CHAPTER XXI
THE TERROR IN THE NIGHT
'Sydney!' she cried, 'I'm so glad that I can see you!'
She might be,--but, at that moment, I could scarcely assert that I wasa sharer of her joy.
'I told you that if trouble overtook me I should come to you, and--I'min trouble now. Such strange trouble.'
So was I,--and in perplexity as well. An idea occurred to me,--I wouldoutwit her eavesdropping father.
'Come with me into the house,--tell me all about it there.'
She refused to budge.
'No,--I will tell you all about it here.' She looked about her,--as itstruck me queerly. 'This is just the sort of place in which to unfold atale like mine. It looks uncanny.'
'But--'
'"But me no buts!" Sydney, don't torture me,--let me stop here where Iam,--don't you see I'm haunted?'
She had seated herself. Now she stood up, holding her hands out infront of her in a state of extraordinary agitation, her manner as wildas her words.
'Why are you staring at me like that? Do you think I'm mad?--I wonderif I'm going mad.--Sydney, do people suddenly go mad? You're a bit ofeverything, you're a bit of a doctor too, feel my pulse,--there itis!--tell me if I'm ill!'
I felt her pulse,--it did not need its swift beating to inform me thatfever of some sort was in her veins. I gave her something in a glass.She held it up to the level of her eyes.
'What's this?'
'It's a decoction of my own. You might not think it, but my brainsometimes gets into a whirl. I use it as a sedative. It will do yougood.'
She drained the glass.
'It's done me good already,--I believe it has; that's being somethinglike a doctor.--Well, Sydney, the storm has almost burst. Last nightpapa forbade me to speak to Paul Lessingham--by way of a prelude.'
'Exactly. Mr Lindon---'
'Yes, Mr Lindon,--that's papa. I fancy we almost quarrelled. I knowpapa said some surprising things,--but it's a way he has,--he's apt tosay surprising things. He's the best father in the world, but--it's notin his nature to like a really clever person; your good high dried oldTory never can;--I've always thought that that's why he's so fond ofyou.'
'Thank you, I presume that is the reason, though it had not occurred tome before.'
Since her entry, I had, to the best of my ability, been turning theposition over in my mind. I came to the conclusion that, all thingsconsidered, her father had probably as much right to be a sharer of hisdaughter's confidence as I had, even from the vantage of thescreen,--and that for him to hear a few home truths proceeding from herlips might serve to clear the air. From such a clearance the lady wouldnot be likely to come off worst. I had not the faintest inkling of whatwas the actual purport of her visit.
She started off, as it seemed to me, at a tangent.
'Did I tell you last night about what took place yesterdaymorning,--about the adventure of my finding the man?'
'Not a word.'
'I believe I meant to,--I'm half disposed to think he's brought metrouble. Isn't there some superstition about evil befalling whoevershelters a homeless stranger?'
'We'll hope not, for humanity's sake.'
'I fancy there is,--I feel sure there is.--Anyhow, listen to my story.Yesterday morning, before breakfast,--to be accurate, between eight andnine, I looked out of the window, and I saw a crowd in the street. Isent Peter out to see what was the matter. He came back and said therewas a man in a fit. I went out to look at the man in the fit. I found,lying on the ground, in the centre of the crowd, a man who, but for thetattered remnants of what had apparently once been a cloak, would havebeen stark naked. He was covered with dust, and dirt, and blood,--adreadful sight. As you know, I have had my smattering of instruction inFirst Aid to the Injured, and that kind of thing, so, as no one elseseemed to have any sense, and the man seemed as good as dead, I thoughtI would try my hand. Directly I knelt down beside him, what do youthink he said?'
'Thank you.'
'Nonsense.--He said, in such a queer, hollow, croaking voice, "PaulLessingham." I was dreadfully startled. To hear a perfect stranger, aman in his condition, utter that name in such a fashion--to me, of allpeople in the world!--took me aback. The policeman who was holding hishead remarked, "That's the first time he's opened his mouth. I thoughthe was dead." He opened his mouth a second time. A convulsive movementwent all over him, and he exclaimed, with the strangest earnestness,and so loudly that you might have heard him at the other end of thestreet, "Be warned, Paul Lessingham, be warned!" It was very silly ofme, perhaps, but I cannot tell you how his words, and his manner--thetwo together--affected me.--Well, the long and the short of it was,that I had him taken into the house, and washed, and put to bed,--and Ihad the doctor sent for. The doctor could make nothing of it at all. Hereported that the man seemed to be suffering from some sort ofcataleptic seizure,--I could see that he thought it likely to turn outalmost as interesting a case as I did.'
'Did you acquaint your father with the addition to his household?'
She looked at me, quizzically.
'You see, when one has such a father as mine one cannot tell himeverything, at once. There are occasions on which one requires time.'
I felt that this would be wholesome hearing for old Lindon.
'Last night, after papa and I had exchanged our littlecourtesies,--which, it is to be hoped, were to papa's satisfaction,since they were not to be mine--I went to see the patient. I was toldthat he had neither eaten nor drunk, moved nor spoken. But, so soon asI approached his bed, he showed signs of agitation. He half raisedhimself upon his pillow, and he called out, as if he had beenaddressing some large assembly--I can't describe to you the dreadfulsomething which was in his voice, and on his face,--"PaulLessingham!--Beware!--The Beetle!"'
When she said that, I was startled.
'Are you sure those were the words he used?'
'Quite sure. Do you think I could mistake them,--especially after whathas happened since? I hear them singing in my ears,--they haunt me allthe time.'
She put her hands up to her face, as if to veil something from hereyes. I was becoming more and more convinced that there was somethingabout the Apostle's connection with his Oriental friend which neededprobing to the bottom.
'What sort of a man is he to look at, this patient of yours?'
I had my doubts as to the gentleman's identity,--which her wordsdissolved; only, however, to increase my mystification in anotherdirection.
'He seems to be between thirty and forty. He has light hair, andstraggling sandy whiskers. He is so thin as to be nothing but skin andbone,--the doctor says it's a case of starvation.'
'You say he has light hair, and sandy whiskers. Are you sure thewhiskers are real?'
She opened her eyes.
'Of course they're real. Why shouldn't they be real?'
'Does he strike you as being a--foreigner?'
'Certainly not. He looks like an Englishman, and he speaks like one,and not, I should say, of the lowest class. It is true that there is avery curious, a weird, quality in his voice, what I have heard of it,but it is not un-English. If it is catalepsy he is suffering from, thenit is a kind of catalepsy I never heard of. Have you ever seen aclairvoyant?' I nodded. 'He seems to me to be in a state ofclairvoyance. Of course the doctor laughed when I told him so, but weknow what doctors are, and I still believe that he is in some conditionof the kind. When he said that last night he struck me as being underwhat those sort of people call 'influence,' and that whoever had himunder influence was forcing him to speak against his will, for thewords came from his lips as if they had been wrung from him in agony.'
Knowing what I did know, that struck me as being rather a remarkableconclusion for her to have reached, by the exercise of her own unaidedpowers of intuition,--but I did not choose to let her know I thought so.
'My dear Marjorie!--you who pride yourself on having your imaginationso strictly under control!--on suffering it to take no errant flights!'
'Is
not the fact that I do so pride myself proof that I am not likelyto make assertions wildly,--proof, at any rate, to you? Listen to me.When I left that unfortunate creature's room,--I had had a nurse sentfor, I left him in her charge--and reached my own bedroom, I waspossessed by a profound conviction that some appalling, intangible, butvery real danger, was at that moment threatening Paul.'
'Remember,--you had had an exciting evening; and a discussion with yourfather. Your patient's words came as a climax.'
'That is what I told myself,--or, rather, that was what I tried to tellmyself; because, in some extraordinary fashion, I had lost the commandof my powers of reflection.'
'Precisely.'
'It was not precisely,--or, at least, it was not precisely in the senseyou mean. You may laugh at me, Sydney, but I had an altogetherindescribable feeling, a feeling which amounted to knowledge, that Iwas in the presence of the supernatural.'
'Nonsense!'
'It was not nonsense,--I wish it had been nonsense. As I have said, Iwas conscious, completely conscious, that some frightful peril wasassailing Paul. I did not know what it was, but I did know that it wassomething altogether awful, of which merely to think was to shudder. Iwanted to go to his assistance, I tried to, more than once; but Icouldn't, and I knew that I couldn't,--I knew that I couldn't move asmuch as a finger to help him.--Stop,--let me finish!--I told myselfthat it was absurd, but it wouldn't do; absurd or not, there was theterror with me in the room. I knelt down, and I prayed, but the wordswouldn't come. I tried to ask God to remove this burden from my brain,but my longings wouldn't shape themselves into words, and my tongue waspalsied. I don't know how long I struggled, but, at last, I came tounderstand that, for some cause, God had chosen to leave me to fightthe fight alone. So I got up, and undressed, and went to bed,--and thatwas the worst of all. I had sent my maid away in the first rush of myterror, afraid, and, I think, ashamed, to let her see my fear. Now Iwould have given anything to summon her back again, but I couldn't doit, I couldn't even ring the bell. So, as I say, I got into bed.'
She paused, as if to collect her thoughts. To listen to her words, andto think of the suffering which they meant to her, was almost more thanI could endure. I would have thrown away the world to have been able totake her in my arms, and soothe her fears. I knew her to be, ingeneral, the least hysterical of young women; little wont to become theprey of mere delusions; and, incredible though it sounded, I had aninnate conviction that, even in its wildest periods, her story had somesort of basis in solid fact. What that basis amounted to, it would bemy business, at any and every cost, quickly to determine.
'You know how you have always laughed at me because of my objectionto--cockroaches, and how, in spring, the neighbourhood of May-bugs hasalways made me uneasy. As soon as I got into bed I felt that somethingof the kind was in the room.'
'Something of what kind?'
'Some kind of--beetle. I could hear the whirring of its wings; I couldhear its droning in the air; I knew that it was hovering above my head;that it was coming lower and lower, nearer and nearer. I hid myself; Icovered myself all over with the clothes,--then I felt it bumpingagainst the coverlet. And, Sydney!' She drew closer. Her blanchedcheeks and frightened eyes made my heart bleed. Her voice became but anecho of itself. 'It followed me.'
'Marjorie!'
'It got into the bed.'
'You imagined it.'
'I didn't imagine it. I heard it crawl along the sheets, till it founda way between them, and then it crawled towards me. And I feltit--against my face.--And it's there now.'
'Where?'
She raised the forefinger of her left hand.
'There!--Can't you hear it droning?'
She listened, intently. I listened too. Oddly enough, at that instantthe droning of an insect did become audible.
'It's only a bee, child, which has found its way through the openwindow.'
'I wish it were only a bee, I wish it were.--Sydney, don't you feel asif you were in the presence of evil? Don't you want to get away fromit, back into the presence of God?'
'Marjorie!'
'Pray, Sydney, pray!--I can't!--I don't know why, but I can't!
She flung her arms about my neck, and pressed herself against me inparoxysmal agitation. The violence of her emotion bade fair to unman metoo. It was so unlike Marjorie,--and I would have given my life to saveher from a toothache. She kept repeating her own words,--as if shecould not help it.
'Pray, Sydney, pray!'
At last I did as she wished me. At least, there is no harm inpraying,--I never heard of its bringing hurt to anyone. I repeatedaloud the Lord's Prayer,---the first time for I know not how long. Asthe divine sentences came from my lips, hesitatingly enough, I make nodoubt, her tremors ceased. She became calmer. Until, as I reached thelast great petition, 'Deliver us from evil,' she loosed her arms fromabout my neck, and dropped upon her knees, close to my feet. And shejoined me in the closing words, as a sort of chorus.
'For Thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory, for ever and ever.Amen.'
When the prayer was ended, we both of us were still. She with her headbowed, and her hands clasped; and I with something tugging at myheart-strings which I had not felt there for many and many a year,almost as if it had been my mother's hand;--I daresay that sometimesshe does stretch out her hand, from her place among the angels, totouch my heart-strings, and I know nothing of it all the while.
As the silence still continued, I chanced to glance up, and there wasold Lindon peeping at us from his hiding-place behind the screen. Thelook of amazed perplexity which was on his big red face struck me withsuch a keen sense of the incongruous that it was all I could do to keepfrom laughter. Apparently the sight of us did nothing to lighten the fogwhich was in his brain, for he stammered out, in what was possiblyintended for a whisper,
'Is--is she m-mad?'
The whisper,--if it was meant for a whisper--was more than sufficientlyaudible to catch his daughter's ears. She started--raised herhead--sprang to her feet--turned--and saw her father.
'Papa!'
Immediately her sire was seized with an access of stuttering.
'W-w-what the d-devil's the--the m-m-meaning of this?'
Her utterance was clear enough,--I fancy her parent found it almostpainfully clear.
'Rather it is for me to ask, what is the meaning of this! Is itpossible, that, all the time, you have actually been concealed behindthat--screen?'
Unless I am mistaken the old gentleman cowered before the directness ofhis daughter's gaze,--and endeavoured to conceal the fact by anexplosion of passion.
Do-don't you s-speak to me li-like that, you un-undutiful girl! I--I'myour father!'
'You certainly are my father; though I was unaware until now that myfather was capable of playing the part of eavesdropper.'
Rage rendered him speechless,--or, at any rate, he chose to let usbelieve that that was the determining cause of his continuing silence.So Marjorie turned to me,--and, on the whole, I had rather she had not.Her manner was very different from what it had been just now,--it wasmore than civil, it was freezing.
'Am I to understand, Mr Atherton, that this has been done with yourcognisance? That while you suffered me to pour out my heart to youunchecked, you were aware, all the time, that there was a listenerbehind the screen?'
I became keenly aware, on a sudden, that I had borne my share inplaying her a very shabby trick,--I should have liked to throw oldLindon through the window.
'The thing was not of my contriving. Had I had the opportunity I wouldhave compelled Mr Lindon to face you when you came in. But yourdistress caused me to lose my balance. And you will do me the justiceto remember that I endeavoured to induce you to come with me intoanother room.'
'But I do not seem to remember your hinting at there being anyparticular reason why I should have gone.'
'You never gave me a chance.'
'Sydney!--I had not thought you would have played me such a trick!'
When she sa
id that--in such a tone!--the woman whom I loved!--I couldhave hammered my head against the wall. The hound I was to have treatedher so scurvily!
Perceiving I was crushed she turned again to face her father, cool,calm, stately;--she was, on a sudden, once more, the Marjorie with whomI was familiar. The demeanour of parent and child was in strikingcontrast. If appearances went for aught, the odds were heavy that inany encounter which might be coming the senior would suffer.
'I hope, papa, that you are going to tell me that there has been somecurious mistake, and that nothing was farther from your intention thanto listen at a keyhole. What would you have thought--and said--if I hadattempted to play the spy on you? And I have always understood that menwere so particular on points of honour.'
Old Lindon was still hardly fit to do much else thansplutter,--certainly not qualified to chop phrases with thissharp-tongued maiden.
'D-don't talk to me li-like that, girl!--I--I believe you're s-starkmad!' He turned to me. 'W-what was that tomfoolery she was talking toyou about?'
'To what do you allude?'
'About a rub-rubbishing b-beetle, and g-goodness alone knowswhat,--d-diseased and m-morbid imagination,--r-reared on the literatureof the gutter!--I never thought that a child of mine could have s-sunkto such a depth!--Now, Atherton, I ask you to t-tell me frankly,--whatdo you think of a child who behaves as she has done? Who t-takes anameless vagabond into the house and con-conceals his presence from herfather? And m-mark the sequel! even the vagabond warns her against ther-rascal Lessingham!--Now, Atherton, tell me what you think of a girlwho behaves like that?' I shrugged my shoulders. 'I--I know very wellwhat you d-do think of her,--don't be afraid to say it out becauseshe's present.'
'No; Sydney, don't be afraid.'
I saw that her eyes were dancing,--in a manner of speaking, her looksbrightened under the sunshine of her father's displeasure.
'Let's hear what you think of her as a--as a m-man of the world!'
'Pray, Sydney, do!'
'What you feel for her in your--your heart of hearts!'
'Yes, Sydney, what do you feel for me in your heart of hearts?'
The baggage beamed with heartless sweetness,--she was making a mock ofme. Her father turned as if he would have rent her.
'D-don't you speak until you're spoken to! Atherton, I--I hope I'm notdeceived in you; I--I hope you're the man I--I took you for; thatyou're willing and--and ready to play the part of a-a-an honest friendto this mis-misguided simpleton. T-this is not the time for mincingwords, it--it's the time for candid speech. Tell this--this weak mindedyoung woman, right out, whether this man Lessingham is, or is not, adamned scoundrel.'
'Papa!--Do you really think that Sydney's opinion, or your opinion, islikely to alter facts?'
'Do you hear, Atherton, tell this wretched girl the truth!'
'My dear Mr Lindon, I have already told you that I know nothing eitherfor or against Mr Lessingham except what is known to all the world.'
'Exactly,--and all the world knows him to be a miserable adventurer whois scheming to entrap my daughter.'
'I am bound to say, since you press me, that your language appears tome to be unnecessarily strong.'
'Atherton, I--I'm ashamed of you!'
'You see, Sydney, even papa is ashamed of you; now you are outside thepale.--My dear papa, if you will allow me to speak, I will tell youwhat I know to be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but thetruth.--That Mr Lessingham is a man with great gifts goes withoutsaying,--permit me, papa! He is a man of genius. He is a man of honour.He is a man of the loftiest ambitions, of the highest aims. He hasdedicated his whole life to the improvement of the conditions amidstwhich the less fortunate of his fellow countrymen are at presentcompelled to exist. That seems to me to be an object well worth having.He has asked me to share his life-work, and I have told him that Iwill; when, and where, and how, he wants me to. And I will. I do notsuppose his life has been free from peccadilloes. I have no delusion onthe point. What man's life has? Who among men can claim to be withoutsin? Even the members of our highest families sometimes hide behindscreens. But I know that he is, at least, as good a man as I ever met,I am persuaded that I shall never meet a better; and I thank God that Ihave found favour in his eyes.--Good-bye, Sydney.--I suppose I shallsee you again, papa.'
With the merest inclination of her head to both of us she straightwayleft the room. Lindon would have stopped her.
'S-stay, y-y-y-you--' he stuttered.
But I caught him by the arm.
'If you will be advised by me, you will let her go. No good purposewill be served by a multiplication of words.'
'Atherton, I--I'm disappointed in you. You--you haven't behaved as Iexpected. I--I haven't received from you the assistance which I lookedfor.'
'My dear Lindon, it seems to me that your method of diverting the younglady from the path which she has set herself to tread is calculated tosend her furiously along it.'
'C-confound the women! c-confound the women! I don't mind telling you,in c-confidence, that at--at times, her mother was the devil, and I'llbe--I'll be hanged if her daughter isn't worse.--What was thetomfoolery she was talking to you about? Is she mad?'
'No,--I don't think she's mad.'
'I never heard such stuff, it made my blood run cold to hear her.What's the matter with the girl?'
'Well,--you must excuse my saying that I don't fancy you quiteunderstand women.'
'I--I don't,--and I--I--I don't want to either.'
I hesitated; then resolved on a taradiddle,--in Marjorie's interest.
'Marjorie is high-strung,--extremely sensitive. Her imagination isquickly aflame. Perhaps, last night, you drove her as far as was safe.You heard for yourself how, in consequence, she suffered. You don'twant people to say you have driven her into a lunatic asylum.'
'I--good heavens, no! I--I'll send for the doctor directly I gethome,--I--I'll have the best opinion in town.'
'You'll do nothing of the kind,--you'll only make her worse. What youhave to do is to be patient with her, and let her have peace.--As forthis affair of Lessingham's, I have a suspicion that it may not be allsuch plain sailing as she supposes.'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean nothing. I only wish you to understand that until you hear fromme again you had better let matters slide. Give the girl her head.'
'Give the girl her head! H-haven't I--I g-given the g-girl her h-headall her l-life!' He looked at his watch. 'Why, the day's half gone!' Hebegan scurrying towards the front door, I following at his heels. 'I'vegot a committee meeting on at the club,--m-most important! For weeksthey've been giving us the worst food you ever tasted in yourlife,--p-played havoc with my digestion, and I--I'm going to tell themif--things aren't changed, they--they'll have to pay my doctor'sbills.--As for that man, Lessingham--'
As he spoke, he himself opened the hall door, and there, standing onthe step was 'that man Lessingham' himself. Lindon was a picture. TheApostle was as cool as a cucumber. He held out his hand.
'Good morning, Mr Lindon. What delightful weather we are having.'
Lindon put his hand behind his back,--and behaved as stupidly as hevery well could have done.
'You will understand, Mr Lessingham, that, in future, I don't know you,and that I shall decline to recognise you anywhere; and that what I sayapplies equally to any member of my family.'
With his hat very much on the back of his head he went down the stepslike an inflated turkeycock.
The Beetle: A Mystery Page 21
