The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

I paid no heed to what he said. I poured two stiff doses into a couple of tumblers. Without seeming to be aware of what it was that he was doing he disposed of the better half of the one I gave him at a draught. Putting his glass upon the table, he dropped his head upon his hands, and groaned.

“What would Marjorie think of me if she saw me now?”

“Think?⁠—nothing. Why should she think of a man like you, when she has so much better fish to fry?”

“I’m feeling frightfully ill!⁠—I’ll be drunk before I’ve done!”

“Then be drunk!⁠—only, for gracious sake, be lively drunk, not deadly doleful.⁠—Cheer up, Percy!” I clapped him on the shoulder⁠—almost knocking him off his seat on to the floor. “I am now going to show you that little experiment of which I was speaking!⁠—You see that cat?”

“Of course I see it!⁠—the beast!⁠—I wish you’d let it go!”

“Why should I let it go?⁠—Do you know whose cat that is? That cat’s Paul Lessingham’s.”

“Paul Lessingham’s?”

“Yes, Paul Lessingham’s⁠—the man who made the speech⁠—the man whom Marjorie went away with.”

“How do you know it’s his?”

“I don’t know it is, but I believe it is⁠—I choose to believe it is!⁠—I intend to believe it is!⁠—It was outside his house, therefore it’s his cat⁠—that’s how I argue. I can’t get Lessingham inside that box, so I get his cat instead.”

“Whatever for?”

“You shall see.⁠—You observe how happy it is?”

“It don’t seem happy.”

“We’ve all our ways of seeming happy⁠—that’s its way.”

The creature was behaving like a cat gone mad, dashing itself against the sides of its glass prison, leaping to and fro, and from side to side, squealing with rage, or with terror, or with both. Perhaps it foresaw what was coming⁠—there is no fathoming the intelligence of what we call the lower animals.

“It’s a funny way.”

“We some of us have funny ways, beside cats. Now, attention! Observe this little toy⁠—you’ve seen something of its kind before. It’s a spring gun; you pull the spring⁠—drop the charge into the barrel⁠—release the spring⁠—and the charge is fired. I’ll unlock this safe, which is built into the wall. It’s a letter lock, the combination just now, is ‘whisky,’⁠—you see, that’s a hint to you. You’ll notice the safe is strongly made⁠—it’s airtight, fireproof, the outer casing is of triple-plated drill-proof steel⁠—the contents are valuable⁠—to me!⁠—and devilish dangerous⁠—I’d pity the thief who, in his innocent ignorance, broke in to steal. Look inside⁠—you see it’s full of balls⁠—glass balls, each in its own little separate nest; light as feathers; transparent⁠—you can see right through them. Here are a couple, like tiny pills. They contain neither dynamite, nor cordite, nor anything of the kind, yet, given a fair field and no favour, they’ll work more mischief than all the explosives man has fashioned. Take hold of one⁠—you say your heart is broken!⁠—squeeze this under your nose⁠—it wants but a gentle pressure⁠—and in less time than no time you’ll be in the land where they say there are no broken hearts.”

He shrunk back.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.⁠—I don’t want the thing.⁠—Take it away.”

“Think twice⁠—the chance may not recur.”

“I tell you I don’t want it.”

“Sure?⁠—Consider!”

“Of course I’m sure!”

“Then the cat shall have it.”

“Let the poor brute go!”

“The poor brute’s going⁠—to the land which is so near, and yet so far. Once more, if you please, attention. Notice what I do with this toy gun. I pull back the spring; I insert this small glass pellet; I thrust the muzzle of the gun through the opening in the glass box which contains the Apostle’s cat⁠—you’ll observe it fits quite close, which, on the whole, is perhaps as well for us.⁠—I am about to release the spring.⁠—Close attention, please.⁠—Notice the effect.”

“Atherton, let the brute go!”

“The brute’s gone! I’ve released the spring⁠—the pellet has been discharged⁠—it has struck against the roof of the glass box⁠—it has been broken by the contact⁠—and, hey presto! the cat lies dead⁠—and that in face of its nine lives. You perceive how still it is⁠—how still! Let’s hope that, now, it’s really happy. The cat which I choose to believe is Paul Lessingham’s has received its quietus; in the morning I’ll send it back to him, with my respectful compliments. He’ll miss it if I don’t.⁠—Reflect! think of a huge bomb, filled with what we’ll call Atherton’s Magic Vapour, fired, say, from a hundred and twenty ton gun, bursting at a given elevation over the heads of an opposing force. Properly managed, in less than an instant of time, a hundred thousand men⁠—quite possibly more!⁠—would drop down dead, as if smitten by the lightning of the skies. Isn’t that something like a weapon, sir?”

“I’m not well!⁠—I want to get away!⁠—I wish I’d never come!”

That was all Woodville had to say.

“Rubbish!⁠—You’re adding to your stock of information every second, and, in these days, when a member of Parliament is supposed to know all about everything, information’s the one thing wanted. Empty your glass, man⁠—that’s the time of day for you!”

I handed him his tumbler. He drained what was left of its contents, then, in a fit of tipsy, childish temper he flung the tumbler from him. I had placed⁠—carelessly enough⁠—the second pellet within a foot of the edge of the table. The shock of the heavy beaker striking the board close to it, set it rolling. I was at the other side. I started forward to stop its motion, but I was too late. Before I could reach the crystal globule, it had fallen off the edge of the table on to the floor at Woodville’s feet, and smashed in falling. As it smashed, he was looking down, wondering, no doubt, in his stupidity, what the pother was about⁠—for I was shouting, and making something of a clatter in my efforts to prevent the catastrophe which I saw was coming. On the instant, as the vapour secreted in the broken pellet gained access to the air, he