have 
 few brains. John Orley, the hero, has all the family characteristics, and 
 is preparing himself for a humdrum country life, when he meets with an 
 accident which prevents him from playing games, etc. He becomes am- 
 bitious, goes out into the world, and— fails at everything. He recovers 
 his strength, and sees the mistake he has made, and the book ends as it 
 began, the Orley Tradition holding true.
 
 METHUEN'S POPULAR NOVELS 5 
 
 ON THE STAIRCASE 
 
 By Frank Swinnerton. 
 
 The scene of Mr. Frank Swinnerton's new novel is set in the heart of 
 London, in the parish of Holborn. The reproduction of manners, and 
 the revelation by this means of the spirit underlying those manners, forms 
 the framework of a story of passion. In the main, therefore. On (he Stair- 
 case is a romance with a clearly defined setting of commonplace happen- 
 ings, in which the loves of Barbara Gretton and Adrian Velancourt are 
 shown in conflict with the action of circumstance. The book is in no 
 sense photographic, but it has value as a social picture, being based upon 
 genuine observation. 
 
 MAN AND WOMAN 
 
 By L. G. MoBERLY, Author of ' Joy.' 
 
 This story, which is based on Tennyson's lines — 'The woman's cause is 
 man's, they rise or sink together ' — has for its chief character a woman who 
 takes the feminist view that man is the enemy ; a view from which she is 
 ultimately converted. Another prominent character is one whose love is 
 given to a weak man, her axiom being that love takes no heed of the 
 worthiness or unworthiness of its object. The scene is laid partly in 
 London, partly in a country cottage, and partly in India during the 
 Durbar of the King-Emperor. 
 
 MAX CARRADOS 
 
 By Ernest Bramah, Author of 'The Wallet of Kai 
 Lung.' 
 
 Max Carrados is blind, but in his case blindness is more than counter- 
 balanced by an enormously enhanced perception of the other senses. How 
 these serve their purpose in the various difTiculties and emergencies that 
 Cfjiifront the wcaliliy amateur when, throu^li the instigation of his friend 
 I^uis Carlyle, a private inquiry agent, he devotes himself to the elucidation 
 of mysteries, is the basis of Mr. I'-rnesl IJramah's new book. The adven- 
 tures that ensue range from sensational tragedy to romantic comedy as the 
 occasions rise. 
 
 THE MAN UPSTAIRS 
 
 By P. G. \VoDEHou.SE, Author of 'The Little Nugget.' 
 
 Under this title Mr. Wodchouse has collected nineteen of the short 
 stories written by him in the past f(jur years. Mr. Wodchouse is one of 
 the few English short-story writers with an equally large puljlic on both 
 sides of the Atlantic : but only two of these stories have an American 
 setting. All except one of this collection are humorous, and some idea of 
 the variety of incid'.nt of the reniainrler may be gathered from iIk; fact that 
 their heroes include a barber, a gardener, an artist, a playwriter, a tramp, 
 a waiter, an hotel cl'.rlc, a R')lfcr, a stocklirokcr, a butler, a bank clerk, an 
 assistant master at a private school, an insurance clerk, a peer's son who 
 is also a leading member of a First League Association football team, 
 and a Knight of King Arthur's Round Tabic who is neither brave nor 
 handsome.
 
 6 METHUEN'S POPULAR NOVELS 
 
 SQUARE PEGS 
 
 By Charles Inge, Author of ' The Unknown Quantity.' 
 
 This novel raises again the absorbing question as to what is failure and 
 what success. It tells how a big man from South Africa sets out to con- 
 quer London — the London of the Lobby and the Clubs — with a threepenny 
 weekly paper and sympathy for the unemployed ; how he fails, but in 
 failure wins his woman ; how she too suffers in the London of women 
 workers. There is, on the other side, the little solicitor who calculates 
 for and succeeds by the other's failure ; but in succeeding loses. The 
 background includes the life drama of an enthusiast for Labour reform. 
 
 MESSENGERS 
 
 By Marg.\ret Hope, Author of ' Christina Holbrook.' 
 
 A story of the sudden yielding to temptation of a woman of good 
 position. She suffers for her fault in prison, but' her sufferings on release 
 are ten times greater. She tries her utmost to keep the knowledge of her 
 guiU from her daughter, a girl just left school, but in vain. The girl, in 
 a painful scene, demands to be told the truth, and the mother, unable to 
 bear the .sight of her child's misery, flics from home, hoping still in some 
 way to retrieve the past. But the net of circumstance is too strongly 
 woven. 
 
 ENTER AN AMERICAN 
 
 By E. Crosby-Heath, Author of ' Henrietta taking 
 Notes.' 
 
 The hero of Miss Crosby-Heath's new novel is a self-made Ameiican, 
 who comes to London and enters a Home for Paying Guests. lie is an 
 optimistic philanthropist, and he contrives to help all the English friends 
 he makes. His own crudity is moditred by his London experiences, and 
 the dull minds of his middle-class English friends are broadened by con- 
 tact with his untrammelled personality. A humorous love interest runs 
 through the book. 
 
 THE FRUITS OF THE MORROW 
 
 By Agnes Jacomb, Author of 'The Faith of his 
 Fathers.' 
 
 The Fruits of the Morrow is a novel showing the consequences of a man's 
 and a woman's conduct in the pnst and how it affects the lives of their 
 two sons. The other characters of the story are in different degreci 
 involved in the results of the old romance, but not irredeemably. There 
 is no hero in the ordinary sense of the word, the four male characters 
 being of almost equal importance. The action takes place mainly in East 
 Anglia and during the months of one summer. 
 
 A GIRL FROM MEXICO 
 
 By R. B. TovvNSHEND, Author of ' Lone Pine.' 
 
 Adventures are to the adventurous, and a very young Oxford man 
 who strikes out for himself in the wild and woolly West is apt to come in 
 for some lively developments. lie gets an exciting start by going partners 
 with a Mormon-eating American desperado, and when the unsophisticated 
 youth falls in love with a velvet-eyed Mexican senorita, and then finds
 
 METHUEN'S POPULAR NOVELS 7 
 
 himself called upon in honour to play the part of Don Quixote, things 
 begin to get tangled up. Finally he becomes involved in a struggle, not 
 only with Mormons but with Mexican self-torturers in a great scene on the 
 Calvary of the Penitentes which forms the climax of the story. 
 
 SARAH MIDGET 
 
 By Lincoln Grey. 
 
 In the sedate atmosphere of a quiet country town there develop the 
 later phases of a man's sin, when he has become rich and powerful, and 
 the woman whom he thrust aside in his early manhood learns, all un- 
 consciously, to love the son of her successful rival. How Sarah Midget 
 rises, in the shock of a great tragedy, to supreme heights of self-sacrifice, 
 is shown in poignant and moving scenes. 
 
 AN ASTOUNDING GOLF MATCH 
 
 By ' Stanch FFE,' Author of ' Fun on the Billiard Table ' 
 and ' Golf Do's and Dont's.' 
 
 The na-rative of the adventures of two golfers of equal handicaps, but 
 different styles, who being dissatisfied with die result of two home and home 
 matches, decide that golf across country from links to links, would be 
 more scientific and interesting than golf where all the hazards are known. 
 The troubles that befell them, and how the match came to an abrupt 
 termination, to the discomfort of one and the joy of the other, are told in 
 this book. 
 
 BLACKLAW 
 
 By Sir Glorge Makgiix. 
 
 This is a study in temperaments — a contrast between the old and the 
 new views of the relations between parent and child. Lord Biacklaw 
 throws up rank and fortune, takes his children to the Colonies to live ' the 
 Patriarchal Life,' and sacrifices their future to his own impulses. John 
 Westray, on the other hand, gives up hajjpiness, even life itself, for what 
 he deems his son's welfare. I'^ach from his own point of view fails, yet 
 neither life is wholly wasted. The scenes are laid in Scotland, New 
 Zealand, and in a Cornish Art Colony. 
 
 POTTER AND CLAY 
 
 By Mrs. Stani.kv W'kknch, Author of 'Love's Fool,' 
 ' Pillars of Smoke,' ' The Court of the Gentiles,' etc. 
 
 In this story the author returns to the peasant folk of the Midlands whom 
 she knows so well, and of whom she has written with sympathetic frank- 
 ness in several books already. Just now, when the land question is so 
 much discussed, this novel, dealing in the main with tillers of the soil, 
 should receive careful attention. 
 
 A ROMAN PICTURE 
 
 By Paul Wainlman, Author of 'A Heroine from Fin- 
 land.' 
 
 Mr. Paul Waineman, the Finni-sh novelist who has so far allowed his 
 pen only to describe his native land Finland, has in his latest work cs-ayed 
 a new and also very old hunting ground for those in search of romance.
 
 8 METHUEN'S POPULAR NOVELS 
 
 A Rowan Picture is a idinantic love story, set in the Mother City of the 
 world, Rome. The author, from personal experience, shows up in a daring 
 manner the hatred that still exists between the old and the new Rome. 
 The heavy shadows and many memories within the vast decaying Roman 
 palace, haunted by the living presence of the young and beautiful Donna 
 Bianca Savelli, the last representative of an ancient line, form a pen-picture 
 which will appeal to the many lovers of Rome. 
 
 THE GIRL ON THE GREEN 
 
 By Mark Allerton, Author of 'Such and Such 
 Things.' 
 
 The atmosphere of the links pervades Mark Allerton's new novel. The 
 wind from the sea blows fresh through its pages. The heroine is a charm- 
 ing, high-spirited girl who on her way from college to Bury St. Dunstan's, 
 has an unexpected excursion into Militancy. The author has no views to 
 present on the Suflrage Movement ; nor, indeed, has his heroine, whose 
 not-to-be-explained week-end in a police cell gives ample scope for a highly 
 amusing and exciting story. While 7'he Girl on the Green makes a bid 
 for general popularity, golfers will find it of particular interest. Mark 
 Allerton is well known as a writer on the game, and his description of the 
 great golf match between the hero and heroine will be found full of sly 
 allusions to topics in the knowledge of all golfers, as well as an uncom- 
 monly racy and exciting finish to a breezy story. 
 
 DICKIE DEVON 
 
 By John Overton, Author of ' Lynette.' 
 
 Mr. John Overton's second novel is laid in Worcestershire in the summer 
 of 1644, and is the story of a young Cavalier, forced by adverse circum- 
 stances to become a spy among the Roundheads. His position is a difficult 
 and dangerous one, and matters are made worse by the advent of a spoilt 
 Court beauty, who — mistaking him for another man — imagines herself to 
 be his wife. Readers of Lynette will welcome the reap]3earance of the 
 happy-go-lucky Irislnnan, Michael Fleming, who plays a leading part in 
 this romance of love and war. 
 
 THE STORY OF A CIRCLE 
 
 By M. A. CuRTOis, Author of 'A Summer in Corn- 
 wall.' 
 
 A story of an experiment in the Occult, in which some ladies who began 
 by being idly interested in psychical research, find themselves in dangerous 
 contact with the material necessities of mediums. Much light is cast upon 
 that strange population of charlatans who grow fat on the credulity of the 
 foolish in London. 
 
 LOTTERIES OF CIRCUMSTANCE 
 
 By R. C. Lynegrove. 
 
 This story is laid in Germany, and describes the matrimonial adventures 
 of two sisters belonging to the impoverished German aristocracy. The 
 elder, gentle and unselfish, marries into the vulgar domineering family of 
 Gubbenmeyer. The other, flirtatious and attractive, saves herself and her 
 family from penury by securing a rich officer, only to jeopardize everything 
 through her undisciplined and sensuous temperament.
 
 A SELECTION OF BOOKS 
 PUBLISHED BY METHUEN 
 AND CO. LTD., LONDON 
 - 36 ESSEX STREET 
 
 w.c. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 General Literature 
 
 I'AGi; 
 
 3 
 
 Little Quarto Shakespeare . 
 
 PAGB 
 
 20 
 
 Ancient Cities .... 
 
 «3 
 
 Miniature Library . 
 
 ao 
 
 Antiquary's Books . 
 
 • 3 
 
 New Library of Medicine 
 
 21 
 
 Arden Shakespeare . 
 
 '4 
 
 New Library of Music . 
 
 21 
 
 Classics of Art 
 
 'Complete' Series 
 
 Connoisseur's Library 
 
 Handbooks of English Cliurcb 
 History 
 
 M 
 
 '5 
 
 16 
 
 Oxford Biographies 
 
 Four Plays 
 
 States of Italy . . . . 
 Westminster Commentaries 
 
 21 
 
 31 
 31 
 32 
 
 Handbooks of Theology . 
 
 lO 
 
 ' Young ■ Series . 
 
 32 
 
 ' Home Life ' Series . 
 
 16 
 
 Shilling Library 
 
 22 
 
 Illustrated Pocket Library of 
 Plain and Coloured Books . 
 
 Leaders of Religion 
 
 Library of Devotion 
 
 16 
 •7 
 »7 
 
 Books for Travellers 
 Some Books on Art. 
 Some Books on Italy 
 
 '3 
 
 Little Books on Art 
 
 18 
 
 Fiction 
 
 85 
 
 Little Galleries 
 
 ■ 8 
 
 Books for Boys and Girli 
 
 30 
 
 Little Guides .... 
 
 .U 
 
 Shilling Novels . 
 
 30 
 
 Little Library . . , . 
 
 'V 
 
 Sevenpeuoy Novels , 
 
 3'
 
 A SELECTION OF 
 
 Messrs. Methuen's 
 
 PUBLICATIONS 
 
 In this Catalogue the order is according to authors. An asterisk denotes 
 that tilt book is in iht; press. , „, , . , 
 
 Coloni.\l Editions are published of all Messrs. Metiiuen s Novels issued 
 at a price aboN-e 2s. dJ., and similar editions are published of soine uorks of 
 General Literature. Coloni»l Editions are only for circulation in the British 
 Colunies and India. 
 
 All books marked net are not subject to discount, and cannot be bought 
 at less than the published price. Books not marked net are subject to the 
 discount which the bookseller allows. 
 
 Messrs. Mbthuen's books are kept in stock by all good booksellers. If 
 there is any difficulty in seeing copies, Messrs. Methuen will be very glad to 
 h.Tve early information, and specimen copies of any bonks will be sent on 
 receipt of the published price plus postage for net books, and of the published 
 priC'i lor ordiuary books. 
 
 This Catalogue contains only a selection of the more important books 
 published by Messrs. Methuen. A complete and illustrated catalogue of their 
 publications may be obtained on application. 
 
 Abraham (0. D.)- MOTOR WAYS IN 
 L A Iv E L A N D. Illustrated. Second 
 Edition. De»ty 8po. 75. td. net. 
 
 Adcock (A. St. John). THE EOOK- 
 1, OVER'S LONDON. Illustrated. Cr. 
 %vo. ts. net. 
 
 Ady (Cecilia M.). PIUS II.: The 
 Humanist Pope. Illustrated. Deviy %v(>. 
 loj. bd. tut. 
 
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