The Beetle Richard Marsh (most romantic novels TXT) 📖

an one as that, sometimes, you should look as if you meant it.⁠—It is early⁠—I know it’s early, but afterwards I want you to come to lunch. I told aunt that I would bring you back with me.”

“You are much better to me than I deserve.”

“Perhaps.” A tone came into her voice which was almost pathetic. “I think that to some men women are almost better than they deserve. I don’t know why. I suppose it pleases them. It is odd.” There was a different intonation⁠—a dryness. “Have you forgotten what I came for?”

“Not a bit of it⁠—I am not quite the brute I seem. You came to see an illustration of that pleasant little fancy of mine for slaughtering my fellows. The fact is, I’m hardly in a mood for that just now⁠—I’ve been illustrating it too much already.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, for one thing it’s been murdering Lessingham’s cat.”

“Mr. Lessingham’s cat?”

“Then it almost murdered Percy Woodville.”

“Mr. Atherton!⁠—I wish you wouldn’t talk like that.”

“It’s a fact. It was a question of a little matter in a wrong place, and, if it hadn’t been for something very like a miracle, he’d be dead.”

“I wish you wouldn’t have anything to do with such things⁠—I hate them.”

I stared.

“Hate them?⁠—I thought you’d come to see an illustration.”

“And pray what was your notion of an illustration?”

“Well, another cat would have had to be killed, at least.”

“And do you suppose that I would have sat still while a cat was being killed for my⁠—edification?”

“It needn’t necessarily have been a cat, but something would have had to be killed⁠—how are you going to illustrate the death-dealing propensities of a weapon of that sort without it?”

“Is it possible that you imagine that I came here to see something killed?”

“Then for what did you come?”

I do not know what there was about the question which was startling, but as soon as it was out, she went a fiery red.

“Because I was a fool.”

I was bewildered. Either she had got out of the wrong side of bed, or I had⁠—or we both had. Here she was, assailing me, hammer and tongs, so far as I could see, for absolutely nothing.

“You are pleased to be satirical at my expense.”

“I should not dare. Your detection of me would be so painfully rapid.”

I was in no mood for jangling. I turned a little away from her. Immediately she was at my elbow.

“Mr. Atherton?”

“Miss Grayling.”

“Are you cross with me?”

“Why should I be? If it pleases you to laugh at my stupidity you are completely justified.”

“But you are not stupid.”

“No?⁠—Nor you satirical.”

“You are not stupid⁠—you know you are not stupid; it was only stupidity on my part to pretend that you were.”

“It is very good of you to say so.⁠—But I fear that I am an indifferent host. Although you would not care for an illustration, there may be other things which you might find amusing.”

“Why do you keep on snubbing me?”

“I keep on snubbing you!”

“You are always snubbing me⁠—you know you are. Sometimes I feel as if I hated you.”

“Miss Grayling!”

“I do! I do! I do!”

“After all, it is only natural.”

“That is how you talk⁠—as if I were a child, and you were⁠—oh I don’t know what.⁠—Well, Mr. Atherton, I am sorry to be obliged to leave you. I have enjoyed my visit very much. I only hope I have not seemed too intrusive.”

She flounced⁠—“flounce” was the only appropriate word!⁠—out of the room before I could stop her. I caught her in the passage.

“Miss Grayling, I entreat you⁠—”

“Pray do not entreat me, Mr. Atherton.” Standing still she turned to me. “I would rather show myself to the door as I showed myself in, but, if that is impossible, might I ask you not to speak to me between this and the street?”

The hint was broad enough, even for me. I escorted her through the hall without a word⁠—in perfect silence she shook the dust of my abode from off her feet.

I had made a pretty mess of things. I felt it as I stood on the top of the steps and watched her going⁠—she was walking off at four miles an hour; I had not even ventured to ask to be allowed to call a hansom.

It was beginning to occur to me that this was a case in which another blow upon the river might be, to say the least of it, advisable⁠—and I was just returning into the house with the intention of putting myself into my flannels, when a cab drew up, and old Lindon got out of it.

XX A Heavy Father

Mr. Lindon was excited⁠—there is no mistaking it when he is, because with him excitement means perspiration, and as soon as he was out of the cab he took off his hat and began to wipe the lining.

“Atherton, I want to speak to you⁠—most particularly⁠—somewhere in private.”

I took him into my laboratory. It is my rule to take no one there; it is a workshop, not a playroom⁠—the place is private; but, recently, my rules had become dead letters. Directly he was inside, Lindon began puffing and stewing, wiping his forehead, throwing out his chest, as if he were oppressed by a sense of his own importance. Then he started off talking at the top of his voice⁠—and it is not a low one either.

“Atherton, I⁠—I’ve always looked on you as a⁠—a kind of a son.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“I’ve always regarded you as a⁠—a levelheaded fellow; a man from whom sound advice can be obtained when sound advice⁠—is⁠—is most to be desired.”

“That also is very kind of you.”

“And therefore I make no apology for coming to you at⁠—at what may be regarded as a⁠—a strictly domestic crisis; at a moment in the history of the Lindons when delicacy and common sense are⁠—are essentially required.”

This time I contented myself with nodding. Already I perceived what was coming; somehow, when I am with a man I feel so much more clearheaded than I do when I am with a woman⁠—realise so much better