12 Stories They Wouldn't Let Me Do on TV (26 page)

    "Yes, yes, it's imitating an idiot," Father Murchison caught himself saying as he watched.

    And he looked again about the room, but saw nothing; except the furniture, the dancing fire, and the serried ranks of the books. Presently the parrot ceased from bowing, and assumed the concentrated and stretched attitude of one listening very keenly. He opened his beak, showing his black tongue, shut it, then opened it again. The Father thought he was going to speak, but he remained silent, although it was obvious that he was trying to bring out something. He bowed again two or three times, paused, and then, again opening his beak, made some remark. The Father could not distinguish any words, but the voice was sickly and disagreeable, a cooing and, at the same time, querulous voice, like a woman's, he thought. And he put his ear nearer to the curtain, listening with almost feverish attention. The bowing was resumed, but this time Napoleon added to it a sidling movement, affectionate and affected, like the movement of a silly and eager thing, nestling up to someone, or giving someone a gentle and furtive nudge. Again the Father thought of that terrible, pale woman who had haunted churches. Several times he had come upon her waiting for him after evening services. Once she had hung her head smiling, and lolled out her tongue and pushed against him sideways in the dark. He remembered how his flesh had shrunk from the poor thing, the sick loathing of her that he could not banish by remembering that her mind was all astray. The parrot paused, listened, opened his beak, and again said something in the same dove-like, amorous voice, full of sickly suggestion and yet hard, even dangerous, in its intonation. A loathsome voice, the Father thought it. But this time, although he heard the voice more distinctly than before, he could not make up his mind whether it was like a woman's voice or a man's - or perhaps a child's. It seemed to be a human voice, and yet oddly sexless. In order to resolve his doubt he withdrew into the darkness of the curtains, ceased to watch Napoleon and simply listened with keen attention, striving to forget that he was listening to a bird, and to imagine that he was overhearing a human being in conversation. After two or three minutes' silence the voice spoke again, and at some length, apparently repeating several times an affectionate series of ejaculations with a cooing emphasis that was unutterably mawkish and offensive. The sickliness of the voice, its falling intonations and its strange indelicacy, combined with a die-away softness and meretricious refinement, made the Father's flesh creep. Yet he could not distinguish any words, nor could he decide on the voice's sex or age. One thing alone he was certain of as he stood still in the darkness - that such a sound could only proceed from something peculiarly loathsome, could only express a personality unendurably abominable to him, if not to everybody. The voice presently failed, in a sort of husky gasp, and there was a prolonged silence. It was broken by the Professor, who suddenly pulled away the curtains that hid the Father and said to him:

    "Come out now, and look."

    The Father came into the light, blinking, glanced towards the cage, and saw Napoleon poised motionless on one foot with his head under his wing. He appeared to be asleep. The Professor was pale, and his mobile lips were drawn into an expression of extreme disgust.

    "Faugh!" he said.

    He walked to the windows of the further room, pulled aside the curtains and pushed the glass 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 idiocy."

    The Father started at this exact expression of his own conviction by another.

    "Why d'you start like that?" said Guildea, with a quick suspicion which showed the unnatural condition of his nerves.

    "Well, the very same idea 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 hearth-rug with his back to it, and his hands thrust into the high pockets of his trousers.

    "That's the voice of the thing that's got into my house," he said. "Pleasant, isn't it?"

    And now there was really horror in his eyes, and his voice.

    "I must get it out," he exclaimed. "I must get it out. But how?"

    He tugged at his short black beard with a quivering hand.

    "How?" he continued. "For what is it? Where is it?"

    "You feel it's here - now?"

    "Undoubtedly. But I couldn't tell you in what part of the room."

    He stared about, glancing rapidly at everything.

    "Then you consider yourself haunted?" said Father Murchison.

    He, too, was much moved and disturbed, although he was not conscious of the presence of anything near them in the room.

    "I have never believed in any nonsense of that kind, as you know," Guildea answered. "I simply state a fact, which I cannot understand, and which is beginning to be very painful to me. There is something here. But whereas most so-called hauntings have been described to me as inimical, what I am conscious of is that I am admired, loved, desired. This is distinctly horrible to me, Murchison, distinctly horrible."

    Father Murchison suddenly remembered the first evening he had spent with Guildea, and the latter's expression almost of disgust, at the idea of receiving warm affection from anyone. In the light of that long ago conversation, the present event seemed supremely strange, and almost like a punishment for an offence committed by the Professor against humanity. But, looking up at his friend's twitching face, the Father resolved not to be caught in the net of his hideous belief.

    "There can be nothing here," he said. "It's impossible."

    "What does that bird imitate, then?"

    "The voice of someone who has been here."

    "Within the last week then. For it never spoke like that before, and mind, I noticed that it was watching and striving to imitate something before I went away, since the night that I went into the Park, only since then."

    "Somebody with a voice like that must have been here while you were away," Father Murchison repeated, with a gentle obstinacy.

    "I'll soon find out."

    Guildea pressed the bell. Pitting stole in almost immediately.

    "Pitting," said the Professor, speaking in a high, sharp voice, "did anyone come into this room during my absence at the sea?"

    "Certainly not, sir, except the maids - and me, sir."

    "Not a soul? You are certain?"

    "Perfectly certain, sir."

    The cold voice of the butler sounded surprised, almost resentful. The Professor flung out his hand towards the cage.

    "Has the bird been here the whole time?"

    "Yes, sir."

    "He was not moved, taken elsewhere, even for a moment?"

    Pitting's pale face began to look almost expressive, and his lips were pursed.

    "Certainly not, sir."

    "Thank you. That will do."

    The butler retired, moving with a sort of ostentatious rectitude. 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."

    "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. You are certain you have no maid who talks at all like that?"

    "My dear Murchison! Would you keep a servant with such a voice about you for two days?"

    "No."

    "My housemaid has been with me for five years, my cook for seven. You've heard Pitting speak. The three of them make up my entire household. A parrot never speaks in a voice it has not heard. Where has it heard that voice?"

    "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 interesting discomfort that almost amounted to apprehension.

    "Are you convinced?" said Guildea, rather irritably.

    "No. The whole matter is very strange. But till I hear, see or feel - as you do - the presence of something, I cannot believe."

    "You mean that you will not?"

    "Perhaps. Well, it is time I went."

    Guildea did not try to detain him, but said, as he let him out:

    "Do me a favour, come again to-morrow night."

    The Father had an engagement. He hesitated, looked into the Professor's face and said:

    "I will. At nine I'll be with you. Good-night."

    When he was on the pavement he felt relieved. He turned round, saw Guildea stepping into his passage, and shivered.

    

    

    Father Murchison walked all the way home to Bird Street that night. He required exercise after the strange and disagreeable evening he had spent, an evening upon which he looked back already as a man looks back upon a nightmare. In his ears, as he walked, sounded the gentle and intolerable voice. Even the memory of it caused him physical discomfort. He tried to put it from him, and to consider the whole matter calmly. The Professor had offered his proof that there was some strange presence in his house. Could any reasonable man accept such proof? Father Murchison told himself that no reasonable man could accept it. The parrot's proceedings were, no doubt, extraordinary. The bird had succeeded in producing an extraordinary illusion of an invisible presence in the room. But that there really was such a presence the Father insisted on denying to himself. The devoutly religious, those who believe implicitly in miracles recorded in the Bible, and who regulate their lives by the messages they suppose themselves to receive directly from the Great Ruler of a hidden World, are seldom inclined to accept any notion of supernatural intrusion into the affairs of daily life. They put it from them with anxious determination. They regard it fixedly as hocus-pocus, childish if not wicked.

    Father Murchison inclined to the normal view of the devoted churchman. He was determined to incline to it. He could not - so he now told himself - accept the idea that his friend was being supernaturally punished for his lack of humanity, his deficiency in affection, by being obliged to endure the love of some horrible thing, which could not be seen, heard, or handled. Nevertheless, retribution did certainly seem to wait upon Guildea's condition. That which he had unnaturally dreaded and shrunk from in his thought he seemed to now be forced unnaturally to suffer. The Father prayed for his friend that night before the little, humble altar in the barely-furnished, cell-like chamber where he slept.

    On the following evening, when he called in Hyde Park Place, the door was opened by the housemaid, and Father Murchison mounted the stairs, wondering what had become of Pitting. He was met at the library door by Guildea and was painfully struck by the alteration in his appearance. His face was ashen in hue, and there were lines beneath his eyes. The eyes themselves looked excited and horribly forlorn. His hair and dress were disordered and his lips twitched continually, as if he were shaken by some acute nervous apprehension.

    "What has become of Pitting?" asked the Father, grasping Guildea's hot and feverish hand.

    "He has left my service."

    "Left your service!" exclaimed the Father in utter amazement.

    "Yes, this afternoon."

    "May one ask why?"

    "I'm going to tell you. It's all part and parcel of this - this most odious business. You remember once discussing the relations men ought to have with their servants?"

    "Ah!" cried the Father, with a flash of inspiration. "The crisis has occurred?"