The Beetle, Richard Marsh [general ebook reader .txt] 📗

Rage rendered him speechless⁠—or, at any rate, he chose to let us believe that that was the determining cause of his continuing silence. 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 lifework, 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.⁠—Goodbye, Sydney.⁠—I suppose