The Beetle (5 page)

When he spoke again there was a new intonation in his speech,—
something bitter, cruel, unrelenting.

'Do you know Paul Lessingham?'

He pronounced the name as if he hated it,—and yet as if he loved
to have it on his tongue.

'What Paul Lessingham?'

'There is only one Paul Lessingham! THE Paul Lessingham,—the
GREAT Paul Lessingham!'

He shrieked, rather than said this, with an outburst of rage so
frenzied that I thought, for the moment, that he was going to
spring on me and rend me. I shook all over. I do not doubt that,
as I replied, my voice was sufficiently tremulous.

'All the world knows Paul Lessingham,—the politician,—the
statesman.'

As he glared at me his eyes dilated. I still stood in expectation
of a physical assault. But, for the present, he contented himself
with words.

'To-night you are going through his window like a thief!'

I had no inkling of his meaning,—and, apparently, judging from
his next words, I looked something of the bewilderment I felt.

'You do not understand?—no!—it is simple!—what could be
simpler? I say that to-night—to-night!—you are going through his
window like a thief. You came through my window,—why not through
the window of Paul Lessingham, the politician—the statesman.'

He repeated my words as if in mockery. I am—I make it my boast!—
of that great multitude which regards Paul Lessingham as the
greatest living force in practical politics; and which looks to
him, with confidence, to carry through that great work of
constitutional and 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 you did mine; if not, you will open one. How,—that
is your affair, not mine. You will practise the arts of a thief to
steal into his house.'

The monstrosity of his suggestion fought against the spell which
he again was casting upon me, and forced me into speech,—endowed
me with the power to show that there still was in me something of
a man; though every second the strands of my manhood, as it
seemed, were slipping faster through the fingers which were
strained to clutch them.

'I will not.'

He was silent. He looked at me. The pupils of his eyes dilated,—
until they seemed all pupil.

'You will.—Do you hear?—I say you will.'

'I am not a thief, I am an honest man,—why should I do this
thing?'

'Because I bid you.'

'Have mercy!'

'On whom—on you, or on Paul Lessingham?—Who, at any time, has
shown mercy unto me, that I should show mercy unto any?'

He stopped, and then again went on,—reiterating his former
incredible suggestion with an emphasis which seemed to eat its way
into my brain.

'You will practise the arts of a thief to steal into his house;
and, being in, will listen. If all be still, you will make your
way to the room he calls his study.'

'How shall I find it? I know nothing of his house.'

The question was wrung from me; I felt that the sweat was standing
in great drops upon my brow.

'I will show it you.'

'Shall you go with me?'

'Ay,—I shall go with you. All the time I shall be with you. You
will not see me, but I shall be there. Be not afraid.'

His claim to supernatural powers, for what he said amounted to
nothing less, was, on the face of it, preposterous, but, then, I
was in no condition to even hint at its absurdity. He continued.

'When you have gained the study, you will go to a certain drawer,
which is in a certain bureau, in a corner of the room—I see it
now; when you are there you shall see it too—and you will open
it.'

'Should it be locked?'

'You still will open it.'

'But how shall I open it if it is locked?'

'By those arts in which a thief is skilled. I say to you again
that that is your affair, not mine.'

I made no attempt to answer him. Even supposing that he forced me,
by the wicked, and unconscionable exercise of what, I presumed,
were the hypnotic powers with which nature had to such a dangerous
degree endowed him, to carry the adventure to a certain stage,
since he could hardly, at an instant's notice, endow me with the
knack of picking locks, should the drawer he alluded to be locked
—which might Providence permit!—nothing serious might issue from
it after all. He read my thoughts.

'You will open it,—though it be doubly and trebly locked, I say
that you will open it.—In it you will find—' he hesitated, as if
to reflect—'some letters; it may be two or three,—I know not
just how many,—they are bound about by a silken ribbon. You will
take them out of the drawer, and, having taken them, you will make
the best of your way out of the house, and bear them back to me.'

'And should anyone come upon me while engaged in these nefarious
proceedings,—for instance, should I encounter Mr Lessingham
himself, what then?'

'Paul Lessingham?—You need have no fear if you encounter him.'

'I need have no fear!—If he finds me, in his own house, at dead
of night, committing burglary!'

'You need have no fear of him.'

'On your account, or on my own?—At least he will have me haled to
gaol.'

'I say you need have no fear of him. I say what I mean.'

'How, then, shall I escape his righteous vengeance? He is not the
man to suffer a midnight robber to escape him scatheless,—shall I
have to kill him?'

'You will not touch him with a finger,—nor will he touch you.'

'By what spell shall I prevent him?'

'By the spell of two words.'

'What words are they?'

'Should Paul Lessingham chance to come upon you, and find you in
his house, a thief, and should seek to stay you from whatever it
is you may be at, you will not flinch nor flee from him, but you
will stand still, and you will say—'

Something in the crescendo accents of his voice, something weird
and ominous, caused my heart to press against my ribs, so that
when he stopped, in my eagerness I cried out,

'What?'

'THE BEETLE!'

As the words came from him in a kind of screech, the lamp went
out, and the place was all in darkness, and I knew, so that the
knowledge filled me with a sense of loathing, that with me, in the
room, was the evil presence of the night before. Two bright specks
gleamed in front of me; something flopped from off the bed on to
the ground; the thing was coming towards me across the floor. It
came slowly on, and on, and on. I stood still, speechless in the
sickness of my horror. Until, on my bare feet, it touched me with
slimy feelers, and my terror lest it should creep up my naked body
lent me voice, and I fell shrieking like a soul in agony.

It may be that my shrieking drove it from me. At least, it went. I
knew it went. And all was still. Until, on a sudden, the lamp
flamed out again, and there, lying, as before, in bed, glaring at
me with his baleful eyes, was the being whom, in my folly, or in
my wisdom,—whichever it was!—I was beginning to credit with the
possession of unhallowed, unlawful powers.

'You will say that to him; those two words; they only; no more.
And you will see what you will see. But Paul Lessingham is a man
of resolution. Should he still persist in interference, or seek to
hinder you, you will say those two words again. You need do no
more. Twice will suffice, I promise you.—Now go.—Draw up the
blind; open the window; climb through it. Hasten to do what I have
bidden you. I wait here for your return,—and all the way I shall
be with you.'

I went to the window; I drew up the blind, unlatching the sash, I
threw it open; and clad, or, rather, unclad as I was, I clambered
through it into the open air. I was not only incapable of
resistance, I was incapable of distinctly formulating the desire
to offer resistance. Some compelling influence moved me hither and
hither, with completest disregard of whether I would or would not.

And yet, when I found myself without, I was conscious of a sense
of exultation at having escaped from the miasmic atmosphere of
that room of unholy memories. And a faint hope began to dawn
within my bosom that, as I increased the distance between myself
and it, I might shake off something of the nightmare helplessness
which numbed and tortured me. I lingered for a moment by the
window; then stepped over the short dividing wall into the street;
and then again I lingered.