“It doesn’t sound like it to me,” said Mr Steane simply.
“Oh, for God’s sake, stop measuring twigs!” exclaimed Simon, quite exasperated. “You’re talking the most idiotic hornswoggle I’ve been obliged to listen to in all my life! And I’ll be damned if I’ll listen to any more of it! Go back to my brother’s house, and leave your card there—one that bears your true name!—and inform his butler where you are to be found! I promise you he will seek you out directly, for nothing could please him more than to know that Miss Steane’s father is alive, and able to take charge of her. Though whether he will be pleased when he discovers what sort of a fellow you are is another matter!”
This savage rider failed to ruffle Mr Steane’s serenity. “I venture to say that he would be very far from pleased—if he did seek me out—for he would recognize in me an avenging parent. A Nemesis, young man! It is inexpressibly painful to me to doubt your veracity, but I am forced against my will to say that I do not believe you. In fact, it has been borne in upon me that you lie as fast as a dog can trot, Mr Carrington. Or even faster! What a shocking thing that your revered parent—always such a high stickler—should have one son who is a profligate, and another—if you will pardon the expression!—a gull-catcher! And not even an expert in that delicate art!”
Simon strode across the room to the door, and wrenched it open. “Out!” he said.
Mr Steane continued to smile at him. “Certainly, certainly, if you insist!” he said affably. “But consider! Is it quite wise of you to insist? You have not thought fit to disclose my unfortunate child’s whereabouts to me, so there is no other course open to me than to repair to Wolversham, and to lay the facts of this distressing affair before your dear father. A course which I cannot feel that you would wish me to pursue, Mr Carrington.”
He was right. Inwardly seething, Simon was obliged to choke down his rage, and to search wildly in his brain for a way of escape from what he recognized as a dilemma. Not having seen Desford since he had parted from him at Inglehurst, he was in ignorance of Desford’s meeting with his father, and on one point his determination was fixed: not through his agency was Lord Wroxton going to hear of the scrape Desford had got himself into. Lord Wroxton could be depended on to stand buff, but he would be furious with Desford for having, in the first place, befriended Cherry Steane, and in the second place for having made it necessary for him to treat with her father, or even to receive such a sneaking rascal in his house. If ever a flashy clever-shins meant mischief, Simon thought, this one did! And who knew what mischief he might be able to work, except Desford himself? Simon did not for a moment believe that Des had made Cherry an offer of marriage, but if Cherry, prompted by her father, asserted that he had done so a rare case of pickles it would be! Considering the Honourable Wilfred Steane with narrowed eyes, Simon thought that while his object might be to achieve a brilliant match for his daughter it was far more probable that his real aim was pecuniary gain. Would my Lord Wroxton tip over the hush-money to keep his proud name free from the sort of shabby scandal with which it might well be smirched? Yes, Simon thought, he would! Damn Des for going off the lord knew where at just such a moment! If this cunning fox were to be kept away from Wolversham, there was nothing for it but to disclose to him that so far from having been dumped in a fancy-house Cherry had been placed in the care of a lady of unimpeachable respectability. He was extremely reluctant to furnish Mr Steane with her precise direction, for not only had he an extremely vivid notion of what Lady Silverdale’s feelings would be if that genteel hedge-bird presented himself at Inglehurst, but for anything he knew Desford might by this time have removed Cherry to some other asylum. The obvious way out of the dilemma was to persuade Mr Steane to await Desford’s return to London: dash it all, it was he who had taken the wretched girl under his protection, and it was for him to decide whether or not to hand her over to her disreputable parent! But, whatever he did it was all Lombard Street to an eggshell that he would not, once he had set eyes on Mr Steane, present him to the Silverdale ladies.
The problem seemed to be insoluble, but just as Mr Steane said, in a voice of unctuous triumph: “Well, young man?” a brilliant idea shot into Simon’s head. He said, shrugging his shoulders: “Oh, very well! If you won’t take my word for it that your daughter is in safe hands, I shall be compelled to give you her direction, I suppose! Mind, I’m strongly tempted to urge you to visit my father—lord, what a settler he’d tip you!—but he ain’t in very plump currant at the moment, and it wouldn’t do him any good to fly into one of his pelters. It wouldn’t do you any good either, because he wouldn’t believe a word of your story. More likely to have you kicked out of the house! If you ever succeeded in entering it, which I’ll go bail you wouldn’t! He ain’t receiving anyone but his family, and his closest friends, until he’s in better cue, and you had as well go rabbit-hunting with a dead ferret as try to get past his butler! However, my mother wouldn’t like it above half if there was to be a brawl, so I will inform you that when Desford found that your father was gone out of town he escorted Miss Steane to Inglehurst—which is Lady Silverdale’s country house! She, let me further inform you, moves in the first circles, and is as starched-up as my father! So rid your mind of anxiety, Mr Steane!”
He ended on a confident note, for he had not failed to perceive a change in Mr Steane’s expression, and was happy to know that he had succeeded in piercing his armour of self-satisfaction. He still smiled, but with tightened lips; and his pouched eyes had lost their look of tolerant amusement. But when he spoke it was as silkily as ever. He said: “I wonder what I can have said to make you take me for a looby? I assure you, my guileless young friend, you are making a sad mistake! I am, in common parlance, up to all the rigs! Do, pray, explain to me how it came about that a starched-up lady of the first consideration—I am not acquainted with her, but I take your word for that!—welcomed to her house a girl who was brought to her by your brother—unattended by an abigail, too!”
“If your memory is as good as you would have me believe it is, you must surely recall that I told you Desford had taken your daughter to the house of an old friend!”
“My memory, Mr Carrington, is excellent, for I also recall that when, not so many minutes past, you hovered on the brink of uttering the name of the female into whose hands your brother had delivered my innocent child you uttered a single, betraying word! Not Lady, young man, but Miss!”
“Very likely I did,” replied Simon coolly. “Miss Silverdale, in fact. My brother’s thoughts naturally flew to her when he was at his wits’ end to know what to do with Miss Steane, rather than to her mother. You see, he is betrothed to her!”
“What?”gasped Mr Steane, for the first time shaken off his balance. “I don’t believe it!”
Simon raised his brows. “Don’t believe it?” he repeated, in a puzzled voice. “Why don’t you believe it?”
Mr Steane made a gallant attempt to recover his poise, but the announcement had been so unexpected that all he could think of to say was: “Profligate though he may be, I cannot believe, that Lord Desford is so lost to all sense of propriety—of common decency!—as to take a girl he had seduced from her home to the lady to whom he had become affianced, and to claim her protection for that girl!”
“I should think not indeed!” responded Simon readily. “Of course he did no such thing! What’s more, Miss Silverdale is far too well acquainted with him to suspect him of it! What you mean, sir, is that you don’t wish to believe it, because no one but a barn-door savage could suppose that even the biggest rogue unhung would do such a thing!”
But Mr Steane’s agile brain had been working. He stabbed a forefinger at Simon, and demanded: “And why, young man, did you not inform me at the outset of this circumstance?”
“Because,” replied Simon, “owing to my father’s being in a tender state still, and to Lady Silverdale’s wish to give a dress-party in honour of the betrothal at which he could not be present without knocking himself up, i
t has been agreed that no announcement of the engagement should be made until he is quite stout again. We, of course, know of it, and so, I daresay, do Desford’s cronies, but as far as the scaff and raff of society are concerned it is a secret. So I beg you won’t spread it about, Mr Steane! A fine trimming my brother would give me if he knew I’d betrayed his confidence!”
Mr Steane rose to his feet, saying: “I shall not conceal from you, young man, that I am by no means satisfied. It has already been made plain to me that you are—not to wrap the matter up in clean linen!—an accomplished fibster. Reluctant though I may be—indeed I am!—to bring a blush of embarrassment to any delicately nurtured female’s cheeks—I perceive that it is my duty, as a parent, to discover from Miss Silverdale the truth of this shocking affair. Not to mention, of course, my ardent desire to clasp my child to my bosom again! If you will be so good, Mr Carrington, as to inform me as to the precise locality of Miss Silverdale’s abode, I will relieve you of my presence!”
“Oh, it’s in Hertfordshire!” said Simon carelessly. “Ask anyone in Ware the way to Inglehurst: they’ll tell you!” He added, as Mr Steane picked up his hat: “But you’d be better advised to await my brother’s return! I daresay Lady Silverdale may consent to receive you if you go to Inglehurst under his wing, but she’s devilish high in the instep, I warn you, and the chances are that if you go alone you won’t get over the doorstep!”
“You are insolent, my good boy,” replied Mr Steane loftily. “You are also foolish beyond permission. How, pray, does it come about that this model of propriety has—according to your story—received my daughter into her distinguished household?”
“Why, because she was sorry for her, of course!” said Simon. “Just as anyone would be for a girl who had been deserted by her sole surviving parent, and cast destitute upon the world!”
Mr Steane, casting upon him a look of ineffable disdain, stalked wordlessly out of the room.
Young Mr Carrington, wasting no more than two minutes over a self-congratulatory review of his encounter with as sly a rogue as had ever, as yet, tried to tap him on the shoulder, realized that if his masterly (if far from truthful) handling of the situation were not to be overset it behoved him to make all possible speed to Inglehurst, to warn Hetta of the ordeal in store for her, and to inform her that he had recklessly betrothed her to Desford.
He was shrewd enough to feel pretty confident that Mr Steane, in spite of his air of opulence and his boast that he had raised himself from low tide to high water, was not quite so flush in the pocket as he pretended to be. It was unlikely that he would go to the expense of hiring a post-chaise and four to carry him to Inglehurst. If he hired a chaise at all, it would be a chaise and pair, but it was more probable, Simon thought, that he would travel to Ware on the Mail, or even a stagecoach, and hire a carriage there to carry him to Inglehurst. At the same time, it would not do to make too sure of this. Young Mr Carrington, that promising spring of fashion, saw that Adventure was beckoning to him, and responded to the invitation with the alacrity of a schoolboy. In less than half-an-hour he had shed his elegant pantaloons for a pair of riding-breeches; dragged off his natty Hessians; thrust his feet into his riding-boots, and hauled them up over his calves; exchanged his town-coat, with its long tails and buckram-wadded shoulders, for one more suitable for a gentleman about to take part in equestrian exercise; snatched a low-crowned beaver from his wardrobe, and a pair of gloves from a drawer in his dressing-table; a whip from the what-not littered with a heterogeneous assortment of his possessions; and was bounding down the stairs. His arrival on the doorstep coincided with the appearance, round the corner of the street, of his groom, leading the good-looking hack on which young Mr Carrington frequently lionized in the park, and accompanied by the page-boy who had been sent to summon him.
A word to his groom, a shilling tossed to the page, and he was off almost before his feet had found the stirrups. But in spite of his delightful sense of urgency, and of being (as he himself would have phrased it) prime for a lark, young Mr Carrington had so far outgrown the heedless impulses of his schooldays as to defer his dash into Hertfordshire until he should have called, for the second time, at his brother’s house in Arlington Street.
Aldham, hurrying up from the basement to answer an imperative summons conveyed by a tug at the bell which set it jangling so noisily and insistently that Mrs Aldham very nearly suffered a spasm, was pardonably incensed when he discovered that it was only Mr Simon, trying to bring the house down over their heads. “Well, for goodness’ sake, sir!” he said indignantly. “Anyone would think you was that Bonaparty, escaped off St Helena! And don’t you try to bring that horse into the house, Mr Simon, for that I will not permit you to do!”
Simon, who, in default of finding any loafer in the street, had been obliged to lead his hack on to the flagway, to the foot of the few shallow steps which led up to the door of the house, retorted: “I don’t want to bring him into the house! All I want is to know where his lordship is! Do you know?”
“No, Mr Simon, I do not know!”
“Oh, don’t be so damned discreet!” said Simon explosively. “This is important, man!”
“Mr Simon, I promise and swear that I’m telling you the truth! All his lordship said, when he went off, was that he didn’t expect to be gone above a day or two, but he didn’t tell me where he was going to, and it wasn’t my place to ask him!”
“But—he has returned from Harrowgate, has he?” Simon said, frowning. “Did you give him my message?”
“Yes, sir, I gave it to him in your very words,” Aldham assured him. “‘Tell him I shall be in London till the end of the week,’ you said. And so I did, but his lordship only said to tell you, if you should come enquiring for him again, that he would give you a look-in when he came back. Which, Mr Simon, we are expecting him to do at any moment, Mrs Aldham being poised, as you might say, over the kitchen-stove, with a pigeon pie ready to be popped into the oven, and a couple of collops—”
“The devil fly away with the collops!” interrupted Simon wrathfully. “Where’s his lordship’s man? Where’s Stebbing?”
“His lordship gave Tain leave of absence, sir, him having taken a chill on the way back from Harrowgate; and Stebbing’s gone with him—with my lord, I mean—being that my lord has gone off in his curricle this time, and not travelling post”
“In his curricle? Then he can’t have gone far from London! If he should return today, tell him—No. Here, hold my horse, Aldham! I’ll scribble a note for his lordship!”
With these words he thrust his bridle into Aldham’s hands, and strode into the house, leaving that devoted but long suffering retainer to cast his eyes up in a mute appeal to heaven to grant him patience. It was wholly beneath his dignity to hold even his master’s horse, but he accepted the charge without demur, and upon Simon’s emergence from the house a bare three minutes later he went so far as to offer him a leg-up, and to chuckle when Simon vaingloriously refused this assistance.
“Pooh!” said Simon. “Do you take me for a cripple? Here, take this note, and see you give it to my brother the instant he arrives!”
“I will, Mr Simon,” promised Aldham. “Now hold a minute while I tighten the girths! If I’m not taking a liberty, where might you be bound for, sir?’
“Oh, only to Inglehurst!” answered Simon airily. “Thank you: that’s the dandy!” He then favoured Aldham with a smile, and a wave of his hand, and rode off at a brisk trot towards Piccadilly.
“And in which sort the wind is,” Aldham said, when recounting this episode to his wife, “I know no more than you do, my dearie! Though that’s not to say I haven’t got my suspicions! And one thing I will say for Mr Simon! For all his carryings-on he’s not one to cut his stick when my lord’s in trouble, which I’m much afraid he may be!”
Chapter 13
Simon, knowing the country in the midst of which his birthplace was situated like the back of his hand, reached Inglehurst shortly after three o’
clock that afternoon, and turned in, at the lodge-gates hard on the heels of a landaulette, displaying on its panels the lozenge-shield proclaiming the widowhood of its owner, and drawn, at a sedate trot, by a pair of well-matched but sluggish bays. Uncertain of the identity of its solitary occupant (for she was holding up a parasol to protect her complexion from the strong sunlight), he kept at a discreet distance in the rear, until it drew up below the terrace of the house, and he saw, as she shut her parasol, and alighted from the carriage, that the unknown lady was not, as he had feared, Lady Silverdale, but her daughter. He then urged his tired mount forward, and called out, as Henrietta was on the point of walking up the broad, shallow steps to the house: “Hetta, Hetta! Stay a minute! I want to speak to you!”
She paused, quickly turning her head, and exclaimed:’”Simon! Good God, what in the world are you doing here? I had supposed you to be in Brighton! Have you ridden over from Wolversham?”
“No, I’ve come from London,” he replied, dismounting, and handing his bridle to one of the footmen who had jumped down from his perch at the back of the landaulette. With a brief request to the man to give the horse into the head groom’s charge, he turned, and grasped the hand Hetta was holding out to him, saying in an urgent undervoice: “Something very important to say to you! Must see you in private!”
She looked a little startled. “Oh, what is it, Simon? If it’s bad news, pray don’t try to break it gently to me! Your parents? Desford? Some accident has befallen one of them?”
“No, no, it ain’t that!” he assured her. “I’ve come to warn you, because it is bad news—devilish bad news! Wilfred Steane is on his way here!”
“Wilfred Steane?” she exclaimed. “But I thought he was dead!”
“Well, he ain’t,” said Simon. “He’s very much alive! Came to visit me this morning.”
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