The Beetle (21 page)

She flung her arms about my neck, and pressed herself against me
in paroxysmal agitation. The violence of her emotion bade fair to
unman me too. It was so unlike Marjorie,—and I would have given
my life to save her from a toothache. She kept repeating her own
words,—as if she could not help it.

'Pray, Sydney, pray!'

At last I did as she wished me. At least, there is no harm in
praying,—I never heard of its bringing hurt to anyone. I repeated
aloud the Lord's Prayer,—the first time for I know not how long.
As the divine sentences came from my lips, hesitatingly enough, I
make no doubt, her tremors ceased. She became calmer. Until, as I
reached the last great petition, 'Deliver us from evil,' she
loosed her arms from about my neck, and dropped upon her knees,
close to my feet. And she joined me in the closing words, as a
sort of chorus.

'For Thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory, for ever and
ever. Amen.'

When the prayer was ended, we both of us were still. She with her
head bowed, and her hands clasped; and I with something tugging at
my heart-strings which I had not felt there for many and many a
year, almost as if it had been my mother's hand;—I daresay that
sometimes she does stretch out her hand, from her place among the
angels, to touch my heart-strings, and I know nothing of it all
the while.

As the silence still continued, I chanced to glance up, and there
was old Lindon peeping at us from his hiding-place behind the
screen. The look of amazed perplexity which was on his big red
face struck me with such a keen sense of the incongruous that it
was all I could do to keep from laughter Apparently the sight of
us did nothing to lighten the fog which was in his brain, for he
stammered out, in what was possibly intended for a whisper,

'Is—is she m-mad?'

The whisper,—if it was meant for a whisper—was more than
sufficiently audible to catch his daughter's ears. She started—
raised her head—sprang to her feet—turned—and saw her father.

'Papa!'

Immediately her sire was seized with an access of stuttering.

'W-w-what the d-devil's the—the m-m-meaning of this?'

Her utterance was clear enough,—I fancy her parent found it
almost painfully clear.

'Rather it is for me to ask, what is the meaning of this! Is it
possible, that, all the time, you have actually been concealed
behind that—screen?'

Unless I am mistaken the old gentleman cowered before the
directness of his daughter's gaze,—and endeavoured to conceal the
fact by an explosion of passion.

Do-don't you s-speak to me li-like that, you un-undutiful girl!
I—I'm your father!'

'You certainly are my father; though I was unaware until now that
my father was capable of playing the part of eavesdropper.'

Rage rendered him speechless,—or, at any rate, he chose to let us
believe that that was the determining cause of his continuing
silent. So Marjorie turned to me,—and, on the whole, I had rather
she had not. Her manner was very different from what it had been
just now,—it was more than civil, it was freezing.

'Am I to understand, Mr Atherton, that this has been done with
your cognisance? That while you suffered me to pour out my heart
to you unchecked, you were aware, all the time, that there was a
listener behind the screen?'

I became keenly aware, on a sudden, that I had borne my share in
playing her a very shabby trick,—I should have liked to throw old
Lindon through the window.

'The thing was not of my contriving. Had I had the opportunity I
would have compelled Mr Lindon to face you when you came in. But
your distress caused me to lose my balance. And you will do me the
justice to remember that I endeavoured to induce you to come with
me into another room.'

'But I do not seem to remember your hinting at there being any
particular reason why I should have gone.'

'You never gave me a chance.'

'Sydney!—I had not thought you would have played me such a
trick!'

When she said that—in such a tone!—the woman whom I loved!—I
could have hammered my head against the wall. The hound I was to
have treated her so scurvily!

Perceiving I was crushed she turned again to face her father,
cool, calm, stately;—she was, on a sudden, once more, the
Marjorie with whom I was familiar. The demeanour of parent and
child was in striking contrast. If appearances went for aught, the
odds were heavy that in any encounter which might be coming the
senior would suffer.

'I hope, papa, that you are going to tell me that there has been
some curious mistake, and that nothing was farther from your
intention than to listen at a keyhole. What would you have
thought—and said—if I had attempted to play the spy on you? And
I have always understood that men were so particular on points of
honour.'

Old Lindon was still hardly fit to do much else than splutter,—
certainly not qualified to chop phrases with this sharp-tongued
maiden.

'D-don't talk to me li-like that, girl!—I—I believe you're s-
stark mad!' He turned to me. 'W-what was that tomfoolery she was
talking to you about?'

'To what do you allude?'

'About a rub-rubbishing b-beetle, and g-goodness alone knows
what,—d-diseased and m-morbid imagination,—r-reared on the
literature of the gutter!—I never thought that a child of mine
could have s-sunk to such a depth!—Now, Atherton, I ask you to t-
tell me frankly,—what do you think of a child who behaves as she
has done? who t-takes a nameless vagabond into the house and con-
conceals his presence from her father? And m-mark the sequel! even
the vagabond warns her against the r-rascal Lessingham!—Now,
Atherton, tell me what you think of a girl who behaves like that?'
I shrugged my shoulders. 'I—I know very well what you d-do think
of her,—don't be afraid to say it out because she's present.'

'No; Sydney, don't be afraid.'

I saw that her eyes were dancing,—in a manner of speaking, her
looks brightened under the sunshine of her father's displeasure.

'Let's hear what you think of her as a—as a m-man of the world!'

'Pray, Sydney, do!'

'What you feel for her in your—your heart of hearts!'

'Yes, Sydney, what do you feel for me in your heart of hearts?'

The baggage beamed with heartless sweetness,—she was making a
mock of me. Her father turned as if he would have rent her.

'D-don't you speak until you're spoken to! Atherton, I—I hope I'm
not deceived in you; I—I hope you're the man I—I took you for;
that you're willing and—and ready to play the part of a-a-an
honest friend to this mis-misguided simpleton. T-this is not the
time for mincing words, it—it's the time for candid speech. Tell
this—this weak minded young woman, right out, whether this man
Lessingham is, or is not, a damned scoundrel.'

'Papa!—Do you really think that Sydney's opinion, or your
opinion, is likely to alter facts?'

'Do you hear, Atherton, tell this wretched girl the truth!'

'My dear Mr Lindon, I have already told you that I know nothing
either for or against Mr Lessingham except what is known to all
the world.'

'Exactly,—and all the world knows him to be a miserable
adventurer who is scheming to entrap my daughter.'

'I am bound to say, since you press me, that your language appears
to me to be unnecessarily strong.'

'Atherton, I—I'm ashamed of you!'

'You see, Sydney, even papa is ashamed of you; now you are outside
the pale.—My dear papa, if you will allow me to speak, I will
tell you what I know to be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing
but the truth.—That Mr Lessingham is a man with great gifts goes
without saying,—permit me, papa! He is a man of genius. He is a
man of honour. He is a man of the loftiest ambitions, of the
highest aims. He has dedicated his whole life to the improvement
of the conditions amidst which the less fortunate of his fellow
countrymen are at present compelled to exist. That seems to me to
be an object well worth having. He has asked me to share his life-
work, and I have told him that I will; when, and where, and how,
he wants me to. And I will. I do not suppose his life has been
free from peccadilloes. I have no delusion on the point. What
man's life has? Who among men can claim to be without sin? Even
the members of our highest families sometimes hide behind screens.
But I know that he is, at least, as good a man as I ever met, I am
persuaded that I shall never meet a better; and I thank God that I
have found favour in his eyes.—Good-bye, Sydney.—I suppose I
shall see you again, papa.'

With the merest inclination of her head to both of us she
straightway left the room. Lindon would have stopped her.

'S-stay, y-y-y-you—' he stuttered.

But I caught him by the arm.

'If you will be advised by me, you will let her go. No good
purpose will be served by a multiplication of words.'

'Atherton, I—I'm disappointed in you. You—you haven't behaved as
I expected. I—I haven't received from you the assistance which I
looked for.'

'My dear Lindon, it seems to me that your method of diverting the
young lady from the path which she has set herself to tread is
calculated to send her furiously along it.'

'C-confound the women! c-confound the women! I don't mind telling
you, in c-confidence, that at—at times, her mother was the devil,
and I'll be—I'll be hanged if her daughter isn't worse.—What was
the tomfoolery she was talking to you about? Is she mad?'

'No,—I don't think she's mad.'

'I never heard such stuff, it made my blood run cold to hear her.
What's the matter with the girl?'

'Well,—you must excuse my saying that I don't fancy you quite
understand women.'

'I—I don't,—and I—I—I don't want to either.'

I hesitated; then resolved on a taradiddle,—in Marjorie's
interest.

'Marjorie is high-strung,—extremely sensitive. Her imagination is
quickly aflame. Perhaps, last night, you drove her as far as was
safe. You heard for yourself how, in consequence, she suffered.
You don't want people to say you have driven her into a lunatic
asylum.'

'I—good heavens, no! I—I'll send for the doctor directly I get
home,—I—I'll have the best opinion in town.'

'You'll do nothing of the kind,—you'll only make her worse. What
you have to do is to be patient with her, and let her have peace.
—As for this affair of Lessingham's, I have a suspicion that it
may not be all such plain sailing as she supposes.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean nothing. I only wish you to understand that until you hear
from me again you had better let matters slide. Give the girl her
head.'

'Give the girl her head! H-haven't I—I g-given the g-girl her h-
head all her l-life!' He looked at his watch. 'Why, the day's half
gone!' He began scurrying towards the front door, I following at
his heels. 'I've got a committee meeting on at the club,—m-most
important! For weeks they've been giving us the worst food you
ever tasted in your life,—p-played havoc with my digestion, and
I—I'm going to tell them if—things aren't changed, they—they'll
have to pay my doctor's bills.—As for that man, Lessingham—'

As he spoke, he himself opened the hall door, and there, standing
on the step was 'that man Lessingham' himself. Lindon was a
picture. The Apostle was as cool as a cucumber. He held out his
hand.

'Good morning, Mr Lindon. What delightful weather we are having.'

Lindon put his hand behind his back,—and behaved as stupidly as
he very well could have done.

'You will understand, Mr Lessingham, that, in future, I don't know
you, and that I shall decline to recognise you anywhere; and that
what I say applies equally to any member of my family.'

With his hat very much on the back of his head he went down the
steps like an inflated turkeycock.

To have received the cut discourteous from his future father-in-
law might have been the most commonplace of incidents,—Lessingham
evinced not a trace of discomposure. So far as I could judge, he
took no notice of the episode whatever, behaving exactly as if
nothing had happened. He merely waited till Mr Lindon was well off
the steps; then, turning to me, he placidly observed,

'Interrupting you again, you see.—May I?'

The sight of him had set up such a turmoil in my veins, that, for
the moment, I could not trust myself to speak. I felt, acutely,
that an explanation with him was, of all things, the thing most to
be desired,—and that quickly. Providence could not have thrown
him more opportunely in the way. If, before he went away, we did
not understand each other a good deal more clearly, upon certain
points, the fault should not be mine. Without a responsive word,
turning on my heels, I led the way into the laboratory.

Whether he noticed anything peculiar in my demeanour, I could not
tell. Within he looked about him with that purely facial smile,
the sight of which had always engendered in me a certain distrust
of him.

'Do you always receive visitors in here?'

'By no means.'

'What is this?'

Stooping down, he picked up something from the floor. It was a
lady's purse,—a gorgeous affair, of crimson leather and gleaming
gold. Whether it was Marjorie's or Miss Grayling's I could not
tell. He watched me as I examined it.

'Is it yours?'

'No. It is not mine.'

Placing his hat and umbrella on one chair, he placed himself upon
another,—very leisurely. Crossing his legs, laying his folded
hands upon his knees, he sat and looked at me. I was quite
conscious of his observation; but endured it in silence, being a
little wishful that he should begin.

Presently he had, as I suppose, enough of looking at me, and
spoke.

'Atherton, what is the matter with you?—Have I done something to
offend you too?'