The Beetle by Richard Marsh (read e books online free txt) 📕

of their pristine vigour after having lived for centuries. As, however, one continued to gaze, one began to wonder if he really was so old as he seemed⁠—if, indeed, he was exceptionally old at all. Negroes, and especially negresses, are apt to age with extreme rapidity. Among coloured folk one sometimes encounters women whose faces seem to have been lined by the passage of centuries, yet whose actual tale of years would entitle them to regard themselves, here in England, as in the prime of life. The senility of the fellow’s countenance, besides, was contradicted by the juvenescence of his eyes. No really old man could have had eyes like that. They were curiously shaped, reminding me of the elongated, faceted eyes of some queer creature, with whose appearance I was familiar, although I could not, at the instant, recall its name. They glowed not only with the force and fire, but, also, with the frenzy of youth. More uncanny-looking eyes I had never encountered⁠—their possessor could not be, in any sense of the word, a clubable person. Owing, probably, to some peculiar formation of the optic-nerve one felt, as one met his gaze, that he was looking right through you. More obvious danger signals never yet were placed in a creature’s head. The individual who, having once caught sight of him, still sought to cultivate their owner’s acquaintance, had only himself to thank if the very worst results of frequenting evil company promptly ensued.

It happens that I am myself endowed with an unusual tenacity of vision. I could, for instance, easily outstare any man I ever met. Yet, as I continued to stare at this man, I was conscious that it was only by an effort of will that I was able to resist a baleful something which seemed to be passing from his eyes to mine. It might have been imagination, but, in that sense, I am not an imaginative man; and, if it was, it was imagination of an unpleasantly vivid kind. I could understand how, in the case of a nervous, or a sensitive temperament, the fellow might exercise, by means of the peculiar quality of his glance alone, an influence of a most disastrous sort, which given an appropriate subject in the manifestation of its power might approach almost to the supernatural. If ever man was endowed with the traditional evil eye, in which Italians, among modern nations, are such profound believers, it was he.

When we had stared at each other for, I daresay, quite five minutes, I began to think I had had about enough of it. So, by way of breaking the ice, I put to him a question.

“May I ask how you found your way into my back yard?”

He did not reply in words, but, raising his hands he lowered them, palms downward, with a gesture which was peculiarly Oriental.

“Indeed?⁠—Is that so?⁠—Your meaning may be lucidity itself to you, but, for my benefit, perhaps you would not mind translating it into words. Once more I ask, how did you find your way into my back yard?”

Again nothing but the gesture.

“Possibly you are not sufficiently acquainted with English manners and customs to be aware that you have placed yourself within reach of the pains and penalties of the law. Were I to call in the police you would find yourself in an awkward situation⁠—and, unless you are presently more explanatory, called in they will be.”

By way of answer he indulged in a distortion of the countenance which might have been meant for a smile⁠—and which seemed to suggest that he regarded the police with a contempt which was too great for words.

“Why do you laugh⁠—do you think that being threatened with the police is a joke? You are not likely to find it so.⁠—Have you suddenly been bereft of the use of your tongue?”

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