The Masqueraders

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 horse flesh 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 neckcloth. ‘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 to-morrow, 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.