The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

retreating footsteps, but all was still. Apparently I had the entire neighbourhood to my own sweet self. My visitor had vanished. Time devoted to pursuit I felt would be time ill-spent.

As I returned across the yard, Woodville, who still was taking his rest under the open canopy of heaven, sat up. Seemingly my approach had roused him out of slumber. At sight of me he rubbed his eyes, and yawned, and blinked.

“I say,” he remarked, not at all unreasonably, “where am I?”

“You’re on holy⁠—or on haunted ground⁠—hang me if I quite know which!⁠—but that’s where you are, my boy.”

“By Jove!⁠—I am feeling queer!⁠—I have got a headache, don’t you know.”

“I shouldn’t be in the least surprised at anything you have, or haven’t⁠—I’m beyond surprise. It’s a drop of whisky you are wanting⁠—and what I’m wanting too⁠—only, for goodness sake, drop me none of your drops! Mine is a case for a bottle at the least.”

I put my arm through his, and went with him into the laboratory. And, when we were in, I shut, and locked, and barred the door.

XIX The Lady Rages

Dora Grayling stood in the doorway.

“I told your servant he need not trouble to show me in⁠—and I’ve come without my aunt. I hope I’m not intruding.”

She was⁠—confoundedly; and it was on the tip of my tongue to tell her so. She came into the room, with twinkling eyes, looking radiantly happy⁠—that sort of look which makes even a plain young woman prepossessing.

“Am I intruding?⁠—I believe I am.”

She held out her hand, while she was still a dozen feet away, and when I did not at once dash forward to make a clutch at it, she shook her head and made a little mouth at me.

“What’s the matter with you?⁠—Aren’t you well?”

I was not well⁠—I was very far from well. I was as unwell as I could be without being positively ill, and any person of common discernment would have perceived it at a glance. At the same time I was not going to admit anything of the kind to her.

“Thank you⁠—I am perfectly well.”

“Then, if I were you, I would endeavour to become imperfectly well; a little imperfection in that direction might make you appear to more advantage.”

“I am afraid that that I am not one of those persons who ever do appear to much advantage⁠—did I not tell you so last night?”

“I believe you did say something of the kind⁠—it’s very good of you to remember. Have you forgotten something else which you said to me last night?”

“You can hardly expect me to keep fresh in my memory all the follies of which my tongue is guilty.”

“Thank you.⁠—That is quite enough.⁠—Good day.”

She turned as if to go.

“Miss Grayling!”

“Mr. Atherton?”

“What’s the matter?⁠—What have I been saying now?”

“Last night you invited me to come and see you this morning⁠—is that one of the follies of which your tongue was guilty?”

The engagement had escaped my recollection⁠—it is a fact⁠—and my face betrayed me.

“You had forgotten?” Her cheeks flamed; her eyes sparkled. “You must pardon my stupidity for not having understood that the imitation was of that general kind which is never meant to be acted on.”

She was half way to the door before I stopped her⁠—I had to take her by the shoulder to do it.

“Miss Grayling!⁠—You are hard on me.”

“I suppose I am.⁠—Is anything harder than to be intruded on by an undesired, and unexpected, guest?”

“Now you are harder still.⁠—If you knew what I have gone through since our conversation of last night, in your strength you would be merciful.”

“Indeed?⁠—What have you gone through?”

I hesitated. What I actually had gone through I certainly did not propose to tell her. Other reasons apart I did not desire to seem madder than I admittedly am⁠—and I lacked sufficient plausibility to enable me to concoct, on the spur of the moment, a plain tale of the doings of my midnight visitor which would have suggested that the narrator was perfectly sane. So I fenced⁠—or tried to.

“For one thing⁠—I have had no sleep.”

I had not⁠—not one single wink. When I did get between the sheets, “all night I lay in agony,” I suffered from that worst form of nightmare⁠—the nightmare of the man who is wide awake. There was continually before my fevered eyes the strange figure of that Nameless Thing. I had often smiled at tales of haunted folk⁠—here was I one of them. My feelings were not rendered more agreeable by a strengthening conviction that if I had only retained the normal attitude of a scientific observer I should, in all probability, have solved the mystery of my Oriental friend, and that his example of the genus of copridae might have been pinned⁠—by a very large pin!⁠—on a piece⁠—a monstrous piece!⁠—of cork. It was galling to reflect that he and I had played together a game of bluff⁠—a game at which civilisation was once more proved to be a failure.

She could not have seen all this in my face; but she saw something⁠—because her own look softened.

“You do look tired.” She seemed to be casting about in her own mind for a cause. “You have been worrying.” She glanced round the big laboratory. “Have you been spending the night in this⁠—wizard’s cave?”

“Pretty well.”

“Oh!”

The monosyllable, as she uttered it, was big with meaning. Uninvited, she seated herself in an armchair, a huge old thing, of shagreen leather, which would have held half a dozen of her. Demure in it she looked, like an agreeable reminiscence, alive, and a little up-to-date, of the women of long ago. Her dove grey eyes seemed to perceive so much more than they cared to show.

“How is it that you have forgotten that you asked me to come?⁠—didn’t you mean it?”

“Of course I meant it.”

“Then how is it you’ve forgotten?”

“I didn’t forget.”

“Don’t tell fibs.⁠—Something is the matter⁠—tell me what it is.⁠—Is it that I am too early?”

“Nothing of the sort⁠—you couldn’t be too early.”

“Thank you.⁠—When you pay a compliment, even so neat