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What is it? What can it be? Why should it have come to me that night?" "Perhaps as a punishment," said the Father, with a quick softness. "For what?" "You hated affection. You put human feelings aside with contempt. You had, you desired to have, no love for anyone. Nor did you desire to receive any love from anything. Perhaps this is a punishment." Guildea stared into his face.
"And you did catch somebody?" said the Father. Guildea cleared his throat. "That's just it," he said, "now we come to it. I'm not imaginative, as you know." "You certainly are not." "No, but hardly had I stepped into the passage before I felt certain that somebody had got into the house during my absence.
However, I was only away three minutes or so." "Yes." "It was not likely that anybody had gone in." "I suppose not." "Was it?" "Why do you ask me that, Guildea?" "Well, well!" "Besides, if anybody had gone in on your return you'd have caught him, surely." Guildea coughed again.
He had a feeling of liking for most men and women whom he knew, and of tenderness for all, whether he knew them or not, but he grew to have a special sentiment towards Guildea. Strangely enough, it was a sentiment of pity.
The dismay was soon banished, for the mild-eyed priest was quick to discern weakness in himself, quicker still to drive it forth as a most undesirable inmate of the soul. But the wonder remained. It was destined to a crescendo. Guildea had left London on a Thursday.
Guildea scratched it with his forefinger two or three times, still gazing attentively at the parrot; then he returned to the fire just as Pitting entered with the tea-tray. Father Murchison was already sitting in an armchair on one side of the fire. Guildea took another chair and began to pour out tea, as Pitting left the room closing the door gently behind him.
In the still room the dry sound of the feathers being spread was distinctly audible. Father Murchison saw the blue curtains behind which Guildea stood tremble slightly, as if a breath of wind had come through the window they shrouded. The clock in the far room chimed, and a coal dropped into the grate, making a noise like dead leaves stirring abruptly on hard ground.
As he descended in the twilight he fancied he heard a slight cry from the room behind him, but he did not pause. He flung the hall door open, standing back against the wall. After waiting a moment to satisfy Guildea, he was about to close the door again, and had his hand on it, when he was attracted irresistibly to look forth towards the park.
After we have drunk it we'll proceed to our experiment. Leave the coffee, Pitting, and don't disturb us again." "No, sir." "I won't have it black to-night," said the Father, "plenty of milk, please. I don't want my nerves played upon." "Suppose we don't take coffee at all?" said Guildea. "If we do you may trot out the theory that we are not in a perfectly normal condition.
It had paused in its journey, and, clinging to the bars of its cage, was regarding them with attentive round eyes that looked deliberately intelligent, but by no means sympathetic. He looked away from it to Guildea, who was smoking, with his head thrown back, his sharp, pointed chin, on which the small black beard bristled, upturned. He was moving his under lip up and down rapidly.
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