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, it 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.