The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

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 cloakroom 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 northeast 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