Part 3 (1/2)
Pitting retreated. 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 pa.s.sage, shut the door, and said: ”Let's go upstairs.”
Father Murchison looked at him inquiringly, but made no remark. They ascended the stairs and came into the library. Guildea glanced rather sharply round. A fire was burning on the hearth. The blue curtains were drawn. The bright gleam of the strong electric light fell on the long rows of books, on the writing table very orderly in consequence of Guildea's holiday and on the uncovered cage of the parrot. Guildea went up to the cage. Napoleon was sitting humped up on his perch with his feathers ruffled. His long toes, which looked as if they were covered with crocodile skin, clung to the bar. His round and blinking eyes were filmy, like old eyes. Guildea stared at the bird very hard and then clucked with his tongue against his teeth. Napoleon shook himself, lifted one foot, extended his toes, sidled along the perch to the bars nearest to the Professor, and thrust his head against them. 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. The Father sipped his tea, found it hot, and set the cup down on a little table at his side.
”You're fond of that parrot, aren't you?” he asked his friend.
”Not particularly. It's interesting to study sometimes. The parrot mind and nature are peculiar.”
”How long have you had him?”
”About four years. I nearly got rid of him just before I made your acquaintance. I'm very glad now I kept him.”
”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 ca.s.sock and sat up higher in his chair.
”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?”
”Simply by being here, by making me feel that it is here, as I might feel that a man was if I came into the room when it was dark.”
He spoke quietly, with perfect composure in his usual dry manner.
”Very well,” the Father said, ”I shall not try to contend against your sensation, or to explain it away. Naturally, I am in amazement.”
”So am I. Never has anything in my life surprised me so much. Murchison, of course I cannot expect you to believe more than that I honestly suppose imagine, if you like that there is some intruder here, of what kind I am totally unaware. I cannot expect you to believe that there really is anything. If you were in my place, I in yours, I should certainly consider you the victim of some nervous delusion. I could not do otherwise. But wait! Don't condemn me as a hysteria patient, or as a madman, for two or three days. I feel convinced that unless I am indeed unwell, a mental invalid, which I don't think is possible I shall be able very shortly to give you some proof that there is a newcomer in my house.”
”You don't tell me what kind of proof?”
”Not yet. Things must go a little farther first. But, perhaps even tomorrow I may be able to explain myself more fully. In the meanwhile, I'll say this: that if, eventually, I can't bring any kind of proof that I'm not dreaming I'll let you take me to any doctor you like, and I'll resolutely try to adopt your present view that I'm suffering from an absurd delusion. That is your view, of course?”
Father Murchison was silent for a moment. Then he said, rather doubtfully: ”It ought to be.”
”But isn't it?” asked Guildea, surprised.
”Well, you know, your manner is enormously convincing. Still, of course, I doubt. How can I do otherwise? The whole thing must be fancy.”
The Father spoke as if he were trying to recoil from a mental position he was being forced to take up.
”It must be fancy,” he repeated.
”I'll convince you by more than my manner, or I'll not try to convince you at all,” said Guildea.
When they parted that evening, he said: ”I'll write to you in a day or two probably. I think the proof I am going to give you has been acc.u.mulating during my absence. But I shall soon know.”
Father Murchison was extremely puzzled as he sat on the top of the omnibus going homeward.
IV.
In two days' time he received a note from Guildea asking him to call, if possible, the same evening. This he was unable to do as he had an engagement to fulfil at some East End gathering. The following day was Sunday. He wrote saying he would come on the Monday, and got a wire shortly afterward: 'Yes Monday come to dinner seven-thirty Guildea.' At half past seven he stood upon the doorstep of Number 100.
Pitting let him in.
”Is the Professor quite well, Pitting?” the Father inquired as he took off his cloak.
”I believe so, sir. He has not made any complaint,” the butler formally replied. ”Will you come upstairs, sir?”
Guildea met them at the door of the library. He was very pale and sombre, and shook hands carelessly with his friend.
”Give us dinner,” he said to Pitting.
As the butler retired, Guildea shut the door rather cautiously. Father Murchison had never before seen him look so disturbed.
”You're worried, Guildea,” the Father said. ”Seriously worried.”
”Yes, I am. This business is beginning to tell on me a good deal.”
”Your belief in the presence of something here continues then?”
”Oh, dear, yes. There's no sort of doubt about the matter. The night I went across the road into the Park something got into the house, though what the devil it is I can't yet find out. But now, before we go down to dinner, I'll just tell you something about that proof I promised you. You remember?”
”Naturally.”
”Can't you imagine what it might be?”
Father Murchison moved his head to express a negative reply.
”Look about the room,” said Guildea. ”What do you see?”
The Father glanced round the room, slowly and carefully.
”Nothing unusual. You do not mean to tell me there is any appearance of ”