The Beetle: a Mystery
Copyright© 2025 by Richard Marsh
Chapter 20: 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 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.
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