The Beetle (9 page)

All the time that he was reading he kept emitting sounds, more
resembling yelps and snarls than anything more human,—like some
savage beast nursing its pent-up rage. When he had made an end of
reading,—for the season,—he let his passion have full vent.

'So!—That is what his dear love has found it in her heart to
write Paul Lessingham!—Paul Lessingham!'

Pen cannot describe the concentrated frenzy of hatred with which
the speaker dwelt upon the name,—it was demoniac.

'It is enough!—it is the end!—it is his doom! He shall be ground
between the upper and the nether stones in the towers of anguish,
and all that is left of him shall be cast on the accursed stream
of the bitter waters, to stink under the blood-grimed sun! And for
her—for Marjorie Lindon!—for his dear love!—it shall come to
pass that she shall wish that she was never born,—nor he!—and
the gods of the shadows shall smell the sweet incense of her
suffering!—It shall be! it shall be! It is I that say it,—even
I!'

In the madness of his rhapsodical frenzy I believe that he had
actually forgotten I was there. But, on a sudden, glancing aside,
he saw me, and remembered,—and was prompt to take advantage of an
opportunity to wreak his rage upon a tangible object.

'It is you!—you thief!—you still live!—to make a mock of one of
the children of the gods!'

He leaped, shrieking, off the bed, and sprang at me, clasping my
throat with his horrid hands, bearing me backwards on to the
floor; I felt his breath mingle with mine... ...and then God, in
His mercy, sent oblivion.

It was after our second waltz I did it. In the usual quiet
corner.—which, that time, was in the shadow of a palm in the
hall. Before I had got into my stride she checked me,—touching my
sleeve with her fan, turning towards me with startled eyes.

'Stop, please!'

But I was not to be stopped. Cliff Challoner passed, with Gerty
Cazell. I fancy that, as he passed, he nodded. I did not care. I
was wound up to go, and I went it. No man knows how he can talk
till he does talk,—to the girl he wants to marry. It is my
impression that I gave her recollections of the Restoration poets.
She seemed surprised,—not having previously detected in me the
poetic strain, and insisted on cutting in.

'Mr Atherton, I am so sorry.'

Then I did let fly.

'Sorry that I love you!—why? Why should you be sorry that you
have become the one thing needful in any man's eyes,—even in
mine? The one thing precious,—the one thing to be altogether
esteemed! Is it so common for a woman to come across a man who
would be willing to lay down his life for her that she should be
sorry when she finds him?'

'I did not know that you felt like this, though I confess that I
have had my—my doubts.'

'Doubts!—I thank you.'

'You are quite aware, Mr Atherton, that I like you very much.'

'Like me!—Bah!'

'I cannot help liking you,—though it may be "bah."'

'I don't want you to like me,—I want you to love me.'

'Precisely,—that is your mistake.'

'My mistake!—in wanting you to love me!—when I love you—'

'Then you shouldn't,—though I can't help thinking that you are
mistaken even there.'

'Mistaken!—in supposing that I love you!—when I assert and
reassert it with the whole force of my being! What do you want me
to do to prove I love you,—take you in my arms and crush you to
my bosom, and make a spectacle of you before every creature in the
place?'

'I'd rather you wouldn't, and perhaps you wouldn't mind not
talking quite so loud. Mr Challoner seems to be wondering what
you're shouting about.'

'You shouldn't torture me.'

She opened and shut her fan,—as she looked down at it I am
disposed to suspect that she smiled.

'I am glad we have had this little explanation, because, of
course, you are my friend.'

'I am not your friend.'

'Pardon me, you are.'

'I say I'm not,—if I can't be something else, I'll be no friend.'

She went on,—calmly ignoring me,—playing with her fan.

'As it happens, I am, just now, in rather a delicate position, in
which a friend is welcome.'

'What's the matter? Who's been worrying you,—your father?'

'Well,—he has not,—as yet; but he may be soon.'

'What's in the wind?'

'Mr Lessingham.'

She dropped her voice,—and her eyes. For the moment I did not
catch her meaning.

'What?'

'Your friend, Mr Lessingham.'

'Excuse me, Miss Lindon, but I am by no means sure that anyone is
entitled to call Mr Lessingham a friend of mine.'

'What!—Not when I am going to be his wife?'

That took me aback. I had had my suspicions that Paul Lessingham
was more with Marjorie than he had any right to be, but I had
never supposed that she could see anything desirable in a stick of
a man like that. Not to speak of a hundred and one other
considerations,—Lessingham on one side of the House, and her
father on the other; and old Lindon girding at him anywhere and
everywhere—with his high-dried Tory notions of his family
importance,—to say nothing of his fortune.

I don't know if I looked what I felt,—if I did, I looked
uncommonly blank.

'You have chosen an appropriate moment, Miss Lindon, to make to me
such a communication.'

She chose to disregard my irony.

'I am glad you think so, because now you will understand what a
difficult position I am in.'

'I offer you my hearty congratulations.'

'And I thank you for them, Mr Atherton, in the spirit in which
they are offered, because from you I know they mean so much.'

I bit my lip,—for the life of me I could not tell how she wished
me to read her words.

'Do I understand that this announcement has been made to me as one
of the public?'

'You do not. It is made to you, in confidence, as my friend,—as
my greatest friend; because a husband is something more than
friend.' My pulses tingled. 'You will be on my side?'

She had paused,—and I stayed silent.

'On your side,—or Mr Lessingham's?'

'His side is my side, and my side is his side;—you will be on our
side?'

'I am not sure that I altogether follow you.'

'You are the first I have told. When papa hears it is possible
that there will be trouble,—as you know. He thinks so much of you
and of your opinion; when that trouble comes I want you to be on
our side,—on my side.'

'Why should I?—what does it matter? You are stronger than your
father,—it is just possible that Lessingham is stronger than you;
together, from your father's point of view, you will be
invincible.'

'You are my friend,—are you not my friend?'

'In effect, you offer me an Apple of Sodom.'

'Thank you;—I did not think you so unkind.'

'And you,—are you kind? I make you an avowal of my love, and,
straightway, you ask me to act as chorus to the love of another.'

'How could I tell you loved me,—as you say! I had no notion. You
have known me all your life, yet you have not breathed a word of
it till now.'

'If I had spoken before?'

I imagine that there was a slight movement of her shoulders,—
almost amounting to a shrug.

'I do not know that it would have made any difference.—I do not
pretend that it would. But I do know this, I believe that you
yourself have only discovered the state of your own mind within
the last half-hour.'

If she had slapped my face she could not have startled me more. I
had no notion if her words were uttered at random, but they came
so near the truth they held me breathless. It was a fact that only
during the last few minutes had I really realised how things were
with me,—only since the end of that first waltz that the flame
had burst out in my soul which was now consuming me. She had read
me by what seemed so like a flash of inspiration that I hardly
knew what to say to her. I tried to be stinging.

'You flatter me, Miss Lindon, you flatter me at every point. Had
you only discovered to me the state of your mind a little sooner I
should not have discovered to you the state of mine at all.'

'We will consider it terra incognita.'

'Since you wish it.' Her provoking calmness stung me,—and the
suspicion that she was laughing at me in her sleeve. I gave her a
glimpse of the cloven hoof. 'But, at the same time, since you
assert that you have so long been innocent, I beg that you will
continue so no more. At least, your innocence shall be without
excuse. For I wish you to understand that I love you, that I have
loved you, that I shall love you. Any understanding you may have
with Mr Lessingham will not make the slightest difference. I warn
you, Miss Lindon, that, until death, you will have to write me
down your lover.'

She looked at me, with wide open eyes,—as if I almost frightened
her. To be frank, that was what I wished to do.

'Mr Atherton!'

'Miss Lindon?'

'That is not like you at all.'

'We seem to be making each other's acquaintance for the first
time.'

She continued to gaze at me with her big eyes,—which, to be
candid, I found it difficult to meet. On a sudden her face was
lighted by a smile,—which I resented.

'Not after all these years,—not after all these years! I know
you, and though I daresay you're not flawless, I fancy you'll be
found to ring pretty true.'

Her manner was almost sisterly,—elder-sisterly. I could have
shaken her. Hartridge coming to claim his dance gave me an
opportunity to escape with such remnants of dignity as I could
gather about me. He dawdled up,—his thumbs, as usual, in his
waistcoat pockets.

'I believe, Miss Lindon, this is our dance.'

She acknowledged it with a bow, and rose to take his arm. I got
up, and left her, without a word.

As I crossed the hall I chanced on Percy Woodville. He was in his
familiar state of fluster, and was gaping about him as if he had
mislaid the Koh-i-noor, and wondered where in thunder it had got
to. When he saw it was I he caught me by the arm.

'I say, Atherton, have you seen Miss Lindon?'

'I have.'

'No!—Have you?—By Jove!—Where? I've been looking for her all
over the place, except in the cellars and the attics,—and I was
just going to commence on them. This is our dance.'

'In that case, she's shunted you.'

'No!—Impossible!' His mouth went like an O,—and his eyes ditto,
his eyeglass clattering down on to his shirt front. 'I expect the
mistake's mine. Fact is, I've made a mess of my programme. It's
either the last dance, or this dance, or the next, that I've
booked with her, but I'm hanged if I know which. Just take a
squint at it, there's a good chap, and tell me which one you think
it is.'

I 'took a squint'—since he held the thing within an inch of my
nose I could hardly help it; one 'squint,' and that was enough—
and more. Some men's ball programmes are studies in impressionism,
Percy's seemed to me to be a study in madness. It was covered with
hieroglyphics, but what they meant, or what they did there anyhow,
it was absurd to suppose that I could tell,—I never put them
there!—Proverbially, the man's a champion hasher.

'I regret, my dear Percy, that I am not an expert in cuneiform
writing. If you have any doubt as to which dance is yours, you'd
better ask the lady,—she'll feel flattered.'

Leaving him to do his own addling I went to find my coat,—I
panted to get into the open air; as for dancing I felt that I
loathed it. Just as I neared the cloak-room someone stopped me. It
was Dora Grayling.

'Have you forgotten that this is our dance?'

I had forgotten,—clean. And I was not obliged by her remembering.
Though as I looked at her sweet, grey eyes, and at the soft
contours of her gentle face, I felt that I deserved well kicking.
She is an angel,—one of the best!—but I was in no mood for
angels. Not for a very great deal would I have gone through that
dance just then, nor, with Dora Grayling, of all women in the
world, would I have sat it out.—So I was a brute and blundered.

'You must forgive me, Miss Grayling, but—I am not feeling very
well, and—I don't think I'm up to any more dancing.—Good-night.'

The weather out of doors was in tune with my frame of mind,—I was
in a deuce of a temper, and it was a deuce of a night. A keen
north-east wind, warranted to take the skin right off you, was
playing catch-who-catch-can with intermittent gusts of blinding
rain. Since it was not fit for a dog to walk, none of your cabs
for me,—nothing would serve but pedestrian exercise.

So I had it.

I went down Park Lane,—and the wind and rain went with me,—also,
thoughts of Dora Grayling. What a bounder I had been,—and was! If
there is anything in worse taste than to book a lady for a dance,
and then to leave her in the lurch, I should like to know what
that thing is,—when found it ought to be made a note of. If any
man of my acquaintance allowed himself to be guilty of such a
felony in the first degree, I should cut him. I wished someone
would try to cut me,—I should like to see him at it.

It was all Marjorie's fault,—everything! past, present, and to
come. I had known that girl when she was in long frocks—I had, at
that period of our acquaintance, pretty recently got out of them;
when she was advanced to short ones; and when, once more, she
returned to long. And all that time,—well, I was nearly persuaded
that the whole of the time I had loved her. If I had not mentioned
it, it was because I had suffered my affection, 'like the worm, to
lie hidden in the bud,'—or whatever it is the fellow says.

At any rate, I was perfectly positive that if I had had the
faintest nation that she would ever seriously consider such a man
as Lessingham I should have loved her long ago. Lessingham! Why,
he was old enough to be her father,—at least he was a good many
years older than I was. And a wretched Radical! It is true that on
certain points I, also, am what some people would call a Radical,
—but not a Radical of the kind he is. Thank Heaven, no! No doubt I
have admired traits in his character, until I learnt this thing of
him. I am even prepared to admit that he is a man of ability,—in
his way! which is, emphatically, not mine. But to think of him in
connection with such a girl as Marjorie Lindon,—preposterous!
Why, the man's as dry as a stick,—drier! And cold as an iceberg.
Nothing but a politician, absolutely. He a lover!—how I could
fancy such a stroke of humour setting all the benches in a roar.
Both by education, and by nature, he was incapable of even playing
such a part; as for being the thing,—absurd! If you were to sink
a shaft from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, you
would find inside him nothing but the dry bones of parties and of
politics.