His voice, profoundly melancholy, fell like a weight upon those who heard him. And again Malling 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?"
Malling 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, I suppose, when composing your sermon to follow that train of thought?" said Malling to Chichester.
"No," replied the curate, slowly, and like one thinking profoundly. "I was too engrossed 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 Malling.
"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."