Charity Girl

Chapter 6

It was past seven o’clock when the Viscount’s beautifully sprung chaise reached Inglehurst, for although the journey had taken no more than three hours to accomplish he had not left Arlington Street until after four. Miss Steane, revived as much by the kindly and uncritical attitude of Mrs Aldham (yet another of those born on my Lord Wroxton’s wide estates) as by the tea with which she had been regaled, set forth in a tolerably cheerful mood, suppressing as well as she could the inevitable shrinking of a shy girl, who, realizing too late her imprudence, found herself without any other course open to her than to submit to her protector’s decree, and to allow him to thrust her into a household which consisted of a widow and her daughter who were wholly unknown to her. She could only hope that they would not resent her intrusion, or think her sunk beneath reproach for having behaved in a manner which she was fast becoming convinced was improper to the point of being unpardonable. Had she been able to think of an alternative to the Viscount’s plan she believed she would have embraced it thankfully, even had it been the offer of a post as cook-maid, but no alternative had presented itself to her, and the thought of being stranded in London, with only a few shillings in her purse, and not even the merest acquaintance to seek out in all that terrifying city, was not one she could face.

Something of what was in her mind the Viscount guessed, for although London held no terrors for him, and he had never been stranded anywhere with his pockets to let, neither his consequence nor his wealth had made him blind to the troubles that beset persons less comfortably circumstanced. He might be careless, and frequently rackety, but no one in dire straits had ever appealed to him for help in vain. His friends, and he had many friends, said of him that he was a great gun—true as touch—a right one; and even his severest critics found nothing worse to say of him than that it was high time he brought his carryings on to an end, and settled down. His father did indeed heap opprobrious epithets on him, but anyone unwise enough to utter the mildest criticism of his heir to my lord met with very short shrift. The Viscount was well aware of this; but while he did not doubt his father’s affection for him he was far too familiar with the Earl’s deep prejudices to introduce Miss Steane into his household. My lord was a rigid stickler, and it was useless to suppose that he would feel any sympathy with a young female who had behaved in a way which he would undoubtedly condemn as brass-faced. My lord’s views on propriety were clearly defined: male aberrations were pardonable; the smallest deviation from the rules governing the behaviour of females was inexcusable. He had placed no checks upon his sons, regarding (except when colic or gout had exacerbated his temper) their follies and amatory adventures with cynical amusement, but his daughter had never been allowed, until her marriage, to take a step beyond the gardens without a footman in attendance; and whenever she had gone on a visit to an approved friend or relative she had travelled in my lord’s carriage, accompanied not only by her footman and her maid but by a couple of outriders as well.

So the Viscount, not entertaining for more than a very few seconds the notion of conveying his protégée to Wolversham, had, in almost the same length of time, decided to place her in Miss Silverdale’s care until he should have run her grandfather to earth, and compelled him to honour his obligations. The only flaw to this scheme which he could perceive was the objection which Miss Silverdale’s mama might—and probably would—raise against it; but he had a comfortable belief in Miss Silverdale’s ability to bring her hypochondriacal parent round her thumb, and was thus able to set out for Inglehurst without fear of meeting with a rebuff.

However, he did feel that it might be prudent to warn Cherry that Lady Silverdale enjoyed indifferent health, and consequently indulged in rather odd humours, which found expression in fits of the blue-devils, a tendency to fancy herself ill-used, and a marked predilection for enacting what he called Cheltenham tragedies.

She listened to him attentively, and, to his surprise, seemed to derive encouragement from this somewhat daunting description of her prospective hostess. She said, with all the wisdom of one versed in the idiosyncrasies of invalids: “Then perhaps I can be of use in the house! Even Aunt Bugle says I am good at looking after invalids, and although I don’t wish to puff myself off I think that is perfectly true. In fact, I have been wondering if I shouldn’t seek for a post as attendant to an old, cantankersome lady: I daresay you know the sort of old lady I mean, sir!”

Lively memories of the tyranny exercised by his paternal grandmother over her family and her dependents crossed his mind, and he replied rather grimly: “I do, and can only trust that you will not be obliged to seek any such post!”

“Well,” she said seriously, “I own that it’s disagreeable to be pinched at for everything one does, but one must remember how much more disagreeable it must be to be old, and unable to do things for oneself. And also,” she added reflectively, “if a twitty old lady takes a fancy to one, one becomes valuable to her family. My aunt, and my cousins, were never so kind to me as during the months before poor old Lady Bugle died. Why, my aunt even said that she didn’t know how they would go on without me!”

She sounded so much gratified by this tribute that Desford bit back the caustic comment that sprang to the tip of his tongue, and merely said that Lady Silverdale was neither old nor dying; and although she would (in his opinion) wear down the patience of a saint it would be unjust to call her twitty.

When they reached their destination, they were received by Grimshaw, who showed no pleasure at sight of one who had run free at Inglehurst ever since he had been old enough to bestride a pony, but said dampingly that if my lady had known his lordship meant to visit her she would no doubt have set dinner back to suit his convenience. As it was, he regretted to be obliged to inform his lordship that my lady and Miss Henrietta had already retired to the drawing-room.

Too well-accustomed to the butler’s habitual air of disparaging gloom to be either surprised or offended the Viscount said: “Yes, I guessed how it would be, but I daresay her ladyship will forgive me. Be a good fellow, Grimshaw, and drop the word in Miss Hetta’s ear that I want to see her privately! I’ll wait in the library.”

Grimshaw might be proof against the Viscount’s smile but he was not proof against the lure of a golden coin slid into his hand. He did not demean himself by so much as a glance at it, but his experienced fingers informed him that it was a guinea, so he bowed in a stately way, and went off to perform the errand, not allowing himself to show his disapproval of Miss Steane by more than one look of outraged surprise.

The Viscount then led Miss Steane to a small saloon, and ushered her into it, telling her to sit down, like a good girl, and wait for him to bring Miss Silverdale to her. After that he withdrew to the library at the back of the hall, where, after a few minutes, he was joined by . Miss Silverdale, who came in, saying in a rallying tone: “Now, what’s all this, Des? What brings you here so unexpectedly? And why the mystery?”

He took her hands, and held them: “Hetta, I’m in a scrape!”

She burst out laughing. “I might have known it! And I am to rescue you from it?”

“And you are to rescue me from it,” he corroborated, the smile dancing in his eyes.

“What an unconscionable rogue you are!” she remarked, drawing her hands away, and disposing herself on a sofa. “I can’t conceive how I am to rescue you from the sort of scrapes you fall into, but sit down, and make a clean breast of it!”

He did so, telling his story without reservation. Her eyes widened a little, but she heard him in silence, until he reached the end of it, saying: “I would have taken her to Wolversham, but you know what my father is, Hetta! So there was nothing for it but to bring her to you!”

Then, at last, she spoke, shattering his confidence. “But I don’t think I can, Ashley!”

He stared incredulously. “But, Hetta—!”

“You can’t have considered!” she said. “If I know what your father is you should know just as well what my mother is! Her opinion of your Cherry’s exploit wouldn’t differ from his by so much as a hair’s breadth!”

“Oh, I know that!” he said. “I shan’t tell her the true story, stoopid! All I have to do is to say that my Aunt Emborough placed her in my charge, with instructions to deliver her into old Nettlecombe’s hands, but owing to his having misread the date—or the letter informing him of it having gone astray—or some such thing—he is still out of town, so that I was at my wits’ end to know what to do with the child.”

“And what,” she enquired conversationally, “will you say when she asks you why you didn’t rather place her in your mother’s care?”

He took a minute or two to find an answer to this poser, but finally produced, with considerable aplomb: “When I was at Wolversham, little more than a sennight since, I found my father quite out of curl, and Mama in too much of a worry about him to be troubled with a guest.”

She drew an audible breath. “You are not only a rogue, Des, but a Banbury man as well!”

He laughed: “No, no, how can you say so? There’s a great deal of truth in that part of the story, and you can scarcely expect me to tell your mother that if I were to walk in with Cherry on my arm my poor misguided Papa would instantly leap to the conclusion that I had not only fallen in love with her, but had brought her home in the hope that she would captivate him into bestowing his blessing on precisely the sort of match he most abominates. I daresay she might captivate him, for she’s a taking little thing, but hardly to that point!”

“Is she very pretty?” asked Miss Silverdale, keeping her fine eyes on his face.

“Yes, very, I think—even when dressed in cast-off garments which don’t become her, and with her hair in a tangle! Enormous eyes in a heart-shaped face, a mouth clearly made for kissing, and a great deal of innocent charm. Not in your style, but I fancy you’ll see what I mean when I present her to you. When I first saw her she looked to me to be scared out of her wits—which, half the time, she is, thanks to the Turkish treatment she has endured in her aunt’s house—but when she isn’t frightened she chatters away in the most engaging fashion, and has the merriest twinkle in her eyes. I think you will like her, Hetta, and I’m pretty sure your mother will. From what I gather she has a positive genius for waiting on—er—elderly invalids!” He paused, scanning her face. It was inscrutable, so, after a moment, he said coaxingly: “Come, now, Hetta! You can’t fail me! Good God, I’ve depended on you all my life! Yes, and if it comes to that, so have you depended on me—and have I ever failed you?”

A gleam of humour shone in her eyes. “You may have rescued me from scrapes when we were children,” she said, “but I haven’t been in a scrape for years!”

“No, but Charlie has!” he retorted. “You can’t deny that I’ve frequently rescued him, just because you begged me to!”

“Well, no,” she acknowledged. “And I can’t deny, either, that you have several times given me excellent advice on the management of the estate, but the thing which makes it so very awkward for me to do what you ask this time is that Charlie is at home! And if Miss Steane is so pretty, and so charming, he is bound to fall in love with her, for you know how often he tumbles into love!”

“Yes, and I also know how often he tumbles out of love! When I last saw him he was dangling after a lovely man-trap—thirty if she’s a day, and widowed a bare twelvemonth ago!”

“Mrs Cumbertrees,” she nodded. “But she has been a thing of the past for weeks, Des!”

“Then he is probably at the feet of some other dasher years older than he is himself. You may take it from me, Hetta, that there’s no need for you to be in a worry over the chance that he might take a fancy to Cherry: halflings rarely become nutty upon girls of their own age. In any event, she won’t be here long enough for Charlie to form a lasting passion for her! What’s he doing here, by the way? I thought he was going to Ireland, with a couple of choice spirits, in search of horses?”

“He was, but he had the misfortune to overturn his new highperch phaeton three days ago, and broke his head, and his arm, and two of his ribs,” said Miss Silverdale, in the voice of one inured to such misfortunes.

“Hunting the squirrel?” asked Desford, with mild interest.

“Very likely, though of course he doesn’t say so. He is still confined to his bed, for he was pretty knocked-up, but I don’t expect Mama will be able to prevail upon him to remain there for very much longer. He is already fretting to get up, which was why Mama was glad to see Simon drive up—Oh, good heavens! I quite forgot to tell you! I think you would wish to know that Simon has been dining with us, and is now sitting with Charlie! At least, he was when I came away from the drawing-room, but I daresay Mama has drawn him away by this time, for she said that she would only permit him to stay with Charlie for twenty minutes.”

“Oh, my God!” ejaculated the Viscount, in accents of the liveliest dismay.

She could not help laughing, but she said severely: “If a stranger heard you, Des, he couldn’t be blamed for thinking that you held your little brother in the most unnatural dislike!”

“Well, there aren’t any strangers present, and you know well enough that I don’t hold him in dislike,” said the Viscount impenitently. “But if ever there was a leaky rattle—! I shall be obliged to see him, I suppose, but if he don’t make me grease him handsomely in the fist to keep his tongue about this affair I don’t know young Simon!”

She cried shame on him, but in the event he was seen to know his graceless brother better than she did; for when he had talked her into making Cherry’s acquaintance, and judging for herself how innocent, and how much to be pitied she was, and had accompanied her to the Green saloon, the unwelcome sight of the Honourable Simon Carrington making himself agreeable to Miss Steane confronted him, and he had no difficulty in interpreting the sparkling look of mischief with which the Honourable Simon greeted him.

He ignored it, and presented Cherry to Miss Silverdale, saying easily: “I must warn you, Hetta, that I’ve brought this foolish child to you very much against her will! I strongly suspect that she fears I am handing her over to a dragon!”

Cherry, who had risen quickly to her feet, blushed and stammered, as she dropped a slight curtsy: “Oh, no, no! In—in-deed I d-don’t, ma’am!”

“Well, if she does think it I shall hold you entirely to blame, Desford,” said Miss Silverdale, moving forward, with her hand held out to Cherry, and a smile on her lips. “A pretty picture you must have drawn of me! How do you do, Miss Steane? Desford has been telling me of your adventures, and how you have been quite thrown out by finding that your grandfather is out of town. I can well imagine what your feelings must have been! But I expect Desford will find him very soon, and in the meantime I hope we can make you comfortable at Inglehurst.”

Cherry lifted her big eyes, brimming with grateful tears, to Henrietta’s face, and whispered: “Thank you! I am so sorry—!”

The Viscount, having watched this interchange with satisfaction, transferred his attention to his brother, and demanded, with revulsion: “For God’s sake, Simon, what kind of a rig is that?”

Henrietta said laughingly, over her shoulder: “Didn’t I tell you, Simon, that Des would utterly condemn it?”

Young Mr Carrington, a very dashing blade, was indeed wearing a startling habit, and the fact that he had the height and the figure to adopt any extravagant mode without appearing grotesque did nothing to recommend the style he had chosen to adopt to his elder brother. He was a goodlooking young man, full of effervescent liveliness, and as ready to laugh at himself as at his fellow-men. His eyes laughed now, as he said solemnly: “This, Des, is the highest kick of fashion, as you would know if you were as dapper-dog as you think you are!” He thrust one foot forward as he spoke, and indicated with a sweep of his hand the voluminous garments which clothed his nether limbs. “The Petersham trousers, my boy!”

“I am aware!” said the Viscount. He raised his quizzing-glass, and through it surveyed his brother from his heels to the inordinately high points of his shirt-collar. These were rivalled by the height of his coat collar, which rose steeply behind his head, and by the gathered and hugely padded shoulders of his coat. The sleeves of his coat were embellished with a number of buttons, those nearest to his wrists being left unbuttoned in a negligent style; and he wore round his neck a very large striped neckcloth. The Viscount, having taken in all these enormities, shuddered, and let his glass fall, saying: “Have you had the infernal brass to sit down to dine with Lady Silverdale in that rig, jackanapes?”

“But, Des, she begged me to do so!” said Simon, deeply injured. “She liked my beautiful new clothes, didn’t she, Hetta?”

“I rather think she was stunned by them,” Henrietta replied. “And by the time she had recovered from the shock you had flummeried her into inviting you to dine with us—playing off more cajolery than I’ve been privileged to see in a twelvemonth!”

“Oh, come, come!” instantly protested Simon. “It isn’t as long as that since you saw me last!”

She laughed, but turned from him to Cherry, who had been listening to this badinage with an appreciative twinkle in her eyes. Miss Silverdale perceived that Desford had spoken no less than the truth when he had described her as a taking little thing, and wondered, with an inexplicable sinking of the heart, if he was more captivated by her than he perhaps knew. Recognizing the tiny pang she felt as the envy of one who was neither little nor taking—besides being past the first blush of youth—of one who was young, and pretty, and little, and very taking indeed, she sternly repressed such ignoble thoughts, smiled at Cherry, and held out her hand, saying: “I must introduce you to my mother, but I am very sure you would wish to put off your bonnet and cloak first, so I shall take you up to my room, while Desford explains to my mother how it comes about that we are to have the pleasure of entertaining you for a little while. You will find Mama in the drawing-room, Des!”

He nodded, and would have followed her out of the saloon immediately had not Simon detained him, with a demand to know whether he meant to spend the night at Wolversham. “No, I am returning to London,” he replied. “But I want a word with you before I leave, so don’t you go home until we’ve had a talk!”

“I’ll be, bound you do!” said Simon, grinning impishly at him. “I won’t go!”

The Viscount threw him a speaking glance, and went off to try his own powers of flummery on Lady Silverdale.

He found her engaged, in a somewhat languid fashion, in embroidering an altar cloth, but she pushed the frame aside when he entered the room, and held out a plump hand to him, and saying, in a sweet, failing voice: “Dear Ashley!”

He kissed her hand, retained it in his own for a minute, and set about the task of cajoling her by paying her a compliment. “Dear Lady Silverdale!” he said. “Don’t think me abominably saucy!—How is it that you contrive to look younger and prettier every time I see you?”

If she had had the forethought to have provided herself with a fan she would undoubtedly have rapped his knuckles with it, but as it was she was obliged to content herself with giving him a playful slap, and saying archly: “Flatterer!”

“Oh, no!” he returned. “I never flatter!”

“Oh, what a farradiddle!” she said.

He denied it, and she accepted this with a complacency born of the knowledge that she had been, in her heyday, a remarkably pretty girl. Time, and a life of determined indolence, had considerably impaired her figure, but she was generally held to have great remains of beauty; and she had discovered that a fraise, or little ruff, admirably concealed a tendency to develop a double chin. A mild attachment to the late Sir John Silverdale had grown, during the years of her widowhood, to proportions which would have astonished that gentleman, and would not have outlived an offer for her hand made by another suitor of birth and fortune. None had come forward to woo the widow, so as much affection as she could spare from herself she had bestowed upon her only son. Such persons who were not intimately acquainted with her believed her to be passionately devoted to her children, which, indeed, she herself believed, but those who had the opportunity to observe her at close quarters were not deceived by her caressing manner: they knew that although she might fairly be said to dote on Charles she had only a tepid affection for Henrietta.

The Viscount was of their number, and he lost no time in enquiring solicitously into the state of Charlie’s health, and listening with an air of concern to the description given him of the various injuries Charlie had suffered, of the shock the accident had been to his nerves, and of how serious the repercussions might be if he were not kept perfectly quiet until such time as dear Dr Foston pronounced him to be well enough to leave his room. Since few things interested her more than the ills that could attack the human body, and was one of those who believed that physical disorders lent distinction to those who fell victims to them, the recital took time in the telling, and was further prolonged by an account of the spasms and palpitations she had herself endured ever since she had seen her son’s battered body borne into the house on a stretcher. “I fell down instantly in a swoon, for I thought him dead!” she said impressively. “Indeed, they thought I was dead, for it was an age before they were able to revive me, and then, you know, I was so much agitated that I couldn’t believe dear Hetta was speaking the truth when she assured me Charlie wasn’t dead, but in a deep concussion. I’ve been very poorly ever since, and Dr Foston has been obliged to give me a cordial, besides valerian for my nerves, which are sadly shattered, as you may suppose.”

He replied suitably; and after expressing his admiration for the wonderful spirit she showed in bearing up under so prostrating an experience, at last ventured to broach his errand to her. He did it very well, but it was no easy task to gain her consent to his proposal. It was rendered all the more difficult when he disclosed that Cherry was Lord Nettlecombe’s granddaughter. She exclaimed at once that she wished to have nothing to do with any member of that family. He replied frankly: “I don’t blame you, ma’am: who does wish to have anything to do with them? But I think your kind heart must be touched by this unfortunate child’s plight! If her father isn’t dead, he has certainly abandoned her—and without a feather to fly with! She has lately been living with some maternal relations, who haven’t used her at all well. So very ill, in fact, that she formed the resolve to claim her grandfather’s protection, until such time as she can find employment in some genteel household. So, as I was staying at Hazelfield at the time, my aunt desired me to carry her to London with me, and see her safely deposited in old Nettlecombe’s charge. You may conceive of my dismay when we arrived in Albemarle Street to find the house shut up, and none of the neighbours able to give me his lordship’s direction! What to do with the girl had me at a stand, until I remembered you, ma’am!”

She interrupted him, demanding: “Is it possible that she is Wilfred Steane’s daughter?”

“Yes, poor child! As good as orphaned, even if he should chance to be alive!”

“Desford!” she uttered, groping for her vinaigrette, “I little thought that you, of all people, would be so wanting in conduct as to bring that—that Creature’s child to Inglehurst! And how your aunt could—but I always thought poor dear Sophronia strangely freakish! But how she could have supposed that I should be willing to befriend the girl—”

“Oh, she didn’t, ma’am!” he interposed. “All she asked me to do was to take Cherry to her grandfather. It was I—knowing you much better than my aunt does!—who realized that if there was one person on whom I could depend to shelter this unfortunate girl that person is yourself!” He smiled at her, and added: “Are you trying to hoax me into believing that you are hard-hearted enough to repulse her? You won’t succeed: I know you too well!”

She plucked uncertainly at the fringe of the silk shawl she wore, eyeing him with resentment. Before she had made up her mind what to say to make him remove Cherry without impairing the vision he had of the saintliness of her own disposition the door opened, and Henrietta came in, leading Miss Steane by the hand.

“Mama, here is poor little Cherry, who has been having a horridly uncomfortable time, as I collect Desford will have told you. She is quite worn down by her troubles, but she would have me bring her to you before I tuck her into bed. Now, my dear, you can see for yourself that my mother is no more a dragon than I am!”

“So pleased!” said Lady Silverdale, in a faint voice, and favouring Cherry with a very slight inclination of her head. “Hetta, my love, my cordial!”

Quite dismayed, Cherry whispered: “I should not have come! Oh, I knew I should not! I beg your pardon, ma’am!”

Lady Silverdale was a selfish but not an unfeeling woman, and this stricken speech, coupled as it was with a face pale with weariness, considerably mollified her. It was clearly impossible to cast this miserable little girl out of the house, so although she maintained the attitude of one on the brink of sinking into a swoon, and continued to speak in a faint, long-suffering voice, she said: “Oh, not at all! You must forgive me if I leave it to my daughter to show you to your bedroom: I have been very unwell, and my medical attendant warns me that I must avoid all unnecessary exertion. So unfortunate that you should have come to visit us at just this moment! But my daughter will look after you. Pray tell me if there is anything you would wish for! A glass of hot milk, perhaps, before you retire to bed.”

“I fancy, ma’am, that she needs something more substantial than a glass of milk,” said the Viscount, perceiving that Cherry was looking quite crushed, and most improperly flickering a wink at her.

“Well, of course she does!” said Henrietta. “She is going to have supper as soon as I’ve tucked her into her bed.”

“Oh, thank you!” said Cherry gratefully. “I don’t feel I deserve to be given such a treat, but I would very much like it! Aunt Bugle never allowed me to have—”

She broke off in consternation, for these words had had a startling effect on her hostess. At one moment leaning limply back in her chair, and sniffing at her vinaigrette, she suddenly abandoned this moribund pose, sat bolt upright, and said sharply; “Who did you say?”

“M-my Aunt Bugle, ma’am,” faltered Cherry.

Lady Silverdale’s bosom swelled visibly. “That woman!” she pronounced awfully. “Do you mean to tell me she is your aunt, child?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Cherry, trembling.

“Are you acquainted with her, Mama?”

“We were brought out in the same season!” disclosed Lady Silverdale dramatically. “I beg you will not speak to me of Amelia Bugle! A bouncing, flouncing young female, setting her cap at every single gentleman that crossed her path, and fancying herself to be a beauty, which she was not, for she had a deplorable figure, and a particularly ugly nose, and as for the pretentious airs she gave herself when she caught Bugle, and took to thinking herself the pink of gentility, I laugh whenever I remember them!”

Laughter did not appear to be her predominant emotion, though she did utter a Ha! of withering sarcasm. Henrietta, briefly meeting Desford’s dancing eyes, said, with a quivering lip: “We collect, Mama, that she wasn’t one of your bosom-bows!”

“Certainly not! But I remained on common civility terms with her until she had the effrontery to thrust herself before me in a doorway, saying, like the self-important mushroom she was, that she fancied she must take precedence since her husband’s baronetcy was an older creation than Silverdale’s! After that, of course, I never did more than bow to her, or felt the smallest interest in her. Come and sit down beside me, my dear child, and tell me all about her! I am persuaded she used you shamefully, for I recall that she was never used to waste a particle of politeness on people she considered to be beneath her. You did very right to leave her!”

She patted the place beside her on the sofa invitingly, and Cherry, swiftly recovering from her astonishment, smiled shyly, dropped a little curtsy, and accepted the invitation. The curtsy pleased Lady Silverdale; she was moved to press Cherry’s hand, and to say: “Poor child! There! You will not meet with Turkish treatment in this house! Is it true that That Woman has five daughters?”

Perceiving that her volatile parent was now wholly engrossed by the dreadful fate that had overcome her old rival, Henrietta seized the opportunity thus afforded her to exchange a few words with the Viscount. “Nothing could be more fortunate, could it?” she said, in an undervoice. “I wonder what That Woman really did to make Mama take her in such dislike?”

“Yes, so do I!” he returned. “I depend on you to discover the answer! Clearly, her want of delicacy in claiming precedence in that doorway can only have been the culminating impertinence!”

“I should suppose that they must have been rival beauties,” said Henrietta. “But never mind that! We will keep Cherry with us until you have found her grandfather, but what would you have me tell her to do? Should she not write a civil letter to Lady Bugle, informing her that she is at present residing at Inglehurst? I cannot think it right that she should leave her without a word! Lady Bugle cannot be so monstrous as to feel no anxiety about her!”

“No,” he agreed reluctantly. “At the same time—Hetta, tell her to write that she has gone to visit her grandfather! Dash it, I must be able to discover where he is in a very few days, and if she mentions Inglehurst she must surely connect me with the business, which will lead her to make enquiries of my Aunt Emborough, and then I shall be in the suds!”

“Couldn’t you write to Lady Emborough, explaining it all to her?” she suggested.

“No, Hetta, I could not!” he replied. “She doesn’t like Lady Bugle, but she don’t want to quarrel with her, and she wouldn’t thank me for embroiling her in this mingle-mangle!”

“Very true! I hadn’t considered that. It shall be as you wish. Do you mean to rack up here for the night, or are you going to Wolversham with Simon?”

“Neither: I’m going back to London. You can picture me tomorrow, scouring the town to find somebody able to give me Nettlecombe’s direction—and in all probability wasting my time! Ah, well! It will be a lesson to me, won’t it, not to rescue damsels in distress?”

“Not to venture to cross quagmires without making sure you don’t go in over shoes, over boots, at all events!” she said, laughing at him.

“Or at least without making sure that Hetta is there to pull me out!” he amended. He took her hand, and kissed it. “Thank you, my best of friends. I am eternally obliged to you!”

“Oh, fiddle! If you are to drive back to London this evening you had better take leave of your damsel now, because I mean to put her to bed immediately: she’s so tired she can scarcely keep her eyes open! I’ve instructed Grimshaw to set out a supper for you, and you’ll find Simon waiting to bear you company.”

“Bless you!” he said, and turned from her to bid his protégée farewell.

She got up quickly when she saw him coming towards the sofa, and he saw that she was indeed looking very tired. It was with an effort that she smiled at him, and tried to thank him for his kindness. He cut her short, patted her hand, and adjured her, in avuncular style, to be a good girl. He then promised Lady Silverdale that he would come to take his leave of her as soon as he had eaten his supper, and went off to the dining-room.

Here he found his brother seated sideways at the table, with one elbow resting on it, his long legs, in their preposterous Petersham trousers, stretched out before him, and the brandy decanter beside him. Grimshaw, wearing the expression of one whose finer feelings were grossly offended, bowed the Viscount to his chair and regretted that the dishes laid out before him were of a meagre nature, the lobster and the chickens having been consumed at dinner. Also, he added, in an expressionless voice, the almond cheesecakes, which Mr Simon had been pleased to esteem.

“What he means is that I finished the dish,” said Simon. “Devilish good they were too! I wish you will take that Friday-face away, Grimshaw! You’ve been wearing it the whole evening, and it’s giving me a fit of the dismals!”

“I daresay your new rig don’t take his fancy,” said the Viscount, helping himself to some pickled salmon. “And who shall blame him? It makes you look like a coxscomb. Wouldn’t you agree with me, Grimshaw?”

“I should prefer to say, my lord, that it is not a mode which commends itself to me. Nor, if I may be pardoned for putting forward my opinion, one befitting a young gentleman of rank.”

“Well, you’re out there!” retorted Simon. “It’s the very latest style, and it was Petersham who started it!”

“My Lord Petersham, sir,” said Grimshaw, unmoved, , “is well known to be an Eccentric Gentleman, and frequently appears in a style that one can only call rather of the ratherest.”

“And besides which,” said Desford, as Grimshaw withdrew from the room, “Petersham is a good fifteen years older than you are, and he don’t look like a macaroni-merchant whatever he wears.”

“Take care, brother!” Simon warned him. “A little more to that tune and you will find yourself done to a cow’s thumb!”

Desford laughed, and surveyed the various dishes before him through his glass. “Shall I? No, really, Simon, those trousers are the outside of enough! However, I didn’t come to discuss your clothes: I’ve something more important to say to you.”

“Well, now you put me in mind of it I’ve something important to say too! It’s a lucky chance I dined here tonight. Lend me a monkey, Des, will you?”

“No,” responded Desford bluntly. “Or a groat, if it comes to that.”

“Quite right!” said Simon approvingly. “One should never encourage young men to break shins! Just make me a present of it, and not a word about this bud of promise you’re jauntering about with shall pass my lips!”

“What a stretch-halter you are!” remarked Desford, embarking on a raised pie. “Why do you want a monkey? Considering it isn’t a month since the last quarter-day it ought to be high tide with you.”

“Unfortunately,” said Simon, “the last quarter’s allowance was, so to say, bespoke!”

“And my father called me a scattergood!”

“That’s nothing to what he’ll call you, my boy, if he gets wind of your little charmer!”

Desford paid no heed to this sally, but directed a searching look at his brother, and asked: “I collect you’ve been having some deep doings: not let yourself be hooked into any of the Greeking establishments, have you?”

Simon smiled ruefully. “Only once, Des. I may be said to have bought my experience dearly.”

“Physicked you, did they? Well, it happens to us all. Is that what brought you home? Wouldn’t my father frank you?”

“To own the truth, dear boy, I haven’t dared to broach the matter, though that is what brought me home. It hasn’t yet seemed to me the moment to raise ticklish subjects. His mood is far from benign!”

“No wonder, if he saw you in that rig! What a fool you are, Simon! You might have known it would set him all on end!”

“No, no, how can you suppose me to be so wanting in tact? I clothed myself with the utmost propriety of taste. I even sought to gratify him by wearing knee-breeches for dinner, but knee-breeches have no chance of success against gout. I may add that having been obliged to listen to him cutting at me, you, and even Horace for over an hour this afternoon I seized the opportunity to escape, and very handsomely offered to bear Mama’s letter to Lady Silverdale in place of the groom she had meant to send with it. She felt it behoved her to write to enquire after Charlie. Did Hetta tell you that the silly cawker has knocked himself up?”

Desford nodded. “Oh, yes! How bad is he?”

“Well, he looks as sick as a horse, but they seem to think he’s going on pretty prosperously. Now, about that monkey, Des!”

“I’ll give you a cheque on Drummond’s—on one condition!”

Simon laughed. “I won’t breathe a word, Des!”

“Oh, I know that, codling! My condition is that you throw those clothes away!”

“It will be a sacrifice,” said Simon mournfully, “but I’ll do it. What’s more, if there’s any little thing you think I might be able to do for you in your present very odd situation I’ll do that too.”

“Much obliged to you!” said Desford, rather amused, but touched as well. “There isn’t anything—unless you chance to know where old Nettlecombe has loped off to?”

“Nettlecombe? What the devil do you want with that old screw?” demanded Simon, in considerable astonishment.

“My bud of promise, as you call her, is his granddaughter, and I’ve charged myself with the task of delivering her into his care. Only when we reached London we found he had gone out of town, and shut up his house. That’s why I brought her here.”

“Good God, is she a Steane?”

“Yes: Wilfred Steane’s only child.”

“And who the deuce may he be?”

“Oh, the black sheep of the family! Before your time! Before mine too, if it comes to that, but I remember all the talk that went on about him, and in particular the things Papa said of him, and every other Steane he had ever heard of! Which is why I don’t want him to get wind of Cherry!”

“Is that the girl’s name?” asked Simon. “Queer sort of a name to give a girl!”

“No, her name is Charity, but she prefers to be called Cherry. I met her when I was staying at Hazelfield. I don’t propose to take you into the circumstances which led me to bring her to London in search of her grandfather, but you may believe I was pretty well forced to do so. She was living with her maternal aunt, and being so shabbily treated that she ran away. I met her trying to walk to London, and since nothing would prevail upon her to let me take her back to her aunt what else could I do but take her up?”

“A regular Galahad, ain’t you?” grinned Simon.

“No, I am not! If I’d dreamed I should be dipped in the wing over the business I wouldn’t have done it!”

“You would,” said Simon. “Think I don’t know you? What, by the way, did the black sheep do to cause a scandal?”

“According to my father, just about everything, short of murder! Nettlecombe cast him off when he eloped with Cherry’s mother, but what forced him to fly abroad was being found out in Greeking transactions. Took to drinking young ‘uns into a proper state for plucking, and then fuzzed the cards.”

Simon opened his eyes very wide. “Nice fellow!” he commented. “What has become of him?”

“Nobody seems to know, but since nothing has been heard of him for some years he is generally thought to be dead.”

“Well, it’s to be hoped he is,” said Simon. “If you don’t mind my saying so, dear boy, the sooner you palm the girl off on to her grandfather the better it will be. You haven’t a tendre for her, have you?”

“Oh, for God’s sake—!” Desford exclaimed, “Of course I haven’t!”

“Beg pardon!” murmured Simon. “Only wondered!”