The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

suggested. The picture which, in my mental gallery, I had hung in the place of honour, seemed, to say the least, to have become a trifle smudged.

As usual, the man in the bed seemed to experience not the slightest difficulty in deciphering what was passing through my mind.

“That is so⁠—you and he, you are a pair⁠—the great Paul Lessingham is as great a thief as you⁠—and greater!⁠—for, at least, than you he has more courage.”

For some moments he was still; then exclaimed, with sudden fierceness,

“Give me what you have stolen!”

I moved towards the bed⁠—most unwillingly⁠—and held out to him the packet of letters which I had abstracted from the little drawer. Perceiving my disinclination to his near neighbourhood, he set himself to play with it. Ignoring my outstretched hand, he stared me straight in the face.

“What ails you? Are you not well? Is it not sweet to stand close at my side? You, with your white skin, if I were a woman, would you not take me for a wife?”

There was something about the manner in which this was said which was so essentially feminine that once more I wondered if I could possibly be mistaken in the creature’s sex. I would have given much to have been able to strike him across the face⁠—or, better, to have taken him by the neck, and thrown him through the window, and rolled him in the mud.

He condescended to notice what I was holding out to him.

“So!⁠—that is what you have stolen!⁠—That is what you have taken from the drawer in the bureau⁠—the drawer which was locked⁠—and which you used the arts in which a thief is skilled to enter. Give it to me⁠—thief!”

He snatched the packet from me, scratching the back of my hand as he did so, as if his nails had been talons. He turned the packet over and over, glaring at it as he did so⁠—it was strange what a relief it was to have his glance removed from off my face.

“You kept it in your inner drawer, Paul Lessingham, where none but you could see it⁠—did you? You hid it as one hides treasure. There should be something here worth having, worth seeing, worth knowing⁠—yes, worth knowing!⁠—since you found it worth your while to hide it up so closely.”

As I have said, the packet was bound about by a string of pink ribbon⁠—a fact on which he presently began to comment.

“With what a pretty string you have encircled it⁠—and how neatly it is tied! Surely only a woman’s hand could tie a knot like that⁠—who would have guessed yours were such agile fingers?⁠—So! An endorsement on the cover! What’s this?⁠—let’s see what’s written!⁠—‘The letters of my dear love, Marjorie Lindon.’ ”

As he read these words, which, as he said, were endorsed upon the outer sheet of paper which served as a cover for the letters which were enclosed within, his face became transfigured. Never did I suppose that rage could have so possessed a human countenance. His jaw dropped open so that his yellow fangs gleamed though his parted lips⁠—he held his breath so long that each moment I looked to see him fall down in a fit; the veins stood out all over his face and head like seams of blood. I know not how long he continued speechless. When his breath returned, it was with chokings and gaspings, in the midst of which he hissed out his words, as if their mere passage through his throat brought him near to strangulation.

“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 rereading 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