The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

her not to leave me; but, the plain truth is, I was ashamed. In my inner consciousness I was persuaded that the sense of terror which had suddenly come over me was so absolutely causeless, that I could not bear the notion of playing the craven in my maid’s eyes. While I hesitated, something seemed to sweep past me through the air, and to brush against my cheek in passing. I caught at Fanchette’s arm.

“Fanchette!⁠—Is there something with us in the room?”

“Something with us in the room?⁠—Mademoiselle?⁠—What does mademoiselle mean?”

She looked disturbed⁠—which was, on the whole, excusable. Fanchette is not exactly a strong-minded person, and not likely to be much of a support when a support was most required. If I was going to play the fool, I would be my own audience. So I sent her off.

“Did you not hear me tell you that I will undress myself?⁠—you are to go to bed.”

She went to bed⁠—with quite sufficient willingness.

The instant that she was out of the room I wished that she was back again. Such a paroxysm of fear came over me, that I was incapable of stirring from the spot on which I stood, and it was all I could do to prevent myself from collapsing in heap on the floor. I had never, till then, had reason to suppose that I was a coward. Nor to suspect myself of being the possessor of “nerves.” I was as little likely as anyone to be frightened by shadows. I told myself that the whole thing was sheer absurdity, and that I should be thoroughly ashamed of my own conduct when the morning came. “If you don’t want to be self-branded as a contemptible idiot, Marjorie Lindon, you will call up your courage, and these foolish fears will fly.” But it would not do. Instead of flying, they grew worse. I became convinced⁠—and the process of conviction was terrible beyond words!⁠—that there actually was something with me in the room, some invisible horror⁠—which, at any moment, might become visible. I seemed to understand⁠—with a sense of agony which nothing can describe!⁠—that this thing which was with me was with Paul. That we were linked together by the bond of a common, and a dreadful terror. That, at that moment, that same awful peril which was threatening me, was threatening him, and that I was powerless to move a finger in his aid. As with a sort of second sight, I saw out of the room in which I was, into another, in which Paul was crouching on the floor, covering his face with his hands, and shrieking. The vision came again and again with a degree of vividness of which I cannot give the least conception. At last the horror, and the reality of it, goaded me to frenzy. “Paul! Paul!” I screamed. As soon as I found my voice, the vision faded. Once more I understood that, as a matter of simple fact, I was standing in my own bedroom; that the lights were burning brightly; that I had not yet commenced to remove a particle of dress. “Am I going mad?” I wondered. I had heard of insanity taking extraordinary forms, but what could have caused softening of the brain in me I had not the faintest notion. Surely that sort of thing does not come on one⁠—in such a wholly unmitigated form!⁠—without the slightest notice⁠—and that my mental faculties were sound enough a few minutes back I was certain. The first premonition of anything of the kind had come upon me with the melodramatic utterance of the man I had found in the street.

“Paul Lessingham!⁠—Beware!⁠—The Beetle!”

The words were ringing in my ears.⁠—What was that?⁠—There was a buzzing sound behind me. I turned to see what it was. It moved as I moved, so that it was still at my back. I swung, swiftly, right round on my heels. It still eluded me⁠—it was still behind.

I stood and listened⁠—what was it that hovered so persistently at my back?

The buzzing was distinctly audible. It was like the humming of a bee. Or⁠—could it be a beetle?

My whole life long I have had an antipathy to beetles⁠—of any sort or kind. I have objected neither to rats nor mice, nor cows, nor bulls, nor snakes, nor spiders, nor toads, nor lizards, nor any of the thousand and one other creatures, animate or otherwise, to which so many people have a rooted, and, apparently, illogical dislike. My pet⁠—and only⁠—horror has been beetles. The mere suspicion of a harmless, and, I am told, necessary cockroach, being within several feet has always made me seriously uneasy. The thought that a great, winged beetle⁠—to me, a flying beetle is the horror of horrors!⁠—was with me in my bedroom⁠—goodness alone knew how it had got there!⁠—was unendurable. Anyone who had beheld me during the next few moments would certainly have supposed I was deranged. I turned and twisted, sprang from side to side, screwed myself into impossible positions, in order to obtain a glimpse of the detested visitant⁠—but in vain. I could hear it all the time; but see it⁠—never! The buzzing sound was continually behind.

The terror returned⁠—I began to think that my brain must be softening. I dashed to the bed. Flinging myself on my knees, I tried to pray. But I was speechless⁠—words would not come; my thoughts would not take shape. I all at once became conscious, as I struggled to ask help of God, that I was wrestling with something evil⁠—that if I only could ask kelp of Him, evil would flee. But I could not. I was helpless⁠—overmastered. I hid my face in the bedclothes, cramming my fingers into my ears. But the buzzing was behind me all the time.

I sprang up, striking out, blindly, wildly, right and left, hitting nothing⁠—the buzzing always came from a point at which, at the moment, I was not aiming.

I tore off my clothes. I had on a lovely frock which I had worn