The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

He told how, tired, wet, hungry, desperate, despairing, he had been refused admittance to the casual ward⁠—that unfailing resource, as one would have supposed, of those who had abandoned even hope. How he had come upon an open window in an apparently empty house, and, thinking of nothing but shelter from the inclement night, he had clambered through it. How he had found himself in the presence of an extraordinary being, who, in his debilitated and nervous state, had seemed to him to be only half human. How this dreadful creature had given utterance to wild sentiments of hatred towards Paul Lessingham⁠—my Paul! How he had taken advantage of Holt’s enfeebled state to gain over him the most complete, horrible, and, indeed, almost incredible ascendency. How he actually had sent Holt, practically naked, into the storm-driven streets, to commit burglary at Paul’s house⁠—and how he⁠—Holt⁠—had actually gone without being able to offer even a shadow of opposition. How Paul, suddenly returning home, had come upon Holt engaged in the very act of committing burglary, and how, on his hearing Holt make a cabalistic reference to some mysterious beetle, the manhood had gone out of him, and he had suffered the intruder to make good his escape without an effort to detain him.

The story had seemed sufficiently astonishing the first time, it seemed still more astonishing the second⁠—but, as I watched Sydney listening, what struck me chiefly was the conviction that he had heard it all before. I charged him with it directly Holt had finished.

“This is not the first time you have been told this tale.”

“Pardon me⁠—but it is. Do you suppose I live in an atmosphere of fairy tales?”

Something in his manner made me feel sure he was deceiving me.

“Sydney!⁠—Don’t tell me a story!⁠—Paul has told you!”

“I am not telling you a story⁠—at least, on this occasion; and Mr. Lessingham has not told me. Suppose we postpone these details to a little later. And perhaps, in the interim, you will permit me to put a question or two to Mr. Holt.”

I let him have his way⁠—though I knew he was concealing something from me; that he had a more intimate acquaintance with Mr. Holt’s strange tale than he chose to confess. And, for some cause, his reticence annoyed me.

He looked at Mr. Holt in silence for a second or two.

Then he said, with the quizzical little air of bland impertinence which is peculiarly his own.

“I presume, Mr. Holt, you have been entertaining us with a novelty in fables, and that we are not expected to believe this pleasant little yarn of yours.”

“I expect nothing. But I have told you the truth. And you know it.”

This seemed to take Sydney aback.

“I protest that, like Miss Lindon, you credit me with a more extensive knowledge than I possess. However, we will let that pass.⁠—I take it that you paid particular attention to this mysterious habitant of this mysterious dwelling.”

I saw that Mr. Holt shuddered.

“I am not likely ever to forget him.”

“Then, in that case, you will be able to describe him to us.”

“To do so adequately would be beyond my powers. But I will do my best.”

If the original was more remarkable than the description which he gave of him, then he must have been remarkable indeed. The impression conveyed to my mind was rather of a monster than a human being. I watched Sydney attentively as he followed Mr. Holt’s somewhat lurid language, and there was something in his demeanour which made me more and more persuaded that he was more behind the scenes in this strange business than he pretended, or than the speaker suspected. He put a question which seemed uncalled for by anything which Mr. Holt had said.

“You are sure this thing of beauty was a man?”

“No, sir, that is exactly what I am not sure.”

There was a note in Sydney’s voice which suggested that he had received precisely the answer which he had expected.

“Did you think it was a woman?”

“I did think so, more than once. Though I can hardly explain what made me think so. There was certainly nothing womanly about the face.” He paused, as if to reflect. Then added, “I suppose it was a question of instinct.”

“I see.⁠—Just so.⁠—It occurs to me, Mr. Holt, that you are rather strong on questions of instinct.” Sydney got off the bed. He stretched himself, as if fatigued⁠—which is a way he has. “I will not do you the injustice to hint that I do not believe a word of your charming, and simple, narrative. On the contrary, I will demonstrate my perfect credence by remarking that I have not the slightest doubt that you will be able to point out to me, for my particular satisfaction, the delightful residence on which the whole is founded.”

Mr. Holt coloured⁠—Sydney’s tone could scarcely have been more significant.

“You must remember, sir, that it was a dark night, that I had never been in that neighbourhood before, and that I was not in a condition to pay much attention to locality.”

“All of which is granted, but⁠—how far was it from Hammersmith Workhouse?”

“Possibly under half a mile.”

“Then, in that case, surely you can remember which turning you took on leaving Hammersmith Workhouse⁠—I suppose there are not many turnings you could have taken.”

“I think I could remember.”

“Then you shall have an opportunity to try. It isn’t a very far cry to Hammersmith⁠—don’t you think you are well enough to drive there now, just you and I together in a cab?”

“I should say so. I wished to get up this morning. It is by the doctor’s orders I have stayed in bed.”

“Then, for once in a while, the doctor’s orders shall be ignored⁠—I prescribe fresh air.” Sydney turned to me. “Since Mr. Holt’s wardrobe seems rather to seek, don’t you think a suit of one of the men might fit him⁠—if Mr. Holt wouldn’t mind making shift for the moment?⁠—Then, by the time you’ve finished dressing, Mr. Holt, I shall be