The Beetle (25 page)

He spoke to him as if he had been some refractory child.

'Come, my lad, this won't do!—Wake up!—What's the matter?'

But he neither woke up, nor explained what was the matter. I took
hold of his hand. It was icy cold. Apparently the wrist was
pulseless. Clearly this was no ordinary case of drunkenness.

'There is something seriously wrong, officer. Medical assistance
ought to be had at once.'

'Do you think he's in a fit, miss?'

'That a doctor should be able to tell you better than I can. There
seems to be no pulse. I should not be surprised to find that he
was—'

The word 'dead' was actually on my lips, when the stranger saved
me from making a glaring exposure of my ignorance by snatching his
wrist away from me, and sitting up in the mud. He held out his
hands in front of him, opened his eyes, and exclaimed, in a loud,
but painfully raucous tone of voice, as if he was suffering from a
very bad cold,

'Paul Lessingham!'

I was so surprised that I all but sat down in the mud. To hear
Paul—my Paul!—apostrophised by an individual of his appearance,
in that fashion, was something which I had not expected. Directly
the words were uttered, he closed his eyes again, sank backward,
and seemingly relapsed into unconsciousness,—the constable
gripping him by the shoulder just in time to prevent him banging
the back of his head against the road.

The officer shook him,—scarcely gently.

'Now, my lad, it's plain that you're not dead!—What's the meaning
of this?—Move yourself!'

Looking round I found that Peter was close behind. Apparently he
had been struck by the singularity of his mistress' behaviour, and
had followed to see that it did not meet with the reward which it
deserved. I spoke to him.

'Peter, let someone go at once for Dr Cotes!'

Dr Cotes lives just round the corner, and since it was evident
that the man's lapse into consciousness had made the policeman
sceptical as to his case being so serious as it seemed, I thought
it might be advisable that a competent opinion should be obtained
without delay.

Peter was starting, when again the stranger returned to
consciousness,—that is, if it really was consciousness, as to
which I was more than a little in doubt. He repeated his previous
pantomime; sat up in the mud, stretched out his arms, opened his
eyes unnaturally wide,—and yet they appeared unseeing!—a sort of
convulsion went all over him, and he shrieked—it really amounted
to shrieking—as a man might shriek who was in mortal terror.

'Be warned, Paul Lessingham—be warned!'

For my part, that settled it. There was a mystery here which
needed to be unravelled. Twice had he called upon Paul's name,—
and in the strangest fashion! It was for me to learn the why and
the wherefore; to ascertain what connection there was between this
lifeless creature and Paul Lessingham. Providence might have cast
him there before my door. I might be entertaining an angel
unawares. My mind was made up on the instant.

'Peter, hasten for Dr Cotes.' Peter passed the word, and
immediately a footman started running as fast as his legs would
carry him. 'Officer, I will have this man taken into my father's
house.—Will some of you men help to carry him?'

There were volunteers enough, and to spare. I spoke to Peter in
the hall.

'Is papa down yet?'

'Mr Lindon has sent down to say that you will please not wait for
him for breakfast. He has issued instructions to have his
breakfast conveyed to him upstairs.'

'That's all right.' I nodded towards the poor wretch who was being
carried through the hall. 'You will say nothing to him about this
unless he particularly asks. You understand?'

Peter bowed. He is discretion itself. He knows I have my vagaries,
and it is not his fault if the savour of them travels to papa.

The doctor was in the house almost as soon as the stranger.

'Wants washing,' he remarked, directly he saw him.

And that certainly was true,—I never saw a man who stood more
obviously in need of the good offices of soap and water. Then he
went through the usual medical formula, I watching all the while.
So far as I could see the man showed not the slightest sign of
life.

'Is he dead?'

'He will be soon, if he doesn't have something to eat. The
fellow's starving.'

The doctor asked the policeman what he knew of him

That sagacious officer's reply was vague. A boy had run up to him
crying that a man was lying dead in the street. He had straightway
followed the boy, and discovered the stranger. That was all he
knew.

'What is the matter with the man?' I inquired of the doctor, when
the constable had gone.

'Don't know.—It may be catalepsy, and it mayn't.—When I do know,
you may ask again.'

Dr Cotes' manner was a trifle brusque,—particularly, I believe,
to me. I remember that once he threatened to box my ears. When I
was a small child I used to think nothing of boxing his.

Realising that no satisfaction was to be got out of a speechless
man—particularly as regards his mysterious references to Paul—I
went upstairs. I found that papa was under the impression that he
was suffering from a severe attack of gout. But as he was eating a
capital breakfast, and apparently enjoying it,—while I was still
fasting—I ventured to hope that the matter was not so serious as
he feared.

I mentioned nothing to him about the person whom I had found in
the street,—lest it should aggravate his gout. When he is like
that, the slightest thing does.

Paul has stormed the House of Commons with one of the greatest
speeches which even he has delivered, and I have quarrelled with
papa. And, also, I have very nearly quarrelled with Sydney.

Sydney's little affair is nothing. He actually still persists in
thinking himself in love with me,—as if, since last night, when
he what he calls 'proposed' to me, he has not time to fall out of
love, and in again, half a dozen times; and, on the strength of
it, he seems to consider himself entitled to make himself as
disagreeable as he can. That I should not mind,—for Sydney
disagreeable is about as nice as Sydney any other way; but when it
comes to his shooting poisoned shafts at Paul, I object. If he
imagines that anything he can say, or hint, will lessen my
estimation of Paul Lessingham by one hair's breadth, he has less
wisdom even than I gave him credit for. By the way, Percy
Woodville asked me to be his wife tonight,—which, also, is
nothing; he has been trying to do it for the last three years,—
though, under the circumstances, it is a little trying; but he
would not spit venom merely because I preferred another man,—and
he, I believe, does care for me.

Papa's affair is serious. It is the first clashing of the foils,—
and this time, I imagine, the buttons are really off. This morning
he said a few words, not so much to, as at me. He informed me that
Paul was expected to speak to-night,—as if I did not know it!—
and availed himself of the opening to load him with the abuse
which, in his case, he thinks is not unbecoming to a gentleman. I
don't know—or, rather, I do know what he would think, if he heard
another man use, in the presence of a woman, the kind of language
which he habitually employs. However, I said nothing. I had a
motive for allowing the chaff to fly before the wind.

But, to-night, issue was joined.

I, of course, went to hear Paul speak,—as I have done over and
over again before. Afterwards, Paul came and fetched me from the
cage. He had to leave me for a moment, while he gave somebody a
message; and in the lobby, there was Sydney,—all sneers! I could
have pinched him. Just as I was coming to the conclusion that I
should have to stick a pin into his arm, Paul returned,—and,
positively, Sydney was rude to him. I was ashamed, if Mr Atherton
was not. As if it was not enough that he should be insulted by a
mere popinjay, at the very moment when he had been adding another
stone to the fabric of his country's glory,—papa came up. He
actually wanted to take me away from Paul. I should have liked to
see him do it. Of course I went down with Paul to the carriage,
leaving papa to follow if he chose. He did not choose,—but, none
the less, he managed to be home within three minutes after I had
myself returned.

Then the battle began.

It is impossible for me to give an idea of papa in a rage. There
may be men who look well when they lose their temper, but, if
there are, papa is certainly not one. He is always talking about
the magnificence, and the high breeding of the Lindons, but
anything less high-bred than the head of the Lindons, in his
moments of wrath, it would be hard to conceive. His language I
will not attempt to portray,—but his observations consisted,
mainly, of abuse of Paul, glorification of the Lindons, and orders
to me.

'I forbid you—I forbid you—' when papa wishes to be impressive
he repeats his own words three or four times over; I don't know if
he imagines that they are improved by repetition; if he does, he
is wrong—'I forbid you ever again to speak to that—that—that—'

Here followed language.

I was silent.

My cue was to keep cool. I believe that, with the exception,
perhaps, of being a little white, and exceedingly sorry that papa
should so forget himself, I was about the same as I generally am.

'Do you hear me?—do you hear what I say?—do you hear me, miss?'

'Yes, papa; I hear you.'

'Then—then—then promise me!—promise that you will do as I tell
you!—mark my words, my girl, you shall promise before you leave
this room!'

'My dear papa!—do you intend me to spend the remainder of my life
in the drawing-room?'

'Don't you be impertinent!—do-do-don't you speak to me like
that!—I—I—I won't have it!'

'I tell you what it is, papa, if you don't take care you'll have
another attack of gout.'

'Damn gout.'

That was the most sensible thing he said; if such a tormentor as
gout can be consigned to the nether regions by the mere utterance
of a word, by all means let the word be uttered. Off he went
again.

'The man's a ruffianly, rascally,—' and so on. 'There's not such
a villainous vagabond—' and all the rest of it. 'And I order
you,—I'm a Lindon, and I order you! I'm your father, and I order
you!—I order you never to speak to such a—such a'—various vain
repetitions—'again, and—and—and I order you never to look at
him!'

'Listen to me, papa. I will promise you never to speak to Paul
Lessingham again, if you will promise me never to speak to Lord
Cantilever again,—or to recognise him if you meet him in the
street.'

'You 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.

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 protege 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,