Westray caught the disappointment in the tone.
“Very well,” he said, putting his drawing-board aside. “I’ve worked at this quite long enough; let us shift your piano.”
They went down to the ground-floor.
“I want to turn the piano right-about-face,” the organist said, “with its back to the room and the keyboard to the wall—the keyboard quite close to the wall, with just room for me to sit.”
“It seems a curious arrangement,” Westray criticised; “is it better acoustically?”
“Oh, I don’t know; but, if I want to rest a bit, I can put my back against the wall, you see.”
The change was soon accomplished, and they sat down for a moment before the fire.
“You keep a good fire,” Westray said, “considering it is bed-time.” And, indeed, the coals were piled high, and burning fiercely.
The organist gave them a poke, and looked round as if to make sure that they were alone.
“You’ll think me a fool,” he said; “and I am. You’ll think I’ve been drinking, and I have. You’ll think I’m drunk, but I’m not. Listen to me: I’m not drunk; I’m only a coward. Do you remember the very first night you and I walked home to this house together? Do you remember the darkness and the driving rain, and how scared I was when we passed the Old Bonding-house? Well, it was beginning then, but it’s much worse now. I had a horrible idea even then that there was something always following me—following me close. I didn’t know what it was—I only knew there was something close behind me.”