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Updated: May 8, 2025
"He doesn't strike you as a man of power?" "In the pulpit?" "And out of it especially out of it?" "He may have been. But perhaps he has lost in power. Dispersion, you know, does not make for strength." Suddenly the curate became very pale. "Dispersion you say!" he almost stammered. As if to cover some emotion, he looked at Malling's plate, and added: "Have some more? You won't? Then "
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." Malling's idea had evidently laid a grip upon Chichester's mind. "Tell me what the double's existence would be, according to you," he said.
He clasped Malling's hand in his, as if almost unaware that he was doing so, and said with some hesitation: "Are you are you going to see the rector again?" "Not that I know of," said Malling, speaking the strict truth, and virtually telling a lie at the same time. For he was determined, if possible, to see Mr. Harding, and that before very long.
The choirboys 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 the last words uttered, "whose footprints were the same as his own." Again the cold breath went through Malling's spirit. He leaned slightly forward and gazed at Chichester.
They stepped into the fly, and drove through the long street of Whitstable toward the outlying houses of Tankerton, scattered over grassy downs above a quiet, brown sea. "The air is splendid, certainly," observed Malling, drinking it in almost like a gourmet savoring a wonderful wine. "It must do me good. Don't you think so?" The question sounded anxious to Malling's ears.
His blue eyes seemed to be seeking something in Malling's impenetrable face. "Do you think," he said, "I am much altered since we used to meet two years ago? It would of course be natural enough if I were." Malling looked at him for a minute steadily. "In appearance, you mean?" "Of course." "To-night it seems to me that you have altered a good deal."
He was seated in a rigid, high-backed arm-chair, well away from the huge cook-stove, at which Hephzibah Malling was presiding. Many kettles and saucepans stood steaming upon the black iron top, and the occasional opening and shutting of the ovens told of dainties which needed the old farm-wife's most watchful care. Mrs. Malling's occupation, however, did not interrupt her flow of conversation.
In spite of the recent tragic events the routine of the daily life at Loon Dyke Farm was very little interfered with. Just for a few weeks following upon the death of Leslie Grey the organization of Mrs. Malling's household had been thrown out of gear.
"Then I 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?" Malling's exclamation was sharp. "That sermon of his!" said the rector. "That fearful sermon!
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 some public exhibition. That simile came at once into Malling's mind.
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