The Beetle: A Mystery by Richard Marsh (large screen ebook reader TXT) 📕

He proved that he had not by using it.

‘I have still the use of my tongue.’

‘That, at least, is something. Perhaps, since the subject of how you got into my back yard seems to be a delicate one, you will tell me why you got there.’

‘You know why I have come.’

‘Pardon me if I appear to flatly contradict you, but that is precisely what I do not know.’

‘You do know.’

‘Do I?—Then, in that case, I presume that you are here for the reason which appears upon the surface,—to commit a felony.’

‘You call me thief?’

‘What else are you?’

‘I am no thief.—You know why I have come.’

He raised his head a little. A look came into his eyes which I felt that I ought to understand, yet to the meaning of which I seemed, for the instant, to have mislaid the key. I shrugged my shoulders.

‘I have come because you wanted me.’

‘Because I wanted you!—On my word!—That’s sublime!’

‘All night you have wanted me,—do I not know? When she talked to you of him, and the blood boiled in your veins; when he spoke, and all the people listened, and you hated him, because he had honour in her eyes.’

I was startled. Either he meant what it appeared incredible that he could mean, or—there was confusion somewhere.

‘Take my advice, my friend, and don’t try to come the bunco-steerer over me,—I’m a bit in that line myself, you know.’

This time the score was mine,—he was puzzled.

‘I know not what you talk of.’

‘In that case, we’re equal,—I know not what you talk of either.’

His manner, for him, was childlike and bland.

‘What is it you do not know? This morning did I not say,—if you want me, then I come?’

‘I fancy I have some faint recollection of your being so good as to say something of the kind, but—where’s the application?’

‘Do you not feel for him the same as I?’

‘Who’s the him?’

‘Paul Lessingham.’

It was spoken quietly, but with a degree of—to put it gently—spitefulness which showed that at least the will to do the Apostle harm would not be lacking.

‘And, pray, what is the common feeling which we have for him?’

‘Hate.’

Plainly, with this gentleman, hate meant hate,—in the solid oriental sense. I should hardly have been surprised if the mere utterance of the words had seared his lips.

‘I am by no means prepared to admit that I have this feeling which you attribute to me, but, even granting that I have, what then?’

‘Those who hate are kin.’

‘That, also, I should be slow to admit; but—to go a step farther—what has all this to do with your presence on my premises at this hour of the night?’

‘You love her.’ This time I did not ask him to supply the name,—being unwilling that it should be soiled by the traffic of his lips. ‘She loves him,—that is not well. If you choose, she shall love you,—that will be well.’

‘Indeed.—And pray how is this consummation which is so devoutly to be desired to be brought about?’

‘Put your hand into mine. Say that you wish it. It shall be done.’

Moving a step forward, he stretched out his hand towards me. I hesitated. There was that in the fellow’s manner which, for the moment, had for me an unwholesome fascination. Memories flashed through my mind of stupid stories which have been told of compacts made with the devil. I almost felt as if I was standing in the actual presence of one of the powers of evil. I thought of my love for Marjorie,—which had revealed itself after all these years; of the delight of holding her in my arms, of feeling the pressure of her lips to mine. As my gaze met his, the lower side of what the conquest of this fair lady would mean, burned in my brain; fierce imaginings blazed before my eyes. To win her,—only to win her!

What nonsense he was talking! What empty brag it was! Suppose, just for the sake of the joke, I did put my hand in his, and did wish, right out, what it was plain he knew. If I wished, what harm would it do! It would be the purest jest. Out of his own mouth he would be confounded, for it was certain that nothing would come of it. Why should I not do it then?

I would act on his suggestion,—I would carry the thing right through. Already I was advancing towards him, when—I stopped. I don’t know why. On the instant, my thoughts went off at a tangent.

What sort of a blackguard did I call myself that I should take a woman’s name in vain for the sake of playing fool’s tricks with such scum of the earth as the hideous vagabond in front of me,—and that the name of the woman whom I loved? Rage took hold of me.

‘You hound!’ I cried.

In my sudden passage from one mood to another, I was filled with the desire to shake the life half out of him. But so soon as I moved a step in his direction, intending war instead of peace, he altered the position of his hand, holding it out towards me as if forbidding my approach. Directly he did so, quite involuntarily, I pulled up dead,—as if my progress had been stayed by bars of iron and walls of steel.

For the moment, I was astonished to the verge of stupefaction. The sensation was peculiar. I was as incapable of advancing another inch in his direction as if I had lost the use of my limbs,—I was even incapable of attempting to attempt to advance. At first I could only stare and gape. Presently I began to have an inkling of what had happened.

The scoundrel had almost succeeded in hypnotising me.

That was a nice thing to happen to a man of my sort at my time of life. A shiver went down my back,—what might have occurred if I had not pulled up in time! What pranks might a creature of that character not have been disposed to play. It was the old story of the peril of playing with edged tools; I had made the dangerous mistake of underrating the enemy’s strength. Evidently, in his own line, the fellow was altogether something out of the usual way.

I believe that even as it was he thought he had me. As I turned away, and leaned against the table at my back, I fancy that he shivered,—as if this proof of my being still my own master was unexpected. I was silent,—it took some seconds to enable me to recover from the shock of the discovery of the peril in which I had been standing. Then I resolved that I would endeavour to do something which should make me equal to this gentleman of many talents.

‘Take my advice, my friend, and don’t attempt to play that hankey pankey off on to me again.’

‘I don’t know what you talk of.’

‘Don’t lie to me,—or I’ll burn you into ashes.’

Behind me was an electrical machine, giving an eighteen inch spark. It was set in motion by a lever fitted into the table, which I could easily reach from where I sat. As I spoke the visitor was treated to a little exhibition of electricity. The change in his bearing was amusing. He shook with terror. He salaamed down to the ground.

‘My lord!—my lord!—have mercy, oh my lord!’

‘Then you be careful, that’s all. You may suppose yourself to be something of a magician, but it happens, unfortunately for you, that I can do a bit in that line myself,—perhaps I’m a trifle better at the game than you are. Especially as you have ventured into my stronghold, which contains magic enough to make a show of a hundred thousand such as you.’

Taking down a bottle from a shelf, I sprinkled a drop or two of its contents on the floor. Immediately flames arose, accompanied by a blinding vapour. It was a sufficiently simple illustration of one of the qualities of phosphorous-bromide, but its effect upon my visitor was as startling as it was unexpected. If I could believe the evidence of my own eyesight, in the very act of giving utterance to a scream of terror he disappeared, how, or why, or whither, there was nothing to show,—in his place, where he had been standing, there seemed to be a dim object of some sort in a state of frenzied agitation on the floor. The phosphorescent vapour was confusing; the lights appeared to be suddenly burning low; before I had sense enough to go and see if there was anything there, and, if so, what, the flames had vanished, the man himself had reappeared, and, prostrated on his knees, was salaaming in a condition of abject terror.

‘My lord! my lord!’ he whined. ‘I entreat you, my lord, to use me as your slave!’

‘I’ll use you as my slave!’ Whether he or I was the more agitated it would have been difficult to say,—but, at least, it would not have done to betray my feelings as he did his. ‘Stand up!’

He stood up. I eyed him as he did with an interest which, so far as I was concerned, was of a distinctly new and original sort. Whether or not I had been the victim of an ocular delusion I could not be sure. It was incredible to suppose that he could have disappeared as he had seemed to disappear,—it was also incredible that I could have imagined his disappearance. If the thing had been a trick, I had not the faintest notion how it had been worked; and, if it was not a trick, then what was it? Was it something new in scientific marvels? Could he give me as much instruction in the qualities of unknown forces as I could him?

In the meanwhile he stood in an attitude of complete submission, with downcast eyes, and hands crossed upon his breast. I started to cross-examine him.

‘I am going to ask you some questions. So long as you answer them promptly, truthfully, you will be safe. Otherwise you had best beware.’

‘Ask, oh my lord.’

‘What is the nature of your objection to Mr Lessingham?’

‘Revenge.’

‘What has he done to you that you should wish to be revenged on him?’

‘It is the feud of the innocent blood.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘On his hands is the blood of my kin. It cries aloud for vengeance.’

‘Who has he killed?’

‘That, my lord, is for me,—and for him.’

‘I see.—Am I to understand that you do not choose to answer me, and that I am again to use my—magic?’

I saw that he quivered.

‘My lord, he has spilled the blood of her who has lain upon his breast.’

I hesitated. What he meant appeared clear enough. Perhaps it would be as well not to press for further details. The words pointed to what it might be courteous to call an Eastern Romance,—though it was hard to conceive of the Apostle figuring as the hero of such a theme. It was the old tale retold, that to the life of every man there is a background,—that it is precisely in the unlikeliest cases that the background’s darkest. What would that penny-plain-and-twopence-coloured bogey, the Nonconformist Conscience, make of such a story if it were blazoned through the land. Would Paul not come down with a run?

‘“Spilling blood” is a figure of speech; pretty, perhaps, but vague. If you mean that Mr Lessingham has been killing someone, your surest and most effectual revenge would be gained by an appeal to the law.’

‘What has the Englishman’s law to do with me?’

‘If you can prove that he has been guilty of murder it would have a great deal to do with you. I assure you that at any rate, in that sense, the Englishman’s law is no respecter of persons. Show him to be guilty, and it would hang Paul Lessingham as indifferently, and as cheerfully, as it would hang Bill Brown.’

‘Is that so?’

‘It is so, as, if you choose, you will be easily able to prove to your own entire satisfaction.’

He had raised his head, and was looking at something which he seemed to see in front of him with a maleficent glare in his sensitive eyes which it was not nice to see.

‘He would be shamed?’

‘Indeed he would be shamed.’

‘Before all men?’

‘Before all men,—and, I take it, before all women too.’

‘And he would hang?’

‘If shown to have been guilty of wilful murder,—yes.’

His hideous face was lighted up by a sort of diabolical exultation which made it, if that were possible, more hideous still. I had apparently given him a wrinkle which pleased him most consummately.

‘Perhaps I will do that in the end,—in the end!’ He opened his eyes to their widest limits, then shut them tight,—as if to gloat