The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

He has given me his confidence; as I believe you are aware, Marjorie has given me hers; and now I want you to give me yours.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I wish to explain my position before I say what I have to say, because I want you to understand me clearly.⁠—I believe, honestly, that the thing I most desire in this world is to see Marjorie Lindon happy. If I thought she would be happy with you, I should say, God speed you both! and I should congratulate you with all my heart, because I think that you would have won the best girl in the whole world to be your wife.”

“I think so too.”

“But, before I did that, I should have to see, at least, some reasonable probability that she would be happy with you.”

“Why should she not?”

“Will you answer a question?”

“What is the question?”

“What is the story in your life of which you stand in such hideous terror?”

There was a perceptible pause before he answered.

“Explain yourself.”

“No explanation is needed⁠—you know perfectly well what I mean.”

“You credit me with miraculous acumen.”

“Don’t juggle, Lessingham⁠—be frank!”

“The frankness should not be all on one side.⁠—There is that in your frankness, although you may be unconscious of it, which some men might not unreasonably resent.”

“Do you resent it?”

“That depends. If you are arrogating to yourself the right to place yourself between Miss Lindon and me, I do resent it, strongly.”

“Answer my question!”

“I answer no question which is addressed to me in such a tone.”

He was as calm as you please. I recognised that already I was in peril of losing my temper⁠—which was not at all what I desired. I eyed him intently, he returning me look for look. His countenance betrayed no sign of a guilty conscience; I had not seen him more completely at his ease. He smiled⁠—facially, and also, as it seemed to me, a little derisively. I am bound to admit that his bearing showed not the faintest shadow of resentment, and that in his eyes there was a gentleness, a softness, which I had not observed in them before⁠—I could almost have suspected him of being sympathetic.

“In this matter, you must know, I stand in the place of Mr. Lindon.”

“Well?”

“Surely you must understand that before anyone is allowed to think of marriage with Marjorie Lindon he will have to show that his past, as the advertisements have it, will bear the fullest investigation.”

“Is that so?⁠—Will your past bear the fullest investigation?”

I winced.

“At any rate, it is known to all the world.”

“Is it?⁠—Forgive me if I say, I doubt it. I doubt if, of any wise man, that can be said with truth. In all our lives there are episodes which we keep to ourselves.”

I felt that that was so true that, for the instant, I hardly knew what to say.

“But there are episodes and episodes, and when it comes to a man being haunted one draws the line.”

“Haunted?”

“As you are.”

He got up.

“Atherton, I think that I understand you, but I fear that you do not understand me.” He went to where a self-acting mercurial air-pump was standing on a shelf. “What is this curious arrangement of glass tubes and bulbs?”

“I do not think that you do understand me, or you would know that I am in no mood to be trifled with.”

“Is it some kind of an exhauster?”

“My dear Lessingham, I am entirely at your service. I intend to have an answer to my question before you leave this room, but, in the meanwhile, your convenience is mine. There are some very interesting things here which you might care to see.”

“Marvellous, is it not, how the human intellect progresses⁠—from conquest unto conquest.”

“Among the ancients the progression had proceeded farther than with us.”

“In what respect?”

“For instance, in the affair of the Apotheosis of the Beetle;⁠—I saw it take place last night.”

“Where?”

“Here⁠—within a few feet of where you are standing.”

“Are you serious?”

“Perfectly.”

“What did you see?”

“I saw the legendary Apotheosis of the Beetle performed, last night, before my eyes, with a gaudy magnificence at which the legends never hinted.”

“That is odd. I once thought that I saw something of the kind myself.”

“So I understand.”

“From whom?”

“From a friend of yours.”

“From a friend of mine?⁠—Are you sure it was from a friend of mine?”

The man’s attempt at coolness did him credit⁠—but it did not deceive me. That he thought I was endeavouring to bluff him out of his secret I perceived quite clearly; that it was a secret which he would only render with his life I was beginning to suspect. Had it not been for Marjorie, I should have cared nothing⁠—his affairs were his affairs; though I realised perfectly well that there was something about the man which, from the scientific explorer’s point of view, might be well worth finding out. Still, as I say, if it had not been for Marjorie, I should have let it go; but, since she was so intimately concerned in it, I wondered more and more what it could be.

My attitude towards what is called the supernatural is an open one. That all things are possible I unhesitatingly believe⁠—I have, even in my short time, seen so many so-called impossibilities proved possible. That we know everything, I doubt;⁠—that our great-great-great-great-grandsires, our forebears of thousands of years ago, of the extinct civilisations, knew more on some subjects than we do, I think is, at least, probable. All the legends can hardly be false.

Because men claimed to be able to do things in those days which we cannot do, and which we do not know how they did we profess to think that their claims are finally dismissed by exclaiming⁠—lies! But it is not so sure.

For my part, what I had seen I had seen. I had seen some devil’s trick played before my very eyes. Some trick of the same sort seemed to have been played upon my Marjorie⁠—I repeat that I write “my Marjorie” because, to me, she will always be “my” Marjorie! It had driven