My lady’s brother gave his three-cornered hat into his servant’s keeping, and struggled out of his greatcoat. He was much of his sister’s height, a little taller perhaps, and like enough to her in appearance. His hair was of a darker brown, confined demurely at the neck by a black ribbon; and his eyes showed more grey than blue in the candlelight. Young he seemed, for his cheek was innocent of all but the faintest down; but he had a square shoulder, and a good chin, rounded, but purposeful enough. The landlord, following him into the coffee-room, was profuse in apologies and obeisances, for he recognised a member of the Quality. The lady wore a fine silk gown, and Mr. Merriot a modish coat of brown velvet, with gold lacing, and a quantity of Mechlin lace at his throat and wrists. A pretty pair, in all, with the easy ways of the Quality, and a humorous look about the eyes that made them much alike. The landlord began to talk of capons and his best burgundy, and was sent off to produce them.
Miss Merriot sat down by the fire, and stretched one foot in its buckled shoe to the blaze. There was a red heel to her shoe, and marvellous embroidered clocks to her silken stockings. “So!” said Miss Merriot. “How do you, my Peter?”
“I don’t melt in a shower of rain, I believe,” Peter said, and sat down on the edge of the table, swinging one booted leg.
“No, faith, child, there’s too much of you for that.”
The gentleman’s rich chuckle sounded. “I’m sufficiently substantial, in truth,” he remarked. He drew out his gold and enamelled snuffbox from one of his huge coat pockets, and took a pinch with an air, delicately shaking the ruffles of lace back from his wrists. A ruby ring glowed on one of his long fingers, while on the other hand he wore a big gold seal ring. A smile crept up into his eyes, and lurked at the corners of his mouth. “I’d give something to know where the old gentleman is,” he said.
“Safe enough, I’ll be bound,” Madam answered, and laughed. “It’s the devil himself, I believe, and will appear in London to snap his fingers under the noses of all King George’s men.”
“Fie, Kate: my poor, respected papa!” Mr. Merriot was not shocked. He fobbed his snuffbox and put it away. A faint crease showed between his brows. “For all he named London—egad, ’tis like his impudence!—it’s odds he’s gone to France.”
“I don’t permit myself to hope too much,” said Miss Merriot, with a smile at once dreamy and a little impish. “He’ll be there to lead us another of his mad dances. If not … I’ve a mind to try our own fortunes.”
“In truth, I’ve a kindness for the old gentleman,” said Mr. Merriot pensively. “His dances lead somewhere.”
“To lost causes.” There was a hint of bitterness in the tone.
Mr. Merriot looked up. “Ay, you’ve taken it to heart.”
“Not I.” Kate jerked a shoulder as though to shake something off. “We went into it—egad, why did we go into it?”
“Ask the old gentleman,” said Mr. Merriot, the slow smile creeping up again. “He had a loyal fervour, belike.”
Kate drew down the corners of her mouth. “It’s a pleasing image. He meant it for a beau geste, I dare swear. And we? Well, I suppose we went willy nilly into the net.”
“I don’t regret it. The old gentleman meddled in Saxe’s affairs, but we came out of that net.”
“That was in the nature of adventuring. This—” Kate paused. “Bah, I hate lost causes! It was different.”
“For you?” Mr. Merriot lifted an eyebrow. “Did you want the Prince, child?”
“We fought for him while it lasted. He had the right. But now it’s over, and the Butcher’s made a shambles of the North, and there are those who have died on Tower Hill, while we—we try our fortunes, and the old gentleman weaves us a fresh net. I believe I’ll turn respectable.”
“Alack, we were made for sobriety!” said Mr. Merriot.
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
