The Beetle, Richard Marsh [general ebook reader .txt] 📗

“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