s 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
vitality 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 was a full-blooded type of the clerical autocrat. 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 worshiped. 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in a withdrawn and husky voice, and still looking away.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.

Chichester, after another long pause, again faced him.

"My very first impression was unfavorable. 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withdrawn himself very far away, and I, then, had no means of following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
Harding was able to exert at will.

"I was dominated. Buoyancy, life, energy, self-confidence, radiated from
that man. He steeped me in his vigor. He seemed kind, cordial. He won my
heart. My intellect, of course, was dazzled. But--he won my heart. And I
felt not only, 'Here is a man f