The Beetle (44 page)

On and on we went dashing, clashing, smashing, roaring, rumbling.
Atherton, who had been endeavouring to peer through the window,
strained his lungs again in the effort to make himself audible.

'Where the devil are we?'

Looking at my watch I screamed back at him.

'It's nearly one, so I suppose we're somewhere in the
neighbourhood of Luton.—Hollo! What's the matter?'

That something was the matter seemed certain. There was a shrill
whistle from the engine. In a second we were conscious—almost too
conscious—of the application of the Westinghouse brake. Of all
the jolting that was ever jolted! the mere reverberation of the
carriage threatened to resolve our bodies into their component
parts. Feeling what we felt then helped us to realise the
retardatory force which that vacuum brake must be exerting,—it
did not seem at all surprising that the train should have been
brought to an almost instant stand-still.

Simultaneously all three of us were on our feet. I let down my
window and Atherton let down his,—he shouting out,

'I should think that Inspector's wire hasn't had it's proper
effect, looks as if we're blocked—or else we've stopped at Luton.
It can't be Bedford.'

It wasn't Bedford—so much seemed clear. Though at first from my
window I could make out nothing. I was feeling more than a trifle
dazed,—there was a singing in my ears,—the sudden darkness was
impenetrable. Then I became conscious that the guard was opening
the door of his compartment. He stood on the step for a moment,
seeming to hesitate. Then, with a lamp in his hand, he descended
on to the line.

'What's the matter?' I asked.

'Don't know, sir. Seems as if there was something on the road.
What's up there?'

This was to the man on the engine. The fireman replied:

'Someone in front there's waving a red light like mad,—lucky I
caught sight of him, we should have been clean on top of him in
another moment. Looks as if there was something wrong. Here he
comes.'

As my eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness I became aware
that someone was making what haste he could along the six-foot
way, swinging a red light as he came. Our guard advanced to meet
him, shouting as he went:

'What's the matter! Who's that?'

A voice replied,

'My God! Is that George Hewett. I thought you were coming right on
top of us!'

Our guard again.

'What! Jim Branson! What the devil are you doing here, what's
wrong? I thought you were on the twelve out, we're chasing you.'

'Are you? Then you've caught us. Thank God for it!—We're a
wreck.'

I had already opened the carriage door. With that we all three
clambered out on to the line.

I moved to the stranger who was holding the lamp. He was in
official uniform.

'Are you the guard of the 12.0 out from St Pancras?'

'I am.'

'Where's your train? What's happened?'

'As for where it is, there it is, right in front of you, what's
left of it. As to what's happened, why, we're wrecked.'

'What do you mean by you're wrecked?'

'Some heavy loaded trucks broke loose from a goods in front and
came running down the hill on top of us.'

'How long ago was it?'

'Not ten minutes. I was just starting off down the road to the
signal box, it's a good two miles away, when I saw you coming. My
God! I thought there was going to be another smash.'

'Much damage done?'

'Seems to me as if we're all smashed up. As far as I can make out
they're matchboxed up in front. I feel as if I was all broken up
inside of me. I've been in the service going on for thirty years,
and this is the first accident I've been in.'

It was too dark to see the man's face, but judging from his tone
he was either crying or very near to it.

Our guard turned and shouted back to our engine,

'You'd better go back to the box and let 'em know!'

'All right!' came echoing back.

The special immediately commenced retreating, whistling
continually as it went. All the country side must have heard the
engine shrieking, and all who did hear must have understood that
on the line something was seriously wrong.

The smashed train was all in darkness, the force of the collision
had put out all the carriage lamps. Here was a flickering candle,
there the glimmer of a match, these were all the lights which
shone upon the scene. People were piling up debris by the side of
the line, for the purpose of making a fire,—more for illumination
than for warmth.

Many of the passengers had succeeded in freeing themselves, and
were moving hither and thither about the line. But the majority
appeared to be still imprisoned. The carriage doors were jammed.
Without the necessary tools it was impossible to open them. Every
step we took our ears were saluted by piteous cries. Men, women,
children, appealed to us for help.

'Open the door, sir!' 'In the name of God, sir, open the door!'

Over and over again, in all sorts of tones, with all degrees of
violence, the supplication was repeated.

The guards vainly endeavoured to appease the, in many cases, half-
frenzied creatures.

'All right, sir! If you'll only wait a minute or two, madam! We
can't get the doors open without tools, a special train's just
started off to get them. If you'll only have patience there'll be
plenty of help for everyone of you directly. You'll be quite safe
in there, if you'll only keep still.'

But that was just what they found it most difficult to do—keep
still!

In the front of the train all was chaos. The trucks which had done
the mischief—there were afterwards shown to be six of them,
together with two guards' vans—appeared to have been laden with
bags of Portland cement. The bags had burst, and everything was
covered with what seemed gritty dust. The air was full of the
stuff, it got into our eyes, half blinding us. The engine of the
express had turned a complete somersault. It vomited forth smoke,
and steam, and flames,—every moment it seemed as if the woodwork
of the carriages immediately behind and beneath would catch fire.

The front coaches were, as the guard had put it, 'match-boxed.'
They were nothing but a heap of debris,—telescoped into one
another in a state of apparently inextricable confusion. It was
broad daylight before access was gained to what had once been the
interiors. The condition of the first third-class compartment
revealed an extraordinary state of things.

Scattered all over it were pieces of what looked like partially
burnt rags, and fragments of silk and linen. I have those
fragments now. Experts have assured me that they are actually
neither of silk nor linen! but of some material—animal rather
than vegetable—with which they are wholly unacquainted. On the
cushions and woodwork—especially on the woodwork of the floor—
were huge blotches,—stains of some sort. When first noticed they
were damp, and gave out a most unpleasant smell. One of the pieces
of woodwork is yet in my possession,—with the stain still on it.
Experts have pronounced upon it too,—with the result that
opinions are divided. Some maintain that the stain was produced by
human blood, which had been subjected to a great heat, and, so to
speak, parboiled. Others declare that it is the blood of some wild
animal,—possibly of some creature of the cat species. Yet others
affirm that it is not blood at all, but merely paint. While a
fourth describes it as—I quote the written opinion which lies in
front of me—'caused apparently by a deposit of some sort of
viscid matter, probably the excretion of some variety of lizard.'

In a corner of the carriage was the body of what seemed a young
man costumed like a tramp. It was Marjorie Lindon.

So far as a most careful search revealed, that was all the
compartment contained.

It is several years since I bore my part in the events which I
have rapidly sketched,—or I should not have felt justified in
giving them publicity. Exactly how many years, for reasons which
should be sufficiently obvious, I must decline to say.

Marjorie Lindon still lives. The spark of life which was left in
her, when she was extricated from among the debris of the wrecked
express, was fanned again into flame. Her restoration was,
however, not merely an affair of weeks or months, it was a matter
of years. I believe that, even after her physical powers were
completely restored—in itself a tedious task—she was for
something like three years under medical supervision as a lunatic.
But all that skill and money could do was done, and in course of
time—the great healer—the results were entirely satisfactory.

Her father is dead,—and has left her in possession of the family
estates. She is married to the individual who, in these pages, has
been known as Paul Lessingham. Were his real name divulged she
would be recognised as the popular and universally reverenced wife
of one of the greatest statesmen the age has seen.

Nothing has been said to her about the fateful day on which she
was—consciously or unconsciously—paraded through London in the
tattered masculine habiliments of a vagabond. She herself has
never once alluded to it. With the return of reason the affair
seems to have passed from her memory as wholly as if it had never
been, which, although she may not know it, is not the least cause
she has for thankfulness. Therefore what actually transpired will
never, in all human probability, be certainly known and
particularly what precisely occurred in the railway carriage
during that dreadful moment of sudden passing from life unto
death. What became of the creature who all but did her to death;
who he was—if it was a 'he,' which is extremely doubtful; whence
he came; whither he went; what was the purport of his presence
here,—to this hour these things are puzzles.

Paul Lessingham has not since been troubled by his old tormentor.
He has ceased to be a haunted man. None the less he continues to
have what seems to be a constitutional disrelish for the subject
of beetles, nor can he himself be induced to speak of them. Should
they be mentioned in a general conversation, should he be unable
to immediately bring about a change of theme, he will, if
possible, get up and leave the room. More, on this point he and
his wife are one.

The fact may not be generally known, but it is so. Also I have
reason to believe that there still are moments in which he harks
back, with something like physical shrinking, to that awful
nightmare of the past, and in which he prays God, that as it is
distant from him now so may it be kept far off from him for ever.

Before closing, one matter may be casually mentioned. The tale has
never been told, but I have unimpeachable authority for its
authenticity.

During the recent expeditionary advance towards Dongola, a body of
native troops which was encamped at a remote spot in the desert
was aroused one night by what seemed to be the sound of a loud
explosion. The next morning, at a distance of about a couple of
miles from the camp, a huge hole was discovered in the ground,—as
if blasting operations, on an enormous scale, had recently been
carried on. In the hole itself, and round about it, were found
fragments of what seemed bodies; credible witnesses have assured
me that they were bodies neither of men nor women, but of
creatures of some monstrous growth. I prefer to believe, since no
scientific examination of the remains took place, that these
witnesses ignorantly, though innocently, erred.

One thing is sure. Numerous pieces, both of stone and of metal,
were seen, which went far to suggest that some curious
subterranean building had been blown up by the force of the
explosion. Especially were there portions of moulded metal which
seemed to belong to what must have been an immense bronze statue.
There were picked up also, more than a dozen replicas in bronze of
the whilom sacred scarabaeus.

That the den of demons described by Paul Lessingham, had, that
night, at last come to an end, and that these things which lay
scattered, here and there, on that treeless plain, were the
evidences of its final destruction, is not a hypothesis which I
should care to advance with any degree of certainty. But, putting
this and that together, the facts seem to point that way,—and it
is a consummation devoutly to be desired.

By-the-bye, Sydney Atherton has married Miss Dora Grayling. Her
wealth has made him one of the richest men in England. She began,
the story goes, by loving him immensely; I can answer for the fact
that he has ended by loving her as much. Their devotion to each
other contradicts the pessimistic nonsense which supposes that
every marriage must be of necessity a failure. He continues his
career of an inventor. His investigations into the subject of
aerial flight, which have brought the flying machine within the
range of practical politics, are on everybody's tongue.

The best man at Atherton's wedding was Percy Woodville, now the
Earl of Barnes. Within six months afterwards he married one of Mrs
Atherton's bridesmaids.

It was never certainly shown how Robert Holt came to his end. At
the inquest the coroner's jury was content to return a verdict of
'Died of exhaustion.' He lies buried in Kensal Green Cemetery,
under a handsome tombstone, the cost of which, had he had it in
his pockets, might have indefinitely prolonged his days.

It should be mentioned that that portion of this strange history
which purports to be The Surprising Narration of Robert Holt was
compiled from the statements which Holt made to Atherton, and to
Miss Lindon, as she then was, when, a mud-stained, shattered
derelict he lay at the lady's father's house.

Miss Linden's contribution towards the elucidation of the mystery
was written with her own hand. After her physical strength had
come back to her, and, while mentally, she still hovered between
the darkness and the light, her one relaxation was writing.
Although she would never speak of what she had written, it was
found that her theme was always the same. She confided to pen and
paper what she would not speak of with her lips. She told, and re-
told, and re-told again, the story of her love, and of her
tribulation so far as it is contained in the present volume. Her
MSS. invariably began and ended at the same point. They have all
of them been destroyed, with one exception. That exception is
herein placed before the reader.