’The letters of his dear love!—­of his dear love!—­his!—­Paul Lessingham’s!—­So!—­It is as I guessed,—­as I knew,—­as I saw!—­ Marjorie Lindon!—­Sweet Marjorie!—­His dear love!—­Paul Lessingham’s dear love!—­She with the lily face, the corn-hued hair!—­What is it his dear love has found in her fond heart to write Paul Lessingham?’

Sitting up in bed he tore the packet open.  It contained, perhaps, eight or nine letters,—­some mere notes, some long epistles.  But, short or long, he devoured them with equal appetite, each one over and over again, till I thought he never would have done re-reading them.  They were on thick white paper, of a peculiar shade of whiteness, with untrimmed edges, On each sheet a crest and an address were stamped in gold, and all the sheets were of the same shape and size.  I told myself that if anywhere, at any time, I saw writing paper like that again, I should not fail to know it.  The caligraphy was, like the paper, unusual, bold, 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