The Masqueraders

It had begun to rain an hour ago, a fine driving mist with the sky grey above. The gentleman riding beside the chaise surveyed the clouds placidly. “Faith, it’s a wonderful climate,” he remarked of no one in particular.

The grizzled serving man who rode some paces to the rear spurred up to him. “Best put up for the night, sir,” he grunted. “There’s an inn a mile or two on.”

The window of the chaise was let down with a clatter, and a lady looked out. “Child, you’ll be wet,” she said to her cavalier. “How far to Norman Cross?”

The serving man rode up close to the chaise. “Another hour, ma’am. I’m saying we’d best put up for the night.”

“I’d as soon make Norman Cross,” said the gentleman, “for all it’s plaguily damp.”

“There’s an inn close by, as I remember,” the servant repeated, addressing himself to the lady.

“En avant, then. Produce me the inn,” the lady said. “Give you joy of your England, Peter my little man.”

The gentleman laughed. “Oh, it’s a comforting spot, Kate.”

The inn came soon into sight, a square white house glimmering through the dusk. There were lights in the windows, and a post-chaise drawn up in the court before it.

The gentleman came lightly down from the saddle. He was of medium height, and carried himself well. He had a neat leg encased in a fine riding boot, and a slender hand in an embroidered gauntlet.

There was straightway a bustle at the inn. An ostler came running; mine host appeared in the porch with a bow and a scrape and a waiting man sped forth to assist in letting down the steps of the chaise.

Came the landlord, and a serving maid with dinner. Covers were laid, and a cork drawn. Miss Merriot and her brother sat down to fat capons and a generous pasty. They were left presently toying with sweetmeats and their wine. The maid bore off all that remained of the capons through the door that led into the passage. The door was left ajar and allowed a glimpse of another door, across the passageway. From behind it came the sound of a lady’s voice raised in protest.

“I won’t, I tell you!” it said. “I won’t!”

There came the sound of a deeper voice, half coaxing, half bullying; then the lady cried out again, on a hysterical note of panic. “I won’t go with you! You sh-shan’t elope with me against my will! Take me home! Oh please, Mr. Markham, take me home!”

Miss Merriot looked at her brother. He got up, and went unhurriedly to the door, and stood listening.

The man’s voice was raised now in anger. “By God, Letty, you shan’t fool me like that!”

Following on a crash from behind the closed door as of a fist banged on the table, came a choked, imploring murmur.

“No!” barked the man’s voice. “If I have to gag you, to Gretna you’ll go, Letty! D’you think I’m fool enough to let you slip through my fingers now?”

Mr. Merriot turned his head. “My dear, I believe I don’t like the noisy gentleman,” he said calmly.

Madam Kate listened to a cry of: “My papa will come! I won’t marry you, oh, I won’t!” and a faint frown was between her eyes.

Two gentlemen came in, and stood for a moment looking round. One of these was my Lord March; the other was a slight, elderly gentleman with arresting grey eyes, a nose inclined to be aquiline, and thin, smiling lips. He was magnificently attired in puce satin, with embroidered waistcoat. His wig must surely have come straight from Paris; his shoes, with their jewelled buckles, had preposterous high red heels to them; the cut of his coat spoke the most fashionable tailor of the day in every line. There was the hint of a diamond in the lace at his throat, and on his breast he displayed several scintillating foreign orders. He stood very much at his ease, his head slightly inclined to hear what my Lord March was saying, and one thin white hand delicately raising a pinch of snuff to a finely chiselled nostril.

Prudence’s hand found Robin’s shoulder, and gripped hard. Robin looked up, and she felt him stiffen.

The old gentleman’s eyes travelled slowly round the room the while he listened to my Lord March; rested a moment on Miss Merriot’s face, and passed on. Her Grace of Queensberry came forward to welcome the newcomer, and he bent with great courtliness over her hand.

Robin turned in his chair. “I am dreaming. I must be dreaming. Even he could not dare⁠—”

Prudence was shaking with suppressed laughter. “Oh, it’s the old gentleman himself, never fear! Lud, might we not have expected something after this fashion?”

“Arm-in-arm with March⁠—covered with jewels⁠—all his misbegotten orders⁠—gad, it beats all! And who the devil does he pretend to be now?”

“What’s to do now?” demanded Rensley. “Gad, have you remembered,” he added eagerly.

“That man⁠—why, fiend seize it, he’s no more than a common gamester! Of course I know him! Thunder and turf, he’s no viscount. He used to keep a gaming-house in Munich! The instant he cast the dice it all came back to me. Know him! I’ve played in his house a dozen times.”

It seemed the dice had been cast for some special stake only. My lord was coming slowly across the room with March and Clevedale, laughing gently at something March said in his ear. He paused a moment by the lansquenet table, and complimented Sir Anthony on his play. “So few people nowadays understand the art!” he sighed. His smiling glance fell on Rensley’s face. He came to the other table, still leaning on Clevedale’s arm. “My cousin! I salute you!” he said.

Mr. Rensley’s chair scraped along the boards as he sprang up. “Damn it, don’t call me cousin!” he said loudly. “You’re no more than a cursed gamester!”

There fell a sudden hush, for Rensley’s voice carried through the room. Heads were turned; there followed a buzz of whispering. One of his companions fell a little away from my Lord Barham. My lord continued to smile. “Oh!” he said. “Who told you that?”

Markham put down the pack of cards. “I’ve visited the gaming-house you used to keep in Munich,” he said.

My lord looked at him with interest. The whole room awaited breathlessly his reply. It came as a complete surprise to every man there. “Then that must have been where I met you!” he said in the tone of one making an agreeable discovery. “I thought your face familiar from the first.”

She looked miserably out of the window at the tall houses slipping by. There were flambeaux at a few of the doors, but a bright moon cast a silver light over all, and made lamps superfluous. They were travelling at a prodigious speed; to be sure, Mr. Markham meant to lose no time in putting London well behind him. In a very short while, so it seemed to poor Letty, the houses grew further and further apart, and at length stopped altogether. She had very little idea of where they were: on that other journey north she had noticed nothing. She saw a heath soon, dotted over with clumps of bushes, casting long black shadows in the moonlight and some tall larch trees stretching up to a sapphire sky. There was nothing else to be seen, and Letty had never felt less in the mood for admiring the beauties of Nature. She pulled her cloak closer about her still, and looked down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. She would not cry, however hard a fight it might be to keep the tears back. The monster beside her should not have that satisfaction.

On went the coach, bumping and jolting over the bad road. The pace had slackened somewhat: one could not drive hell-for-leather along the highways of England; they were not in a state for such usage.

They had been passing through this desolate heath some way when she thought she caught the sound of horses galloping: horses other than the ones that were drawing her to her doom.