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.
Mr Lindonwas 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 level-headed 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 clear-headed than I do when I am with a woman,—realise so much better the nature of the ground on which I am standing.
‘What do you know of this man Lessingham?’
I knew it was coming.
‘What all the world knows.’
‘And what does all the world know of him?—I ask you that! A flashy, plausible, shallow-pated, carpet-bagger,—that is what all the world knows of him. The man’s a political adventurer,—he snatches a precarious, and criminal, notoriety, by trading on the follies of his fellow-countrymen. He is devoid of decency, destitute of principle, and impervious to all the feelings of a gentleman. What do you know of him besides this?’
‘I am not prepared to admit that I do know that.’
‘Oh yes you do!—don’t talk nonsense!—you choose to screen the fellow! I say what I mean,—I always have said, and I always shall say.—What do you know of him outside politics,—of his family—of his private life?’
‘Well,—not very much.’
‘Of course you don’t!—nor does anybody else! The man’s a mushroom,—or a toadstool, rather!—sprung up in the course of a single night, apparently out of some dirty ditch.—Why, sir, not only is he without ordinary intelligence, he is even without a Brummagen substitute for manners.’
He had worked himself into a state of heat in which his countenance presented a not too agreeable assortment of scarlets and purples. He flung himself into a chair, threw his coat wide open, and his arms too, and started off again.
‘The family of the Lindons is, at this moment, represented by a—a young woman,—by my daughter, sir. She represents me, and it’s her duty to represent me adequately—adequately, sir! And what’s more, between ourselves, sir, it’s her duty to marry. My property’s my own, and I wouldn’t have it pass to either of my confounded brothers on any account. They’re next door to fools, and—and they don’t represent me in any possible sense of the word. My daughter, sir, can marry whom she pleases,—whom she pleases! There’s no one in England, peer or commoner, who would not esteem it an honour to have her for his wife—I’ve told her so,—yes, sir, I’ve told her, though you—you’d think that she, of all people in the world, wouldn’t require telling. Yet what do you think she does? She—she actually carries on what I—I can’t help calling a—a compromising acquaintance with this man Lessingham!’
‘No!’
‘But I say yes!—and I wish to heaven I didn’t. I—I’ve warned her against the scoundrel more than once; I—I’ve told her to cut him dead. And yet, as—as you saw yourself, last night, in—in the face of the assembled House of Commons, after that twaddling clap-trap speech of his, in which there was not one sound sentiment, nor an idea which—which would hold water, she positively went away with him, in—in the most ostentatious and—and disgraceful fashion, on—on his arm, and—and actually snubbed her father.—It is monstrous that a parent—a father!—should be subjected to such treatment by his child.’
The poor old boy polished his brow with his pocket-handkerchief.
‘When I got home I—I told her what I thought of her, I promise you that,—and I told her what I thought of him,—I didn’t mince my words with her. There are occasions when plain speaking is demanded,—and that was one. I positively forbade her to speak to the fellow again, or to recognise him if she met him in the street. I pointed out to her, with perfect candour, that the fellow was an infernal scoundrel,—that and nothing else!—and that he would bring disgrace on whoever came into contact with him, even with the end of a barge pole.—And what do you think she said?’
‘She promised to obey you, I make no doubt.’
‘Did she, sir!—By gad, did she!—That shows how much you know her!—She said, and, by gad, by her manner, and—and the way she went on, you’d—you’d have thought that she was the parent and I was the child—she said that I—I grieved her, that she was disappointed in me, that times have changed,—yes, sir, she said that times have changed!—that, nowadays, parents weren’t Russian autocrats—no, sir, not Russian autocrats!—that—that she was sorry she couldn’t oblige me,—yes, sir, that was how she put it,—she was sorry she couldn’t oblige me, but it was altogether out of the question to suppose that she could put a period to a friendship which she valued, simply on account of—of my unreasonable prejudices,—and—and—and, in short, she—she told me to go the devil, sir!’
‘And did you—’
I was on the point of asking him if he went,—but I checked myself in time.
‘Let us look at the matter as men of the world. What do you know against Lessingham, apart from his politics?’
‘That’s just it,—I know nothing.’
‘In a sense, isn’t that in his favour?’
‘I don’t see how you make that out. I—I don’t mind telling you that I—I’ve had inquiries made. He’s not been in the House six years—this is his second Parliament—he’s jumped up like a Jack-in-the-box. His first constituency was Harwich—they’ve got him still, and much good may he do ’em!—but how he came to stand for the place,—or who, or what, or where he was before he stood for the place, no one seems to have the faintest notion.’
‘Hasn’t he been a great traveller?’
‘I never heard of it.’
‘Not in the East?’
‘Has he told you so?’
‘No,—I was only wondering. Well, it seems to me that to find out that nothing is known against him is something in his favour!’
‘My dear Sydney, don’t talk nonsense. What it proves is simply,—that he’s a nothing and a nobody. Had he been anything or anyone, something would have been known about him, either for or against. I don’t want my daughter to marry a man who—who—who’s shot up through a trap, simply because nothing is known against him. Ha-hang me, if I wouldn’t ten times sooner she should marry you.’
When he said that, my heart leaped in my bosom. I had to turn away.
‘I am afraid that is out of the question.’
He stopped in his tramping, and looked at me askance.
‘Why?’
I felt that, if I was not careful, I should be done for,—and, probably, in his present mood, Marjorie too.
‘My dear Lindon, I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for your suggestion, but I can only repeat that—unfortunately, anything of the kind is out of the question.’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘Perhaps not.’
‘You—you’re a pretty lot, upon my word!’
‘I’m afraid we are.’
‘I—I want you to tell her that Lessingham is a damned scoundrel.’
‘I see.—But I would suggest that if I am to use the influence with which you credit me to the best advantage, or to preserve a shred of it, I had hardly better state the fact quite so bluntly as that.’
‘I don’t care how you state it,—state it as you like. Only—only I want you to soak her mind with a loathing of the fellow; I—I—I want you to paint him in his true colours; in—in—in fact, I—I want you to choke him off.’
While he still struggled with his words, and with the perspiration on his brow, Edwards entered. I turned to him.
‘What is it?’
‘Miss Lindon, sir, wishes to see you particularly, and at once.’
At that moment I found the announcement a trifle perplexing,—it delighted Lindon. He began to stutter and to stammer.
‘T-the very thing!—c-couldn’t have been better!—show her in here! H-hide me somewhere,—I don’t care where,—behind that screen! Y-you use your influence with her;—g-give her a good talking to;—t-tell her what I’ve told you; and at—at the critical moment I’ll come in, and then—then if we can’t manage her between us, it’ll be a wonder.’
The proposition staggered me.
‘But, my dear Mr Lindon, I fear that I cannot—’
He cut me short.
‘Here she comes!’
Ere I could stop him he was behind the screen,—I had not seen him move with such agility before!—and before I could expostulate Marjorie was in the room. Something which was in her bearing, in her face, in her eyes, quickened the beating of my pulses,—she looked as if something had come into her life, and taken the joy clean out of it.
‘Sydney!’ she cried, ‘I’m so glad that I can see you!’
She might be,—but, at that moment, I could scarcely assert that I was a sharer of her joy.
‘I told you that if trouble overtook me I should come to you, and—I’m in trouble now. Such strange trouble.’
So was I,—and in perplexity as well. An idea occurred to me,—I would outwit her eavesdropping father.
‘Come with me into the house,—tell me all about it there.’
She refused to budge.
‘No,—I will tell you all about it here.’ She looked about her,—as it struck me queerly. ‘This is just the sort of place in which to unfold a tale like mine. It looks uncanny.’
‘But—’
‘“But me no buts!” Sydney, don’t torture me,—let me stop here where I am,—don’t you see I’m haunted?’
She had seated herself. Now she stood up, holding her hands out in front of her in a state of extraordinary agitation, her manner as wild as her words.
‘Why are you staring at me like that? Do you think I’m mad?—I wonder if I’m going mad.—Sydney, do people suddenly go mad? You’re a bit of everything, you’re a bit of a doctor too, feel my pulse,—there it is!—tell me if I’m ill!’
I felt her pulse,—it did not need its swift beating to inform me that fever of some sort was in her veins. I gave her something in a glass. She held it up to the level of her eyes.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s a decoction of my own. You might not think it, but my brain sometimes gets into a whirl. I use it as a sedative. It will do you good.’
She drained the glass.
‘It’s done me good already,—I believe it has; that’s being something like a doctor.—Well, Sydney, the storm has almost burst. Last night papa forbade me to speak to Paul Lessingham—by way of a prelude.’
‘Exactly. Mr Lindon—’
‘Yes, Mr Lindon,—that’s papa. I fancy we almost quarrelled. I know papa said some surprising things,—but it’s a way he has,—he’s apt to say surprising things. He’s the best father in the world, but—it’s not in his nature to like a really clever person; your good high dried old Tory never can;—I’ve always thought that that’s why he’s so fond of you.’
‘Thank you. I presume that is the reason, though it had not occurred to me before.’
Since her entry, I had, to the best of my ability, been turning the position over in my mind. I came to the conclusion that, all things considered, her father had probably as much right to be a sharer of his daughter’s confidence as I had, even from the vantage of the screen,—and that for him to hear a few home truths proceeding from her lips might serve to clear the air. From such a clearance the lady would not be likely to come off worst. I had not the faintest inkling of what was the actual purport of her visit.
She started off, as it seemed to me, at a tangent.
‘Did I tell you last night about what took place yesterday morning,—about the adventure of my finding the man?’
‘Not a word.’
‘I believe I meant to,—I’m half disposed to think he’s brought me trouble. Isn’t there some superstition about evil befalling whoever shelters a homeless stranger?’
‘We’ll hope not, for humanity’s sake.’
‘I fancy there is,—I feel sure there is.—Anyhow, listen to my story. Yesterday morning, before breakfast,—to be accurate, between eight and nine, I looked out of the window, and I saw a crowd in the street. I sent Peter out to see what was the matter. He came back and said there was a man in a fit. I went out to look at the man in the fit. I found, lying on the ground, in the centre of the crowd, a man who, but for the tattered remnants of what had apparently once been a cloak, would have been stark naked. He was covered with dust, and dirt, and blood,—a dreadful sight. As you know, I have had my smattering of instruction in First Aid to the Injured, and that kind of thing, so, as no one else seemed to have any sense, and the man seemed as good as dead, I thought I would try my hand. Directly I knelt down beside him, what do you think he said?’
I WENT OUT TO LOOK AT THE MAN.
I WENT OUT TO LOOK AT THE MAN.
‘Thank you.’
‘Nonsense.—He said, in such a queer, hollow, croaking voice, “Paul Lessingham.” I was dreadfully startled. To hear a perfect stranger, a man in his condition, utter that name in such a fashion—to me, of all people in the world!—took me aback. The policeman who was holding his head remarked, “That’s the first time he’s opened his mouth. I thought he was dead.” He opened his mouth a second time. A convulsive movement went all over him, and he exclaimed, with the strangest earnestness, and so loudly that you might have heard him at the other end of the street, “Be warned, Paul Lessingham, be warned!” It was very silly of me, perhaps, but I cannot tell you how his words, and his manner—the two together—affected me.—Well, the long and the short of it was, that I had him taken into the house, and washed, and put to bed,—and I had the doctor sent for. The doctor could make nothing of it at all. He reported that the man seemed to be suffering from some sort of cataleptic seizure,—I could see that he thought it likely to turn out almost as interesting a case as I did.’
‘Did you acquaint your father with the addition to his household?’
She looked at me, quizzically.
‘You see, when one has such a father as mine one cannot tell him everything, at once. There are occasions on which one requires time.’
I felt that this would be wholesome hearing for old Lindon.
‘Last night, after papa and I had exchanged our little courtesies,—which, it is to be hoped, were to papa’s satisfaction, since they were not to be mine—I went to see the patient. I was told that he had neither eaten nor drunk, moved nor spoken. But, so soon as I approached his bed, he showed signs of agitation. He half raised himself upon his pillow, and he called out, as if he had been addressing some large assembly—I can’t describe to you the dreadful something which was in his voice, and on his face,—“Paul Lessingham!—Beware!—The Beetle!”’
When she said that, I was startled.
‘Are you sure those were the words he used?’
‘Quite sure. Do you think I could mistake them,—especially after what has happened since? I hear them singing in my ears,—they haunt me all the time.’
She put her hands up to her face, as if to veil something from her eyes. I was becoming more and more convinced that there was something about the Apostle’s connection with his Oriental friend which needed probing to the bottom.
‘What sort of a man is he to look at, this patient of yours?’
I had my doubts as to the gentleman’s identity,—which her words dissolved; only, however, to increase my mystification in another direction.
‘He seems to be between thirty and forty. He has light hair, and straggling sandy whiskers. He is so thin as to be nothing but skin and bone,—the doctor says it’s a case of starvation.’
‘You say he has light hair, and sandy whiskers. Are you sure the whiskers are real?’
She opened her eyes.
‘Of course they’re real. Why shouldn’t they be real?’
‘Does he strike you as being a—foreigner?’
‘Certainly not. He looks like an Englishman, and he speaks like one, and not, I should say, of the lowest class. It is true that there is a very curious, a weird, quality in his voice, what I have heard of it, but it is not un-English. If it is catalepsy he is suffering from, then it is a kind of catalepsy I never heard of. Have you ever seen a clairvoyant?’ I nodded. ‘He seems to me to be in a state of clairvoyance. Of course the doctor laughed when I told him so, but we know what doctors are, and I still believe that he is in some condition of the kind. When he said that last night he struck me as being under what those sort of people call “influence,” and that whoever had him under influence was forcing him to speak against his will, for the words came from his lips as if they had been wrung from him in agony.’
Knowing what I did know, that struck me as being rather a remarkable conclusion for her to have reached, by the exercise of her own unaided powers of intuition,—but I did not choose to let her know I thought so.
‘My dear Marjorie!—you who pride yourself on having your imagination so strictly under control!—on suffering it to take no errant flights!’
‘Is not the fact that I do so pride myself proof that I am not likely to make assertions wildly,—proof, at any rate, to you? Listen to me. When I left that unfortunate creature’s room,—I had had a nurse sent for, I left him in her charge—and reached my own bedroom, I was possessed by a profound conviction that some appalling, intangible, but very real danger, was at that moment threatening Paul.’
‘Remember,—you had had an exciting evening; and a discussion with your father. Your patient’s words came as a climax.’
‘That is what I told myself,—or, rather, that was what I tried to tell myself; because, in some extraordinary fashion, I had lost the command of my powers of reflection.’
‘Precisely.’
‘It was not precisely,—or, at least, it was not precisely in the sense you mean. You may laugh at me, Sydney, but I had an altogether indescribable feeling, a feeling which amounted to knowledge, that I was in the presence of the supernatural.’
‘Nonsense!’
‘It was not nonsense,—I wish it had been nonsense. As I have said, I was conscious, completely conscious, that some frightful peril was assailing Paul. I did not know what it was, but I did know that it was something altogether awful, of which merely to think was to shudder. I wanted to go to his assistance, I tried to, more than once; but I couldn’t, and I knew that I couldn’t,—I knew that I couldn’t move as much as a finger to help him.—Stop,—let me finish!—I told myself that it was absurd, but it wouldn’t do; absurd or not, there was the terror with me in the room. I knelt down, and I prayed, but the words wouldn’t come. I tried to ask God to remove this burden from my brain, but my longings wouldn’t shape themselves into words, and my tongue was palsied. I don’t know how long I struggled, but, at last, I came to understand that, for some cause, God had chosen to leave me to fight the fight alone. So I got up, and undressed, and went to bed,—and that was the worst of all. I had sent my maid away in the first rush of my terror, afraid, and, I think, ashamed, to let her see my fear. Now I would have given anything to summon her back again, but I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t even ring the bell. So, as I say, I got into bed.’
She paused, as if to collect her thoughts. To listen to her words, and to think of the suffering which they meant to her, was almost more than I could endure. I would have thrown away the world to have been able to take her in my arms, and soothe her fears. I knew her to be, in general, the least hysterical of young women; little wont to become the prey of mere delusions; and, incredible though it sounded, I had an innate conviction that, even in its wildest periods, her story had some sort of basis in solid fact. What that basis amounted to, it would be my business, at any and every cost, quickly to determine.
‘You know how you have always laughed at me because of my objection to—cockroaches, and how, in spring, the neighbourhood of May-bugs has always made me uneasy. As soon as I got into bed I felt that something of the kind was in the room.’
‘Something of what kind?’
‘Some kind of—beetle. I could hear the whirring of its wings; I could hear its droning in the air; I knew that it was hovering above my head; that it was coming lower and lower, nearer and nearer. I hid myself; I covered myself all over with the clothes,—then I felt it bumping against the coverlet. And, Sydney!’ She drew closer. Her blanched cheeks and frightened eyes made my heart bleed. Her voice became but an echo of itself. ‘It followed me.’
‘Marjorie!’
‘It got into the bed.’
‘You imagined it.’
‘I didn’t imagine it. I heard it crawl along the sheets, till it found a way between them, and then it crawled towards me. And I felt it—against my face.—And it’s there now.’
‘Where?’
She raised the forefinger of her left hand.
‘There!—Can’t you hear it droning?’
She listened, intently. I listened too. Oddly enough, at that instant the droning of an insect did become audible.
‘It’s only a bee, child, which has found its way through the open window.’
‘I wish it were only a bee, I wish it were.—Sydney, don’t you feel as if you were in the presence of evil? Don’t you want to get away from it, back into the presence of God?’
‘Marjorie!’
‘Pray, Sydney, pray!—I can’t!—I don’t know why, but I can’t!’
She flung her arms about my neck, and pressed herself against me in paroxysmal agitation. The violence of her emotion bade fair to unman me too. It was so unlike Marjorie,—and I would have given my life to save her from a toothache. She kept repeating her own words,—as if she could not help it.
‘Pray, Sydney, pray!’
At last I did as she wished me. At least, there is no harm in praying,—I never heard of its bringing hurt to anyone. I repeated aloud the Lord’s Prayer,—the first time for I know not how long. As the divine sentences came from my lips, hesitatingly enough, I make no doubt, her tremors ceased. She became calmer. Until, as I reached the last great petition, ‘Deliver us from evil,’ she loosed her arms from about my neck, and dropped upon her knees, close to my feet. And she joined me in the closing words, as a sort of chorus.
‘For Thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory, for ever and ever. Amen.’
When the prayer was ended, we both of us were still. She with her head bowed, and her hands clasped; and I with something tugging at my heart-strings which I had not felt there for many and many a year, almost as if it had been my mother’s hand;—I daresay that sometimes she does stretch out her hand, from her place among the angels, to touch my heart-strings, and I know nothing of it all the while.
As the silence still continued, I chanced to glance up, and there was old Lindon peeping at us from his hiding-place behind the screen. The look of amazed perplexity which was on his big red face struck me with such a keen sense of the incongruous that it was all I could do to keep from laughter. Apparently the sight of us did nothing to lighten the fog which was in his brain, for he stammered out, in what was possibly intended for a whisper,
‘Is—is she m-mad?’
The whisper,—if it was meant for a whisper—was more than sufficiently audible to catch his daughter’s ears. She started—raised her head—sprang to her feet—turned—and saw her father.
‘Papa!’
Immediately her sire was seized with an access of stuttering.
‘W-w-what the d-devil’s the—the m-m-meaning of this?’
Her utterance was clear enough,—I fancy her parent found it almost painfully clear.
‘Rather it is for me to ask, what is the meaning of this! Is it possible, that, all the time, you have actually been concealed behind that—screen?’
Unless I am mistaken the old gentleman cowered before the directness of his daughter’s gaze,—and endeavoured to conceal the fact by an explosion of passion.
‘Do-don’t you s-speak to me li-like that, you un-undutiful girl! I—I’m your father!’
‘You certainly are my father; though I was unaware until now that my father was capable of playing the part of eavesdropper.’
Rage rendered him speechless,—or, at any rate, he chose to let us believe that that was the determining cause of his continuing silent. 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 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.
Tohave 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 regards 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 winced.
‘At any rate, it is known to all the world.’
‘Is it?—Forgive me if I say, I doubt it. I doubt if, of any wise man, that can be said with truth. In all our lives there are episodes which we keep to ourselves.’
I felt that that was so true that, for the instant, I hardly knew what to say.
‘But there are episodes and episodes, and when it comes to a man being haunted one draws the line.’
‘Haunted?’
‘As you are.’
He got up.
‘Atherton, I think that I understand you, but I fear that you do not understand me.’ He went to where a self-acting mercurial air-pump was standing on a shelf. ‘What is this curious arrangement of glass tubes and bulbs?’
‘I do not think that you do understand me, or you would know that I am in no mood to be trifled with.’
‘Is it some kind of an exhauster?’
‘My dear Lessingham, I am entirely at your service. I intend to have an answer to my question before you leave this room, but, in the meanwhile, your convenience is mine. There are some very interesting things here which you might care to see.’
‘Marvellous, is it not, how the human intellect progresses,—from conquest unto conquest.’
‘Among the ancients the progression had proceeded farther than with us.’
‘In what respect?’
‘For instance, in the affair of the Apotheosis of the Beetle;—I saw it take place last night.’
‘Where?’
‘Here,—within a few feet of where you are standing.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘What did you see?’
‘I saw the legendary Apotheosis of the Beetle performed, last night, before my eyes, with a gaudy magnificence at which the legends never hinted.’
‘That is odd. I once thought that I saw something of the kind myself.’
‘So I understand.’
‘From whom?’
‘From a friend of yours.’
‘From a friend of mine?—Are you sure it was from a friend of mine?’
The man’s attempt at coolness did him credit,—but it did not deceive me. That he thought I was endeavouring to bluff him out of his secret I perceived quite clearly; that it was a secret which he would only render with his life I was beginning to suspect. Had it not been for Marjorie, I should have cared nothing,—his affairs were his affairs; though I realised perfectly well that there was something about the man which, from the scientific explorer’s point of view, might be well worth finding out. Still, as I say, if it had not been for Marjorie, I should have let it go; but, since she was so intimately concerned in it, I wondered more and more what it could be.
My attitude towards what is called the supernatural is an open one. That all things are possible I unhesitatingly believe,—I have, even in my short time, seen so many so-called impossibilities proved possible. That we know everything, I doubt;—that our great-great-great-great-grandsires, our forebears of thousands of years ago, of the extinct civilisations, knew more on some subjects than we do, I think is, at least, probable. All the legends can hardly be false.
Because men claimed to be able to do things in those days which we cannot do, and which we do not know how they did, we profess to think that their claims are finally dismissed by exclaiming—lies! But it is not so sure.
For my part, what I had seen I had seen. I had seen some devil’s trick played before my very eyes. Some trick of the same sort seemed to have been played upon my Marjorie,—I repeat that I write ‘my Marjorie’ because, to me, she will always be ‘my’ Marjorie! It had driven her half out of her senses. As I looked at Lessingham, I seemed to see her at his side, as I had seen her not long ago, with her white, drawn face, and staring eyes, dumb with an agony of fear. Her life was bidding fair to be knit with his,—what Upas tree of horror was rooted in his very bones? The thought that her sweet purity was likely to be engulfed in a devil’s slough in which he was wallowing was not to be endured. As I realised that the man was more than my match at the game which I was playing—in which such vital interests were at stake!—my hands itched to clutch him by the throat, and try another way.
Doubtless my face revealed my feelings, because, presently, he said,
‘Are you aware how strangely you are looking at me, Atherton? Were my countenance a mirror I think you would be surprised to see in it your own.’
I drew back from him,—I daresay, sullenly.
‘Not so surprised as, yesterday morning, you would have been to have seen yours,—at the mere sight of a pictured scarab.’
‘How easily you quarrel.’
‘I do not quarrel.’
‘Then perhaps it’s I. If that is so, then, at once, the quarrel’s ended,—pouf! it’s done. Mr Lindon, I fear, because, politically, we differ, regards me as anathema. Has he put some of his spirit into you?—You are a wiser man.’
‘I am aware that you are an adept with words. But this is a case in which words only will not serve.’
‘Then what will serve?’
‘I am myself beginning to wonder.’
‘And I.’
‘As you so courteously suggest, I believe I am wiser than Lindon. I do not care for your politics, or for what you call your politics, one fig. I do not care if you are as other men are, as I am,—not unspotted from the world! But I do care if you are leprous. And I believe you are.’
‘Atherton!’
‘Ever since I have known you I have been conscious of there being something about you which I found it difficult to diagnose;—in an unwholesome sense, something out of the common, non-natural; an atmosphere of your own. Events, so far as you are concerned, have, during the last few days moved quickly. They have thrown an uncomfortably lurid light on that peculiarity of yours which I have noticed. Unless you can explain them to my satisfaction, you will withdraw your pretensions to Miss Lindon’s hand, or I shall place certain facts before that lady, and, if necessary, publish them to the world.’
He grew visibly paler but he smiled—facially.
‘You have your own way of conducting a conversation, Mr Atherton.—What are the events to whose rapid transit you are alluding?’
‘Who was the individual, practically stark naked, who came out of your house, in such singular fashion, at dead of night?’
‘Is that one of the facts with which you propose to tickle the public ear?’
‘Is that the only explanation which you have to offer?’
‘Proceed, for the present, with your indictment.’
‘I am not so unobservant as you appear to imagine. There were features about the episode which struck me forcibly at the time, and which have struck me more forcibly since. To suggest, as you did yesterday morning, that it was an ordinary case of burglary, or that the man was a lunatic, is an absurdity.’
‘Pardon me,—I did nothing of the kind.’
‘Then what do you suggest?’
‘I suggested, and do suggest, nothing. All the suggestions come from you.’
‘You went very much out of your way to beg me to keep the matter quiet. There is an appearance of suggestion about that.’
‘You take a jaundiced view of all my actions, Mr Atherton. Nothing, to me, could seem more natural.—However,—proceed.’
He had his hands behind his back, and rested them on the edge of the table against which he was leaning. He was undoubtedly ill at ease; but so far I had not made the impression on him, either mentally or morally, which I desired.
‘Who is your Oriental friend?’
‘I do not follow you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I am certain. Repeat your question.’
‘Who is your Oriental friend?’
‘I was not aware that I had one.’
‘Do you swear that?’
He laughed, a strange laugh.
‘Do you seek to catch me tripping? You conduct your case with too much animus. You must allow me to grasp the exact purport of your inquiry before I can undertake to reply to it on oath.’
‘Are you not aware that at present there is in London an individual who claims to have had a very close, and a very curious, acquaintance with you in the East?’
‘I am not.’
‘That you swear?’
‘That I do swear.’
‘That is singular.’
‘Why is it singular?’
‘Because I fancy that that individual haunts you.’
‘Haunts me?’
‘Haunts you.’
‘You jest.’
‘You think so?—You remember that picture of the scarabaeus which, yesterday morning, frightened you into a state of semi-idiocy.’
‘You use strong language.—I know what you allude to.’
‘Do you mean to say that you don’t know that you were indebted for that to your Oriental friend?’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Certainly I am sure.—It occurs to me, Mr Atherton, that an explanation is demanded from you rather than from me. Are you aware that the purport of my presence here is to ask you how that picture found its way into your room?’
‘It was projected by the Lord of the Beetle.’
The words were chance ones,—but they struck a mark.
‘The Lord—’ He faltered,—and stopped. He showed signs of discomposure. ‘I will be frank with you,—since frankness is what you ask.’ His smile, that time, was obviously forced. ‘Recently I have been the victim of delusions;’ there was a pause before the word, ‘of a singular kind. I have feared that they were the result of mental overstrain. Is it possible that you can enlighten me as to their source?’
I was silent. He was putting a great strain upon himself, but the twitching of his lips betrayed him. A little more, and I should reach the other side of Mr Lessingham,—the side which he kept hidden from the world.
‘Who is this—individual whom you speak of as my—Oriental friend?’
‘Being your friend, you should know better than I do.’
‘What sort of man is he to look at?’
‘I did not say it was a man.’
‘But I presume it is a man.’
‘I did not say so.’
He seemed, for a moment, to hold his breath,—and he looked at me with eyes which were not friendly. Then, with a display of self-command which did him credit, he drew himself upright, with an air of dignity which well became him.
‘Atherton, consciously, or unconsciously, you are doing me a serious injustice. I do not know what conception it is which you have formed of me, or on what the conception is founded, but I protest that, to the best of my knowledge and belief, I am as reputable, as honest, and as clean a man as you are.’
‘But you’re haunted.’
‘Haunted?’ He held himself erect, looking me straight in the face. Then a shiver went all over him; the muscles of his mouth twitched; and, in an instant, he was livid. He staggered against the table. ‘Yes, God knows it’s true,—I’m haunted.’
‘So either you’re mad, and therefore unfit to marry; or else you’ve done something which places you outside the tolerably generous boundaries of civilised society, and are therefore still more unfit to marry. You’re on the horns of a dilemma.’
‘I—I’m the victim of a delusion.’
‘What is the nature of the delusion? Does it take the shape of a—beetle?’
‘Atherton!’
Without the slightest warning, he collapsed,—was transformed; I can describe the change which took place in him in no other way. He sank in a heap on the floor; he held up his hands above his head; and he gibbered,—like some frenzied animal. A more uncomfortable spectacle than he presented it would be difficult to find. I have seen it matched in the padded rooms of lunatic asylums, but nowhere else. The sight of him set every nerve of my body on edge.
‘In Heaven’s name, what is the matter with you, man? Are you stark, staring mad? Here,—drink this!’
Filling a tumbler with brandy, I forced it between his quivering fingers. Then it was some moments before I could get him to understand what it was I wanted him to do. When he did get the glass to his lips, he swallowed its contents as if they were so much water. By degrees his senses returned to him. He stood up. He looked about him, with a smile which was positively ghastly.
‘It’s—it’s a delusion.’
‘It’s a very queer kind of a delusion, if it is.’
I eyed him, curiously. He was evidently making the most strenuous efforts to regain his self-control,—all the while with that horrible smile about his lips.
‘Atherton, you—you take me at an advantage.’ I was still. ‘Who—who’s your Oriental friend?’
‘My Oriental friend?—you mean yours. I supposed, at first, that the individual in question was a man; but it appears that she’s a woman.’
‘A woman?—Oh.—How do you mean?’
‘Well, the face is a man’s—of an uncommonly disagreeable type, of which the powers forbid that there are many!—and the voice is a man’s,—also of a kind!—but the body, as, last night, I chanced to discover, is a woman’s.’
‘That sounds very odd.’ He closed his eyes. I could see that his cheeks were clammy. ‘Do you—do you believe in witchcraft?’
‘That depends.’
‘Have you heard of Obi?’
‘I have.’
‘I have been told that an Obeah man can put a spell upon a person which compels a person to see whatever he—the Obeah man—may please. Do you think that’s possible?’
‘It is not a question to which I should be disposed to answer either yes or no.’
He looked at me out of his half-closed eyes. It struck me that he was making conversation,—saying anything for the sake of gaining time.
‘I remember reading a book entitled “Obscure Diseases of the Brain.” It contained some interesting data on the subject of hallucinations.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Now, candidly, would you recommend me to place myself in the hands of a mental pathologist?’
‘I don’t think that you’re insane, if that’s what you mean.’
‘No?—That is good hearing. Of all diseases insanity is the most to be dreaded.—Well, Atherton, I’m keeping you. The truth is that, insane or not, I am very far from well. I think I must give myself a holiday.’
He moved towards his hat and umbrella.
‘There is something else which you must do.’
‘What is that?’
‘You must resign your pretensions to Miss Lindon’s hand.’
‘My dear Atherton, if my health is really failing me, I shall resign everything,—everything!’
He repeated his own word with a little movement of his hands which was pathetic.
‘Understand me, Lessingham. What else you do is no affair of mine. I am concerned only with Miss Lindon. You must give me your definite promise, before you leave this room, to terminate your engagement with her before to-night.’
His back was towards me.
‘There will come a time when your conscience will prick you because of your treatment of me; when you will realise that I am the most unfortunate of men.’
‘I realise that now. It is because I realise it that I am so desirous that the shadow of your evil fortune shall not fall upon an innocent girl.’
He turned.
‘Atherton, what is your actual position with reference to Marjorie Lindon?’
‘She regards me as a brother.’
‘And do you regard her as a sister? Are your sentiments towards her purely fraternal?’
‘You know that I love her.’
‘And do you suppose that my removal will clear the path for you?’
‘I suppose nothing of the kind. You may believe me or not, but my one desire is for her happiness, and surely, if you love her, that is your desire too.’
‘That is so.’ He paused. An expression of sadness stole over his face of which I had not thought it capable. ‘That is so to an extent of which you do not dream. No man likes to have his hand forced, especially by one whom he regards—may I say it?—as a possible rival. But I will tell you this much. If the blight which has fallen on my life is likely to continue, I would not wish,—God forbid that I should wish to join her fate with mine,—not for all that the world could offer me.’
He stopped. And I was still. Presently he continued.
‘When I was younger I was subject to a—similar delusion. But it vanished,—I saw no trace of it for years,—I thought that I had done with it for good. Recently, however, it has returned,—as you have witnessed. I shall institute inquiries into the cause of its reappearance; if it seems likely to be irremovable, or even if it bids fair to be prolonged, I shall not only, as you phrase it, withdraw my pretensions to Miss Lindon’s hand, but to all my other ambitions. In the interim, as regards Miss Lindon I shall be careful to hold myself on the footing of a mere acquaintance.’
‘You promise me?’
‘I do.—And on your side, Atherton, in the meantime, deal with me more gently. Judgment in my case has still to be given. You will find that I am not the guilty wretch you apparently imagine. And there are few things more disagreeable to one’s self-esteem than to learn, too late, that one has persisted in judging another man too harshly. Think of all that the world has, at this moment, to offer me, and what it will mean if I have to turn my back on it,—owing to a mischievous twist of fortune’s wheel.’
He turned, as if to go. Then stopped, and looked round, in an attitude of listening.
‘What’s that?’
There was a sound of droning,—I recalled what Marjorie had said of her experiences of the night before, it was like the droning of a beetle. The instant the Apostle heard it, the fashion of his countenance began to change,—it was pitiable to witness. I rushed to him.
‘Lessingham!—don’t be a fool!—play the man!’
He gripped my left arm with his right hand till it felt as if it were being compressed in a vice.
‘Then—I shall have to have some more brandy.’
Fortunately the bottle was within reach from where I stood, otherwise I doubt if he would have released my arm to let me get at it. I gave him the decanter and the glass. He helped himself to a copious libation. By the time that he had swallowed it the droning sound had gone. He put down the empty tumbler.
‘When a man has to resort to alcohol to keep his nerves up to concert pitch, things are in a bad way with him, you may be sure of that,—but then you have never known what it is to stand in momentary expectation of a tête-à-tête with the devil.’
Again he turned to leave the room,—and this time he actually went. I let him go alone. I heard his footsteps passing along the passage, and the hall-door close. Then I sat in an arm-chair, stretched my legs out in front of me, thrust my hands in my trouser pockets, and—I wondered.
I had been there, perhaps, four or five minutes, when there was a slight noise at my side. Glancing round, I saw a sheet of paper come fluttering through the open window. It fell almost at my feet. I picked it up. It was a picture of a beetle,—a facsimile of the one which had had such an extraordinary effect on Mr Lessingham the day before.
‘If this was intended for St Paul, it’s a trifle late;—unless—’
I could hear that someone was approaching along the corridor. I looked up, expecting to see the Apostle reappear;—in which expectation I was agreeably disappointed. The newcomer was feminine. It was Miss Grayling. As she stood in the open doorway, I saw that her cheeks were red as roses.
‘I hope I am not interrupting you again, but—I left my purse here.’ She stopped; then added, as if it were an afterthought, ‘And—I want you to come and lunch with me.’
I locked the picture of the beetle in the drawer,—and I lunched with Dora Grayling.