The Beetle

by Richard Marsh

  ‘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 tête-a-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 synonymus 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.

  ‘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 importan
t 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.