The Beetle: A Mystery, Richard Marsh [chromebook ebook reader .TXT] 📗

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.

CHAPTER XXII.
THE HAUNTED MAN

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?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Your manner seems a little singular.’

‘You think so?’

‘I do.’

‘What have you come to see me about?’

‘Just now, nothing.—I like to know where I stand.’

His manner was courteous, easy, even graceful. I was outmanoeuvred. I understood the man sufficiently well to be aware that when once he was on the defensive, the first blow would have to come from me. So I struck it.

‘I, also, like to know where I stand.—Lessingham, I am aware, and you know that I am aware, that you have made certain overtures to Miss Lindon. That is a fact in which I am keenly interested.’

‘As—how?’

‘The Lindons and the Athertons are not the acquaintances of one generation only. Marjorie Lindon and I have been friends since childhood. She looks upon me as a brother—’

‘As a brother?’

‘As a brother.’

‘Yes.’

‘Mr Lindon regains me as a son. He has given me his confidence; as I believe you are aware, Marjorie has given me hers; and now I want you to give me yours.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘I wish to explain my position before I say what I have to say, because I want you to understand me clearly.—I believe, honestly, that the thing I most desire in this world is to see Marjorie Lindon happy. If I thought she would be happy with you, I should say, God speed you both! and I should congratulate you with all my heart, because I think that you would have won the best girl in the whole world to be your wife.’

‘I think so too.’

‘But, before I did that, I should have to see, at least, some reasonable probability that she would be happy with you.’

‘Why should she not?’

‘Will you answer a question?’

‘What is the question?’

‘What is the story in your life of which you stand in such hideous terror?’

There was a perceptible pause before he answered.

‘Explain yourself.’

‘No explanation is needed,—you know perfectly well what I mean.’

‘You credit me with miraculous acumen.’

‘Don’t juggle, Lessingham,—be frank!’

‘The frankness should not be all on one side.—There is that in your frankness, although you may be unconscious of it, which some men might not unreasonably resent.’

‘Do you resent it?’

‘That depends. If you are arrogating to yourself the right to place yourself between Miss Lindon and me, I do resent it, strongly.’

‘Answer my question!’

‘I answer no question which is addressed to me in such a tone.’

He was as calm as you please. I recognised that already I was in peril of losing my temper,—which was not at all what I desired. I eyed him intently, he returning me look for look. His countenance betrayed no sign of a guilty conscience; I had not seen him more completely at his ease. He smiled,—facially, and also, as it seemed to me, a little derisively. I am bound to admit that his bearing showed not the faintest shadow of resentment, and that in his eyes there was a gentleness, a softness, which I had not observed in them before,—I could almost have suspected him of being sympathetic.

‘In this matter, you must know, I stand in the place of Mr Lindon.’

‘Well?’

‘Surely you must understand that before anyone is allowed to think of marriage with Marjorie Lindon he will have to show that his past, as the advertisements have it, will bear the fullest investigation.’

‘Is that so?—Will your past bear the fullest investigation?’

I