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

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 Linden’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, is 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 armchair, 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.

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