The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

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