Part 44 (1/2)
He appeared to be asleep. The Professor was pale, and his mobile lips were drawn into an expression of supreme disgust.
”Faugh!” he said.
He walked to the windows of the further room, pulled aside the curtains and pushed the gla.s.s up, letting in the air. The bare trees were visible in the grey gloom outside. Guildea leaned out for a minute drawing the night air into his lungs. Presently he turned round to the Father, and exclaimed abruptly,
”Pestilent! Isn't it?”
”Yes--most pestilent.”
”Ever hear anything like it?”
”Not exactly.”
”Nor I. It gives me nausea, Murchison, absolute physical nausea.”
He closed the window and walked uneasily about the room.
”What d'you make of it?” he asked, over his shoulder.
”How d'you mean exactly?”
”Is it man's, woman's, or child's voice?”
”I can't tell, I can't make up my mind.”
”Nor I.”
”Have you heard it often?”
”Yes, since I returned from Westgate. There are never any words that I can distinguish. What a voice!”
He spat into the fire.
”Forgive me,” he said, throwing himself down in a chair. ”It turns my stomach--literally.”
”And mine,” said the Father, truly.
”The worst of it is,” continued Guildea, with a high, nervous accent, ”that there's no brain with it, none at all--only the cunning of idiotcy.”
The Father started at this exact expression of his own conviction by another.
”Why d'you start like that?” asked Guildea, with a quick suspicion which showed the unnatural condition of his nerves.
”Well, the very same idea had occurred to me.”
”What?”
”That I was listening to the voice of something idiotic.”
”Ah! That's the devil of it, you know, to a man like me. I could fight against brain--but this!”
He sprang up again, poked the fire violently, then stood on the hearthrug with his back to it, and his hands thrust into the high pockets of his trousers.