The Beetle, Richard Marsh [general ebook reader .txt] 📗

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 on the picture which his fancy painted. Then reopened them. “In the meantime I will have vengeance in my own fashion. He knows already that the avenger is upon him⁠—he has good reason to know it. And through the days and the nights the knowledge shall be with him still, and it shall be to him as the bitterness of death⁠—aye, of many deaths. For he will know that escape there is none, and that for him there shall be no more sun in the sky, and that the terror shall be with him by night and by day, at his rising up and at his lying down, wherever his eyes shall turn it shall be there⁠—yet, behold, the sap and the juice of my vengeance is in this, in that though he shall be very sure that the days that are, are as the days of his death, yet shall he know that the death, the great death, is coming⁠—coming⁠—and shall be on him⁠—when I will!”

The fellow spoke like an inspired maniac. If he meant half what he said⁠—and if he did not then his looks and his tones belied him!⁠—then a promising future bade fair to be in store for Mr. Lessingham⁠—and, also, circumstances being as they were, for Marjorie. It was this latter reflection which gave me pause. Either this imprecatory fanatic would have to be disposed of, by Lessingham himself, or by someone acting on his