The Beetle (14 page)

'Who?—Is there more women in the world than one for me, or has
there ever been? You ask me who! What does the word mean to me but
Marjorie Lindon!'

'Marjorie Lindon?'

I fancy that my jaw dropped open,—that, to use his own
vernacular, I was 'all of a heap.' I felt like it.

I strode away—leaving him mazed—and all but ran into Marjorie's
arms.

'I'm just leaving. Will you see me to the carriage, Mr Atherton?'
I saw her to the carriage. 'Are you off?—can I give you a lift?'

'Thank you,—I am not thinking of being off.'

'I'm going to the House of Commons,—won't you come?'

'What are you going there for?'

Directly she spoke of it I knew why she was going,—and she knew
that I knew, as her words showed.

'You are quite well aware of what the magnet is. You are not so
ignorant as not to know that the Agricultural Amendment Act is on
to-night, and that Paul is to speak. I always try to be there when
Paul is to speak, and I mean to always keep on trying.'

'He is a fortunate man.'

'Indeed,—and again indeed. A man with such gifts as his is
inadequately described as fortunate.—But I must be off. He
expected to be up before, but I heard from him a few minutes ago
that there has been a delay, but that he will be up within half-
an-hour.—Till our next meeting.'

As I returned into the house, in the hall I met Percy Woodville.
He had his hat on.

'Where are you off to?'

'I'm off to the House.'

'To hear Paul Lessingham?'

'Damn Paul Lessingham!'

'With all my heart!'

'There's a division expected,—I've got to go.'

'Someone else has gone to hear Paul Lessingham,—Marjorie Lindon.'

'No!—you don't say so!—by Jove!—I say, Atherton, I wish I could
make a speech,—I never can. When I'm electioneering I have to
have my speeches written for me, and then I have to read 'em. But,
by Jove, if I knew Miss Lindon was in the gallery, and if I knew
anything about the thing, or could get someone to tell me
something, hang me if I wouldn't speak,—I'd show her I'm not the
fool she thinks I am!'

'Speak, Percy, speak!—you'd knock 'em silly, sir!—I tell you
what I'll do,—I'll come with you! I'll to the House as well!—
Paul Lessingham shall have an audience of three.'

The House was full. Percy and I went upstairs,—to the gallery
which is theoretically supposed to be reserved for what are called
'distinguished strangers,'—those curious animals. Trumperton was
up, hammering out those sentences which smell, not so much of the
lamp as of the dunderhead. Nobody was listening,—except the men
in the Press Gallery; where is the brain of the House, and ninety
per cent, of its wisdom.

It was not till Trumperton had finished that I discovered
Lessingham. The tedious ancient resumed his seat amidst a murmur
of sounds which, I have no doubt, some of the press-men
interpreted next day as 'loud and continued applause.' There was
movement in the House, possibly expressive of relief; a hum of
voices; men came flocking in. Then, from the Opposition benches,
there rose a sound which was applause,-and I perceived that, on a
cross bench close to the gangway, Paul Lessingham was standing up
bareheaded.

I eyed him critically,—as a collector might eye a valuable
specimen, or a pathologist a curious subject. During the last four
and twenty hours my interest in him had grown apace. Just then, to
me, he was the most interesting man the world contained.

When I remembered how I had seen him that same morning, a
nerveless, terror-stricken wretch, grovelling, like some craven
cur, upon the floor, frightened, to the verge of imbecility, by a
shadow, and less than a shadow, I was confronted by two
hypotheses. Either I had exaggerated his condition then, or I
exaggerated his condition now. So far as appearance went, it was
incredible that this man could be that one.

I confess that my feeling rapidly became one of admiration. I love
the fighter. I quickly recognised that here we had him in
perfection. There was no seeming about him then,—the man was to
the manner born. To his finger-tips a fighting man. I had never
realised it so clearly before. He was coolness itself. He had all
his faculties under complete command. While never, for a moment,
really exposing himself, he would be swift in perceiving the
slightest weakness in his opponents' defence, and, so soon as he
saw it, like lightning, he would slip in a telling blow. Though
defeated, he would hardly be disgraced; and one might easily
believe that their very victories would be so expensive to his
assailants, that, in the end, they would actually conduce to his
own triumph.

'Hang me!' I told myself, 'if, after all, I am surprised if
Marjorie does see something in him.' For I perceived how a clever
and imaginative young woman, seeing him at his best, holding his
own, like a gallant knight, against overwhelming odds, in the
lists in which he was so much at home, might come to think of him
as if he were always and only there, ignoring altogether the kind
of man he was when the joust was finished.

It did me good to hear him, I do know that,—and I could easily
imagine the effect he had on one particular auditor who was in the
Ladies' Cage. It was very far from being an 'oration' in the
American sense; it had little or nothing of the fire and fury of
the French Tribune; it was marked neither by the ponderosity nor
the sentiment of the eloquent German; yet it was as satisfying as
are the efforts of either of the three, producing, without doubt,
precisely the effect which the speaker intended. His voice was
clear and calm, not exactly musical, yet distinctly pleasant, and
it was so managed that each word he uttered was as audible to
every person present as if it had been addressed particularly to
him. His sentences were short and crisp; the words which he used
were not big ones, but they came from him with an agreeable ease;
and he spoke just fast enough to keep one's interest alert without
invoking a strain on the attention.

He commenced by making, in the quietest and most courteous manner,
sarcastic comments on the speeches and methods of Trumperton and
his friends which tickled the House amazingly. But he did not make
the mistake of pushing his personalities too far. To a speaker of
a certain sort nothing is easier than to sting to madness. If he
likes, his every word is barbed. Wounds so given fester; they are
not easily forgiven;—it is essential to a politician that he
should have his firmest friends among the fools; or his climbing
days will soon be over. Soon his sarcasms were at an end. He began
to exchange them for sweet-sounding phrases. He actually began to
say pleasant things to his opponents; apparently to mean them. To
put them in a good conceit with themselves. He pointed out how
much truth there was in what they said; and then, as if by
accident, with what ease and at how little cost, amendments might
be made. He found their arguments, and took them for his own, and
flattered them, whether they would or would not, by showing how
firmly they were founded upon fact; and grafted other arguments
upon them, which seemed their natural sequelae; and transformed
them, and drove them hither and thither; and brought them—their
own arguments!—to a round, irrefragable conclusion, which was
diametrically the reverse of that to which they themselves had
brought them. And he did it all with an aptness, a readiness, a
grace, which was incontestable. So that, when he sat down, he had
performed that most difficult of all feats, he had delivered what,
in a House of Commons' sense, was a practical, statesmanlike
speech, and yet one which left his hearers in an excellent humour.

It was a great success,-an immense success. A parliamentary
triumph of almost the highest order. Paul Lessingham had been
coming on by leaps and bounds. When he resumed his seat, amidst
applause which, this time, really was applause, there were,
probably, few who doubted that he was destined to go still
farther. How much farther it is true that time alone could tell;
but, so far as appearances went, all the prizes, which are as the
crown and climax of a statesman's career, were well within his
reach.

For my part, I was delighted. I had enjoyed an intellectual
exercise,—a species of enjoyment not so common as it might be.
The Apostle had almost persuaded me that the political game was
one worth playing, and that its triumphs were things to be
desired. It is something, after all, to be able to appeal
successfully to the passions and aspirations of your peers; to
gain their plaudits; to prove your skill at the game you yourself
have chosen; to be looked up to and admired. And when a woman's
eyes look down on you, and her ears drink in your every word, and
her heart beats time with yours,—each man to his own temperament,
but when that woman is the woman whom you love, to know that your
triumph means her glory, and her gladness, to me that would be the
best part of it all.

In that hour,—the Apostle's hour!—I almost wished that I were a
politician too!

The division was over. The business of the night was practically
done. I was back again in the lobby! The theme of conversation was
the Apostle's speech,—on every side they talked of it.

Suddenly Marjorie was at my side. Her face was glowing. I never
saw her look more beautiful,—or happier. She seemed to be alone.

'So you have come, after all!—Wasn't it splendid?—wasn't it
magnificent? Isn't it grand to have such great gifts, and to use
them to such good purpose?—Speak, Sydney! Don't feign a coolness
which is foreign to your nature!'

I saw that she was hungry for me to praise the man whom she
delighted to honour. But, somehow, her enthusiasm cooled mine.

'It was not a bad speech, of a kind.'

'Of a kind!' How her eyes flashed fire! With what disdain she
treated me! 'What do you mean by "of a kind?" My dear Sydney, are
you not aware that it is an attribute of small minds to attempt to
belittle those which are greater? Even if you are conscious of
inferiority, it's unwise to show it. Mr Lessingham's was a great
speech, of any kind; your incapacity to recognise the fact simply
reveals your lack of the critical faculty.'

'It is fortunate for Mr Lessingham that there is at least one
person in whom the critical faculty is so bountifully developed.
Apparently, in your judgment, he who discriminates is lost.'

I thought she was going to burst into passion. But, instead,
laughing, she placed her hand upon my shoulder.

'Poor Sydney!—I understand!—It is so sad!—Do you know you are
like a little boy who, when he is beaten, declares that the victor
has cheated him. Never mind! as you grow older, you will learn
better.'

She stung me almost beyond bearing,—I cared not what I said.

'You, unless I am mistaken, will learn better before you are
older.'

'What do you mean?'

Before I could have told her—if I had meant to tell; which I did
not—Lessingham came up.

'I hope I have not kept you waiting; I have been delayed longer
than I expected.'

'Not at all,—though I am quite ready to get away; it's a little
tiresome waiting here.'

This with a mischievous glance towards me,—a glance which
compelled Lessingham to notice me.

'You do not often favour us.'

'I don't. I find better employment for my time.'

'You are wrong. It's the cant of the day to underrate the House of
Commons, and the work which it performs; don't you suffer yourself
to join in the chorus of the simpletons. Your time cannot be
better employed than in endeavouring to improve the body politic.'

'I am obliged to you.—I hope you are feeling better than when I
saw you last.'

A gleam came into his eyes, fading as quickly as it came. He
showed no other sign of comprehension, surprise, or resentment.

'Thank you.—I am very well.'

Marjorie perceived that I meant more than met the eye, and that
what I meant was meant unpleasantly.

'Come,—let us be off. It is Mr Atherton to-night who is not
well.'

She had just slipped her arm through Lessingham's when her father
approached. Old Lindon stared at her on the Apostle's arm, as if
he could hardly believe that it was she.

'I thought that you were at the Duchess'?'

'So I have been, papa; and now I'm here.'

'Here!' Old Lindon began to stutter and stammer, and to grow red
in the face, as is his wont when at all excited. 'W—what do you
mean by here?—wh—where's the carriage?'

'Where should it be, except waiting for me outside,—unless the
horses have run away.'

'I—I—I'll take you down to it. I—I don't approve of y—your w—
w—waiting in a place like this.'

'Thank you, papa, but Mr Lessingham is going to take me down.—I
shall see you afterwards.—Good bye.'

Anything cooler than the way in which she walked off I do not
think I ever saw. This is the age of feminine advancement. Young
women think nothing of twisting their mothers round their fingers,
let alone their fathers; but the fashion in which that young woman
walked off, on the Apostle's arm, and left her father standing
there, was, in its way, a study.

Lindon seemed scarcely able to realise that the pair of them had
gone. Even after they had disappeared in the crowd he stood
staring after them, growing redder and redder, till the veins
stood out upon his face, and I thought that an apoplectic seizure
threatened. Then, with a gasp, he turned to me.

'Damned scoundrel!' I took it for granted that he alluded to the
gentleman,—even though his following words hardly suggested it.
'Only this morning I forbade her to have anything to do with him,
and n—now he's w—walked off with her! C—confounded adventurer!
That's what he is, an adventurer, and before many hours have
passed I'll take the liberty to tell him so!'