Free The Beetle by Richard Marsh Page B

decided, and, I
should have guessed, produced by a J pen.
    All the time that he was reading he kept emitting sounds, more
resembling yelps and snarls than anything more human,—like some
savage beast nursing its pent-up rage. When he had made an end of
reading,—for the season,—he let his passion have full vent.
    'So!—That is what his dear love has found it in her heart to
write Paul Lessingham!—Paul Lessingham!'
    Pen cannot describe the concentrated frenzy of hatred with which
the speaker dwelt upon the name,—it was demoniac.
    'It is enough!—it is the end!—it is his doom! He shall be ground
between the upper and the nether stones in the towers of anguish,
and all that is left of him shall be cast on the accursed stream
of the bitter waters, to stink under the blood-grimed sun! And for
her—for Marjorie Lindon!—for his dear love!—it shall come to
pass that she shall wish that she was never born,—nor he!—and
the gods of the shadows shall smell the sweet incense of her
suffering!—It shall be! it shall be! It is I that say it,—even
I!'
    In the madness of his rhapsodical frenzy I believe that he had
actually forgotten I was there. But, on a sudden, glancing aside,
he saw me, and remembered,—and was prompt to take advantage of an
opportunity to wreak his rage upon a tangible object.
    'It is you!—you thief!—you still live!—to make a mock of one of
the children of the gods!'
    He leaped, shrieking, off the bed, and sprang at me, clasping my
throat with his horrid hands, bearing me backwards on to the
floor; I felt his breath mingle with mine... ...and then God, in
His mercy, sent oblivion.

BOOK II — The Haunted Man
*
The Story according to Sydney Atherton, Esquire

Chapter X
— Rejected
*
    It was after our second waltz I did it. In the usual quiet
corner.—which, that time, was in the shadow of a palm in the
hall. Before I had got into my stride she checked me,—touching my
sleeve with her fan, turning towards me with startled eyes.
    'Stop, please!'
    But I was not to be stopped. Cliff Challoner passed, with Gerty
Cazell. I fancy that, as he passed, he nodded. I did not care. I
was wound up to go, and I went it. No man knows how he can talk
till he does talk,—to the girl he wants to marry. It is my
impression that I gave her recollections of the Restoration poets.
She seemed surprised,—not having previously detected in me the
poetic strain, and insisted on cutting in.
    'Mr Atherton, I am so sorry.'
    Then I did let fly.
    'Sorry that I love you!—why? Why should you be sorry that you
have become the one thing needful in any man's eyes,—even in
mine? The one thing precious,—the one thing to be altogether
esteemed! Is it so common for a woman to come across a man who
would be willing to lay down his life for her that she should be
sorry when she finds him?'
    'I did not know that you felt like this, though I confess that I
have had my—my doubts.'
    'Doubts!—I thank you.'
    'You are quite aware, Mr Atherton, that I like you very much.'
    'Like me!—Bah!'
    'I cannot help liking you,—though it may be "bah."'
    'I don't want you to like me,—I want you to love me.'
    'Precisely,—that is your mistake.'
    'My mistake!—in wanting you to love me!—when I love you—'
    'Then you shouldn't,—though I can't help thinking that you are
mistaken even there.'
    'Mistaken!—in supposing that I love you!—when I assert and
reassert it with the whole force of my being! What do you want me
to do to prove I love you,—take you in my arms and crush you to
my bosom, and make a spectacle of you before every creature in the
place?'
    'I'd rather you wouldn't, and perhaps you wouldn't mind not
talking quite so loud. Mr Challoner seems to be wondering what
you're shouting about.'
    'You shouldn't torture me.'
    She opened and shut her fan,—as she looked down at it I am
disposed to suspect that she smiled.
    'I am glad we have had this little explanation, because, of
course, you are my friend.'
    'I am not