The Beetle by Richard Marsh (read e books online free txt) 📕

my acquaintance allowed himself to be guilty of such a felony in the first degree, I should cut him. I wished someone would try to cut me⁠—I should like to see him at it.

It was all Marjorie’s fault⁠—everything! past, present, and to come. I had known that girl when she was in long frocks⁠—I had, at that period of our acquaintance, pretty recently got out of them; when she was advanced to short ones; and when, once more, she returned to long. And all that time⁠—well, I was nearly persuaded that the whole of the time I had loved her. If I had not mentioned it, it was because I had suffered my affection, “like the worm, to lie hidden in the bud,”⁠—or whatever it is the fellow says.

At any rate, I was perfectly positive that if I had had the faintest notion that she would ever seriously consider such a man as Lessingham I should have loved her long ago. Lessingham! Why, he was old enough to be her father⁠—at least he was a good many years older than I was. And a wretched Radical! It is true that on certain points I, also, am what some people would call a Radical⁠—but not a Radical of the kind he is. Thank Heaven, no! No doubt I have admired traits in his character, until I learnt this thing of him. I am even prepared to admit that he is a man of ability⁠—in his way! which is, emphatically, not mine. But to think of him in connection with such a girl as Marjorie Lindon⁠—preposterous! Why, the man’s as dry as a stick⁠—drier! And cold as an iceberg. Nothing but a politician, absolutely. He a lover!⁠—how I could fancy such a stroke of humour setting all the benches in a roar. Both by education, and by nature, he was incapable of even playing such a part; as for being the thing⁠—absurd! If you were to sink a shaft from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, you would find inside him nothing but the dry bones of parties and of politics.

What my Marjorie⁠—if everyone had his own, she is mine, and, in that sense, she always will be mine⁠—what my Marjorie could see in such a dry-as-dust out of which even to construct the rudiments of a husband was beyond my fathoming.

Suchlike agreeable reflections were fit company for the wind and the wet, so they bore me company all down the lane. I crossed at the corner, going round the hospital towards the square. This brought me to the abiding-place of Paul the Apostle. Like the idiot I was, I went out into the middle of the street, and stood awhile in the mud to curse him and his house⁠—on the whole, when one considers that that is the kind of man I can be, it is, perhaps, not surprising that Marjorie disdained me.

“May your following,” I cried⁠—it is an absolute fact that the words were shouted!⁠—“both in the House and out of it, no longer regard you as a leader! May your party follow after other gods! May your political aspirations wither, and your speeches be listened to by empty benches! May the Speaker persistently and strenuously refuse to allow you to catch his eye, and, at the next election, may your constituency reject you!⁠—Jehoram!⁠—what’s that?”

I might well ask. Until that moment I had appeared to be the only lunatic at large, either outside the house or in it, but, on a sudden, a second lunatic came on the scene, and that with a vengeance. A window was crashed open from within⁠—the one over the front door, and someone came plunging through it on to the top of the portico. That it was a case of intended suicide I made sure⁠—and I began to be in hopes that I was about to witness the suicide of Paul. But I was not so assured of the intention when the individual in question began to scramble down the pillar of the porch in the most extraordinary fashion I ever witnessed⁠—I was not even convinced of a suicidal purpose when he came tumbling down, and lay sprawling in the mud at my feet.

I fancy, if I had performed that portion of the act I should have lain quiet for a second or two, to consider whereabouts I was, and which end of me was uppermost. But there was no nonsense of that sort about that singularly agile stranger⁠—if he was not made of india-rubber he ought to have been. So to speak, before he was down he was up⁠—it was all I could do to grab at him before he was off like a rocket.

Such a figure as he presented is seldom seen⁠—at least, in the streets of London. What he had done with the rest of his apparel I am not in a position to say⁠—all that was left of it was a long, dark cloak which he strove to wrap round him. Save for that⁠—and mud!⁠—he was bare as the palm of my hand. Yet it was his face that held me. In my time I have seen strange expressions on men’s faces, but never before one such as I saw on his. He looked like a man might look who, after living a life of undiluted crime, at last finds himself face to face with the devil. It was not the look of a madman⁠—far from it; it was something worse.

It was the expression on the man’s countenance, as much as anything else, which made me behave as I did. I said something to him⁠—some nonsense, I know not what. He regarded me with a silence which was supernatural. I spoke to him again;⁠—not a word issued from those rigid lips; there was not a tremor of those awful eyes⁠—eyes which I was tolerably convinced saw something which I had never seen, or ever should. Then I took my hand from off his shoulder, and let