THE BEETLE
A MYSTERY
BY
RICHARD MARSH
_WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS BY JOHN WILLIAMSON_
CONTENTS.
BOOK I.
The House with the Open Window
CHAPTER I. OUTSIDE
CHAPTER II. INSIDE
CHAPTER III. THE MAN IN THE BED
CHAPTER IV. A LONELY VIGIL
CHAPTER V. AN INSTRUCTION TO COMMIT BURGLARY
CHAPTER VI. A SINGULAR FELONY
CHAPTER VII. THE GREAT PAUL LESSINGHAM
CHAPTER VIII. THE MAN IN THE STREET
CHAPTER IX. THE CONTENTS OF THE PACKET
BOOK II.
The Haunted Man
CHAPTER X. REJECTED
CHAPTER XI. A MIDNIGHT EPISODE
CHAPTER XII. A MORNING VISITOR
CHAPTER XIII. THE PICTURE
CHAPTER XIV. THE DUCHESS’ BALL
CHAPTER XV. MR LESSINGHAM SPEAKS
CHAPTER XVI. ATHERTON’S MAGIC VAPOUR
CHAPTER XVII. MAGIC?--OR MIRACLE?
CHAPTER XVIII. THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE BEETLE
CHAPTER XIX. THE LADY RAGES
CHAPTER XX. A HEAVY FATHER
CHAPTER XXI. THE TERROR IN THE NIGHT
CHAPTER XXII. THE HAUNTED MAN
BOOK III.
The Terror by Night and the Terror by Day
CHAPTER XXIII. THE WAY HE TOLD HER
CHAPTER XXIV. A WOMAN’S VIEW
CHAPTER XXV. THE MAN IN THE STREET
CHAPTER XXVI. A FATHER’S NO
CHAPTER XXVII. THE TERROR BY NIGHT
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE STRANGE STORY OF THE MAN IN THE STREET
CHAPTER XXIX. THE HOUSE ON THE ROAD FROM THE WORKHOUSE
CHAPTER XXX. THE SINGULAR BEHAVIOUR OF MR HOLT
CHAPTER XXXI. THE TERROR BY DAY
BOOK IV.
In Pursuit
CHAPTER XXXII. A NEW CLIENT
CHAPTER XXXIII. WHAT CAME OF LOOKING THROUGH A LATTICE
CHAPTER XXXIV. AFTER TWENTY YEARS
CHAPTER XXXV. A BRINGER OF TIDINGS
CHAPTER XXXVI. WHAT THE TIDINGS WERE
CHAPTER XXXVII. WHAT WAS HIDDEN UNDER THE FLOOR
CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE REST OF THE FIND
CHAPTER XXXIX. MISS LOUISA COLEMAN
CHAPTER XL. WHAT MISS COLEMAN SAW THROUGH THE WINDOW
CHAPTER XLI. THE CONSTABLE,--HIS CLUE,--AND THE CAB
CHAPTER XLII. THE QUARRY DOUBLES
CHAPTER XLIII. THE MURDER AT MRS ’ENDERSON’S
CHAPTER XLIV. THE MAN WHO WAS MURDERED
CHAPTER XLV. ALL THAT MRS ’ENDERSON KNEW
CHAPTER XLVI. THE SUDDEN STOPPING
CHAPTER XLVII. THE CONTENTS OF THE THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGE
CHAPTER XLVIII. THE CONCLUSION OF THE MATTER
BOOK I.
The House with the Open Window
_The Surprising Narration of Robert Holt_
CHAPTER I.
OUTSIDE
‘No room!--Full up!’
He banged the door in my face.
That was the final blow.
To have tramped about all day looking for work; to have begged even for
a job which would give me money enough to buy a little food; and to
have tramped and to have begged in vain,--that was bad. But, sick at
heart, depressed in mind and in body, exhausted by hunger and fatigue,
to have been compelled to pocket any little pride I might have left,
and solicit, as the penniless, homeless tramp which indeed I was, a
night’s lodging in the casual ward,--and to solicit it in vain!--that
was worse. Much worse. About as bad as bad could be.
I stared, stupidly, at the door which had just been banged in my face.
I could scarcely believe that the thing was possible. I had hardly
expected to figure as a tramp; but, supposing it conceivable that I
could become a tramp, that I should be refused admission to that abode
of all ignominy, the tramp’s ward, was to have attained a depth of
misery of which never even in nightmares I had dreamed.
As I stood wondering what I should do, a man slouched towards me out
of the shadow of the wall.
‘Won’t ’e let yer in?’
‘He says it’s full.’
‘Says it’s full, does ’e? That’s the lay at Fulham,--they always says
it’s full. They wants to keep the number down.’
I looked at the man askance. His head hung forward; his hands were in
his trouser pockets; his clothes were rags; his tone was husky.
‘Do you mean that they say it’s full when it isn’t,--that they won’t
let me in although there’s room?’
‘That’s it,--bloke’s a-kiddin’ yer.’
‘But, if there’s room, aren’t they bound to let me in?’
‘Course they are,--and, blimey, if I was you I’d make ’em. Blimey I
would!’
He broke into a volley of execrations.
‘But what am I to do?’
‘Why, give ’em another rouser--let ’em know as you won’t be kidded!’
I hesitated; then, acting on his suggestion, for the second time I rang
the bell. The door was flung wide open, and the grizzled pauper, who
had previously responded to my summons, stood in the open doorway. Had
he been the Chairman of the Board of Guardians himself he could not
have addressed me with greater scorn.
‘What, here again! What’s your little game? Think I’ve nothing better
to do than to wait upon the likes of you?’
‘I want to be admitted.’
‘Then you won’t be admitted!’
‘I want to see someone in authority.’
‘Ain’t yer seein’ someone in authority?’
‘I want to see someone besides you,--I want to see the master.’
‘Then you won’t see the master!’
He moved the door swiftly to; but, prepared for such a manoeuvre, I
thrust my foot sufficiently inside to prevent his shutting it. I
continued to address him.
‘Are you sure that the ward is full?’
‘Full two hours ago!’
‘But what am I to do?’
‘I don’t know what you’re to do!’
‘Which is the next nearest workhouse?’
‘Kensington.’
Suddenly opening the door, as he answered me, putting out his arm he
thrust me backwards. Before I could recover the door was closed. The
man in rags had continued a grim spectator of the scene. Now he spoke.
‘Nice bloke, ain’t he?’
‘He’s only one of the paupers,--has he any right to act as one of the
officials?’
‘I tell yer some of them paupers is wuss than the orficers,--a long
sight wuss! They thinks they owns the ’ouses, blimey they do. Oh it’s
a----fine world, this is!’
He paused. I hesitated. For some time there had been a suspicion of
rain in the air. Now it was commencing to fall in a fine but soaking
drizzle. It only needed that to fill my cup to overflowing. My
companion was regarding me with a sort of sullen curiosity.
‘Ain’t you got no money?’
‘Not a farthing.’
‘Done much of this sort of thing?’
‘It’s the first time I’ve been to a casual ward,--and it doesn’t seem
as if I’m going to get in now.’
‘I thought you looked as if you was a bit fresh.--What are yer goin’ to
do?’
‘How far is it to Kensington?’
‘Work’us?--about three mile;--but, if I was you, I’d try St George’s.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘In the Fulham Road. Kensington’s only a small place, they do you well
there, and it’s always full as soon as the door’s opened;--you’d ’ave
more chawnce at St George’s.’
He was silent. I turned his words over in my mind, feeling as little
disposed to try the one place as the other. Presently he began again.
‘I’ve travelled from Reading this----day, I ’ave,--tramped
every----foot!--and all the way as I come along, I’ll ’ave a shakedown
at ’Ammersmith, I says,--and now I’m as fur off from it as ever! This
is a----fine country, this is,--I wish every----soul in it was swept
into the----sea, blimey I do! But I ain’t goin’ to go no further,--I’ll
’ave a bed in ’Ammersmith or I’ll know the reason why.’
‘How are you going to manage it,--have you got any money?’
‘Got any money?--My crikey!--I look as though I ’ad,--I sound as though
I ’ad too! I ain’t ’ad no brads, ’cept now and then a brown, this larst
six months.’
‘How are you going to get a bed then?’
‘’Ow am I going to?--why, like this way.’ He picked up two stones, one
in either hand. The one in his left he flung at the glass which was
over the door of the casual ward. It crashed through it, and through
the lamp beyond. ‘That’s ’ow I’m goin’ to get a bed.’
The door was hastily opened. The grizzled pauper reappeared. He
shouted, as he peered at us in the darkness,
‘Who done that?’
‘I done it, guvnor,--and, if you like, you can see me do the other. It
might do your eyesight good.’
Before the grizzled pauper could interfere, he had hurled the stone in
his right hand through another pane. I felt that it was time for me to
go. He was earning a night’s rest at a price which, even in my
extremity, I was not disposed to pay.
When I left two or three other persons had appeared upon the scene, and
the man in rags was addressing them with a degree of frankness, which,
in that direction, left little to be desired. I slunk away unnoticed.
But had not gone far before I had almost decided that I might as well
have thrown in my fortune with the bolder wretch, and smashed a window
too. Indeed, more than once my feet faltered, as I all but returned to
do the feat which I had left undone.
A more miserable night for an out-of-door excursion I could hardly have
chosen. The rain was like a mist, and was not only drenching me to the
skin, but it was rendering it difficult to see more than a little
distance in any direction. The neighbourhood was badly lighted. It was
one in which I was a stranger. I had come to Hammersmith as a last
resource. It had seemed to me that I had tried to find some occupation
which would enable me to keep body and soul together in every other
part of London, and that now only Hammersmith was left. And, at
Hammersmith, even the workhouse would have none of me!
Retreating from the inhospitable portal of the casual ward, I had taken
the first turning to the left,--and, at the moment, had been glad to
take it. In the darkness and the rain, the locality which I was
entering appeared unfinished. I seemed to be leaving civilisation
behind me. The path was unpaved; the road rough and uneven, as if it
had never been properly made. Houses were few and far between. Those
which I did encounter, seemed, in the imperfect light, amid the general
desolation, to be cottages which were crumbling to decay.
Exactly where I was I could not tell. I had a faint notion that, if I
only kept on long enough, I should strike some part of Walham Green.
How long I should have to keep on I could only guess. Not a creature
seemed to be about of whom I could make inquiries. It was as if I was
in a land of desolation.
I suppose it was between eleven o’clock and midnight. I had not given
up my quest for work till all the shops were closed,--and in
Hammersmith, that night, at any rate, they were not early closers. Then
I had lounged about dispiritedly, wondering what was the next thing I
could do. It was only because I feared that if I attempted to spend the
night in the open air, without food, when the morning came I should be
broken up, and fit for nothing, that I sought a night’s free board and
lodging. It was really hunger which drove me to the workhouse door.
That was Wednesday. Since the Sunday night preceding nothing had passed
my lips save water from the public fountains,--with the exception of a
crust of bread which a man had given me whom I had found crouching at
the root of a tree in Holland Park. For three days I had been
fasting,--practically all the time upon my feet. It seemed to me that
if I had to go hungry till the morning I should collapse--there would
be an end. Yet, in that strange and inhospitable place, where was I to
get food at that time of night, and how?
I do not know how far I went. Every yard I covered, my feet dragged
more. I was dead beat, inside and out. I had neither strength nor
courage left. And within there was that frightful craving, which was as
though it shrieked aloud. I leant against some palings, dazed and
giddy. If only death had come upon me quickly, painlessly, how true a
friend I should have thought it! It was the agony of dying inch by inch
which was so hard to bear.
It was some minutes before I could collect myself sufficiently to
withdraw from the support of the railings, and to start afresh. I
stumbled blindly over the uneven road. Once, like a drunken man, I
lurched forward, and fell upon my knees. Such was my backboneless state
that for some seconds I remained where I was, half disposed to let
things slide, accept the good the gods had sent me, and make a night of
it just there. A long night, I fancy, it would have been, stretching
from time unto eternity.
Having regained my feet, I had gone perhaps another couple of hundred
yards along the road--Heaven knows that it seemed to me just then a
couple of miles!--when there came over me again that overpowering
giddiness which, I take it, was born of my agony of hunger. I
staggered, helplessly, against a low wall which, just there, was at the
side of the path. Without it I should have fallen in a heap. The attack
appeared to last for hours; I suppose it was only seconds; and, when I
came to myself, it was as though I had been aroused from a swoon of
sleep,--aroused, to an extremity of pain. I exclaimed aloud,
‘For a loaf of bread what wouldn’t I do!’
I looked about me, in a kind of frenzy. As I did so I for the first
time became conscious that behind me was a house. It was not a large
one. It was one of those so-called villas which are springing up in
multitudes all round London, and which are let at rentals of from
twenty-five to forty pounds a year. It was detached. So far as I could
see, in the imperfect light, there was not another building within
twenty or thirty yards of either side of it. It was in two storeys.
There were three windows in the upper storey. Behind each the blinds
were closely drawn. The hall door was on my right. It was approached by
a little wooden gate.
The house itself was so close to the public road that by leaning over
the wall I could have touched either of the windows on the lower floor.
There were two of them. One of them was a bow window. The bow window
was open. The bottom centre sash was raised about six inches.
CHAPTER II.
INSIDE
I realised, and, so to speak, mentally photographed all the little
details of the house in front of which I was standing with what almost
amounted to a gleam of preternatural perception. An instant before, the
world swam before my eyes. I saw nothing. Now I saw everything, with a
clearness which, as it were, was shocking.
Above all, I saw the open window. I stared at it, conscious, as I did
so, of a curious catching of the breath. It was so near to me; so very
near. I had but to stretch out my hand to thrust it through the
aperture. Once inside, my hand would at least be dry. How it rained out
there! My scanty clothing was soaked; I was wet to the skin! I was
shivering. And, each second, it seemed to rain still faster. My teeth
were chattering. The damp was liquefying the very marrow in my bones.
And, inside that open window, it was, it must be, so warm, so dry!
There was not a soul in sight. Not a human being anywhere near. I
listened; there was not a sound. I alone was at the mercy of the sodden
night. Of all God’s creatures the only one unsheltered from the
fountains of Heaven which He had opened. There was not one to see what
I might do; not one to care. I need fear no spy.
Perhaps the house was empty; nay, probably. It was my plain duty to
knock at the door, rouse the inmates, and call attention to their
oversight,--the open window. The least they could do would be to reward
me for my pains. But, suppose the place was empty, what would be the use
of knocking? It would be to make a useless clatter. Possibly to disturb
the neighbourhood, for nothing. And, even if the people were at home, I
might go unrewarded. I had learned, in a hard school, the world’s
ingratitude. To have caused the window to be closed--the inviting
window, the tempting window, the convenient window!--and then to be no
better for it after all, but still to be penniless, hopeless, hungry,
out in the cold and the rain--better anything than that. In such a
situation, too late, I should say to myself that mine had been the
conduct of a fool. And I should say it justly too. To be sure.
Leaning over the low wall I found that I could very easily put my hand
inside the room. How warm it was in there! I could feel the difference
of temperature in my fingertips. Very quietly I stepped right over the
wall. There was just room to stand in comfort between the window and
the wall. The ground felt to the foot as if it were cemented. Stooping
down, I peered through the opening. I could see nothing. It was black
as pitch inside. The blind was drawn right up; it seemed incredible
that anyone could be at home, and have gone to bed, leaving the blind
up, and the window open. I placed my ear to the crevice. How still it
was! Beyond doubt, the place was empty.
I decided to push the window up another inch or two, so as to enable me
to reconnoitre. If anyone caught me in the act, then there would be an
opportunity to describe the circumstances, and to explain how I was
just on the point of giving the alarm. Only, I must go carefully. In
such damp weather it was probable that the sash would creak.
Not a bit of it. It moved as readily and as noiselessly as if it had
been oiled. This silence of the sash so emboldened me that I raised it
more than I intended. In fact, as far as it would go. Not by a sound
did it betray me. Bending over the sill I put my head and half my body
into the room. But I was no forwarder. I could see nothing. Not a
thing. For all I could tell the room might be unfurnished. Indeed, the
likelihood of such an explanation began to occur to me. I might have
chanced upon an empty house. In the darkness there was nothing to
suggest the contrary. What was I to do?
Well, if the house was empty, in such a plight as mine I might be said
to have a moral, if not a legal, right, to its bare shelter. Who, with
a heart in his bosom, would deny it me? Hardly the most punctilious
landlord. Raising myself by means of the sill I slipped my legs into
the room.
The moment I did so I became conscious that, at any rate, the room was
not entirely unfurnished. The floor was carpeted. I have had my feet on
some good carpets in my time; I know what carpets are; but never did I
stand upon a softer one than that. It reminded me, somehow, even then,
of the turf in Richmond Park,--it caressed my instep, and sprang
beneath my tread. To my poor, travel-worn feet, it was luxury after the
puddly, uneven road. Should I, now I had ascertained that the room
was, at least, partially furnished, beat a retreat? Or should I push my
researches further? It would have been rapture to have thrown off my
clothes, and to have sunk down, on the carpet, then and there, to
sleep. But,--I was so hungry, so famine-goaded; what would I not have
given to have lighted on something good to eat!
I moved a step or two forward, gingerly, reaching out with my hands,
lest I struck, unawares, against some unseen thing. When I had taken
three or four such steps, without encountering an obstacle, or, indeed,
anything at all, I began, all at once, to wish I had not seen the
house; that I had passed it by; that I had not come through the window;
that I were safely out of it again. I became, on a sudden, aware, that
something was with me in the room. There was nothing, ostensible, to
lead me to such a conviction; it may be that my faculties were
unnaturally keen; but, all at once, I knew that there was something
there. What was more, I had a horrible persuasion that, though
unseeing, I was seen; that my every movement was being watched.
What it was that was with me I could not tell; I could not even guess.
It was as though something in my mental organisation had been stricken
by a sudden paralysis. It may seem childish to use such language; but I
was overwrought, played out; physically speaking, at my last counter;
and, in an instant, without the slightest warning, I was conscious of a
very curious sensation, the like of which I had never felt before, and
the like of which I pray that I never may feel again,--a sensation of
panic fear. I remained rooted to the spot on which I stood, not daring
to move, fearing to draw my breath. I felt that the presence with me in
the room was something strange, something evil.
I do not know how long I stood there, spell-bound, but certainly for
some considerable space of time. By degrees, as nothing moved, nothing
was seen, nothing was heard, and nothing happened, I made an effort to
better play the man. I knew that, at the moment, I played the cur. And
endeavoured to ask myself of what it was I was afraid. I was shivering
at my own imaginings. What could be in the room, to have suffered me to
open the window and to enter unopposed? Whatever it was, was surely to
the full as great a coward as I was, or why permit, unchecked, my
burglarious entry. Since I had been allowed to enter, the probability
was that I should be at liberty to retreat,--and I was sensible of a
much keener desire to retreat than I had ever had to enter.
I had to put the greatest amount of pressure upon myself before I could
summon up sufficient courage to enable me to even turn my head upon my
shoulders,--and the moment I did so I turned it back again. What
constrained me, to save my soul I could not have said,--but I was
constrained. My heart was palpitating in my bosom; I could hear it
beat. I was trembling so that I could scarcely stand. I was overwhelmed
by a fresh flood of terror. I stared in front of me with eyes in which,
had it been light, would have been seen the frenzy of unreasoning fear.
My ears were strained so that I listened with an acuteness of tension
which was painful.
Something moved. Slightly, with so slight a sound, that it would
scarcely have been audible to other ears save mine. But I heard. I was
looking in the direction from which the movement came, and, as I
looked, I saw in front of me two specks of light. They had not been
there a moment before, that I would swear. They were there now. They
were eyes,--I told myself they were eyes. I had heard how cats’ eyes
gleam in the dark, though I had never seen them, and I said to myself
that these were cats’ eyes; that the thing in front of me was nothing
but a cat. But I knew I lied. I knew that these were eyes, and I knew
they were not cats’ eyes, but what eyes they were I did not know,--nor
dared to think.
They moved,--towards me. The creature to which the eyes belonged was
coming closer. So intense was my desire to fly that I would much rather
have died than stood there still; yet I could not control a limb; my
limbs were as if they were not mine. The eyes came on,--noiselessly. At
first they were between two and three feet from the ground; but, on a
sudden, there was a squelching sound, as if some yielding body had been
squashed upon the floor. The eyes vanished,--to reappear, a moment
afterwards, at what I judged to be a distance of some six inches from
the floor. And they again came on.
So it seemed that the creature, whatever it was to which the eyes
belonged, was, after all, but small. Why I did not obey the frantic
longing which I had to flee from it, I cannot tell; I only know, I
could not. I take it that the stress and privations which I had lately
undergone, and which I was, even then, still undergoing, had much to do
with my conduct at that moment, and with the part I played in all that
followed. Ordinarily I believe that I have as high a spirit as the
average man, and as solid a resolution; but when one has been dragged
through the Valley of Humiliation, and plunged, again and again, into
the Waters of Bitterness and Privation, a man can be constrained to a
course of action of which, in his happier moments, he would have deemed
himself incapable. I know this of my own knowledge.
Slowly the eyes came on, with a strange slowness, and as they came they
moved from side to side as if their owner walked unevenly. Nothing
could have exceeded the horror with which I awaited their
approach,--except my incapacity to escape them. Not for an instant did
my glance pass from them,--I could not have shut my eyes for all the
gold the world contains!--so that as they came closer I had to look
right down to what seemed to be almost the level of my feet. And, at
last, they reached my feet. They never paused. On a sudden I felt
something on my boot, and, with a sense of shrinking, horror, nausea,
rendering me momentarily more helpless, I realised that the creature
was beginning to ascend my legs, to climb my body. Even then what it
was I could not tell,--it mounted me, apparently, with as much ease as
if I had been horizontal instead of perpendicular. It was as though it
were some gigantic spider,--a spider of the nightmares; a monstrous
conception of some dreadful vision. It pressed lightly against my
clothing with what might, for all the world, have been spider’s legs.
There was an amazing host of them,--I felt the pressure of each
separate one. They embraced me softly, stickily, as if the creature
glued and unglued them, each time it moved.
Higher and higher! It had gained my loins. It was moving towards the
pit of my stomach. The helplessness with which I suffered its invasion
was not the least part of my agony,--it was that helplessness which we
know in dreadful dreams. I understood, quite well, that if I did but
give myself a hearty shake, the creature would fall off; but I had not
a muscle at my command.
As the creature mounted its eyes began to play the part of two small
lamps; they positively emitted rays of light. By their rays I began to
perceive faint outlines of its body. It seemed larger than I had
supposed. Either the body itself was slightly phosphorescent, or it was
of a peculiar yellow hue. It gleamed in the darkness. What it was there
was still nothing to positively show, but the impression grew upon me
that it was some member of the spider family, some monstrous member, of
the like of which I had never heard or read. It was heavy, so heavy
indeed, that I wondered how, with so slight a pressure, it managed to
retain its hold,--that it did so by the aid of some adhesive substance
at the end of its legs I was sure,--I could feel it stick. Its weight
increased as it ascended,--and it smelt! I had been for some time aware
that it emitted an unpleasant, foetid odour; as it neared my face it
became so intense as to be unbearable.
It was at my chest. I became more and more conscious of an
uncomfortable wobbling motion, as if each time it breathed its body
heaved. Its forelegs touched the bare skin about the base of my neck;
they stuck to it,--shall I ever forget the feeling? I have it often in
my dreams. While it hung on with those in front it seemed to draw its
other legs up after it. It crawled up my neck, with hideous slowness, a
quarter of an inch at a time, its weight compelling me to brace the
muscles of my back. It reached my chin, it touched my lips,--and I
stood still and bore it all, while it enveloped my face with its huge,
slimy, evil-smelling body, and embraced me with its myriad legs. The
horror of it made me mad. I shook myself like one stricken by the
shaking ague. I shook the creature off. It squashed upon the floor.
Shrieking like some lost spirit, turning, I dashed towards the window.
As I went, my foot, catching in some obstacle, I fell headlong to the
floor.
Picking myself up as quickly as I could I resumed my flight,--rain or
no rain, oh to get out of that room! I already had my hand upon the
sill, in another instant I should have been over it,--then, despite my
hunger, my fatigues, let anyone have stopped me if they could!--when
someone behind me struck a light.
CHAPTER III.
THE MAN IN THE BED
The illumination which instantly followed was unexpected. It startled
me, causing a moment’s check, from which I was just recovering when a
voice said,
‘Keep still!’
There was a quality in the voice which I cannot describe. Not only an
accent of command, but a something malicious, a something saturnine. It
was a little guttural, though whether it was a man speaking I could not
have positively said; but I had no doubt it was a foreigner. It was the
most disagreeable voice I had ever heard, and it had on me the most
disagreeable effect; for when it said, ‘Keep still!’ I kept still. It
was as though there was nothing else for me to do.
‘Turn round!’
I turned round, mechanically, like an automaton. Such passivity was
worse than undignified, it was galling; I knew that well. I resented it
with secret rage. But in that room, in that presence, I was
invertebrate.
When I turned I found myself confronting someone who was lying in bed.
At the head of the bed was a shelf. On the shelf was a small lamp which
gave the most brilliant light I had ever seen. It caught me full in the
eyes, having on me such a blinding effect that for some seconds I could
see nothing. Throughout the whole of that strange interview I cannot
affirm that I saw clearly; the dazzling glare caused dancing specks to
obscure my vision. Yet, after an interval of time, I did see something;
and what I did see I had rather have left unseen.
[IMAGE: images/img_017.jpg
CAPTION: FOR WHEN IT SAID, ‘KEEP STILL!’ I KEPT STILL.]
I saw someone in front of me lying in a bed. I could not at once decide
if it was a man or a woman. Indeed at first I doubted if it was
anything human. But, afterwards, I knew it to be a man,--for this
reason, if for no other, that it was impossible such a creature could
be feminine. The bedclothes were drawn up to his shoulders; only his
head was visible. He lay on his left side, his head resting on his left
hand; motionless, eyeing me as if he sought to read my inmost soul.
And, in very truth, I believe he read it. His age I could not guess;
such a look of age I had never imagined. Had he asserted that he had
been living through the ages, I should have been forced to admit that,
at least, he looked it. And yet I felt that it was quite within the
range of possibility that he was no older than myself,--there was a
vitality in his eyes which was startling. It might have been that he
had been afflicted by some terrible disease, and it was that which had
made him so supernaturally ugly.
There was not a hair upon his face or head, but, to make up for it, the
skin, which was a saffron yellow, was an amazing mass of wrinkles. The
cranium, and, indeed, the whole skull, was so small as to be
disagreeably suggestive of something animal. The nose, on the other
hand, was abnormally large; so extravagant were its dimensions, and so
peculiar its shape, it resembled the beak of some bird of prey. A
characteristic of the face--and an uncomfortable one!--was that,
practically, it stopped short at the mouth. The mouth, with its blubber
lips, came immediately underneath the nose, and chin, to all intents
and purposes, there was none. This deformity--for the absence of chin
amounted to that--it was which gave to the face the appearance of
something not human,--that, and the eyes. For so marked a feature of
the man were his eyes, that, ere long, it seemed to me that he was
nothing but eyes.
His eyes ran, literally, across the whole of the upper portion of his
face,--remember, the face was unwontedly small, and the columna of the
nose was razor-edged. They were long, and they looked out of narrow
windows, and they seemed to be lighted by some internal radiance, for
they shone out like lamps in a lighthouse tower. Escape them I could
not, while, as I endeavoured to meet them, it was as if I shrivelled
into nothingness. Never before had I realised what was meant by the
power of the eye. They held me enchained, helpless, spell-bound. I felt
that they could do with me as they would; and they did. Their gaze was
unfaltering, having the bird-like trick of never blinking; this man
could have glared at me for hours and never moved an eyelid.
It was he who broke the silence. I was speechless.
‘Shut the window.’ I did as he bade me. ‘Pull down the blind.’ I
obeyed. ‘Turn round again.’ I was still obedient. ‘What is your name?’
Then I spoke,--to answer him. There was this odd thing about the words
I uttered, that they came from me, not in response to my will power,
but in response to his. It was not I who willed that I should speak; it
was he. What he willed that I should say, I said. Just that, and
nothing more. For the time I was no longer a man; my manhood was merged
in his. I was, in the extremest sense, an example of passive obedience.
‘Robert Holt.’
‘What are you?’
‘A clerk.’
‘You look as if you were a clerk.’ There was a flame of scorn in his
voice which scorched me even then. ‘What sort of a clerk are you?’
‘I am out of a situation.’
‘You look as if you were out of a situation.’ Again the scorn. ‘Are you
the sort of clerk who is always out of a situation? You are a thief.’
‘I am not a thief.’
‘Do clerks come through the window?’ I was still,--he putting no
constraint on me to speak. ‘Why did you come through the window?’
‘Because it was open.’
‘So!--Do you always come through a window which is open?’
‘No.’
‘Then why through this?’
‘Because I was wet--and cold--and hungry--and tired.’
The words came from me as if he had dragged them one by one,--which, in
fact, he did.
‘Have you no home?’
‘No.’
‘Money?’
‘No.’
‘Friends?’
‘No.’
‘Then what sort of a clerk are you?’
I did not answer him,--I did not know what it was he wished me to say.
I was the victim of bad luck, nothing else,--I swear it. Misfortune had
followed hard upon misfortune. The firm by whom I had been employed for
years suspended payment. I obtained a situation with one of their
creditors, at a lower salary. They reduced their staff, which entailed
my going. After an interval I obtained a temporary engagement; the
occasion which required my services passed, and I with it. After
another, and a longer interval, I again found temporary employment, the
pay for which was but a pittance. When that was over I could find
nothing. That was nine months ago, and since then I had not earned a
penny. It is so easy to grow shabby, when you are on the everlasting
tramp, and are living on your stock of clothes. I had trudged all over
London in search of work,--work of any kind would have been welcome, so
long as it would have enabled me to keep body and soul together. And I
had trudged in vain. Now I had been refused admittance as a
casual,--how easy is the descent! But I did not tell the man lying on
the bed all this. He did not wish to hear,--had he wished he would have
made me tell him.
It may be that he read my story, unspoken though it was,--it is
conceivable. His eyes had powers of penetration which were peculiarly
their own,--that I know.
‘Undress!’
When he spoke again that was what he said, in those guttural tones of
his in which there was a reminiscence of some foreign land. I obeyed,
letting my sodden, shabby clothes fall anyhow upon the floor. A look
came on his face, as I stood naked in front of him, which, if it was
meant for a smile, was a satyr’s smile, and which filled me with a
sensation of shuddering repulsion.
‘What a white skin you have,--how white! What would I not give for a
skin as white as that,--ah yes!’ He paused, devouring me with his
glances; then continued. ‘Go to the cupboard; you will find a cloak;
put it on.’
I went to a cupboard which was in a corner of the room, his eyes
following me as I moved. It was full of clothing,--garments which might
have formed the stock-in-trade of a costumier whose speciality was
providing costumes for masquerades. A long dark cloak hung on a peg. My
hand moved towards it, apparently of its own volition. I put it on, its
ample folds falling to my feet.
‘In the other cupboard you will find meat, and bread, and wine. Eat and
drink.’
On the opposite side of the room, near the head of his bed, there was a
second cupboard. In this, upon a shelf, I found what looked like
pressed beef, several round cakes of what tasted like rye bread, and
some thin, sour wine, in a straw-covered flask. But I was in no mood to
criticise; I crammed myself, I believe, like some famished wolf, he
watching me, in silence, all the time. When I had done, which was when
I had eaten and drunk as much as I could hold, there returned to his
face that satyr’s grin.
‘I would that I could eat and drink like that,--ah yes!--Put back what
is left.’ I put it back,--which seemed an unnecessary exertion, there
was so little to put. ‘Look me in the face.’
I looked him in the face,--and immediately became conscious, as I did
so, that something was going from me,--the capacity, as it were, to be
myself. His eyes grew larger and larger, till they seemed to fill all
space--till I became lost in their immensity. He moved his hand, doing
something to me, I know not what, as it passed through the air--cutting
the solid ground from underneath my feet, so that I fell headlong to
the ground. Where I fell, there I lay, like a log.
And the light went out.
CHAPTER IV.
A LONELY VIGIL
I knew that the light went out. For not the least singular, nor,
indeed, the least distressing part of my condition was the fact that,
to the best of my knowledge and belief, I never once lost consciousness
during the long hours which followed. I was aware of the extinction of
the lamp, and of the black darkness which ensued. I heard a rustling
sound, as if the man in the bed was settling himself between the
sheets. Then all was still. And throughout that interminable night I
remained, my brain awake, my body dead, waiting, watching, for the day.
What had happened to me I could not guess. That I probably wore some of
the external evidences of death my instinct told me,--I knew I did.
Paradoxical though it may sound, I felt as a man might feel who had
actually died,--as, in moments of speculation, in the days gone by, I
had imagined it as quite possible that he would feel. It is very far
from certain that feeling necessarily expires with what we call life. I
continually asked myself if I could be dead,--the inquiry pressed
itself on me with awful iteration. Does the body die, and the
brain--the I, the ego--still live on? God only knows. But, then! the
agony of the thought.
The hours passed. By slow degrees, the silence was eclipsed. Sounds of
traffic, of hurrying footsteps,--life!--were ushers of the morn.
Outside the window sparrows twittered,--a cat mewed, a dog
barked--there was the clatter of a milk can. Shafts of light stole past
the blind, increasing in intensity. It still rained, now and again it
pattered against the pane. The wind must have shifted, because, for the
first time, there came, on a sudden, the clang of a distant clock
striking the hour,--seven. Then, with the interval of a lifetime
between each chiming, eight,--nine,--ten.
So far, in the room itself there had not been a sound. When the clock
had struck ten, as it seemed to me, years ago, there came a rustling
noise, from the direction of the bed. Feet stepped upon the
floor,--moving towards where I was lying. It was, of course, now broad
day, and I, presently, perceived that a figure, clad in some queer
coloured garment, was standing at my side, looking down at me. It
stooped, then knelt. My only covering was unceremoniously thrown from
off me, so that I lay there in my nakedness. Fingers prodded me then
and there, as if I had been some beast ready for the butcher’s stall. A
face looked into mine, and, in front of me, were those dreadful eyes.
Then, whether I was dead or living, I said to myself that this could be
nothing human,--nothing fashioned in God’s image could wear such a
shape as that. Fingers were pressed into my cheeks, they were thrust
into my mouth, they touched my staring eyes, shut my eyelids, then
opened them again, and--horror of horrors!--the blubber lips were
pressed to mine--the soul of something evil entered into me in the
guise of a kiss.
Then this travesty of manhood reascended to his feet, and said, whether
speaking to me or to himself I could not tell,
‘Dead!--dead!--as good as dead!--and better! We’ll have him buried.’
He moved away from me. I heard a door open and shut, and knew that he
was gone.
And he continued gone throughout the day. I had no actual knowledge of
his issuing out into the street, but he must have done so, because the
house appeared deserted. What had become of the dreadful creature of
the night before I could not guess. My first fear was that he had left
it behind him in the room with me,--it might be, as a sort of watchdog.
But, as the minutes and the hours passed, and there was still no sign
or sound of anything living, I concluded that, if the thing was there,
it was, possibly, as helpless as myself, and that during its owner’s
absence, at any rate, I had nothing to fear from its too pressing
attentions.
That, with the exception of myself, the house held nothing human, I had
strong presumptive proof more than once in the course of the day.
Several times, both in the morning and the afternoon, people without
endeavoured to attract the attention of whoever was within.
Vehicles--probably tradesmen’s carts--drew up in front, their stopping
being followed by more or less assiduous assaults upon the knocker and
the bell. But in every case their appeals remained unheeded. Whatever
it was they wanted, they had to go unsatisfied away. Lying there,
torpid, with nothing to do but listen, I was, possibly, struck by very
little, but it did occur to me that one among the callers was more
persistent than the rest.
The distant clock had just struck noon when I heard the gate open, and
someone approached the front door. Since nothing but silence followed,
I supposed that the occupant of the place had returned, and had chosen
to do so as silently as he had gone. Presently, however, there came
from the doorstep a slight but peculiar call, as if a rat was
squeaking. It was repeated three times, and then there was the sound of
footsteps quietly retreating, and the gate re-closing. Between one and
two the caller came again; there was a repetition of the same
signal,--that it was a signal I did not doubt; followed by the same
retreat. About three the mysterious visitant returned. The signal was
repeated, and, when there was no response, fingers tapped softly
against the panels of the front door. When there was still no answer,
footsteps stole softly round the side of the house, and there came the
signal from the rear,--and then, again, tapping of fingers against what
was, apparently, the back door. No notice being taken of these various
proceedings, the footsteps returned the way they went, and, as before,
the gate was closed.
Shortly after darkness had fallen this assiduous caller returned, to
make a fourth and more resolute attempt to call attention to his
presence. From the peculiar character of his manoeuvres it seemed that
he suspected that whoever was within had particular reasons for
ignoring him without. He went through the familiar pantomime of the
three squeaky calls both at the front door and the back,--followed by
the tapping of the fingers on the panels. This time, however, he also
tried the window panes,--I could hear, quite distinctly, the clear, yet
distinct, noise of what seemed like knuckles rapping against the
windows behind. Disappointed there, he renewed his efforts at the
front. The curiously quiet footsteps came round the house, to pause
before the window of the room in which I lay,--and then something
singular occurred.
While I waited for the tapping, there came, instead, the sound of
someone or something, scrambling on to the window-sill,--as if some
creature, unable to reach the window from the ground, was endeavouring
to gain the vantage of the sill. Some ungainly creature, unskilled in
surmounting such an obstacle as a perpendicular brick wall. There was
the noise of what seemed to be the scratching of claws, as if it
experienced considerable difficulty in obtaining a hold on the
unyielding surface. What kind of creature it was I could not think,--I
was astonished to find that it was a creature at all. I had taken it
for granted that the persevering visitor was either a woman or a man.
If, however, as now seemed likely, it was some sort of animal, the fact
explained the squeaking sounds,--though what, except a rat, did squeak
like that was more than I could say--and the absence of any knocking or
ringing.
Whatever it was, it had gained the summit of its desires,--the
window-sill. It panted as if its efforts at climbing had made it short
of breath. Then began the tapping. In the light of my new discovery, I
perceived, clearly enough, that the tapping was hardly that which was
likely to be the product of human fingers,--it was sharp and definite,
rather resembling the striking of the point of a nail against the
glass. It was not loud, but in time--it continued with much
persistency--it became plainly vicious. It was accompanied by what I
can only describe as the most extraordinary noises. There were squeaks,
growing angrier and shriller as the minutes passed; what seemed like
gaspings for breath; and a peculiar buzzing sound like, yet unlike, the
purring of a cat.
The creature’s resentment at its want of success in attracting
attention was unmistakable. The tapping became like the clattering of
hailstones; it kept up a continuous noise with its cries and pantings;
there was the sound as of some large body being rubbed against the
glass, as if it were extending itself against the window, and
endeavouring, by force of pressure, to gain an entrance through the
pane. So violent did its contortions become that I momentarily
anticipated the yielding of the glass, and the excited assailant coming
crashing through. Considerably to my relief the window proved more
impregnable than seemed at one time likely. The stolid resistance
proved, in the end, to be too much either for its endurance or its
patience. Just as I was looking for some fresh manifestation of fury,
it seemed rather to tumble than to spring off the sill; then came, once
more, the same sound of quietly retreating footsteps; and what, under
the circumstances, seemed odder still, the same closing of the gate.
During the two or three hours which immediately ensued nothing happened
at all out of the way,--and then took place the most surprising
incident of all. The clock had struck ten some time before. Since
before the striking of the hour nothing and no one had passed along
what was evidently the little frequented road in front of that uncanny
house. On a sudden two sounds broke the stillness without,--of someone
running, and of cries. Judging from his hurrying steps someone seemed
to be flying for his life,--to the accompaniment of curious cries. It
was only when the runner reached the front of the house that, in the
cries, I recognised the squeaks of the persistent caller. I imagined
that he had returned, as before, alone, to renew his attacks upon the
window,--until it was made plain, as it quickly was, that, with him,
was some sort of a companion. Immediately there arose, from without,
the noise of battle. Two creatures, whose cries were, to me, of so
unusual a character, that I found it impossible to even guess at their
identity, seemed to be waging war to the knife upon the doorstep. After
a minute or two of furious contention, victory seemed to rest with one
of the combatants, for the other fled, squeaking as with pain. While I
listened, with strained attention, for the next episode in this queer
drama, expecting that now would come another assault upon the window,
to my unbounded surprise I heard a key thrust in the keyhole, the lock
turned, and the front door thrown open with a furious bang. It was
closed as loudly as it was opened. Then the door of the room in which I
was, was dashed open, with the same display of excitement, and of
clamour, footsteps came hurrying in, the door was slammed to with a
force which shook the house to its foundations, there was a rustling as
of bed-clothes, the brilliant illumination of the night before, and a
voice, which I had only too good reason to remember said,
‘Stand up.’
I stood up, automatically, at the word of command, facing towards the
bed.
There, between the sheets, with his head resting on his hand, in the
attitude in which I had seen him last, was the being I had made
acquaintance with under circumstances which I was never likely to
forget,--the same, yet not the same.
CHAPTER V.
AN INSTRUCTION TO COMMIT BURGLARY
That the man in the bed was the one whom, to my cost, I had suffered
myself to stumble on the night before, there could, of course, not be
the faintest doubt. And yet, directly I saw him, I recognised that some
astonishing alteration had taken place in his appearance. To begin
with, he seemed younger,--the decrepitude of age had given place to
something very like the fire of youth. His features had undergone some
subtle change. His nose, for instance, was not by any means so
grotesque; its beak-like quality was less conspicuous. The most part of
his wrinkles had disappeared, as if by magic. And, though his skin was
still as yellow as saffron, his contours had rounded,--he had even come
into possession of a modest allowance of chin. But the most astounding
novelty was that about the face there was something which was
essentially feminine; so feminine, indeed, that I wondered if I could
by any possibility have blundered, and mistaken a woman for a man; some
ghoulish example of her sex, who had so yielded to her depraved
instincts as to have become nothing but a ghastly reminiscence of
womanhood.
The effect of the changes which had come about in his appearance--for,
after all, I told myself that it was impossible that I could have been
such a simpleton as to have been mistaken on such a question as
gender--was heightened by the self-evident fact that, very recently, he
had been engaged in some pitched battle; some hand to hand, and,
probably, discreditable encounter, from which he had borne away
uncomfortable proofs of his opponent’s prowess. His antagonist could
hardly have been a chivalrous fighter, for his countenance was marked
by a dozen different scratches which seemed to suggest that the weapons
used had been someone’s finger-nails. It was, perhaps, because the heat
of the battle was still in his veins that he was in such a state of
excitement. He seemed to be almost overwhelmed by the strength of his
own feelings. His eyes seemed literally to flame with fire. The muscles
of his face were working as if they were wholly beyond his own control.
When he spoke his accent was markedly foreign; the words rushed from
his lips in an inarticulate torrent; he kept repeating the same thing
over and over again in a fashion which was not a little suggestive of
insanity.
‘So you’re not dead!--you’re not dead:--you’re alive!--you’re alive!
Well,--how does it feel to be dead? I ask you!--Is it not good to be
dead? To keep dead is better,--it is the best of all! To have made an
end of all things, to cease to strive and to cease to weep, to cease to
want and to cease to have, to cease to annoy and to cease to long, to
no more care,--no!--not for anything, to put from you the curse of
life,--forever!--is that not the best? Oh yes!--I tell you!--do I not
know? But for you such knowledge is not yet. For you there is the
return to life, the coming out of death,--you shall live on!--for
me!--Live on!’
He made a movement with his hand, and, directly he did so, it happened
as on the previous evening, that a metamorphosis took place in the very
abysses of my being. I woke from my torpor, as he put it, I came out of
death, and was alive again. I was far, yet, from being my own man; I
realised that he exercised on me a degree of mesmeric force which I had
never dreamed that one creature could exercise on another; but, at
least, I was no longer in doubt as to whether I was or was not dead. I
knew I was alive.
He lay, watching me, as if he was reading the thoughts which occupied
my brain,--and, for all I know, he was.
‘Robert Holt, you are a thief.’
‘I am not.’
My own voice, as I heard it, startled me,--it was so long since it had
sounded in my ears.
‘You are a thief! Only thieves come through windows,--did you not come
through the window?’ I was still,--what would my contradiction have
availed me? ‘But it is well that you came through the window,--well you
are a thief,--well for me! for me! It is you that I am wanting,--at the
happy moment you have dropped yourself into my hands,--in the nick of
time. For you are my slave,--at my beck and call,--my familiar spirit,
to do with as I will,--you know this,--eh?’
I did know it, and the knowledge of my impotence was terrible. I felt
that if I could only get away from him; only release myself from the
bonds with which he had bound me about; only remove myself from the
horrible glamour of his near neighbourhood; only get one or two square
meals and have an opportunity of recovering from the enervating stress
of mental and bodily fatigue;--I felt that then I might be something
like his match, and that, a second time, he would endeavour in vain to
bring me within the compass of his magic. But, as it was, I was
conscious that I was helpless, and the consciousness was agony. He
persisted in reiterating his former falsehood.
‘I say you are a thief!--a thief, Robert Holt, a thief! You came
through a window for your own pleasure, now you will go through a
window for mine,--not this window, but another.’ Where the jest lay I
did not perceive; but it tickled him, for a grating sound came from his
throat which was meant for laughter. ‘This time it is as a thief that
you will go,--oh yes, be sure.’
He paused, as it seemed, to transfix me with his gaze. His unblinking
eyes never for an instant quitted my face. With what a frightful
fascination they constrained me,--and how I loathed them!
When he spoke again there was a new intonation in his
speech,--something bitter, cruel, unrelenting.
‘Do you know Paul Lessingham?’
He pronounced the name as if he hated it,--and yet as if he loved to
have it on his tongue.
‘What Paul Lessingham?’
‘There is only one Paul Lessingham! _The_ Paul Lessingham,--the
_great_ Paul Lessingham!’
He shrieked, rather than said this, with an outburst of rage so
frenzied that I thought, for the moment, that he was going to spring on
me and rend me. I shook all over. I do not doubt that, as I replied, my
voice was sufficiently tremulous.
‘All the world knows Paul Lessingham,--the politician,--the statesman.’
As he glared at me his eyes dilated. I still stood in expectation of a
physical assault. But, for the present, he contented himself with words.
‘To-night you are going through his window like a thief!’
I had no inkling of his meaning,--and, apparently, judging from his
next words, I looked something of the bewilderment I felt.
‘You do not understand?--no!--it is simple!--what could be simpler? I
say that to-night--to-night!--you are going through his window like a
thief. You came through my window,--why not through the window of Paul
Lessingham, the politician--the statesman.’
He repeated my words as if in mockery. I am--I make it my boast!--of
that great multitude which regards Paul Lessingham as the greatest
living force in practical politics; and which looks to him, with
confidence, to carry through that great work of constitutional and
social reform which he has set himself to do. I daresay that my tone,
in speaking of him, savoured of laudation,--which, plainly, the man in
the bed resented. What he meant by his wild words about my going
through Paul Lessingham’s window like a thief, I still had not the
faintest notion. They sounded like the ravings of a madman.
As I continued silent, and he yet stared, there came into his tone
another note,--a note of tenderness,--a note of which I had not deemed
him capable.
‘He is good to look at, Paul Lessingham,--is he not good to look at?’
I was aware that, physically, Mr Lessingham was a fine specimen of
manhood, but I was not prepared for the assertion of the fact in such a
quarter,--nor for the manner in which the temporary master of my fate
continued to harp and enlarge upon the theme.
‘He is straight,--straight as the mast of a ship,--he is tall,--his
skin is white; he is strong--do I not know that he is strong--how
strong!--oh yes! Is there a better thing than to be his wife? his
well-beloved? the light of his eyes? Is there for a woman a happier
chance? Oh no, not one! His wife!--Paul Lessingham!’
As, with soft cadences, he gave vent to these unlooked-for sentiments,
the fashion of his countenance was changed. A look of longing came into
his face--of savage, frantic longing--which, unalluring though it was,
for the moment transfigured him. But the mood was transient.
‘To be his wife,--oh yes!--the wife of his scorn! the despised and
rejected!’
The return to the venom of his former bitterness was rapid,--I could
not but feel that this was the natural man. Though why a creature such
as he was should go out of his way to apostrophise, in such a manner, a
publicist of Mr Lessingham’s eminence, surpassed my comprehension. Yet
he stuck to his subject like a leech,--as if it had been one in which
he had an engrossing personal interest.
‘He is a devil,--hard as the granite rock,--cold as the snows of
Ararat. In him there is none of life’s warm blood,--he is accursed! He
is false,--ay, false as the fables of those who lie for love of
lies,--he is all treachery. Her whom he has taken to his bosom he would
put away from him as if she had never been,--he would steal from her
like a thief in the night,--he would forget she ever was! But the
avenger follows after, lurking in the shadows, hiding among the rocks,
waiting, watching, till his time shall come. And it shall come!--the
day of the avenger!--ay, the day!’
Raising himself to a sitting posture, he threw his arms above his head,
and shrieked with a demoniac fury. Presently he became a trifle calmer.
Reverting to his recumbent position, resting his head upon his hand, he
eyed me steadily; then asked me a question which struck me as being,
under the circumstances, more than a little singular.
‘You know his house,--the house of the great Paul Lessingham,--the
politician,--the statesman?’
‘I do not.’
‘You lie!--you do!’
The words came from him with a sort of snarl,--as if he would have
lashed me across the face with them.
‘I do not. Men in my position are not acquainted with the residences of
men in his. I may, at some time, have seen his address in print; but,
if so, I have forgotten it.’
He looked at me intently, for some moments, as if to learn if I spoke
the truth; and apparently, at last, was satisfied that I did.
‘You do not know it?--Well!--I will show it you,--I will show the house
of the great Paul Lessingham.’
What he meant I did not know; but I was soon to learn,--an astounding
revelation it proved to be. There was about his manner something hardly
human; something which, for want of a better phrase, I would call
vulpine. In his tone there was a mixture of mockery and bitterness, as
if he wished his words to have the effect of corrosive sublimate, and
to sear me as he uttered them.
‘Listen with all your ears. Give me your whole attention. Hearken to my
bidding, so that you may do as I bid you. Not that I fear your
obedience,--oh no!’
He paused,--as if to enable me to fully realise the picture of my
helplessness conjured up by his jibes.
‘You came through my window, like a thief. You will go through my
window, like a fool. You will go to the house of the great Paul
Lessingham. You say you do not know it? Well, I will show it you. I
will be your guide. Unseen, in the darkness and the night, I will stalk
beside you, and will lead you to where I would have you go.--You will
go just as you are, with bare feet, and head uncovered, and with but a
single garment to hide your nakedness. You will be cold, your feet will
be cut and bleeding,--but what better does a thief deserve? If any see
you, at the least they will take you for a madman; there will be
trouble. But have no fear; bear a bold heart. None shall see you while
I stalk at your side. I will cover you with the cloak of
invisibility,--so that you may come in safety to the house of the great
Paul Lessingham.’
He paused again. What he said, wild and wanton though it was, was
beginning to fill me with a sense of the most extreme discomfort. His
sentences, in some strange, indescribable way, seemed, as they came
from his lips, to warp my limbs; to enwrap themselves about me; to
confine me, tighter and tighter, within, as it were, swaddling clothes;
to make me more and more helpless. I was already conscious that
whatever mad freak he chose to set me on, I should have no option but
to carry it through.
‘When you come to the house, you will stand, and look, and seek for a
window convenient for entry. It may be that you will find one open, as
you did mine; if not, you will open one. How,--that is your affair, not
mine. You will practise the arts of a thief to steal into his house.’
The monstrosity of his suggestion fought against the spell which he
again was casting upon me, and forced me into speech,--endowed me with
the power to show that there still was in me something of a man; though
every second the strands of my manhood, as it seemed, were slipping
faster through the fingers which were strained to clutch them.
‘I will not.’
He was silent. He looked at me. The pupils of his eyes dilated,--until
they seemed all pupil.
‘You will.--Do you hear?--I say you will.’
‘I am not a thief, I am an honest man,--why should I do this thing?’
‘Because I bid you.’
‘Have mercy!’
‘On whom--on you, or on Paul Lessingham?--Who, at any time, has shown
mercy unto me, that I should show mercy unto any?’
He stopped, and then again went on,--reiterating his former incredible
suggestion with an emphasis which seemed to eat its way into my brain.
‘You will practise the arts of a thief to steal into his house; and,
being in, will listen. If all be still, you will make your way to the
room he calls his study.’
‘How shall I find it? I know nothing of his house.’
The question was wrung from me; I felt that the sweat was standing in
great drops upon my brow.
‘I will show it you.’
‘Shall you go with me?’
‘Ay,--I shall go with you. All the time I shall be with you. You will
not see me, but I shall be there. Be not afraid.’
His claim to supernatural powers, for what he said amounted to nothing
less, was, on the face of it, preposterous, but, then, I was in no
condition to even hint at its absurdity. He continued.
‘When you have gained the study, you will go to a certain drawer, which
is in a certain bureau, in a corner of the room--I see it now; when you
are there you shall see it too--and you will open it.’
‘Should it be locked?’
‘You still will open it.’
‘But how shall I open it if it is locked?’
‘By those arts in which a thief is skilled. I say to you again that
that is your affair, not mine.’
I made no attempt to answer him. Even supposing that he forced me, by
the wicked, and unconscionable exercise of what, I presumed, were the
hypnotic powers with which nature had to such a dangerous degree
endowed him, to carry the adventure to a certain stage, since he could
hardly, at an instant’s notice, endow me with the knack of picking
locks, should the drawer he alluded to be locked--which might
Providence permit!--nothing serious might issue from it after all. He
read my thoughts.
‘You will open it,--though it be doubly and trebly locked, I say that
you will open it.--In it you will find--’ he hesitated, as if to
reflect--‘some letters; it may be two or three,--I know not just how
many,--they are bound about by a silken ribbon. You will take them out
of the drawer, and, having taken them, you will make the best of your
way out of the house, and bear them back to me.’
‘And should anyone come upon me while engaged in these nefarious
proceedings,--for instance, should I encounter Mr Lessingham himself,
what then?’
‘Paul Lessingham?--You need have no fear if you encounter him.’
‘I need have no fear!--If he finds me, in his own house, at dead of
night, committing burglary!’
‘You need have no fear of him.’
‘On your account, or on my own?--At least he will have me haled to
gaol.’
‘I say you need have no fear of him. I say what I mean.’
‘How, then, shall I escape his righteous vengeance? He is not the man
to suffer a midnight robber to escape him scatheless,--shall I have to
kill him?’
‘You will not touch him with a finger,--nor will he touch you.’
‘By what spell shall I prevent him?’
‘By the spell of two words.’
‘What words are they?’
‘Should Paul Lessingham chance to come upon you, and find you in his
house, a thief, and should seek to stay you from whatever it is you may
be at, you will not flinch nor flee from him, but you will stand still,
and you will say--’
Something in the crescendo accents of his voice, something weird and
ominous, caused my heart to press against my ribs, so that when he
stopped, in my eagerness I cried out,
‘What?’
‘THE BEETLE!’
As the words came from him in a kind of screech, the lamp went out, and
the place was all in darkness, and I knew, so that the knowledge filled
me with a sense of loathing, that with me, in the room, was the evil
presence of the night before. Two bright specks gleamed in front of me;
something flopped from off the bed on to the ground; the thing was
coming towards me across the floor. It came slowly on, and on, and on.
I stood still, speechless in the sickness of my horror. Until, on my
bare feet, it touched me with slimy feelers, and my terror lest it
should creep up my naked body lent me voice, and I fell shrieking like
a soul in agony.
It may be that my shrieking drove it from me. At least, it went. I knew
it went. And all was still. Until, on a sudden, the lamp flamed out
again, and there, lying, as before, in bed, glaring at me with his
baleful eyes, was the being whom, in my folly, or in my
wisdom,--whichever it was!--I was beginning to credit with the
possession of unhallowed, unlawful powers.
‘You will say that to him; those two words; they only; no more. And you
will see what you will see. But Paul Lessingham is a man of resolution.
Should he still persist in interference, or seek to hinder you, you
will say those two words again. You need do no more. Twice will
suffice, I promise you.--Now go.--Draw up the blind; open the window;
climb through it. Hasten to do what I have bidden you. I wait here for
your return,--and all the way I shall be with you.’
CHAPTER VI.
A SINGULAR FELONY
I went to the window; I drew up the blind, unlatching the sash, I threw
it open; and clad, or, rather, unclad as I was, I clambered through it
into the open air. I was not only incapable of resistance, I was
incapable of distinctly formulating the desire to offer resistance.
Some compelling influence moved me hither and hither, with completest
disregard of whether I would or would not.
And yet, when I found myself without, I was conscious of a sense of
exultation at having escaped from the miasmic atmosphere of that room
of unholy memories. And a faint hope began to dawn within my bosom
that, as I increased the distance between myself and it, I might shake
off something of the nightmare helplessness which numbed and tortured
me. I lingered for a moment by the window; then stepped over the short
dividing wall into the street; and then again I lingered.
My condition was one of dual personality,--while, physically, I was
bound, mentally, to a considerable extent, I was free. But this measure
of freedom on my mental side made my plight no better. For, among other
things, I realised what a ridiculous figure I must be cutting,
barefooted and bareheaded, abroad, at such an hour of the night, in
such a boisterous breeze,--for I quickly discovered that the wind
amounted to something like a gale. Apart from all other considerations,
the notion of parading the streets in such a condition filled me with
profound disgust. And I do believe that if my tyrannical oppressor had
only permitted me to attire myself in my own garments, I should have
started with a comparatively light heart on the felonious mission on
which he apparently was sending me. I believe, too, that the
consciousness of the incongruity of my attire increased my sense of
helplessness, and that, had I been dressed as Englishmen are wont to
be, who take their walks abroad, he would not have found in me, on that
occasion, the facile instrument which, in fact, he did.
There was a moment, in which the gravelled pathway first made itself
known to my naked feet, and the cutting wind to my naked flesh, when I
think it possible that, had I gritted my teeth, and strained my every
nerve, I might have shaken myself free from the bonds which shackled
me, and bade defiance to the ancient sinner who, for all I knew, was
peeping at me through the window. But so depressed was I by the
knowledge of the ridiculous appearance I presented that, before I could
take advantage of it the moment passed,--not to return again that night.
I did catch, as it were, at its fringe, as it was flying past me,
making a hurried movement to one side,--the first I had made, of my own
initiative, for hours. But it was too late. My tormentor,--as if,
though unseen, he saw--tightened his grip, I was whirled round, and
sped hastily onwards in a direction in which I certainly had no desire
of travelling.
All the way I never met a soul. I have since wondered whether in that
respect my experience was not a normal one; whether it might not have
happened to any. If so, there are streets in London, long lines of
streets, which, at a certain period of the night, in a certain sort of
weather--probably the weather had something to do with it--are clean
deserted; in which there is neither foot-passenger nor vehicle,--not
even a policeman. The greater part of the route along which I was
driven--I know no juster word--was one with which I had some sort of
acquaintance. It led, at first, through what, I take it, was some part
of Walham Green; then along the Lillie Road, through Brompton, across
the Fulham Road, through the network of streets leading to Sloane
Street, across Sloane Street into Lowndes Square. Who goes that way
goes some distance, and goes through some important thoroughfares; yet
not a creature did I see, nor, I imagine, was there a creature who saw
me. As I crossed Sloane Street, I fancied that I heard the distant
rumbling of a vehicle along the Knightsbridge Road, but that was the
only sound I heard.
It is painful even to recollect the plight in which I was when I was
stopped,--for stopped I was, as shortly and as sharply, as the beast of
burden, with a bridle in its mouth, whose driver puts a period to his
career. I was wet,--intermittent gusts of rain were borne on the
scurrying wind; in spite of the pace at which I had been brought, I was
chilled to the bone; and--worst of all!--my mud-stained feet, all cut
and bleeding, were so painful--for, unfortunately, I was still
susceptible enough to pain--that it was agony to have them come into
contact with the cold and the slime of the hard, unyielding pavement.
I had been stopped on the opposite side of the square,--that nearest to
the hospital; in front of a house which struck me as being somewhat
smaller than the rest. It was a house with a portico; about the pillars
of this portico was trelliswork, and on the trelliswork was trained
some climbing plant. As I stood, shivering, wondering what would happen
next, some strange impulse mastered me, and, immediately, to my own
unbounded amazement, I found myself scrambling up the trellis towards
the verandah above. I am no gymnast, either by nature or by education;
I doubt whether, previously, I had ever attempted to climb anything
more difficult than a step ladder. The result was, that, though the
impulse might be given me, the skill could not, and I had only ascended
a yard or so when, losing my footing, I came slithering down upon my
back. Bruised and shaken though I was, I was not allowed to inquire
into my injuries. In a moment I was on my feet again, and again I was
impelled to climb,--only, however, again to come to grief. This time
the demon, or whatever it was, that had entered into me, seeming to
appreciate the impossibility of getting me to the top of that verandah,
directed me to try another way. I mounted the steps leading to the
front door, got on to the low parapet which was at one side, thence on
to the sill of the adjacent window,--had I slipped then I should have
fallen a sheer descent of at least twenty feet to the bottom of the
deep area down below. But the sill was broad, and--if it is proper to
use such language in connection with a transaction of the sort in which
I was engaged--fortune favoured me. I did not fall. In my clenched fist
I had a stone. With this I struck the pane of glass, as with a hammer.
Through the hole which resulted, I could just insert my hand, and reach
the latch within. In another minute the sash was raised, and I was in
the house,--I had committed burglary.
As I look back and reflect upon the audacity of the whole proceeding,
even now I tremble. Hapless slave of another’s will although in very
truth I was, I cannot repeat too often that I realised to the full just
what it was that I was being compelled to do--a fact which was very far
from rendering my situation less distressful!--and every detail of my
involuntary actions was projected upon my brain in a series of
pictures, whose clear-cut outlines, so long as memory endures, will
never fade. Certainly no professional burglar, nor, indeed, any
creature in his senses, would have ventured to emulate my surprising
rashness. The process of smashing the pane of glass--it was plate
glass--was anything but a noiseless one. There was, first, the blow
itself, then the shivering of the glass, then the clattering of
fragments into the area beneath. One would have thought that the whole
thing would have made din enough to have roused the Seven Sleepers.
But, here, again the weather was on my side. About that time the wind
was howling wildly,--it came shrieking across the square. It is
possible that the tumult which it made deadened all other sounds.
Anyhow, as I stood within the room which I had violated, listening for
signs of someone being on the alert, I could hear nothing. Within the
house there seemed to be the silence of the grave. I drew down the
window, and made for the door.
It proved by no means easy to find. The windows were obscured by heavy
curtains, so that the room inside was dark as pitch. It appeared to be
unusually full of furniture,--an appearance due, perhaps, to my being a
stranger in the midst of such Cimmerian blackness. I had to feel my
way, very gingerly indeed, among the various impedimenta. As it was I
seemed to come into contact with most of the obstacles there were to
come into contact with, stumbling more than once over footstools, and
over what seemed to be dwarf chairs. It was a miracle that my movements
still continued to be unheard,--but I believe that the explanation was,
that the house was well built; that the servants were the only persons
in it at the time; that their bedrooms were on the top floor; that they
were fast asleep; and that they were little likely to be disturbed by
anything that might occur in the room which I had entered.
Reaching the door at last, I opened it,--listening for any promise of
being interrupted--and--to adapt a hackneyed phrase--directed by the
power which shaped my end, I went across the hall and up the stairs. I
passed up the first landing, and, on the second, moved to a door upon
the right. I turned the handle, it yielded, the door opened, I entered,
closing it behind me. I went to the wall just inside the door, found a
handle, jerked it, and switched on the electric light,--doing, I make
no doubt, all these things, from a spectator’s point of view, so
naturally, that a judge and jury would have been with difficulty
persuaded that they were not the product of my own volition.
In the brilliant glow of the electric light I took a leisurely survey
of the contents of the room. It was, as the man in the bed had said it
would be, a study,--a fine, spacious apartment, evidently intended
rather for work than for show. There were three separate
writing-tables, one very large and two smaller ones, all covered with
an orderly array of manuscripts and papers. A typewriter stood at the
side of one. On the floor, under and about them, were piles of books,
portfolios, and official-looking documents. Every available foot of
wall space on three sides of the room was lined with shelves, full as
they could hold with books. On the fourth side, facing the door, was a
large lock-up oak bookcase, and, in the farther corner, a quaint old
bureau. So soon as I saw this bureau I went for it, straight as an
arrow from a bow,--indeed, it would be no abuse of metaphor to say that
I was propelled towards it like an arrow from a bow.
It had drawers below, glass doors above, and between the drawers and
the doors was a flap to let down. It was to this flap my attention was
directed. I put out my hand to open it; it was locked at the top. I
pulled at it with both hands; it refused to budge.
So this was the lock I was, if necessary, to practise the arts of a
thief to open. I was no picklock; I had flattered myself that nothing,
and no one, could make me such a thing. Yet now that I found myself
confronted by that unyielding flap, I found that pressure, irresistible
pressure, was being put upon me to gain, by any and every means, access
to its interior. I had no option but to yield. I looked about me in
search of some convenient tool with which to ply the felon’s trade. I
found it close beside me. Leaning against the wall, within a yard of
where I stood, were examples of various kinds of weapons,--among them,
spear-heads. Taking one of these spear-heads, with much difficulty I
forced the point between the flap and the bureau. Using the leverage
thus obtained, I attempted to prise it open. The flap held fast; the
spear-head snapped in two. I tried another, with the same result; a
third, to fail again. There were no more. The most convenient thing
remaining was a queer, heavy-headed, sharp-edged hatchet. This I took,
brought the sharp edge down with all my force upon the refractory flap.
The hatchet went through,--before I had done with it, it was open with
a vengeance.
But I was destined on the occasion of my first--and, I trust,
last--experience of the burglar’s calling, to carry the part completely
through. I had gained access to the flap itself only to find that at
the back were several small drawers, on one of which my observation was
brought to bear in a fashion which it was quite impossible to
disregard. As a matter of course it was locked, and, once more, I had
to search for something which would serve as a rough-and-ready
substitute for the missing key.
There was nothing at all suitable among the weapons,--I could hardly
for such a purpose use the hatchet; the drawer in question was such a
little one that to have done so would have been to shiver it to
splinters. On the mantelshelf, in an open leather case, were a pair of
revolvers. Statesmen, nowadays, sometimes stand in actual peril of
their lives. It is possible that Mr Lessingham, conscious of
continually threatened danger, carried them about with him as a
necessary protection. They were serviceable weapons, large, and
somewhat weighty,--of the type with which, I believe, upon occasion the
police are armed. Not only were all the barrels loaded, but, in the
case itself there was a supply of cartridges more than sufficient to
charge them all again.
I was handling the weapons, wondering--if, in my condition, the word
was applicable--what use I could make of them to enable me to gain
admission to that drawer, when there came, on a sudden, from the street
without, the sound of approaching wheels. There was a whirring within
my brain, as if someone was endeavouring to explain to me to what
service to apply the revolvers, and I, perforce, strained every nerve
to grasp the meaning of my invisible mentor. While I did so, the wheels
drew rapidly nearer, and, just as I was expecting them to go whirling
by, stopped,--in front of the house. My heart leapt in my bosom. In a
convulsion of frantic terror, again, during the passage of one frenzied
moment, I all but burst the bonds that held me, and fled, haphazard,
from the imminent peril. But the bonds were stronger than I,--it was as
if I had been rooted to the ground.
A key was inserted in the keyhole of the front door, the lock was
turned, the door thrown open, firm footsteps entered the house. If I
could I would not have stood upon the order of my going, but gone at
once, anywhere, anyhow; but, at that moment, my comings and goings were
not matters in which I was consulted. Panic fear raging within,
outwardly I was calm as possible, and stood, turning the revolvers over
and over, asking myself what it could be that I was intended to do with
them. All at once it came to me in an illuminating flash,--I was to
fire at the lock of the drawer, and blow it open.
A madder scheme it would have been impossible to hit upon. The servants
had slept through a good deal, but they would hardly sleep through the
discharge of a revolver in a room below them,--not to speak of the
person who had just entered the premises, and whose footsteps were
already audible as he came up the stairs. I struggled to make a dumb
protest against the insensate folly which was hurrying me to infallible
destruction, without success. For me there was only obedience. With a
revolver in either hand I marched towards the bureau as unconcernedly
as if I would not have given my life to have escaped the dénouement
which I needed but a slight modicum of common sense to be aware was
close at hand. I placed the muzzle of one of the revolvers against the
keyhole of the drawer to which my unseen guide had previously directed
me, and pulled the trigger. The lock was shattered, the contents of the
drawer were at my mercy. I snatched up a bundle of letters, about which
a pink ribbon was wrapped. Startled by a noise behind me, immediately
following the report of the pistol, I glanced over my shoulder.
The room door was open, and Mr Lessingham was standing with the handle
in his hand.
CHAPTER VII.
THE GREAT PAUL LESSINGHAM
He was in evening dress. He carried a small portfolio in his left hand.
If the discovery of my presence startled him, as it could scarcely have
failed to do, he allowed no sign of surprise to escape him. Paul
Lessingham’s impenetrability is proverbial. Whether on platforms
addressing excited crowds, or in the midst of heated discussion in the
House of Commons, all the world knows that his coolness remains
unruffled. It is generally understood that he owes his success in the
political arena in no slight measure to the adroitness which is born of
his invulnerable presence of mind. He gave me a taste of its quality
then. Standing in the attitude which has been familiarised to us by
caricaturists, his feet apart, his broad shoulders well set back, his
handsome head a little advanced, his keen blue eyes having in them
something suggestive of a bird of prey considering just when, where,
and how to pounce, he regarded me for some seconds in perfect
silence,--whether outwardly I flinched I cannot say; inwardly I know I
did. When he spoke, it was without moving from where he stood, and in
the calm, airy tones in which he might have addressed an acquaintance
who had just dropped in.
‘May I ask, sir, to what I am indebted for the pleasure of your
company?’
He paused, as if waiting for my answer. When none came, he put his
question in another form.
‘Pray, sir, who are you, and on whose invitation do I find you here?’
As I still stood speechless, motionless, meeting his glance without a
twitching of an eyebrow, nor a tremor of the hand, I imagine that he
began to consider me with an even closer intentness than before. And
that the--to say the least of it--peculiarity of my appearance, caused
him to suspect that he was face to face with an adventure of a peculiar
kind. Whether he took me for a lunatic I cannot certainly say; but,
from his manner, I think it possible he did. He began to move towards
me from across the room, addressing me with the utmost suavity and
courtesy.
‘Be so good as to give me the revolver, and the papers you are holding
in your hand.’
As he came on, something entered into me, and forced itself from
between my lips, so that I said, in a low, hissing voice, which I vow
was never mine,
‘THE BEETLE!’
Whether it was, or was not, owing, in some degree, to a trick of my
imagination, I cannot determine, but, as the words were spoken, it
seemed to me that the lights went low, so that the place was all in
darkness, and I again was filled with the nauseous consciousness of the
presence of something evil in the room. But if, in that matter, my
abnormally strained imagination played me a trick, there could be no
doubt whatever as to the effect which the words had on Mr Lessingham.
When the mist of the blackness--real or supposititious--had passed from
before my eyes, I found that he had retreated to the extremest limits
of the room, and was crouching, his back against the bookshelves,
clutching at them, in the attitude of a man who has received a
staggering blow, from which, as yet, he has had no opportunity of
recovering. A most extraordinary change had taken place in the
expression of his face; in his countenance amazement, fear, and horror
seemed struggling for the mastery. I was filled with a most
discomforting qualm, as I gazed at the frightened figure in front of
me, and realised that it was that of the great Paul Lessingham, the god
of my political idolatry.
‘Who are you?--In God’s name, who are you?’
His very voice seemed changed; his frenzied, choking accents would
hardly have been recognised by either friend or foe.
‘Who are you?--Do you hear me ask, who are you? In the name of God, I
bid you say!’
As he perceived that I was still, he began to show a species of
excitement which it was unpleasant to witness, especially as he
continued to crouch against the bookshelf, as if he was afraid to stand
up straight. So far from exhibiting the impassivity for which he was
renowned, all the muscles in his face and all the limbs in his body
seemed to be in motion at once; he was like a man afflicted with the
shivering ague,--his very fingers were twitching aimlessly, as they
were stretched out on either side of him, as if seeking for support
from the shelves against which he leaned.
‘Where have you come from? what do you want? who sent you here? what
concern have you with me? is it necessary that you should come and play
these childish tricks with me? why? why?’
The questions came from him with astonishing rapidity. When he saw that
I continued silent, they came still faster, mingled with what sounded
to me like a stream of inchoate abuse.
‘Why do you stand there in that extraordinary garment,--it’s worse than
nakedness, yes, worse than nakedness! For that alone I could have you
punished, and I will!--and try to play the fool? Do you think I am a
boy to be bamboozled by every bogey a blunderer may try to conjure up?
If so, you’re wrong, as whoever sent you might have had sense enough to
let you know. If you tell me who you are, and who sent you here, and
what it is you want, I will be merciful; if not, the police shall be
sent for, and the law shall take its course,--to the bitter end!--I
warn you.--Do you hear? You fool! tell me who you are?’
The last words came from him in what was very like a burst of childish
fury. He himself seemed conscious, the moment after, that his passion
was sadly lacking in dignity, and to be ashamed of it. He drew himself
straight up. With a pocket-handkerchief which he took from an inner
pocket of his coat, he wiped his lips. Then, clutching it tightly in
his hand, he eyed me with a fixedness which, under any other
circumstances, I should have found unbearable.
‘Well, sir, is your continued silence part of the business of the rôle
you have set yourself to play?’
His tone was firmer, and his bearing more in keeping with his character.
‘If it be so, I presume that I, at least have liberty to speak. When I
find a gentleman, even one gifted with your eloquence of silence,
playing the part of burglar, I think you will grant that a few words on
my part cannot justly be considered to be out of place.’
Again he paused. I could not but feel that he was employing the vehicle
of somewhat cumbrous sarcasm to gain time, and to give himself the
opportunity of recovering, if the thing was possible, his pristine
courage. That, for some cause wholly hidden from me, the mysterious
utterance had shaken his nature to its deepest foundations, was made
plainer by his endeavour to treat the whole business with a sort of
cynical levity.
‘To commence with, may I ask if you have come through London, or
through any portion of it, in that costume,--or, rather, in that want
of costume? It would seem out of place in a Cairene street,--would it
not?--even in the Rue de Rabagas,--was it not the Rue de Rabagas?’
He asked the question with an emphasis the meaning of which was wholly
lost on me. What he referred to either then, or in what immediately
followed, I, of course, knew no more than the man in the moon,--though
I should probably have found great difficulty in convincing him of my
ignorance.
‘I take it that you are a reminiscence of the Rue de Rabagas,--that, of
course;--is it not of course? The little house with the blue-grey
venetians, and the piano with the F sharp missing? Is there still the
piano? with the tinny treble,--indeed, the whole atmosphere, was it not
tinny?--You agree with me?--I have not forgotten. I am not even afraid
to remember,--you perceive it?’
A new idea seemed to strike him,--born, perhaps, of my continued
silence.
‘You look English,--is it possible that you are not English? What are
you then--French? We shall see!’
He addressed me in a tongue which I recognised as French, but with
which I was not sufficiently acquainted to understand. Although, I
flatter myself that,--as the present narrative should show--I have not
made an ill-use of the opportunities which I have had to improve my,
originally, modest education, I regret that I have never had so much as
a ghost of a chance to acquire an even rudimentary knowledge of any
language except my own. Recognising, I suppose, from my looks, that he
was addressing me in a tongue to which I was a stranger, after a time
he stopped, added something with a smile, and then began to talk to me
in a lingo to which, in a manner of speaking, I was even stranger, for
this time I had not the faintest notion what it was,--it might have
been gibberish for all that I could tell. Quickly perceiving that he
had succeeded no better than before, he returned to English.
‘You do not know French?--nor the _patois_ of the Rue de Rabagas? Very
good,--then what is it that you do know? Are you under a vow of
silence, or are you dumb,--except upon occasion? Your face is
English,--what can be seen of it, and I will take it, therefore, that
English spoken words convey some meaning to your brain. So listen, sir,
to what I have to say,--do me the favour to listen carefully.’
He was becoming more and more his former self. In his clear, modulated
tones there was a ring of something like a threat,--a something which
went very far beyond his words.
‘You know something of a period which I choose to have forgotten,--that
is plain; you come from a person who, probably, knows still more. Go
back to that person and say that what I have forgotten I have
forgotten; nothing will be gained by anyone by an endeavour to induce
me to remember,--be very sure upon that point, say that nothing will be
gained by anyone. That time was one of mirage, of delusion, of disease.
I was in a condition, mentally and bodily, in which pranks could have
been played upon me by any trickster. Such pranks were played. I know
that now quite well. I do not pretend to be proficient in the _modus
operandi_ of the hankey-pankey man, but I know that he has a method, all
the same,--one susceptible, too, of facile explanation. Go back to your
friend, and tell him that I am not again likely to be made the butt of
his old method,--nor of his new one either.--You hear me, sir?’
I remained motionless and silent,--an attitude which, plainly, he
resented.
‘Are you deaf and dumb? You certainly are not dumb, for you spoke to me
just now. Be advised by me, and do not compel me to resort to measures
which will be the cause to you of serious discomfort.--You hear me,
sir?’
Still, from me, not a sign of comprehension,--to his increased
annoyance.
‘So be it. Keep your own counsel, if you choose. Yours will be the
bitterness, not mine. You may play the lunatic, and play it excellently
well, but that you do understand what is said to you is clear.--Come to
business, sir. Give me that revolver, and the packet of letters which
you have stolen from my desk.’
He had been speaking with the air of one who desired to convince
himself as much as me,--and about his last words there was almost a
flavour of braggadocio. I remained unheeding.
‘Are you going to do as I require, or are you insane enough to
refuse?--in which case I shall summon assistance, and there will
quickly be an end of it. Pray do not imagine that you can trick me into
supposing that you do not grasp the situation. I know better.--Once
more, are you going to give me that revolver and those letters?’
Yet no reply. His anger was growing momentarily greater,--and his
agitation too. On my first introduction to Paul Lessingham I was not
destined to discover in him any one of those qualities of which the
world held him to be the undisputed possessor. He showed himself to be
as unlike the statesman I had conceived, and esteemed, as he easily
could have done.
‘Do you think I stand in awe of you?--you!--of such a thing as you! Do
as I tell you, or I myself will make you,--and, at the same time, teach
you a much-needed lesson.’
He raised his voice. In his bearing there was a would-be defiance. He
might not have been aware of it, but the repetitions of the threats
were, in themselves, confessions of weakness. He came a step or two
forward,--then, stopping short, began to tremble. The perspiration
broke out upon his brow; he made spasmodic little dabs at it with his
crumpled-up handkerchief. His eyes wandered hither and thither, as if
searching for something which they feared to see yet were constrained
to seek. He began to talk to himself, out loud, in odd disconnected
sentences,--apparently ignoring me entirely.
‘What was that?--It was nothing.--It was my imagination.--My nerves are
out of order.--I have been working too hard.--I am not well.--_What’s
that?_’
This last inquiry came from him in a half-stifled shriek,--as the door
opened to admit the head and body of an elderly man in a state of
considerable undress. He had the tousled appearance of one who had been
unexpectedly roused out of slumber, and unwillingly dragged from bed.
Mr Lessingham stared at him as if he had been a ghost, while he stared
back at Mr Lessingham as if he found a difficulty in crediting the
evidence of his own eyes. It was he who broke the
silence,--stutteringly.
‘I am sure I beg your pardon, sir, but one of the maids thought that
she heard the sound of a shot, and we came down to see if there was
anything the matter,--I had no idea, sir, that you were here.’ His eyes
travelled from Mr Lessingham towards me,--suddenly increasing, when
they saw me, to about twice their previous size. ‘God save us!--who is
that?’
The man’s self-evident cowardice possibly impressed Mr Lessingham with
the conviction that he himself was not cutting the most dignified of
figures. At any rate, he made a notable effort to, once more, assume a
bearing of greater determination.
‘You are quite right, Matthews, quite right. I am obliged by your
watchfulness. At present you may leave the room--I propose to deal with
this fellow myself,--only remain with the other men upon the landing,
so that, if I call, you may come to my assistance.’
Matthews did as he was told, he left the room,--with, I fancy, more
rapidity than he had entered it. Mr Lessingham returned to me, his
manner distinctly more determined, as if he found his resolution
reinforced by the near neighbourhood of his retainers.
‘Now, my man, you see how the case stands, at a word from me you will
be overpowered and doomed to undergo a long period of imprisonment. Yet
I am still willing to listen to the dictates of mercy. Put down that
revolver, give me those letters,--you will not find me disposed to
treat you hardly.’
For all the attention I paid him, I might have been a graven image. He
misunderstood, or pretended to misunderstand, the cause of my silence.
‘Come, I see that you suppose my intentions to be harsher than they
really are,--do not let us have a scandal, and a scene,--be
sensible!--give me those letters!’
Again he moved in my direction; again, after he had taken a step or
two, to stumble and stop, and look about him with frightened eyes;
again to begin to mumble to himself aloud.
‘It’s a conjurer’s trick!--Of course!--Nothing more.--What else could
it be?--I’m not to be fooled.--I’m older than I was. I’ve been
overdoing it,--that’s all.’
Suddenly he broke into cries.
‘Matthews! Matthews!--Help! help!’
Matthews entered the room, followed by three other men, younger than
himself. Evidently all had slipped into the first articles of clothing
they could lay their hands upon, and each carried a stick, or some
similar rudimentary weapon.
Their master spurred them on.
‘Strike the revolver out of his hand, Matthews!--knock him down!--take
the letters from him!--don’t be afraid!--I’m not afraid!’
In proof of it, he rushed at me, as it seemed half blindly. As he did
so I was constrained to shout out, in tones which I should not have
recognised as mine,
‘THE BEETLE!’
And that moment the room was all in darkness, and there were screams as
of someone in an agony of terror or of pain. I felt that something had
come into the room, I knew not whence nor how,--something of horror.
And the next action of which I was conscious was, that under cover of
the darkness, I was flying from the room, propelled by I knew not what.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE MAN IN THE STREET
Whether anyone pursued I cannot say. I have some dim recollection, as I
came out of the room, of women being huddled against the wall upon the
landing, and of their screaming as I went past. But whether any effort
was made to arrest my progress I cannot tell. My own impression is that
not the slightest attempt to impede my headlong flight was made by
anyone.
In what direction I was going I did not know. I was like a man flying
through the phantasmagoric happenings of a dream, knowing neither how
nor whither. I tore along what I suppose was a broad passage, through a
door at the end into what, I fancy, was a drawing-room. Across this
room I dashed, helter-skelter, bringing down, in the gloom, unseen
articles of furniture, with myself sometimes on top, and sometimes
under them. In a trice, each time I fell, I was on my feet
again,--until I went crashing against a window which was concealed by
curtains. It would not have been strange had I crashed through it,--but
I was spared that. Thrusting aside the curtains, I fumbled for the
fastening of the window. It was a tall French casement, extending, so
far as I could judge, from floor to ceiling. When I had it open I
stepped through it on to the verandah without,--to find that I was on
the top of the portico which I had vainly essayed to ascend from below.
I tried the road down which I had tried up,--proceeding with a
breakneck recklessness of which now I shudder to think. It was,
probably, some thirty feet above the pavement, yet I rushed at the
descent with as much disregard for the safety of life and limb as if it
had been only three. Over the edge of the parapet I went, obtaining,
with my naked feet, a precarious foothold on the latticework,--then
down I commenced to scramble. I never did get a proper hold, and when I
had descended, perhaps, rather more than half the distance--scraping,
as it seemed to me, every scrap of skin off my body in the process--I
lost what little hold I had. Down to the bottom I went tumbling,
rolling right across the pavement into the muddy road. It was a miracle
I was not seriously injured,--but in that sense, certainly, that night
the miracles were on my side. Hardly was I down, than I was up
again,--mud and all.
Just as I was getting on to my feet I felt a firm hand grip me by the
shoulder. Turning I found myself confronted by a tall, slenderly built
man, with a long, drooping moustache, and an overcoat buttoned up to
the chin, who held me with a grasp of steel. He looked at me,--and I
looked back at him.
‘After the ball,--eh?’
Even then I was struck by something pleasant in his voice, and some
quality as of sunshine in his handsome face.
Seeing that I said nothing he went on,--with a curious, half mocking
smile.
‘Is that the way to come slithering down the Apostle’s pillar?--Is it
simple burglary, or simpler murder?--Tell me the glad tidings that
you’ve killed St Paul, and I’ll let you go.’
Whether he was mad or not I cannot say,--there was some excuse for
thinking so. He did not look mad, though his words and actions alike
were strange.
‘Although you have confined yourself to gentle felony, shall I not
shower blessings on the head of him who has been robbing Paul?--Away
with you!’
He removed his grip, giving me a gentle push as he did so,--and I was
away. I neither stayed nor paused.
I knew little of records, but if anyone has made a better record than I
did that night between Lowndes Square and Walham Green I should like to
know just what it was,--I should, too, like to have seen it done.
In an incredibly short space of time I was once more in front of the
house with the open window,--the packet of letters--which were like to
have cost me so dear!--gripped tightly in my hand.
CHAPTER IX.
THE CONTENTS OF THE PACKET
I pulled up sharply,--as if a brake had been suddenly, and even
mercilessly, applied to bring me to a standstill. In front of the
window I stood shivering. A shower had recently commenced,--the falling
rain was being blown before the breeze. I was in a terrible sweat,--yet
tremulous as with cold; covered with mud; bruised, and cut, and
bleeding,--as piteous an object as you would care to see. Every limb in
my body ached; every muscle was exhausted; mentally and physically I
was done; had I not been held up, willy nilly, by the spell which was
upon me, I should have sunk down, then and there, in a hopeless,
helpless, hapless heap.
But my tormentor was not yet at an end with me.
As I stood there, like some broken and beaten hack, waiting for the
word of command, it came. It was as if some strong magnetic current had
been switched on to me through the window to draw me into the room.
Over the low wall I went, over the sill,--once more I stood in that
chamber of my humiliation and my shame. And once again I was conscious
of that awful sense of the presence of an evil thing. How much of it
was fact, and how much of it was the product of imagination I cannot
say; but, looking back, it seems to me that it was as if I had been
taken out of the corporeal body to be plunged into the inner chambers
of all nameless sin. There was the sound of something flopping from off
the bed on to the ground, and I knew that the thing was coming at me
across the floor. My stomach quaked, my heart melted within me,--the
very anguish of my terror gave me strength to scream,--and scream!
Sometimes, even now, I seem to hear those screams of mine ringing
through the night, and I bury my face in the pillow, and it is as
though I was passing through the very Valley of the Shadow.
The thing went back,--I could hear it slipping and sliding across the
floor. There was silence. And, presently, the lamp was lit, and the
room was all in brightness. There, on the bed, in the familiar attitude
between the sheets, his head resting on his hand, his eyes blazing like
living coals, was the dreadful cause of all my agonies. He looked at me
with his unpitying, unblinking glance.
‘So!--Through the window again!--like a thief!--Is it always through
that door that you come into a house?’
He paused,--as if to give me time to digest his gibe.
‘You saw Paul Lessingham,--well?--the great Paul Lessingham!--Was he,
then, so great?’
His rasping voice, with its queer foreign twang, reminded me, in some
uncomfortable way, of a rusty saw,--the things he said, and the manner
in which he said them, were alike intended to add to my discomfort. It
was solely because the feat was barely possible that he only partially
succeeded.
‘Like a thief you went into his house,--did I not tell you that you
would? Like a thief he found you,--were you not ashamed? Since, like a
thief he found you, how comes it that you have escaped,--by what
robber’s artifice have you saved yourself from gaol?’
His manner changed,--so that, all at once, he seemed to snarl at me.
‘Is he great?--well!--is he great,--Paul Lessingham? You are small, but
he is smaller,--your great Paul Lessingham!--Was there ever a man so
less than nothing?’
With the recollection fresh upon me of Mr Lessingham as I had so lately
seen him I could not but feel that there might be a modicum of truth in
what, with such an intensity of bitterness, the speaker suggested. The
picture which, in my mental gallery, I had hung in the place of honour,
seemed, to say the least, to have become a trifle smudged.
As usual, the man in the bed seemed to experience not the slightest
difficulty in deciphering what was passing through my mind.
‘That is so,--you and he, you are a pair,--the great Paul Lessingham is
as great a thief as you,--and greater!--for, at least, than you he has
more courage.’
For some moments he was still; then exclaimed, with sudden fierceness,
‘Give me what you have stolen!’
I moved towards the bed--most unwillingly--and held out to him the
packet of letters which I had abstracted from the little drawer.
Perceiving my disinclination to his near neighbourhood, he set himself
to play with it. Ignoring my outstretched hand, he stared me straight
in the face.
‘What ails you? Are you not well? Is it not sweet to stand close at my
side? You, with your white skin, if I were a woman, would you not take
me for a wife?’
There was something about the manner in which this was said which was
so essentially feminine that once more I wondered if I could possibly
be mistaken in the creature’s sex. I would have given much to have been
able to strike him across the face,--or, better, to have taken him by
the neck, and thrown him through the window, and rolled him in the mud.
He condescended to notice what I was holding out to him.
‘So!--that is what you have stolen!--That is what you have taken from
the drawer in the bureau--the drawer which was locked--and which you
used the arts in which a thief is skilled to enter. Give it to
me,--thief!’
He snatched the packet from me, scratching the back of my hand as he
did so, as if his nails had been talons. He turned the packet over and
over, glaring at it as he did so,--it was strange what a relief it was
to have his glance removed from off my face.
‘You kept it in your inner drawer, Paul Lessingham, where none but you
could see it,--did you? You hid it as one hides treasure. There should
be something here worth having, worth seeing, worth knowing,--yes,
worth knowing!--since you found it worth your while to hide it up so
closely.’
As I have said, the packet was bound about by a string of pink
ribbon,--a fact on which he presently began to comment.
‘With what a pretty string you have encircled it,--and how neatly it is
tied! Surely only a woman’s hand could tie a knot like that,--who would
have guessed yours were such agile fingers?--So! An endorsement on the
cover! What’s this?--let’s see what’s written!--“The letters of my dear
love, Marjorie Lindon.”’
As he read these words, which, as he said, were endorsed upon the outer
sheet of paper which served as a cover for the letters which were
enclosed within, his face became transfigured. Never did I suppose that
rage could have so possessed a human countenance. His jaw dropped open
so that his yellow fangs gleamed through his parted lips,--he held his
breath so long that each moment I looked to see him fall down in a fit;
the veins stood out all over his face and head like seams of blood. I
know not how long he continued speechless. When his breath returned, it
was with chokings and gaspings, in the midst of which he hissed out his
words, as if their mere passage through his throat brought him near to
strangulation.
‘The letters of his dear love!--of his dear love!--his!--Paul
Lessingham’s!--So!--It is as I guessed,--as I knew,--as I
saw!--Marjorie Lindon!--Sweet Marjorie!--His dear love!--Paul
Lessingham’s dear love!--She with the lily face, the corn-hued
hair!--What is it his dear love has found in her fond heart to write
Paul Lessingham?’
Sitting up in bed he tore the packet open. It contained, perhaps, eight
or nine letters,--some mere notes, some long epistles. But, short or
long, he devoured them with equal appetite, each one over and over
again, till I thought he never would have done re-reading them. They
were on thick white paper, of a peculiar shade of whiteness, with
untrimmed edges. On each sheet a crest and an address were stamped in
gold, and all the sheets were of the same shape and size. I told myself
that if anywhere, at any time, I saw writing paper like that again, I
should not fail to know it. The caligraphy was, like the paper,
unusual, bold, decided, and, I should have guessed, produced by a J pen.
All the time that he was reading he kept emitting sounds, more
resembling yelps and snarls than anything more human,--like some savage
beast nursing its pent-up rage. When he had made an end of
reading,--for the season,--he let his passion have full vent.
‘So!--That is what his dear love has found it in her heart to write
Paul Lessingham!--Paul Lessingham!’
Pen cannot describe the concentrated frenzy of hatred with which the
speaker dwelt upon the name,--it was demoniac.
‘It is enough!--it is the end!--it is his doom! He shall be ground
between the upper and the nether stones in the towers of anguish, and
all that is left of him shall be cast on the accursed stream of the
bitter waters, to stink under the blood-grimed sun! And for her--for
Marjorie Lindon!--for his dear love!--it shall come to pass that she
shall wish that she was never born,--nor he!--and the gods of the
shadows shall smell the sweet incense of her suffering!--It shall be!
it shall be! It is I that say it,--even I!’
In the madness of his rhapsodical frenzy I believe that he had actually
forgotten I was there. But, on a sudden, glancing aside, he saw me, and
remembered,--and was prompt to take advantage of an opportunity to
wreak his rage upon a tangible object.
‘It is you!--you thief!--you still live!--to make a mock of one of the
children of the gods!’
He leaped, shrieking, off the bed, and sprang at me, clasping my throat
with his horrid hands, bearing me backwards on to the floor; I felt his
breath mingle with mine * * * and then God, in His mercy, sent oblivion.
BOOK II.
The Haunted Man
_The Story according to Sydney Atherton, Esquire_
CHAPTER X.
REJECTED
It was after our second waltz I did it. In the usual quiet
corner,--which, that time, was in the shadow of a palm in the hall.
Before I had got into my stride she checked me,--touching my sleeve
with her fan, turning towards me with startled eyes.
‘Stop, please!’
But I was not to be stopped. Cliff Challoner passed, with Gerty Cazell.
I fancy that, as he passed, he nodded. I did not care. I was wound up
to go, and I went it. No man knows how he can talk till he does
talk,--to the girl he wants to marry. It is my impression that I gave
her recollections of the Restoration poets. She seemed surprised,--not
having previously detected in me the poetic strain, and insisted on
cutting in.
‘Mr Atherton, I am so sorry.’
Then I did let fly.
‘Sorry that I love you!--why? Why should you be sorry that you have
become the one thing needful in any man’s eyes,--even in mine? The one
thing precious,--the one thing to be altogether esteemed! Is it so
common for a woman to come across a man who would be willing to lay
down his life for her that she should be sorry when she finds him?’
‘I did not know that you felt like this, though I confess that I have
had my--my doubts.’
‘Doubts!--I thank you.’
‘You are quite aware, Mr Atherton, that I like you very much.’
‘Like me!--Bah!’
‘I cannot help liking you,--though it may be “bah.”’
‘I don’t want you to like me,--I want you to love me.’
‘Precisely,--that is your mistake.’
‘My mistake!--in wanting you to love me!--when I love you--’
‘Then you shouldn’t,--though I can’t help thinking that you are
mistaken even there.’
‘Mistaken!--in supposing that I love you!--when I assert and reassert
it with the whole force of my being! What do you want me to do to prove
I love you,--take you in my arms and crush you to my bosom, and make a
spectacle of you before every creature in the place?’
‘I’d rather you wouldn’t, and perhaps you wouldn’t mind not talking
quite so loud. Mr Challoner seems to be wondering what you’re shouting
about.’
‘You shouldn’t torture me.’
She opened and shut her fan,--as she looked down at it I am disposed to
suspect that she smiled.
‘I am glad we have had this little explanation, because, of course, you
are my friend.’
‘I am not your friend.’
‘Pardon me, you are.’
‘I say I’m not,--if I can’t be something else, I’ll be no friend.’
She went on,--calmly ignoring me,--playing with her fan.
‘As it happens, I am, just now, in rather a delicate position, in which
a friend is welcome.’
‘What’s the matter? Who’s been worrying you,--your father?’
‘Well,--he has not,--as yet; but he may be soon.’
‘What’s in the wind?’
‘Mr Lessingham.’
She dropped her voice,--and her eyes. For the moment I did not catch
her meaning.
‘What?’
‘Your friend, Mr Lessingham.’
‘Excuse me, Miss Lindon, but I am by no means sure that anyone is
entitled to call Mr Lessingham a friend of mine.’
‘What!--Not when I am going to be his wife?’
That took me aback. I had had my suspicions that Paul Lessingham was
more with Marjorie than he had any right to be, but I had never
supposed that she could see anything desirable in a stick of a man like
that. Not to speak of a hundred and one other
considerations,--Lessingham on one side of the House, and her father on
the other; and old Lindon girding at him anywhere and everywhere--with
his high-dried Tory notions of his family importance,--to say nothing
of his fortune.
I don’t know if I looked what I felt,--if I did, I looked uncommonly
blank.
‘You have chosen an appropriate moment, Miss Lindon, to make to me such
a communication.’
She chose to disregard my irony.
‘I am glad you think so, because now you will understand what a
difficult position I am in.’
‘I offer you my hearty congratulations.’
‘And I thank you for them, Mr Atherton, in the spirit in which they are
offered, because from you I know they mean so much.’
I bit my lip,--for the life of me I could not tell how she wished me to
read her words.
‘Do I understand that this announcement has been made to me as one of
the public?’
‘You do not. It is made to you, in confidence, as my friend,--as my
greatest friend; because a husband is something more than friend.’ My
pulses tingled. ‘You will be on my side?’
She had paused,--and I stayed silent.
‘On your side,--or Mr Lessingham’s?’
‘His side is my side, and my side is his side;--you will be on our
side?’
‘I am not sure that I altogether follow you.’
‘You are the first I have told. When papa hears it is possible that
there will be trouble,--as you know. He thinks so much of you and of
your opinion; when that trouble comes I want you to be on our side,--on
my side.’
‘Why should I?--what does it matter? You are stronger than your
father,--it is just possible that Lessingham is stronger than you;
together, from your father’s point of view, you will be invincible.’
‘You are my friend,--are you not my friend?’
‘In effect, you offer me an Apple of Sodom.’
‘Thank you;--I did not think you so unkind.’
‘And you,--are you kind? I make you an avowal of my love, and,
straightway, you ask me to act as chorus to the love of another.’
‘How could I tell you loved me,--as you say! I had no notion. You have
known me all your life, yet you have not breathed a word of it till
now.’
‘If I had spoken before?’
I imagine that there was a slight movement of her shoulders,--almost
amounting to a shrug.
‘I do not know that it would have made any difference.--I do not
pretend that it would. But I do know this, I believe that you yourself
have only discovered the state of your own mind within the last
half-hour.’
If she had slapped my face she could not have startled me more. I had
no notion if her words were uttered at random, but they came so near
the truth they held me breathless. It was a fact that only during the
last few minutes had I really realised how things were with me,--only
since the end of that first waltz that the flame had burst out in my
soul which was now consuming me. She had read me by what seemed so like
a flash of inspiration that I hardly knew what to say to her. I tried
to be stinging.
‘You flatter me, Miss Lindon, you flatter me at every point. Had you
only discovered to me the state of your mind a little sooner I should
not have discovered to you the state of mine at all.’
‘We will consider it _terra incognita_.’
‘Since you wish it.’ Her provoking calmness stung me,--and the
suspicion that she was laughing at me in her sleeve. I gave her a
glimpse of the cloven hoof. ‘But, at the same time, since you assert
that you have so long been innocent, I beg that you will continue so no
more. At least, your innocence shall be without excuse. For I wish you
to understand that I love you, that I have loved you, that I shall love
you. Any understanding you may have with Mr Lessingham will not make
the slightest difference. I warn you, Miss Lindon, that, until death,
you will have to write me down your lover.’
She looked at me, with wide open eyes,--as if I almost frightened her.
To be frank, that was what I wished to do.
‘Mr Atherton!’
‘Miss Lindon?’
‘That is not like you at all.’
‘We seem to be making each other’s acquaintance for the first time.’
She continued to gaze at me with her big eyes,--which, to be candid, I
found it difficult to meet. On a sudden her face was lighted by a
smile,--which I resented.
‘Not after all these years,--not after all these years! I know you, and
though I daresay you’re not flawless, I fancy you’ll be found to ring
pretty true.’
Her manner was almost sisterly,--elder-sisterly. I could have shaken
her. Hartridge coming to claim his dance gave me an opportunity to
escape with such remnants of dignity as I could gather about me. He
dawdled up,--his thumbs, as usual, in his waistcoat pockets.
‘I believe, Miss Lindon, this is our dance.’
She acknowledged it with a bow, and rose to take his arm. I got up, and
left her, without a word.
As I crossed the hall I chanced on Percy Woodville. He was in his
familiar state of fluster, and was gaping about him as if he had
mislaid the Koh-i-noor, and wondered where in thunder it had got to.
When he saw it was I he caught me by the arm.
‘I say, Atherton, have you seen Miss Lindon?’
‘I have.’
‘No!--Have you?--By Jove!--Where? I’ve been looking for her all over
the place, except in the cellars and the attics,--and I was just going
to commence on them. This is our dance.’
‘In that case, she’s shunted you.’
‘No!--Impossible!’ His mouth went like an O,--and his eyes ditto, his
eyeglass clattering down on to his shirt front. ‘I expect the mistake’s
mine. Fact is, I’ve made a mess of my programme. It’s either the last
dance, or this dance, or the next, that I’ve booked with her, but I’m
hanged if I know which. Just take a squint at it, there’s a good chap,
and tell me which one you think it is.’
I ‘took a squint’--since he held the thing within an inch of my nose I
could hardly help it; one ‘squint,’ and that was enough--and more. Some
men’s ball programmes are studies in impressionism, Percy’s seemed to
me to be a study in madness. It was covered with hieroglyphics, but
what they meant, or what they did there anyhow, it was absurd to
suppose that I could tell,--I never put them there!--Proverbially, the
man’s a champion hasher.
‘I regret, my dear Percy, that I am not an expert in cuneiform writing.
If you have any doubt as to which dance is yours, you’d better ask the
lady,--she’ll feel flattered.’
Leaving him to do his own addling I went to find my coat,--I panted to
get into the open air; as for dancing I felt that I loathed it. Just as
I neared the cloak-room someone stopped me. It was Dora Grayling.
‘Have you forgotten that this is our dance?’
I had forgotten,--clean. And I was not obliged by her remembering.
Though as I looked at her sweet, grey eyes, and at the soft contours of
her gentle face, I felt that I deserved well kicking. She is an
angel,--one of the best!--but I was in no mood for angels. Not for a
very great deal would I have gone through that dance just then, nor,
with Dora Grayling, of all women in the world, would I have sat it
out.--So I was a brute and blundered.
‘You must forgive me, Miss Grayling, but--I am not feeling very well,
and--I don’t think I’m up to any more dancing.--Good-night.’
CHAPTER XI.
A MIDNIGHT EPISODE
The weather out of doors was in tune with my frame of mind,--I was in a
deuce of a temper, and it was a deuce of a night. A keen north-east
wind, warranted to take the skin right off you, was playing
catch-who-catch-can with intermittent gusts of blinding rain. Since it
was not fit for a dog to walk, none of your cabs for me,--nothing would
serve but pedestrian exercise.
So I had it.
I went down Park Lane,--and the wind and rain went with me,--also,
thoughts of Dora Grayling. What a bounder I had been,--and was! If
there is anything in worse taste than to book a lady for a dance, and
then to leave her in the lurch, I should like to know what that thing
is,--when found it ought to be made a note of. If any man of my
acquaintance allowed himself to be guilty of such a felony in the first
degree, I should cut him. I wished someone would try to cut me,--I
should like to see him at it.
It was all Marjorie’s fault,--everything! past, present, and to come! I
had known that girl when she was in long frocks--I had, at that period
of our acquaintance, pretty recently got out of them; when she was
advanced to short ones; and when, once more, she returned to long. And
all that time,--well, I was nearly persuaded that the whole of the time
I had loved her. If I had not mentioned it, it was because I had
suffered my affection, ‘like the worm, to lie hidden in the bud,’--or
whatever it is the fellow says.
At any rate, I was perfectly positive that if I had had the faintest
notion that she would ever seriously consider such a man as Lessingham
I should have loved her long ago. Lessingham! Why, he was old enough to
be her father,--at least he was a good many years older than I was. And
a wretched Radical! It is true that on certain points I, also, am what
some people would call a Radical,--but not a Radical of the kind he is.
Thank Heaven, no! No doubt I have admired traits in his character,
until I learnt this thing of him. I am even prepared to admit that he
is a man of ability,--in his way! which is, emphatically, not mine. But
to think of him in connection with such a girl as Marjorie
Lindon,--preposterous! Why, the man’s as dry as a stick,--drier! And
cold as an iceberg. Nothing but a politician, absolutely. He a
lover!--how I could fancy such a stroke of humour setting all the
benches in a roar. Both by education, and by nature, he was incapable
of even playing such a part; as for being the thing,--absurd! If you
were to sink a shaft from the crown of his head to the soles of his
feet, you would find inside him nothing but the dry bones of parties
and of politics.
What my Marjorie--if everyone had his own, she is mine, and, in that
sense, she always will be mine--what my Marjorie could see in such a
dry-as-dust out of which even to construct the rudiments of a husband
was beyond my fathoming.
Suchlike agreeable reflections were fit company for the wind and the
wet, so they bore me company all down the lane. I crossed at the
corner, going round the hospital towards the square. This brought me to
the abiding-place of Paul the Apostle. Like the idiot I was, I went out
into the middle of the street, and stood awhile in the mud to curse him
and his house,--on the whole, when one considers that that is the kind
of man I can be, it is, perhaps, not surprising that Marjorie disdained
me.
‘May your following,’ I cried,--it is an absolute fact that the words
were shouted!--‘both in the House and out of it, no longer regard you
as a leader! May your party follow after other gods! May your political
aspirations wither, and your speeches be listened to by empty benches!
May the Speaker persistently and strenuously refuse to allow you to
catch his eye, and, at the next election, may your constituency reject
you!--Jehoram!--what’s that?’
I might well ask. Until that moment I had appeared to be the only
lunatic at large, either outside the house or in it, but, on a sudden,
a second lunatic came on the scene, and that with a vengeance. A window
was crashed open from within,--the one over the front door, and someone
came plunging through it on to the top of the portico. That it was a
case of intended suicide I made sure,--and I began to be in hopes that
I was about to witness the suicide of Paul. But I was not so assured of
the intention when the individual in question began to scramble down
the pillar of the porch in the most extraordinary fashion I ever
witnessed,--I was not even convinced of a suicidal purpose when he came
tumbling down, and lay sprawling in the mud at my feet.
I fancy, if I had performed that portion of the act I should have lain
quiet for a second or two, to consider whereabouts I was, and which end
of me was uppermost. But there was no nonsense of that sort about that
singularly agile stranger,--if he was not made of indiarubber he ought
to have been. So to speak, before he was down he was up,--it was all I
could do to grab at him before he was off like a rocket.
Such a figure as he presented is seldom seen,--at least, in the streets
of London. What he had done with the rest of his apparel I am not in a
position to say,--all that was left of it was a long, dark cloak which
he strove to wrap round him. Save for that,--and mud!--he was bare as
the palm of my hand. Yet it was his face that held me. In my time I
have seen strange expressions on men’s faces, but never before one such
as I saw on his. He looked like a man might look who, after living a
life of undiluted crime, at last finds himself face to face with the
devil. It was not the look of a madman,--far from it; it was something
worse.
It was the expression on the man’s countenance, as much as anything
else, which made me behave as I did. I said something to him,--some
nonsense, I know not what. He regarded me with a silence which was
supernatural. I spoke to him again;--not a word issued from those rigid
lips; there was not a tremor of those awful eyes,--eyes which I was
tolerably convinced saw something which I had never seen, or ever
should. Then I took my hand from off his shoulder, and let him go. I
know not why,--I did.
He had remained as motionless as a statue while I held him,--indeed,
for any evidence of life he gave, he might have been a statue; but,
when my grasp was loosed, how he ran! He had turned the corner and was
out of sight before I could say, ‘How do!’
It was only then,--when he had gone, and I had realised the
extra-double-express-flash-of-lightning rate at which he had taken his
departure--that it occurred to me of what an extremely sensible act I
had been guilty in letting him go at all. Here was an individual who
had been committing burglary, or something very like it, in the house
of a budding cabinet minister, and who had tumbled plump into my arms,
so that all I had to do was to call a policeman and get him
quodded,--and all that I had done was something of a totally different
kind.
‘You’re a nice type of an ideal citizen!’ I was addressing myself. ‘A
first chop specimen of a low-down idiot,--to connive at the escape of
the robber who’s been robbing Paul. Since you’ve let the villain go,
the least you can do is to leave a card on the Apostle, and inquire how
he’s feeling.’
I went to Lessingham’s front door and knocked,--I knocked once, I
knocked twice, I knocked thrice, and the third time, I give you my
word, I made the echoes ring,--but still there was not a soul that
answered.
‘If this is a case of a seven or seventy-fold murder, and the gentleman
in the cloak has made a fair clearance of every living creature the
house contains, perhaps it’s just as well I’ve chanced upon the
scene,--still I do think that one of the corpses might get up to answer
the door. If it is possible to make noise enough to waken the dead, you
bet I’m on to it.’
And I was,--I punished that knocker! until I warrant the pounding I
gave it was audible on the other side of Green Park. And, at last, I
woke the dead,--or, rather, I roused Matthews to a consciousness that
something was going on. Opening the door about six inches, through the
interstice he protruded his ancient nose.
‘Who’s there?’
‘Nothing, my dear sir, nothing and no one. It must have been your
vigorous imagination which induced you to suppose that there was,--you
let it run away with you.’
Then he knew me,--and opened the door about two feet.
‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Atherton. I beg your pardon, sir,--I thought it might
have been the police.’
‘What then? Do you stand in terror of the minions of the law,--at last?’
A most discreet servant, Matthews,--just the fellow for a budding
cabinet minister. He glanced over his shoulder,--I had suspected the
presence of a colleague at his back, now I was assured. He put his hand
up to his mouth,--and I thought how exceedingly discreet he looked, in
his trousers and his stockinged feet, and with his hair all rumpled,
and his braces dangling behind, and his nightshirt creased.
‘Well, sir, I have received instructions not to admit the police.’
‘The deuce you have!--From whom?’
Coughing behind his hand, leaning forward, he addressed me with an air
which was flatteringly confidential.
‘From Mr Lessingham, sir.’
‘Possibly Mr Lessingham is not aware that a robbery has been committed
on his premises, that the burglar has just come out of his drawing-room
window with a hop, skip, and a jump, bounded out of the window like a
tennis-ball, flashed round the corner like a rocket.’
Again Matthews glanced over his shoulder, as if not clear which way
discretion lay, whether fore or aft.
‘Thank you, sir. I believe that Mr Lessingham is aware of something of
the kind.’ He seemed to come to a sudden resolution, dropping his voice
to a whisper. ‘The fact is, sir, that I fancy Mr Lessingham’s a good
deal upset.’
‘Upset?’ I stared at him. There was something in his manner I did not
understand. ‘What do you mean by upset? Has the scoundrel attempted
violence?’
‘Who’s there?’
The voice was Lessingham’s, calling to Matthews from the staircase,
though, for an instant, I hardly recognised it, it was so curiously
petulant. Pushing past Matthews, I stepped into the hall. A young man,
I suppose a footman, in the same undress as Matthews, was holding a
candle,--it seemed the only light about the place. By its glimmer I
perceived Lessingham standing half-way up the stairs. He was in full
war paint,--as he is not the sort of man who dresses for the House, I
took it that he had been mixing pleasure with business.
‘It’s I, Lessingham,--Atherton. Do you know that a fellow has jumped
out of your drawing-room window?’
It was a second or two before he answered. When he did, his voice had
lost its petulance.
‘Has he escaped?’
‘Clean,--he’s a mile away by now.’
It seemed to me that in his tone, when he spoke again, there was a note
of relief.
‘I wondered if he had. Poor fellow! more sinned against than sinning!
Take my advice, Atherton, and keep out of politics. They bring you into
contact with all the lunatics at large. Good night! I am much obliged
to you for knocking us up. Matthews, shut the door.’
Tolerably cool, on my honour,--a man who brings news big with the fate
of Rome does not expect to receive such treatment. He expects to be
listened to with deference, and to hear all that there is to hear, and
not to be sent to the right-about before he has had a chance of really
opening his lips. Before I knew it--almost!--the door was shut, and I
was on the doorstep. Confound the Apostle’s impudence! next time he
might have his house burnt down--and him in it!--before I took the
trouble to touch his dirty knocker.
What did he mean by his allusion to lunatics in politics,--did he think
to fool me? There was more in the business than met the eye,--and a
good deal more than he wished to meet mine,--hence his insolence. The
creature.
What Marjorie Lindon could see in such an opusculum surpassed my
comprehension; especially when there was a man of my sort walking
about, who adored the very ground she trod upon.
CHAPTER XII.
A MORNING VISITOR
All through the night, waking and sleeping, and in my dreams, I
wondered what Marjorie could see in him! In those same dreams I
satisfied myself that she could, and did, see nothing in him, but
everything in me,--oh the comfort! The misfortune was that when I awoke
I knew it was the other way round,--so that it was a sad awakening. An
awakening to thoughts of murder.
So, swallowing a mouthful and a peg, I went into my laboratory to plan
murder--legalised murder--on the biggest scale it ever has been
planned. I was on the track of a weapon which would make war not only
an affair of a single campaign, but of a single half-hour. It would not
want an army to work it either. Once let an individual, or two or three
at most, in possession of my weapon-that-was-to-be, get within a mile
or so of even the largest body of disciplined troops that ever yet a
nation put into the field, and--pouf!--in about the time it takes you
to say that they would be all dead men. If weapons of precision, which
may be relied upon to slay, are preservers of the peace--and the man is
a fool who says that they are not!--then I was within reach of the
finest preserver of the peace imagination ever yet conceived.
What a sublime thought to think that in the hollow of your own hand
lies the life and death of nations,--and it was almost in mine.
I had in front of me some of the finest destructive agents you could
wish to light upon--carbon-monoxide, chlorine-trioxide, mercuric-oxide,
conine, potassamide, potassium-carboxide, cyanogen--when Edwards
entered. I was wearing a mask of my own invention, a thing that covered
ears and head and everything, something like a diver’s helmet--I was
dealing with gases a sniff of which meant death; only a few days
before, unmasked, I had been doing some fool’s trick with a couple of
acids--sulphuric and cyanide of potassium--when, somehow, my hand
slipped, and, before I knew it, minute portions of them combined. By
the mercy of Providence I fell backwards instead of forwards;--sequel,
about an hour afterwards Edwards found me on the floor, and it took the
remainder of that day, and most of the doctors in town, to bring me
back to life again.
Edwards announced his presence by touching me on the shoulder,--when I
am wearing that mask it isn’t always easy to make me hear.
‘Someone wishes to see you, sir.’
‘Then tell someone that I don’t wish to see him.’
Well-trained servant, Edwards,--he walked off with the message as
decorously as you please. And then I thought there was an end,--but
there wasn’t.
I was regulating the valve of a cylinder in which I was fusing some
oxides when, once more, someone touched me on the shoulder. Without
turning I took it for granted it was Edwards back again.
‘I have only to give a tiny twist to this tap, my good fellow, and you
will be in the land where the bogies bloom. Why will you come where
you’re not wanted?’ Then I looked round. ‘Who the devil are you?’
For it was not Edwards at all, but quite a different class of character.
I found myself confronting an individual who might almost have sat for
one of the bogies I had just alluded to. His costume was reminiscent of
the ‘Algerians’ whom one finds all over France, and who are the most
persistent, insolent and amusing of pedlars. I remember one who used to
haunt the _répétitions_ at the Alcazar at Tours,--but there! This
individual was like the originals, yet unlike,--he was less gaudy, and
a good deal dingier, than his Gallic prototypes are apt to be. Then he
wore a burnoose,--the yellow, grimy-looking article of the Arab of the
Soudan, not the spick and span Arab of the boulevard. Chief difference
of all, his face was clean shaven,--and whoever saw an Algerian of
Paris whose chiefest glory was not his well-trimmed moustache and beard?
I expected that he would address me in the lingo which these gentlemen
call French,--but he didn’t.
‘You are Mr Atherton?’
‘And you are Mr--Who?--how did you come here? Where’s my servant?’
The fellow held up his hand. As he did so, as if in accordance with a
pre-arranged signal, Edwards came into the room looking excessively
startled. I turned to him.
‘Is this the person who wished to see me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Didn’t I tell you to say that I didn’t wish to see him?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then why didn’t you do as I told you?’
‘I did, sir.’
‘Then how comes he here?’
‘Really, sir,’--Edwards put his hand up to his head as if he was half
asleep--‘I don’t quite know.’
‘What do you mean by you don’t know? Why didn’t you stop him?’
‘I think, sir, that I must have had a touch of sudden faintness,
because I tried to put out my hand to stop him, and--I couldn’t.’
‘You’re an idiot.--Go!’ And he went. I turned to the stranger. ‘Pray,
sir, are you a magician?’
He replied to my question with another.
‘You, Mr Atherton,--are you also a magician?’
He was staring at my mask with an evident lack of comprehension.
‘I wear this because, in this place, death lurks in so many subtle
forms, that, without it, I dare not breathe.’ He inclined his
head,--though I doubt if he understood. ‘Be so good as to tell me,
briefly, what it is you wish with me.’
He slipped his hand into the folds of his burnoose, and, taking out a
slip of paper, laid it on the shelf by which we were standing. I
glanced at it, expecting to find on it a petition, or a testimonial, or
a true statement of his sad case; instead it contained two words
only,--‘Marjorie Lindon.’ The unlooked-for sight of that well-loved
name brought the blood into my cheeks.
‘You come from Miss Lindon?’
He narrowed his shoulders, brought his finger-tips together, inclined
his head, in a fashion which was peculiarly Oriental, but not
particularly explanatory,--so I repeated my question.
‘Do you wish me to understand that you do come from Miss Lindon?’
Again he slipped his hand into his burnoose, again he produced a slip
of paper, again he laid it on the shelf, again I glanced at it, again
nothing was written on it but a name,--‘Paul Lessingham.’
‘Well?--I see,--Paul Lessingham.--What then?’
‘She is good,--he is bad,--is it not so?’
He touched first one scrap of paper, then the other. I stared.
‘Pray how do you happen to know?’
‘He shall never have her,--eh?’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Ah!--what do I mean!’
‘Precisely, what do you mean? And also, and at the same time, who the
devil are you?’
‘It is as a friend I come to you.’
‘Then in that case you may go; I happen to be overstocked in that line
just now.’
‘Not with the kind of friend I am!’
‘The saints forefend!’
‘You love her,--you love Miss Lindon! Can you bear to think of him in
her arms?’
I took off my mask,--feeling that the occasion required it. As I did so
he brushed aside the hanging folds of the hood of his burnoose, so that
I saw more of his face. I was immediately conscious that in his eyes
there was, in an especial degree, what, for want of a better term, one
may call the mesmeric quality. That his was one of those morbid
organisations which are oftener found, thank goodness, in the east than
in the west, and which are apt to exercise an uncanny influence over
the weak and the foolish folk with whom they come in contact,--the kind
of creature for whom it is always just as well to keep a seasoned rope
close handy. I was, also, conscious that he was taking advantage of the
removal of my mask to try his strength on me,--than which he could not
have found a tougher job. The sensitive something which is found in the
hypnotic subject happens, in me, to be wholly absent.
‘I see you are a mesmerist.’
He started.
‘I am nothing,--a shadow!’
‘And I’m a scientist. I should like, with your permission--or without
it!--to try an experiment or two on you.’
He moved further back. There came a gleam into his eyes which suggested
that he possessed his hideous power to an unusual degree,--that, in the
estimation of his own people, he was qualified to take his standing as
a regular devil-doctor.
‘We will try experiments together, you and I,--on Paul Lessingham.’
‘Why on him?’
‘You do not know?’
‘I do not.’
‘Why do you lie to me?’
‘I don’t lie to you,--I haven’t the faintest notion what is the nature
of your interest in Mr Lessingham.’
‘My interest?--that is another thing; it is your interest of which we
are speaking.’
‘Pardon me,--it is yours.’
‘Listen! you love her,--and he! But at a word from you he shall not
have her,--never! It is I who say it,--I!’
‘And, once more, sir, who are you?’
‘I am of the children of Isis!’
‘Is that so?--It occurs to me that you have made a slight
mistake,--this is London, not a dog-hole in the desert.’
‘Do I not know?--what does it matter?--you shall see! There will come a
time when you will want me,--you will find that you cannot bear to
think of him in her arms,--her whom you love! You will call to me, and
I shall come, and of Paul Lessingham there shall be an end.’
While I was wondering whether he was really as mad as he sounded, or
whether he was some impudent charlatan who had an axe of his own to
grind, and thought that he had found in me a grindstone, he had
vanished from the room. I moved after him.
‘Hang it all!--stop!’ I cried.
He must have made pretty good travelling, because, before I had a foot
in the hall, I heard the front door slam, and, when I reached the
street, intent on calling him back, neither to the right nor to the
left was there a sign of him to be seen.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE PICTURE
‘I wonder what that nice-looking beggar really means, and who he
happens to be?’ That was what I said to myself when I returned to the
laboratory. ‘If it is true that, now and again, Providence does write a
man’s character on his face, then there can’t be the slightest shred of
a doubt that a curious one’s been written on his. I wonder what his
connection has been with the Apostle,--or if it’s only part of his game
of bluff.’
I strode up and down,--for the moment my interest in the experiments I
was conducting had waned.
‘If it was all bluff I never saw a better piece of acting,--and yet
what sort of finger can such a precisian as St Paul have in such a pie?
The fellow seemed to squirm at the mere mention of the
rising-hope-of-the-Radicals’ name. Can the objection be political? Let
me consider,--what has Lessingham done which could offend the religious
or patriotic susceptibilities of the most fanatical of Orientals?
Politically, I can recall nothing. Foreign affairs, as a rule, he has
carefully eschewed. If he has offended--and if he hasn’t the seeming
was uncommonly good!--the cause will have to be sought upon some other
track. But, then, what track?’
The more I strove to puzzle it out, the greater the puzzlement grew.
‘Absurd!--The rascal has had no more connection with St Paul than St
Peter. The probability is that he’s a crackpot; and if he isn’t, he has
some little game on foot--in close association with the hunt of the
oof-bird!--which he tried to work off on me, but couldn’t. As for--for
Marjorie--my Marjorie!--only she isn’t mine, confound it!--if I had had
my senses about me, I should have broken his head in several places for
daring to allow her name to pass his lips,--the unbaptised
Mohammedan!--Now to return to the chase of splendid murder!’
I snatched up my mask--one of the most ingenious inventions, by the
way, of recent years; if the armies of the future wear my mask they
will defy my weapon!--and was about to re-adjust it in its place, when
someone knocked at the door.
‘Who’s there?--Come in!’
It was Edwards. He looked round him as if surprised.
‘I beg your pardon, sir,--I thought you were engaged. I didn’t know
that--that gentleman had gone.’
‘He went up the chimney, as all that kind of gentlemen do.--Why the
deuce did you let him in when I told you not to?’
‘Really, sir, I don’t know. I gave him your message, and--he looked
at me, and--that is all I remember till I found myself standing in
this room.’
Had it not been Edwards I might have suspected him of having had his
palm well greased,--but, in his case, I knew better. It was as I
thought,--my visitor was a mesmerist of the first class; he had
actually played some of his tricks, in broad daylight, on my servant,
at my own front door,--a man worth studying. Edwards continued.
‘There is someone else, sir, who wishes to see you,--Mr Lessingham.’
‘Mr Lessingham!’ At that moment the juxtaposition seemed odd, though I
daresay it was so rather in appearance than in reality. ‘Show him in.’
Presently in came Paul.
I am free to confess,--I have owned it before!--that, in a sense, I
admire that man,--so long as he does not presume to thrust himself into
a certain position. He possesses physical qualities which please my
eye--speaking as a mere biologist. I like the suggestion conveyed by
his every pose, his every movement, of a tenacious hold on life,--of
reserve force, of a repository of bone and gristle on which he can fall
back at pleasure. The fellow’s lithe and active; not hasty, yet agile;
clean built, well hung,--the sort of man who might be relied upon to
make a good recovery. You might beat him in a sprint,--mental or
physical--though to do that you would have to be spry!--but in a
staying race he would see you out. I do not know that he is exactly the
kind of man whom I would trust,--unless I knew that he was on the
job,--which knowledge, in his case, would be uncommonly hard to attain.
He is too calm; too self-contained; with the knack of looking all round
him even in moments of extremest peril,--and for whatever he does he
has a good excuse. He has the reputation, both in the House and out of
it, of being a man of iron nerve,--and with some reason; yet I am not
so sure. Unless I read him wrongly his is one of those individualities
which, confronted by certain eventualities, collapse,--to rise, the
moment of trial having passed, like Phoenix from her ashes. However it
might be with his adherents, he would show no trace of his disaster.
And this was the man whom Marjorie loved. Well, she could show some
cause. He was a man of position,--destined, probably, to rise much
higher; a man of parts,--with capacity to make the most of them; not
ill-looking; with agreeable manners,--when he chose; and he came within
the lady’s definition of a gentleman, ‘he always did the right thing,
at the right time, in the right way.’ And yet--! Well, I take it that
we are all cads, and that we most of us are prigs; for mercy’s sake do
not let us all give ourselves away.
He was dressed as a gentleman should be dressed,--black frock coat,
black vest, dark grey trousers, stand-up collar, smartly-tied bow,
gloves of the proper shade, neatly brushed hair, and a smile, which if
was not childlike, at any rate was bland.
‘I am not disturbing you?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Sure?--I never enter a place like this, where a man is matching
himself with nature, to wrest from her her secrets, without feeling
that I am crossing the threshold of the unknown. The last time I was in
this room was just after you had taken out the final patents for your
System of Telegraphy at Sea, which the Admiralty
purchased,--wisely--What is it, now?’
‘Death.’
‘No?--really?--what do you mean?’
‘If you are a member of the next government, you will possibly learn; I
may offer them the refusal of a new wrinkle in the art of murder.’
‘I see,--a new projectile.--How long is this race to continue between
attack and defence?’
‘Until the sun grows cold.’
‘And then?’
‘There’ll be no defence,--nothing to defend.’
He looked at me with his calm, grave eyes.
‘The theory of the Age of Ice towards which we are advancing is not a
cheerful one.’ He began to finger a glass retort which lay upon a
table. ‘By the way, it was very good of you to give me a look in last
night. I am afraid you thought me peremptory,--I have come to
apologise.’
‘I don’t know that I thought you peremptory; I thought you--queer.’
‘Yes.’ He glanced at me with that expressionless look upon his face
which he could summon at will, and which is at the bottom of the
superstition about his iron nerve. ‘I was worried, and not well.
Besides, one doesn’t care to be burgled, even by a maniac.’
‘Was he a maniac?’
‘Did you see him?’
‘Very clearly.’
‘Where?’
‘In the street.’
‘How close were you to him?’
‘Closer than I am to you.’
‘Indeed. I didn’t know you were so close to him as that. Did you try to
stop him?’
‘Easier said than done,--he was off at such a rate.’
‘Did you see how he was dressed,--or, rather, undressed?’
‘I did.’
‘In nothing but a cloak on such a night. Who but a lunatic would have
attempted burglary in such a costume?’
‘Did he take anything?’
‘Absolutely nothing.’
‘It seems to have been a curious episode.’
He moved his eyebrows,--according to members of the House the only
gesture in which he has been known to indulge.
‘We become accustomed to curious episodes. Oblige me by not mentioning
it to anyone,--to anyone.’ He repeated the last two words, as if to
give them emphasis. I wondered if he was thinking of Marjorie. ‘I am
communicating with the police. Until they move I don’t want it to get
into the papers,--or to be talked about. It’s a worry,--you understand?’
I nodded. He changed the theme.
‘This that you’re engaged upon,--is it a projectile or a weapon?’
‘If you are a member of the next government you will possibly know; if
you aren’t you possibly won’t.’
‘I suppose you have to keep this sort of thing secret?’
‘I do. It seems that matters of much less moment you wish to keep
secret.’
‘You mean that business of last night? If a trifle of that sort gets
into the papers, or gets talked about,--which is the same thing!--you
have no notion how we are pestered. It becomes an almost unbearable
nuisance. Jones the Unknown can commit murder with less inconvenience
to himself than Jones the Notorious can have his pocket picked,--there
is not so much exaggeration in that as there sounds.--Good-bye,--thanks
for your promise.’ I had given him no promise, but that was by the way.
He turned as to go,--then stopped. ‘There’s another thing,--I believe
you’re a specialist on questions of ancient superstitions and extinct
religions.’
‘I am interested in such subjects, but I am not a specialist.’
‘Can you tell me what were the exact tenets of the worshippers of Isis?’
‘Neither I nor any man,--with scientific certainty. As you know, she
had a brother; the cult of Osiris and Isis was one and the same. What,
precisely, were its dogmas, or its practices, or anything about it,
none, now, can tell. The Papyri, hieroglyphics, and so on, which remain
are very far from being exhaustive, and our knowledge of those which do
remain, is still less so.’
‘I suppose that the marvels which are told of it are purely legendary?’
‘To what marvels do you particularly refer?’
‘Weren’t supernatural powers attributed to the priests of Isis?’
‘Broadly speaking, at that time, supernatural powers were attributed to
all the priests of all the creeds.’
‘I see.’ Presently he continued. ‘I presume that her cult is long since
extinct,--that none of the worshippers of Isis exist to-day.’
I hesitated,--I was wondering why he had hit on such a subject; if he
really had a reason, or if he was merely asking questions as a cover
for something else,--you see, I knew my Paul.
‘That is not so sure.’
He looked at me with that passionless, yet searching glance of his.
‘You think that she still is worshipped?’
‘I think it possible, even probable, that, here and there, in
Africa--Africa is a large order!--homage is paid to Isis, quite in the
good old way.’
‘Do you know that as a fact?’
‘Excuse me, but do you know it as a fact?--Are you aware that you are
treating me as if I was on the witness stand?--Have you any special
purpose in making these inquiries?’
He smiled.
‘In a kind of a way I have. I have recently come across rather a
curious story; I am trying to get to the bottom of it.’
‘What is the story?’
‘I am afraid that at present I am not at liberty to tell it you; when I
am I will. You will find it interesting,--as an instance of a singular
survival.--Didn’t the followers of Isis believe in transmigration?’
‘Some of them,--no doubt.’
‘What did they understand by transmigration?’
‘Transmigration.’
‘Yes,--but of the soul or of the body?’
‘How do you mean?--transmigration is transmigration. Are you driving at
something in particular? If you’ll tell me fairly and squarely what it
is I’ll do my best to give you the information you require; as it is,
your questions are a bit perplexing.’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,--as you say, “transmigration is
transmigration.”’ I was eyeing him keenly; I seemed to detect in his
manner an odd reluctance to enlarge on the subject he himself had
started. He continued to trifle with the retort upon the table. ‘Hadn’t
the followers of Isis a--what shall I say?--a sacred emblem?’
‘How?’
‘Hadn’t they an especial regard for some sort of a--wasn’t it some sort
of a--beetle?’
‘You mean _Scarabaeus sacer_,--according to Latreille, _Scarabaeus
Egyptiorum_? Undoubtedly,--the scarab was venerated throughout
Egypt,--indeed, speaking generally, most things that had life, for
instance, cats; as you know, Orisis continued among men in the figure
of Apis, the bull.’
‘Weren’t the priests of Isis--or some of them--supposed to assume,
after death, the form of a--scarabaeus?’
‘I never heard of it.’
‘Are you sure?--think!’
‘I shouldn’t like to answer such a question positively, offhand, but I
don’t, on the spur of the moment, recall any supposition of the kind.’
‘Don’t laugh at me--I’m not a lunatic!--but I understand that recent
researches have shown that even in some of the most astounding of the
ancient legends there was a substratum of fact. Is it absolutely
certain that there could be no shred of truth in such a belief?’
‘In what belief?’
‘In the belief that a priest of Isis--or anyone--assumed after death
the form of a scarabaeus?’
‘It seems to me, Lessingham, that you have lately come across some
uncommonly interesting data, of a kind, too, which it is your bounden
duty to give to the world,--or, at any rate, to that portion of the
world which is represented by me. Come,--tell us all about it!--what
are you afraid of?’
‘I am afraid of nothing,--and some day you shall be told,--but not now.
At present, answer my question.’
‘Then repeat your question,--clearly.’
‘Is it absolutely certain that there could be no foundation of truth in
the belief that a priest of Isis--or anyone--assumed after death the
form of a beetle?’
‘I know no more than the man in the moon,--how the dickens should I?
Such a belief may have been symbolical. Christians believe that after
death the body takes the shape of worms--and so, in a sense, it
does,--and, sometimes, eels.’
‘That is not what I mean.’
‘Then what do you mean?’
‘Listen. If a person, of whose veracity there could not be a vestige of
a doubt, assured you that he had seen such a transformation actually
take place, could it conceivably be explained on natural grounds?’
‘Seen a priest of Isis assume the form of a beetle?’
‘Or a follower of Isis?’
‘Before, or after death?’
He hesitated. I had seldom seen him wear such an appearance of
interest,--to be frank, I was keenly interested too!--but, on a sudden
there came into his eyes a glint of something that was almost terror.
When he spoke, it was with the most unwonted awkwardness.
‘In--in the very act of dying.’
‘In the very act of dying?’
‘If--he had seen a follower of Isis in--the very act of dying,
assume--the form of a--a beetle, on any conceivable grounds would such
a transformation be susceptible of a natural explanation?’
I stared,--as who would not? Such an extraordinary question was
rendered more extraordinary by coming from such a man,--yet I was
almost beginning to suspect that there was something behind it more
extraordinary still.
‘Look here, Lessingham, I can see you’ve a capital tale to tell,--so
tell it, man! Unless I’m mistaken, it’s not the kind of tale in which
ordinary scruples can have any part or parcel,--anyhow, it’s hardly
fair of you to set my curiosity all agog, and then to leave it
unappeased.’
He eyed me steadily, the appearance of interest fading more and more,
until, presently, his face assumed its wonted expressionless
mask,--somehow I was conscious that what he had seen in my face was not
altogether to his liking. His voice was once more bland and
self-contained.
‘I perceive you are of opinion that I have been told a taradiddle. I
suppose I have.’
‘But what is the tarradiddle?--don’t you see I’m burning?’
‘Unfortunately, Atherton, I am on my honour. Until I have permission to
unloose it, my tongue is tied.’ He picked up his hat and umbrella from
where he had placed them on the table. Holding them in his left hand,
he advanced to me with his right outstretched. ‘It is very good of you
to suffer my continued interruption; I know, to my sorrow, what such
interruptions mean,--believe me, I am not ungrateful. What is this?’
On the shelf, within a foot or so of where I stood, was a sheet of
paper,--the size and shape of half a sheet of post note. At this he
stooped to glance. As he did so, something surprising occurred. On the
instant a look came on to his face which, literally, transfigured him.
His hat and umbrella fell from his grasp on to the floor. He retreated,
gibbering, his hands held out as if to ward something off from him,
until he reached the wall on the other side of the room. A more amazing
spectacle than he presented I never saw.
‘Lessingham!’ I exclaimed. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
My first impression was that he was struck by a fit of
epilepsy,--though anyone less like an epileptic subject it would be
hard to find. In my bewilderment I looked round to see what could be
the immediate cause. My eye fell upon the sheet of paper. I stared at
it with considerable surprise. I had not noticed it there previously, I
had not put it there,--where had it come from? The curious thing was
that, on it, produced apparently by some process of photogravure, was
an illustration of a species of beetle with which I felt that I ought
to be acquainted, and yet was not. It was of a dull golden green; the
colour was so well brought out,--even to the extent of seeming to
scintillate, and the whole thing was so dexterously done that the
creature seemed alive. The semblance of reality was, indeed, so vivid
that it needed a second glance to be assured that it was a mere trick
of the reproducer. Its presence there was odd,--after what we had been
talking about it might seem to need explanation; but it was absurd to
suppose that that alone could have had such an effect on a man like
Lessingham.
With the thing in my hand, I crossed to where he was,--pressing his
back against the wall, he had shrunk lower inch by inch till he was
actually crouching on his haunches.
‘Lessingham!--come, man, what’s wrong with you?’
Taking him by the shoulder, I shook him with some vigour. My touch had
on him the effect of seeming to wake him out of a dream, of restoring
him to consciousness as against the nightmare horrors with which he was
struggling. He gazed up at me with that look of cunning on his face
which one associates with abject terror.
‘Atherton?--Is it you?--It’s all right,--quite right.--I’m well,--very
well.’
As he spoke, he slowly drew himself up, till he was standing erect.
‘Then, in that case, all I can say is that you have a queer way of
being very well.’
He put his hand up to his mouth, as if to hide the trembling of his
lips.
‘It’s the pressure of overwork,--I’ve had one or two attacks like
this,--but it’s nothing, only--a local lesion.’
I observed him keenly; to my thinking there was something about him
which was very odd indeed.
‘Only a local lesion!--If you take my strongly-urged advice you’ll get
a medical opinion without delay,--if you haven’t been wise enough to
have done so already.’
‘I’ll go to-day;--at once; but I know it’s only mental overstrain.’
‘You’re sure it’s nothing to do with this?’
I held out in front of him the photogravure of the beetle. As I did so
he backed away from me, shrieking, trembling as with palsy.
‘Take it away! take it away!’ he screamed.
I stared at him, for some seconds, astonished into speechlessness. Then
I found my tongue.
‘Lessingham!--It’s only a picture!--Are you stark mad?’
He persisted in his ejaculations.
‘Take it away! take it away!--Tear it up!--Burn it!’
His agitation was so unnatural,--from whatever cause it arose!--that,
fearing the recurrence of the attack from which he had just recovered,
I did as he bade me. I tore the sheet of paper into quarters, and,
striking a match, set fire to each separate piece. He watched the
process of incineration as if fascinated. When it was concluded, and
nothing but ashes remained, he gave a gasp of relief.
‘Lessingham,’ I said, ‘you’re either mad already, or you’re going
mad,--which is it?’
‘I think it’s neither. I believe I am as sane as you. It’s--it’s that
story of which I was speaking; it--it seems curious, but I’ll tell you
all about it--some day. As I observed, I think you will find it an
interesting instance of a singular survival.’ He made an obvious effort
to become more like his usual self. ‘It is extremely unfortunate,
Atherton, that I should have troubled you with such a display of
weakness,--especially as I am able to offer you so scant an
explanation. One thing I would ask of you,--to observe strict
confidence. What has taken place has been between ourselves. I am in
your hands, but you are my friend, I know I can rely on you not to
speak of it to anyone,--and, in particular, not to breathe a hint of it
to Miss Lindon.’
‘Why, in particular, not to Miss Lindon?’
‘Can you not guess?’
I hunched my shoulder.
‘If what I guess is what you mean is not that a cause the more why
silence would be unfair to her?’
‘It is for me to speak, if for anyone. I shall not fail to do what
should be done.--Give me your promise that you will not hint a word to
her of what you have so unfortunately seen?’
I gave him the promise he required.
* * * * * * *
There was no more work for me that day. The Apostle, his divagations,
his example of the coleoptera, his Arabian friend,--these things were
as microbes which, acting on a system already predisposed for their
reception, produced high fever; I was in a fever,--of unrest. Brain in
a whirl!--Marjorie, Paul, Isis, beetle, mesmerism, in delirious jumble.
Love’s upsetting!--in itself a sufficiently severe disease; but when
complications intervene, suggestive of mystery and novelties, so that
you do not know if you are moving in an atmosphere of dreams or of
frozen facts,--if, then, your temperature does not rise, like that
rocket of M. Verne’s,--which reached the moon, then you are a freak of
an entirely genuine kind, and if the surgeons do not preserve you, and
place you on view, in pickle, they ought to, for the sake of historical
doubters, for no one will believe that there ever was a man like you,
unless you yourself are somewhere around to prove them Thomases.
Myself,--I am not that kind of man. When I get warm I grow heated, and
when I am heated there is likely to be a variety show of a gaudy kind.
When Paul had gone I tried to think things out, and if I had kept on
trying something would have happened--so I went on the river instead.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE DUCHESS’ BALL
That night was the Duchess of Datchet’s ball--the first person I saw
as I entered the dancing-room was Dora Grayling.
I went straight up to her.
‘Miss Grayling, I behaved very badly to you last night. I have come to
make to you my apologies,--to sue for your forgiveness!’
‘My forgiveness?’ Her head went back,--she has a pretty bird-like trick
of cocking it a little on one side. ‘You were not well. Are you better?’
‘Quite.--You forgive me? Then grant me plenary absolution by giving me
a dance for the one I lost last night.’
She rose. A man came up,--a stranger to me; she’s one of the best
hunted women in England,--there’s a million with her.
‘This is my dance, Miss Grayling.’
She looked at him.
‘You must excuse me. I am afraid I have made a mistake. I had forgotten
that I was already engaged.’
I had not thought her capable of it. She took my arm, and away we went,
and left him staring.
‘It’s he who’s the sufferer now,’ I whispered, as we went round,--she
can waltz!
‘You think so? It was I last night,--I did not mean, if I could help
it, to suffer again. To me a dance with you means something.’ She went
all red,--adding, as an afterthought, ‘Nowadays so few men really
dance. I expect it’s because you dance so well.’
‘Thank you.’
We danced the waltz right through, then we went to an impromptu shelter
which had been rigged up on a balcony. And we talked. There’s something
sympathetic about Miss Grayling which leads one to talk about one’s
self,--before I was half aware of it I was telling her of all my plans
and projects,--actually telling her of my latest notion which,
ultimately, was to result in the destruction of whole armies as by a
flash of lightning. She took an amount of interest in it which was
surprising.
‘What really stands in the way of things of this sort is not theory but
practice,--one can prove one’s facts on paper, or on a small scale in a
room; what is wanted is proof on a large scale, by actual experiment.
If, for instance, I could take my plant to one of the forests of South
America, where there is plenty of animal life but no human, I could
demonstrate the soundness of my position then and there.’
‘Why don’t you?’
‘Think of the money it would cost.’
‘I thought I was a friend of yours.’
‘I had hoped you were.’
‘Then why don’t you let me help you?’
‘Help me?--How?’
‘By letting you have the money for your South American experiment;--it
would be an investment on which I should expect to receive good
interest.’
I fidgeted.
‘It is very good of you, Miss Grayling, to talk like that.’
She became quite frigid.
‘Please don’t be absurd!--I perceive quite clearly that you are
snubbing me, and that you are trying to do it as delicately as you know
how.’
‘Miss Grayling!’
‘I understand that it was an impertinence on my part to volunteer
assistance which was unasked; you have made that sufficiently plain.’
‘I assure you--’
‘Pray don’t. Of course, if it had been Miss Lindon it would have been
different; she would at least have received a civil answer. But we are
not all Miss Lindon.’
I was aghast. The outburst was so uncalled for,--I had not the faintest
notion what I had said or done to cause it; she was in such a
surprising passion--and it suited her!--I thought I had never seen her
look prettier,--I could do nothing else but stare. So she went
on,--with just as little reason.
‘Here is someone coming to claim this dance,--I can’t throw all my
partners over. Have I offended you so irremediably that it will be
impossible for you to dance with me again?’
‘Miss Grayling!--I shall be only too delighted.’ She handed me her
card. ‘Which may I have?’
‘For your own sake you had better place it as far off as you possibly
can.’
‘They all seem taken.’
‘That doesn’t matter; strike off any name you please, anywhere and put
your own instead.’
It was giving me an almost embarrassingly free hand. I booked myself
for the next waltz but two,--who it was who would have to give way to
me I did not trouble to inquire.
‘Mr Atherton!--Is that you?’
It was,--it was also she. It was Marjorie! And so soon as I saw her I
knew that there was only one woman in the world for me,--the mere sight
of her sent the blood tingling through my veins. Turning to her
attendant cavalier, she dismissed him with a bow.
‘Is there an empty chair?’
She seated herself in the one Miss Grayling had just vacated. I sat
down beside her. She glanced at me, laughter in her eyes. I was all in
a stupid tremblement.
‘You remember that last night I told you that I might require your
friendly services in diplomatic intervention?’ I nodded,--I felt that
the allusion was unfair. ‘Well, the occasion’s come,--or, at least,
it’s very near.’ She was still,--and I said nothing to help her. ‘You
know how unreasonable papa can be.’
I did,--never a more pig-headed man in England than Geoffrey
Lindon,--or, in a sense, a duller. But, just then, I was not prepared
to admit it to his child.
‘You know what an absurd objection he has to--Paul.’
There was an appreciative hesitation before she uttered the fellow’s
Christian name,--when it came it was with an accent of tenderness which
stung me like a gadfly. To speak to me--of all men,--of the fellow in
such a tone was--like a woman.
‘Has Mr Lindon no notion of how things stand between you?’
‘Except what he suspects. That is just where you are to come in, papa
thinks so much of you--I want you to sound Paul’s praises in his
ear--to prepare him for what must come.’ Was ever rejected lover
burdened with such a task? Its enormity kept me still. ‘Sydney, you
have always been my friend,--my truest, dearest friend. When I was a
little girl you used to come between papa and me, to shield me from his
wrath. Now that I am a big girl I want you to be on my side once more,
and to shield me still.’
Her voice softened. She laid her hand upon my arm. How, under her
touch, I burned.
‘But I don’t understand what cause there has been for secrecy,--why
should there have been any secrecy from the first?’
‘It was Paul’s wish that papa should not be told.’
‘Is Mr Lessingham ashamed of you?’
‘Sydney!’
‘Or does he fear your father?’
‘You are unkind. You know perfectly well that papa has been prejudiced
against him all along, you know that his political position is just now
one of the greatest difficulty, that every nerve and muscle is kept on
the continual strain, that it is in the highest degree essential that
further complications of every and any sort should be avoided. He is
quite aware that his suit will not be approved of by papa, and he
simply wishes that nothing shall be said about it till the end of the
session,--that is all.’
‘I see! Mr Lessingham is cautious even in love-making,--politician
first, and lover afterwards.’
‘Well!--why not?--would you have him injure the cause he has at heart
for want of a little patience?’
‘It depends what cause it is he has at heart.’
‘What is the matter with you?--why do you speak to me like that?--it is
not like you at all.’ She looked at me shrewdly, with flashing eyes.
‘Is it possible that you are--jealous?--that you were in earnest in
what you said last night?--I thought that was the sort of thing you
said to every girl.’
I would have given a great deal to take her in my arms, and press her
to my bosom then and there,--to think that she should taunt me with
having said to her the sort of thing I said to every girl.
‘What do you know of Mr Lessingham?’
‘What all the world knows,--that history will be made by him.’
‘There are kinds of history in the making of which one would not desire
to be associated. What do you know of his private life,--it was to that
that I was referring.’
‘Really,--you go too far. I know that he is one of the best, just as he
is one of the greatest, of men; for me, that is sufficient.’
‘If you do know that, it is sufficient.’
‘I do know it,--all the world knows it. Everyone with whom he comes in
contact is aware--must be aware, that he is incapable of a
dishonourable thought or action.’
‘Take my advice, don’t appreciate any man too highly. In the book of
every man’s life there is a page which he would wish to keep turned
down.’
‘There is no such page in Paul’s,--there may be in yours; I think that
probable.’
‘Thank you. I fear it is more than probable. I fear that, in my case,
the page may extend to several. There is nothing Apostolic about
me,--not even the name.’
‘Sydney!--you are unendurable!--It is the more strange to hear you talk
like this since Paul regards you as his friend.’
‘He flatters me.’
‘Are you not his friend?’
‘Is it not sufficient to be yours?’
‘No,--who is against Paul is against me.’
‘That is hard.’
‘How is it hard? Who is against the husband can hardly be for the
wife,--when the husband and the wife are one.’
‘But as yet you are not one.--Is my cause so hopeless?’
‘What do you call your cause?--are you thinking of that nonsense you
were talking about last night?’
She laughed!
‘You call it nonsense.--You ask for sympathy, and give--so much!’
‘I will give you all the sympathy you stand in need of,--I promise it!
My poor, dear Sydney!--don’t be so absurd! Do you think that I don’t
know you? You’re the best of friends, and the worst of lovers,--as the
one, so true; so fickle as the other. To my certain knowledge, with how
many girls have you been in love,--and out again. It is true that, to
the best of my knowledge and belief, you have never been in love with
me before,--but that’s the merest accident. Believe me, my dear, dear
Sydney, you’ll be in love with someone else to-morrow,--if you’re not
half-way there to-night. I confess, quite frankly, that, in that
direction, all the experience I have had of you has in nowise
strengthened my prophetic instinct. Cheer up!--one never knows!--Who is
this that’s coming?’
It was Dora Grayling who was coming,--I went off with her without a
word,--we were half-way through the dance before she spoke to me.
‘I am sorry that I was cross to you just now, and--disagreeable.
Somehow I always seem destined to show to you my most unpleasant side.’
‘The blame was mine,--what sort of side do I show you? You are far
kinder to me than I deserve,--now, and always.’
‘That is what you say.’
‘Pardon me, it’s true,--else how comes it that, at this time of day,
I’m without a friend in all the world?’
‘You!--without a friend!--I never knew a man who had so many!--I never
knew a person of whom so many men and women join in speaking well!’
‘Miss Grayling!’
‘As for never having done anything worth doing, think of what you have
done. Think of your discoveries, think of your inventions, think
of--but never mind! The world knows you have done great things, and it
confidently looks to you to do still greater. You talk of being
friendless, and yet when I ask, as a favour--as a great favour!--to be
allowed to do something to show my friendship, you--well, you snub me.’
‘I snub you!’
‘You know you snubbed me.’
‘Do you really mean that you take an interest in--in my work?’
‘You know I mean it.’
She turned to me, her face all glowing,--and I did know it.
‘Will you come to my laboratory to-morrow morning?’
‘Will I!--won’t I!’
‘With your aunt?’
‘Yes, with my aunt.’
‘I’ll show you round, and tell you all there is to be told, and then if
you still think there’s anything in it, I’ll accept your offer about
that South American experiment,--that is, if it still holds good.’
‘Of course it still holds good.’
‘And we’ll be partners.’
‘Partners?--Yes,--we will be partners.’
‘It will cost a terrific sum.’
‘There are some things which never can cost too much.’
‘That’s not my experience.’
‘I hope it will be mine.’
‘It’s a bargain?’
‘On my side, I promise you that it’s a bargain.’
When I got outside the room I found that Percy Woodville was at my
side. His round face was, in a manner of speaking, as long as my arm. He
took his glass out of his eye, and rubbed it with his handkerchief,--and
directly he put it back he took it out and rubbed it again. I believe
that I never saw him in such a state of fluster,--and, when one speaks
of Woodville, that means something.
‘Atherton, I am in a devil of a stew.’ He looked it. ‘All of a
heap!--I’ve had a blow which I shall never get over!’
‘Then get under.’
Woodville is one of those fellows who will insist on telling me their
most private matters,--even to what they owe their washerwomen for the
ruination of their shirts. Why, goodness alone can tell,--heaven knows
I am not sympathetic.
‘Don’t be an idiot!--you don’t know what I’m suffering!--I’m as nearly
as possible stark mad.’
‘That’s all right, old chap,--I’ve seen you that way more than once
before.’
‘Don’t talk like that,--you’re not a perfect brute!’
‘I bet you a shilling that I am.’
‘Don’t torture me,--you’re not. Atherton!’ He seized me by the lapels
of my coat, seeming half beside himself,--fortunately he had drawn me
into a recess, so that we were noticed by few observers. ‘What do you
think has happened?’
‘My dear chap, how on earth am I to know?’
‘She’s refused me!’
‘Has she!--Well I never!--Buck up,--try some other address,--there are
quite as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it.’
‘Atherton, you’re a blackguard.’
He had crumpled his handkerchief into a ball, and was actually bobbing
at his eyes with it,--the idea of Percy Woodville being dissolved in
tears was excruciatingly funny,--but, just then, I could hardly tell
him so.
‘There’s not a doubt of it,--it’s my way of being sympathetic. Don’t be
so down, man,--try her again!’
‘It’s not the slightest use--I know it isn’t--from the way she treated
me.’
‘Don’t be so sure--women often say what they mean least. Who’s the
lady?’
‘Who?--Is there more women in the world than one for me, or has there
ever been? You ask me who! What does the word mean to me but Marjorie
Lindon!’
‘Marjorie Lindon?’
I fancy that my jaw dropped open,--that, to use his own vernacular, I
was ‘all of a heap.’ I felt like it.
I strode away--leaving him mazed--and all but ran into Marjorie’s arms.
‘I’m just leaving. Will you see me to the carriage, Mr Atherton?’ I saw
her to the carriage. ‘Are you off?--can I give you a lift?’
‘Thank you,--I am not thinking of being off.’
‘I’m going to the House of Commons,--won’t you come?’
‘What are you going there for?’
Directly she spoke of it I knew why she was going,--and she knew that I
knew, as her words showed.
‘You are quite well aware of what the magnet is. You are not so
ignorant as not to know that the Agricultural Amendment Act is on
to-night, and that Paul is to speak. I always try to be there when Paul
is to speak, and I mean to always keep on trying.’
‘He is a fortunate man.’
‘Indeed,--and again indeed. A man with such gifts as his is
inadequately described as fortunate.--But I must be off. He expected to
be up before, but I heard from him a few minutes ago that there has
been a delay, but that he will be up within half-an-hour.--Till our
next meeting.’
As I returned into the house, in the hall I met Percy Woodville. He had
his hat on.
‘Where are you off to?’
‘I’m off to the House.’
‘To hear Paul Lessingham?’
‘Damn Paul Lessingham!’
‘With all my heart!’
‘There’s a division expected,--I’ve got to go.’
‘Someone else has gone to hear Paul Lessingham,--Marjorie Lindon.’
‘No!--you don’t say so!--by Jove!--I say, Atherton, I wish I could make
a speech,--I never can. When I’m electioneering I have to have my
speeches written for me, and then I have to read ’em. But, by Jove, if
I knew Miss Lindon was in the gallery, and if I knew anything about the
thing, or could get someone to tell me something, hang me if I wouldn’t
speak,--I’d show her I’m not the fool she thinks I am!’
‘Speak, Percy, speak!--you’d knock ’em silly, sir!--I tell you what
I’ll do,--I’ll come with you! I’ll to the House as well!--Paul
Lessingham shall have an audience of three.’
CHAPTER XV.
MR LESSINGHAM SPEAKS
The House was full. Percy and I went upstairs,--to the gallery which
is theoretically supposed to be reserved for what are called
‘distinguished strangers,’--those curious animals. Trumperton was up,
hammering out those sentences which smell, not so much of the lamp as
of the dunderhead. Nobody was listening,--except the men in the Press
Gallery; where is the brain of the House, and ninety per cent. of its
wisdom.
It was not till Trumperton had finished that I discovered Lessingham.
The tedious ancient resumed his seat amidst a murmur of sounds which, I
have no doubt, some of the pressmen interpreted next day as ‘loud and
continued applause.’ There was movement in the House, possibly
expressive of relief; a hum of voices; men came flocking in. Then, from
the Opposition benches, there rose a sound which was applause,--and I
perceived that, on a cross bench close to the gangway, Paul Lessingham
was standing up bareheaded.
I eyed him critically,--as a collector might eye a valuable specimen,
or a pathologist a curious subject. During the last four and twenty
hours my interest in him had grown apace. Just then, to me, he was the
most interesting man the world contained.
When I remembered how I had seen him that same morning, a nerveless,
terror-stricken wretch, grovelling, like some craven cur, upon the
floor, frightened, to the verge of imbecility, by a shadow, and less
than a shadow, I was confronted by two hypotheses. Either I had
exaggerated his condition then, or I exaggerated his condition now. So
far as appearance went, it was incredible that this man could be that
one.
I confess that my feeling rapidly became one of admiration. I love the
fighter. I quickly recognised that here we had him in perfection. There
was no seeming about him then,--the man was to the manner born. To his
finger-tips a fighting man. I had never realised it so clearly before.
He was coolness itself. He had all his faculties under complete
command. While never, for a moment, really exposing himself, he would
be swift in perceiving the slightest weakness in his opponents’
defence, and, so soon as he saw it, like lightning, he would slip in a
telling blow. Though defeated, he would hardly be disgraced; and one
might easily believe that their very victories would be so expensive to
his assailants, that, in the end, they would actually conduce to his
own triumph.
‘Hang me!’ I told myself, ‘if, after all, I am surprised if Marjorie
does see something in him.’ For I perceived how a clever and
imaginative young woman, seeing him at his best, holding his own, like
a gallant knight, against overwhelming odds, in the lists in which he
was so much at home, might come to think of him as if he were always
and only there, ignoring altogether the kind of man he was when the
joust was finished.
It did me good to hear him, I do know that,--and I could easily imagine
the effect he had on one particular auditor who was in the Ladies’
Cage. It was very far from being an ‘oration’ in the American sense; it
had little or nothing of the fire and fury of the French Tribune; it
was marked neither by the ponderosity nor the sentiment of the eloquent
German; yet it was as satisfying as are the efforts of either of the
three, producing, without doubt, precisely the effect which the speaker
intended. His voice was clear and calm, not exactly musical, yet
distinctly pleasant, and it was so managed that each word he uttered
was as audible to every person present as if it had been addressed
particularly to him. His sentences were short and crisp; the words
which he used were not big ones, but they came from him with an
agreeable ease; and he spoke just fast enough to keep one’s interest
alert without involving a strain on the attention.
He commenced by making, in the quietest and most courteous manner,
sarcastic comments on the speeches and methods of Trumperton and his
friends which tickled the House amazingly. But he did not make the
mistake of pushing his personalities too far. To a speaker of a certain
sort nothing is easier than to sting to madness. If he likes, his every
word is barbed. Wounds so given fester; they are not easily
forgiven;--it is essential to a politician that he should have his
firmest friends among the fools; or his climbing days will soon be
over. Soon his sarcasms were at an end. He began to exchange them for
sweet-sounding phrases. He actually began to say pleasant things to his
opponents; apparently to mean them. To put them in a good conceit with
themselves. He pointed out how much truth there was in what they said;
and then, as if by accident, with what ease and at how little cost,
amendments might be made. He found their arguments, and took them for
his own, and flattered them, whether they would or would not, by
showing how firmly they were founded upon fact; and grafted other
arguments upon them, which seemed their natural sequelae; and
transformed them, and drove them hither and thither; and brought
them--their own arguments!--to a round, irrefragable conclusion, which
was diametrically the reverse of that to which they themselves had
brought them. And he did it all with an aptness, a readiness, a grace,
which was incontestable. So that, when he sat down, he had performed
that most difficult of all feats, he had delivered what, in a House of
Commons’ sense, was a practical, statesmanlike speech, and yet one
which left his hearers in an excellent humour.
It was a great success,--an immense success. A parliamentary triumph of
almost the highest order. Paul Lessingham had been coming on by leaps
and bounds. When he resumed his seat, amidst applause which, this time,
really was applause, there were, probably, few who doubted that he was
destined to go still farther. How much farther it is true that time
alone could tell; but, so far as appearances went, all the prizes,
which are as the crown and climax of a statesman’s career, were well
within his reach.
For my part, I was delighted. I had enjoyed an intellectual
exercise,--a species of enjoyment not so common as it might be. The
Apostle had almost persuaded me that the political game was one worth
playing, and that its triumphs were things to be desired. It is
something, after all, to be able to appeal successfully to the passions
and aspirations of your peers; to gain their plaudits; to prove your
skill at the game you yourself have chosen; to be looked up to and
admired. And when a woman’s eyes look down on you, and her ears drink
in your every word, and her heart beats time with yours,--each man to
his own temperament, but when that woman is the woman whom you love, to
know that your triumph means her glory, and her gladness, to me that
would be the best part of it all.
In that hour,--the Apostle’s hour!--I almost wished that I were a
politician too!
The division was over. The business of the night was practically done.
I was back again in the lobby! The theme of conversation was the
Apostle’s speech,--on every side they talked of it.
Suddenly Marjorie was at my side. Her face was glowing. I never saw her
look more beautiful,--or happier. She seemed to be alone.
‘So you have come, after all!--Wasn’t it splendid?--wasn’t it
magnificent? Isn’t it grand to have such great gifts, and to use them
to such good purpose?--Speak, Sydney! Don’t feign a coolness which is
foreign to your nature!’
I saw that she was hungry for me to praise the man whom she delighted
to honour. But, somehow, her enthusiasm cooled mine.
‘It was not a bad speech, of a kind.’
‘Of a kind!’ How her eyes flashed fire! With what disdain she treated
me! ‘What do you mean by “of a kind?” My dear Sydney, are you not aware
that it is an attribute of small minds to attempt to belittle those
which are greater? Even if you are conscious of inferiority, it’s
unwise to show it. Mr Lessingham’s was a great speech, of any kind;
your incapacity to recognise the fact simply reveals your lack of the
critical faculty.’
‘It is fortunate for Mr Lessingham that there is at least one person in
whom the critical faculty is so bountifully developed. Apparently, in
your judgment, he who discriminates is lost.’
I thought she was going to burst into passion. But, instead, laughing,
she placed her hand upon my shoulder.
‘Poor Sydney!--I understand!--It is so sad!--Do you know you are like a
little boy who, when he is beaten, declares that the victor has cheated
him. Never mind! as you grow older, you will learn better.’
She stung me almost beyond bearing,--I cared not what I said.
‘You, unless I am mistaken, will learn better before you are older.’
‘What do you mean?’
Before I could have told her--if I had meant to tell; which I did
not--Lessingham came up.
‘I hope I have not kept you waiting; I have been delayed longer than I
expected.’
‘Not at all,--though I am quite ready to get away; it’s a little
tiresome waiting here.’
This with a mischievous glance towards me,--a glance which compelled
Lessingham to notice me.
‘You do not often favour us.’
‘I don’t. I find better employment for my time.’
‘You are wrong. It’s the cant of the day to underrate the House of
Commons, and the work which it performs; don’t you suffer yourself to
join in the chorus of the simpletons. Your time cannot be better
employed than in endeavouring to improve the body politic.’
‘I am obliged to you.--I hope you are feeling better than when I saw
you last.’
A gleam came into his eyes, fading as quickly as it came. He showed no
other sign of comprehension, surprise, or resentment.
‘Thank you.--I am very well.’
But Marjorie perceived that I meant more than met the eye, and that
what I meant was meant unpleasantly.
‘Come,--let us be off. It is Mr Atherton to-night who is not well.’
She had just slipped her arm through Lessingham’s when her father
approached. Old Lindon stared at her on the Apostle’s arm, as if he
could hardly believe that it was she.
‘I thought that you were at the Duchess’?’
‘So I have been, papa; and now I’m here.’
‘Here!’ Old Lindon began to stutter and stammer, and to grow red in the
face, as is his wont when at all excited. ‘W--what do you mean by
here?--wh--where’s the carriage?’
‘Where should it be, except waiting for me outside,--unless the horses
have run away.’
‘I--I--I’ll take you down to it. I--I don’t approve of y--your
w--w--waiting in a place like this.’
‘Thank you, papa, but Mr Lessingham is going to take me down.--I shall
see you afterwards.--Good-bye.’
Anything cooler than the way in which she walked off I do not think I
ever saw. This is the age of feminine advancement. Young women think
nothing of twisting their mothers round their fingers, let alone their
fathers; but the fashion in which that young woman walked off, on the
Apostle’s arm, and left her father standing there, was, in its way, a
study.
Lindon seemed scarcely able to realise that the pair of them had gone.
Even after they had disappeared in the crowd he stood staring after
them, growing redder and redder, till the veins stood out upon his
face, and I thought that an apoplectic seizure threatened. Then, with a
gasp, he turned to me.
‘Damned scoundrel!’ I took it for granted that he alluded to the
gentleman,--even though his following words hardly suggested it. ‘Only
this morning I forbade her to have anything to do with him, and n--now
he’s w--walked off with her! C--confounded adventurer! That’s what he
is, an adventurer, and before many hours have passed I’ll take the
liberty to tell him so!’
Jamming his fists into his pockets, and puffing like a grampus in
distress, he took himself away,--and it was time he did, for his words
were as audible as they were pointed, and already people were wondering
what the matter was. Woodville came up as Lindon was going,--just as
sorely distressed as ever.
‘She went away with Lessingham,--did you see her?’
‘Of course I saw her. When a man makes a speech like Lessingham’s any
girl would go away with him,--and be proud to. When you are endowed
with such great powers as he is, and use them for such lofty purposes,
she’ll walk away with you,--but, till then, never.’
He was at his old trick of polishing his eyeglass.
‘It’s bitter hard. When I knew that she was there, I’d half a mind to
make a speech myself, upon my word I had, only I didn’t know what to
speak about, and I can’t speak anyhow,--how can a fellow speak when
he’s shoved into the gallery?’
‘As you say, how can he?--he can’t stand on the railing and
shout,--even with a friend holding him behind.’
‘I know I shall speak one day,--bound to; and then she won’t be there.’
‘It’ll be better for you if she isn’t.’
‘Think so?--Perhaps you’re right. I’d be safe to make a mess of it, and
then, if she were to see me at it, it’d be the devil! ’Pon my word,
I’ve been wishing, lately, I was clever.’
He rubbed his nose with the rim of his eyeglass, looking the most
comically disconsolate figure.
‘Put black care behind you, Percy!--buck up, my boy! The division’s
over--you are free--now we’ll go “on the fly.”’
And we did ‘go on the fly.’
CHAPTER XVI.
ATHERTON’S MAGIC VAPOUR
I bore him off to supper at the Helicon. All the way in the cab he was
trying to tell me the story of how he proposed to Marjorie,--and he was
very far from being through with it when we reached the club. There was
the usual crowd of supperites, but we got a little table to ourselves,
in a corner of the room, and before anything was brought for us to eat
he was at it again. A good many of the people were pretty near to
shouting, and as they seemed to be all speaking at once, and the band
was playing, and as the Helicon supper band is not piano, Percy did not
have it quite all to himself, but, considering the delicacy of his
subject, he talked as loudly as was decent,--getting more so as he went
on. But Percy is peculiar.
‘I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to tell her,--over and over
again.’
‘Have you now?’
‘Yes, pretty near every time I met her,--but I never seemed to get
quite to it, don’t you know.’
‘How was that?’
‘Why, just as I was going to say, “Miss Lindon, may I offer you the
gift of my affection--”’
‘Was that how you invariably intended to begin?’
‘Well, not always--one time like that, another time another way. Fact
is, I got off a little speech by heart, but I never got a chance to
reel it off, so I made up my mind to just say anything.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘Well, nothing,--you see, I never got there. Just as I was feeling my
way, she’d ask me if I preferred big sleeves to little ones, or top
hats to billycocks, or some nonsense of the kind.’
‘Would she now?’
‘Yes,--of course I had to answer, and by the time I’d answered the
chance was lost.’ Percy was polishing his eyeglass. ‘I tried to get
there so many times, and she choked me off so often, that I can’t help
thinking that she suspected what it was that I was after.’
‘You think she did?’
‘She must have done. Once I followed her down Piccadilly, and chivied
her into a glove shop in the Burlington Arcade. I meant to propose to
her in there,--I hadn’t had a wink of sleep all night through dreaming
of her, and I was just about desperate.’
‘And did you propose?’
‘The girl behind the counter made me buy a dozen pairs of gloves
instead. They turned out to be three sizes too large for me when they
came home. I believe she thought I’d gone to spoon the glove girl,--she
went out and left me there. That girl loaded me with all sorts of
things when she was gone,--I couldn’t get away. She held me with her
blessed eye. I believe it was a glass one.’
‘Miss Lindon’s?--or the glove girl’s?’
‘The glove girl’s. She sent me home a whole cartload of green ties, and
declared I’d ordered them. I shall never forget that day. I’ve never
been up the Arcade since, and never mean to.’
‘You gave Miss Lindon a wrong impression.’
‘I don’t know. I was always giving her wrong impressions. Once she said
that she knew I was not a marrying man, that I was the sort of chap who
never would marry, because she saw it in my face.’
‘Under the circumstances, that was trying.’
‘Bitter hard.’ Percy sighed again. ‘I shouldn’t mind if I wasn’t so
gone. I’m not a fellow who does get gone, but when I do get gone, I get
so beastly gone.’
‘I tell you what, Percy,--have a drink!’
‘I’m a teetotaler,--you know I am.’
‘You talk of your heart being broken, and of your being a teetotaler in
the same breath,--if your heart were really broken you’d throw
teetotalism to the winds.’
‘Do you think so,--why?’
‘Because you would,--men whose hearts are broken always do,--you’d
swallow a magnum at the least.’
Percy groaned.
‘When I drink I’m always ill,--but I’ll have a try.’
He had a try,--making a good beginning by emptying at a draught the
glass which the waiter had just now filled. Then he relapsed into
melancholy.
‘Tell me, Percy,--honest Indian!--do you really love her?’
‘Love her?’ His eyes grew round as saucers. ‘Don’t I tell you that I
love her?’
‘I know you tell me, but that sort of thing is easy telling. What does
it make you feel like, this love you talk so much about?’
‘Feel like?--Just anyhow,--and nohow. You should look inside me, and
then you’d know.’
‘I see.--It’s like that, is it?--Suppose she loved another man, what
sort of feeling would you feel towards him?’
‘Does she love another man?’
‘I say, suppose.’
‘I dare say she does. I expect that’s it.--What an idiot I am not to
have thought of that before.’ He sighed,--and refilled his glass. ‘He’s
a lucky chap, whoever he is. I’d--I’d like to tell him so.’
‘You’d like to tell him so?’
‘He’s such a jolly lucky chap, you know.’
‘Possibly,--but his jolly good luck is your jolly bad luck. Would you
be willing to resign her to him without a word?’
‘If she loves him.’
‘But you say you love her.’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Well then?’
‘You don’t suppose that, because I love her, I shouldn’t like to see
her happy?--I’m not such a beast!--I’d sooner see her happy than
anything else in all the world.’
‘I see.--Even happy with another?--I’m afraid that my philosophy is not
like yours. If I loved Miss Lindon, and she loved, say, Jones, I’m
afraid I shouldn’t feel like that towards Jones at all.’
‘What would you feel like?’
‘Murder.--Percy, you come home with me,--we’ve begun the night
together, let’s end it together,--and I’ll show you one of the finest
notions for committing murder on a scale of real magnificence you ever
dreamed of. I should like to make use of it to show my feelings towards
the supposititious Jones,--he’d know what I felt for him when once he
had been introduced to it.’
Percy went with me without a word. He had not had much to drink, but it
had been too much for him, and he was in a condition of maundering
sentimentality. I got him into a cab. We dashed along Piccadilly.
He was silent, and sat looking in front of him with an air of vacuous
sullenness which ill-became his cast of countenance. I bade the cabman
pass though Lowndes Square. As we passed the Apostle’s I pulled him up.
I pointed out the place to Woodville.
‘You see, Percy, that’s Lessingham’s house!--that’s the house of the
man who went away with Marjorie!’
‘Yes.’ Words came from him slowly, with a quite unnecessary stress on
each. ‘Because he made a speech.--I’d like to make a speech.--One day
I’ll make a speech.’
‘Because he made a speech,--only that, and nothing more! When a man
speaks with an Apostle’s tongue, he can witch any woman in the
land.--Hallo, who’s that?--Lessingham, is that you?’
I saw, or thought I saw, someone, or something, glide up the steps, and
withdraw into the shadow of the doorway, as if unwilling to be seen.
When I hailed no one answered. I called again.
‘Don’t be shy, my friend!’
I sprang out of the cab, ran across the pavement, and up the steps. To
my surprise, there was no one in the doorway. It seemed incredible, but
the place was empty. I felt about me with my hands, as if I had been
playing at blind man’s buff, and grasped at vacancy. I came down a step
or two.
‘Ostensibly, there’s a vacuum,--which nature abhors.--I say, driver,
didn’t you see someone come up the steps?’
‘I thought I did, sir,--I could have sworn I did.’
‘So could I.--It’s very odd.’
‘Perhaps whoever it was has gone into the ’ouse, sir.’
‘I don’t see how. We should have heard the door open, if we hadn’t seen
it,--and we should have seen it, it’s not so dark as that.--I’ve half a
mind to ring the bell and inquire.’
‘I shouldn’t do that if I was you, sir,--you jump in, and I’ll get
along. This is Mr Lessingham’s,--the great Mr Lessingham’s.’
I believe the cabman thought that I was drunk,--and not respectable
enough to claim acquaintance with the great Mr Lessingham.
‘Wake up, Woodville! Do you know I believe there’s some mystery about
this place,--I feel assured of it. I feel as if I were in the presence
of something uncanny,--something which I can neither see, nor touch,
nor hear.’
The cabman bent down from his seat, wheedling me.
‘Jump in, sir, and we’ll be getting along.’
I jumped in, and we got along,--but not far. Before we had gone a dozen
yards, I was out again, without troubling the driver to stop. He pulled
up, aggrieved.
‘Well, sir, what’s the matter now? You’ll be damaging yourself before
you’ve done, and then you’ll be blaming me.’
I had caught sight of a cat crouching in the shadow of the railings,--a
black one. That cat was my quarry. Either the creature was unusually
sleepy, or slow, or stupid, or it had lost its wits--which a cat seldom
does lose!--anyhow, without making an attempt to escape it allowed me
to grab it by the nape of the neck.
So soon as we were inside my laboratory, I put the cat into my glass
box. Percy stared.
‘What have you put it there for?’
‘That, my dear Percy, is what you are shortly about to see. You are
about to be the witness of an experiment which, to a legislator--such
as you are!--ought to be of the greatest possible interest. I am going
to demonstrate, on a small scale, the action of the force which, on a
large scale, I propose to employ on behalf of my native land.’
He showed no signs of being interested. Sinking into a chair, he
recommenced his wearisome reiteration.
‘I hate cats!--Do let it go!--I’m always miserable when there’s a cat
in the room.’
‘Nonsense,--that’s your fancy! What you want’s a taste of
whisky--you’ll be as chirpy as a cricket.’
‘I don’t want anything more to drink!--I’ve had too much already!’
I paid no heed to what he said. I poured two stiff doses into a couple
of tumblers. Without seeming to be aware of what it was that he was
doing he disposed of the better half of the one I gave him at a
draught. Putting his glass upon the table, he dropped his head upon his
hands, and groaned.
‘What would Marjorie think of me if she saw me now?’
‘Think?--nothing. Why should she think of a man like you, when she has
so much better fish to fry?’
‘I’m feeling frightfully ill!--I’ll be drunk before I’ve done!’
‘Then be drunk!--only, for gracious sake, be lively drunk, not deadly
doleful.--Cheer up, Percy!’ I clapped him on the shoulder,--almost
knocking him off his seat on to the floor. ‘I am now going to show you
that little experiment of which I was speaking!--You see that cat?’
‘Of course I see it!--the beast!--I wish you’d let it go!’
‘Why should I let it go?--Do you know whose cat that is? That cat’s
Paul Lessingham’s.’
‘Paul Lessingham’s?’
‘Yes, Paul Lessingham’s,--the man who made the speech,--the man whom
Marjorie went away with.’
‘How do you know it’s his?’
‘I don’t know it is, but I believe it is,--I choose to believe it
is!--I intend to believe it is!--It was outside his house, therefore
it’s his cat,--that’s how I argue. I can’t get Lessingham inside that
box, so I get his cat instead.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘You shall see.--You observe how happy it is?’
‘It don’t seem happy.’
‘We’ve all our ways of seeming happy,--that’s its way.’
The creature was behaving like a cat gone mad, dashing itself against
the sides of its glass prison, leaping to and fro, and from side to
side, squealing with rage, or with terror, or with both. Perhaps it
foresaw what was coming,--there is no fathoming the intelligence of
what we call the lower animals.
‘It’s a funny way.’
‘We some of us have funny ways, beside cats. Now, attention! Observe
this little toy,--you’ve seen something of its kind before. It’s a
spring gun; you pull the spring--drop the charge into the
barrel--release the spring--and the charge is fired. I’ll unlock this
safe, which is built into the wall. It’s a letter lock, the combination
just now, is “whisky,”--you see, that’s a hint to you. You’ll notice
the safe is strongly made,--it’s air-tight, fire-proof, the outer
casing is of triple-plated drill-proof steel,--the contents are
valuable--to me!--and devilish dangerous,--I’d pity the thief who, in
his innocent ignorance, broke in to steal. Look inside,--you see it’s
full of balls,--glass balls, each in its own little separate nest;
light as feathers; transparent,--you can see right through them. Here
are a couple, like tiny pills. They contain neither dynamite, nor
cordite, nor anything of the kind, yet, given a fair field and no
favour, they’ll work more mischief than all the explosives man has
fashioned. Take hold of one--you say your heart is broken!--squeeze
this under your nose--it wants but a gentle pressure--and in less time
than no time you’ll be in the land where they say there are no broken
hearts.’
He shrunk back.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.--I don’t want the thing.--Take
it away.’
‘Think twice,--the chance may not recur.’
‘I tell you I don’t want it.’
‘Sure?--Consider!’
‘Of course I’m sure!’
‘Then the cat shall have it.’
‘Let the poor brute go!’
‘The poor brute’s going,--to the land which is so near, and yet so far.
Once more, if you please, attention. Notice what I do with this toy
gun. I pull back the spring; I insert this small glass pellet; I thrust
the muzzle of the gun through the opening in the glass box which
contains the Apostle’s cat,--you’ll observe it fits quite close, which,
on the whole, is perhaps as well for us.--I am about to release the
spring.--Close attention, please.--Notice the effect.’
‘Atherton, let the brute go!’
‘The brute’s gone! I’ve released the spring--the pellet has been
discharged--it has struck against the roof of the glass box--it has
been broken by the contact,--and, hey presto! the cat lies dead,--and
that in face of its nine lives. You perceive how still it is,--how
still! Let’s hope that, now, it’s really happy. The cat which I choose
to believe is Paul Lessingham’s has received its quietus; in the
morning I’ll send it back to him, with my respectful compliments. He’ll
miss it if I don’t.--Reflect! think of a huge bomb, filled with what
we’ll call Atherton’s Magic Vapour, fired, say, from a hundred and
twenty ton gun, bursting at a given elevation over the heads of an
opposing force. Properly managed, in less than an instant of time, a
hundred thousand men,--quite possibly more!--would drop down dead, as
if smitten by the lightning of the skies. Isn’t that something like a
weapon, sir?’
‘I’m not well!--I want to get away!--I wish I’d never come!’
That was all Woodville had to say.
‘Rubbish!--You’re adding to your stock of information every second,
and, in these days, when a member of Parliament is supposed to know all
about everything, information’s the one thing wanted. Empty your glass,
man,--that’s the time of day for you!’
I handed him his tumbler. He drained what was left of its contents,
then, in a fit of tipsy, childish temper he flung the tumbler from him.
I had placed--carelessly enough--the second pellet within a foot of the
edge of the table. The shock of the heavy beaker striking the board
close to it, set it rolling. I was at the other side. I started forward
to stop its motion, but I was too late. Before I could reach the
crystal globule, it had fallen off the edge of the table on to the
floor at Woodville’s feet, and smashed in falling. As it smashed, he
was looking down, wondering, no doubt, in his stupidity, what the
pother was about,--for I was shouting, and making something of a
clatter in my efforts to prevent the catastrophe which I saw was
coming. On the instant, as the vapour secreted in the broken pellet
gained access to the air, he fell forward on to his face. Rushing to
him, I snatched his senseless body from the ground, and dragged it,
staggeringly, towards the door which opened on to the yard. Flinging
the door open, I got him into the open air.
As I did so, I found myself confronted by someone who stood outside. It
was Lessingham’s mysterious Egypto-Arabian friend,--my morning’s
visitor.
CHAPTER XVII.
MAGIC?--OR MIRACLE?
The passage into the yard from the electrically lit laboratory was a
passage from brilliancy to gloom. The shrouded figure standing in the
shadow, was like some object in a dream. My own senses reeled. It was
only because I had resolutely held my breath, and kept my face averted
that I had not succumbed to the fate which had overtaken Woodville. Had
I been a moment longer in gaining the open air, it would have been too
late. As it was, in placing Woodville on the ground, I stumbled over
him. My senses left me. Even as they went I was conscious of
exclaiming,--remembering the saying about the engineer being hoist by
his own petard,
‘Atherton’s Magic Vapour!’
My sensations on returning to consciousness were curious. I found
myself being supported in someone’s arms, a stranger’s face was bending
over me, and the most extraordinary pair of eyes I had ever seen were
looking into mine.
‘Who the deuce are you?’ I asked.
Then, understanding that it was my uninvited visitor, with scant
ceremony I drew myself away from him. By the light which was streaming
through the laboratory door I saw that Woodville was lying close beside
me,--stark and still.
‘Is he dead?’ I cried. ‘Percy!--speak, man!--it’s not so bad with you
as that!’
But it was pretty bad,--so bad that, as I bent down and looked at him,
my heart beat uncomfortably fast lest it was as bad as it could be. His
heart seemed still,--the vapour took effect directly on the cardiac
centres. To revive their action, and that instantly, was indispensable.
Yet my brain was in such a whirl that I could not even think of how to
set about beginning. Had I been alone, it is more than probable
Woodville would have died. As I stared at him, senselessly, aimlessly,
the stranger, passing his arms beneath his body, extended himself at
full length upon his motionless form. Putting his lips to Percy’s, he
seemed to be pumping life from his own body into the unconscious man’s.
As I gazed bewildered, surprised, presently there came a movement of
Percy’s body. His limbs twitched, as if he was in pain. By degrees, the
motions became convulsive,--till on a sudden he bestirred himself to
such effect that the stranger was rolled right off him. I bent
down,--to find that the young gentleman’s condition still seemed very
far from satisfactory. There was a rigidity about the muscles of his
face, a clamminess about his skin, a disagreeable suggestiveness about
the way in which his teeth and the whites of his eyes were exposed,
which was uncomfortable to contemplate.
The stranger must have seen what was passing through my mind,--not a
very difficult thing to see. Pointing to the recumbent Percy, he said,
with that queer foreign twang of his, which, whatever it had seemed
like in the morning, sounded musical enough just then.
‘All will be well with him.’
‘I am not so sure.’
The stranger did not deign to answer. He was kneeling on one side of
the victim of modern science, I on the other. Passing his hand to and
fro in front of the unconscious countenance, as if by magic all
semblance of discomfort vanished from Percy’s features, and, to all
appearances, he was placidly asleep.
‘Have you hypnotised him?’
‘What does it matter?’
If it was a case of hypnotism, it was very neatly done. The conditions
were both unusual and trying, the effect produced seemed all that could
be desired,--the change brought about in half a dozen seconds was quite
remarkable. I began to be aware of a feeling of quasi-respect for Paul
Lessingham’s friend. His morals might be peculiar, and manners he might
have none, but in this case, at any rate, the end seemed to have
justified the means. He went on.
‘He sleeps. When he awakes he will remember nothing that has been.
Leave him,--the night is warm,--all will be well.’
As he said, the night was warm,--and it was dry. Percy would come to
little harm by being allowed to enjoy, for a while, the pleasant
breezes. So I acted on the stranger’s advice, and left him lying in the
yard, while I had a little interview with the impromptu physician.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE BEETLE
The laboratory door was closed. The stranger was standing a foot or two
away from it. I was further within the room, and was subjecting him to
as keen a scrutiny as circumstances permitted. Beyond doubt he was
conscious of my observation, yet he bore himself with an air of
indifference, which was suggestive of perfect unconcern. The fellow was
oriental to the finger-tips,--that much was certain; yet in spite of a
pretty wide personal knowledge of oriental people I could not make up
my mind as to the exact part of the east from which he came. He was
hardly an Arab, he was not a fellah,--he was not, unless I erred, a
Mohammedan at all. There was something about him which was distinctly
not Mussulmanic. So far as looks were concerned, he was not a
flattering example of his race, whatever his race might be. The
portentous size of his beak-like nose would have been, in itself,
sufficient to damn him in any court of beauty. His lips were thick and
shapeless,--and this, joined to another peculiarity in his appearance,
seemed to suggest that, in his veins there ran more than a streak of
negro blood. The peculiarity alluded to was his semblance of great age.
As one eyed him one was reminded of the legends told of people who have
been supposed to have retained something of their pristine vigour after
having lived for centuries. As, however, one continued to gaze, one
began to wonder if he really was so old as he seemed,--if, indeed, he
was exceptionally old at all. Negroes, and especially negresses, are
apt to age with extreme rapidity. Among coloured folk one sometimes
encounters women whose faces seem to have been lined by the passage of
centuries, yet whose actual tale of years would entitle them to regard
themselves, here in England, as in the prime of life. The senility of
the fellow’s countenance, besides, was contradicted by the juvenescence
of his eyes. No really old man could have had eyes like that. They were
curiously shaped, reminding me of the elongated, faceted eyes of some
queer creature, with whose appearance I was familiar, although I could
not, at the instant, recall its name. They glowed not only with the
force and fire, but, also, with the frenzy of youth. More
uncanny-looking eyes I had never encountered,--their possessor could
not be, in any sense of the word, a clubable person. Owing, probably,
to some peculiar formation of the optic-nerve one felt, as one met his
gaze, that he was looking right through you. More obvious danger
signals never yet were placed in a creature’s head. The individual who,
having once caught sight of him, still sought to cultivate their
owner’s acquaintance, had only himself to thank if the very worst
results of frequenting evil company promptly ensued.
It happens that I am myself endowed with an unusual tenacity of vision.
I could, for instance, easily outstare any man I ever met. Yet, as I
continued to stare at this man, I was conscious that it was only by an
effort of will that I was able to resist a baleful something which
seemed to be passing from his eyes to mine. It might have been
imagination, but, in that sense, I am not an imaginative man; and, if
it was, it was imagination of an unpleasantly vivid kind. I could
understand how, in the case of a nervous, or a sensitive temperament,
the fellow might exercise, by means of the peculiar quality of his
glance alone, an influence of a most disastrous sort, which given an
appropriate subject in the manifestation of its power might approach
almost to the supernatural. If ever man was endowed with the
traditional evil eye, in which Italians, among modern nations, are such
profound believers, it was he.
When we had stared at each other for, I daresay, quite five minutes, I
began to think I had had about enough of it. So, by way of breaking the
ice, I put to him a question.
‘May I ask how you found your way into my back yard?’
He did not reply in words, but, raising his hands he lowered them,
palms downward, with a gesture which was peculiarly oriental.
‘Indeed?--Is that so?--Your meaning may be lucidity itself to you, but,
for my benefit, perhaps you would not mind translating it into words.
Once more I ask, how did you find your way into my back yard?’
Again nothing but the gesture.
‘Possibly you are not sufficiently acquainted with English manners and
customs to be aware that you have placed yourself within reach of the
pains and penalties of the law. Were I to call in the police you would
find yourself in an awkward situation,--and, unless you are presently
more explanatory, called in they will be.’
By way of answer he indulged in a distortion of the countenance which
might have been meant for a smile,--and which seemed to suggest that he
regarded the police with a contempt which was too great for words.
‘Why do you laugh--do you think that being threatened with the police
is a joke? You are not likely to find it so.--Have you suddenly been
bereft of the use of your tongue?’
He proved that he had not by using it.
‘I have still the use of my tongue.’
‘That, at least, is something. Perhaps, since the subject of how you
got into my back yard seems to be a delicate one, you will tell me why
you got there.’
‘You know why I have come.’
‘Pardon me if I appear to flatly contradict you, but that is precisely
what I do not know.’
‘You do know.’
‘Do I?--Then, in that case, I presume that you are here for the reason
which appears upon the surface,--to commit a felony.’
‘You call me thief?’
‘What else are you?’
‘I am no thief.--You know why I have come.’
He raised his head a little. A look came into his eyes which I felt
that I ought to understand, yet to the meaning of which I seemed, for
the instant, to have mislaid the key. I shrugged my shoulders.
‘I have come because you wanted me.’
‘Because I wanted you!--On my word!--That’s sublime!’
‘All night you have wanted me,--do I not know? When she talked to you
of him, and the blood boiled in your veins; when he spoke, and all the
people listened, and you hated him, because he had honour in her eyes.’
I was startled. Either he meant what it appeared incredible that he
could mean, or--there was confusion somewhere.
‘Take my advice, my friend, and don’t try to come the bunco-steerer
over me,--I’m a bit in that line myself, you know.’
This time the score was mine,--he was puzzled.
‘I know not what you talk of.’
‘In that case, we’re equal,--I know not what you talk of either.’
His manner, for him, was childlike and bland.
‘What is it you do not know? This morning did I not say,--if you want
me, then I come?’
‘I fancy I have some faint recollection of your being so good as to say
something of the kind, but--where’s the application?’
‘Do you not feel for him the same as I?’
‘Who’s the him?’
‘Paul Lessingham.’
It was spoken quietly, but with a degree of--to put it
gently--spitefulness which showed that at least the will to do the
Apostle harm would not be lacking.
‘And, pray, what is the common feeling which we have for him?’
‘Hate.’
Plainly, with this gentleman, hate meant hate,--in the solid oriental
sense. I should hardly have been surprised if the mere utterance of the
words had seared his lips.
‘I am by no means prepared to admit that I have this feeling which you
attribute to me, but, even granting that I have, what then?’
‘Those who hate are kin.’
‘That, also, I should be slow to admit; but--to go a step farther--what
has all this to do with your presence on my premises at this hour of
the night?’
‘You love her.’ This time I did not ask him to supply the name,--being
unwilling that it should be soiled by the traffic of his lips. ‘She
loves him,--that is not well. If you choose, she shall love you,--that
will be well.’
‘Indeed.--And pray how is this consummation which is so devoutly to be
desired to be brought about?’
‘Put your hand into mine. Say that you wish it. It shall be done.’
Moving a step forward, he stretched out his hand towards me. I
hesitated. There was that in the fellow’s manner which, for the moment,
had for me an unwholesome fascination. Memories flashed through my mind
of stupid stories which have been told of compacts made with the devil.
I almost felt as if I was standing in the actual presence of one of the
powers of evil. I thought of my love for Marjorie,--which had revealed
itself after all these years; of the delight of holding her in my arms,
of feeling the pressure of her lips to mine. As my gaze met his, the
lower side of what the conquest of this fair lady would mean, burned in
my brain; fierce imaginings blazed before my eyes. To win her,--only to
win her!
What nonsense he was talking! What empty brag it was! Suppose, just for
the sake of the joke, I did put my hand in his, and did wish, right
out, what it was plain he knew. If I wished, what harm would it do! It
would be the purest jest. Out of his own mouth he would be confounded,
for it was certain that nothing would come of it. Why should I not do
it then?
I would act on his suggestion,--I would carry the thing right through.
Already I was advancing towards him, when--I stopped. I don’t know why.
On the instant, my thoughts went off at a tangent.
What sort of a blackguard did I call myself that I should take a
woman’s name in vain for the sake of playing fool’s tricks with such
scum of the earth as the hideous vagabond in front of me,--and that the
name of the woman whom I loved? Rage took hold of me.
‘You hound!’ I cried.
In my sudden passage from one mood to another, I was filled with the
desire to shake the life half out of him. But so soon as I moved a step
in his direction, intending war instead of peace, he altered the
position of his hand, holding it out towards me as if forbidding my
approach. Directly he did so, quite involuntarily, I pulled up
dead,--as if my progress had been stayed by bars of iron and walls of
steel.
For the moment, I was astonished to the verge of stupefaction. The
sensation was peculiar. I was as incapable of advancing another inch in
his direction as if I had lost the use of my limbs,--I was even
incapable of attempting to attempt to advance. At first I could only
stare and gape. Presently I began to have an inkling of what had
happened.
The scoundrel had almost succeeded in hypnotising me.
That was a nice thing to happen to a man of my sort at my time of life.
A shiver went down my back,--what might have occurred if I had not
pulled up in time! What pranks might a creature of that character not
have been disposed to play. It was the old story of the peril of
playing with edged tools; I had made the dangerous mistake of
underrating the enemy’s strength. Evidently, in his own line, the
fellow was altogether something out of the usual way.
I believe that even as it was he thought he had me. As I turned away,
and leaned against the table at my back, I fancy that he shivered,--as
if this proof of my being still my own master was unexpected. I was
silent,--it took some seconds to enable me to recover from the shock of
the discovery of the peril in which I had been standing. Then I
resolved that I would endeavour to do something which should make me
equal to this gentleman of many talents.
‘Take my advice, my friend, and don’t attempt to play that hankey
pankey off on to me again.’
‘I don’t know what you talk of.’
‘Don’t lie to me,--or I’ll burn you into ashes.’
Behind me was an electrical machine, giving an eighteen inch spark. It
was set in motion by a lever fitted into the table, which I could
easily reach from where I sat. As I spoke the visitor was treated to a
little exhibition of electricity. The change in his bearing was
amusing. He shook with terror. He salaamed down to the ground.
‘My lord!--my lord!--have mercy, oh my lord!’
‘Then you be careful, that’s all. You may suppose yourself to be
something of a magician, but it happens, unfortunately for you, that I
can do a bit in that line myself,--perhaps I’m a trifle better at the
game than you are. Especially as you have ventured into my stronghold,
which contains magic enough to make a show of a hundred thousand such
as you.’
Taking down a bottle from a shelf, I sprinkled a drop or two of its
contents on the floor. Immediately flames arose, accompanied by a
blinding vapour. It was a sufficiently simple illustration of one of
the qualities of phosphorous-bromide, but its effect upon my visitor
was as startling as it was unexpected. If I could believe the evidence
of my own eyesight, in the very act of giving utterance to a scream of
terror he disappeared, how, or why, or whither, there was nothing to
show,--in his place, where he had been standing, there seemed to be a
dim object of some sort in a state of frenzied agitation on the floor.
The phosphorescent vapour was confusing; the lights appeared to be
suddenly burning low; before I had sense enough to go and see if there
was anything there, and, if so, what, the flames had vanished, the man
himself had reappeared, and, prostrated on his knees, was salaaming in
a condition of abject terror.
‘My lord! my lord!’ he whined. ‘I entreat you, my lord, to use me as
your slave!’
‘I’ll use you as my slave!’ Whether he or I was the more agitated it
would have been difficult to say,--but, at least, it would not have
done to betray my feelings as he did his. ‘Stand up!’
He stood up. I eyed him as he did with an interest which, so far as I
was concerned, was of a distinctly new and original sort. Whether or
not I had been the victim of an ocular delusion I could not be sure. It
was incredible to suppose that he could have disappeared as he had
seemed to disappear,--it was also incredible that I could have imagined
his disappearance. If the thing had been a trick, I had not the
faintest notion how it had been worked; and, if it was not a trick,
then what was it? Was it something new in scientific marvels? Could he
give me as much instruction in the qualities of unknown forces as I
could him?
In the meanwhile he stood in an attitude of complete submission, with
downcast eyes, and hands crossed upon his breast. I started to
cross-examine him.
‘I am going to ask you some questions. So long as you answer them
promptly, truthfully, you will be safe. Otherwise you had best beware.’
‘Ask, oh my lord.’
‘What is the nature of your objection to Mr Lessingham?’
‘Revenge.’
‘What has he done to you that you should wish to be revenged on him?’
‘It is the feud of the innocent blood.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘On his hands is the blood of my kin. It cries aloud for vengeance.’
‘Who has he killed?’
‘That, my lord, is for me,--and for him.’
‘I see.--Am I to understand that you do not choose to answer me, and
that I am again to use my--magic?’
I saw that he quivered.
‘My lord, he has spilled the blood of her who has lain upon his breast.’
I hesitated. What he meant appeared clear enough. Perhaps it would be
as well not to press for further details. The words pointed to what it
might be courteous to call an Eastern Romance,--though it was hard to
conceive of the Apostle figuring as the hero of such a theme. It was
the old tale retold, that to the life of every man there is a
background,--that it is precisely in the unlikeliest cases that the
background’s darkest. What would that penny-plain-and-twopence-coloured
bogey, the Nonconformist Conscience, make of such a story if it were
blazoned through the land. Would Paul not come down with a run?
‘“Spilling blood” is a figure of speech; pretty, perhaps, but vague. If
you mean that Mr Lessingham has been killing someone, your surest and
most effectual revenge would be gained by an appeal to the law.’
‘What has the Englishman’s law to do with me?’
‘If you can prove that he has been guilty of murder it would have a
great deal to do with you. I assure you that at any rate, in that
sense, the Englishman’s law is no respecter of persons. Show him to be
guilty, and it would hang Paul Lessingham as indifferently, and as
cheerfully, as it would hang Bill Brown.’
‘Is that so?’
‘It is so, as, if you choose, you will be easily able to prove to your
own entire satisfaction.’
He had raised his head, and was looking at something which he seemed to
see in front of him with a maleficent glare in his sensitive eyes which
it was not nice to see.
‘He would be shamed?’
‘Indeed he would be shamed.’
‘Before all men?’
‘Before all men,--and, I take it, before all women too.’
‘And he would hang?’
‘If shown to have been guilty of wilful murder,--yes.’
His hideous face was lighted up by a sort of diabolical exultation
which made it, if that were possible, more hideous still. I had
apparently given him a wrinkle which pleased him most consummately.
‘Perhaps I will do that in the end,--in the end!’ He opened his eyes to
their widest limits, then shut them tight,--as if to gloat on the
picture which his fancy painted. Then reopened them. ‘In the meantime I
will have vengeance in my own fashion. He knows already that the
avenger is upon him,--he has good reason to know it. And through the
days and the nights the knowledge shall be with him still, and it shall
be to him as the bitterness of death,--aye, of many deaths. For he will
know that escape there is none, and that for him there shall be no more
sun in the sky, and that the terror shall be with him by night and by
day, at his rising up and at his lying down, wherever his eyes shall
turn it shall be there,--yet, behold, the sap and the juice of my
vengeance is in this, in that though he shall be very sure that the
days that are, are as the days of his death, yet shall he know that THE
DEATH, THE GREAT DEATH, is coming--coming--and shall be on him--when I
will!’
The fellow spoke like an inspired maniac. If he meant half what he
said,--and if he did not then his looks and his tones belied him!--then
a promising future bade fair to be in store for Mr Lessingham,--and,
also, circumstances being as they were, for Marjorie. It was this
latter reflection which gave me pause. Either this imprecatory fanatic
would have to be disposed of, by Lessingham himself, or by someone
acting on his behalf, and, so far as their power of doing mischief
went, his big words proved empty windbags, or Marjorie would have to be
warned that there was at least one passage in her suitor’s life, into
which, ere it was too late, it was advisable that inquiry should be
made. To allow Marjorie to irrevocably link her fate with the
Apostle’s, without being first of all made aware that he was, to all
intents and purposes, a haunted man--that was not to be thought of.
‘You employ large phrases.’
My words cooled the other’s heated blood. Once more his eyes were cast
down, his hands crossed upon his breast.
‘I crave my lord’s pardon. My wound is ever new.’
‘By the way, what was the secret history, this morning, of that little
incident of the cockroach?’
He glanced up quickly.
‘Cockroach?--I know not what you say.’
‘Well,--was it beetle, then?’
‘Beetle!’
He seemed, all at once, to have lost his voice,--the word was gasped.
‘After you went we found, upon a sheet of paper, a capitally executed
drawing of a beetle, which, I fancy, you must have left behind
you,--_Scarabaeus sacer_, wasn’t it?’
‘I know not what you talk of.’
‘Its discovery seemed to have quite a singular effect on Mr Lessingham.
Now, why was that?’
‘I know nothing.’
‘Oh yes you do,--and, before you go, I mean to know something too.’
The man was trembling, looking this way and that, showing signs of
marked discomfiture. That there was something about that ancient
scarab, which figures so largely in the still unravelled tangles of the
Egyptian mythologies, and the effect which the mere sight of its
cartouch--for the drawing had resembled something of the kind--had had
on such a seasoned vessel as Paul Lessingham, which might be well worth
my finding out, I felt convinced,--the man’s demeanour, on my recurring
to the matter, told its own plain tale. I made up my mind, if possible,
to probe the business to the bottom, then and there.
‘Listen to me, my friend. I am a plain man, and I use plain
speech,--it’s a kind of hobby I have. You will give me the information
I require, and that at once, or I will pit my magic against yours,--in
which case I think it extremely probable that you will come off worst
from the encounter.’
I reached out for the lever, and the exhibition of electricity
recommenced. Immediately his tremors were redoubled.
‘My lord, I know not of what you talk.’
‘None of your lies for me.--Tell me why, at the sight of the thing on
that sheet of paper, Paul Lessingham went green and yellow.’
‘Ask him, my lord.’
‘Probably, later on, that is what I shall do. In the meantime, I am
asking you. Answer,--or look out for squalls.’
The electrical exhibition was going on. He was glaring at it as if he
wished that it would stop. As if ashamed of his cowardice, plainly, on
a sudden, he made a desperate effort to get the better of his
fears,--and succeeded better than I had expected or desired. He drew
himself up with what, in him, amounted to an air of dignity.
‘I am a child of Isis!’
It struck me that he made this remark, not so much to impress me, as
with a view of elevating his own low spirits.
‘Are you?--Then, in that case, I regret that I am unable to
congratulate the lady on her offspring.’
When I said that, a ring came into his voice which I had not heard
before.
‘Silence!--You know not of what you speak!--I warn you, as I warned
Paul Lessingham, be careful not to go too far. Be not like him,--heed
my warning.’
‘What is it I am being warned against,--the beetle?’
‘Yes,--the beetle!’
Were I upon oath, and this statement being made, in the presence of
witnesses, say, in a solicitor’s office, I standing in fear of pains
and penalties, I think that, at this point, I should leave the paper
blank. No man likes to own himself a fool, or that he ever was a
fool,--and ever since I have been wondering whether, on that occasion,
that ‘child of Isis’ did, or did not, play the fool with me. His
performance was realistic enough at the time, heaven knows. But, as it
gets farther and farther away, I ask myself, more and more confidently,
as time effluxes, whether, after all, it was not clever
juggling,--superhumanly clever juggling, if you will; that, and nothing
more. If it was something more, then, with a vengeance! there is more
in heaven and earth than is dreamed of in our philosophy. The mere
possibility opens vistas which the sane mind fears to contemplate.
Since, then, I am not on oath, and, should I fall short of verbal
accuracy, I do not need to fear the engines of the law, what seemed to
happen was this.
He was standing within about ten feet of where I leaned against the
edge of the table. The light was full on, so that it was difficult to
suppose that I could make a mistake as to what took place in front of
me. As he replied to my mocking allusion to the beetle by echoing my
own words, he vanished,--or, rather, I saw him taking a different shape
before my eyes. His loose draperies all fell off him, and, as they were
in the very act of falling, there issued, or there seemed to issue out
of them, a monstrous creature of the beetle tribe,--the man himself was
gone. On the point of size I wish to make myself clear. My impression,
when I saw it first, was that it was as large as the man had been, and
that it was, in some way, standing up on end, the legs towards me. But,
the moment it came in view, it began to dwindle, and that so rapidly
that, in a couple of seconds at most, a little heap of drapery was
lying on the floor, on which was a truly astonishing example of the
coleoptera. It appeared to be a beetle. It was, perhaps, six or seven
inches high, and about a foot in length. Its scales were of a vivid
golden green. I could distinctly see where the wings were sheathed
along the back, and, as they seemed to be slightly agitated, I looked,
every moment, to see them opened, and the thing take wing.
I was so astonished,--as who would not have been?--that for an
appreciable space of time I was practically in a state of stupefaction.
I could do nothing but stare. I was acquainted with the legendary
transmigrations of Isis, and with the story of the beetle which issues
from the woman’s womb through all eternity, and with the other pretty
tales, but this, of which I was an actual spectator, was something new,
even in legends. If the man, with whom I had just been speaking, was
gone, where had he gone to? If this glittering creature was there, in
his stead, whence had it come?
I do protest this much, that, after the first shock of surprise had
passed, I retained my presence of mind. I felt as an investigator might
feel, who has stumbled, haphazard, on some astounding, some
epoch-making, discovery. I was conscious that I should have to make the
best use of my mental faculties if I was to take full advantage of so
astonishing an accident. I kept my glance riveted on the creature, with
the idea of photographing it on my brain. I believe that if it were
possible to take a retinal print--which it some day will be--you would
have a perfect picture of what it was I saw. Beyond doubt it was a
lamellicorn, one of the _copridae_. With the one exception of its
monstrous size, there were the characteristics in plain view;--the
convex body, the large head, the projecting clypeus. More, its smooth
head and throat seemed to suggest that it was a female. Equally beyond
a doubt, apart from its size, there were unusual features present too.
The eyes were not only unwontedly conspicuous, they gleamed as if they
were lighted by internal flames,--in some indescribable fashion they
reminded me of my vanished visitor. The colouring was superb, and the
creature appeared to have the chameleonlike faculty of lightening and
darkening the shades at will. Its not least curious feature was its
restlessness. It was in a state of continual agitation; and, as if it
resented my inspection, the more I looked at it the more its agitation
grew. As I have said, I expected every moment to see it take wing and
circle through the air.
All the while I was casting about in my mind as to what means I could
use to effect its capture. I did think of killing it, and, on the
whole, I rather wish that I had at any rate attempted slaughter,--there
were dozens of things, lying ready to my hand, any one of which would
have severely tried its constitution;--but, on the spur of the moment,
the only method of taking it alive which occurred to me, was to pop
over it a big tin canister which had contained soda-lime. This canister
was on the floor to my left. I moved towards it, as nonchalantly as I
could, keeping an eye on that shining wonder all the time. Directly I
moved, its agitation perceptibly increased,--it was, so to speak, all
one whirr of tremblement; it scintillated, as if its coloured scales
had been so many prisms; it began to unsheath its wings, as if it had
finally decided that it would make use of them. Picking up the tin,
disembarrassing it of its lid, I sprang towards my intended victim. Its
wings opened wide; obviously it was about to rise; but it was too late.
Before it had cleared the ground, the tin was over it.
It remained over it, however, for an instant only. I had stumbled, in
my haste, and, in my effort to save myself from falling face foremost
on to the floor, I was compelled to remove my hands from the tin.
Before I was able to replace them, the tin was sent flying, and, while
I was still partially recumbent, within eighteen inches of me, that
beetle swelled and swelled, until it had assumed its former portentous
dimensions, when, as it seemed, it was enveloped by a human shape, and
in less time than no time, there stood in front of me, naked from top
to toe, my truly versatile oriental friend. One startling fact nudity
revealed,--that I had been egregiously mistaken on the question of sex.
My visitor was not a man, but a woman, and, judging from the brief
glimpse which I had of her body, by no means old or ill-shaped either.
If that transformation was not a bewildering one, then two and two make
five. The most level-headed scientist would temporarily have lost his
mental equipoise on witnessing such a quick change as that within a
span or two of his own nose I was not only witless, I was breathless
too,--I could only gape. And, while I gaped, the woman, stooping down,
picking up her draperies, began to huddle them on her anyhow,--and,
also, to skedaddle towards the door which led into the yard. When I
observed this last manoeuvre, to some extent I did rise to the
requirements of the situation. Leaping up, I rushed to stay her flight.
‘Stop!’ I shouted.
But she was too quick for me. Ere I could reach her, she had opened the
door, and was through it,--and, what was more, she had slammed it in my
face. In my excitement, I did some fumbling with the handle. When, in
my turn, I was in the yard, she was out of sight. I did fancy I saw a
dim form disappearing over the wall at the further side, and I made for
it as fast as I knew how. I clambered on to the wall, looking this way
and that, but there was nothing and no one to be seen. I listened for
the sound of retreating footsteps, but all was still. Apparently I had
the entire neighbourhood to my own sweet self. My visitor had vanished.
Time devoted to pursuit I felt would be time ill-spent.
As I returned across the yard, Woodville, who still was taking his rest
under the open canopy of heaven, sat up. Seemingly my approach had
roused him out of slumber. At sight of me he rubbed his eyes, and
yawned, and blinked.
‘I say,’ he remarked, not at all unreasonably, ‘where am I?’
‘You’re on holy--or on haunted ground,--hang me if I quite know
which!--but that’s where you are, my boy.’
‘By Jove!--I am feeling queer!--I have got a headache, don’t you know.’
‘I shouldn’t be in the least surprised at anything you have, or
haven’t,--I’m beyond surprise. It’s a drop of whisky you are
wanting,--and what I’m wanting too,--only, for goodness sake, drop me
none of your drops! Mine is a case for a bottle at the least.’
I put my arm through his, and went with him into the laboratory. And,
when we were in, I shut, and locked, and barred the door.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE LADY RAGES
Dora Grayling stood in the doorway.
‘I told your servant he need not trouble to show me in,--and I’ve come
without my aunt. I hope I’m not intruding.’
She was--confoundedly; and it was on the tip of my tongue to tell her
so. She came into the room, with twinkling eyes, looking radiantly
happy,--that sort of look which makes even a plain young woman
prepossessing.
‘Am I intruding?--I believe I am.’
She held out her hand, while she was still a dozen feet away, and when
I did not at once dash forward to make a clutch at it, she shook her
head and made a little mouth at me.
‘What’s the matter with you?--Aren’t you well?’
I was not well,--I was very far from well. I was as unwell as I could
be without being positively ill, and any person of common discernment
would have perceived it at a glance. At the same time I was not going
to admit anything of the kind to her.
‘Thank you,--I am perfectly well.’
‘Then, if I were you, I would endeavour to become imperfectly well; a
little imperfection in that direction might make you appear to more
advantage.’
‘I am afraid that that I am not one of those persons who ever do appear
to much advantage,--did I not tell you so last night?’
‘I believe you did say something of the kind,--it’s very good of you to
remember. Have you forgotten something else which you said to me last
night?’
‘You can hardly expect me to keep fresh in my memory all the follies of
which my tongue is guilty.’
‘Thank you.--That is quite enough.--Good-day.’
She turned as if to go.
‘Miss Grayling!’
‘Mr Atherton?’
‘What’s the matter?--What have I been saying now?’
‘Last night you invited me to come and see you this morning,--is that
one of the follies of which your tongue was guilty?’
The engagement had escaped my recollection--it is a fact!--and my face
betrayed me.
‘You had forgotten?’ Her cheeks flamed; her eyes sparkled. ‘You must
pardon my stupidity for not having understood that the invitation was
of that general kind which is never meant to be acted on.’
She was half way to the door before I stopped her,--I had to take her
by the shoulder to do it.
‘Miss Grayling!--You are hard on me.’
‘I suppose I am.--Is anything harder than to be intruded on by an
undesired, and unexpected, guest?’
‘Now you are harder still.--If you knew what I have gone through since
our conversation of last night, in your strength you would be merciful.’
‘Indeed?--What have you gone through?’
I hesitated. What I actually had gone through I certainly did not
propose to tell her. Other reasons apart I did not desire to seem
madder than I admittedly am,--and I lacked sufficient plausibility to
enable me to concoct, on the spur of the moment, a plain tale of the
doings of my midnight visitor which would have suggested that the
narrator was perfectly sane. So I fenced,--or tried to.
‘For one thing,--I have had no sleep.’
I had not,--not one single wink. When I did get between the sheets,
‘all night I lay in agony,’ I suffered from that worst form of
nightmare,--the nightmare of the man who is wide awake. There was
continually before my fevered eyes the strange figure of that Nameless
Thing. I had often smiled at tales of haunted folk,--here was I one of
them. My feelings were not rendered more agreeable by a strengthening
conviction that if I had only retained the normal attitude of a
scientific observer I should, in all probability, have solved the
mystery of my oriental friend, and that his example of the genus of
_copridae_ might have been pinned,--by a very large pin!--on a piece--a
monstrous piece!--of cork. It was galling to reflect that he and I had
played together a game of bluff,--a game at which civilisation was once
more proved to be a failure.
She could not have seen all this in my face; but she saw
something--because her own look softened.
‘You do look tired.’ She seemed to be casting about in her own mind for
a cause. ‘You have been worrying.’ She glanced round the big
laboratory. ‘Have you been spending the night in this--wizard’s cave?’
‘Pretty well.’
‘Oh!’
The monosyllable, as she uttered it, was big with meaning. Uninvited,
she seated herself in an arm-chair, a huge old thing, of shagreen
leather, which would have held half a dozen of her. Demure in it she
looked, like an agreeable reminiscence, alive, and a little up-to-date,
of the women of long ago. Her dove grey eyes seemed to perceive so much
more than they cared to show.
‘How is it that you have forgotten that you asked me to come?--didn’t
you mean it?’
‘Of course I meant it.’
‘Then how is it you’ve forgotten?’
‘I didn’t forget.’
‘Don’t tell fibs.--Something is the matter,--tell me what it is.--Is it
that I am too early?’
‘Nothing of the sort,--you couldn’t be too early.’
‘Thank you.--When you pay a compliment, even so neat an one as that,
sometimes, you should look as if you meant it.--It is early,--I know
it’s early, but afterwards I want you to come to lunch. I told aunt
that I would bring you back with me.’
‘You are much better to me than I deserve.’
‘Perhaps.’ A tone came into her voice which was almost pathetic. ‘I
think that to some men women are almost better than they deserve. I
don’t know why. I suppose it pleases them. It is odd.’ There was a
different intonation,--a dryness. ‘Have you forgotten what I came for?’
‘Not a bit of it,--I am not quite the brute I seem. You came to see an
illustration of that pleasant little fancy of mine for slaughtering my
fellows. The fact is, I’m hardly in a mood for that just now,--I’ve
been illustrating it too much already.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, for one thing it’s been murdering Lessingham’s cat.’
‘Mr Lessingham’s cat?’
‘Then it almost murdered Percy Woodville.’
‘Mr Atherton!--I wish you wouldn’t talk like that.’
‘It’s a fact. It was a question of a little matter in a wrong place,
and, if it hadn’t been for something very like a miracle, he’d be dead.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t have anything to do with such things--I hate them.’
I stared.
‘Hate them?--I thought you’d come to see an illustration.’
‘And pray what was your notion of an illustration?’
‘Well, another cat would have had to be killed, at least.’
‘And do you suppose that I would have sat still while a cat was being
killed for my--edification?’
‘It needn’t necessarily have been a cat, but something would have had
to be killed,--how are you going to illustrate the death-dealing
propensities of a weapon of that sort without it?’
‘Is it possible that you imagine that I came here to see something
killed?’
‘Then for what did you come?’
I do not know what there was about the question which was startling,
but as soon as it was out, she went a fiery red.
‘Because I was a fool.’
I was bewildered. Either she had got out of the wrong side of bed, or I
had,--or we both had. Here she was, assailing me, hammer and tongs, so
far as I could see, for absolutely nothing.
‘You are pleased to be satirical at my expense.’
‘I should not dare. Your detection of me would be so painfully rapid.’
I was in no mood for jangling. I turned a little away from her.
Immediately she was at my elbow.
‘Mr Atherton?’
‘Miss Grayling.’
‘Are you cross with me?’
‘Why should I be? If it pleases you to laugh at my stupidity you are
completely justified.’
‘But you are not stupid.’
‘No?--Nor you satirical.’
‘You are not stupid,--you know you are not stupid; it was only
stupidity on my part to pretend that you were.’
‘It is very good of you to say so.--But I fear that I am an indifferent
host. Although you would not care for an illustration, there may be
other things which you might find amusing.’
‘Why do you keep on snubbing me?’
‘I keep on snubbing you!’
‘You are always snubbing me,--you know you are. Some times I feel as if
I hated you.’
‘Miss Grayling!’
‘I do! I do! I do!’
‘After all, it is only natural.’
‘That is how you talk,--as if I were a child, and you were,--oh I don’t
know what.--Well, Mr Atherton, I am sorry to be obliged to leave you. I
have enjoyed my visit very much. I only hope I have not seemed too
intrusive.’
She flounced--‘flounce’ was the only appropriate word!--out of the room
before I could stop her. I caught her in the passage.
‘Miss Grayling, I entreat you--’
‘Pray do not entreat me, Mr Atherton.’ Standing still she turned to me.
‘I would rather show myself to the door as I showed myself in, but, if
that is impossible, might I ask you not to speak to me between this and
the street?’
The hint was broad enough, even for me. I escorted her through the hall
without a word,--in perfect silence she shook the dust of my abode from
off her feet.
I had made a pretty mess of things. I felt it as I stood on the top of
the steps and watched her going,--she was walking off at four miles an
hour; I had not even ventured to ask to be allowed to call a hansom.
It was beginning to occur to me that this was a case in which another
blow upon the river might be, to say the least of it, advisable--and I
was just returning into the house with the intention of putting myself
into my flannels, when a cab drew up, and old Lindon got out of it.
CHAPTER XX.
A HEAVY FATHER
Mr Lindon was excited,--there is no mistaking it when he is, because
with him excitement means perspiration, and as soon as he was out of
the cab he took off his hat and began to wipe the lining.
‘Atherton, I want to speak to you--most particularly--somewhere in
private.’
I took him into my laboratory. It is my rule to take no one there; it
is a workshop, not a playroom,--the place is private; but, recently, my
rules had become dead letters. Directly he was inside, Lindon began
puffing and stewing, wiping his forehead, throwing out his chest, as if
he were oppressed by a sense of his own importance. Then he started off
talking at the top of his voice,--and it is not a low one either.
‘Atherton, I--I’ve always looked on you as a--a kind of a son.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘I’ve always regarded you as a--a level-headed fellow; a man from whom
sound advice can be obtained when sound advice--is--is most to be
desired.’
‘That also is very kind of you.’
‘And therefore I make no apology for coming to you at--at what may be
regarded as a--a strictly domestic crisis; at a moment in the history
of the Lindons when delicacy and common sense are--are essentially
required.’
This time I contented myself with nodding. Already I perceived what was
coming; somehow, when I am with a man I feel so much more clear-headed
than I do when I am with a woman,--realise so much better the nature of
the ground on which I am standing.
‘What do you know of this man Lessingham?’
I knew it was coming.
‘What all the world knows.’
‘And what does all the world know of him?--I ask you that! A flashy,
plausible, shallow-pated, carpet-bagger,--that is what all the world
knows of him. The man’s a political adventurer,--he snatches a
precarious, and criminal, notoriety, by trading on the follies of his
fellow-countrymen. He is devoid of decency, destitute of principle, and
impervious to all the feelings of a gentleman. What do you know of him
besides this?’
‘I am not prepared to admit that I do know that.’
‘Oh yes you do!--don’t talk nonsense!--you choose to screen the fellow!
I say what I mean,--I always have said, and I always shall say.--What
do you know of him outside politics,--of his family--of his private
life?’
‘Well,--not very much.’
‘Of course you don’t!--nor does anybody else! The man’s a mushroom,--or
a toadstool, rather!--sprung up in the course of a single night,
apparently out of some dirty ditch.--Why, sir, not only is he without
ordinary intelligence, he is even without a Brummagen substitute for
manners.’
He had worked himself into a state of heat in which his countenance
presented a not too agreeable assortment of scarlets and purples. He
flung himself into a chair, threw his coat wide open, and his arms too,
and started off again.
‘The family of the Lindons is, at this moment, represented by a--a
young woman,--by my daughter, sir. She represents me, and it’s her duty
to represent me adequately--adequately, sir! And what’s more, between
ourselves, sir, it’s her duty to marry. My property’s my own, and I
wouldn’t have it pass to either of my confounded brothers on any
account. They’re next door to fools, and--and they don’t represent me
in any possible sense of the word. My daughter, sir, can marry whom she
pleases,--whom she pleases! There’s no one in England, peer or
commoner, who would not esteem it an honour to have her for his
wife--I’ve told her so,--yes, sir, I’ve told her, though you--you’d
think that she, of all people in the world, wouldn’t require telling.
Yet what do you think she does? She--she actually carries on what I--I
can’t help calling a--a compromising acquaintance with this man
Lessingham!’
‘No!’
‘But I say yes!--and I wish to heaven I didn’t. I--I’ve warned her
against the scoundrel more than once; I--I’ve told her to cut him dead.
And yet, as--as you saw yourself, last night, in--in the face of the
assembled House of Commons, after that twaddling clap-trap speech of
his, in which there was not one sound sentiment, nor an idea
which--which would hold water, she positively went away with him,
in--in the most ostentatious and--and disgraceful fashion, on--on his
arm, and--and actually snubbed her father.--It is monstrous that a
parent--a father!--should be subjected to such treatment by his child.’
The poor old boy polished his brow with his pocket-handkerchief.
‘When I got home I--I told her what I thought of her, I promise you
that,--and I told her what I thought of him,--I didn’t mince my words
with her. There are occasions when plain speaking is demanded,--and
that was one. I positively forbade her to speak to the fellow again, or
to recognise him if she met him in the street. I pointed out to her,
with perfect candour, that the fellow was an infernal scoundrel,--that
and nothing else!--and that he would bring disgrace on whoever came
into contact with him, even with the end of a barge pole.--And what do
you think she said?’
‘She promised to obey you, I make no doubt.’
‘Did she, sir!--By gad, did she!--That shows how much you know
her!--She said, and, by gad, by her manner, and--and the way she went
on, you’d--you’d have thought that she was the parent and I was the
child--she said that I--I grieved her, that she was disappointed in me,
that times have changed,--yes, sir, she said that times have
changed!--that, nowadays, parents weren’t Russian autocrats--no, sir,
not Russian autocrats!--that--that she was sorry she couldn’t oblige
me,--yes, sir, that was how she put it,--she was sorry she couldn’t
oblige me, but it was altogether out of the question to suppose that
she could put a period to a friendship which she valued, simply on
account of--of my unreasonable prejudices,--and--and--and, in short,
she--she told me to go the devil, sir!’
‘And did you--’
I was on the point of asking him if he went,--but I checked myself in
time.
‘Let us look at the matter as men of the world. What do you know
against Lessingham, apart from his politics?’
‘That’s just it,--I know nothing.’
‘In a sense, isn’t that in his favour?’
‘I don’t see how you make that out. I--I don’t mind telling you that
I--I’ve had inquiries made. He’s not been in the House six years--this
is his second Parliament--he’s jumped up like a Jack-in-the-box. His
first constituency was Harwich--they’ve got him still, and much good
may he do ’em!--but how he came to stand for the place,--or who, or
what, or where he was before he stood for the place, no one seems to
have the faintest notion.’
‘Hasn’t he been a great traveller?’
‘I never heard of it.’
‘Not in the East?’
‘Has he told you so?’
‘No,--I was only wondering. Well, it seems to me that to find out that
nothing is known against him is something in his favour!’
‘My dear Sydney, don’t talk nonsense. What it proves is simply,--that
he’s a nothing and a nobody. Had he been anything or anyone, something
would have been known about him, either for or against. I don’t want my
daughter to marry a man who--who--who’s shot up through a trap, simply
because nothing is known against him. Ha-hang me, if I wouldn’t ten
times sooner she should marry you.’
When he said that, my heart leaped in my bosom. I had to turn away.
‘I am afraid that is out of the question.’
He stopped in his tramping, and looked at me askance.
‘Why?’
I felt that, if I was not careful, I should be done for,--and,
probably, in his present mood, Marjorie too.
‘My dear Lindon, I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for your
suggestion, but I can only repeat that--unfortunately, anything of the
kind is out of the question.’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘Perhaps not.’
‘You--you’re a pretty lot, upon my word!’
‘I’m afraid we are.’
‘I--I want you to tell her that Lessingham is a damned scoundrel.’
‘I see.--But I would suggest that if I am to use the influence with
which you credit me to the best advantage, or to preserve a shred of
it, I had hardly better state the fact quite so bluntly as that.’
‘I don’t care how you state it,--state it as you like. Only--only I
want you to soak her mind with a loathing of the fellow; I--I--I want
you to paint him in his true colours; in--in--in fact, I--I want you to
choke him off.’
While he still struggled with his words, and with the perspiration on
his brow, Edwards entered. I turned to him.
‘What is it?’
‘Miss Lindon, sir, wishes to see you particularly, and at once.’
At that moment I found the announcement a trifle perplexing,--it
delighted Lindon. He began to stutter and to stammer.
‘T-the very thing!--c-couldn’t have been better!--show her in here!
H-hide me somewhere,--I don’t care where,--behind that screen! Y-you
use your influence with her;--g-give her a good talking to;--t-tell her
what I’ve told you; and at--at the critical moment I’ll come in, and
then--then if we can’t manage her between us, it’ll be a wonder.’
The proposition staggered me.
‘But, my dear Mr Lindon, I fear that I cannot--’
He cut me short.
‘Here she comes!’
Ere I could stop him he was behind the screen,--I had not seen him move
with such agility before!--and before I could expostulate Marjorie was
in the room. Something which was in her bearing, in her face, in her
eyes, quickened the beating of my pulses,--she looked as if something
had come into her life, and taken the joy clean out of it.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE TERROR IN THE NIGHT
‘Sydney!’ she cried, ‘I’m so glad that I can see you!’
She might be,--but, at that moment, I could scarcely assert that I was
a sharer of her joy.
‘I told you that if trouble overtook me I should come to you, and--I’m
in trouble now. Such strange trouble.’
So was I,--and in perplexity as well. An idea occurred to me,--I would
outwit her eavesdropping father.
‘Come with me into the house,--tell me all about it there.’
She refused to budge.
‘No,--I will tell you all about it here.’ She looked about her,--as it
struck me queerly. ‘This is just the sort of place in which to unfold a
tale like mine. It looks uncanny.’
‘But--’
‘“But me no buts!” Sydney, don’t torture me,--let me stop here where I
am,--don’t you see I’m haunted?’
She had seated herself. Now she stood up, holding her hands out in
front of her in a state of extraordinary agitation, her manner as wild
as her words.
‘Why are you staring at me like that? Do you think I’m mad?--I wonder
if I’m going mad.--Sydney, do people suddenly go mad? You’re a bit of
everything, you’re a bit of a doctor too, feel my pulse,--there it
is!--tell me if I’m ill!’
I felt her pulse,--it did not need its swift beating to inform me that
fever of some sort was in her veins. I gave her something in a glass.
She held it up to the level of her eyes.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s a decoction of my own. You might not think it, but my brain
sometimes gets into a whirl. I use it as a sedative. It will do you
good.’
She drained the glass.
‘It’s done me good already,--I believe it has; that’s being something
like a doctor.--Well, Sydney, the storm has almost burst. Last night
papa forbade me to speak to Paul Lessingham--by way of a prelude.’
‘Exactly. Mr Lindon--’
‘Yes, Mr Lindon,--that’s papa. I fancy we almost quarrelled. I know
papa said some surprising things,--but it’s a way he has,--he’s apt to
say surprising things. He’s the best father in the world, but--it’s not
in his nature to like a really clever person; your good high dried old
Tory never can;--I’ve always thought that that’s why he’s so fond of
you.’
‘Thank you. I presume that is the reason, though it had not occurred to
me before.’
Since her entry, I had, to the best of my ability, been turning the
position over in my mind. I came to the conclusion that, all things
considered, her father had probably as much right to be a sharer of his
daughter’s confidence as I had, even from the vantage of the
screen,--and that for him to hear a few home truths proceeding from her
lips might serve to clear the air. From such a clearance the lady would
not be likely to come off worst. I had not the faintest inkling of what
was the actual purport of her visit.
She started off, as it seemed to me, at a tangent.
‘Did I tell you last night about what took place yesterday
morning,--about the adventure of my finding the man?’
‘Not a word.’
‘I believe I meant to,--I’m half disposed to think he’s brought me
trouble. Isn’t there some superstition about evil befalling whoever
shelters a homeless stranger?’
‘We’ll hope not, for humanity’s sake.’
‘I fancy there is,--I feel sure there is.--Anyhow, listen to my story.
Yesterday morning, before breakfast,--to be accurate, between eight and
nine, I looked out of the window, and I saw a crowd in the street. I
sent Peter out to see what was the matter. He came back and said there
was a man in a fit. I went out to look at the man in the fit. I found,
lying on the ground, in the centre of the crowd, a man who, but for the
tattered remnants of what had apparently once been a cloak, would have
been stark naked. He was covered with dust, and dirt, and blood,--a
dreadful sight. As you know, I have had my smattering of instruction in
First Aid to the Injured, and that kind of thing, so, as no one else
seemed to have any sense, and the man seemed as good as dead, I thought
I would try my hand. Directly I knelt down beside him, what do you
think he said?’
[IMAGE: images/img_155.jpg
CAPTION: I WENT OUT TO LOOK AT THE MAN.]
‘Thank you.’
‘Nonsense.--He said, in such a queer, hollow, croaking voice, “Paul
Lessingham.” I was dreadfully startled. To hear a perfect stranger, a
man in his condition, utter that name in such a fashion--to me, of all
people in the world!--took me aback. The policeman who was holding his
head remarked, “That’s the first time he’s opened his mouth. I thought
he was dead.” He opened his mouth a second time. A convulsive movement
went all over him, and he exclaimed, with the strangest earnestness,
and so loudly that you might have heard him at the other end of the
street, “Be warned, Paul Lessingham, be warned!” It was very silly of
me, perhaps, but I cannot tell you how his words, and his manner--the
two together--affected me.--Well, the long and the short of it was,
that I had him taken into the house, and washed, and put to bed,--and I
had the doctor sent for. The doctor could make nothing of it at all. He
reported that the man seemed to be suffering from some sort of
cataleptic seizure,--I could see that he thought it likely to turn out
almost as interesting a case as I did.’
‘Did you acquaint your father with the addition to his household?’
She looked at me, quizzically.
‘You see, when one has such a father as mine one cannot tell him
everything, at once. There are occasions on which one requires time.’
I felt that this would be wholesome hearing for old Lindon.
‘Last night, after papa and I had exchanged our little
courtesies,--which, it is to be hoped, were to papa’s satisfaction,
since they were not to be mine--I went to see the patient. I was told
that he had neither eaten nor drunk, moved nor spoken. But, so soon as
I approached his bed, he showed signs of agitation. He half raised
himself upon his pillow, and he called out, as if he had been
addressing some large assembly--I can’t describe to you the dreadful
something which was in his voice, and on his face,--“Paul
Lessingham!--Beware!--The Beetle!”’
When she said that, I was startled.
‘Are you sure those were the words he used?’
‘Quite sure. Do you think I could mistake them,--especially after what
has happened since? I hear them singing in my ears,--they haunt me all
the time.’
She put her hands up to her face, as if to veil something from her
eyes. I was becoming more and more convinced that there was something
about the Apostle’s connection with his Oriental friend which needed
probing to the bottom.
‘What sort of a man is he to look at, this patient of yours?’
I had my doubts as to the gentleman’s identity,--which her words
dissolved; only, however, to increase my mystification in another
direction.
‘He seems to be between thirty and forty. He has light hair, and
straggling sandy whiskers. He is so thin as to be nothing but skin and
bone,--the doctor says it’s a case of starvation.’
‘You say he has light hair, and sandy whiskers. Are you sure the
whiskers are real?’
She opened her eyes.
‘Of course they’re real. Why shouldn’t they be real?’
‘Does he strike you as being a--foreigner?’
‘Certainly not. He looks like an Englishman, and he speaks like one,
and not, I should say, of the lowest class. It is true that there is a
very curious, a weird, quality in his voice, what I have heard of it,
but it is not un-English. If it is catalepsy he is suffering from, then
it is a kind of catalepsy I never heard of. Have you ever seen a
clairvoyant?’ I nodded. ‘He seems to me to be in a state of
clairvoyance. Of course the doctor laughed when I told him so, but we
know what doctors are, and I still believe that he is in some condition
of the kind. When he said that last night he struck me as being under
what those sort of people call “influence,” and that whoever had him
under influence was forcing him to speak against his will, for the
words came from his lips as if they had been wrung from him in agony.’
Knowing what I did know, that struck me as being rather a remarkable
conclusion for her to have reached, by the exercise of her own unaided
powers of intuition,--but I did not choose to let her know I thought so.
‘My dear Marjorie!--you who pride yourself on having your imagination
so strictly under control!--on suffering it to take no errant flights!’
‘Is not the fact that I do so pride myself proof that I am not likely
to make assertions wildly,--proof, at any rate, to you? Listen to me.
When I left that unfortunate creature’s room,--I had had a nurse sent
for, I left him in her charge--and reached my own bedroom, I was
possessed by a profound conviction that some appalling, intangible, but
very real danger, was at that moment threatening Paul.’
‘Remember,--you had had an exciting evening; and a discussion with your
father. Your patient’s words came as a climax.’
‘That is what I told myself,--or, rather, that was what I tried to tell
myself; because, in some extraordinary fashion, I had lost the command
of my powers of reflection.’
‘Precisely.’
‘It was not precisely,--or, at least, it was not precisely in the sense
you mean. You may laugh at me, Sydney, but I had an altogether
indescribable feeling, a feeling which amounted to knowledge, that I
was in the presence of the supernatural.’
‘Nonsense!’
‘It was not nonsense,--I wish it had been nonsense. As I have said, I
was conscious, completely conscious, that some frightful peril was
assailing Paul. I did not know what it was, but I did know that it was
something altogether awful, of which merely to think was to shudder. I
wanted to go to his assistance, I tried to, more than once; but I
couldn’t, and I knew that I couldn’t,--I knew that I couldn’t move as
much as a finger to help him.--Stop,--let me finish!--I told myself
that it was absurd, but it wouldn’t do; absurd or not, there was the
terror with me in the room. I knelt down, and I prayed, but the words
wouldn’t come. I tried to ask God to remove this burden from my brain,
but my longings wouldn’t shape themselves into words, and my tongue was
palsied. I don’t know how long I struggled, but, at last, I came to
understand that, for some cause, God had chosen to leave me to fight
the fight alone. So I got up, and undressed, and went to bed,--and that
was the worst of all. I had sent my maid away in the first rush of my
terror, afraid, and, I think, ashamed, to let her see my fear. Now I
would have given anything to summon her back again, but I couldn’t do
it, I couldn’t even ring the bell. So, as I say, I got into bed.’
She paused, as if to collect her thoughts. To listen to her words, and
to think of the suffering which they meant to her, was almost more than
I could endure. I would have thrown away the world to have been able to
take her in my arms, and soothe her fears. I knew her to be, in
general, the least hysterical of young women; little wont to become the
prey of mere delusions; and, incredible though it sounded, I had an
innate conviction that, even in its wildest periods, her story had some
sort of basis in solid fact. What that basis amounted to, it would be
my business, at any and every cost, quickly to determine.
‘You know how you have always laughed at me because of my objection
to--cockroaches, and how, in spring, the neighbourhood of May-bugs has
always made me uneasy. As soon as I got into bed I felt that something
of the kind was in the room.’
‘Something of what kind?’
‘Some kind of--beetle. I could hear the whirring of its wings; I could
hear its droning in the air; I knew that it was hovering above my head;
that it was coming lower and lower, nearer and nearer. I hid myself; I
covered myself all over with the clothes,--then I felt it bumping
against the coverlet. And, Sydney!’ She drew closer. Her blanched
cheeks and frightened eyes made my heart bleed. Her voice became but an
echo of itself. ‘It followed me.’
‘Marjorie!’
‘It got into the bed.’
‘You imagined it.’
‘I didn’t imagine it. I heard it crawl along the sheets, till it found
a way between them, and then it crawled towards me. And I felt
it--against my face.--And it’s there now.’
‘Where?’
She raised the forefinger of her left hand.
‘There!--Can’t you hear it droning?’
She listened, intently. I listened too. Oddly enough, at that instant
the droning of an insect did become audible.
‘It’s only a bee, child, which has found its way through the open
window.’
‘I wish it were only a bee, I wish it were.--Sydney, don’t you feel as
if you were in the presence of evil? Don’t you want to get away from
it, back into the presence of God?’
‘Marjorie!’
‘Pray, Sydney, pray!--I can’t!--I don’t know why, but I can’t!’
She flung her arms about my neck, and pressed herself against me in
paroxysmal agitation. The violence of her emotion bade fair to unman me
too. It was so unlike Marjorie,--and I would have given my life to save
her from a toothache. She kept repeating her own words,--as if she
could not help it.
‘Pray, Sydney, pray!’
At last I did as she wished me. At least, there is no harm in
praying,--I never heard of its bringing hurt to anyone. I repeated
aloud the Lord’s Prayer,--the first time for I know not how long. As
the divine sentences came from my lips, hesitatingly enough, I make no
doubt, her tremors ceased. She became calmer. Until, as I reached the
last great petition, ‘Deliver us from evil,’ she loosed her arms from
about my neck, and dropped upon her knees, close to my feet. And she
joined me in the closing words, as a sort of chorus.
‘For Thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory, for ever and ever.
Amen.’
When the prayer was ended, we both of us were still. She with her head
bowed, and her hands clasped; and I with something tugging at my
heart-strings which I had not felt there for many and many a year,
almost as if it had been my mother’s hand;--I daresay that sometimes
she does stretch out her hand, from her place among the angels, to
touch my heart-strings, and I know nothing of it all the while.
As the silence still continued, I chanced to glance up, and there was
old Lindon peeping at us from his hiding-place behind the screen. The
look of amazed perplexity which was on his big red face struck me with
such a keen sense of the incongruous that it was all I could do to keep
from laughter. Apparently the sight of us did nothing to lighten the fog
which was in his brain, for he stammered out, in what was possibly
intended for a whisper,
‘Is--is she m-mad?’
The whisper,--if it was meant for a whisper--was more than sufficiently
audible to catch his daughter’s ears. She started--raised her
head--sprang to her feet--turned--and saw her father.
‘Papa!’
Immediately her sire was seized with an access of stuttering.
‘W-w-what the d-devil’s the--the m-m-meaning of this?’
Her utterance was clear enough,--I fancy her parent found it almost
painfully clear.
‘Rather it is for me to ask, what is the meaning of this! Is it
possible, that, all the time, you have actually been concealed behind
that--screen?’
Unless I am mistaken the old gentleman cowered before the directness of
his daughter’s gaze,--and endeavoured to conceal the fact by an
explosion of passion.
‘Do-don’t you s-speak to me li-like that, you un-undutiful girl! I--I’m
your father!’
‘You certainly are my father; though I was unaware until now that my
father was capable of playing the part of eavesdropper.’
Rage rendered him speechless,--or, at any rate, he chose to let us
believe that that was the determining cause of his continuing silent.
So Marjorie turned to me,--and, on the whole, I had rather she had not.
Her manner was very different from what it had been just now,--it was
more than civil, it was freezing.
‘Am I to understand, Mr Atherton, that this has been done with your
cognisance? That while you suffered me to pour out my heart to you
unchecked, you were aware, all the time, that there was a listener
behind the screen?’
I became keenly aware, on a sudden, that I had borne my share in
playing her a very shabby trick,--I should have liked to throw old
Lindon through the window.
‘The thing was not of my contriving. Had I had the opportunity I would
have compelled Mr Lindon to face you when you came in. But your
distress caused me to lose my balance. And you will do me the justice
to remember that I endeavoured to induce you to come with me into
another room.’
‘But I do not seem to remember your hinting at there being any
particular reason why I should have gone.’
‘You never gave me a chance.’
‘Sydney!--I had not thought you would have played me such a trick!’
When she said that--in such a tone!--the woman whom I loved!--I could
have hammered my head against the wall. The hound I was to have treated
her so scurvily!
Perceiving I was crushed she turned again to face her father, cool,
calm, stately;--she was, on a sudden, once more, the Marjorie with whom
I was familiar. The demeanour of parent and child was in striking
contrast. If appearances went for aught, the odds were heavy that in
any encounter which might be coming the senior would suffer.
‘I hope, papa, that you are going to tell me that there has been some
curious mistake, and that nothing was farther from your intention than
to listen at a keyhole. What would you have thought--and said--if I had
attempted to play the spy on you? And I have always understood that men
were so particular on points of honour.’
Old Lindon was still hardly fit to do much else than
splutter,--certainly not qualified to chop phrases with this
sharp-tongued maiden.
‘D-don’t talk to me li-like that, girl!--I--I believe you’re s-stark
mad!’ He turned to me. ‘W-what was that tomfoolery she was talking to
you about?’
‘To what do you allude?’
‘About a rub-rubbishing b-beetle, and g-goodness alone knows
what,--d-diseased and m-morbid imagination,--r-reared on the literature
of the gutter!--I never thought that a child of mine could have s-sunk
to such a depth!--Now, Atherton, I ask you to t-tell me frankly,--what
do you think of a child who behaves as she has done? who t-takes a
nameless vagabond into the house and con-conceals his presence from her
father? And m-mark the sequel! even the vagabond warns her against the
r-rascal Lessingham!--Now, Atherton, tell me what you think of a girl
who behaves like that?’ I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I--I know very well
what you d-do think of her,--don’t be afraid to say it out because
she’s present.’
‘No; Sydney, don’t be afraid.’
I saw that her eyes were dancing,--in a manner of speaking, her looks
brightened under the sunshine of her father’s displeasure.
‘Let’s hear what you think of her as a--as a m-man of the world!’
‘Pray, Sydney, do!’
‘What you feel for her in your--your heart of hearts!’
‘Yes, Sydney, what do you feel for me in your heart of hearts?’
The baggage beamed with heartless sweetness,--she was making a mock of
me. Her father turned as if he would have rent her.
‘D-don’t you speak until you’re spoken to! Atherton, I--I hope I’m not
deceived in you; I--I hope you’re the man I--I took you for; that
you’re willing and--and ready to play the part of a-a-an honest friend
to this mis-misguided simpleton. T-this is not the time for mincing
words, it--it’s the time for candid speech. Tell this--this weak-minded
young woman, right out, whether this man Lessingham is, or is not, a
damned scoundrel.’
‘Papa!--Do you really think that Sydney’s opinion, or your opinion, is
likely to alter facts?’
‘Do you hear, Atherton, tell this wretched girl the truth!’
‘My dear Mr Lindon, I have already told you that I know nothing either
for or against Mr Lessingham except what is known to all the world.’
‘Exactly,--and all the world knows him to be a miserable adventurer who
is scheming to entrap my daughter.’
‘I am bound to say, since you press me, that your language appears to
me to be unnecessarily strong.’
‘Atherton, I--I’m ashamed of you!’
‘You see, Sydney, even papa is ashamed of you; now you are outside the
pale.--My dear papa, if you will allow me to speak, I will tell you
what I know to be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth.--That Mr Lessingham is a man with great gifts goes without
saying,--permit me, papa! He is a man of genius. He is a man of honour.
He is a man of the loftiest ambitions, of the highest aims. He has
dedicated his whole life to the improvement of the conditions amidst
which the less fortunate of his fellow countrymen are at present
compelled to exist. That seems to me to be an object well worth having.
He has asked me to share his life-work, and I have told him that I
will; when, and where, and how, he wants me to. And I will. I do not
suppose his life has been free from peccadilloes. I have no delusion on
the point. What man’s life has? Who among men can claim to be without
sin? Even the members of our highest families sometimes hide behind
screens. But I know that he is, at least, as good a man as I ever met,
I am persuaded that I shall never meet a better; and I thank God that I
have found favour in his eyes.--Good-bye, Sydney.--I suppose I shall
see you again, papa.’
With the merest inclination of her head to both of us she straightway
left the room. Lindon would have stopped her.
‘S-stay, y-y-y-you--’ he stuttered.
But I caught him by the arm.
‘If you will be advised by me, you will let her go. No good purpose
will be served by a multiplication of words.’
‘Atherton, I--I’m disappointed in you. You--you haven’t behaved as I
expected. I--I haven’t received from you the assistance which I looked
for.’
‘My dear Lindon, it seems to me that your method of diverting the young
lady from the path which she has set herself to tread is calculated to
send her furiously along it.’
‘C-confound the women! c-confound the women! I don’t mind telling you,
in c-confidence, that at--at times, her mother was the devil, and I’ll
be--I’ll be hanged if her daughter isn’t worse.--What was the
tomfoolery she was talking to you about? Is she mad?’
‘No,--I don’t think she’s mad.’
‘I never heard such stuff, it made my blood run cold to hear her.
What’s the matter with the girl?’
‘Well,--you must excuse my saying that I don’t fancy you quite
understand women.’
‘I--I don’t,--and I--I--I don’t want to either.’
I hesitated; then resolved on a taradiddle,--in Marjorie’s interest.
‘Marjorie is high-strung,--extremely sensitive. Her imagination is
quickly aflame. Perhaps, last night, you drove her as far as was safe.
You heard for yourself how, in consequence, she suffered. You don’t
want people to say you have driven her into a lunatic asylum.’
‘I--good heavens, no! I--I’ll send for the doctor directly I get
home,--I--I’ll have the best opinion in town.’
‘You’ll do nothing of the kind,--you’ll only make her worse. What you
have to do is to be patient with her, and let her have peace.--As for
this affair of Lessingham’s, I have a suspicion that it may not be all
such plain sailing as she supposes.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean nothing. I only wish you to understand that until you hear from
me again you had better let matters slide. Give the girl her head.’
‘Give the girl her head! H-haven’t I--I g-given the g-girl her h-head
all her l-life!’ He looked at his watch. ‘Why, the day’s half gone!’ He
began scurrying towards the front door, I following at his heels. ‘I’ve
got a committee meeting on at the club,--m-most important! For weeks
they’ve been giving us the worst food you ever tasted in your
life,--p-played havoc with my digestion, and I--I’m going to tell them
if--things aren’t changed, they--they’ll have to pay my doctor’s
bills.--As for that man, Lessingham--’
As he spoke, he himself opened the hall door, and there, standing on
the step was ‘that man Lessingham’ himself. Lindon was a picture. The
Apostle was as cool as a cucumber. He held out his hand.
‘Good morning, Mr Lindon. What delightful weather we are having.’
Lindon put his hand behind his back,--and behaved as stupidly as he
very well could have done.
‘You will understand, Mr Lessingham, that, in future, I don’t know you,
and that I shall decline to recognise you anywhere; and that what I say
applies equally to any member of my family.’
With his hat very much on the back of his head he went down the steps
like an inflated turkeycock.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE HAUNTED MAN
To have received the cut discourteous from his future father-in-law
might have been the most commonplace of incidents,--Lessingham evinced
not a trace of discomposure. So far as I could judge, he took no notice
of the episode whatever, behaving exactly as if nothing had happened.
He merely waited till Mr Lindon was well off the steps; then, turning
to me, he placidly observed,
‘Interrupting you again, you see.--May I?’
The sight of him had set up such a turmoil in my veins, that, for the
moment, I could not trust myself to speak. I felt, acutely, that an
explanation with him was, of all things, the thing most to be
desired,--and that quickly. Providence could not have thrown him more
opportunely in the way. If, before he went away, we did not understand
each other a good deal more clearly, upon certain points, the fault
should not be mine. Without a responsive word, turning on my heels, I
led the way into the laboratory.
Whether he noticed anything peculiar in my demeanour, I could not tell.
Within he looked about him with that purely facial smile, the sight of
which had always engendered in me a certain distrust of him.
‘Do you always receive visitors in here?’
‘By no means.’
‘What is this?’
Stooping down, he picked up something from the floor. It was a lady’s
purse,--a gorgeous affair, of crimson leather and gleaming gold.
Whether it was Marjorie’s or Miss Grayling’s I could not tell. He
watched me as I examined it.
‘Is it yours?’
‘No. It is not mine.’
Placing his hat and umbrella on one chair, he placed himself upon
another,--very leisurely. Crossing his legs, laying his folded hands
upon his knees, he sat and looked at me. I was quite conscious of his
observation; but endured it in silence, being a little wishful that he
should begin.
Presently he had, as I suppose, enough of looking at me, and spoke.
‘Atherton, what is the matter with you?--Have I done something to
offend you too?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Your manner seems a little singular.’
‘You think so?’
‘I do.’
‘What have you come to see me about?’
‘Just now, nothing.--I like to know where I stand.’
His manner was courteous, easy, even graceful. I was outmanoeuvred. I
understood the man sufficiently well to be aware that when once he was
on the defensive, the first blow would have to come from me. So I
struck it.
‘I, also, like to know where I stand.--Lessingham, I am aware, and you
know that I am aware, that you have made certain overtures to Miss
Lindon. That is a fact in which I am keenly interested.’
‘As--how?’
‘The Lindons and the Athertons are not the acquaintances of one
generation only. Marjorie Lindon and I have been friends since
childhood. She looks upon me as a brother--’
‘As a brother?’
‘As a brother.’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Lindon regards me as a son. He has given me his confidence; as I
believe you are aware, Marjorie has given me hers; and now I want you
to give me yours.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘I wish to explain my position before I say what I have to say, because
I want you to understand me clearly.--I believe, honestly, that the
thing I most desire in this world is to see Marjorie Lindon happy. If I
thought she would be happy with you, I should say, God speed you both!
and I should congratulate you with all my heart, because I think that
you would have won the best girl in the whole world to be your wife.’
‘I think so too.’
‘But, before I did that, I should have to see, at least, some
reasonable probability that she would be happy with you.’
‘Why should she not?’
‘Will you answer a question?’
‘What is the question?’
‘What is the story in your life of which you stand in such hideous
terror?’
There was a perceptible pause before he answered.
‘Explain yourself.’
‘No explanation is needed,--you know perfectly well what I mean.’
‘You credit me with miraculous acumen.’
‘Don’t juggle, Lessingham,--be frank!’
‘The frankness should not be all on one side.--There is that in your
frankness, although you may be unconscious of it, which some men might
not unreasonably resent.’
‘Do you resent it?’
‘That depends. If you are arrogating to yourself the right to place
yourself between Miss Lindon and me, I do resent it, strongly.’
‘Answer my question!’
‘I answer no question which is addressed to me in such a tone.’
He was as calm as you please. I recognised that already I was in peril
of losing my temper,--which was not at all what I desired. I eyed him
intently, he returning me look for look. His countenance betrayed no
sign of a guilty conscience; I had not seen him more completely at his
ease. He smiled,--facially, and also, as it seemed to me, a little
derisively. I am bound to admit that his bearing showed not the
faintest shadow of resentment, and that in his eyes there was a
gentleness, a softness, which I had not observed in them before,--I
could almost have suspected him of being sympathetic.
‘In this matter, you must know, I stand in the place of Mr Lindon.’
‘Well?’
‘Surely you must understand that before anyone is allowed to think of
marriage with Marjorie Lindon he will have to show that his past, as
the advertisements have it, will bear the fullest investigation.’
‘Is that so?--Will your past bear the fullest investigation?’
I winced.
‘At any rate, it is known to all the world.’
‘Is it?--Forgive me if I say, I doubt it. I doubt if, of any wise man,
that can be said with truth. In all our lives there are episodes which
we keep to ourselves.’
I felt that that was so true that, for the instant, I hardly knew what
to say.
‘But there are episodes and episodes, and when it comes to a man being
haunted one draws the line.’
‘Haunted?’
‘As you are.’
He got up.
‘Atherton, I think that I understand you, but I fear that you do not
understand me.’ He went to where a self-acting mercurial air-pump was
standing on a shelf. ‘What is this curious arrangement of glass tubes
and bulbs?’
‘I do not think that you do understand me, or you would know that I am
in no mood to be trifled with.’
‘Is it some kind of an exhauster?’
‘My dear Lessingham, I am entirely at your service. I intend to have an
answer to my question before you leave this room, but, in the
meanwhile, your convenience is mine. There are some very interesting
things here which you might care to see.’
‘Marvellous, is it not, how the human intellect progresses,--from
conquest unto conquest.’
‘Among the ancients the progression had proceeded farther than with us.’
‘In what respect?’
‘For instance, in the affair of the Apotheosis of the Beetle;--I saw it
take place last night.’
‘Where?’
‘Here,--within a few feet of where you are standing.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘What did you see?’
‘I saw the legendary Apotheosis of the Beetle performed, last night,
before my eyes, with a gaudy magnificence at which the legends never
hinted.’
‘That is odd. I once thought that I saw something of the kind myself.’
‘So I understand.’
‘From whom?’
‘From a friend of yours.’
‘From a friend of mine?--Are you sure it was from a friend of mine?’
The man’s attempt at coolness did him credit,--but it did not deceive
me. That he thought I was endeavouring to bluff him out of his secret I
perceived quite clearly; that it was a secret which he would only
render with his life I was beginning to suspect. Had it not been for
Marjorie, I should have cared nothing,--his affairs were his affairs;
though I realised perfectly well that there was something about the man
which, from the scientific explorer’s point of view, might be well
worth finding out. Still, as I say, if it had not been for Marjorie, I
should have let it go; but, since she was so intimately concerned in
it, I wondered more and more what it could be.
My attitude towards what is called the supernatural is an open one.
That all things are possible I unhesitatingly believe,--I have, even in
my short time, seen so many so-called impossibilities proved possible.
That we know everything, I doubt;--that our
great-great-great-great-grandsires, our forebears of thousands of years
ago, of the extinct civilisations, knew more on some subjects than we
do, I think is, at least, probable. All the legends can hardly be false.
Because men claimed to be able to do things in those days which we
cannot do, and which we do not know how they did, we profess to think
that their claims are finally dismissed by exclaiming--lies! But it is
not so sure.
For my part, what I had seen I had seen. I had seen some devil’s trick
played before my very eyes. Some trick of the same sort seemed to have
been played upon my Marjorie,--I repeat that I write ‘my Marjorie’
because, to me, she will always be ‘my’ Marjorie! It had driven her
half out of her senses. As I looked at Lessingham, I seemed to see her
at his side, as I had seen her not long ago, with her white, drawn
face, and staring eyes, dumb with an agony of fear. Her life was
bidding fair to be knit with his,--what Upas tree of horror was rooted
in his very bones? The thought that her sweet purity was likely to be
engulfed in a devil’s slough in which he was wallowing was not to be
endured. As I realised that the man was more than my match at the game
which I was playing--in which such vital interests were at stake!--my
hands itched to clutch him by the throat, and try another way.
Doubtless my face revealed my feelings, because, presently, he said,
‘Are you aware how strangely you are looking at me, Atherton? Were my
countenance a mirror I think you would be surprised to see in it your
own.’
I drew back from him,--I daresay, sullenly.
‘Not so surprised as, yesterday morning, you would have been to have
seen yours,--at the mere sight of a pictured scarab.’
‘How easily you quarrel.’
‘I do not quarrel.’
‘Then perhaps it’s I. If that is so, then, at once, the quarrel’s
ended,--pouf! it’s done. Mr Lindon, I fear, because, politically, we
differ, regards me as anathema. Has he put some of his spirit into
you?--You are a wiser man.’
‘I am aware that you are an adept with words. But this is a case in
which words only will not serve.’
‘Then what will serve?’
‘I am myself beginning to wonder.’
‘And I.’
‘As you so courteously suggest, I believe I am wiser than Lindon. I do
not care for your politics, or for what you call your politics, one
fig. I do not care if you are as other men are, as I am,--not unspotted
from the world! But I do care if you are leprous. And I believe you
are.’
‘Atherton!’
‘Ever since I have known you I have been conscious of there being
something about you which I found it difficult to diagnose;--in an
unwholesome sense, something out of the common, non-natural; an
atmosphere of your own. Events, so far as you are concerned, have,
during the last few days moved quickly. They have thrown an
uncomfortably lurid light on that peculiarity of yours which I have
noticed. Unless you can explain them to my satisfaction, you will
withdraw your pretensions to Miss Lindon’s hand, or I shall place
certain facts before that lady, and, if necessary, publish them to the
world.’
He grew visibly paler but he smiled--facially.
‘You have your own way of conducting a conversation, Mr Atherton.--What
are the events to whose rapid transit you are alluding?’
‘Who was the individual, practically stark naked, who came out of your
house, in such singular fashion, at dead of night?’
‘Is that one of the facts with which you propose to tickle the public
ear?’
‘Is that the only explanation which you have to offer?’
‘Proceed, for the present, with your indictment.’
‘I am not so unobservant as you appear to imagine. There were features
about the episode which struck me forcibly at the time, and which have
struck me more forcibly since. To suggest, as you did yesterday
morning, that it was an ordinary case of burglary, or that the man was
a lunatic, is an absurdity.’
‘Pardon me,--I did nothing of the kind.’
‘Then what do you suggest?’
‘I suggested, and do suggest, nothing. All the suggestions come from
you.’
‘You went very much out of your way to beg me to keep the matter quiet.
There is an appearance of suggestion about that.’
‘You take a jaundiced view of all my actions, Mr Atherton. Nothing, to
me, could seem more natural.--However,--proceed.’
He had his hands behind his back, and rested them on the edge of the
table against which he was leaning. He was undoubtedly ill at ease; but
so far I had not made the impression on him, either mentally or
morally, which I desired.
‘Who is your Oriental friend?’
‘I do not follow you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I am certain. Repeat your question.’
‘Who is your Oriental friend?’
‘I was not aware that I had one.’
‘Do you swear that?’
He laughed, a strange laugh.
‘Do you seek to catch me tripping? You conduct your case with too much
animus. You must allow me to grasp the exact purport of your inquiry
before I can undertake to reply to it on oath.’
‘Are you not aware that at present there is in London an individual who
claims to have had a very close, and a very curious, acquaintance with
you in the East?’
‘I am not.’
‘That you swear?’
‘That I do swear.’
‘That is singular.’
‘Why is it singular?’
‘Because I fancy that that individual haunts you.’
‘Haunts me?’
‘Haunts you.’
‘You jest.’
‘You think so?--You remember that picture of the scarabaeus which,
yesterday morning, frightened you into a state of semi-idiocy.’
‘You use strong language.--I know what you allude to.’
‘Do you mean to say that you don’t know that you were indebted for that
to your Oriental friend?’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Certainly I am sure.--It occurs to me, Mr Atherton, that an
explanation is demanded from you rather than from me. Are you aware
that the purport of my presence here is to ask you how that picture
found its way into your room?’
‘It was projected by the Lord of the Beetle.’
The words were chance ones,--but they struck a mark.
‘The Lord--’ He faltered,--and stopped. He showed signs of
discomposure. ‘I will be frank with you,--since frankness is what you
ask.’ His smile, that time, was obviously forced. ‘Recently I have been
the victim of delusions;’ there was a pause before the word, ‘of a
singular kind. I have feared that they were the result of mental
overstrain. Is it possible that you can enlighten me as to their
source?’
I was silent. He was putting a great strain upon himself, but the
twitching of his lips betrayed him. A little more, and I should reach
the other side of Mr Lessingham,--the side which he kept hidden from
the world.
‘Who is this--individual whom you speak of as my--Oriental friend?’
‘Being your friend, you should know better than I do.’
‘What sort of man is he to look at?’
‘I did not say it was a man.’
‘But I presume it is a man.’
‘I did not say so.’
He seemed, for a moment, to hold his breath,--and he looked at me with
eyes which were not friendly. Then, with a display of self-command
which did him credit, he drew himself upright, with an air of dignity
which well became him.
‘Atherton, consciously, or unconsciously, you are doing me a serious
injustice. I do not know what conception it is which you have formed of
me, or on what the conception is founded, but I protest that, to the
best of my knowledge and belief, I am as reputable, as honest, and as
clean a man as you are.’
‘But you’re haunted.’
‘Haunted?’ He held himself erect, looking me straight in the face. Then
a shiver went all over him; the muscles of his mouth twitched; and, in
an instant, he was livid. He staggered against the table. ‘Yes, God
knows it’s true,--I’m haunted.’
‘So either you’re mad, and therefore unfit to marry; or else you’ve
done something which places you outside the tolerably generous
boundaries of civilised society, and are therefore still more unfit to
marry. You’re on the horns of a dilemma.’
‘I--I’m the victim of a delusion.’
‘What is the nature of the delusion? Does it take the shape of
a--beetle?’
‘Atherton!’
Without the slightest warning, he collapsed,--was transformed; I can
describe the change which took place in him in no other way. He sank in
a heap on the floor; he held up his hands above his head; and he
gibbered,--like some frenzied animal. A more uncomfortable spectacle
than he presented it would be difficult to find. I have seen it matched
in the padded rooms of lunatic asylums, but nowhere else. The sight of
him set every nerve of my body on edge.
‘In Heaven’s name, what is the matter with you, man? Are you stark,
staring mad? Here,--drink this!’
Filling a tumbler with brandy, I forced it between his quivering
fingers. Then it was some moments before I could get him to understand
what it was I wanted him to do. When he did get the glass to his lips,
he swallowed its contents as if they were so much water. By degrees his
senses returned to him. He stood up. He looked about him, with a smile
which was positively ghastly.
‘It’s--it’s a delusion.’
‘It’s a very queer kind of a delusion, if it is.’
I eyed him, curiously. He was evidently making the most strenuous
efforts to regain his self-control,--all the while with that horrible
smile about his lips.
‘Atherton, you--you take me at an advantage.’ I was still. ‘Who--who’s
your Oriental friend?’
‘My Oriental friend?--you mean yours. I supposed, at first, that the
individual in question was a man; but it appears that she’s a woman.’
‘A woman?--Oh.--How do you mean?’
‘Well, the face is a man’s--of an uncommonly disagreeable type, of
which the powers forbid that there are many!--and the voice is a
man’s,--also of a kind!--but the body, as, last night, I chanced to
discover, is a woman’s.’
‘That sounds very odd.’ He closed his eyes. I could see that his cheeks
were clammy. ‘Do you--do you believe in witchcraft?’
‘That depends.’
‘Have you heard of Obi?’
‘I have.’
‘I have been told that an Obeah man can put a spell upon a person which
compels a person to see whatever he--the Obeah man--may please. Do you
think that’s possible?’
‘It is not a question to which I should be disposed to answer either
yes or no.’
He looked at me out of his half-closed eyes. It struck me that he was
making conversation,--saying anything for the sake of gaining time.
‘I remember reading a book entitled “Obscure Diseases of the Brain.” It
contained some interesting data on the subject of hallucinations.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Now, candidly, would you recommend me to place myself in the hands of
a mental pathologist?’
‘I don’t think that you’re insane, if that’s what you mean.’
‘No?--That is good hearing. Of all diseases insanity is the most to be
dreaded.--Well, Atherton, I’m keeping you. The truth is that, insane or
not, I am very far from well. I think I must give myself a holiday.’
He moved towards his hat and umbrella.
‘There is something else which you must do.’
‘What is that?’
‘You must resign your pretensions to Miss Lindon’s hand.’
‘My dear Atherton, if my health is really failing me, I shall resign
everything,--everything!’
He repeated his own word with a little movement of his hands which was
pathetic.
‘Understand me, Lessingham. What else you do is no affair of mine. I am
concerned only with Miss Lindon. You must give me your definite
promise, before you leave this room, to terminate your engagement with
her before to-night.’
His back was towards me.
‘There will come a time when your conscience will prick you because of
your treatment of me; when you will realise that I am the most
unfortunate of men.’
‘I realise that now. It is because I realise it that I am so desirous
that the shadow of your evil fortune shall not fall upon an innocent
girl.’
He turned.
‘Atherton, what is your actual position with reference to Marjorie
Lindon?’
‘She regards me as a brother.’
‘And do you regard her as a sister? Are your sentiments towards her
purely fraternal?’
‘You know that I love her.’
‘And do you suppose that my removal will clear the path for you?’
‘I suppose nothing of the kind. You may believe me or not, but my one
desire is for her happiness, and surely, if you love her, that is your
desire too.’
‘That is so.’ He paused. An expression of sadness stole over his face
of which I had not thought it capable. ‘That is so to an extent of
which you do not dream. No man likes to have his hand forced,
especially by one whom he regards--may I say it?--as a possible rival.
But I will tell you this much. If the blight which has fallen on my
life is likely to continue, I would not wish,--God forbid that I should
wish to join her fate with mine,--not for all that the world could
offer me.’
He stopped. And I was still. Presently he continued.
‘When I was younger I was subject to a--similar delusion. But it
vanished,--I saw no trace of it for years,--I thought that I had done
with it for good. Recently, however, it has returned,--as you have
witnessed. I shall institute inquiries into the cause of its
reappearance; if it seems likely to be irremovable, or even if it bids
fair to be prolonged, I shall not only, as you phrase it, withdraw my
pretensions to Miss Lindon’s hand, but to all my other ambitions. In
the interim, as regards Miss Lindon I shall be careful to hold myself
on the footing of a mere acquaintance.’
‘You promise me?’
‘I do.--And on your side, Atherton, in the meantime, deal with me more
gently. Judgment in my case has still to be given. You will find that I
am not the guilty wretch you apparently imagine. And there are few
things more disagreeable to one’s self-esteem than to learn, too late,
that one has persisted in judging another man too harshly. Think of all
that the world has, at this moment, to offer me, and what it will mean
if I have to turn my back on it,--owing to a mischievous twist of
fortune’s wheel.’
He turned, as if to go. Then stopped, and looked round, in an attitude
of listening.
‘What’s that?’
There was a sound of droning,--I recalled what Marjorie had said of her
experiences of the night before, it was like the droning of a beetle.
The instant the Apostle heard it, the fashion of his countenance began
to change,--it was pitiable to witness. I rushed to him.
‘Lessingham!--don’t be a fool!--play the man!’
He gripped my left arm with his right hand till it felt as if it were
being compressed in a vice.
‘Then--I shall have to have some more brandy.’
Fortunately the bottle was within reach from where I stood, otherwise I
doubt if he would have released my arm to let me get at it. I gave him
the decanter and the glass. He helped himself to a copious libation. By
the time that he had swallowed it the droning sound had gone. He put
down the empty tumbler.
‘When a man has to resort to alcohol to keep his nerves up to concert
pitch, things are in a bad way with him, you may be sure of that,--but
then you have never known what it is to stand in momentary expectation
of a tête-à-tête with the devil.’
Again he turned to leave the room,--and this time he actually went. I
let him go alone. I heard his footsteps passing along the passage, and
the hall-door close. Then I sat in an arm-chair, stretched my legs out
in front of me, thrust my hands in my trouser pockets, and--I wondered.
I had been there, perhaps, four or five minutes, when there was a
slight noise at my side. Glancing round, I saw a sheet of paper come
fluttering through the open window. It fell almost at my feet. I picked
it up. It was a picture of a beetle,--a facsimile of the one which had
had such an extraordinary effect on Mr Lessingham the day before.
‘If this was intended for St Paul, it’s a trifle late;--unless--’
I could hear that someone was approaching along the corridor. I looked
up, expecting to see the Apostle reappear;--in which expectation I was
agreeably disappointed. The newcomer was feminine. It was Miss
Grayling. As she stood in the open doorway, I saw that her cheeks were
red as roses.
‘I hope I am not interrupting you again, but--I left my purse here.’
She stopped; then added, as if it were an afterthought, ‘And--I want
you to come and lunch with me.’
I locked the picture of the beetle in the drawer,--and I lunched with
Dora Grayling.
BOOK III.
The Terror by Night and the Terror by Day
_Miss Marjorie Lindon tells the Tale_
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE WAY HE TOLD HER
I am the happiest woman in the world! I wonder how many women have said
that of themselves in their time,--but I am. Paul has told me that he
loves me. How long I have made inward confession of my love for him, I
should be ashamed to say. It sounds prosaic, but I believe it is a fact
that the first stirring of my pulses was caused by the report of a
speech of his which I read in the _Times_. It was on the Eight Hours’
Bill. Papa was most unflattering. He said that he was an oily spouter,
an ignorant agitator, an irresponsible firebrand, and a good deal more
to the same effect. I remember very well how papa fidgeted with the
paper, declaring that it read even worse than it had sounded, and
goodness knew that it had sounded bad enough. He was so very emphatic
that when he had gone I thought I would see what all the pother was
about, and read the speech for myself. So I read it. It affected me
quite differently. The speaker’s words showed such knowledge, charity,
and sympathy that they went straight to my heart.
After that I read everything of Paul Lessingham’s which I came across.
And the more I read the more I was impressed. But it was some time
before we met. Considering what papa’s opinions were, it was not likely
that he would go out of his way to facilitate a meeting. To him, the
mere mention of the name was like a red rag to a bull. But at last we
did meet. And then I knew that he was stronger, greater, better even
than his words. It is so often the other way; one finds that men, and
women too, are so apt to put their best, as it were, into their shop
windows, that the discovery was as novel as it was delightful.
When the ice was once broken, we often met. I do not know how it was.
We did not plan our meetings,--at first, at any rate. Yet we seemed
always meeting. Seldom a day passed on which we did not
meet,--sometimes twice or thrice. It was odd how we were always coming
across each other in the most unlikely places. I believe we did not
notice it at the time, but looking back I can see that we must have
managed our engagements so that somewhere, somehow, we should be
certain to have an opportunity of exchanging half a dozen words. Those
constant encounters could not have all been chance ones.
But I never supposed he loved me,--never. I am not even sure that, for
some time, I was aware that I loved him. We were great on friendship,
both of us.--I was quite aware that I was his friend,--that he regarded
me as his friend; he told me so more than once.
‘I tell you this,’ he would say, referring to this, that, or the other,
‘because I know that, in speaking to you, I am speaking to a friend.’
With him those were not empty words. All kinds of people talk to one
like that,--especially men; it is a kind of formula which they use with
every woman who shows herself disposed to listen. But Paul is not like
that. He is chary of speech; not by any means a woman’s man. I tell him
that is his weakest point. If legend does not lie more even than is
common, few politicians have achieved prosperity without the aid of
women. He replies that he is not a politician; that he never means to
be a politician. He simply wishes to work for his country; if his
country does not need his services--well, let it be. Papa’s political
friends have always so many axes of their own to grind, that, at first,
to hear a member of Parliament talk like that was almost disquieting. I
had dreamed of men like that; but I never encountered one till I met
Paul Lessingham.
Our friendship was a pleasant one. It became pleasanter and pleasanter.
Until there came a time when he told me everything; the dreams he
dreamed; the plans which he had planned; the great purposes which, if
health and strength were given him, he intended to carry to a great
fulfilment. And, at last, he told me something else.
It was after a meeting at a Working Women’s Club in Westminster. He had
spoken, and I had spoken too. I don’t know what papa would have said,
if he had known, but I had. A formal resolution had been proposed, and
I had seconded it,--in perhaps a couple of hundred words; but that
would have been quite enough for papa to have regarded me as an
Abandoned Wretch,--papa always puts those sort of words into capitals.
Papa regards a speechifying woman as a thing of horror,--I have known
him look askance at a Primrose Dame.
The night was fine. Paul proposed that I should walk with him down the
Westminster Bridge Road, until we reached the House, and then he would
see me into a cab. I did as he suggested. It was still early, not yet
ten, and the streets were alive with people. Our conversation, as we
went, was entirely political. The Agricultural Amendment Act was then
before the Commons, and Paul felt very strongly that it was one of
those measures which give with one hand, while taking with the other.
The committee stage was at hand, and already several amendments were
threatened, the effect of which would be to strengthen the landlord at
the expense of the tenant. More than one of these, and they not the
most moderate, were to be proposed by papa. Paul was pointing out how
it would be his duty to oppose these tooth and nail, when, all at once,
he stopped.
‘I sometimes wonder how you really feel upon this matter.’
‘What matter?’
‘On the difference of opinion, in political matters, which exists
between your father and myself. I am conscious that Mr Lindon regards
my action as a personal question, and resents it so keenly, that I am
sometimes moved to wonder if at least a portion of his resentment is
not shared by you.’
‘I have explained; I consider papa the politician as one person, and
papa the father as quite another.’
‘You are his daughter.’
‘Certainly I am;--but would you, on that account, wish me to share his
political opinions, even though I believe them to be wrong?’
‘You love him.’
‘Of course I do,--he is the best of fathers.’
‘Your defection will be a grievous disappointment.’
I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. I wondered what was
passing through his mind. The subject of my relations with papa was one
which, without saying anything at all about it, we had consented to
taboo.
‘I am not so sure. I am permeated with a suspicion that papa has no
politics.’
‘Miss Lindon!--I fancy that I can adduce proof to the contrary.’
‘I believe that if papa were to marry again, say, a Home Ruler, within
three weeks his wife’s politics would be his own.’
Paul thought before he spoke; then he smiled.
‘I suppose that men sometimes do change their coats to please their
wives,--even their political ones.’
‘Papa’s opinions are the opinions of those with whom he mixes. The
reason why he consorts with Tories of the crusted school is because he
fears that if he associated with anybody else--with Radicals,
say,--before he knew it, he would be a Radical too. With him,
association is synonymous with logic.’
Paul laughed outright. By this time we had reached Westminster Bridge.
Standing, we looked down upon the river. A long line of lanterns was
gliding mysteriously over the waters; it was a tug towing a string of
barges. For some moments neither spoke. Then Paul recurred to what I
had just been saying.
[IMAGE: images/img_187.jpg
CAPTION: PRESENTLY HIS HAND FASTENED UPON MINE AND HELD IT TIGHT.]
‘And you,--do you think marriage would colour your convictions?’
‘Would it yours?’
‘That depends.’ He was silent. Then he said, in that tone which I had
learned to look for when he was most in earnest, ‘It depends on whether
you would marry me.’
I was still. His words were so unexpected that they took my breath
away. I knew not what to make of them. My head was in a whirl. Then he
addressed to me a monosyllabic interrogation.
‘Well?’
I found my voice,--or a part of it.
‘Well?--to what?’
He came a little closer.
‘Will you be my wife?’
The part of my voice which I had found, was lost again. Tears came into
my eyes. I shivered. I had not thought that I could be so absurd. Just
then the moon came from behind a cloud; the rippling waters were tipped
with silver. He spoke again, so gently that his words just reached my
ears.
‘You know that I love you.’
Then I knew that I loved him too. That what I had fancied was a feeling
of friendship was something very different. It was as if somebody, in
tearing a veil from before my eyes, had revealed a spectacle which
dazzled me. I was speechless. He misconstrued my silence.
‘Have I offended you?’
‘No.’
I fancy that he noted the tremor which was in my voice, and read it
rightly. For he too was still. Presently his hand stole along the
parapet, and fastened upon mine, and held it tight.
And that was how it came about. Other things were said; but they were
hardly of the first importance. Though I believe we took some time in
saying them. Of myself I can say with truth, that my heart was too full
for copious speech; I was dumb with a great happiness. And, I believe,
I can say the same of Paul. He told me as much when we were parting.
It seemed that we had only just come there when Paul started. Turning,
he stared up at Big Ben.
‘Midnight!--The House up!--Impossible!’
But it was more than possible, it was fact. We had actually been on the
Bridge two hours, and it had not seemed ten minutes. Never had I
supposed that the flight of time could have been so entirely unnoticed.
Paul was considerably taken aback. His legislative conscience pricked
him. He excused himself--in his own fashion.
‘Fortunately, for once in a way, my business in the House was not so
important as my business out of it.’
He had his arm through mine. We were standing face to face.
‘So you call this business!’
He laughed.
He not only saw me into a cab, but he saw me home in it. And in the cab
he kissed me. I fancy I was a little out of sorts that night. My
nervous system was, perhaps, demoralised. Because, when he kissed me, I
did a thing which I never do,--I have my own standard of behaviour, and
that sort of thing is quite outside of it; I behaved like a sentimental
chit. I cried. And it took him all the way to my father’s door to
comfort me.
I can only hope that, perceiving the singularity of the occasion, he
consented to excuse me.
CHAPTER XXIV.
A WOMAN’S VIEW
Sydney Atherton has asked me to be his wife. It is not only annoying;
worse, it is absurd.
This is the result of Paul’s wish that our engagement should not be
announced. He is afraid of papa;--not really, but for the moment. The
atmosphere of the House is charged with electricity. Party feeling runs
high. They are at each other, hammer and tongs, about this Agricultural
Amendment Act. The strain on Paul is tremendous. I am beginning to feel
positively concerned. Little things which I have noticed about him
lately convince me that he is being overwrought. I suspect him of
having sleepless nights. The amount of work which he has been getting
through lately has been too much for any single human being, I care not
who he is. He himself admits that he shall be glad when the session is
at an end. So shall I.
In the meantime, it is his desire that nothing shall be said about our
engagement until the House rises. It is reasonable enough. Papa is sure
to be violent,--lately, the barest allusion to Paul’s name has been
enough to make him explode. When the discovery does come, he will be
unmanageable,--I foresee it clearly. From little incidents which have
happened recently I predict the worst. He will be capable of making a
scene within the precincts of the House. And, as Paul says, there is
some truth in the saying that the last straw breaks the camel’s back.
He will be better able to face papa’s wild wrath when the House has
risen.
So the news is to bide a wee. Of course Paul is right. And what he
wishes I wish too. Still, it is not all such plain sailing for me as he
perhaps thinks. The domestic atmosphere is almost as electrical as that
in the House. Papa is like the terrier who scents a rat,--he is always
sniffing the air. He has not actually forbidden me to speak to
Paul,--his courage is not quite at the sticking point; but he is
constantly making uncomfortable allusions to persons who number among
their acquaintance ‘political adventurers,’ ‘grasping carpet-baggers,’
‘Radical riff-raff,’ and that kind of thing. Sometimes I venture to
call my soul my own; but such a tempest invariably follows that I
become discreet again as soon as I possibly can. So, as a rule, I
suffer in silence.
Still, I would with all my heart that the concealment were at an end.
No one need imagine that I am ashamed of being about to marry
Paul,--papa least of all. On the contrary, I am as proud of it as a
woman can be. Sometimes, when he has said or done something unusually
wonderful, I fear that my pride will out,--I do feel it so strong
within me. I should be delighted to have a trial of strength with papa;
anywhere, at any time,--I should not be so rude to him as he would be
to me. At the bottom of his heart papa knows that I am the more
sensible of the two; after a pitched battle or so he would understand
it better still. I know papa! I have not been his daughter for all
these years in vain. I feel like hot-blooded soldiers must feel, who,
burning to attack the enemy in the open field, are ordered to skulk
behind hedges, and be shot at.
One result is that Sydney has actually made a proposal of marriage,--he
of all people! It is too comical. The best of it was that he took
himself quite seriously. I do not know how many times he has confided
to me the sufferings which he has endured for love of other women--some
of them, I am sorry to say, decent married women too; but this is the
first occasion on which the theme has been a personal one. He was so
frantic, as he is wont to be, that, to calm him, I told him about
Paul,--which, under the circumstances, to him I felt myself at liberty
to do. In return, he was melodramatic; hinting darkly at I know not
what. I was almost cross with him.
He is a curious person, Sydney Atherton. I suppose it is because I have
known him all my life, and have always looked upon him, in cases of
necessity, as a capital substitute for a brother, that I criticise him
with so much frankness. In some respects, he is a genius; in others--I
will not write fool, for that he never is, though he has often done
some extremely foolish things. The fame of his inventions is in the
mouths of all men; though the half of them has never been told. He is
the most extraordinary mixture. The things which most people would like
to have proclaimed in the street, he keeps tightly locked in his own
bosom; while those which the same persons would be only too glad to
conceal, he shouts from the roofs. A very famous man once told me that
if Mr Atherton chose to become a specialist, to take up one branch of
inquiry, and devote his life to it, his fame, before he died, would
bridge the spheres. But sticking to one thing is not in Sydney’s line
at all. He prefers, like the bee, to roam from flower to flower.
As for his being in love with me; it is ridiculous. He is as much in
love with the moon. I cannot think what has put the idea into his head.
Some girl must have been ill-using him, or he imagines that she has.
The girl whom he ought to marry, and whom he ultimately will marry, is
Dora Grayling. She is young, charming, immensely rich, and over head
and ears in love with him;--if she were not, then he would be over head
and ears in love with her. I believe he is very near it as it
is,--sometimes he is so very rude to her. It is a characteristic of
Sydney’s, that he is apt to be rude to a girl whom he really likes. As
for Dora, I suspect she dreams of him. He is tall, straight, very
handsome, with a big moustache, and the most extraordinary eyes;--I
fancy that those eyes of his have as much to do with Dora’s state as
anything. I have heard it said that he possesses the hypnotic power to
an unusual degree, and that, if he chose to exercise it, he might
become a danger to society. I believe he has hypnotised Dora.
He makes an excellent brother. I have gone to him, many and many a
time, for help,--and some excellent advice I have received. I daresay I
shall consult him still. There are matters of which one would hardly
dare to talk to Paul. In all things he is the great man. He could
hardly condescend to chiffons. Now Sydney can and does. When he is in
the mood, on the vital subject of trimmings a woman could not appeal to
a sounder authority. I tell him, if he had been a dressmaker, he would
have been magnificent. I am sure he would.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE MAN IN THE STREET
This morning I had an adventure.
I was in the breakfast-room. Papa, as usual, was late for breakfast,
and I was wondering whether I should begin without him, when, chancing
to look round, something caught my eye in the street. I went to the
window to see what it was. A small crowd of people was in the middle of
the road, and they were all staring at something which, apparently, was
lying on the ground. What it was I could not see.
The butler happened to be in the room. I spoke to him.
‘Peter, what is the matter in the street? Go and see.’
He went and saw; and, presently, he returned. Peter is an excellent
servant; but the fashion of his speech, even when conveying the most
trivial information, is slightly sesquipedalian. He would have made a
capital cabinet minister at question time,--he wraps up the smallest
portions of meaning in the largest possible words.
‘An unfortunate individual appears to have been the victim of a
catastrophe. I am informed that he is dead. The constable asserts that
he is drunk.’
‘Drunk?--dead? Do you mean that he is dead drunk?--at this hour!’
‘He is either one or the other. I did not behold the individual myself.
I derived my information from a bystander.’
That was not sufficiently explicit for me. I gave way to a, seemingly,
quite causeless impulse of curiosity, I went out into the street, just
as I was, to see for myself. It was, perhaps, not the most sensible
thing I could have done, and papa would have been shocked; but I am
always shocking papa. It had been raining in the night, and the shoes
which I had on were not so well suited as they might have been for an
encounter with the mud.
I made my way to the point of interest.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.
A workman, with a bag of tools over his shoulder, answered me.
‘There’s something wrong with someone. Policeman says he’s drunk, but
he looks to me as if he was something worse.’
‘Will you let me pass, please?’
When they saw I was a woman, they permitted me to reach the centre of
the crowd.
A man was lying on his back, in the grease and dirt of the road. He was
so plastered with mud, that it was difficult, at first, to be sure that
he really was a man. His head and feet were bare. His body was
partially covered by a long ragged cloak. It was obvious that that one
wretched, dirt-stained, sopping wet rag was all the clothing he had on.
A huge constable was holding his shoulders in his hands, and was
regarding him as if he could not make him out at all. He seemed
uncertain as to whether it was or was not a case of shamming.
He spoke to him as if he had been some refractory child.
‘Come, my lad, this won’t do!--Wake up!--What’s the matter?’
But he neither woke up, nor explained what was the matter. I took hold
of his hand. It was icy cold. Apparently the wrist was pulseless.
Clearly this was no ordinary case of drunkenness.
‘There is something seriously wrong, officer. Medical assistance ought
to be had at once.’
‘Do you think he’s in a fit, miss?’
‘That a doctor should be able to tell you better than I can. There
seems to be no pulse. I should not be surprised to find that he was--’
The word ‘dead’ was actually on my lips, when the stranger saved me
from making a glaring exposure of my ignorance by snatching his wrist
away from me, and sitting up in the mud. He held out his hands in front
of him, opened his eyes, and exclaimed, in a loud, but painfully
raucous tone of voice, as if he was suffering from a very bad cold,
‘Paul Lessingham!’
I was so surprised that I all but sat down in the mud. To hear Paul--my
Paul!--apostrophised by an individual of his appearance, in that
fashion, was something which I had not expected. Directly the words
were uttered, he closed his eyes again, sank backward, and seemingly
relapsed into unconsciousness,--the constable gripping him by the
shoulder just in time to prevent him banging the back of his head
against the road.
The officer shook him,--scarcely gently.
‘Now, my lad, it’s plain that you’re not dead!--What’s the meaning of
this?--Move yourself!’
Looking round I found that Peter was close behind. Apparently he had
been struck by the singularity of his mistress’ behaviour, and had
followed to see that it did not meet with the reward which it deserved.
I spoke to him.
‘Peter, let someone go at once for Dr Cotes!’
Dr Cotes lives just round the corner, and since it was evident that the
man’s lapse into consciousness had made the policeman sceptical as to
his case being so serious as it seemed, I thought it might be advisable
that a competent opinion should be obtained without delay.
Peter was starting, when again the stranger returned to
consciousness,--that is, if it really was consciousness, as to which I
was more than a little in doubt. He repeated his previous pantomime;
sat up in the mud, stretched out his arms, opened his eyes unnaturally
wide,--and yet they appeared unseeing!--a sort of convulsion went all
over him, and he shrieked--it really amounted to shrieking--as a man
might shriek who was in mortal terror.
‘Be warned, Paul Lessingham--be warned!’
For my part, that settled it. There was a mystery here which needed to
be unravelled. Twice had he called upon Paul’s name,--and in the
strangest fashion! It was for me to learn the why and the wherefore; to
ascertain what connection there was between this lifeless creature and
Paul Lessingham. Providence might have cast him there before my door. I
might be entertaining an angel unawares. My mind was made up on the
instant.
‘Peter, hasten for Dr Cotes.’ Peter passed the word, and immediately a
footman started running as fast as his legs would carry him. ‘Officer,
I will have this man taken into my father’s house.--Will some of you
men help to carry him?’
There were volunteers enough, and to spare. I spoke to Peter in the
hall.
‘Is papa down yet?’
‘Mr Lindon has sent down to say that you will please not wait for him
for breakfast. He has issued instructions to have his breakfast
conveyed to him upstairs.’
‘That’s all right.’ I nodded towards the poor wretch who was being
carried through the hall. ‘You will say nothing to him about this
unless he particularly asks. You understand?’
Peter bowed. He is discretion itself. He knows I have my vagaries, and
it is not his fault if the savour of them travels to papa.
The doctor was in the house almost as soon as the stranger.
‘Wants washing,’ he remarked, directly he saw him.
And that certainly was true,--I never saw a man who stood more
obviously in need of the good offices of soap and water. Then he went
through the usual medical formula, I watching all the while. So far as
I could see the man showed not the slightest sign of life.
‘Is he dead?’
‘He will be soon, if he doesn’t have something to eat. The fellow’s
starving.’
The doctor asked the policeman what he knew of him.
That sagacious officer’s reply was vague. A boy had run up to him
crying that a man was lying dead in the street. He had straightway
followed the boy, and discovered the stranger. That was all he knew.
‘What is the matter with the man?’ I inquired of the doctor, when the
constable had gone.
‘Don’t know.--It may be catalepsy, and it mayn’t.--When I do know, you
may ask again.’
Dr Cotes’ manner was a trifle brusque,--particularly, I believe, to me.
I remember that once he threatened to box my ears. When I was a small
child I used to think nothing of boxing his.
Realising that no satisfaction was to be got out of a speechless
man--particularly as regards his mysterious references to Paul--I went
upstairs. I found that papa was under the impression that he was
suffering from a severe attack of gout. But as he was eating a capital
breakfast, and apparently enjoying it,--while I was still fasting--I
ventured to hope that the matter was not so serious as he feared.
I mentioned nothing to him about the person whom I had found in the
street,--lest it should aggravate his gout. When he is like that, the
slightest thing does.
CHAPTER XXVI.
A FATHER’S NO
Paul has stormed the House of Commons with one of the greatest speeches
which even he has delivered, and I have quarrelled with papa. And,
also, I have very nearly quarrelled with Sydney.
Sydney’s little affair is nothing. He actually still persists in
thinking himself in love with me,--as if, since last night, when he
what he calls ‘proposed’ to me, he has not time to fall out of love,
and in again, half a dozen times; and, on the strength of it, he seems
to consider himself entitled to make himself as disagreeable as he can.
That I should not mind,--for Sydney disagreeable is about as nice as
Sydney any other way; but when it comes to his shooting poisoned shafts
at Paul, I object. If he imagines that anything he can say, or hint,
will lessen my estimation of Paul Lessingham by one hair’s breadth, he
has less wisdom even than I gave him credit for. By the way, Percy
Woodville asked me to be his wife to-night,--which, also, is nothing; he
has been trying to do it for the last three years,--though, under the
circumstances, it is a little trying; but he would not spit venom
merely because I preferred another man,--and he, I believe, does care
for me.
Papa’s affair is serious. It is the first clashing of the foils,--and
this time, I imagine, the buttons are really off. This morning he said
a few words, not so much to, as at me. He informed me that Paul was
expected to speak to-night,--as if I did not know it!--and availed
himself of the opening to load him with the abuse which, in his case,
he thinks is not unbecoming to a gentleman. I don’t know--or, rather, I
do know what he would think, if he heard another man use, in the
presence of a woman, the kind of language which he habitually employs.
However, I said nothing. I had a motive for allowing the chaff to fly
before the wind.
But, to-night, issue was joined.
I, of course, went to hear Paul speak,--as I have done over and over
again before. Afterwards, Paul came and fetched me from the cage. He
had to leave me for a moment, while he gave somebody a message; and in
the lobby, there was Sydney,--all sneers! I could have pinched him.
Just as I was coming to the conclusion that I should have to stick a
pin into his arm, Paul returned,--and, positively, Sydney was rude to
him. I was ashamed, if Mr Atherton was not. As if it was not enough
that he should be insulted by a mere popinjay, at the very moment when
he had been adding another stone to the fabric of his country’s
glory,--papa came up. He actually wanted to take me away from Paul. I
should have liked to see him do it. Of course I went down with Paul to
the carriage, leaving papa to follow if he chose. He did not
choose,--but, none the less, he managed to be home within three minutes
after I had myself returned.
Then the battle began.
It is impossible for me to give an idea of papa in a rage. There may be
men who look well when they lose their temper, but, if there are, papa
is certainly not one. He is always talking about the magnificence, and
the high breeding of the Lindons, but anything less high-bred than the
head of the Lindons, in his moments of wrath, it would be hard to
conceive. His language I will not attempt to portray,--but his
observations consisted, mainly, of abuse of Paul, glorification of the
Lindons, and orders to me.
‘I forbid you--I forbid you--’ when papa wishes to be impressive he
repeats his own words three or four times over; I don’t know if he
imagines that they are improved by repetition; if he does, he is
wrong--‘I forbid you ever again to speak to that--that--that--’
Here followed language.
I was silent.
My cue was to keep cool. I believe that, with the exception, perhaps,
of being a little white, and exceedingly sorry that papa should so
forget himself, I was about the same as I generally am.
‘Do you hear me?--do you hear what I say?--do you hear me, miss?’
‘Yes, papa; I hear you.’
‘Then--then--then promise me!--promise that you will do as I tell
you!--mark my words, my girl, you shall promise before you leave this
room!’
‘My dear papa!--do you intend me to spend the remainder of my life in
the drawing-room?’
‘Don’t you be impertinent!--do-do-don’t you speak to me like
that!--I--I--I won’t have it!’
‘I tell you what it is, papa, if you don’t take care you’ll have
another attack of gout.’
‘Damn gout.’
That was the most sensible thing he said; if such a tormentor as gout
can be consigned to the nether regions by the mere utterance of a word,
by all means let the word be uttered. Off he went again.
‘The man’s a ruffianly, rascally,--’ and so on. ‘There’s not such a
villainous vagabond--’ and all the rest of it. ‘And I order you,--I’m a
Lindon, and I order you! I’m your father, and I order you!--I order you
never to speak to such a--such a’--various vain repetitions--‘again,
and--and--and I order you never to look at him!’
‘Listen to me, papa. I will promise you never to speak to Paul
Lessingham again, if you will promise me never to speak to Lord
Cantilever again,--or to recognise him if you meet him in the street.’
You should have seen how papa glared. Lord Cantilever is the head of
his party. Its august, and, I presume, reverenced leader. He is papa’s
particular fetish. I am not sure that he does regard him as being any
lower than the angels, but if he does it is certainly something in
decimals. My suggestion seemed as outrageous to him as his suggestion
seemed to me. But it is papa’s misfortune that he can only see one side
of a question,--and that’s his own.
‘You--you dare to compare Lord Cantilever to--to that--that--that--!’
‘I am not comparing them. I am not aware of there being anything in
particular against Lord Cantilever,--that is against his character.
But, of course, I should not dream of comparing a man of his calibre,
with one of real ability, like Paul Lessingham. It would be to treat
his lordship with too much severity.’
I could not help it,--but that did it. The rest of papa’s conversation
was a jumble of explosions. It was all so sad.
Papa poured all the vials of his wrath upon Paul,--to his own sore
disfigurement. He threatened me with all the pains and penalties of the
inquisition if I did not immediately promise to hold no further
communication with Mr Lessingham,--of course I did nothing of the kind.
He cursed me, in default, by bell, book, and candle,--and by ever so
many other things beside. He called me the most dreadful names,--me!
his only child. He warned me that I should find myself in prison before
I had done,--I am not sure that he did not hint darkly at the gallows.
Finally, he drove me from the room in a whirlwind of anathemas.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE TERROR BY NIGHT
When I left papa,--or, rather, when papa had driven me from him--I went
straight to the man whom I had found in the street. It was late, and I
was feeling both tired and worried, so that I only thought of seeing
for myself how he was. In some way, he seemed to be a link between Paul
and myself, and as, at that moment, links of that kind were precious, I
could not have gone to bed without learning something of his condition.
The nurse received me at the door.
‘Well, nurse, how’s the patient?’
Nurse was a plump, motherly woman, who had attended more than one odd
protégé of mine, and whom I kept pretty constantly at my beck and call.
She held out her hands.
‘It’s hard to tell. He hasn’t moved since I came.’
‘Not moved?--Is he still insensible?’
‘He seems to me to be in some sort of trance. He does not appear to
breathe, and I can detect no pulsation, but the doctor says he’s still
alive,--it’s the queerest case I ever saw.’
I went farther into the room. Directly I did so the man in the bed gave
signs of life which were sufficiently unmistakable. Nurse hastened to
him.
‘Why,’ she exclaimed, ‘he’s moving!--he might have heard you enter!’
He not only might have done, but it seemed possible that that was what
he actually had done. As I approached the bed, he raised himself to a
sitting posture, as, in the morning, he had done in the street, and he
exclaimed, as if he addressed himself to someone whom he saw in front
of him,--I cannot describe the almost more than human agony which was
in his voice,
‘Paul Lessingham!--Beware!--The Beetle!’
What he meant I had not the slightest notion. Probably that was why
what seemed more like a pronouncement of delirium than anything else
had such an extraordinary effect upon my nerves. No sooner had he
spoken than a sort of blank horror seemed to settle down upon my mind.
I actually found myself trembling at the knees. I felt, all at once, as
if I was standing in the immediate presence of something awful yet
unseen.
As for the speaker, no sooner were the words out of his lips, than, as
was the case in the morning, he relapsed into a condition of trance.
Nurse, bending over him, announced the fact.
‘He’s gone off again!--What an extraordinary thing!--I suppose it is
real.’ It was clear, from the tone of her voice, that she shared the
doubt which had troubled the policeman. ‘There’s not a trace of a
pulse. From the look of things he might be dead. Of one thing I’m sure,
that there’s something unnatural about the man. No natural illness I
ever heard of, takes hold of a man like this.’
Glancing up, she saw that there was something unusual in my face; an
appearance which startled her.
‘Why, Miss Marjorie, what’s the matter!--You look quite ill!’
I felt ill, and worse than ill; but, at the same time, I was quite
incapable of describing what I felt to nurse. For some inscrutable
reason I had even lost the control of my tongue,--I stammered.
‘I--I--I’m not feeling very well, nurse; I--I--I think I’ll be better
in bed.’
As I spoke, I staggered towards the door, conscious, all the while,
that nurse was staring at me with eyes wide open. When I got out of the
room, it seemed, in some incomprehensible fashion, as if something had
left it with me, and that It and I were alone together in the corridor.
So overcome was I by the consciousness of its immediate propinquity,
that, all at once, I found myself cowering against the wall,--as if I
expected something or someone to strike me.
How I reached my bedroom I do not know. I found Fanchette awaiting me.
For the moment her presence was a positive comfort,--until I realised
the amazement with which she was regarding me.
‘Mademoiselle is not well?’
‘Thank you, Fanchette, I--I am rather tired. I will undress myself
to-night--you can go to bed.’
‘But if mademoiselle is so tired, will she not permit me to assist her?’
The suggestion was reasonable enough,--and kindly too; for, to say the
least of it, she had as much cause for fatigue as I had. I hesitated. I
should have liked to throw my arms about her neck, and beg her not to
leave me; but, the plain truth is, I was ashamed. In my inner
consciousness I was persuaded that the sense of terror which had
suddenly come over me was so absolutely causeless, that I could not
bear the notion of playing the craven in my maid’s eyes. While I
hesitated, something seemed to sweep past me through the air, and to
brush against my cheek in passing. I caught at Fanchette’s arm.
‘Fanchette!--Is there something with us in the room?’
‘Something with us in the room?--Mademoiselle?--What does mademoiselle
mean?’
She looked disturbed,--which was, on the whole, excusable. Fanchette is
not exactly a strong-minded person, and not likely to be much of a
support when a support was most required. If I was going to play the
fool, I would be my own audience. So I sent her off.
‘Did you not hear me tell you that I will undress myself?--you are to
go to bed.’
She went to bed,--with quite sufficient willingness.
The instant that she was out of the room I wished that she was back
again. Such a paroxysm of fear came over me, that I was incapable of
stirring from the spot on which I stood, and it was all I could do to
prevent myself from collapsing in a heap on the floor. I had never,
till then, had reason to suppose that I was a coward. Nor to suspect
myself of being the possessor of ‘nerves.’ I was as little likely as
anyone to be frightened by shadows. I told myself that the whole thing
was sheer absurdity, and that I should be thoroughly ashamed of my own
conduct when the morning came.
‘If you don’t want to be self-branded as a contemptible idiot, Marjorie
Lindon, you will call up your courage, and these foolish fears will
fly.’
But it would not do. Instead of flying, they grew worse. I became
convinced,--and the process of conviction was terrible beyond
words!--that there actually was something with me in the room, some
invisible horror,--which, at any moment, might become visible. I seemed
to understand--with a sense of agony which nothing can describe!--that
this thing which was with me was with Paul. That we were linked together
by the bond of a common, and a dreadful terror. That, at that moment,
that same awful peril which was threatening me, was threatening him,
and that I was powerless to move a finger in his aid. As with a sort of
second sight, I saw out of the room in which I was, into another, in
which Paul was crouching on the floor, covering his face with his hands,
and shrieking. The vision came again and again with a degree of
vividness of which I cannot give the least conception. At last the
horror, and the reality of it, goaded me to frenzy.
‘Paul! Paul!’ I screamed.
As soon as I found my voice, the vision faded. Once more I understood
that, as a matter of simple fact, I was standing in my own bedroom;
that the lights were burning brightly; that I had not yet commenced
to remove a particle of dress.
‘Am I going mad?’ I wondered.
I had heard of insanity taking extraordinary forms, but what could have
caused softening of the brain in me I had not the faintest notion.
Surely that sort of thing does not come on one--in such a wholly
unmitigated form!--without the slightest notice,--and that my mental
faculties were sound enough a few minutes back I was certain. The first
premonition of anything of the kind had come upon me with the
melodramatic utterance of the man I had found in the street.
‘Paul Lessingham!--Beware!--The Beetle!’
The words were ringing in my ears.--What was that?--There was a
buzzing sound behind me. I turned to see what it was. It moved as I
moved, so that it was still at my back. I swung, swiftly, right round
on my heels. It still eluded me,--it was still behind.
I stood and listened,--what was it that hovered so persistently at my
back?
The buzzing was distinctly audible. It was like the humming of a bee.
Or--could it be a beetle?
My whole life long I have had an antipathy to beetles,--of any sort or
kind. I have objected neither to rats nor mice, nor cows, nor bulls,
nor snakes, nor spiders, nor toads, nor lizards, nor any of the
thousand and one other creatures, animate or otherwise, to which so
many people have a rooted, and, apparently, illogical dislike. My
pet--and only--horror has been beetles. The mere suspicion of a
harmless, and, I am told, necessary cockroach, being within several
feet has always made me seriously uneasy. The thought that a great,
winged beetle--to me, a flying beetle is the horror of horrors!--was
with me in my bedroom,--goodness alone knew how it had got there!--was
unendurable. Anyone who had beheld me during the next few moments would
certainly have supposed I was deranged. I turned and twisted, sprang
from side to side, screwed myself into impossible positions, in order
to obtain a glimpse of the detested visitant,--but in vain. I could
hear it all the time; but see it--never! The buzzing sound was
continually behind.
The terror returned,--I began to think that my brain must be softening.
I dashed to the bed. Flinging myself on my knees, I tried to pray. But
I was speechless,--words would not come; my thoughts would not take
shape. I all at once became conscious, as I struggled to ask help of
God, that I was wrestling with something evil,--that if I only could
ask help of Him, evil would flee. But I could not. I was
helpless,--overmastered. I hid my face in the bedclothes, cramming my
fingers into my ears. But the buzzing was behind me all the time.
I sprang up, striking out, blindly, wildly, right and left, hitting
nothing,--the buzzing always came from a point at which, at the moment,
I was not aiming.
I tore off my clothes. I had on a lovely frock which I had worn for the
first time that night; I had had it specially made for the occasion of
the Duchess’ ball, and--more especially--in honour of Paul’s great
speech. I had said to myself, when I saw my image in a mirror, that it
was the most exquisite gown I had ever had, that it suited me to
perfection, and that it should continue in my wardrobe for many a day,
if only as a souvenir of a memorable night. Now, in the madness of my
terror, all reflections of that sort were forgotten. My only desire was
to away with it. I tore it off anyhow, letting it fall in rags on the
floor at my feet. All else that I had on I flung in the same way after
it; it was a veritable holocaust of dainty garments,--I acting as
relentless executioner who am, as a rule, so tender with my things. I
leaped upon the bed, switched off the electric light, hurried into bed,
burying myself, over head and all, deep down between the sheets.
I had hoped that by shutting out the light, I might regain my senses.
That in the darkness I might have opportunity for sane reflection. But
I had made a grievous error. I had exchanged bad for worse. The
darkness lent added terrors. The light had not been out five seconds
before I would have given all that I was worth to be able to switch it
on again.
As I cowered beneath the bedclothes I heard the buzzing sound above my
head,--the sudden silence of the darkness had rendered it more audible
than it had been before. The thing, whatever it was, was hovering above
the bed. It came nearer and nearer; it grew clearer and clearer. I felt
it alight upon the coverlet;--shall I ever forget the sensations with
which I did feel it? It weighed upon me like a ton of lead. How much of
the seeming weight was real, and how much imaginary, I cannot pretend
to say; but that it was much heavier than any beetle I have ever seen
or heard of, I am sure.
For a time it was still,--and during that time I doubt if I even drew
my breath. Then I felt it begin to move, in wobbling fashion, with
awkward, ungainly gait, stopping every now and then, as if for rest. I
was conscious that it was progressing, slowly, yet surely, towards the
head of the bed. The emotion of horror with which I realised what this
progression might mean, will be, I fear, with me to the end of my
life,--not only in dreams, but too often, also, in my waking hours. My
heart, as the Psalmist has it, melted like wax within me. I was
incapable of movement,--dominated by something as hideous as, and
infinitely more powerful than, the fascination of the serpent.
When it reached the head of the bed, what I feared--with what a
fear!--would happen, did happen. It began to find its way inside,--to
creep between the sheets; the wonder is I did not die! I felt it coming
nearer and nearer, inch by inch; I knew that it was upon me, that
escape there was none; I felt something touch my hair.
And then oblivion did come to my aid. For the first time in my life I
swooned.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE STRANGE STORY OF THE MAN IN THE STREET
I have been anticipating for some weeks past, that things would become
exciting,--and they have. But hardly in the way which I foresaw. It is
the old story of the unexpected happening. Suddenly events of the most
extraordinary nature have come crowding on me from the most
unlooked-for quarters.
Let me try to take them in something like their proper order.
To begin with, Sydney has behaved very badly. So badly that it seems
likely that I shall have to re-cast my whole conception of his
character. It was nearly nine o’clock this morning when I,--I cannot
say woke up, because I do not believe that I had really been
asleep--but when I returned to consciousness. I found myself sitting up
in bed, trembling like some frightened child. What had actually
happened to me I did not know,--could not guess. I was conscious of an
overwhelming sense of nausea, and, generally, I was feeling very far
from well. I endeavoured to arrange my thoughts, and to decide upon
some plan of action. Finally, I decided to go for advice and help where
I had so often gone before,--to Sydney Atherton.
I went to him. I told him the whole gruesome story. He saw, he could
not help but see what a deep impress the events of the night had made
on me. He heard me to the end with every appearance of sympathy,--and
then all at once I discovered that all the time papa had been concealed
behind a large screen which was in the room, listening to every word I
had been uttering. That I was dumfoundered, goes without saying. It was
bad enough in papa, but in Sydney it seemed, and it was, such
treachery. He and I have told each other secrets all our lives; it has
never entered my imagination, as he very well knows, to play him false,
in one jot or tittle; and I have always understood that, in this sort
of matter, men pride themselves on their sense of honour being so much
keener than women’s. I told them some plain truths; and I fancy that I
left them both feeling heartily ashamed of themselves.
One result the experience had on me,--it wound me up. It had on me the
revivifying effect of a cold douche. I realised that mine was a
situation in which I should have to help myself.
When I returned home I learned that the man whom I had found in the
street was himself again, and was as conscious as he was ever likely to
be. Burning with curiosity to learn the nature of the connection which
existed between Paul and him, and what was the meaning of his oracular
apostrophes, I merely paused to remove my hat before hastening into his
apartment.
When he saw me, and heard who I was, the expressions of his gratitude
were painful in their intensity. The tears streamed down his cheeks. He
looked to me like a man who had very little life left in him. He looked
weak, and white, and worn to a shadow. Probably he never had been
robust, and it was only too plain that privation had robbed him of what
little strength he had ever had. He was nothing else but skin and bone.
Physical and mental debility was written large all over him.
He was not bad-looking,--in a milk and watery sort of way. He had pale
blue eyes and very fair hair, and, I daresay, at one time, had been a
spruce enough clerk. It was difficult to guess his age, one ages so
rapidly under the stress of misfortune, but I should have set him down
as being about forty. His voice, though faint enough at first, was that
of an educated man, and as he went on, and gathered courage, and became
more and more in earnest, he spoke with a simple directness which was
close akin to eloquence. It was a curious story which he had to tell.
So curious, so astounding indeed, that, by the time it was finished, I
was in such a state of mind, that I could perceive no alternative but
to forgive Sydney, and, in spite of his recent, and scandalous
misbehaviour, again appeal to him for assistance. It seemed, if the
story told by the man whom I had found in the street was true,--and
incredible though it sounded, he spoke like a truthful man!--that Paul
was threatened by some dreadful, and, to me, wholly incomprehensible
danger; that it was a case in which even moments were precious; and I
felt that, with the best will in the world, it was a position in which
I could not move alone. The shadow of the terror of the night was with
me still, and with that fresh in my recollection how could I hope,
single-handed, to act effectually against the mysterious being of whom
this amazing tale was told? No! I believed that Sydney did care for me,
in his own peculiar way; I knew that he was quick, and cool, and
fertile in resource, and that he showed to most advantage in a
difficult situation; it was possible that he had a conscience, of a
sort, and that, this time, I might not appeal to it in vain.
So I sent a servant off to fetch him, helter skelter.
As luck would have it, the servant returned with him within five
minutes. It appeared that he had been lunching with Dora Grayling, who
lives just at the end of the street, and the footman had met him coming
down the steps. I had him shown into my own room.
‘I want you to go to the man whom I found in the street, and listen to
what he has to say.’
‘With pleasure.’
‘Can I trust you?’
‘To listen to what he has to say?--I believe so.’
‘Can I trust you to respect my confidence?’
He was not at all abashed,--I never saw Sydney Atherton when he was
abashed. Whatever the offence of which he has been guilty, he always
seems completely at his ease. His eyes twinkled.
‘You can,--I will not breathe a syllable even to papa.’
‘In that case, come! But, you understand, I am going to put to the test
the affirmations which you have made during all these years, and to
prove if you have any of the feeling for me which you pretend.’
Directly we were in the stranger’s room, Sydney marched straight up to
the bed, stared at the man who was lying in it, crammed his hands into
his trouser pockets, and whistled. I was amazed.
‘So!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s you!’
‘Do you know this man?’ I asked.
‘I am hardly prepared to go so far as to say that I know him, but, I
chance to have a memory for faces, and it happens that I have met this
gentleman on at least one previous occasion. Perhaps he remembers
me.--Do you?’
The stranger seemed uneasy,--as if he found Sydney’s tone and manner
disconcerting.
‘I do. You are the man in the street.’
‘Precisely. I am that--individual. And you are the man who came through
the window. And in a much more comfortable condition you appear to be
than when first I saw you.’ Sydney turned to me. ‘It is just possible,
Miss Lindon, that I may have a few remarks to make to this gentleman
which would be better made in private,--if you don’t mind.’
‘But I do mind,--I mind very much. What do you suppose I sent for you
here for?’
Sydney smiled that absurd, provoking smile of his,--as if the occasion
were not sufficiently serious.
‘To show that you still repose in me a vestige of your confidence.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense. This man has told me a most extraordinary story,
and I have sent for you--as you may believe, not too willingly’--Sydney
bowed--‘in order that he may repeat it in your presence, and in mine.’
‘Is that so?--Well!--Permit me to offer you a chair,--this tale may turn
out to be a trifle long.’
To humour him I accepted the chair he offered, though I should have
preferred to stand;--he seated himself on the side of the bed, fixing
on the stranger those keen, quizzical, not too merciful, eyes of his.
‘Well, sir, we are at your service,--if you will be so good as to
favour us with a second edition of that pleasant yarn you have been
spinning. But--let us begin at the right end!--what’s your name?’
‘My name is Robert Holt.’
‘That so?--Then, Mr Robert Holt,--let her go!’
Thus encouraged, Mr Holt repeated the tale which he had told me, only
in more connected fashion than before. I fancy that Sydney’s glances
exercised on him a sort of hypnotic effect, and this kept him to the
point,--he scarcely needed a word of prompting from the first syllable
to the last.
He told how, tired, wet, hungry, desperate, despairing, he had been
refused admittance to the casual ward,--that unfailing resource, as one
would have supposed, of those who had abandoned even hope. How he had
come upon an open window in an apparently empty house, and, thinking of
nothing but shelter from the inclement night, he had clambered through
it. How he had found himself in the presence of an extraordinary being,
who, in his debilitated and nervous state, had seemed to him to be only
half human. How this dreadful creature had given utterance to wild
sentiments of hatred towards Paul Lessingham,--my Paul! How he had
taken advantage of Holt’s enfeebled state to gain over him the most
complete, horrible, and, indeed, almost incredible ascendency. How he
actually had sent Holt, practically naked, into the storm-driven
streets, to commit burglary at Paul’s house,--and how he,--Holt,--had
actually gone without being able to offer even a shadow of opposition.
How Paul, suddenly returning home, had come upon Holt engaged in the
very act of committing burglary, and how, on his hearing Holt make a
cabalistic reference to some mysterious beetle, the manhood had gone
out of him, and he had suffered the intruder to make good his escape
without an effort to detain him.
The story had seemed sufficiently astonishing the first time, it seemed
still more astonishing the second,--but, as I watched Sydney listening,
what struck me chiefly was the conviction that he had heard it all
before. I charged him with it directly Holt had finished.
‘This is not the first time you have been told this tale.’
‘Pardon me,--but it is. Do you suppose I live in an atmosphere of fairy
tales?’
Something in his manner made me feel sure he was deceiving me.
‘Sydney!--Don’t tell me a story!--Paul has told you!’
‘I am not telling you a story,--at least, on this occasion; and Mr
Lessingham has not told me. Suppose we postpone these details to a
little later. And perhaps, in the interim, you will permit me to put a
question or two to Mr Holt.’
I let him have his way,--though I knew he was concealing something from
me; that he had a more intimate acquaintance with Mr Holt’s strange
tale than he chose to confess. And, for some cause, his reticence
annoyed me.
He looked at Mr Holt in silence for a second or two. Then he said, with
the quizzical little air of bland impertinence which is peculiarly his
own,
‘I presume, Mr Holt, you have been entertaining us with a novelty in
fables, and that we are not expected to believe this pleasant little
yarn of yours.’
‘I expect nothing. But I have told you the truth. And you know it.’
This seemed to take Sydney aback.
‘I protest that, like Miss Lindon, you credit me with a more extensive
knowledge than I possess. However, we will let that pass.--I take it
that you paid particular attention to this mysterious habitant of this
mysterious dwelling.’
I saw that Mr Holt shuddered.
‘I am not likely ever to forget him.’
‘Then, in that case, you will be able to describe him to us.’
‘To do so adequately would be beyond my powers. But I will do my best.’
If the original was more remarkable than the description which he gave
of him, then he must have been remarkable indeed. The impression
conveyed to my mind was rather of a monster than a human being. I
watched Sydney attentively as he followed Mr Holt’s somewhat lurid
language, and there was something in his demeanour which made me more
and more persuaded that he was more behind the scenes in this strange
business than he pretended, or than the speaker suspected. He put a
question which seemed uncalled for by anything which Mr Holt had said.
‘You are sure this thing of beauty was a man?’
‘No, sir, that is exactly what I am not sure.’
There was a note in Sydney’s voice which suggested that he had received
precisely the answer which he had expected.
‘Did you think it was a woman?’
‘I did think so, more than once. Though I can hardly explain what made
me think so. There was certainly nothing womanly about the face.’ He
paused, as if to reflect. Then added, ‘I suppose it was a question of
instinct.’
‘I see.--Just so.--It occurs to me, Mr Holt, that you are rather strong
on questions of instinct.’ Sydney got off the bed. He stretched
himself, as if fatigued,--which is a way he has. ‘I will not do you the
injustice to hint that I do not believe a word of your charming, and
simple, narrative. On the contrary, I will demonstrate my perfect
credence by remarking that I have not the slightest doubt that you will
be able to point out to me, for my particular satisfaction, the
delightful residence on which the whole is founded.’
Mr Holt coloured,--Sydney’s tone could scarcely have been more
significant.
‘You must remember, sir, that it was a dark night, that I had never
been in that neighbourhood before, and that I was not in a condition to
pay much attention to locality.’
‘All of which is granted, but--how far was it from Hammersmith
Workhouse?’
‘Possibly under half a mile.’
‘Then, in that case, surely you can remember which turning you took on
leaving Hammersmith Workhouse,--I suppose there are not many turnings
you could have taken.’
‘I think I could remember.’
‘Then you shall have an opportunity to try. It isn’t a very far cry to
Hammersmith,--don’t you think you are well enough to drive there now,
just you and I together in a cab?’
‘I should say so. I wished to get up this morning. It is by the
doctor’s orders I have stayed in bed.’
‘Then, for once in a while, the doctor’s orders shall be ignored,--I
prescribe fresh air.’ Sydney turned to me. ‘Since Mr Holt’s wardrobe
seems rather to seek, don’t you think a suit of one of the men might
fit him,--if Mr Holt wouldn’t mind making shift for the moment?--Then,
by the time you’ve finished dressing, Mr Holt, I shall be ready.’
While they were ascertaining which suit of clothes would be best
adapted to his figure, I went with Sydney to my room. So soon as we
were in, I let him know that this was not a matter in which I intended
to be trifled with.
‘Of course you understand, Sydney, that I am coming with you.’
He pretended not to know what I meant.
‘Coming with me?--I am delighted to hear it,--but where?’
‘To the house of which Mr Holt has been speaking.’
‘Nothing could give me greater pleasure, but--might I point out?--Mr
Holt has to find it yet?’
‘I will come to help you to help him find it.’
Sydney laughed,--but I could see he did not altogether relish the
suggestion.
‘Three in a hansom?’
‘There is such a thing as a four-wheeled cab,--or I could order a
carriage if you’d like one.’
Sydney looked at me out of the corners of his eyes; then began to walk
up and down the room, with his hands in his trouser pockets. Presently
he began to talk nonsense.
‘I need not say with what a sensation of joy I should anticipate the
delights of a drive with you,--even in a four-wheeled cab; but, were I
in your place, I fancy that I should allow Holt and your humble servant
to go hunting out this house of his alone. It may prove a more tedious
business than you imagine. I promise that, after the hunt is over, I
will describe the proceedings to you with the most literal accuracy.’
‘I daresay.--Do you think I don’t know you’ve been deceiving me all the
time?’
‘Deceiving you?--I!’
‘Yes,--you! Do you think I’m quite an idiot?’
‘My dear Marjorie!’
‘Do you think I can’t see that you know all about what Mr Holt has been
telling us,--perhaps more about it than he knows himself?’
‘On my word!--With what an amount of knowledge you do credit me.’
‘Yes, I do,--or discredit you, rather. If I were to trust you, you
would tell me just as much as you chose,--which would be nothing. I’m
coming with you,--so there’s an end.’
‘Very well.--Do you happen to know if there are any revolvers in the
house?’
‘Revolvers?--whatever for?’
‘Because I should like to borrow one. I will not conceal from
you--since you press me--that this is a case in which a revolver is
quite likely to be required.’
‘You are trying to frighten me.’
‘I am doing nothing of the kind, only, under the circumstances, I am
bound to point out to you what it is you may expect.’
‘Oh, you think that you’re bound to point that out, do you,--then now
your bounden duty’s done. As for there being any revolvers in the
house, papa has a perfect arsenal,--would you like to take them all?’
‘Thanks, but I daresay I shall be able to manage with one,--unless you
would like one too. You may find yourself in need of it.’
‘I am obliged to you, but, on this occasion, I don’t think I’ll
trouble. I’ll run the risk.--Oh, Sydney, what a hypocrite you are!’
‘It’s for your sake, if I seem to be. I tell you most seriously, that I
earnestly advise you to allow Mr Holt and I to manage this affair
alone. I don’t mind going so far as to say that this is a matter with
which, in days to come, you will wish that you had not allowed yourself
to be associated.’
‘What do you mean by that? Do you dare to insinuate anything
against--Paul?’
‘I insinuate nothing. What I mean, I say right out; and, my dear
Marjorie, what I actually do mean is this,--that if, in spite of my
urgent solicitations, you will persist in accompanying us, the
expedition, so far as I am concerned, will be postponed.’
‘That is what you do mean, is it? Then that’s settled.’ I rang the
bell. The servant came. ‘Order a four-wheeled cab at once. And let me
know the moment Mr Holt is ready.’ The servant went. I turned to
Sydney. ‘If you will excuse me, I will go and put my hat on. You are,
of course, at liberty to please yourself as to whether you will or will
not go, but, if you don’t, then I shall go with Mr Holt alone.’
I moved to the door. He stopped me.
‘My dear Marjorie, why will you persist in treating me with such
injustice? Believe me, you have no idea what sort of adventure this is
which you are setting out upon,--or you would hear reason. I assure you
that you are gratuitously proposing to thrust yourself into imminent
peril.’
‘What sort of peril? Why do you beat about the bush,--why don’t you
speak right out?’
‘I can’t speak right out, there are circumstances which render it
practically impossible--and that’s the plain truth,--but the danger is
none the less real on that account. I am not jesting,--I am in earnest;
won’t you take my word for it?’
‘It is not a question of taking your word only,--it is a question of
something else beside. I have not forgotten my adventures of last
night,--and Mr Holt’s story is mysterious enough in itself; but there
is something more mysterious still at the back of it,--something which
you appear to suggest points unpleasantly at Paul. My duty is clear,
and nothing you can say will turn me from it. Paul, as you are very
well aware, is already overweighted with affairs of state, pretty
nearly borne down by them,--or I would take the tale to him, and he
would talk to you after a fashion of his own. Things being as they are,
I propose to show you that, although I am not yet Paul’s wife, I can
make his interests my own as completely as though I were. I can,
therefore, only repeat that it is for you to decide what you intend to
do; but, if you prefer to stay, I shall go with Mr Holt,--alone.’
‘Understand that, when the time for regret comes--as it will come!--you
are not to blame me for having done what I advised you not to do.’
‘My dear Mr Atherton, I will undertake to do my utmost to guard your
spotless reputation; I should be sorry that anyone should hold you
responsible for anything I either said or did.’
‘Very well!--Your blood be on your own head!’
‘My blood?’
‘Yes,--your blood. I shouldn’t be surprised if it comes to blood before
we’re through.--Perhaps you’ll oblige me with the loan of one of that
arsenal of revolvers of which you spoke.’
I let him have his old revolver,--or, rather, I let him have one of
papa’s new ones. He put it in the hip pocket in his trousers. And the
expedition started,--in a four-wheeled cab.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE HOUSE ON THE ROAD FROM THE WORKHOUSE
Mr Holt looked as if he was in somebody else’s garments. He was so
thin, and worn, and wasted, that the suit of clothes which one of the
men had lent him hung upon him as on a scarecrow. I was almost ashamed
of myself for having incurred a share of the responsibility of taking
him out of bed. He seemed so weak and bloodless that I should not have
been surprised if he had fainted on the road. I had taken care that he
should eat as much as he could eat before we started--the suggestion of
starvation which he had conveyed to one’s mind was dreadful!--and I had
brought a flask of brandy in case of accidents, but, in spite of
everything, I could not conceal from myself that he would be more at
home in a sick-bed than in a jolting cab.
It was not a cheerful drive. There was in Sydney’s manner towards me an
air of protection which I instinctively resented,--he appeared to be
regarding me as a careful, and anxious, nurse might regard a
wrong-headed and disobedient child. Conversation distinctly languished.
Since Sydney seemed disposed to patronise me, I was bent on snubbing
him. The result was, that the majority of the remarks which were
uttered were addressed to Mr Holt.
The cab stopped,--after what had appeared to me to be an interminable
journey. I was rejoiced at the prospect of its being at an end. Sydney
put his head out of the window. A short parley with the driver ensued.
‘This is ’Ammersmith Workhouse, it’s a large place, sir,--which part of
it might you be wanting?’
Sydney appealed to Mr Holt. He put his head out of the window in his
turn,--he did not seem to recognise our surroundings at all.
‘We have come a different way,--this is not the way I went; I went
through Hammersmith,--and to the casual ward; I don’t see that here.’
Sydney spoke to the cabman.
‘Driver, where’s the casual ward?’
‘That’s the other end, sir.’
‘Then take us there.’
He took us there. Then Sydney appealed again to Mr Holt.
‘Shall I dismiss the cabman,--or don’t you feel equal to walking?’
‘Thank you, I feel quite equal to walking,--I think the exercise will
do me good.’
So the cabman was dismissed,--a step which we--and I, in
particular--had subsequent cause to regret. Mr Holt took his bearings.
He pointed to a door which was just in front of us.
‘That’s the entrance to the casual ward, and that, over it, is the
window through which the other man threw a stone. I went to the
right,--back the way I had come.’ We went to the right. ‘I reached this
corner.’ We had reached a corner. Mr Holt looked about him,
endeavouring to recall the way he had gone. A good many roads appeared
to converge at that point, so that he might have wandered in either of
several directions.
Presently he arrived at something like a decision.
‘I think this is the way I went,--I am nearly sure it is.’
He led the way, with something of an air of dubitation, and we
followed. The road he had chosen seemed to lead to nothing and nowhere.
We had not gone many yards from the workhouse gates before we were
confronted by something like chaos. In front and on either side of us
were large spaces of waste land. At some more or less remote period
attempts appeared to have been made at brickmaking,--there were untidy
stacks of bilious-looking bricks in evidence. Here and there enormous
weather-stained boards announced that ‘This Desirable Land was to be
Let for Building Purposes.’ The road itself was unfinished. There was
no pavement, and we had the bare uneven ground for sidewalk. It seemed,
so far as I could judge, to lose itself in space, and to be swallowed
up by the wilderness of ‘Desirable Land’ which lay beyond. In the near
distance there were houses enough, and to spare--of a kind. But they
were in other roads. In the one in which we actually were, on the
right, at the end, there was a row of unfurnished carcases, but only
two buildings which were in anything like a fit state for occupation.
One stood on either side, not facing each other,--there was a distance
between them of perhaps fifty yards. The sight of them had a more
exciting effect on Mr Holt than it had on me. He moved rapidly
forward,--coming to a standstill in front of the one upon our left,
which was the nearer of the pair.
‘This is the house!’ he exclaimed.
He seemed almost exhilarated,--I confess that I was depressed. A more
dismal-looking habitation one could hardly imagine. It was one of those
dreadful jerry-built houses which, while they are still new, look old.
It had quite possibly only been built a year or two, and yet, owing to
neglect, or to poverty of construction, or to a combination of the two,
it was already threatening to tumble down. It was a small place, a
couple of storeys high, and would have been dear--I should think!--at
thirty pounds a year. The windows had surely never been washed since
the house was built,--those on the upper floor seemed all either
cracked or broken. The only sign of occupancy consisted in the fact
that a blind was down behind the window of the room on the ground
floor. Curtains there were none. A low wall ran in front, which had
apparently at one time been surmounted by something in the shape of an
iron railing,--a rusty piece of metal still remained on one end; but,
since there was only about a foot between it and the building, which
was practically built upon the road,--whether the wall was intended to
ensure privacy, or was merely for ornament, was not clear.
‘This is the house!’ repeated Mr Holt, showing more signs of life than
I had hitherto seen in him.
Sydney looked it up and down,--it apparently appealed to his aesthetic
sense as little as it did to mine.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I am certain.’
‘It seems empty.’
‘It seemed empty to me that night,--that is why I got into it in search
of shelter.’
‘Which is the window which served you as a door?’
‘This one.’ Mr Holt pointed to the window on the ground floor,--the one
which was screened by a blind. ‘There was no sign of a blind when I
first saw it, and the sash was up,--it was that which caught my eye.’
Once more Sydney surveyed the place, in comprehensive fashion, from
roof to basement,--then he scrutinisingly regarded Mr Holt.
‘You are quite sure this is the house? It might be awkward if you
proved mistaken. I am going to knock at the door, and if it turns out
that that mysterious acquaintance of yours does not, and never has
lived here, we might find an explanation difficult.’
‘I am sure it is the house,--certain! I know it,--I feel it here,--and
here.’
Mr Holt touched his breast, and his forehead. His manner was distinctly
odd. He was trembling, and a fevered expression had come into his eyes.
Sydney glanced at him, for a moment, in silence. Then he bestowed his
attention upon me.
‘May I ask if I may rely upon your preserving your presence of mind?’
The mere question ruffled my plumes.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I say. I am going to knock at that door, and I am going to get
through it, somehow. It is quite within the range of possibility that,
when I am through, there will be some strange happenings,--as you have
heard from Mr Holt. The house is commonplace enough without; you may
not find it so commonplace within. You may find yourself in a position
in which it will be in the highest degree essential that you should
keep your wits about you.’
‘I am not likely to let them stray.’
‘Then that’s all right.--Do I understand that you propose to come in
with me?’
‘Of course I do,--what do you suppose I’ve come for? What nonsense you
are talking.’
‘I hope that you will still continue to consider it nonsense by the
time this little adventure’s done.’
That I resented his impertinence goes without saying--to be talked to
in such a strain by Sydney Atherton, whom I had kept in subjection ever
since he was in knickerbockers, was a little trying,--but I am forced
to admit that I was more impressed by his manner, or his words, or by
Mr Holt’s manner, or something, than I should have cared to own. I had
not the least notion what was going to happen, or what horrors that
woebegone-looking dwelling contained. But Mr Holt’s story had been of
the most astonishing sort, my experiences of the previous night were
still fresh, and, altogether, now that I was in such close
neighbourhood with the Unknown--with a capital U!--although it was
broad daylight, it loomed before me in a shape for which,--candidly!--I
was not prepared.
A more disreputable-looking front door I have not seen,--it was in
perfect harmony with the remainder of the establishment. The paint was
off; the woodwork was scratched and dented; the knocker was red with
rust. When Sydney took it in his hand I was conscious of quite a little
thrill. As he brought it down with a sharp rat-tat, I half expected to
see the door fly open, and disclose some gruesome object glaring out at
us. Nothing of the kind took place; the door did not budge,--nothing
happened. Sydney waited a second or two, then knocked again; another
second or two, then another knock. There was still no sign of any
notice being taken of our presence. Sydney turned to Mr Holt.
‘Seems as if the place was empty.’
Mr Holt was in the most singular condition of agitation,--it made me
uncomfortable to look at him.
‘You do not know,--you cannot tell; there may be someone there who
hears and pays no heed.’
‘I’ll give them another chance.’
Sydney brought down the knocker with thundering reverberations. The din
must have been audible half a mile away. But from within the house
there was still no sign that any heard. Sydney came down the step.
‘I’ll try another way,--I may have better fortune at the back.’
He led the way round to the rear, Mr Holt and I following in single
file. There the place seemed in worse case even than in the front.
There were two empty rooms on the ground floor at the back,--there was
no mistake about their being empty, without the slightest difficulty we
could see right into them. One was apparently intended for a kitchen
and wash-house combined, the other for a sitting-room. There was not a
stick of furniture in either, nor the slightest sign of human
habitation. Sydney commented on the fact.
‘Not only is it plain that no one lives in these charming apartments,
but it looks to me uncommonly as if no one ever had lived in them.’
To my thinking Mr Holt’s agitation was increasing every moment. For
some reason of his own, Sydney took no notice of it whatever,--possibly
because he judged that to do so would only tend to make it worse. An
odd change had even taken place in Mr Holt’s voice,--he spoke in a sort
of tremulous falsetto.
‘It was only the front room which I saw.’
‘Very good; then, before very long, you shall see that front room
again.’
Sydney rapped with his knuckles on the glass panels of the back door.
He tried the handle; when it refused to yield he gave it a vigorous
shaking. He saluted the dirty windows,--so far as succeeding in
attracting attention was concerned, entirely in vain. Then he turned
again to Mr Holt,--half mockingly.
‘I call you to witness that I have used every lawful means to gain the
favourable notice of your mysterious friend. I must therefore beg to
stand excused if I try something slightly unlawful for a change. It is
true that you found the window already open; but, in my case, it soon
will be.’
He took a knife out of his pocket, and, with the open blade, forced
back the catch,--as I am told that burglars do. Then he lifted the sash.
‘Behold!’ he exclaimed. ‘What did I tell you?--Now, my dear Marjorie,
if I get in first and Mr Holt gets in after me, we shall be in a
position to open the door for you.’
I immediately saw through his design.
‘No, Mr Atherton; you will get in first, and I will get in after you,
through the window,--before Mr Holt. I don’t intend to wait for you to
open the door.’
Sydney raised his hands and opened his eyes, as if grieved at my want
of confidence. But I did not mean to be left in the lurch, to wait
their pleasure, while on pretence of opening the door, they searched
the house. So Sydney climbed in first, and I second,--it was not a
difficult operation, since the window-sill was under three feet from
the ground--and Mr Holt last. Directly we were in, Sydney put his hand
up to his mouth, and shouted.
‘Is there anybody in this house? If so, will he kindly step this way,
as there is someone wishes to see him.’
His words went echoing through the empty rooms in a way which was
almost uncanny. I suddenly realised that if, after all, there did
happen to be somebody in the house, and he was at all disagreeable, our
presence on his premises might prove rather difficult to explain.
However, no one answered. While I was waiting for Sydney to make the
next move, he diverted my attention to Mr Holt.
‘Hollo, Holt, what’s the matter with you? Man, don’t play the fool like
that!’
Something was the matter with Mr Holt. He was trembling all over as if
attacked by a shaking palsy. Every muscle in his body seemed twitching
at once. A strained look had come on his face, which was not nice to
see. He spoke as with an effort.
‘I’m all right.--It’s nothing.’
‘Oh, is it nothing? Then perhaps you’ll drop it. Where’s that brandy?’
I handed Sydney the flask. ‘Here, swallow this.’
Mr Holt swallowed the cupful of neat spirit which Sydney offered
without an attempt at parley. Beyond bringing some remnants of colour
to his ashen cheeks it seemed to have no effect on him whatever. Sydney
eyed him with a meaning in his glance which I was at a loss to
understand.
‘Listen to me, my lad. Don’t think you can deceive me by playing any of
your fool tricks, and don’t delude yourself into supposing that I shall
treat you as anything but dangerous if you do. I’ve got this.’ He
showed the revolver of papa’s which I had lent him. ‘Don’t imagine that
Miss Lindon’s presence will deter me from using it.’
Why he addressed Mr Holt in such a strain surpassed my comprehension.
Mr Holt, however, evinced not the faintest symptoms of resentment,--he
had become, on a sudden, more like an automaton than a man. Sydney
continued to gaze at him as if he would have liked his glance to
penetrate to his inmost soul.
‘Keep in front of me, if you please, Mr Holt, and lead the way to this
mysterious apartment in which you claim to have had such a remarkable
experience.’
Of me he asked in a whisper,
‘Did you bring a revolver?’
I was startled.
‘A revolver?--The idea!--How absurd you are!’
Sydney said something which was so rude--and so uncalled for!--that it
was worthy of papa in his most violent moments.
‘I’d sooner be absurd than a fool in petticoats.’ I was so angry that I
did not know what to say,--and before I could say it he went on. ‘Keep
your eyes and ears well open; be surprised at nothing you see or hear.
Stick close to me. And for goodness sake remain mistress of as many of
your senses as you conveniently can.’
I had not the least idea what was the meaning of it all. To me there
seemed nothing to make such a pother about. And yet I was conscious of
a fluttering of the heart as if there soon might be something. I knew
Sydney sufficiently well to be aware that he was one of the last men in
the world to make a fuss without reason,--and that he was as little
likely to suppose that there was a reason when as a matter of fact
there was none.
Mr Holt led the way, as Sydney desired--or, rather, commanded, to the
door of the room which was in front of the house. The door was closed.
Sydney tapped on a panel. All was silence. He tapped again.
‘Anyone in there?’ he demanded.
As there was still no answer, he tried the handle. The door was locked.
‘The first sign of the presence of a human being we have had,--doors
don’t lock themselves. It’s just possible that there may have been
someone or something about the place, at some time or other, after all.’
Grasping the handle firmly, he shook it with all his might,--as he had
done with the door at the back. So flimsily was the place constructed
that he made even the walls to tremble.
‘Within there!--if anyone is in there!--if you don’t open this door, I
shall.’
There was no response.
‘So be it!--I’m going to pursue my wild career of defiance of
established law and order, and gain admission in one way, if I can’t in
another.’
Putting his right shoulder against the door, he pushed with his whole
force. Sydney is a big man, and very strong, and the door was weak.
Shortly, the lock yielded before the continuous pressure, and the door
flew open. Sydney whistled.
‘So!--It begins to occur to me, Mr Holt, that that story of yours may
not have been such pure romance as it seemed.’
It was plain enough that, at any rate, this room had been occupied, and
that recently,--and, if his taste in furniture could be taken as a
test, by an eccentric occupant to boot. My own first impression was
that there was someone, or something, living in it still,--an
uncomfortable odour greeted our nostrils, which was suggestive of some
evil-smelling animal. Sydney seemed to share my thought.
‘A pretty perfume, on my word! Let’s shed a little more light on the
subject, and see what causes it. Marjorie, stop where you are until I
tell you.’
I had noticed nothing, from without, peculiar about the appearance of
the blind which screened the window, but it must have been made of some
unusually thick material, for, within, the room was strangely dark.
Sydney entered, with the intention of drawing up the blind, but he had
scarcely taken a couple of steps when he stopped.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s it,’ said Mr Holt, in a voice which was so unlike his own that it
was scarcely recognisable.
‘It?--What do you mean by it?’
‘The Beetle!’
Judging from the sound of his voice Sydney was all at once in a state
of odd excitement.
‘Oh, is it!--Then, if this time I don’t find out the how and the why
and the wherefore of that charming conjuring trick, I’ll give you leave
to write me down an ass,--with a great, big A.’
He rushed farther into the room,--apparently his efforts to lighten it
did not meet with the immediate success which he desired.
‘What’s the matter with this confounded blind? There’s no cord! How do
you pull it up?--What the--’
In the middle of his sentence Sydney ceased speaking. Suddenly Mr Holt,
who was standing by my side on the threshold of the door, was seized
with such a fit of trembling, that, fearing he was going to fall, I
caught him by the arm. A most extraordinary look was on his face. His
eyes were distended to their fullest width, as if with horror at what
they saw in front of them. Great beads of perspiration were on his
forehead.
‘It’s coming!’ he screamed.
Exactly what happened I do not know. But, as he spoke, I heard,
proceeding from the room, the sound of the buzzing of wings. Instantly
it recalled my experiences of the night before,--as it did so I was
conscious of a most unpleasant qualm. Sydney swore a great oath, as if
he were beside himself with rage.
‘If you won’t go up, you shall come down.’
I suppose, failing to find a cord, he seized the blind from below, and
dragged it down,--it came, roller and all, clattering to the floor. The
room was all in light. I hurried in. Sydney was standing by the window,
with a look of perplexity upon his face which, under any other
circumstances, would have been comical. He was holding papa’s revolver
in his hand, and was glaring round and round the room, as if wholly at
a loss to understand how it was he did not see what he was looking for.
‘Marjorie!’ he exclaimed. ‘Did you hear anything?’
‘Of course I did. It was that which I heard last night,--which so
frightened me.’
‘Oh, was it? Then, by--’ in his excitement he must have been completely
oblivious of my presence, for he used the most terrible language, ‘when
I find it there’ll be a small discussion. It can’t have got out of the
room,--I know the creature’s here; I not only heard it, I felt it brush
against my face.--Holt, come inside and shut that door.’
Mr Holt raised his arms, as if he were exerting himself to make a
forward movement,--but he remained rooted to the spot on which he stood.
‘I can’t!’ he cried.
‘You can’t!--Why?’
‘It won’t let me.’
‘What won’t let you?’
‘The Beetle!’
Sydney moved till he was close in front of him. He surveyed him with
eager eyes. I was just at his back. I heard him murmur,--possibly to me.
‘By George!--It’s just as I thought!--The beggar’s hypnotised!’
Then he said aloud,
‘Can you see it now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘Behind you.’
As Mr Holt spoke, I again heard, quite close to me, that buzzing sound.
Sydney seemed to hear it too,--it caused him to swing round so quickly
that he all but whirled me off my feet.
‘I beg your pardon, Marjorie, but this is of the nature of an
unparalleled experience,--didn’t you hear something then?’
‘I did,--distinctly; it was close to me,--within an inch or two of my
face.’
We stared about us, then back at each other,--there was nothing else to
be seen. Sydney laughed, doubtfully.
‘It’s uncommonly queer. I don’t want to suggest that there are visions
about, or I might suspect myself of softening of the brain. But--it’s
queer. There’s a trick about it somewhere, I am convinced; and no doubt
it’s simple enough when you know how it’s done,--but the difficulty is
to find that out.--Do you think our friend over there is acting?’
‘He looks to me as if he were ill.’
‘He does look ill. He also looks as if he were hypnotised. If he is, it
must be by suggestion,--and that’s what makes me doubtful, because it
will be the first plainly established case of hypnotism by suggestion
I’ve encountered.--Holt!’
‘Yes.’
‘That,’ said Sydney in my ear, ‘is the voice and that is the manner of
a hypnotised man, but, on the other hand, a person under influence
generally responds only to the hypnotist,--which is another feature
about our peculiar friend which arouses my suspicions.’ Then, aloud,
‘Don’t stand there like an idiot,--come inside.’
Again Mr Holt made an apparently futile effort to do as he was bid. It
was painful to look at him,--he was like a feeble, frightened,
tottering child, who would come on, but cannot.
‘I can’t.’
‘No nonsense, my man! Do you think that this is a performance in a
booth, and that I am to be taken in by all the humbug of the
professional mesmerist? Do as I tell you,--come into the room.’
There was a repetition, on Mr Holt’s part, of his previous pitiful
struggle; this time it was longer sustained than before,--but the
result was the same.
‘I can’t!’ he wailed.
‘Then I say you can,--and shall! If I pick you up, and carry you,
perhaps you will not find yourself so helpless as you wish me to
suppose.’
Sydney moved forward to put his threat into execution. As he did so, a
strange alteration took place in Mr Holt’s demeanour.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE SINGULAR BEHAVIOUR OF MR HOLT
I was standing in the middle of the room, Sydney was between the door
and me; Mr Holt was in the hall, just outside the doorway, in which he,
so to speak, was framed. As Sydney advanced towards him he was seized
with a kind of convulsion,--he had to lean against the side of the door
to save himself from falling. Sydney paused, and watched. The spasm
went as suddenly as it came,--Mr Holt became as motionless as he had
just now been the other way. He stood in an attitude of febrile
expectancy,--his chin raised, his head thrown back, his eyes glancing
upwards,--with the dreadful fixed glare which had come into them ever
since we had entered the house. He looked to me as if his every faculty
was strained in the act of listening,--not a muscle in his body seemed
to move; he was as rigid as a figure carved in stone. Presently the
rigidity gave place to what, to an onlooker, seemed causeless agitation.
‘I hear!’ he exclaimed, in the most curious voice I had ever heard. ‘I
come!’
It was as though he was speaking to someone who was far away. Turning,
he walked down the passage to the front door.
‘Hollo!’ cried Sydney. ‘Where are you off to?’
We both of us hastened to see. He was fumbling with the latch; before
we could reach him, the door was open, and he was through it. Sydney,
rushing after him, caught him on the step and held him by the arm.
‘What’s the meaning of this little caper?--Where do you think you’re
going now?’
Mr Holt did not condescend to turn and look at him. He said, in the
same dreamy, faraway, unnatural tone of voice,--and he kept his
unwavering gaze fixed on what was apparently some distant object which
was visible only to himself.
‘I am going to him. He calls me.’
‘Who calls you?’
‘The Lord of the Beetle.’
Whether Sydney released his arm or not I cannot say. As he spoke, he
seemed to me to slip away from Sydney’s grasp. Passing through the
gateway, turning to the right, he commenced to retrace his steps in the
direction we had come. Sydney stared after him in unequivocal
amazement. Then he looked at me.
‘Well!--this is a pretty fix!--now what’s to be done?’
‘What’s the matter with him?’ I inquired. ‘Is he mad?’
‘There’s method in his madness if he is. He’s in the same condition in
which he was that night I saw him come out of the Apostle’s window.’
Sydney has a horrible habit of calling Paul ‘the Apostle’; I have
spoken to him about it over and over again,--but my words have not made
much impression. ‘He ought to be followed,--he may be sailing off to
that mysterious friend of his this instant.--But, on the other hand, he
mayn’t, and it may be nothing but a trick of our friend the conjurer’s
to get us away from this elegant abode of his. He’s done me twice
already, I don’t want to be done again,--and I distinctly do not want
him to return and find me missing. He’s quite capable of taking the
hint, and removing himself into the _Ewigkeit_,--when the clue to as
pretty a mystery as ever I came across will have vanished.’
‘I can stay,’ I said.
‘You?--Alone?’
He eyed me doubtingly,--evidently not altogether relishing the
proposition.
‘Why not? You might send the first person you meet,--policeman, cabman,
or whoever it is--to keep me company. It seems a pity now that we
dismissed that cab.’
‘Yes, it does seem a pity.’ Sydney was biting his lip. ‘Confound that
fellow! how fast he moves.’
Mr Holt was already nearing the end of the road.
‘If you think it necessary, by all means follow to see where he
goes,--you are sure to meet somebody whom you will be able to send
before you have gone very far.’
‘I suppose I shall.--You won’t mind being left alone?’
‘Why should I?--I’m not a child.’
Mr Holt, reaching the corner, turned it, and vanished out of sight.
Sydney gave an exclamation of impatience.
‘If I don’t make haste I shall lose him. I’ll do as you
suggest--dispatch the first individual I come across to hold watch and
ward with you.’
‘That’ll be all right.’
He started off at a run,--shouting to me as he went.
‘It won’t be five minutes before somebody comes!’
I waved my hand to him. I watched him till he reached the end of the
road. Turning, he waved his hand to me. Then he vanished, as Mr Holt
had done.
And I was alone.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE TERROR BY DAY
My first impulse, after Sydney’s disappearance, was to laugh. Why
should he display anxiety on my behalf merely because I was to be the
sole occupant of an otherwise empty house for a few minutes more or
less,--and in broad daylight too! To say the least, the anxiety seemed
unwarranted.
I lingered at the gate, for a moment or two, wondering what was at the
bottom of Mr Holt’s singular proceedings, and what Sydney really
proposed to gain by acting as a spy upon his wanderings. Then I turned
to re-enter the house. As I did so, another problem suggested itself to
my mind,--what connection, of the slightest importance, could a man in
Paul Lessingham’s position have with the eccentric being who had
established himself in such an unsatisfactory dwelling-place? Mr Holt’s
story I had only dimly understood,--it struck me that it would require
a deal of understanding. It was more like a farrago of nonsense, an
outcome of delirium, than a plain statement of solid facts. To tell the
truth, Sydney had taken it more seriously than I expected. He seemed to
see something in it which I emphatically did not. What was double Dutch
to me, seemed clear as print to him. So far as I could judge, he
actually had the presumption to imagine that Paul--my Paul!--Paul
Lessingham!--the great Paul Lessingham!--was mixed up in the very
mysterious adventures of poor, weak-minded, hysterical Mr Holt, in a
manner which was hardly to his credit.
Of course, any idea of the kind was purely and simply balderdash.
Exactly what bee Sydney had got in his bonnet, I could not guess. But I
did know Paul. Only let me find myself face to face with the fantastic
author of Mr Holt’s weird tribulations, and I, a woman, single-handed,
would do my best to show him that whoever played pranks with Paul
Lessingham trifled with edged tools.
I had returned to that historical front room which, according to Mr
Holt, had been the scene of his most disastrous burglarious entry.
Whoever had furnished it had had original notions of the resources of
modern upholstery. There was not a table in the place,--no chair or
couch, nothing to sit down upon except the bed. On the floor there was
a marvellous carpet which was apparently of eastern manufacture. It was
so thick, and so pliant to the tread, that moving over it was like
walking on thousand-year-old turf. It was woven in gorgeous colours,
and covered with--
When I discovered what it actually was covered with, I was conscious of
a disagreeable sense of surprise.
It was covered with beetles!
All over it, with only a few inches of space between each, were
representations of some peculiar kind of beetle,--it was the same
beetle, over, and over, and over. The artist had woven his undesirable
subject into the warp and woof of the material with such cunning skill
that, as one continued to gaze, one began to wonder if by any
possibility the creatures could be alive.
In spite of the softness of the texture, and the art--of a kind!--which
had been displayed in the workmanship, I rapidly arrived at the
conclusion that it was the most uncomfortable carpet I had ever seen. I
wagged my finger at the repeated portrayals of the--to me!--unspeakable
insect.
‘If I had discovered that you were there before Sydney went, I think it
just possible that I should have hesitated before I let him go.’
Then there came a revulsion of feeling. I shook myself.
‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Marjorie Lindon, to even think
such nonsense. Are you all nerves and morbid imaginings,--you who have
prided yourself on being so strong-minded! A pretty sort you are to do
battle for anyone.--Why, they’re only make-believes!’
Half involuntarily, I drew my foot over one of the creatures. Of
course, it was nothing but imagination; but I seemed to feel it squelch
beneath my shoe. It was disgusting.
‘Come!’ I cried. ‘This won’t do! As Sydney would phrase it,--am I going
to make an idiot of myself?’
I turned to the window,--looking at my watch.
‘It’s more than five minutes ago since Sydney went. That companion of
mine ought to be already on the way. I’ll go and see if he is coming.’
I went to the gate. There was not a soul in sight. It was with such a
distinct sense of disappointment that I perceived this was so, that I
was in two minds what to do. To remain where I was, looking, with
gaping eyes, for the policeman, or the cabman, or whoever it was Sydney
was dispatching to act as my temporary associate, was tantamount to
acknowledging myself a simpleton,--while I was conscious of a most
unmistakable reluctance to return within the house.
Common sense, or what I took for common sense, however, triumphed, and,
after loitering for another five minutes, I did go in again.
This time, ignoring, to the best of my ability, the beetles on the
floor, I proceeded to expend my curiosity--and occupy my thoughts--in
an examination of the bed. It only needed a very cursory examination,
however, to show that the seeming bed was, in reality, none at all,--or
if it was a bed after the manner of the Easterns it certainly was not
after the fashion of the Britons. There was no framework,--nothing to
represent the bedstead. It was simply a heap of rugs piled apparently
indiscriminately upon the floor. A huge mass of them there seemed to
be; of all sorts, and shapes, and sizes,--and materials too.
The top one was of white silk,--in quality, exquisite. It was of huge
size, yet, with a little compression, one might almost have passed it
through the proverbial wedding ring. So far as space admitted I spread
it out in front of me. In the middle was a picture,--whether it was
embroidered on the substance or woven in it, I could not quite make
out. Nor, at first, could I gather what it was the artist had intended
to depict,--there was a brilliancy about it which was rather dazzling.
By degrees, I realised that the lurid hues were meant for flames,--and,
when one had got so far, one perceived that they were by no means badly
imitated either. Then the meaning of the thing dawned on me,--it was a
representation of a human sacrifice. In its way, as ghastly a piece of
realism as one could see.
On the right was the majestic seated figure of a goddess. Her hands
were crossed upon her knees, and she was naked from her waist upwards.
I fancied it was meant for Isis. On her brow was perched a
gaily-apparelled beetle--that ubiquitous beetle!--forming a bright spot
of colour against her coppery skin,--it was an exact reproduction of
the creatures which were imaged on the carpet. In front of the idol was
an enormous fiery furnace. In the very heart of the flames was an
altar. On the altar was a naked white woman being burned alive. There
could be no doubt as to her being alive, for she was secured by chains
in such a fashion that she was permitted a certain amount of freedom,
of which she was availing herself to contort and twist her body into
shapes which were horribly suggestive of the agony which she was
enduring,--the artist, indeed, seemed to have exhausted his powers in
his efforts to convey a vivid impression of the pains which were
tormenting her.
‘A pretty picture, on my word! A pleasant taste in art the garnitures
of this establishment suggest! The person who likes to live with this
kind of thing, especially as a covering to his bed, must have his own
notions as to what constitute agreeable surroundings.’
As I continued staring at the thing, all at once it seemed as if the
woman on the altar moved. It was preposterous, but she appeared to
gather her limbs together, and turn half over.
‘What can be the matter with me? Am I going mad? She can’t be moving!’
If she wasn’t, then certainly something was,--she was lifted right into
the air. An idea occurred to me. I snatched the rug aside.
The mystery was explained!
A thin, yellow, wrinkled hand was protruding from amidst the heap of
rugs,--it was its action which had caused the seeming movement of the
figure on the altar. I stared, confounded. The hand was followed by an
arm; the arm by a shoulder; the shoulder by a head,--and the most
awful, hideous, wicked-looking face I had ever pictured even in my most
dreadful dreams. A pair of baleful eyes were glaring up at mine.
I understood the position in a flash of startled amazement.
Sydney, in following Mr Holt, had started on a wild goose chase after
all. I was alone with the occupant of that mysterious house,--the chief
actor in Mr Holt’s astounding tale. He had been hidden in the heap of
rugs all the while.
BOOK IV.
In Pursuit
_The Conclusion of the Matter is extracted from the Case-Book of the
Hon. Augustus Champnell, Confidential Agent_