The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

should have seen how papa glared. Lord Cantilever is the head of his party. Its august, and, I presume, reverenced leader. He is papa’s particular fetish. I am not sure that he does regard him as being any lower than the angels, but if he does it is certainly something in decimals. My suggestion seemed as outrageous to him as his suggestion seemed to me. But it is papa’s misfortune that he can only see one side of a question⁠—and that’s his own.”

“You⁠—you dare to compare Lord Cantilever to⁠—to that⁠—that⁠—that⁠—!”

“I am not comparing them. I am not aware of there being anything in particular against Lord Cantilever⁠—that is against his character. But, of course, I should not dream of comparing a man of his calibre, with one of real ability, like Paul Lessingham. It would be to treat his lordship with too much severity.”

I could not help it⁠—but that did it. The rest of papa’s conversation was a jumble of explosions. It was all so sad.

Papa poured all the vials of his wrath upon Paul⁠—to his own sore disfigurement. He threatened me with all the pains and penalties of the inquisition if I did not immediately promise to hold no further communication with Mr. Lessingham⁠—of course I did nothing of the kind. He cursed me, in default, by bell, book, and candle⁠—and by ever so many other things beside. He called me the most dreadful names⁠—me! his only child. He warned me that I should find myself in prison before I had done⁠—I am not sure that he did not hint darkly at the gallows. Finally, he drove me from the room in a whirlwind of anathemas.

XXVII The Terror by Night

When I left papa⁠—or, rather, when papa had driven me from him⁠—I went straight to the man whom I had found in the street. It was late, and I was feeling both tired and worried, so that I only thought of seeing for myself how he was. In some way, he seemed to be a link between Paul and myself, and as, at that moment, links of that kind were precious, I could not have gone to bed without learning something of his condition.

The nurse received me at the door.

“Well, nurse, how’s the patient?”

Nurse was a plump, motherly woman, who had attended more than one odd protégé of mine, and whom I kept pretty constantly at my beck and call. She held out her hands.

“It’s hard to tell. He hasn’t moved since I came.”

“Not moved?⁠—Is he still insensible?”

“He seems to me to be in some sort of trance. He does not appear to breathe, and I can detect no pulsation, but the doctor says he’s still alive⁠—it’s the queerest case I ever saw.”

I went farther into the room. Directly I did so the man in the bed gave signs of life which were sufficiently unmistakable. Nurse hastened to him.

“Why,” she exclaimed, “he’s moving!⁠—he might have heard you enter!”

He not only might have done, but it seemed possible that that was what he actually had done. As I approached the bed, he raised himself to a sitting posture, as, in the morning, he had done in the street, and he exclaimed, as if he addressed himself to someone whom he saw in front of him⁠—I cannot describe the almost more than human agony which was in his voice,

“Paul Lessingham!⁠—Beware!⁠—The Beetle!”

What he meant I had not the slightest notion. Probably that was why what seemed more like a pronouncement of delirium than anything else had such an extraordinary effect upon my nerves. No sooner had he spoken than a sort of blank horror seemed to settle down upon my mind. I actually found myself trembling at the knees. I felt, all at once, as if I was standing in the immediate presence of something awful yet unseen.

As for the speaker, no sooner were the words out of his lips, than, as was the case in the morning, he relapsed into a condition of trance. Nurse, bending over him, announced the fact.

“He’s gone off again!⁠—What an extraordinary thing!⁠—I suppose it is real.” It was clear, from the tone of her voice, that she shared the doubt which had troubled the policeman, “There’s not a trace of a pulse. From the look of things he might be dead. Of one thing I’m sure, that there’s something unnatural about the man. No natural illness I ever heard of, takes hold of a man like this.”

Glancing up, she saw that there was something unusual in my face; an appearance which startled her.

“Why, Miss Marjorie, what’s the matter!⁠—You look quite ill!”

I felt ill, and worse than ill; but, at the same time, I was quite incapable of describing what I felt to nurse. For some inscrutable reason I had even lost the control of my tongue⁠—I stammered.

“I⁠—I⁠—I’m not feeling very well, nurse; I⁠—I⁠—I think I’ll be better in bed.”

As I spoke, I staggered towards the door, conscious, all the while, that nurse was staring at me with eyes wide open, When I got out of the room, it seemed, in some incomprehensible fashion, as if something had left it with me, and that It and I were alone together in the corridor. So overcome was I by the consciousness of its immediate propinquity, that, all at once, I found myself cowering against the wall⁠—as if I expected something or someone to strike me.

How I reached my bedroom I do not know. I found Fanchette awaiting me. For the moment her presence was a positive comfort⁠—until I realised the amazement with which she was regarding me.

“Mademoiselle is not well?”

“Thank you, Fanchette, I⁠—I am rather tired. I will undress myself tonight⁠—you can go to bed.”

“But if mademoiselle is so tired, will she not permit me to assist her?”

The suggestion was reasonable enough⁠—and kindly too; for, to say the least of it, she had as much cause for fatigue as I had. I hesitated. I should have liked to throw my arms about her neck, and beg