The Beetle (12 page)

'I am interested in such subjects, but I am not a specialist.'

'Can you tell me what were the exact tenets of the worshippers of
Isis?'

'Neither I nor any man,—with scientific certainty. As you know,
she had a brother; the cult of Osiris and Isis was one and the
same. What, precisely, were its dogmas, or its practices, or
anything about it, none, now, can tell. The Papyri, hieroglyphics,
and so on, which remain are very far from being exhaustive, and
our knowledge of those which do remain, is still less so.'

'I suppose that the marvels which are told of it are purely
legendary?'

'To what marvels do you particularly refer?'

'Weren't supernatural powers attributed to the priests of Isis?'

'Broadly speaking, at that time, supernatural powers were
attributed to all the priests of all the creeds.'

'I see.' Presently he continued. 'I presume that her cult is long
since extinct,—that none of the worshippers of Isis exist to-
day.'

I hesitated,—I was wondering why he had hit on such a subject; if
he really had a reason, or if he was merely asking questions as a
cover for something else,—you see, I knew my Paul.

'That is not so sure.'

He looked at me with that passionless, yet searching glance of
his.

'You think that she still is worshipped?

'I think it possible, even probable, that, here and there, in
Africa—Africa is a large order!—homage is paid to Isis, quite in
the good old way.'

'Do you know that as a fact?'

'Excuse me, but do you know it as a fact?—Are you aware that you
are treating me as if I was on the witness stand?—Have you any
special purpose in making these inquiries?'

He smiled.

'In a kind of a way I have. I have recently come across rather a
curious story; I am trying to get to the bottom of it.'

'What is the story?'

'I am afraid that at present I am not at liberty to tell it you;
when I am I will. You will find it interesting,—as an instance of
a singular survival.—Didn't the followers of Isis believe in
transmigration?'

'Some of them,—no doubt.'

'What did they understand by transmigration?'

'Transmigration.'

'Yes,—but of the soul or of the body?'

'How do you mean?—transmigration is transmigration. Are you
driving at something in particular? If you'll tell me fairly and
squarely what it is I'll do my best to give you the information
you require; as it is, your questions are a bit perplexing.'

'Oh, it doesn't matter,—as you say, "transmigration is
transmigration."' I was eyeing him keenly; I seemed to detect in
his manner an odd reluctance to enlarge on the subject he himself
had started. He continued to trifle with the retort upon the
table. 'Hadn't the followers of Isis a—what shall I say?—a
sacred emblem?'

'How?'

'Hadn't they an especial regard for some sort of a—wasn't it some
sort of a—beetle?'

'You mean Scarabaeus sacer,—according to Latreille, Scarabaeus
Egyptiorum? Undoubtedly,—the scarab was venerated throughout
Egypt,—indeed, speaking generally, most things that had life, for
instance, cats; as you know, Orisis continued among men in the
figure of Apis, the bull.'

'Weren't the priests of Isis—or some of them—supposed to assume,
after death, the form of a—scarabaeus?'

'I never heard of it.'

'Are you sure?—think!'

'I shouldn't like to answer such a question positively, offhand,
but I don't, on the spur of the moment, recall any supposition of
the kind.'

'Don't laugh at me—I'm not a lunatic!—but I understand that
recent researches have shown that even in some of the most
astounding of the ancient legends there was a substratum of fact.
Is it absolutely certain that there could be no shred of truth in
such a belief?'

'In what belief?'

'In the belief that a priest of Isis—or anyone—assumed after
death the form of a scarabaeus?'

'It seems to me, Lessingham, that you have lately come across some
uncommonly interesting data, of a kind, too, which it is your
bounden duty to give to the world,—or, at any rate, to that
portion of the world which is represented by me. Come,—tell us
all about it!—what are you afraid of?'

'I am afraid of nothing,—and some day you shall be told,—but not
now. At present, answer my question.'

'Then repeat your question,—clearly.'

'Is it absolutely certain that there could be no foundation of
truth in the belief that a priest of Isis—or anyone—assumed
after death the form of a beetle?'

'I know no more than the man in the moon,—how the dickens should
I? Such a belief may have been symbolical. Christians believe that
after death the body takes the shape of worms—and so, in a sense,
it does,—and, sometimes, eels.'

'That is not what I mean.'

'Then what do you mean?'

'Listen. If a person, of whose veracity there could not be a
vestige of a doubt, assured you that he had seen such a
transformation actually take place, could it conceivably be
explained on natural grounds?'

'Seen a priest of Isis assume the form of a beetle?'

'Or a follower of Isis?'

'Before, or after death?'

He hesitated. I had seldom seen him wear such an appearance of
interest,—to be frank, I was keenly interested too!—but, on a
sudden there came into his eyes a glint of something that was
almost terror. When he spoke, it was with the most unwonted
awkwardness.

'In—in the very act of dying.'

'In the very act of dying?'

'If—he had seen a follower of Isis in—the very act of dying,
assume—the form of a—a beetle, on any conceivable grounds would
such a transformation be susceptible of a natural explanation?'

I stared,—as who would not? Such an extraordinary question was
rendered more extraordinary by coming from such a man,—yet I was
almost beginning to suspect that there was something behind it
more extraordinary still.

'Look here, Lessingham, I can see you've a capital tale to tell,—
so tell it, man! Unless I'm mistaken, it's not the kind of tale in
which ordinary scruples can have any part or parcel,—anyhow, it's
hardly fair of you to set my curiosity all agog, and then to leave
it unappeased.'

He eyed me steadily, the appearance of interest fading more and
more, until, presently, his face assumed its wonted expressionless
mask,—somehow I was conscious that what he had seen in my face
was not altogether to his liking. His voice was once more bland
and self-contained.

'I perceive you are of opinion that I have been told a taradiddle.
I suppose I have.'

'But what is the taradiddle?—don't you see I'm burning?'

'Unfortunately, Atherton, I am on my honour. Until I have
permission to unloose it, my tongue is tied.' He picked up his hat
and umbrella from where he had placed them on the table. Holding
them in his left hand, he advanced to me with his right
outstretched. 'It is very good of you to suffer my continued
interruption; I know, to my sorrow, what such interruptions mean,
—believe me, I am not ungrateful. What is this?'

On the shelf, within a foot or so of where I stood, was a sheet of
paper,—the size and shape of half a sheet of post note. At this
he stooped to glance. As he did so, something surprising occurred.
On the instant a look came on to his face which, literally,
transfigured him. His hat and umbrella fell from his grasp on to
the floor. He retreated, gibbering, his hands held out as if to
ward something off from him, until he reached the wall on the
other side of the room. A more amazing spectacle than he presented
I never saw.

'Lessingham!' I exclaimed. 'What's wrong with you?'

My first impression was that he was struck by a fit of epilepsy,—
though anyone less like an epileptic subject it would be hard to
find. In my bewilderment I looked round to see what could be the
immediate cause. My eye fell upon the sheet of paper, I stared at
it with considerable surprise. I had not noticed it there
previously I had not put it there,—where had it come from? The
curious thing was that, on it, produced apparently by some process
of photogravure, was an illustration of a species of beetle with
which I felt that I ought to be acquainted, and yet was not. It
was of a dull golden green; the colour was so well brought out,—
even to the extent of seeming to scintillate, and the whole thing
was so dexterously done that the creature seemed alive. The
semblance of reality was, indeed, so vivid that it needed a second
glance to be assured that it was a mere trick of the reproducer.
Its presence there was odd,—after what we had been talking about
it might seem to need explanation; but it was absurd to suppose
that that alone could have had such an effect on a man like
Lessingham.

With the thing in my hand, I crossed to where he was,—pressing
his back against the wall, he had shrunk lower inch by inch till
he was actually crouching on his haunches.

'Lessingham!—come, man, what's wrong with you?'

Taking him by the shoulder, I shook him with some vigour. My touch
had on him the effect of seeming to wake him out of a dream, of
restoring him to consciousness as against the nightmare horrors
with which he was struggling. He gazed up at me with that look of
cunning on his face which one associates with abject terror.

'Atherton?—Is it you?—It's all right,—quite right.—I'm well,—
very well.'

As he spoke, he slowly drew himself up, till he was standing
erect.

'Then, in that case, all I can say is that you have a queer way of
being very well.'

He put his hand up to his mouth, as if to hide the trembling of
his lips.

'It's the pressure of overwork,—I've had one or two attacks like
this,—but it's nothing, only—a local lesion.'

I observed him keenly; to my thinking there was something about
him which was very odd indeed.

'Only a local lesion!—If you take my strongly-urged advice you'll
get a medical opinion without delay,—if you haven't been wise
enough to have done so already.'

'I'll go to-day;—at once; but I know it's only mental
overstrain.'

'You're sure it's nothing to do with this?'

I held out in front of him the photogravure of the beetle. As I
did so he backed away from me, shrieking, trembling as with palsy.

'Take it away! take it away!' he screamed.

I stared at him, for some seconds, astonished into speechlessness.
Then I found my tongue.

'Lessingham!—It's only a picture!—Are you stark mad?'

He persisted in his ejaculations.

'Take it away! take it away!—Tear it up!—Burn it!'

His agitation was so unnatural,—from whatever cause it arose!—
that, fearing the recurrence of the attack from which he had just
recovered, I did as he bade me. I tore the sheet of paper into
quarters, and, striking a match, set fire to each separate piece.
He watched the process of incineration as if fascinated. When it
was concluded, and nothing but ashes remained, he gave a gasp of
relief.

'Lessingham,' I said, 'you're either mad already, or you're going
mad,—which is it?'

'I think it's neither. I believe I am as sane as you. It's—it's
that story of which I was speaking; it—it seems curious, but I'll
tell you all about it—some day. As I observed, I think you will
find it an interesting instance of a singular survival.' He made
an obvious effort to become more like his usual self. 'It is
extremely unfortunate, Atherton, that I should have troubled you
with such a display of weakness,—especially as I am able to offer
you so scant an explanation. One thing I would ask of you,—to
observe strict confidence. What has taken place has been between
ourselves. I am in your hands, but you are my friend, I know I can
rely on you not to speak of it to anyone,—and, in particular, not
to breathe a hint of it to Miss Lindon.'

'Why, in particular, not to Miss Lindon?'

'Can you not guess?'

I hunched my shoulder.

'If what I guess is what you mean is not that a cause the more why
silence would be unfair to her?'

'It is for me to speak, if for anyone. I shall not fail to do what
should be done.—Give me your promise that you will not hint a
word to her of what you have so unfortunately seen?'

I gave him the promise he required.

There was no more work for me that day. The Apostle, his
divagations, his example of the coleoptera, his Arabian friend,—
these things were as microbes which, acting on a system already
predisposed for their reception, produced high fever; I was in a
fever,—of unrest. Brain in a whirl!—Marjorie, Paul, Isis,
beetle, mesmerism, in delirious jumble. Love's upsetting!—in
itself a sufficiently severe disease; but when complications
intervene, suggestive of mystery and novelties, so that you do not
know if you are moving in an atmosphere of dreams or of frozen
facts,—if, then, your temperature does not rise, like that rocket
of M. Verne's,—which reached the moon, then you are a freak of an
entirely genuine kind, and if the surgeons do not preserve you,
and place you on view, in pickle, they ought to, for the sake of
historical doubters, for no one will believe that there ever was a
man like you, unless you yourself are somewhere around to prove
them Thomases.

Myself,—I am not that kind of man. When I get warm I grow heated,
and when I am heated there is likely to be a variety show of a
gaudy kind. When Paul had gone I tried to think things out, and if
I had kept on trying something would have happened—so I went on
the river instead.

That night was the Duchess of Datchet's ball—the first person I
saw as I entered the dancing-room was Dora Grayling.

I went straight up to her.

'Miss Grayling, I behaved very badly to you last night, I have
come to make to you my apologies,—to sue for your forgiveness!'