The old fellow proceeded to draw the curtains and then turned to face me with a kind of nervous defiance.
"Fact is, Mr. Odo," he said, "this place is getting too much for me. I am afraid I shan't be able to go on much longer. Fact is, Mr. Odo"—the old man lowered his voice to a whisper of painful solemnity—"it is contrary to the will of God."
"What is contrary to the will of God?"
"The goings on, sir, of Mr. Theodore. My private opinion is—and I say to you, Mr. Odo, what I wouldn't say to another"—the voice of the old fellow grew lower and lower—"that Mr. Theodore is getting to know a bit more than any man ought to: in fact, sir, more than the Almighty intended any man should."
"What do you mean, Peacock? You are not growing superstitious in your old age, are you?"
I strove to speak in a light tone. But in my own ears my voice sounded curiously high and thin.
"I mean this, sir. The line ought to be drawn somewhere. And Mr. Theodore doesn't know where to draw it. The people he has here, sir—it's—well, it's appalling! Clairvoyants, mediums, mahatmas, Indian fakirs, table-turners, spirit-rappers, and I can't say what. Communion with spirits is all very well, sir, but it is contrary to the will of God. The Almighty never intended, sir, that we should pry into all the secrets of existence."
"How do you know that, Peacock?"
"I know by this, sir." The old fellow tapped the centre of his forehead solemnly. "The thing that lies behind this."
To my surprise the old servant wrung his hands and burst into tears.