The Beetle: A Mystery

by Richard Marsh

  CHAPTER XLVIII

  THE CONCLUSION OF THE MATTER

  It is several years since I bore my part in the events which I haverapidly sketched,--or I should not have felt justified in giving thempublicity. Exactly how many years, for reasons which should besufficiently obvious, I must decline to say.

  Marjorie Lindon still lives. The spark of life which was left in her,when she was extricated from among the debris of the wrecked express,was fanned again into flame. Her restoration was, however, not merelyan affair of weeks or months, it was a matter of years. I believe that,even after her physical powers were completely restored--in itself atedious task--she was for something like three years under medicalsupervision as a lunatic. But all that skill and money could do wasdone, and in course of time--the great healer--the results wereentirely satisfactory.

  Her father is dead,--and has left her in possession of the familyestates. She is married to the individual who, in these pages, has beenknown as Paul Lessingham. Were his real name divulged she would berecognised as the popular and universally reverenced wife of one of thegreatest statesmen the age has seen.

  Nothing has been said to her about the fateful day on which shewas--consciously or unconsciously--paraded through London in thetattered masculine habiliments of a vagabond. She herself has neveronce alluded to it. With the return of reason the affair seems to havepassed from her memory as wholly as if it had never been, which,although she may not know it, is not the least cause she has forthankfulness. Therefore what actually transpired will never, in allhuman probability, be certainly known and particularly what preciselyoccurred in the railway carriage during that dreadful moment of suddenpassing from life unto death. What became of the creature who all butdid her to death; who he was--if it was a 'he,' which is extremelydoubtful; whence he came; whither he went; what was the purport of hispresence here,--to this hour these things are puzzles.

  Paul Lessingham has not since been troubled by his old tormentor. Hehas ceased to be a haunted man. None the less he continues to have whatseems to be a constitutional disrelish for the subject of beetles, norcan he himself be induced to speak of them. Should they be mentioned ina general conversation, should he be unable to immediately bring abouta change of theme, he will, if possible, get up and leave the room.More, on this point he and his wife are one.

  The fact may not be generally known, but it is so. Also I have reasonto believe that there still are moments in which he harks back, withsomething like physical shrinking, to that awful nightmare of the past,and in which he prays God, that as it is distant from him now so may itbe kept far off from him for ever.

  Before closing, one matter may be casually mentioned. The tale hasnever been told, but I have unimpeachable authority for itsauthenticity.

  During the recent expeditionary advance towards Dongola, a body ofnative troops which was encamped at a remote spot in the desert wasaroused one night by what seemed to be the sound of a loud explosion.The next morning, at a distance of about a couple of miles from thecamp, a huge hole was discovered in the ground,--as if blastingoperations, on an enormous scale, had recently been carried on. In thehole itself, and round about it, were found fragments of what seemedbodies; credible witnesses have assured me that they were bodiesneither of men nor women, but of creatures of some monstrous growth. Iprefer to believe, since no scientific examination of the remains tookplace, that these witnesses ignorantly, though innocently, erred.

  One thing is sure. Numerous pieces, both of stone and of metal, wereseen, which went far to suggest that some curious subterranean buildinghad been blown up by the force of the explosion. Especially were thereportions of moulded metal which seemed to belong to what must have beenan immense bronze statue. There were picked up also, more than a dozenreplicas in bronze of the whilom sacred scarabaeus.

  That the den of demons described by Paul Lessingham, had, that night,at last come to an end, and that these things which lay scattered, hereand there, on that treeless plain, were the evidences of its finaldestruction, is not a hypothesis which I should care to advance withany degree of certainty. But, putting this and that together, the factsseem to point that way,--and it is a consummation devoutly to bedesired.

  By-the-bye, Sydney Atherton has married Miss Dora Grayling. Her wealthhas made him one of the richest men in England. She began, the storygoes, by loving him immensely; I can answer for the fact that he hasended by loving her as much. Their devotion to each other contradictsthe pessimistic nonsense which supposes that every marriage must be ofnecessity a failure. He continues his career of an inventor. Hisinvestigations into the subject of aerial flight, which have broughtthe flying machine within the range of practical politics, are oneverybody's tongue.

  The best man at Atherton's wedding was Percy Woodville, now the Earl ofBarnes. Within six months afterwards he married one of Mrs Atherton'sbridesmaids.

  It was never certainly shown how Robert Holt came to his end. At theinquest the coroner's jury was content to return a verdict of 'Died ofexhaustion.' He lies buried in Kensal Green Cemetery, under a handsometombstone, the cost of which, had he had it in his pockets, might haveindefinitely prolonged his days.

  It should be mentioned that that portion of this strange history whichpurports to be The Surprising Narration of Robert Holt was compiledfrom the statements which Holt made to Atherton, and to Miss Lindon, asshe then was, when, a mud-stained, shattered derelict he lay at thelady's father's house.

  Miss Linden's contribution towards the elucidation of the mystery waswritten with her own hand. After her physical strength had come back toher, and, while mentally, she still hovered between the darkness andthe light, her one relaxation was writing. Although she would neverspeak of what she had written, it was found that her theme was alwaysthe same. She confided to pen and paper what she would not speak ofwith her lips. She told, and re-told, and re-told again, the story ofher love, and of her tribulation so far as it is contained in thepresent volume. Her MSS. invariably began and ended at the same point.They have all of them been destroyed, with one exception. Thatexception is herein placed before the reader.

  On the subject of the Mystery of the Beetle I do not propose topronounce a confident opinion. Atherton and I have talked it over manyand many a time, and at the end we have got no 'forrarder.' So far as Iam personally concerned, experience has taught me that there are indeedmore things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our philosophy,and I am quite prepared to believe that the so-called Beetle, whichothers saw, but I never, was--or is, for it cannot be certainly shownthat the thing is not still existing--a creature born neither of Godnor man.