He awoke at six, and, staggering to his feet, drew back the curtains
and turned out the gas. Then he went upstairs, and after disarranging
his bed went to the bathroom. The cold water and a shave, together with
a change of linen, did him good. He opened doors and windows, and let
the clean sweet air blow through the house. The house which he must
continue to inhabit because he dare not leave it. Other people might
not share his taste for rockeries.
To the watchful eye of Mrs. Howe he appeared to be almost himself
again. The key of the shed had turned up, and he smiled as he
presented her with her “precious dusters.” Then he rode off on his
bicycle to order slabs of stone and plants from the nearest nurseryman.
He worked more and more leisurely as the days passed, and the rockery
grew larger and more solid. Every added stone and plant seemed to
increase his security. He ate well, and, to his surprise, slept well;
but every morning misery opened his eyes for him.
The garden was no longer a place of quiet recreation; the house, which
was part of the legacy that had so delighted him only a year before,
was a prison in which he must serve a life-long sentence. He could
neither let it nor sell it; other people might alter the garden--and
dig. Since the fatal evening he had not looked at a newspaper for fear
of reading of Martle’s disappearance, and in all that time had not
spoken to a friend.
Martle was very quiet. There were no shadows in the house, no furtive
noises, no dim shape pattering about the garden by night. Memory was
the only thing that assailed him; but it sufficed.
Then the dream came. A dream confused and grotesque, as most dreams
are. He dreamt that he was standing by the rockery, in the twilight,
when he thought he saw one of the stones move. Other stones followed
suit. A big slab near the top came slithering down, and it was apparent
that the whole pile of earth and stone was being shaken by some
internal force. Something was trying to get out. Then he remembered
that he was buried there, and had no business to be standing outside.
He must get back. Martle had put him there, and for some reason which
he was quite unable to remember he was afraid of Martle. He procured
his tools and set to work. It was a long and tedious job and made more
difficult by the fact that he was not allowed to make a noise. He dug
and dug, but the grave had disappeared. Then suddenly something took
hold of him and held him down; down. He could neither move nor cry out.
He awoke with a scream and for a minute or two lay trembling and
shaking. Thank God, it was only a dream. The room was full of sunlight,
and he could hear Mrs. Howe moving about downstairs. Life was good and
might yet hold something in store for him.
He lay still for ten minutes, and was about to rise when he heard Mrs.
Howe running upstairs. Even before her sudden and heavy rapping on the
door he scented disaster.
“Mr. Keller! Mr. Keller!”
“Well?” he said heavily.
“Your rockery!” gasped the charwoman. “Your beautiful rockery! All
gone!”
“_Gone?_” shouted Keller, springing out of bed and snatching his
dressing-gown from the door.
“Pulled all to pieces,” said Mrs. Howe, as he opened the door. “You
never see such a mess. All over the place, as if a madman had done it.”
In a mechanical fashion he thrust his feet into slippers and went
downstairs. He hurried down the garden, and, waving the woman back,
stood looking at the ruin. Stones and earth were indeed all over the
place, but the spot that mattered was untouched. He stood gazing and
trembling. Who could have done it? Why was it done?
He thought of his dream and the truth burst upon him. No need for
his aching back and limbs to remind him. No need to remember the
sleep-walking feats of his youth. He knew the culprit now.
“Shall I go for the police?” inquired the voice of Mrs. Howe.
Keller turned a stony face upon her. “No,” he said slowly. “I--I’ll
speak to them about it myself.”
He took up the spade and began the task of reconstruction. He worked
for an hour, and then went in to dress and breakfast. For the rest of
the day he worked slowly and steadily, so that by evening most of the
damage had been repaired. Then he went indoors to face the long night.
Sleep, man’s best friend, had become his unrelenting enemy. He made
himself coffee on the gas-stove and fought his drowsiness cup by cup.
He read and smoked and walked about the room. Bits of his dream, that
he had forgotten, came back to him and stayed with him. And ever at the
back of his mind was the certainty that he was doomed.
There was only one hope left to him. He would go away for a time.
Far enough away to render a visit home in his sleep impossible. And
perhaps the change of scene would strengthen him and help his frayed
nerves. Afterwards it might be possible to let the house for a time
on condition that the garden was not interfered with. It was one risk
against another.
He went down the garden as soon as it was light and completed his
work. Then he went indoors to breakfast and to announce his plans for
sudden departure to Mrs. Howe, his white and twitching face amply
corroborating his tale of neuralgia and want of sleep.
“Things’ll be all right,” said the woman. “I’ll ask the police to keep
an eye on the house of a night. I did speak to one last night about
them brutes as destroyed the rockery. If they try it again they may get
a surprise.”
Keller quivered but made no sign. He went upstairs and packed his bag,
and two hours later was in the train on his way to Exeter, where he
proposed to stay the night. After that, Cornwall, perhaps.
He secured a room at an hotel and went for a stroll to pass the time
before dinner. How happy the people in the streets seemed to be, even
the poorest! All free and all sure of their freedom. They could eat
and sleep and enjoy the countless trivial things that make up life. Of
battle and murder and sudden death they had no thought.
The light and bustle of the dining-room gave him a little comfort.
After his lonely nights it was good to know that there were people all
around him, that the house would be full of them whilst he slept. He
felt that he was beginning a fresh existence. In future he would live
amongst a crowd.
It was late when he went upstairs, but he lay awake for a few minutes.
A faint sound or two reached him from downstairs, and the movements of
somebody in the next room gave him a comfortable feeling of security.
With a sigh of content he fell asleep.
He was awakened by a knocking; a knocking which sounded just above
the head of his bed and died away almost before he had brushed the
sleep from his eyes. He looked around fearfully, and then, lighting
his candle, lay listening. The noise was not repeated. He had been
dreaming, but he could not remember the substance of his dream. It had
been unpleasant, but vague. More than unpleasant, terrifying. Somebody
had been shouting at him. _Shouting!_
He fell back with a groan. The faint hopes of the night before died
within him. _He_ had been shouting and the strange noise came from
the occupant of the next room. What had he said? and what had his
neighbour heard?
He slept no more. From somewhere below he heard a clock toll the hours,
and, tossing in his bed, wondered how many more remained to him.
Day came at last and he descended to breakfast. The hour was early
and only two other tables were occupied, from one of which, between
mouthfuls, a bluff-looking, elderly man eyed him curiously. He caught
Keller’s eye at last and spoke.
“Better?” he inquired.
Keller tried to force his quivering lips to a smile.
“Stood it as long as I could,” said the other; “then I knocked. I
thought perhaps you were delirious. Same words over and over again;
sounded like ‘Mockery’ and ‘Mortal,’ ‘Mockery’ and ‘Mortal.’ You must
have used them a hundred times.”
Keller finished his coffee, and, lighting a cigarette, went and sat in
the lounge. He had made his bid for freedom and failed. He looked up
the times of the trains to town and rang for his bill.