The Beetle (19 page)

She could not have seen all this in my face; but she saw
something—because her own look softened.

'You do look tired.' She seemed to be casting about in her own
mind for a cause. 'You have been worrying.' She glanced round the
big laboratory. 'Have you been spending the night in this—
wizard's cave?'

'Pretty well'

'Oh!'

The monosyllable, as she uttered it, was big with meaning.
Uninvited, she seated herself in an arm-chair, a huge old thing,
of shagreen leather, which would have held half a dozen of her.
Demure in it she looked, like an agreeable reminiscence, alive,
and a little up-to-date, of the women of long ago. Her dove grey
eyes seemed to perceive so much more than they cared to show.

'How is it that you have forgotten that you asked me to come?—
didn't you mean it?'

'Of course I meant it.'

'Then how is it you've forgotten?'

'I didn't forget.'

'Don't tell fibs.—Something is the matter,—tell me what it is.—
Is it that I am too early?'

'Nothing of the sort,—you couldn't be too early.'

'Thank you.—When you pay a compliment, even so neat an one as
that, sometimes, you should look as if you meant it.—It is
early,—I know it's early, but afterwards I want you to come to
lunch. I told aunt that I would bring you back with me.'

'You are much better to me than I deserve.'

'Perhaps.' A tone came into her voice which was almost pathetic.
'I think that to some men women are almost better than they
deserve. I don't know why. I suppose it pleases them. It is odd.'
There was a different intonation,—a dryness. 'Have you forgotten
what I came for?'

'Not a bit of it,—I am not quite the brute I seem. You came to
see an illustration of that pleasant little fancy of mine for
slaughtering my fellows. The fact is, I'm hardly in a mood for
that just now,—I've been illustrating it too much already.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, for one thing it's been murdering Lessingham's cat.'

'Mr Lessingham's cat?'

'Then it almost murdered Percy Woodville.'

'Mr Atherton!—I wish you wouldn't talk like that.'

'It's a fact. It was a question of a little matter in a wrong
place, and, if it hadn't been for something very like a miracle,
he'd be dead.'

'I wish you wouldn't have anything to do with such things—I hate
them.'

I stared.

'Hate them?—I thought you'd come to see an illustration.'

'And pray what was your notion of an illustration?'

'Well, another cat would have had to be killed, at least.'

'And do you suppose that I would have sat still while a cat was
being killed for my—edification?'

'It needn't necessarily have been a cat, but something would have
had to be killed,—how are you going to illustrate the death-
dealing propensities of a weapon of that sort without it?'

'Is it possible that you imagine that I came here to see something
killed?'

'Then for what did you come?'

I do not know what there was about the question which was
startling, but as soon as it was out, she went a fiery red.

'Because I was a fool.'

I was bewildered. Either she had got out of the wrong side of bed,
or I had,—or we both had. Here she was, assailing me, hammer and
tongs, so far as I could see, for absolutely nothing.

'You are pleased to be satirical at my expense.'

'I should not dare. Your detection of me would be so painfully
rapid.'

I was in no mood for jangling. I turned a little away from her.
Immediately she was at my elbow.

'Mr Atherton?'

'Miss Grayling.'

'Are you cross with me?'

'Why should I be? If it pleases you to laugh at my stupidity you
are completely justified.'

'But you are not stupid.'

'No?—Nor you satirical.'

'You are not stupid,—you know you are not stupid; it was only
stupidity on my part to pretend that you were.'

'It is very good of you to say so.—But I fear that I am an
indifferent host. Although you would not care for an illustration,
there may be other things which you might find amusing.'

'Why do you keep on snubbing me?'

'I keep on snubbing you!'

'You are always snubbing me,—you know you are. Some times I feel
as if I hated you.'

'Miss Grayling!'

'I do! I do! I do!'

'After all, it is only natural.'

'That is how you talk,—as if I were a child, and you were,—oh I
don't know what.—Well, Mr Atherton, I am sorry to be obliged to
leave you. I have enjoyed my visit very much. I only hope I have
not seemed too intrusive.'

She flounced—'flounce' was the only appropriate word!—out of the
room before I could stop her. I caught her in the passage.

'Miss Grayling, I entreat you—'

'Pray do not entreat me, Mr Atherton.' Standing still she turned
to me. 'I would rather show myself to the door as I showed myself
in, but, if that is impossible, might I ask you not to speak to me
between this and the street?'

The hint was broad enough, even for me. I escorted her through the
hall without a word,—in perfect silence she shook the dust of my
abode from off her feet.

I had made a pretty mess of things. I felt it as I stood on the
top of the steps and watched her going,—she was walking off at
four miles an hour; I had not even ventured to ask to be allowed
to call a hansom.

It was beginning to occur to me that this was a case in which
another blow upon the river might be, to say the least of it,
advisable—and I was just returning into the house with the
intention of putting myself into my flannels, when a cab drew up,
and old Lindon got out of it.

Mr Lindon was excited,—there is no mistaking it when he is,
because with him excitement means perspiration, and as soon as he
was out of the cab he took off his hat and began to wipe the
lining.

'Atherton, I want to speak to you—most particularly—somewhere in
private.'

I took him into my laboratory. It is my rule to take no one there;
it is a workshop, not a playroom,—the place is private; but,
recently, my rules had become dead letters. Directly he was
inside, Lindon began puffing and stewing, wiping his forehead,
throwing out his chest, as if he were oppressed by a sense of his
own importance. Then he started off talking at the top of his
voice,—and it is not a low one either.

'Atherton, I—I've always looked on you as a—a kind of a son.'

'That's very kind of you.'

'I've always regarded you as a—a level-headed fellow; a man from
whom sound advice can be obtained when sound advice—is—is most
to be desired.'

'That also is very kind of you.'

'And therefore I make no apology for coming to you at—at what may
be regarded as a—a strictly domestic crisis; at a moment in the
history of the Lindons when delicacy and common sense are—are
essentially required.'

This time I contented myself with nodding. Already I perceived
what was coming; somehow, when I am with a man I feel so much more
clear-headed than I do when I am with a woman,—realise so much
better the nature of the ground on which I am standing.

'What do you know of this man Lessingham?'

I knew it was coming.

'What all the world knows.'

'And what does all the world know of him?—I ask you that! A
flashy, plausible, shallow-pated, carpet-bagger,—that is what all
the world knows of him. The man's a political adventurer,—he
snatches a precarious, and criminal, notoriety, by trading on the
follies of his fellow-countrymen. He is devoid of decency,
destitute of principle, and impervious to all the feelings of a
gentleman. What do you know of him besides this?'

'I am not prepared to admit that I do know that.'

'Oh yes you do!—don't talk nonsense!—you choose to screen the
fellow! I say what I mean,—I always have said, and I always shall
say.—What do you know of him outside politics,—of his family—of
his private life?'

'Well,—not very much.'

'Of course you don't!—nor does anybody else! The man's a
mushroom,—or a toadstool, rather!—sprung up in the course of a
single night, apparently out of some dirty ditch.—Why, sir, not
only is he without ordinary intelligence, he is even without a
Brummagen substitute for manners.'

He had worked himself into a state of heat in which his
countenance presented a not too agreeable assortment of scarlets
and purples. He flung himself into a chair, threw his coat wide
open, and his arms too, and started off again.

'The family of the Lindons is, at this moment, represented by a—a
young woman,—by my daughter, sir. She represents me, and it's her
duty to represent me adequately—adequately, sir! And what's more,
between ourselves, sir, it's her duty to marry. My property's my
own, and I wouldn't have it pass to either of my confounded
brothers on any account. They're next door to fools, and—and they
don't represent me in any possible sense of the word. My daughter,
sir, can marry whom she pleases,—whom she pleases! There's no one
in England, peer or commoner, who would not esteem it an honour to
have her for his wife—I've told her so,—yes, sir, I've told her,
though you—you'd think that she, of all people in the world,
wouldn't require telling. Yet what do you think she does? She—she
actually carries on what I—I can't help calling a—a compromising
acquaintance with this man Lessingham!'

'No!'

'But I say yes!—and I wish to heaven I didn't. I—I've warned her
against the scoundrel more than once; I—I've told her to cut him
dead. And yet, as—as you saw yourself, last night, in—in the
face of the assembled House of Commons, after that twaddling clap-
trap speech of his, in which there was not one sound sentiment,
nor an idea which—which would hold water, she positively went
away with him, in—in the most ostentatious and—and disgraceful
fashion, on—on his arm, and—and actually snubbed her father.—It
is monstrous that a parent—a father!—should be subjected to such
treatment by his child.'

The poor old boy polished his brow with his pocket-handkerchief.

'When I got home I—I told her what I thought of her, I promise
you that,—and I told her what I thought of him,—I didn't mince
my words with her. There are occasions when plain speaking is
demanded,—and that was one. I positively forbade her to speak to
the fellow again, or to recognise him if she met him in the
street. I pointed out to her, with perfect candour, that the
fellow was an infernal scoundrel,—that and nothing else!—and
that he would bring disgrace on whoever came into contact with
him, even with the end of a barge pole.—And what do you think she
said?'

'She promised to obey you, I make no doubt.'

'Did she, sir!—By gad, did she!—That shows how much you know
her!—She said, and, by gad, by her manner, and—and the way she
went on, you'd—you'd have thought that she was the parent and I
was the child—she said that I—I grieved her, that she was
disappointed in me, that times have changed,—yes, sir, she said
that times have changed!—that, nowadays, parents weren't Russian
autocrats—no, sir, not Russian autocrats!—that—that she was
sorry she couldn't oblige me,—yes, sir, that was how she put it,
—she was sorry she couldn't oblige me, but it was altogether out
of the question to suppose that she could put a period to a
friendship which she valued, simply on account of-of my
unreasonable prejudices,—and—and—and, in short, she—she told
me to go the devil, sir!'

'And did you—'

I was on the point of asking him if he went,—but I checked myself
in time.

'Let us look at the matter as men of the world. What do you know
against Lessingham, apart from his politics?'

'That's just it,—I know nothing.'

'In a sense, isn't that in his favour?'

'I don't see how you make that out. I—I don't mind telling you
that I—I've had inquiries made. He's not been in the House six
years—this is his second Parliament—he's jumped up like a Jack-
in-the-box. His first constituency was Harwich—they've got him
still, and much good may he do 'em!—but how he came to stand for
the place,—or who, or what, or where he was before he stood for
the place, no one seems to have the faintest notion.'

'Hasn't he been a great traveller?'

'I never heard of it.'

'Not in the East?'

'Has he told you so?'

'No,—I was only wondering, Well, it seems to me that to find out
that nothing is known against him is something in his favour!'

'My dear Sydney, don't talk nonsense. What it proves is simply,—
that he's a nothing and a nobody. Had he been anything or anyone,
something would have been known about him, either for or against.
I don't want my daughter to marry a man who—who—who's shot up
through a trap, simply because nothing is known against him. Ha-
hang me, if I wouldn't ten times sooner she should marry you.'

When he said that, my heart leaped in my bosom. I had to turn
away.

'I am afraid that is out of the question.'

He stopped in his tramping, and looked at me askance.

'Why?'

I felt that, if I was not careful, I should be done for,—and,
probably, in his present mood, Marjorie too.

'My dear Lindon, I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for
your suggestion, but I can only repeat that—unfortunately,
anything of the kind is out of the question.'

'I don't see why.'

'Perhaps not.'

'You—you're a pretty lot, upon my word!'

'I'm afraid we are.'

'I—I want you to tell her that Lessingham is a damned scoundrel.'

'I see.—But I would suggest that if I am to use the influence
with which you credit me to the best advantage, or to preserve a
shred of it, I had hardly better state the fact quite so bluntly
as that.'

'I don't care how you state it,—state it as you like. Only—only
I want you to soak her mind with a loathing of the fellow; I—I—I
want you to paint him in his true colours; in—in—in fact, I—I
want you to choke him off.'