'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
to-night—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 her not to leave me; but, the plain truth is, I was
ashamed. In my inner consciousness I was persuaded that the sense
of terror which had suddenly come over me was so absolutely
causeless, that I could not bear the notion of playing the craven
in my maid's eyes. While I hesitated, something seemed to sweep
past me through the air, and to brush against my cheek in passing.
I caught at Fanchette's arm.
'Fanchette!—Is there something with us in the room?'
'Something with us in the room?—Mademoiselle?—What does
mademoiselle mean?'
She looked disturbed,—which was, on the whole, excusable.
Fanchette is not exactly a strong-minded person, and not likely to
be much of a support when a support was most required. If I was
going to play the fool, I would be my own audience. So I sent her
off.
'Did you not hear me tell you that I will undress myself?—you are
to go to bed.'
She went to bed,—with quite sufficient willingness.
The instant that she was out of the room I wished that she was
back again. Such a paroxysm of fear came over me, that I was
incapable of stirring from the spot on which I stood, and it was
all I could do to prevent myself from collapsing in heap on the
floor. I had never, till then, had reason to suppose that I was a
coward. Nor to suspect myself of being the possessor of 'nerves.'
I was as little likely as anyone to be frightened by shadows. I
told myself that the whole thing was sheer absurdity, and that I
should be thoroughly ashamed of my own conduct when the morning
came. 'If you don't want to be self-branded as a contemptible
idiot, Marjorie Lindon, you will call up your courage, and these
foolish fears will fly.' But it would not do. Instead of flying,
they grew worse. I became convinced,—and the process of
conviction was terrible beyond words!—that there actually was
something with me in the room, some invisible horror,—which, at
any moment, might become visible. I seemed to understand—with a
sense of agony which nothing can describe!—that this thing which
was with me was with Paul. That we were linked together by the
bond of a common, and a dreadful terror. That, at that moment,
that same awful peril which was threatening me, was threatening
him, and that I was powerless to move a finger in his aid. As with
a sort of second sight, I saw out of the room in which I was, into
another, in which Paul was crouching on the floor, covering his
face with his hands, and shrieking. The vision came again and
again with a degree of vividness of which I cannot give the least
conception. At last the horror, and the reality of it, goaded me
to frenzy. 'Paul! Paul!' I screamed. As soon as I found my voice,
the vision faded. Once more I understood that, as a matter of
simple fact, I was standing in my own bedroom; that the lights
were burning brightly; that I had not yet commenced to remove a
particle of dress. 'Am I going mad?' I wondered. I had heard of
insanity taking extraordinary forms, but what could have caused
softening of the brain in me I had not the faintest notion. Surely
that sort of thing does not come on one—in such a wholly
unmitigated form!—without the slightest notice,—and that my
mental faculties were sound enough a few minutes back I was
certain. The first premonition of anything of the kind had come
upon me with the melodramatic utterance of the man I had found in
the street.
'Paul Lessingham!—Beware!—The Beetle!'
The words were ringing in my ears.-What was that?—. There was a
buzzing sound behind me. I turned to see what it was. It moved as
I moved, so that it was still at my back. I swung, swiftly, right
round on my heels. It still eluded me,—it was still behind.
I stood and listened,—what was it that hovered so persistently at
my back?
The buzzing was distinctly audible. It was like the humming of a
bee. Or—could it be a beetle?
My whole life long I have had an antipathy to beetles,—of any
sort or kind. I have objected neither to rats nor mice, nor cows,
nor bulls, nor snakes, nor spiders, nor toads, nor lizards, nor
any of the thousand and one other creatures, animate or otherwise,
to which so many people have a rooted, and, apparently, illogical
dislike. My pet—and only—horror has been beetles. The mere
suspicion of a harmless, and, I am told, necessary cockroach,
being within several feet has always made me seriously uneasy. The
thought that a great, winged beetle—to me, a flying beetle is the
horror of horrors!—was with me in my bedroom,—goodness alone
knew how it had got there!—was unendurable. Anyone who had beheld
me during the next few moments would certainly have supposed I was
deranged. I turned and twisted, sprang from side to side, screwed
myself into impossible positions, in order to obtain a glimpse of
the detested visitant,—but in vain. I could hear it all the time;
but see it—never! The buzzing sound was continually behind.
The terror returned,—I began to think that my brain must be
softening. I dashed to the bed. Flinging myself on my knees, I
tried to pray. But I was speechless,—words would not come; my
thoughts would not take shape. I all at once became conscious, as
I struggled to ask help of God, that I was wrestling with
something evil,—that if I only could ask kelp of Him, evil would
flee. But I could not. I was helpless,—overmastered. I hid my
face in the bedclothes, cramming my fingers into my ears. But the
buzzing was behind me all the time.
I sprang up, striking out, blindly, wildly, right and left,
hitting nothing,—the buzzing always came from a point at which,
at the moment, I was not aiming.
I tore off my clothes. I had on a lovely frock which I had worn
for the first time that night; I had had it specially made for the
occasion of the Duchess' ball, and—more especially—in honour of
Paul's great speech. I had said to myself, when I saw my image in
a mirror, that it was the most exquisite gown I had ever had, that
it suited me to perfection, and that it should continue in my
wardrobe for many a day, if only as a souvenir of a memorable
night. Now, in the madness of my terror, all reflections of that
sort were forgotten. My only desire was to away with it. I tore it
off anyhow, letting it fall in rags on the floor at my feet. All
else that I had on I flung in the same way after it; it was a
veritable holocaust of dainty garments,—I acting as relentless
executioner who am, as a rule, so tender with my things. I leaped
upon the bed, switched off the electric light, hurried into bed,
burying myself, over head and all, deep down between the sheets.
I had hoped that by shutting out the light, I might regain my
senses. That in the darkness I might have opportunity for sane
reflection. But I had made a grievous error. I had exchanged bad
for worse. The darkness lent added terrors. The light had not been
out five seconds before I would have given all that I was worth to
be able to switch it on again.
As I cowered beneath the bedclothes I heard the buzzing sound
above my head,—the sudden silence of the darkness had rendered it
more audible than it had been before. The thing, whatever it was,
was hovering above the bed. It came nearer and nearer; it grew
clearer and clearer. I felt it alight upon the coverlet;—shall I
ever forget the sensations with which I did feel it? It weighed
upon me like a ton of lead. How much of the seeming weight was
real, and how much imaginary, I cannot pretend to say; but that it
was much heavier than any beetle I have ever seen or heard of, I
am sure.
For a time it was still,—and during that time I doubt if I even
drew my breath. Then I felt it begin to move, in wobbling fashion,
with awkward, ungainly gait, stopping every now and then, as if
for rest. I was conscious that it was progressing, slowly, yet
surely, towards the head of the bed. The emotion of horror with
which I realised what this progression might mean, will be, I
fear, with me to the end of my life,—not only in dreams, but too
often, also, in my waking hours. My heart, as the Psalmist has it,
melted like wax within me, I was incapable of movement,—dominated
by something as hideous as, and infinitely more powerful than, the
fascination of the serpent.
When it reached the head of the bed, what I feared—with what a
fear!—would happen, did happen. It began to find its way inside,
—to creep between the sheets; the wonder is I did not die! I felt
it coming nearer and nearer, inch by inch; I knew that it was upon
me, that escape there was none; I felt something touch my hair.
And then oblivion did come to my aid. For the first time in my
life I swooned.
I have been anticipating for some weeks past, that things would
become exciting,—and they have. But hardly in the way which I
foresaw. It is the old story of the unexpected happening. Suddenly
events of the most extraordinary nature have come crowding on me
from the most unlooked-for quarters.
Let me try to take them in something like their proper order.
To begin with, Sydney has behaved very badly. So badly that it
seems likely that I shall have to re-cast my whole conception of
his character. It was nearly nine o'clock this morning when I,—I
cannot say woke up, because I do not believe that I had really
been asleep—but when I returned to consciousness. I found myself
sitting up in bed, trembling like some frightened child. What had
actually happened to me I did not know,—could not guess. I was
conscious of an overwhelming sense of nausea, and, generally, I
was feeling very far from well. I endeavoured to arrange my
thoughts, and to decide upon some plan of action. Finally, I
decided to go for advice and help where I had so often gone
before,—to Sydney Atherton.
I went to him. I told him the whole gruesome story. He saw, he
could not help but see what a deep impress the events of the night
had made on me. He heard me to the end with every appearance of
sympathy,—and then all at once I discovered that all the time
papa had been concealed behind a large screen which was in the
room, listening to every word I had been uttering. That I was
dumfoundered, goes without saying. It was bad enough in papa, but
in Sydney it seemed, and it was, such treachery. He and I have
told each other secrets all our lives; it has never entered my
imagination, as he very well knows, to play him false, in one jot
or tittle; and I have always understood that, in this sort of
matter, men pride themselves on their sense of honour being so
much keener than women's. I told them some plain truths; and I
fancy that I left them both feeling heartily ashamed of
themselves.
One result the experience had on me,—it wound me up. It had on me
the revivifying effect of a cold douche. I realised that mine was
a situation in which I should have to help myself.
When I returned home I learned that the man whom I had found in
the street was himself again, and was as conscious as he was ever
likely to be. Burning with curiosity to learn the nature of the
connection which existed between Paul and him, and what was the
meaning of his oracular apostrophes, I merely paused to remove my
hat before hastening into his apartment.
When he saw me, and heard who I was, the expressions of his
gratitude were painful in their intensity. The tears streamed down
his cheeks. He looked to me like a man who had very little life
left in him. He looked weak, and white, and worn to a shadow.
Probably he never had been robust, and it was only too plain that
privation had robbed him of what little strength he had ever had.
He was nothing else but skin and bone. Physical and mental
debility was written large all over him.