The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

“In⁠—in the very act of dying.”

“In the very act of dying?”

“If⁠—he had seen a follower of Isis in⁠—the very act of dying, assume⁠—the form of a⁠—a beetle, on any conceivable grounds would such a transformation be susceptible of a natural explanation?”

I stared⁠—as who would not? Such an extraordinary question was rendered more extraordinary by coming from such a man⁠—yet I was almost beginning to suspect that there was something behind it more extraordinary still.

“Look here, Lessingham, I can see you’ve a capital tale to tell⁠—so tell it, man! Unless I’m mistaken, it’s not the kind of tale in which ordinary scruples can have any part or parcel⁠—anyhow, it’s hardly fair of you to set my curiosity all agog, and then to leave it unappeased.”

He eyed me steadily, the appearance of interest fading more and more, until, presently, his face assumed its wonted expressionless mask⁠—somehow I was conscious that what he had seen in my face was not altogether to his liking. His voice was once more bland and self-contained.

“I perceive you are of opinion that I have been told a taradiddle. I suppose I have.”

“But what is the taradiddle?⁠—don’t you see I’m burning?”

“Unfortunately, Atherton, I am on my honour. Until I have permission to unloose it, my tongue is tied.” He picked up his hat and umbrella from where he had placed them on the table. Holding them in his left hand, he advanced to me with his right outstretched. “It is very good of you to suffer my continued interruption; I know, to my sorrow, what such interruptions mean⁠—believe me, I am not ungrateful. What is this?”

On the shelf, within a foot or so of where I stood, was a sheet of paper⁠—the size and shape of half a sheet of post note. At this he stooped to glance. As he did so, something surprising occurred. On the instant a look came on to his face which, literally, transfigured him. His hat and umbrella fell from his grasp on to the floor. He retreated, gibbering, his hands held out as if to ward something off from him, until he reached the wall on the other side of the room. A more amazing spectacle than he presented I never saw.

“Lessingham!” I exclaimed. “What’s wrong with you?”

My first impression was that he was struck by a fit of epilepsy⁠—though anyone less like an epileptic subject it would be hard to find. In my bewilderment I looked round to see what could be the immediate cause. My eye fell upon the sheet of paper, I stared at it with considerable surprise. I had not noticed it there previously, I had not put it there⁠—where had it come from? The curious thing was that, on it, produced apparently by some process of photogravure, was an illustration of a species of beetle with which I felt that I ought to be acquainted, and yet was not. It was of a dull golden green; the colour was so well brought out⁠—even to the extent of seeming to scintillate, and the whole thing was so dexterously done that the creature seemed alive. The semblance of reality was, indeed, so vivid that it needed a second glance to be assured that it was a mere trick of the reproducer. Its presence there was odd⁠—after what we had been talking about it might seem to need explanation; but it was absurd to suppose that that alone could have had such an effect on a man like Lessingham.

With the thing in my hand, I crossed to where he was⁠—pressing his back against the wall, he had shrunk lower inch by inch till he was actually crouching on his haunches.

“Lessingham!⁠—come, man, what’s wrong with you?”

Taking him by the shoulder, I shook him with some vigour. My touch had on him the effect of seeming to wake him out of a dream, of restoring him to consciousness as against the nightmare horrors with which he was struggling. He gazed up at me with that look of cunning on his face which one associates with abject terror.

“Atherton?⁠—Is it you?⁠—It’s all right⁠—quite right.⁠—I’m well⁠—very well.”

As he spoke, he slowly drew himself up, till he was standing erect.

“Then, in that case, all I can say is that you have a queer way of being very well.”

He put his hand up to his mouth, as if to hide the trembling of his lips.

“It’s the pressure of overwork⁠—I’ve had one or two attacks like this⁠—but it’s nothing, only⁠—a local lesion.”

I observed him keenly; to my thinking there was something about him which was very odd indeed.

“Only a local lesion!⁠—If you take my strongly-urged advice you’ll get a medical opinion without delay⁠—if you haven’t been wise enough to have done so already.”

“I’ll go today;⁠—at once; but I know it’s only mental overstrain.”

“You’re sure it’s nothing to do with this?”

I held out in front of him the photogravure of the beetle. As I did so he backed away from me, shrieking, trembling as with palsy.

“Take it away! take it away!” he screamed.

I stared at him, for some seconds, astonished into speechlessness. Then I found my tongue.

“Lessingham!⁠—It’s only a picture!⁠—Are you stark mad?”

He persisted in his ejaculations.

“Take it away! take it away!⁠—Tear it up!⁠—Burn it!”

His agitation was so unnatural⁠—from whatever cause it arose!⁠—that, fearing the recurrence of the attack from which he had just recovered, I did as he bade me. I tore the sheet of paper into quarters, and, striking a match, set fire to each separate piece. He watched the process of incineration as if fascinated. When it was concluded, and nothing but ashes remained, he gave a gasp of relief.

“Lessingham,” I said, “you’re either mad already, or you’re going mad⁠—which is it?”

“I think it’s neither. I believe I am as sane as you. It’s⁠—it’s that story of which I was speaking; it⁠—it seems curious, but I’ll tell you all about it⁠—some day. As I observed, I think you will find it an interesting instance of a singular