river, its traffic, the play of the sun and shadow upon the water, the movement of the tides. I paid less attention to the passers-by along the embankment but in them too was a measure of diversion and interest, so that I never tired of the scene.
The rest of the house was, I still supposed, empty – at least I saw no one other than the lugubrious Threadgold. Whether he had a wife, or any other companion, in the basement I did not enquire.
I had slept remarkably well right through every night, waking each morning as the dawn came up, well after seven o’clock, and going at once to look out upon the river and the sky above it and to await the arrival of breakfast, which I ate also at the window.
But on the fifth night I came wide awake abruptly, long before morning, and, being somewhat cold, got up at once, thinking of finding extra covering for my bed.
I had left the curtains undrawn as usual, and the light of the moon shone in, slanting silver across the floor. I went to the window. The lamps were out but the moonlight lay over the water, still and beautiful, and as I watched, some small, dark craft slipped across its path and was illumined by it, before blending back into the shadows again.
Cold as I was I could not bear to return to my bed, but stood for some while looking with deep satisfaction at all I saw. And then I heard a woman singing. The sound seemed to come from somewhere distant, perhaps far below in the house, I could not be sure. It was a soft, low, sad, murmuring voice, a little like that of one crooning a child to sleep, or else keening faintly, absorbed in distress.
I strained to hear it more clearly but could not and at last went to the outer door and opened it. Landing and stairs were in darkness and there was complete silence. There was no one at all below, I was quite sure, I heard not a creak of the boards, not a breath upon the musty air. I thought momentarily of creeping down and stopping to listen at each door, but in the end only returned to my room. There, as I became still, I again heard the woman’s voice, and then I was a little afraid, but the voice awakened something else in me, some deep longing, some memory sodim and far back that it was unrecognisable, indecipherable.
I went to look out but there was no one, either on the near or far pavement or on the wide roadway between, and in the gardens nothing moved, either in the still, eerie moonlight or among the shadows.
What was happening to me, why I had seen the boy, and now heard the singing, why I was such easy prey to so many emotions as a result I did not understand, but strangely, as I stood there in the middle of the night, alone in my rooms, I was quite calm and undisturbed, only bewildered, and strangely out of touch with my own self and the feelings and responses I was experiencing.
It was a long time before, shivering, I returned to my bed and slept, and slept well until morning and the noise of the caretaker hammering on the door.
I felt rested and clear of purpose. The incidents of the previous night had not faded from my mind but I was sure that I needed to give myself something to occupy me completely and decided to put down both my repeated sightings of the boy and now the sound of the woman’s voice singing, when I was sure no woman had been by, to some sort of nervous strain whose cause I could not fathom but which had better be dealt with by vigorously plunging myself into work. I had been too idle, too self-absorbed, too many hours had been spent ambling purposelessly about, or staring idly out of windows.
Accordingly, after a hurried breakfast, I set out to make my arrangements.
CHAPTER SIX
The fine weather changed on the morning of my departure. A raw wind blew off the river, finding its way mercilessly through my inadequate light overcoat and the sky was thick and curded with low steely clouds. Because of a miscalculation in the time of ordering my cab and congestion in the streets, I arrived at Waterloo
The rest of the house was, I still supposed, empty – at least I saw no one other than the lugubrious Threadgold. Whether he had a wife, or any other companion, in the basement I did not enquire.
I had slept remarkably well right through every night, waking each morning as the dawn came up, well after seven o’clock, and going at once to look out upon the river and the sky above it and to await the arrival of breakfast, which I ate also at the window.
But on the fifth night I came wide awake abruptly, long before morning, and, being somewhat cold, got up at once, thinking of finding extra covering for my bed.
I had left the curtains undrawn as usual, and the light of the moon shone in, slanting silver across the floor. I went to the window. The lamps were out but the moonlight lay over the water, still and beautiful, and as I watched, some small, dark craft slipped across its path and was illumined by it, before blending back into the shadows again.
Cold as I was I could not bear to return to my bed, but stood for some while looking with deep satisfaction at all I saw. And then I heard a woman singing. The sound seemed to come from somewhere distant, perhaps far below in the house, I could not be sure. It was a soft, low, sad, murmuring voice, a little like that of one crooning a child to sleep, or else keening faintly, absorbed in distress.
I strained to hear it more clearly but could not and at last went to the outer door and opened it. Landing and stairs were in darkness and there was complete silence. There was no one at all below, I was quite sure, I heard not a creak of the boards, not a breath upon the musty air. I thought momentarily of creeping down and stopping to listen at each door, but in the end only returned to my room. There, as I became still, I again heard the woman’s voice, and then I was a little afraid, but the voice awakened something else in me, some deep longing, some memory sodim and far back that it was unrecognisable, indecipherable.
I went to look out but there was no one, either on the near or far pavement or on the wide roadway between, and in the gardens nothing moved, either in the still, eerie moonlight or among the shadows.
What was happening to me, why I had seen the boy, and now heard the singing, why I was such easy prey to so many emotions as a result I did not understand, but strangely, as I stood there in the middle of the night, alone in my rooms, I was quite calm and undisturbed, only bewildered, and strangely out of touch with my own self and the feelings and responses I was experiencing.
It was a long time before, shivering, I returned to my bed and slept, and slept well until morning and the noise of the caretaker hammering on the door.
I felt rested and clear of purpose. The incidents of the previous night had not faded from my mind but I was sure that I needed to give myself something to occupy me completely and decided to put down both my repeated sightings of the boy and now the sound of the woman’s voice singing, when I was sure no woman had been by, to some sort of nervous strain whose cause I could not fathom but which had better be dealt with by vigorously plunging myself into work. I had been too idle, too self-absorbed, too many hours had been spent ambling purposelessly about, or staring idly out of windows.
Accordingly, after a hurried breakfast, I set out to make my arrangements.
CHAPTER SIX
The fine weather changed on the morning of my departure. A raw wind blew off the river, finding its way mercilessly through my inadequate light overcoat and the sky was thick and curded with low steely clouds. Because of a miscalculation in the time of ordering my cab and congestion in the streets, I arrived at Waterloo
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