The Masqueraders

Chapter 16 Unaccountable Behaviour of Sir Anthony Fanshawe

Sir Anthony was partaking of a solitary breakfast when Mr Belfort was announced. He looked up genially from a red sirloin as the Honourable Charles came in, and offered him a share of the meal.

“Breakfasted an hour since,” said Mr Belfort briskly. “But I don’t mind taking some of that ale.”

Sir Anthony pushed it towards him. “You’re very energetic, Charles,” he remarked. “Why this ungodly hour for a visit?”

“Well, I’ve had business to attend to, y’see,” said Mr Belfort, nodding mysteriously. “But that’s not what I’m come upon. It’s about that grey mare, Tony.”

“My dear Charles, I really cannot talk horseflesh so early in the morning.”

“Oh, come now!” protested Mr Belfort. “It’s past nine, man! The fact of the matter is, Orton offers me a hundred guineas for her, but I told him she was more than half promised to you. But if you think she’s not up to your weight — ”

“I have a fancy for her,” said Sir Anthony. “I’ll give you Orton’s price.”

“Good God, man, no! If you want the mare she’s yours at the figure we named!” cried Mr Belfort, horrified. “Burn it, I’m not a demned merchant, Anthony!”

They embarked straightway on a friendly wrangle. A compromise was reached at last, and Mr Belfort disappeared into his tankard. When he emerged a thought seemed to strike him. “I say, Tony, there is no doubt as to young Merriot’s courage, is there?” he inquired.

“None that I know of. Why do you ask?” Sir Anthony was watching a fly hover over the sirloin.

“Oh, no reason!” Mr Belfort answered, mighty offhand.

Sir Anthony regarded him thoughtfully. “He gives you some cause for doubting his courage?” he said, with just enough show of interest to demand an answer.

“My dear fellow, not in the least! It was only that I thought — But the thing’s a secret. Mum’s the word, y’know!”

“Really?” Sir Anthony returned to the contemplation of the fly. “Some weighty matter, I must suppose.”

“Why, as to that, it’s kept close only for fear of Miss Merriot’s getting to hear of it. Never do at all!”

Sir Anthony’s fingers played with the riband that held his eyeglass. “Do you mean,” he said slowly, “that someone has called Merriot out?”

“As a matter of fact, Tony, that’s it,” said Mr Belfort confidentially.

There was a short silence. “Who is the warlike challenger?” Sir Anthony asked.

“Rensley. Molyneux thinks it’s a scandal, and so ’tis if you consider it. However, he was all for a fight, so what was there to be done?”

“Rensley! Dear me!” Sir Anthony’s eyes showed nothing but a mild surprise. “And Merriot refused the challenge, did you say?”

“No, no!” Mr Belfort was shocked. “Nothing of the sort! Good God, man, no! Though I will say that for a moment I’d a notion he was going to rat. But I was quite wrong, Tony: he took up Rensley’s challenge mighty coolly.”

Sir Anthony rose, and walked to the mirror that hung above the fireplace and became busy with the rearrangement of his neck-cloth. “Then what, Charles, gave you the reason to doubt his mettle?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing in the world, I give you my word! Only that I’d an idea this morning that he didn’t relish the affair overmuch. I have the whole thing arranged: I’m acting for him, y’see, and saw Jessup at my rooms a couple of hours since. Between the two of us we had it all fixed as snug as you please for tomorrow, out at Grey’s Inn Fields, and I was off at once to let young Merriot know.”

“And he didn’t seem to be so delighted with the arrangements as you’d expected?”

“Well, he was precious quiet over it — but there’s nothing in the world against him, Tony. Lord, he’s like you, I dare swear, and takes no pleasure in aught until he’s breakfasted.”

“Very possibly,” agreed Sir Anthony, and came away from the mirror.

The Honourable Charles took his gay leave of him, and went off to inform Sir Raymond Orton that the grey mare was bespoken.

For some time after he had gone Sir Anthony remained standing in the middle of the room, staring with supreme vacancy at the opposite wall, and the portrait of his grandfather which hung there. Then he went across to his writing table, and sat down to it, and with great deliberation drew a sheet of paper towards him. He dipped a quill in the inkpot, and inscribed some half a dozen lines on it, signing his name at the end with a bold flourish. He read over what he had written and dusted the paper with sand. It was sealed up with a wafer, and a big blot of red wax, and placed in one of the drawers of the desk. Sir Anthony rose, called for his hat and his cane, and sallied forth into the street.

He went leisurely to White’s, and found there a sprinkling of people, early in the day though it was. He sat down with a journal by the empty fireplace. Various people came and went, amongst them Mr Merriot, with whom Sir Anthony exchanged a pleasant word or two. He said nothing about the prospective duel, but hoped Mr Merriot would dine with him on the following evening. Prudence accepted, placid enough to all outward appearances, but she bore a sinking heart in her breast. The night had brought no good counsel, and with the morning had come the Honourable Charles, who seemed to her of a sudden, a cheerful young brute. She had small hope of keeping her appointment with Sir Anthony, but it would not do to let the large gentleman suspect that. She showed a faint desire to escape from him, and went out presently with Mr Devereux, who desired her advice in the choosing of a flowered waistcoat.

Sir Anthony returned to his paper, and did not look up again until a laughing voice said: “Oh, he’s gone off to take a lesson from Galliano! Belfort held out for swords, and of course Rensley wanted pistols.”

The heavy eyes lifted. It was Sir Raymond Orton who had spoken. He made one of a small group standing at the other side of the fireplace. Mr Molyneux was there, and Mr Troubridge, and young Lord Kestrel.

Mr Troubridge took snuff. “It is not one’s business,” he remarked, “but one wonders that Rensley could find no one nearer his own age.”

My lord looked perplexed. “What’s that? Merriot said something about Rensley’s manners, you know.”

“You are perfectly right, Troubridge,” said Mr Molyneux, preserving his air of disapproval. “Rensley’s sore — small blame to him — over all this pother of the claim, and he was out to pick a quarrel with someone by way of venting his spleen. Well, I’m glad young Merriot stood for the small sword: Rensley’s killed his man with the pistols.”

Sir Anthony put away his journal, and went to join the group. “He would not appear to have too great a faith in his skill with the small sword,” he remarked.

Orton looked scornful. “He’s skilled enough to account for young Merriot, I should have supposed. Only Devereux spread it about that Merriot was deadly with the weapon, and has some Italian tricks up his sleeve. So off goes our friend for an hour’s practice with Galliano.”

“It smacks to me of some qualms,” said Lord Kestrel, with a look of distaste. “Now Merriot’s gone off to look at waistcoats, as cool as you please.”

“Rensley will be in a devilish rage when he finds the secret’s out, and the whole world knows he went off to get Galliano to show him a cunning pass or two!” grinned Orton. He nodded to Sir Anthony. “Farraday went to wait upon him, and his man let it out. He deserves to be well roasted for playing such a shabby trick.”

“Well” — Sir Anthony smiled pleasantly on the group — “I’m bound for Galliano’s myself to arrange for some practice. I may stumble upon the gentleman. Give me your company, Molyneux.”

“What, are you purposing to fight a duel?” said Troubridge, laughing.

“No, my dear Troubridge, no, but I like to keep my wrist in practice. Come and have a bout with me.”

There was some raillery, for Sir Anthony was known to be a peaceable man. In high good humour, and in the expectation of entertainment to be gained from confronting Rensley at the fencing master’s, not only the two invited, but Orton also, and my Lord Kestrel decided to accompany Sir Anthony. They would bait Mr Rensley a little, and take a turn with the foils. It would be an agreeable way of spending the morning.

The little Italian had a room over the shop owned by a purveyor of rappee, in the Haymarket. The small party was soon arrived there, and climbed the stairs to the first floor. There was some laughter and a deal of light talk. Signor Galliano’s servant came to the head of the stairs, drawn by the sudden noise, and requested the gentlemen to have the goodness to wait only a moment in the chamber behind the fencing-room. There was a gentleman with the good signor.

“Oh, we know all about that, Tino!” said my Lord Kestrel jovially, and pushed by to the door of the front room.

Tino expostulated feebly, but it seemed there was no gainsaying these merry gentlemen.

My lord opened the door, and affected a start of surprise. “Good gad, Rensley! You here?”

Mr Rensley was putting on his coat, and looked up with a very genuine start. In the middle of the floor the little Italian instructor stood leaning on his foil, and beaming with pleasure upon these new visitors. He descried the large form of Sir Anthony Fanshawe, and flourished the foil joyously. “Aha, saire! Aha! You come to me to learn the newest passes, eh? I have one for you, and you may call it Le Baiser de la Morte. I teach it to you, for you have very nearly the soul to appreciate it.” His foil darted out to touch my Lord Kestrel lightly over the heart. “For you, milor, no! Ah, no! It is for ze vey few — you may say for zose initiate in ze art of ze duello. You I teach a better management of ze feet.” He frowned fiercely upon Sir Raymond, but his little eyes twinkled. “I instruct zis bad Saire Raymond not to be ze bull at ze gate, hein?”

“Oh, come now, Gally, it’s not so bad as that, surely!” protested Orton blinking.

“It is worse, my frien’. It is of a vileness! For Mistaire Troubridge, I take him sedately, aha? Mr Molyneux not come to play wiz Galliano. He favours ze English school, which is just nozing at all. Mistaire Rensley he wastes my time too. Sapristi, but it is again ze bull at ze gate! I kill him a sousand times. Ten sousand times!”

Galliano was a privileged person, and his strictures and familiarities were received with mirth, and mock contrition. My Lord Kestrel went over to the window seat, and flung himself down upon it, demanding to be shown the Baiser de la Morte. Sir Anthony looked with great interest through his glass at Mr Rensley. “Well, well!” he said. “And have you been acquiring the Kiss, Rensley?”

“Bacchus! You accuse me of a sacrilege ze mos’ infamous!” cried Galliano. “I teach him only to keep ze head cool on ze shoulders. I sink he go to fight a duello. I sank ze gods I have not to see it. It would wring ze heart! Me, I am an artis’.”

My lord said with a wicked look in his eye: “I’d no notion you were taking lessons of old Galliano, Rensley.”

“I have now and then an hour with him,” Rensley answered, and seemed in some anxiety to be gone.

But Sir Raymond Orton leaned casually against the door. “Now and then being when there’s a fight brewing, eh, Rensley my buck?”

“Really, Orton! Is it a jest belike?”

“The most famous one, Rensley, and spreading all over the town.”

Sir Anthony spoke to Galliano. “We’d a mind to have the foils out, Gally, but I suppose you have Mr Merriot coming to you?”

“I do not know any Mistaire Merriot,” said Galliano positively. “I am at Saire Anthony’s disposal. Why should I have an appointment wiz a Mistaire I don’ know?”

“Oh, I thought ’twas a new fashion to take a lesson before a meeting!” said Sir Anthony idly twirling his eye-glass. “Now I see it is only Mr Rensley’s fashion. But what a disappointment for him to have this new pass withheld! Can’t you teach him your Baiser, Gally?”

The Italian looked quickly from one face to the other. Some mischief he could smell in the air, and all his sharp little brain was on the alert. “I do not try to teach him Baiser. You — yes, I will show. But I do not show Mr Rensley, nor you, milor, nor Saire Raymond eizer.”

“You’ve no heart, Gally, positively you’ve none,” Sir Anthony told him. “Have a little pity on poor Rensley!”

Mr Rensley stood still beside Sir Raymond. He had shut his mouth hard, but his eyes smouldered. Mr Molyneux was looking curiously at Fanshawe, but my lord, by the window, watched Rensley and chuckled. It was a jest he could appreciate.

“You don’t apprehend the matter,” Sir Anthony went on persuasively, still twirling his glass. “Here’s Rensley feels he must let some blood — not his own, of course — and hits on the very man. That’s to say, it seemed so — one of your youthful sprigs from the country. Ideal, you perceive. But the devil was in it that the sprig was held to have some cunning tricks of fence — possibly your Baiser, Gally; who knows? Naturally poor Rensley’s monstrous put out over it, and what else should he do but fly to our friend Galliano? And you fail him, Gally! It’s unkind in you, upon my word it is. Poor Rensley will be forced to withdraw from the engagement, I fear me.”

The chuckle died on my Lord Kestrel’s lips; Sir Raymond looked round quickly. Mr Rensley took two steps towards Sir Anthony, and spoke in a voice barely controlled. “Will you be good enough to explain these remarks, Sir Anthony?” he demanded.

Sir Anthony turned slowly to face him. Mr Rensley was by no means a small man, but the lazy eyes looked down at him. Sir Anthony stopped twirling his glass, and though he smiled still it was not his usual genial expression, but on the contrary a smile rather disdainful, and with the hint of sternness behind it. “Certainly, Mr Rensley. But I should have thought my meaning was plain enough. No doubt you have your reasons for not wishing to comprehend it.”

Rensley reddened. “This is not the first time you’ve sneered at me, Sir Anthony!”

“Nor the last, Rensley, unless the colour of your coat should change.”

“You make your meaning quite plain, I thank you, sir! You choose to think me a coward because I chance to take an hour’s practice here today.”

“You have it quite wrong, my good Rensley,” said Sir Anthony imperturbably. “I choose to think you a coward because you forced a quarrel on a man well-nigh young enough to be your son.”

Under his breath Sir Raymond gave the dueller’s “Sa-sa!” The jest had of a sudden taken an ugly turn, and what in the fiend’s name ailed Fanshawe to be picking a quarrel in this fashion?

Rensley spoke between shut teeth. “May I ask what concern it is of yours, sir?”

Sir Anthony’s eyes were hard and scornful. “Make no doubt, sir, I can readily understand your anxiety for me not to make it my concern.”

Troubridge laid his hand on Sir Anthony’s arm. “Tony — ” he began, expostulating.

His hand was removed. “In a moment, Troubridge.”

Mr Rensley’s fingers sought the hilt of his sword. “I know how to take that, Sir Anthony. You shall have all the taste of my mettle you require, and maybe some more beside. Be pleased to name your seconds.”

Sir Anthony looked round the room. “Why, here are enough for us both,” he said. “I will take Mr Molyneux and Mr Troubridge for mine. I make no doubt my Lord Kestrel, and Orton there will be charmed to serve you.”

Mr Molyneux jumped. “Good Gad, Fanshawe, what’s this?”

“I’ll choose my own friends, I thank you, sir! You shall hear from them.” Mr Rensley strode to the door but was checked by Sir Anthony’s voice.

“Not so fast, not so fast! It is for me to name the time and the place. What place could be better than this, and what time half so suitable as the present?”

Kestrel’s eyes danced. Fanshawe had undoubtedly taken leave of his senses, but this promised to be a rare morning’s work. “You can count on me, Rensley,” he struck in.

“Nothing, be sure, would please me more, Sir Anthony,” Rensley answered, “but I have a meeting with your protégé tomorrow and your quarrel must wait on his.”

“Really, Tony, you must — ”

“Give me leave, Molyneux.” A hand was raised to enjoin silence. “I don’t wait on young Merriot’s pleasure, Rensley.”

“In this instance, sir, you will find you must.”

Sir Anthony smiled. “You must think me a much bigger fool than I am, Mr Rensley.”

“I doubt it, sir!” There was a bite to the words.

“Oh, but you do, my good Rensley, if you suppose that I do not perfectly understand the meaning of this refusal of yours to meet me now.”

“And what is the meaning, sir?”

Sir Anthony pointed his long cane at Rensley, and answered in a voice of indulgent scorn. “Oh, you will prove your mettle on young Merriot to the satisfaction of the world, and I shall hear next that you sustained some slight hurt in that encounter for which the surgeon prescribes a foreign clime.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “No, no, Rensley, it won’t serve!”

Mr Rensley’s hand shook on his sword hilt, but it was not from fright. “To hell with your insinuations!” he cried. “You’d say I fear to meet you, eh?”

“I say, Mr Rensley, that you dare not meet me now or at any time,” Sir Anthony replied, to the astonishment of his friends. His hand came up, and he struck Mr Rensley lightly across the mouth with the glove he held.

There was a choked oath, and the rasp of steel scraping against the scabbard. Mr Rensley’s sword was out.

Galliano leaped in with his foil raised. “Ah, ah! Put up ze sword! Put up, I say! You go to make a scandal of me, ze pair of you!” he cried.

“I will fight you here and now, Sir Anthony!” thundered Mr Rensley, and flung his hat and cane aside.

There came a gleam into the grey eyes. “Give us house-room, Gally,” said Sir Anthony. “What a pity neither of us had time to acquire the Kiss!”

“Anthony, you’re surely mad!” Mr Molyneux’s voice was urgent in his ear.

“I was never more sane, believe me,” Sir Anthony assured him, coming out of his coat. “Lock the door, Gally.” He tucked up his ruffles. “There’s a letter in my desk, Molyneux, in case — . You’ll find it.”

“Fanshawe, I do beseech you — ”

“Pray don’t, my dear fellow; it’s quite useless. Gally, my friend, help me to pull off these boots, of your compassion.”

The Italian pulled them off for him, but he looked up with a worried face. “What comes to me over zis, hein? You make me a scandal, Saire Anthony!”

“Have no fear, Gally; there will be no scandal.”

Sir Raymond Orton came punctiliously forward to meet Mr Molyneux, and swords were measured. Mr Molyneux said, over the business: — “It should be stopped, Orton. Fanshawe’s mad.”

“Stark mad!” agreed Orton cheerfully. “But it’s famous sport, after all, and there’s no stopping them now. My man’s itching to be at it. Are we ready?”

There was a formal salute, and the blades came together. In a moment there was no sound in the room save the clash and scrape of steel, and the pad-pad of stockinged feet on the wood floor. The seconds stood with drawn swords in their places; little Galliano, still holding his buttoned foil, sat in the window seat and watched with quick eager eyes. Several times he frowned; once he nodded in swift approbation.

It was hard fighting, for one man had unbearable insults to avenge, and the other’s whole mind and will were bent on disabling his adversary. Very soon it was clear to see which was the better man. Rensley’s thrusts were savage indeed, and his attack full of fire, but his passes went wide, and more than once it seemed to the onlookers that Sir Anthony held him at his mercy. The big man, who was yet so curiously light on his feet, was playing with Rensley, and slowly the men standing by realised that he was making for just one spot, and would be satisfied with no other.

The end came quickly. Rensley saw an opening, and lunged forward. There was a scurry of blades, a lightning thrust, and Rensley went staggering back, with a hand caught to his right arm.

The seconds sprang in; Galliano clapped delighted hands; Sir Anthony stood back, and wiped his wet sword. A red stain was spreading over Mr Rensley’s shirt, and his right arm hung useless.

Galliano skipped into the middle of the room. “Bravo, bravo!” he exclaimed. “I taught you zat pass! I, Girolamo Galliano!”

“Curb your enthusiasm, my friend,” Sir Anthony advised him.

Galliano tossed up his arms. “Ensusiasm! Bah, it was bad, bad — all of it! You English you do not understand ze art! But just once or twice zere was a pass I might myself have make! Do not flatter yourself! You cannot fence: not even you, Saire Anthony!”