The Beetle by Richard Marsh (read e books online free txt) 📕

of a speechless man⁠—particularly as regards his mysterious references to Paul⁠—I went upstairs. I found that papa was under the impression that he was suffering from a severe attack of gout. But as he was eating a capital breakfast, and apparently enjoying it⁠—while I was still fasting⁠—I ventured to hope that the matter was not so serious as he feared.

I mentioned nothing to him about the person whom I had found in the street⁠—lest it should aggravate his gout. When he is like that, the slightest thing does.

XXVI A Father’s No

Paul has stormed the House of Commons with one of the greatest speeches which even he has delivered, and I have quarrelled with papa. And, also, I have very nearly quarrelled with Sydney.

Sydney’s little affair is nothing. He actually still persists in thinking himself in love with me⁠—as if, since last night, when he what he calls “proposed” to me, he has not time to fall out of love, and in again, half a dozen times; and, on the strength of it, he seems to consider himself entitled to make himself as disagreeable as he can. That I should not mind⁠—for Sydney disagreeable is about as nice as Sydney any other way; but when it comes to his shooting poisoned shafts at Paul, I object. If he imagines that anything he can say, or hint, will lessen my estimation of Paul Lessingham by one hair’s breadth, he has less wisdom even than I gave him credit for. By the way, Percy Woodville asked me to be his wife tonight⁠—which, also, is nothing; he has been trying to do it for the last three years⁠—though, under the circumstances, it is a little trying; but he would not spit venom merely because I preferred another man⁠—and he, I believe, does care for me.

Papa’s affair is serious. It is the first clashing of the foils⁠—and this time, I imagine, the buttons are really off. This morning he said a few words, not so much to, as at me. He informed me that Paul was expected to speak tonight⁠—as if I did not know it!⁠—and availed himself of the opening to load him with the abuse which, in his case, he thinks is not unbecoming to a gentleman. I don’t know⁠—or, rather, I do know what he would think, if he heard another man use, in the presence of a woman, the kind of language which he habitually employs. However, I said nothing. I had a motive for allowing the chaff to fly before the wind.

But, tonight, issue was joined.

I, of course, went to hear Paul speak⁠—as I have done over and over again before. Afterwards, Paul came and fetched me from the cage. He had to leave me for a moment, while he gave somebody a message; and in the lobby, there was Sydney⁠—all sneers! I could have pinched him. Just as I was coming to the conclusion that I should have to stick a pin into his arm, Paul returned⁠—and, positively, Sydney was rude to him. I was ashamed, if Mr. Atherton was not. As if it was not enough that he should be insulted by a mere popinjay, at the very moment when he had been adding another stone to the fabric of his country’s glory⁠—papa came up. He actually wanted to take me away from Paul. I should have liked to see him do it. Of course I went down with Paul to the carriage, leaving papa to follow if he chose. He did not choose⁠—but, none the less, he managed to be home within three minutes after I had myself returned.

Then the battle began.

It is impossible for me to give an idea of papa in a rage. There may be men who look well when they lose their temper, but, if there are, papa is certainly not one. He is always talking about the magnificence, and the high breeding of the Lindons, but anything less high-bred than the head of the Lindons, in his moments of wrath, it would be hard to conceive. His language I will not attempt to portray⁠—but his observations consisted, mainly, of abuse of Paul, glorification of the Lindons, and orders to me.

“I forbid you⁠—I forbid you⁠—” when papa wishes to be impressive he repeats his own words three or four times over; I don’t know if he imagines that they are improved by repetition; if he does, he is wrong⁠—“I forbid you ever again to speak to that⁠—that⁠—that⁠—”

Here followed language.

I was silent.

My cue was to keep cool. I believe that, with the exception, perhaps, of being a little white, and exceedingly sorry that papa should so forget himself, I was about the same as I generally am.

“Do you hear me?⁠—do you hear what I say?⁠—do you hear me, miss?”

“Yes, papa; I hear you.”

“Then⁠—then⁠—then promise me!⁠—promise that you will do as I tell you!⁠—mark my words, my girl, you shall promise before you leave this room!”

“My dear papa!⁠—do you intend me to spend the remainder of my life in the drawing-room?”

“Don’t you be impertinent!⁠—do-do-don’t you speak to me like that!⁠—I⁠—I⁠—I won’t have it!”

“I tell you what it is, papa, if you don’t take care you’ll have another attack of gout.”

“Damn gout.”

That was the most sensible thing he said; if such a tormentor as gout can be consigned to the nether regions by the mere utterance of a word, by all means let the word be uttered. Off he went again.

“The man’s a ruffianly, rascally⁠—” and so on. “There’s not such a villainous vagabond⁠—” and all the rest of it. “And I order you⁠—I’m a Lindon, and I order you! I’m your father, and I order you!⁠—I order you never to speak to such a⁠—such a”⁠—various vain repetitions⁠—“again, and⁠—and⁠—and I order you never to look at him!”

“Listen to me, papa. I will promise you never to speak to Paul Lessingham again, if you will promise me never to speak to Lord Cantilever again⁠—or to recognise him if you meet him in the street.”

“You