The Beetle (13 page)

'My forgiveness?' Her head went back,—she has a pretty bird-like
trick of cocking it a little on one side. 'You were not well. Are
you better?'

'Quite.—You forgive me? Then grant me plenary absolution by
giving me a dance for the one I lost last night.'

She rose. A man came up,—a stranger to me; she's one of the best
hunted women in England,—there's a million with her.

'This is my dance, Miss Grayling.'

She looked at him.

'You must excuse me. I am afraid I have made a mistake. I had
forgotten that I was already engaged.'

I had not thought her capable of it. She took my arm, and away we
went, and left him staring.

'It's he who's the sufferer now,' I whispered, as we went round,—
she can waltz!

'You think so? It was I last night,—I did not mean, if I could
help it, to suffer again. To me a dance with you means something.'
She went all red,—adding, as an afterthought, 'Nowadays so few
men really dance. I expect it's because you dance so well.'

'Thank you.'

We danced the waltz right through, then we went to an impromptu
shelter which had been rigged up on a balcony. And we talked.
There's something sympathetic about Miss Grayling which leads one
to talk about one's self,—before I was half aware of it I was
telling her of all my plans and projects,—actually telling her of
my latest notion which, ultimately, was to result in the
destruction of whole armies as by a flash of lightning. She took
an amount of interest in it which was surprising.

'What really stands in the way of things of this sort is not
theory but practice,—one can prove one's facts on paper, or on a
small scale in a room; what is wanted is proof on a large scale,
by actual experiment. If, for instance, I could take my plant to
one of the forests of South America, where there is plenty of
animal life but no human, I could demonstrate the soundness of my
position then and there.'

'Why don't you?'

'Think of the money it would cost.'

'I thought I was a friend of yours.'

'I had hoped you were.'

'Then why don't you let me help you?'

'Help me?—How?'

'By letting you have the money for your South American
experiment;—it would be an investment on which I should expect to
receive good interest.'

I fidgeted.

'It is very good of you, Miss Grayling, to talk like that.'

She became quite frigid.

'Please don't be absurd!—I perceive quite clearly that you are
snubbing me, and that you are trying to do it as delicately as you
know how.'

'Miss Grayling!'

'I understand that it was an impertinence on my part to volunteer
assistance which was unasked; you have made that sufficiently
plain.'

'I assure you—'

'Pray don't. Of course, if it had been Miss Lindon it would have
been different; she would at least have received a civil answer.
But we are not all Miss Lindon.'

I was aghast. The outburst was so uncalled for,—I had not the
faintest notion what I had said or done to cause it; she was in
such a surprising passion—and it suited her!—I thought I had
never seen her look prettier,—I could do nothing else but stare.
So she went on,—with just as little reason.

'Here is someone coming to claim this dance,—I can't throw all my
partners over. Have I offended you so irremediably that it will be
impossible for you to dance with me again?'

'Miss Grayling!—I shall be only too delighted.' She handed me her
card. 'Which may I have?'

'For your own sake you had better place it as far off as you
possibly can.'

'They all seem taken.'

'That doesn't matter; strike off any name you please, anywhere and
put your own instead.'

It was giving me an almost embarrassingly free hand. I booked
myself for the next waltz but two—who it was who would have to
give way to me I did not trouble to inquire.

'Mr Atherton!—is that you?'

It was,—it was also she. It was Marjorie! And so soon as I saw her
I knew that there was only one woman in the world for me,—the
mere sight of her sent the blood tingling through my veins.
Turning to her attendant cavalier, she dismissed him with a bow.

'Is there an empty chair?'

She seated herself in the one Miss Grayling had just vacated. I
sat down beside her. She glanced at me, laughter in her eyes. I
was all in a stupid tremblement.

'You remember that last night I told you that I might require your
friendly services in diplomatic intervention?' I nodded,—I felt
that the allusion was unfair. 'Well, the occasion's come,—or, at
least, it's very near.' She was still,—and I said nothing to help
her. 'You know how unreasonable papa can be.'

I did,—never a more pig-headed man in England than Geoffrey
Lindon,—or, in a sense, a duller. But, just then, I was not
prepared to admit it to his child.

'You know what an absurd objection he has to—Paul.'

There was an appreciative hesitation before she uttered the
fellow's Christian name,—when it came it was with an accent of
tenderness which stung me like a gadfly. To speak to me—of all
men,—of the fellow in such a tone was—like a woman.

'Has Mr Lindon no notion of how things stand between you?'

'Except what he suspects. That is just where you are to come in,
papa thinks so much of you—I want you to sound Paul's praises in
his ear—to prepare him for what must come.' Was ever rejected
lover burdened with such a task? Its enormity kept me still.
'Sydney, you have always been my friend,—my truest, dearest
friend. When I was a little girl you used to come between papa and
me, to shield me from his wrath. Now that I am a big girl I want
you to be on my side once more, and to shield me still.'

Her voice softened. She laid her hand upon my arm. How, under her
touch, I burned.

'But I don't understand what cause there has been for secrecy,—
why should there have been any secrecy from the first?'

'It was Paul's wish that papa should not be told.'

'Is Mr Lessingham ashamed of you?'

'Sydney!'

'Or does he fear your father?'

'You are unkind. You know perfectly well that papa has been
prejudiced against him all along, you know that his political
position is just now one of the greatest difficulty, that every
nerve and muscle is kept on the continual strain, that it is in
the highest degree essential that further complications of every
and any sort should be avoided. He is quite aware that his suit
will not be approved of by papa, and he simply wishes that nothing
shall be said about it till the end of the session,—that is all'

'I see! Mr Lessingham is cautious even in love-making,—politician
first, and lover afterwards.'

'Well!—why not?—would you have him injure the cause he has at
heart for want of a little patience?'

'It depends what cause it is he has at heart.'

'What is the matter with you?—why do you speak to me like that?—
it is not like you at all.' She looked at me shrewdly, with
flashing eyes. 'Is it possible that you are—jealous?—that you
were in earnest in what you said last night?—I thought that was
the sort of thing you said to every girl.'

I would have given a great deal to take her in my arms, and press
her to my bosom then and there,—to think that she should taunt me
with having said to her the sort of thing I said to every girl.

'What do you know of Mr Lessingham?'

'What all the world knows,—that history will be made by him.'

'There are kinds of history in the making of which one would not
desire to be associated. What do you know of his private life,—it
was to that that I was referring.'

'Really,—you go too far. I know that he is one of the best, just
as he is one of the greatest, of men; for me, that is sufficient.'

'If you do know that, it is sufficient.'

'I do know it,—all the world knows it. Everyone with whom he
comes in contact is aware—must be aware, that he is incapable of
a dishonourable thought or action.'

'Take my advice, don't appreciate any man too highly. In the book
of every man's life there is a page which he would wish to keep
turned down.'

'There is no such page in Paul's,—there may be in yours; I think
that probable.'

'Thank you. I fear it is more than probable. I fear that, in my
case, the page may extend to several. There is nothing Apostolic
about me,—not even the name.'

'Sydney!—you are unendurable!—It is the more strange to hear you
talk like this since Paul regards you as his friend.'

'He flatters me.'

'Are you not his friend?'

'Is it not sufficient to be yours?'

'No,—who is against Paul is against me.'

'That is hard.'

'How is it hard? Who is against the husband can hardly be for the
wife,—when the husband and the wife are one.'

'But as yet you are not one.—Is my cause so hopeless?'

'What do you call your cause?—are you thinking of that nonsense
you were talking about last night?'

She laughed!

'You call it nonsense.—You ask for sympathy, and give—so much!'

'I will give you all the sympathy you stand in need of,—I promise
it! My poor, dear Sydney!—don't be so absurd! Do you think that I
don't know you? You're the best of friends, and the worst of
lovers,—as the one, so true; so fickle as the other. To my
certain knowledge, with how many girls have you been in love,—and
out again. It is true that, to the best of my knowledge and
belief, you have never been in love with me before,—but that's
the merest accident. Believe me, my dear, dear Sydney, you'll be
in love with someone else tomorrow,—if you're not half-way there
to night. I confess, quite frankly, that, in that direction, all
the experience I have had of you has in nowise strengthened my
prophetic instinct. Cheer up!—one never knows!—Who is this
that's coming?'

It was Dora Grayling who was coming,—I went off with her without
a word,—we were half-way through the dance before she spoke to
me.

'I am sorry that I was cross to you just now, and—disagreeable.
Somehow I always seem destined to show to you my most unpleasant
side.'

'The blame was mine,—what sort of side do I show you? You are far
kinder to me than I deserve,—now, and always. 'That is what you
say.'

'Pardon me, it's true,—else how comes it that, at this time of
day, I'm without a friend in all the world?'

'You!—without a friend!—I never knew a man who had so many!—I
never knew a person of whom so many men and women join in speaking
well!'

'Miss Grayling!'

'As for never having done anything worth doing, think of what you
have done. Think of your discoveries, think of your inventions,
think of—but never mind! The world knows you have done great
things, and it confidently looks to you to do still greater. You
talk of being friendless, and yet when I ask, as a favour—as a
great favour!—to be allowed to do something to show my
friendship, you—well, you snub me.'

'I snub you!'

'You know you snubbed me.'

'Do you really mean that you take an interest in—in my work?'

'You know I mean it.'

She turned to me, her face all glowing,—and I did know it.

'Will you come to my laboratory to-morrow morning?'

'Will I!—won't I!'

'With your aunt?'

'Yes, with my aunt.'

'I'll show you round, and tell you all there is to be told, and
then if you still think there's anything in it, I'll accept your
offer about that South American experiment,—that is, if it still
holds good.'

'Of course it still holds good.'

'And we'll be partners.'

'Partners?—Yes,—we will be partners.

'It will cost a terrific sum.

'There are some things which never can cost too much.'

'That's not my experience,'

'I hope it will be mine.'

'It's a bargain?'

'On my side, I promise you that it's a bargain.'

When I got outside the room I found that Percy Woodville was at my
side. His round face was, in a manner of speaking as long as my
arm. He took his glass out of his eye, and rubbed it with his
handkerchief,-and directly he put it back he took it out and
rubbed it again, I believe that I never saw him in such a state of
fluster,-and, when one speaks of Woodville, that means something.

'Atherton, I am in a devil of a stew.' He looked it. 'All of a
heap!—I've had a blow which I shall never get over!'

'Then get under.'

Woodville is one of those fellows who will insist on telling me
their most private matters,—even to what they owe their
washerwomen for the ruination of their shirts. Why, goodness alone
can tell,—heaven knows I am not sympathetic.

'Don't be an idiot!—you don't know what I'm suffering!—I'm as
nearly as possible stark mad.'

'That's all right, old chap,—I've seen you that way more than
once before.'

'Don't talk like that,—you're not a perfect brute!'

'I bet you a shilling that I am.'

'Don't torture me,—you're not. Atherton!' He seized me by the
lapels of my coat, seeming half beside himself,—fortunately he
had drawn me into a recess, so that we were noticed by few
observers. 'What do you think has happened?'

'My dear chap, how on earth am I to know?'

'She's refused me!'

'Has she!—Well I never!—Buck up,—try some other address,—there
are quite as good fish in the sea as ever cams out of it.'

'Atherton, you're a blackguard.'

He had crumpled his handkerchief into a ball, and was actually
bobbing at his eyes with it,—the idea of Percy Woodville being
dissolved in tears was excruciatingly funny,—but, just then, I
could hardly tell him so.

'There's not a doubt of it,—it's my way of being sympathetic.
Don't be so down, man,—try her again!'

'It's not the slightest use—I know it isn't—from the way she
treated me.'

'Don't be so sure—women often say what they mean least. Who's the
lady?'