The Beetle (23 page)

'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 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 tete-a-tete 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.

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.