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The Father knew well that he sought to pierce the veil of the invisible, and have knowledge of the thing that loved him. "Guildea," the Father said, with insistent earnestness, "try to endure this do more try to give this thing what it seeks." "But it seeks my love." "Learn to give it your love and it may go, having received what it came for." "T'sh! You talk as a priest. Suffer your persecutors.
Yet his days were spent in scientific investigations which conferred immense benefits upon the world. Both men were celibates. Father Murchison was a member of an Anglican order which forbade him to marry. Professor Guildea had a poor opinion of most things, but especially of women. He had formerly held a post as lecturer at Birmingham. But when his fame as a discoverer grew he removed to London.
Guildea waited till he had disappeared, then opened the dining-room door, put his head into the room and kept it there for a moment, standing perfectly still. Presently he drew back into the passage, shut the door, and said, "Let's go upstairs." Father Murchison looked at him enquiringly, but made no remark. They ascended the stairs and came into the library. Guildea glanced rather sharply round.
"But we hear nothing?" "No. Nor do we see anything. But it does. It feels something too. Didn't you observe it presenting its head to be scratched?" "Certainly it seemed to be doing so." "It was doing so." Father Murchison said nothing. He was full of increasing discomfort that almost amounted to apprehension. "Are you convinced?" said Guildea, rather irritably. "No.
"Your visitor is still here?" he asked, and his blue eyes became almost ungentle and piercing as he gazed at his friend. "Yes," answered Guildea, calmly. "How do you know it, when did you know it when you looked into the dining-room just now?" "No. Not until I came into this room. It welcomed me here." "Welcomed you! In what way?"
The man entered with coffee. He offered it gently, and retired like a shadow retreating on a wall. "Splendid, inhuman fellow," remarked Guildea. "I prefer the East End lad who does my errands in Bird Street," said the Father. "I know all his worries. He knows some of mine. We are friends. He's more noisy than your man.
Forgive me for saying so, Murchison, but I am now certain that my anxiety to make you believe in the presence of something here really arose from some faint doubt on that subject within myself. All doubt has now vanished." "Tell me why." "I will." Both men were standing by the fire. They continued to stand while Guildea went on, "Last night I felt it." "What?" cried the Father.
Guildea said the last sentence slowly and deliberately, glancing sharply over his wine at Father Murchison, and, when he had spoken it, a sudden light of comprehension dawned in the Priest's mind. He opened his lips to make a swift remark.
Do good to them that despitefully use you. You talk as a priest." "As a friend I spoke naturally, indeed, right out of my heart. The idea suddenly came to me that all this, truth or seeming, it doesn't matter which, may be some strange form of lesson. I have had lessons painful ones. I shall have many more. If you could welcome " "I can't! I can't!" Guildea cried fiercely. "Hatred!
"Exactly. Well, and what did you think of it?" "Beg pardon, sir?" "What do you think about his talking in this voice?" "Oh, that it's only his play, sir." "I see. That's all, Pitting." The butler disappeared and closed the door noiselessly behind him. Guildea turned his eyes on his friend. "There, you see!" he ejaculated. "It's certainly very odd," said the Father. "Very odd indeed.
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