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And then a dead woman would stir in her grave. For there are surely cries of earth that even the dead can hear. Dull people often wondered how it came about that Father Murchison and Professor Frederic Guildea were intimate friends. The one was all faith, the other all scepticism. The nature of the Father was based on love.
And now he half turned in his chair, crossed his legs one over the other, and looked at his guest with an unusual, almost piercing interrogation. "Anything?" said the Father. "Well well, anyone. I imagine nothing could be more unpleasant." "To you no," answered the Father. "But forgive me, Guildea, I cannot conceive you permitting such intrusion. You don't encourage adoration."
"For whom?" said the Professor. Then, suddenly, he understood. He did not say that he understood, but Father Murchison felt, and saw, that it was quite unnecessary to answer his friend's question. So Guildea, strangely enough, found himself closely acquainted with a man his opposite in all ways, who pitied him.
The Father, wondering, went to the near window, drew aside the curtains and pushed it open. The branches of the trees in the garden creaked drily in the light wind. Guildea leaned forward on the arms of his chair. There was silence for a moment. Then Guildea, speaking in a rapid whisper, said, "No, no. Open this door open the hall door. I feel I feel that it will return the way it came.
The Father glanced across the damp road into the Park. "I see you've got a gate just opposite you," he said idly. "Yes. I often slip across for a stroll to clear my brain. Good-night to you. Come again some day." "With pleasure. Good-night." The Priest strode away, leaving Guildea standing on the step. Father Murchison came many times again to number one hundred Hyde Park Place.
But, as you know, I never quarrel with facts, however strange. I merely try to examine into them thoroughly. I have already consulted a doctor and been pronounced in perfect bodily health." He paused, as if expecting the Father to say something. "Go on, Guildea," he said, "you haven't finished." "No.
When he had reached the door, and was just going out, his master called, "Wait a minute, Pitting." The butler paused. Guildea bit his lips, tugged at his beard uneasily two or three times, and then said, "Have you noticed er the parrot talking lately in a a very peculiar, very disagreeable voice?" "Yes, sir a soft voice like, sir." "Ha! Since when?" "Since you went away, sir. He's always at it."
"Are you? Why is that?" "I shall probably tell you in a day or two." The Father took his cup again. He did not press Guildea for an immediate explanation, but when they had both finished their tea he said: "Well, has the sea-air had the desired effect?" "No," said Guildea. The Father brushed some crumbs from the front of his cassock and sat up higher in his chair.
In presence of this extraordinary distress he did not know what to say. He recognised the uselessness of attempting to comfort Guildea, and he sat with his eyes turned, almost moodily, to the ground. And while he sat there he tried to give himself to the influences within the room, to feel all that was within it. He even, half-unconsciously, tried to force his imagination to play tricks with him.
The pale butler, who had heard the door bang, moved gently forward from the top of the stairs that led to the kitchen, greeted his master respectfully, took his coat and Father Murchison's cloak, and hung them on two pegs against the wall. "All's right, Pitting? All's as usual?" said Guildea. "Quite so, sir." "Bring us up some tea to the library." "Yes, sir." Pitting retreated.
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