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.Iwatched him as he waddled upstairs with a feeling of angry bewilderment.Then I went to the library and lit a pipe.Iwould 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.Iremembered 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? Ithought 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 noneof 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 Islipped 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.Isat 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.Itumbled into bed and slept profoundly till long after daylight.
III
The man who valeted me was Lawson's own servant.As he was laying out my clothes I asked after the health of his master, and was told that he had slept ill and would not rise till late.
