The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

fell forward on to his face. Rushing to him, I snatched his senseless body from the ground, and dragged it, staggeringly, towards the door which opened on to the yard. Flinging the door open, I got him into the open air.

As I did so, I found myself confronted by someone who stood outside. It was Lessingham’s mysterious Egypto-Arabian friend⁠—my morning’s visitor.

XVII Magic?⁠—Or Miracle?

The passage into the yard from the electrically lit laboratory was a passage from brilliancy to gloom. The shrouded figure, standing in the shadow, was like some object in a dream. My own senses reeled. It was only because I had resolutely held my breath, and kept my face averted that I had not succumbed to the fate which had overtaken Woodville. Had I been a moment longer in gaining the open air, it would have been too late. As it was, in placing Woodville on the ground, I stumbled over him. My senses left me. Even as they went I was conscious of exclaiming⁠—remembering the saying about the engineer being hoist by his own petard,

“Atherton’s Magic Vapour!”

My sensations on returning to consciousness were curious. I found myself being supported in someone’s arms, a stranger’s face was bending over me, and the most extraordinary pair of eyes I had ever seen were looking into mine.

“Who the deuce are you?” I asked.

Then, understanding that it was my uninvited visitor, with scant ceremony I drew myself away from him. By the light which was streaming through the laboratory door I saw that Woodville was lying close beside me⁠—stark and still.

“Is he dead?” I cried. “Percy.⁠—speak, man!⁠—it’s not so bad with you as that!”

But it was pretty bad⁠—so bad that, as I bent down and looked at him, my heart beat uncomfortably fast lest it was as bad as it could be. His heart seemed still⁠—the vapour took effect directly on the cardiac centres. To revive their action and that instantly, was indispensable. Yet my brain was in such a whirl that I could not even think of how to set about beginning. Had I been alone, it is more than probable Woodville would have died. As I stared at him, senselessly, aimlessly, the stranger, passing his arms beneath his body, extended himself at full length upon his motionless form. Putting his lips to Percy’s, he seemed to be pumping life from his own body into the unconscious man’s. As I gazed bewildered, surprised, presently there came a movement of Percy’s body. His limbs twitched, as if he was in pain. By degrees, the motions became convulsive⁠—till on a sudden he bestirred himself to such effect that the stranger was rolled right off him. I bent down⁠—to find that the young gentleman’s condition still seemed very far from satisfactory. There was a rigidity about the muscles of his face, a clamminess about his skin, a disagreeable suggestiveness about the way in which his teeth and the whites of his eyes were exposed, which was uncomfortable to contemplate.

The stranger must have seen what was passing through my mind⁠—not a very difficult thing to see. Pointing to the recumbent Percy, he said, with that queer foreign twang of his, which, whatever it had seemed like in the morning, sounded musical enough just then.

“All will be well with him.”

“I am not so sure.”

The stranger did not deign to answer. He was kneeling on one side of the victim of modern science, I on the other. Passing his hand to and fro in front of the unconscious countenance, as if by magic all semblance of discomfort vanished from Percy’s features, and, to all appearances, he was placidly asleep.

“Have you hypnotised him?”

“What does it matter?”

If it was a case of hypnotism, it was very neatly done. The conditions were both unusual and trying, the effect produced seemed all that could be desired⁠—the change brought about in half a dozen seconds was quite remarkable. I began to be aware of a feeling of quasi-respect for Paul Lessingham’s friend. His morals might be peculiar, and manners he might have none, but in this case, at any rate, the end seemed to have justified the means. He went on.

“He sleeps. When he awakes he will remember nothing that has been. Leave him⁠—the night is warm⁠—all will be well.”

As he said, the night was warm⁠—and it was dry. Percy would come to little harm by being allowed to enjoy, for a while, the pleasant breezes. So I acted on the stranger’s advice, and left him lying in the yard, while I had a little interview with the impromptu physician.

XVIII The Apotheosis of the Beetle

The laboratory door was closed. The stranger was standing a foot or two away from it. I was further within the room, and was subjecting him to as keen a scrutiny as circumstances permitted. Beyond doubt he was conscious of my observation, yet he bore himself with an air of indifference, which was suggestive of perfect unconcern. The fellow was Oriental to the fingertips⁠—that much was certain; yet in spite of a pretty wide personal knowledge of Oriental people I could not make up my mind as to the exact part of the east from which he came. He was hardly an Arab, he was not a fellah⁠—he was not, unless I erred, a Mohammedan at all. There was something about him which was distinctly not Mussulmanic. So far as looks were concerned, he was not a flattering example of his race, whatever his race might be. The portentous size of his beak-like nose would have been, in itself, sufficient to damn him in any court of beauty. His lips were thick and shapeless⁠—and this, joined to another peculiarity in his appearance, seemed to suggest that, in his veins there ran more than a streak of negro blood. The peculiarity alluded to was his semblance of great age. As one eyed him one was reminded of the legends told of people who have been supposed to have retained something