"Ill! No!" he said crossly. "Nothing of the kind. I'm perfectly well."
"You don't look as fit as this place should make you. What do you do
with yourself? Is the shooting as good as you hoped?"
He did not answer, but I thought I heard him mutter something like
"shooting be damned."
Then I tried the subject of the house. I praised it extravagantly, but
with conviction. "There can be no place like it in the world," I said.
He turned his eyes on me at last, and I saw that they were as deep and
restless as ever. With his pallid face they made him look curiously
Semitic. I had been right in my theory about his ancestry.
"Yes," he said slowly, "there is no place like it--in the world."
Then he pulled himself to his feet. "I'm going to change," he said.
"Dinner is at eight. Ring for Travers, and he'll show you your room."
I dressed in a noble bedroom, with an outlook over the garden-vale and
the escarpment to the far line of the plains, now blue and saffron in
the sunset. I dressed in an ill temper, for I was seriously offended
with Lawson, and also seriously alarmed. He was either very unwell or
going out of his mind, and it was clear, too, that he would resent any
anxiety on his account. I ransacked my memory for rumours, but found
none. I had heard nothing of him except that he had been
extraordinarily successful in his speculations, and that from his
hill-top he directed his firm's operations with uncommon skill. If
Lawson was sick or mad, nobody knew of it.
Dinner was a trying ceremony. Lawson, who used to be rather particular
in his dress, appeared in a kind of smoking suit with a flannel collar.
He spoke scarcely a word to me, but cursed the servants with a
brutality which left me aghast. A wretched footman in his nervousness
spilt some sauce over his sleeve. Lawson dashed the dish from his hand
and volleyed abuse with a sort of epileptic fury. Also he, who had
been the most abstemious of men, swallowed disgusting quantities of
champagne and old brandy.
He had given up smoking, and half an hour after we left the dining-room
he announced his intention of going to bed. I watched him as he
waddled upstairs with a feeling of angry bewilderment. Then I went to
the library and lit a pipe. I would leave first thing in the
morning--on that I was determined. But as I sat gazing at the moon of
alabaster and the soapstone birds my anger evaporated, and concern took
its place. I remembered what a fine fellow Lawson had been, what good
times we had had together. I remembered especially that evening when
we had found this valley and given rein to our fancies. What horrid
alchemy in the place had turned a gentleman into a brute? I thought of
drink and drugs and madness and insomnia, but I could fit none of them
into my conception of my friend. I did not consciously rescind my
resolve to depart, but I had a notion that I would not act on it.
The sleepy butler met me as I went to bed. "Mr. Lawson's room is at
the end of your corridor, sir," he said. "He don't sleep over well, so
you may hear him stirring in the night. At what hour would you like
breakfast, sir? Mr. Lawson mostly has his in bed."
My room opened from the great corridor, which ran the full length of
the front of the house. So far as I could make out, Lawson was three
rooms off, a vacant bedroom and his servant's room being between us. I
felt tired and cross, and tumbled into bed as fast as possible.
Usually I sleep well, but now I was soon conscious that my drowsiness
was wearing off and that I was in for a restless night. I got up and
laved my face, turned the pillows, thought of sheep coming over a hill
and clouds crossing the sky; but none of the old devices were of any
use. After about an hour of make-believe I surrendered myself to
facts, and, lying on my back, stared at the white ceiling and the
patches of moonshine on the walls.
It certainly was an amazing night. I got up, put on a dressing-gown,
and drew a chair to the window. The moon was almost at its full, and
the whole plateau swam in a radiance of ivory and silver. The banks of
the stream were black, but the lake had a great belt of light athwart
it, which made it seem like a horizon and the rim of land beyond it
like a contorted cloud. Far to the right I saw the delicate outlines
of the little wood which I had come to think of as the Grove of
Ashtaroth. I listened. There was not a sound in the air. The land
seemed to sleep peacefully beneath the moon, and yet I had a sense that
the peace was an illusion. The place was feverishly restless.
I could have given no reason for my impression but there it was.
Something was stirring in the wide moonlit landscape under its deep
mask of silence. I felt as I had felt on the evening three years ago
when I had ridden into the grove. I did not think that the influence,
whatever it was, was maleficent. I only knew that it was very strange,
and kept me wakeful.
By-and-by I bethought me of a book. There was no lamp in the corridor
save the moon, but the whole house was bright as I slipped down the
great staircase and across the hall to the library. I switched on the
lights and then switched them off. They seemed profanation, and I did
not need them.
I found a French novel, but the place held me and I stayed. I sat down
in an arm-chair before the fireplace and the stone birds. Very odd
those gawky things, like prehistoric Great Auks, looked in the
moonlight. I remember that the alabaster moon shimmered like
translucent pearl, and I fell to wondering about its history. Had the
old Sabaens used such a jewel in their rites in the Grove of Ashtaroth?
Then I heard footsteps pass the window. A great house like this would
have a watchman, but these quick shuffling footsteps were surely not
the dull plod of a servant. They passed on to the grass and died away.
I began to think of getting back to my room.
In the corridor I noticed that Lawson's door was ajar, and that a light
had been left burning. I had the unpardonable curiosity to peep in.
The room was empty, and the bed had not been slept in. Now I knew
whose were the footsteps outside the library window.
I lit a reading-lamp and tried to interest myself in "La Cruelle
Enigme." But my wits were restless, and I could not keep my eyes on
the page. I flung the book aside and sat down again by the window.
The feeling came over me that I was sitting in a box at some play. The
glen was a huge stage, and at any moment the players might appear on
it. My attention was strung as high as if I had been waiting for the
advent of some world-famous actress. But nothing came. Only the
shadows shifted and lengthened as the moon moved across the sky.
Then quite suddenly the restlessness left me and at the same moment the
silence was broken by the crow of a cock and the rustling of trees in a
light wind. I felt very sleepy, and was turning to bed when again I
heard footsteps without. From the window I could see a figure moving
across the garden towards the house. It was Lawson, got up in the sort
of towel dressing-gown that one wears on board ship. He was walking
slowly and painfully, as if very weary. I did not see his face, but
the man's whole air was that of extreme fatigue and dejection. I
tumbled into bed and slept profoundly till long after daylight.