Exit Miss Merriot
Easterly Woods lay but two miles, across country, from my Lady Lowestoft’s house, and John covered the distance swiftly. He came to the house by the river as the lamps were lit, and found my lady waiting in the hall, and Sir Anthony’s chaise in the drive outside. He pulled off his hat and spoke before my lady could open her mouth. “I took Mr Merriot’s message to Sir Anthony, my lady,” he said in a voice loud enough to carry to the listening lackeys by the door.
My lady’s black eyes snapped. “Yes?” she said. “And he said?”
“I was to tell you, my lady, he would not think of troubling you by coming here since Mr Merriot was took off. I’ve a note for his man.”
“Bah, it is a mistake the most absurd!” cried my lady. “Mr Merriot will return at once! Where does Sir Anthony go?”
“He did say, my lady, he would turn off to visit a friend,” John answered. He remembered the mare, and added apologetically: “The mare cast a shoe, my lady, and I made bold to leave her with the smith.”
My lady nodded. Her eyes searched John’s face, but could read nothing therein. “Your mistress is in a sad way,” she informed him, with considerable meaning.
“Yes, my lady? Should I give the note to Sir Anthony’s man?”
“Do so at once, of course. Then come to put up a change of clothes for Mr Merriot. You must take them to him on the instant. To snatch him away in that fashion with never a moment to pack a valise — affreux!” She swept round, and went off up the wide stairs.
John stayed but to give Sir Anthony’s note to his man, and followed my lady to Robin’s room. He entered without ceremony and found his young master in coat and breeches, pulling on his top-boots.
“For the love of God, John, will you make him listen to reason?” besought my lady.
Robin’s fair face was set in uncompromising lines. He threw my lady an impatient glance. “Oh enough, ma’am, enough! Do you suppose I shall sit here while my sister’s hailed off under escort?”
John shut the door behind him. “She’s safe, sir.”
Robin’s hands left tugging at his boot. “What?”
“Sir Anthony has her, sir. He’s ridden off with her into Hampshire, and he bid me tell you he would keep her safe.”
My lady gasped. Robin turned in his chair to face John. “Good gad!” he said. “The mountain! But how, man, how?”
John became quite animated. “Sir, you couldn’t have done it better! No, nor my lord either. There’s a coach well on the way to London with two men trussed up inside it, the horses kicked over the traces, and the whole in an uproar.” He laughed at the thought of it.
My lady sat down on the edge of the bed. “Sir Anthony did this?” she said incredulously. “Never!”
“We did it between us, my lady, but ’twas Sir Anthony planned it. Ay, there’s a cool head to be sure! ’Deed I’ve not seen his equal with a horse, Master Robin. It’s a wizard he is.”
“But tell!” ordered my lady, striking her hands together.
Robin’s eyes were bright and questioning. “Let’s have it from the start, John, if you please.”
“Ay, sir. You’ve to know I was off to my lord the instant those two vultures had Miss Prue off into the coach. Well, I know a way over the fields, and I could get ahead fast enough. I came on Sir Anthony riding down here, and he had the tale out of me.” John smiled. “He wouldn’t have me go to his lordship; he said ’twas his affair. That’s a man I don’t care to cross, Master Robin. He planned it we were to hold the coach up and get Miss Prue safe away. He’d be off with her to his sister, so he said, and I was to get you away this very night, sir. And so I will,” he added, with a touch of truculence.
“Never mind that.” Robin brushed it aside. “Do you tell me Sir Anthony planned to waylay this coach, and make off with a captive of the law?”
“Oh, he made nothing of that, sir! We was both muffled to the eyes, and Sir Anthony had his sword out. We waited in a bit of a spinney till the coach rounded a bend in the road. Sir Anthony, he said to me, “Take them in a charge.” But there was no doing it his way. Leastways, not for me, and I thought I could ride, so I did. He had the roan under him: you’ll know the horse, sir. Great powerful quarters, and I’ll warrant you he can cover the ground. Sir Anthony was out of the spinney, and thundering straight down upon the coach before I could know what he would be at. ’Deed, and I thought myself he would spear the roan on the shaft of the coach!”
My lady blinked. It all seemed so very unlike the indolent Sir Anthony Fanshawe.
“How many men?” demanded Robin.
“Four — if you could call them such, sir. Sir Anthony swerved to the right, and I got the mare round to the left of the coach. I’d a thick ash staff, and that accounted for the coachman. Sir Anthony planned it so that the horses were all startled and plunging; the other man on the box had his hands full with them. Sir Anthony wrenched open the coach door, and out comes one of the vultures, sprawling in the road. Sir Anthony was off the roan in a trice; I brought the mare round to him, and caught his bridle. I can tie up a man quickly and neat myself, sir, as you know, but Miss Prue’s sleepy gentleman beats all, so he does! He had him bound, arms and legs, before you’d time to look round.”
“I make the mountain my compliments,” said Robin. “Lord, I would I had been there! What did Prue do? You won’t tell me she folded her hands.”
“I will not, sir. I’d seen to it she had her sword stick with her, and you may lay your life she made use of it. She had the point at the other man’s throat till Sir Anthony jumped in to take his pistol from him, so I heard. There was no more to it. We were off, all three of us, with Miss Prue up before Sir Anthony on the roan. We made for Easterly Woods, and ’twas there I gave the mare up to Miss Prue.”
Robin slowly pulled off his boots again. “Lord!” he said. “And so farewell Peter Merriot! She went willingly?”
“Oh ay, she knew well enough there was no saying him nay then. He told me to bring her woman’s clothes down to my Lady Enderby’s as soon as may be. For, says he, she’s done with this masquerade. But first, sir, I must have you away. We’ll have a whole pack of the Watch down on us here when this is known.”
Robin bit one finger-tip. “If the mountain — egad, what a man it is! — has borne Prue off there’s naught for me to do. I’ll slip away tonight.”
John nodded. “Ay, but get you into your petticoats again now. I’m off to his lordship. It’s odds he’ll have something to say. I’ll take the valise my lady spoke of, to seem as though I were off to Miss Prue in prison.”
“Drive the curricle,” my lady said.
“Ay, my lady. And you’ll bide here, Master Robin, till I bring word from his lordship.”
Robin got up. “Don’t fear me. I make my escape when everyone’s abed. I’ll await your return safe enough.”
He and my lady had dinner in lonely state in the big dining-room. In the character of Miss Merriot he affected to be quite overcome; my lady, when dinner was over, insisted that poor Kate should lie down in her boudoir with the hartshorn. She led poor Kate thither, and summoned fat Marthe. Fat Marthe was told that my lady did not desire her servants to sit up late. It was to be understood both she and Miss Merriot had gone early to bed. Marthe signified complete understanding, and rolled out again. My lady and Robin sat and talked over the strange events of the day, and the gilt clock on the mantelpiece ticked over the minutes.
At ten o’clock Robin was restive, listening for John, and he began to tap an impatient foot. Why must he delay, a’ God’s name? Marthe came in with hot chocolate, and the news that old Williams had at last taken himself off to bed. The house was very still. Robin went softly away to his chamber, candlestick in hand, and was shut up there for nearly an hour. It was just on eleven when he came back into my lady’s boudoir, and he was dressed in coat and breeches with shining top-boots on his feet, and a sword at his side. He went to the window, and stood looking down the moonlit road, listening.
My lady studied his profile, and when he turned, feeling her gaze upon him, nodded and said: “Du vrai, my child, I like you best as a man. I do not think anyone will ever know you for the bold Miss Merriot.”
“You don’t, ma’am?” Robin glanced towards the mirror.
“No, never. I do not know what makes the so great change.” She pondered it. “Miss Merriot was a fair height for a lady, but Master Robin — oh, we must not call him a little man, of course!”
“You spare my feelings, in fact. It may be the neck-cloth, and the hair drawn back. I was careful always to affect a degage style as Miss Merriot.”
“Well,” said my lady slowly. “Miss Merriot was a dainty piece, but you, my child — you look to be all muscle and — je ne sais quoi.”
“I have my fair share of muscle, ma’am, I believe,” Robin said modestly.
But my lady was right. With her petticoats he cast off all Miss Merriot’s mannerisms. Kate had a tripping step: Robin a clean, swift stride; Kate was languorous: Robin never; Kate fell into charming attitudes: Robin’s every movement was alert and decisive; Kate could adopt a melting siren’s voice: Robin’s speech was crisp, just as his eye was keen where Kate’s was languishing. The truth was he was a consummate actor, and if he played a part he became that part, heart and soul. My Lady Lowestoft had often marvelled at the perfection of his acting, the rigid attention to every little feminine detail, but she doubted whether she had ever appreciated him fully until now, when he threw off his disguise and all its attendant mannerisms.
She was thinking of this when the sound of horses came to her ear. In another minute or two the wheels stopped by the porch.
Robin peered through the window-pane. “This will be John at last. Oh lord, ma’am, it’s the old gentleman himself!”
Marthe was evidently waiting to let in the travellers, for a few seconds later the door of the boudoir opened, and my Lord Barham walked in, point de vice as ever, in a scarlet riding coat under his cloak, buff small clothes, and high top-boots.
“Well, Robert!” said my lady.
My lord kissed her hand punctiliously, but without his usual display of rapture. A severe gaze was bent upon his son. “The whole of this affair,” announced my lord in an awful voice, “is deplorable in the extreme. It has been botched and bungled in a manner passing my comprehension.”
John, entering behind my lord, shut the door. “He’s been like this all the way down,” he told Robin. “We’d ha’ been here an hour since, but that he must needs stop to change his clothes,” he added.
“It is not my habit to drive about the country in ball dress,” said my lord crushingly.
It was quite evident that he was very much put out. Lady Lowestoft patted the couch invitingly. “But sit down, my dear Robert!” she coaxed.
My lord came out of his cloak. “Take it!” he said. John obeyed with a wry smile at Robin. My lord gave his ruffles a twitch, and bent to flick a speck of dust from his shining boots. He then walked to the fireplace, and entirely ignoring my lady’s invitation, stood with his back to it, and proceeded to deliver himself of a terrific denunciation. “Botched and bungled!” he repeated. He appeared to address no one in particular. “Are my schemes so incomplete they need adjustments? Do I leave aught to chance? Am I to be set aside, disregarded, over-ruled? In a word, am I to be disobeyed?”
His hearers felt that they were not expected to venture a reply. Robin sat down astride a chair, laid his arms along the back of it, propped his chin on them, and waited patiently. My lord’s eyes swept the room. “I am not!” he said, in a tone that made my lady jump guiltily. “At the start of this episode I made my plans. They were beautifully complete. I do myself less than justice: they were perfect! I issued my orders: a child might have comprehended them. Not so my son. Did I ordain that my Prudence should embroil herself in the affair? I did not. Did I inform my son that I desired him to escort Miss Grayson home when all was done? I did not. No one possessing but the smallest knowledge of me could have supposed it possible that I should meditate such a piece of folly! My children chose to set me at naught. They meddled in a plan of my making!” The penetrating eye flashed.
Robin sighed, and continued to watch his father; my lady blinked; John, standing still by the door, compressed his lips, and looked at my lord rather as an adult might look upon the tiresome tricks of a small child.
My lord’s accusing gaze rested on each one in turn. “I have a forbearance passing anything one could imagine,” he said amazingly. “Did I, when this came to my astonished, my incredulous ears, give way to my very righteous indignation? I did not. Some slight reproof I may have allowed to pass my lips. Enough, one would say to warn my children that in future they must obey the very letter of my law. The thing was done; the crass error had been perpetrated. To what avail my censure? I held my peace. I said only: Do nothing without word from me. Await my instructions! When you came to this place — a measure of which I never approved — I said it. To John, my servant, I said more emphatically still: “If aught should befall my children apprise me instantly.” By John no less than by my children have I been disregarded.”
“Ay, my lord, and I’ve been telling you for the past hour and more that I was on my way to you when I met Sir Anthony. If you would but listen — ”
My lord flung up a hand. “You interrupt me at every turn! Allow me to speak!” The tone was not that of a request; John looked helplessly at Robin, who held up a finger. It was quite plain to Robin that his father was greatly annoyed to think that anyone but himself had had a hand in the management of the affair.
“I have said I was disregarded,” my lord continued. “It is very true! tragically true! Do you suppose that I had not foreseen the apprehension of my daughter? It is possible you could think I had not made my plans in preparation of this?” He paused a moment. Robin, who had thought precisely this, held his piece. My lord, satisfied that he was not going to venture to speak, swept on. “It was, from the first moment of deviation from my original schemes a contingency to be expected. I expected it. It happens. My daughter is arrested; my servant, not yet lost to all sense of what is due to me, sets off to apprise me of it. He meets Sir Anthony Fanshawe. He should never have done such a thing!”
John was moved to answer. “’Deed, and how could I help it, my lord?” he said indignantly.
“Of course you could have helped it. In your place should I have fallen into the arms of Sir Anthony? Certainly not! Sir Anthony — I excuse him only because he has not had the inestimable advantage of being trained by me from childhood — must needs meddle — must needs put a clumsy finger into a pie of my making! And John! Does he inform Sir Anthony that it is unwise, nay, dangerous to meddle in my affairs?”
“Yes, my lord,” said John unexpectedly. “I did.”
“You put me out with these senseless interruptions!” said his lordship tartly. “You aided and abetted him in a flamboyant, noisy rescue! I — Tremaine of Barham — ”
“I thought it would come,” murmured Robin.
My lord paid no heed. “I — Tremaine of Barham — had a score of subtle schemes for Prue’s release. I shall not divulge them now. They have been overset by folly and conceit!”
Robin straightened in his chair. “By what, sir?”
“Conceit!” pronounced my lord. “A vice I detest! You flatter yourselves that you could carry this through without my assistance. My daughter, as I understand, is riding all over the country like a hoyden with a man who has not yet obtained my consent to be affianced to her. The impropriety holds me speechless! The Honourable Prudence Tremaine is whisked off like a piece of baggage, smuggled away to the house of a woman of whom I know nothing, as though she were in sooth a criminal flying for her life!”
“Instead of which,” said Robin, inspecting the lacing of one of his great cuffs, “she might be lying snug in gaol. Horrible, sir.”
“And why not?” my lord demanded. “I had an alibi for her — I should have intervened in a manner quiet, and convincing. All the dignity of my proceeding has been upset; my son is forced to escape at night, and in secrecy; a hue and cry for the Merriots must of course arise, and I — I must set all straight again! If I were not a man of infinite resource, and of resolution the most astounding, I might well cast up my hands, and abandon all. If I had not the patience of a saint I might be tempted to censure the whole of this affair as it deserves. But I say nothing. I bear all meekly. I am to set about the unravelling of a knot I had no hand in making. I have to adjust my plans to suit an entirely altered situation.” He stopped and took snuff.
My lady preserved her air of coaxing. But she felt shattered. “It is all very dreadful, Robert,” she agreed. “Give the bon papa a glass of Burgundy, Robin.”
Robin got up, and went to the table Marthe had set. He brought my lord a glass of the wine. My lord sipped it in austere silence, enjoying the bouquet. His manner underwent a sudden, bewildering change. With complete urbanity he said: “A very good Burgundy, my dear Thérèse. I felicitate you.”
Robin judged it time to speak. “You crush us, sir. Believe us all penitence. Doubtless we lack finesse. But I confess I applaud Sir Anthony’s action. It seems to me masterly.”
“Of its kind,” said my lord affably, “superb! Unworthy of me, clumsy beyond words, lacking entirely any forethought but — for any other man — worthy of applause. I applaud it. I smile to see such blundering methods, but I do not say what I think of them. Sir Anthony has my approbation.” The terrible frown was wiped from his face. He sat down beside my lady and became once more benign. “We must now consider your case, my Robin. You have my forgiveness for what is past. I say nothing about it.”
“You can scarcely expect to find a brain like yours inside my poor head, sir,” said Robin dulcetly.
“I realise it, my son. On that account alone I do condone all this folly. I even forgive John.”
John received this with a grunt not exactly expressive of gratitude. My lord looked affectionately across at him. “You did very well, my John, from what I can discover. When I consider that you lacked my guiding hand, I am bound to acknowledge that you and Sir Anthony carried the affair through very creditably. But we have now to provide for Robin.” He put his finger-tips together, and smiled upon his son. “I perceive you are in readiness to be gone. I do not entirely like the lacing of that coat, but let it pass. You will proceed at once to the coast with John. He knows the place. If Lawton — you do not know him, but I have had many dealings with him in my time — if Lawton, I say, keeps to the plans he had made when I was aboard his vessel last month, he should bring the Pride o’ Rye in for cargo at about this time. If he has been already there will be others soon enough. You will show that ring. It is enough.” He handed a ring he wore on his little finger to his son. “But John will be with you. I need have no anxieties. Once in France you will proceed to Dieppe. Your trunks are with Gaston still. You will collect them, and embark on the first packet to England — under your rightful name. Remember that! You may find me in Grosvenor Square by then. John will see you safe aboard the Pride o’ Rye, and return then to me. I have need of him.”
“Good gad, sir, I don’t need John to escort me to this mysterious place!” said Robin.
“Certainly you need John,” said my lord. “He knows the ways of the Gentlemen. Do not presume to argue with me. I come now to you, Thérèse. Tomorrow you will discover the flight of Miss Merriot. You will make an outcry; you will pronounce yourself to have been imposed upon. When questions are asked it will transpire that you made the acquaintance of the Merriots at the Wells, and knew no more of them than may be gathered from such a chance-met couple. Is it understood?”
My lady made a face. “Oh, be sure! But I do not at all like to appear so foolish, Robert.”
“That cannot be helped,” said my lord.
Robin caught her hand, and kissed it. “Ma’am, we treat you cavalierly, and you have been in truth our good angel. You know what I would say to you in thanks: what Prue would say.”
“Ah, what is this?” She snatched her hand away. “Do not talk to me like that! Thank me for nothing, Robin. I will be the silly dupe. Eh, but how I will lament!”
“You will do it very well, my dear Thérèse,” my lord assured her. “John, saddle the horses. Waste no more time, my son: it is time you were gone. I shall see you again very shortly. Thérèse, I shall drive back to town in your curricle, and if you send a man for it tomorrow you will find it in your own stables near Arlington Street. Naturally I shall have had nothing to do with this. I have not visited you tonight. Do not forget that! Robin, farewell! When you return, remember that you bear the name of Tremaine. John, have a care to my son!” My lord arose as he spoke, received his hat and cloak from John, and with a gesture that savoured strongly of a Pope’s blessing, swept out of the room, and away.