The Beetle by Richard Marsh (read e books online free txt) 📕
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The Beetle was published in 1897, the same year as Dracula—and outsold it six to one that year. Like Dracula, the novel is steeped in the evil mysteries of an ancient horror: in this case, a mysterious ancient Egyptian creature bent on revenge.
The story is told through the sequential points of view of a group of middle-class Victorians who find themselves enmeshed in the creature’s plot. The creature, in the guise of an Egyptian man, appears in London seeking revenge against a popular member of Parliament. They soon find out that it can shape shift into other things, including women; that it can control minds and use hypnosis; and that it won’t stop at anything to get the revenge it seeks. The heroes are soon caught in a whirlwind of chase scenes, underground laboratories, secret cults, and more as they race to foil the creature.
While The Beetle didn’t earn the lasting popularity of Stoker’s counterpart, it remains a strange and unique morsel of Victorian sensationalist fiction.
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- Author: Richard Marsh
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“What reason have you for suspecting that Mr. Atherton has seen this individual of whom you speak—has he told you so?”
“Practically—yes.”
“I know Atherton well. In his not infrequent moments of excitement he is apt to use strong language, but it goes no further. I believe him to be the last person in the world to do anyone an intentional injustice, under any circumstances whatever. If I go to him, armed with credentials from you, when he understands the real gravity of the situation—which it will be my business to make him do, I believe that, spontaneously, of his own accord, he will tell me as much about this mysterious individual as he knows himself.”
“Then go to him at once.”
“Good. I will. The result I will communicate to you.”
I rose from my seat. As I did so, someone rushed into the outer office with a din and a clatter. Andrews’ voice, and another, became distinctly audible—Andrews’ apparently raised in vigorous expostulation. Raised, seemingly, in vain, for presently the door of my own particular sanctum was thrown open with a crash, and Mr. Sydney Atherton himself came dashing in—evidently conspicuously under the influence of one of those not infrequent “moments of excitement” of which I had just been speaking.
XXXV A Bringer of TidingsAtherton did not wait to see who might or might not be present, but, without even pausing to take breath, he broke into full cry on the instant—as is occasionally his wont.
“Champnell!—Thank goodness I’ve found you in!—I want you!—At once!—Don’t stop to talk, but stick your hat on, and put your best foot forward—I’ll tell you all about it in the cab.”
I endeavoured to call his attention to Mr. Lessingham’s presence—but without success.
“My dear fellow—”
When I had got as far as that he cut me short.
“Don’t ‘dear fellow’ me!—None of your jabber! And none of your excuses either! I don’t care if you’ve got an engagement with the Queen, you’ll have to chuck it. Where’s that dashed hat of yours—or are you going without it? Don’t I tell you that every second cut to waste may mean the difference between life and death?—Do you want me to drag you down to the cab by the hair of your head?”
“I will try not to constrain you to quite so drastic a resource—and I was coming to you at once in any case. I only want to call your attention to the fact that I am not alone.—Here is Mr. Lessingham.”
In his harum-scarum haste Mr. Lessingham had gone unnoticed. Now that his observation was particularly directed to him, Atherton started, turned, and glared at my latest client in a fashion which was scarcely flattering.
“Oh!—It’s you, is it?—What the deuce are you doing here?”
Before Lessingham could reply to this most unceremonious query, Atherton, rushing forward, gripped him by the arm.
“Have you seen her?”
Lessingham, not unnaturally nonplussed by the other’s curious conduct, stared at him in unmistakable amazement.
“Have I seen whom?”
“Marjorie Lindon!”
“Marjorie Lindon?”
Lessingham paused. He was evidently asking himself what the inquiry meant.
“I have not seen Miss Lindon since last night. Why do you ask?”
“Then Heaven help us!—As I’m a living man I believe he, she, or it has got her!”
His words were incomprehensible enough to stand in copious need of explanation—as Mr. Lessingham plainly thought.
“What is it that you mean, sir?”
“What I say—I believe that that Oriental friend of yours has got her in her clutches—if it is a ‘her;’ goodness alone knows what the infernal conjurer’s real sex may be.”
“Atherton!—Explain yourself!”
On a sudden Lessingham’s tones rang out like a trumpet call.
“If damage comes to her I shall be fit to cut my throat—and yours!”
Mr. Lessingham’s next proceeding surprised me—I imagine it surprised Atherton still more. Springing at Sydney like a tiger, he caught him by the throat.
“You—you hound! Of what wretched folly have you been guilty? If so much as a hair of her head is injured you shall repay it me ten thousandfold!—You mischief-making, intermeddling, jealous fool!”
He shook Sydney as if he had been a rat—then flung him from him headlong on to the floor. It reminded me of nothing so much as Othello’s treatment of Iago. Never had I seen a man so transformed by rage. Lessingham seemed to have positively increased in stature. As he stood glowering down at the prostrate Sydney, he might have stood for a materialistic conception of human retribution.
Sydney, I take it, was rather surprised than hurt. For a moment or two he lay quite still. Then, lifting his head, he looked up his assailant. Then, raising himself to his feet, he shook himself—as if with a view of learning if all his bones were whole. Putting his hands up to his neck, he rubbed it, gently.
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