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

“What sort of man is he to look at?”

“I did not say it was a man.”

“But I presume it is a man.”

“I did not say so.”

He seemed, for a moment, to hold his breath⁠—and he looked at me with eyes which were not friendly. Then, with a display of self-command which did him credit, he drew himself upright, with an air of dignity which well became him.

“Atherton, consciously, or unconsciously, you are doing me a serious injustice. I do not know what conception it is which you have formed of me, or on what the conception is founded, but I protest that, to the best of my knowledge and belief, I am as reputable, as honest, and as clean a man as you are.”

“But you’re haunted.”

“Haunted?” He held himself erect, looking me straight in the face. Then a shiver went all over him; the muscles of his mouth twitched; and, in an instant, he was livid. He staggered against the table. “Yes, God knows it’s true⁠—I’m haunted.”

“So either you’re mad, and therefore unfit to marry; or else you’ve done something which places you outside the tolerably generous boundaries of civilised society, and are therefore still more unfit to marry. You’re on the horns of a dilemma.”

“I⁠—I’m the victim of a delusion.”

“What is the nature of the delusion? Does it take the shape of a⁠—beetle?”

“Atherton!”

Without the slightest warning, he collapsed⁠—was transformed; I can describe the change which took place in him in no other way. He sank in a heap on the floor; he held up his hands above his head; and he gibbered⁠—like some frenzied animal. A more uncomfortable spectacle than he presented it would be difficult to find. I have seen it matched in the padded rooms of lunatic asylums, but nowhere else. The sight of him set every nerve of my body on edge.

“In Heaven’s name, what is the matter with you, man? Are you stark, staring mad? Here⁠—drink this!”

Filling a tumbler with brandy, I forced it between his quivering fingers. Then it was some moments before I could get him to understand what it was I wanted him to do. When he did get the glass to his lips, he swallowed its contents as if they were so much water. By degrees his senses returned to him. He stood up. He looked about him, with a smile which was positively ghastly.

“It’s⁠—it’s a delusion.”

“It’s a very queer kind of a delusion, if it is.”

I eyed him, curiously. He was evidently making the most strenuous efforts to regain his self-control⁠—all the while with that horrible smile about his lips.

“Atherton, you⁠—you take me at an advantage.” I was still. “Who⁠—who’s your Oriental friend?”

“My Oriental friend?⁠—you mean yours. I supposed, at first, that the individual in question was a man; but it appears that she’s a woman.”

“A woman?⁠—Oh.⁠—How do you mean?”

“Well, the face is a man’s⁠—of an uncommonly disagreeable type, of which the powers forbid that there are many!⁠—and the voice is a man’s⁠—also of a kind!⁠—but the body, as, last night, I chanced to discover, is a woman’s.”

“That sounds very odd.” He closed his eyes. I could see that his cheeks were clammy. “Do you⁠—do you believe in witchcraft?”

“That depends.”

“Have you heard of Obi?”

“I have.”

“I have been told that an Obeah man can put a spell upon a person which compels a person to see whatever he⁠—the Obeah man⁠—may please. Do you think that’s possible?”

“It is not a question to which I should be disposed to answer either yes or no.”

He looked at me out of his half-closed eyes. It struck me that he was making conversation⁠—saying anything for the sake of gaining time.

“I remember reading a book entitled ‘Obscure Diseases of the Brain.’ It contained some interesting data on the subject of hallucinations.”

“Possibly.”

“Now, candidly, would you recommend me to place myself in the hands of a mental pathologist?”

“I don’t think that you’re insane, if that’s what you mean.”

“No?⁠—That is good hearing. Of all diseases insanity is the most to be dreaded.⁠—Well, Atherton, I’m keeping you. The truth is that, insane or not, I am very far from well. I think I must give myself a holiday.”

He moved towards his hat and umbrella.

“There is something else which you must do.”

“What is that?”

“You must resign your pretensions to Miss Lindon’s hand.”

“My dear Atherton, if my health is really failing me, I shall resign everything⁠—everything!”

He repeated his own word with a little movement of his hands which was pathetic.

“Understand me, Lessingham. What else you do is no affair of mine. I am concerned only with Miss Lindon. You must give me your definite promise, before you leave this room, to terminate your engagement with her before tonight.”

His back was towards me.

“There will come a time when your conscience will prick you because of your treatment of me; when you will realise that I am the most unfortunate of men.”

“I realise that now. It is because I realise it that I am so desirous that the shadow of your evil fortune shall not fall upon an innocent girl.”

He turned.

“Atherton, what is your actual position with reference to Marjorie Lindon?”

“She regards me as a brother.”

“And do you regard her as a sister? Are your sentiments towards her purely fraternal?”

“You know that I love her.”

“And do you suppose that my removal will clear the path for you?”

“I suppose nothing of the kind. You may believe me or not, but my one desire is for her happiness, and surely, if you love her, that is your desire too.”

“That is so.” He paused. An expression of sadness stole over his face of which I had not thought it capable. “That is so to an extent of which you do not dream. No man likes to have his hand forced, especially by one whom he regards⁠—may I say it?⁠—as a possible rival. But I will tell you this much. If the blight which has fallen on my life is likely to continue, I would not wish⁠—God forbid that I should wish to join her fate