The Beetle | Page 8

shape, it resembled the beak of some bird of prey. A characteristic of the face--and an uncomfortable one I--was that, practically, it stopped short at the mouth. The mouth, with its blubber lips, came immediately underneath the nose, and chin, to all intents and purposes, there was none. This deformity--for the absence of chin amounted to that--it was which gave to the face the appearance of something not human,--that, and the eyes. For so marked a feature of the man were his eyes, that, ere long, it seemed to me that he was nothing but eyes.
His eyes ran, literally, across the whole of the upper portion of his face,--remember, the face was unwontedly small, and the columna of the nose was razor-edged. They were long, and they looked out of narrow windows, and they seemed to be lighted by some internal radiance, for they shone out like lamps in a lighthouse tower. Escape them I could not, while, as I endeavoured to meet them, it was as if I shrivelled into nothingness. Never before had I realised what was meant by the power of the eye. They held me enchained, helpless, spell-bound. I felt that they could do with me as they would; and they did. Their gaze was unfaltering, having the bird-like trick of never blinking; this man could have glared at me for hours and never moved an eyelid.
It was he who broke the silence. I was speechless.
'Shut the window.' I did as he bade me. 'Pull down the blind.' I obeyed. 'Turn round again.' I was still obedient. 'What is your name?'
Then I spoke,--to answer him. There was this odd thing about the words I uttered, that they came from me, not in response to my will power, but in response to his. It was not I who willed that I should speak; it was he. What he willed that I should say, I said. Just that, and nothing more. For the time I was no longer a man; my manhood was merged in his. I was, in the extremest sense, an example of passive obedience.
'Robert Holt.'
'What are you?'
'A clerk.'
'You look as if you were a clerk.' There was a flame of scorn in his voice which scorched me even then. 'What sort of a clerk are you?'
'I am out of a situation.'
'You look as if you were out of a situation.' Again the scorn. 'Are you the sort of clerk who is always out of a situation? You are a thief.'
'I am not a thief.'
'Do clerks come through the window?' I was still,--he putting no constraint on me to speak. 'Why did you come through the window?'
'Because it was open.'
'So!--Do you always come through a window which is open?'
'No.'
'Then why through this?'
'Because I was wet--and cold--and hungry--and tired.'
The words came from me as if he had dragged them one by one,-- which, in fact, he did.
'Have you no home?'
'No.'
'Money?'
'No.'
'Friends?'
'No.'
'Then what sort of a clerk are you?'
I did not answer him,--I did not know what it was he wished me to say. I was the victim of bad luck, nothing else,--I swear it. Misfortune had followed hard upon misfortune. The firm by whom I had been employed for years suspended payment. I obtained a situation with one of their creditors, at a lower salary. They reduced their staff, which entailed my going. After an interval I obtained a temporary engagement; the occasion which required my services passed, and I with it. After another, and a longer interval, I again found temporary employment, the pay for which was but a pittance. When that was over I could find nothing. That was nine months ago, and since then I had not earned a penny. It is so easy to grow shabby, when you are on the everlasting tramp, and are living on your stock of clothes. I had trudged all over London in search of work,--work of any kind would have been welcome, so long as it would have enabled me to keep body and soul together. And I had trudged in vain. Now I had been refused admittance as a casual,--how easy is the descent! But I did not tell the man lying on the bed all this. He did not wish to hear,-- had he wished he would have made me tell him.
It may be that he read my story, unspoken though it was,--it is conceivable. His eyes had powers of penetration which were peculiarly their own,--that I know.
'Undress!'
When he spoke again that was what he said, in those guttural tones of his in which there was a reminiscence of some foreign land. I obeyed, letting my sodden, shabby clothes fall anyhow upon the floor. A look came on his face, as I stood naked in front of him, which, if it was meant for a smile,