On the Sunday of Malling's visit to Onslow Gardens, Mr. Harding's failure
in the pulpit had waked up in his wife eager sympathy and eager spite,
the one directed toward the man who had failed, the other toward the man
who, as Malling felt sure, had caused the failure.
In Burlington House that woman, whom men with every reason adore, had
given place to another less favorable toward him who had been her hero.
It seemed to Malling as if in the future a strange thing might happen,
almost as if it must happen: it seemed to him as if Chichester 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 Malling had certainly not anticipated. Where would it end?
Again and again, as he listened to the morning and evening sermons,
Malling 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 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 Malling first heard him he
had obviously fought against the malign influence which eventually
had prevailed over him, this time he had not had the vigor 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 distinguished had
given way to an almost unhealthy 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
pleading with his 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 discourse should be a short one. Very
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