The Masqueraders

‘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 th

ere’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 realized 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!’

Seventeen

Sad Falling Out of Friends

By the afternoon the news was all over town that Fanshawe had wounded Rensley in a duel that had taken place that morning in Galliano’s rooms, of all places in the world. Every sort of tale was told. Fanshawe had taken leave of his senses and struck Rensley across the face with his glove: no, it was Rensley struck Fanshawe; faith, it must have been that way, for everyone knew that it was not like Fanshawe to pick a quarrel. The affair had sprung up out of a clear sky: there had been some raillery which Rensley took exception to, and Fanshawe had carried it too far.

Mr Belfort heard it from my Lord Kestrel, and was thunderstruck. My lord told it him between chuckles and with many embellishments, and described, with gesture, the thrust that had put Rensley out of action for many weeks to come. Mr Belfort went hurrying off to confer with Mr Devereux, whom he found writing execrable verse to a lady of uncertain morals, and bore him off straight to Arlington Street.

My lady laughed when the message was brought to Prudence, but Robin looked queerly, and showed a desire to inquire further into the need for a private conference. Prudence said lightly that it was some matter concerning a horse, and escaped before Robin could read the trouble in her face. He had the uncanny knack of it.

She found Mr Belfort looking portentous, and Mr Devereux melancholy. ‘Why, Charles, what ails you?’ she asked. It seemed to her that there was no one but herself had the right to look solemn.