Masqueraders (18 page)

‘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 to-day.’

‘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
to-morrow 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!’

CHAPTER XVII

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.