Miss Merriot was thrust off. ‘God’s Life, ’twas herself –’ began Mr Markham, but got no further. His chin came into sudden contact with Mr Merriot’s sword hilt, nicely delivered, and Mr Markham fell heavily all amongst the table legs.
‘Oh, neatly done, i’faith!’ vowed Miss Merriot. ‘Down like an ox, as I live! Set the coach forward, Peter, and you, child, upstairs with you to my chamber.’
Miss Letty’s hand was caught in a firm clasp. Quite bewildered she was swirled away by the competent Miss Merriot.
Miss Merriot’s brother put up his sword, and went out into the court. John seemed to rise up out of the gloom to meet him. ‘All well, sir?’
Mr Merriot nodded. ‘Where’s the dear gentleman’s chaise, John?’
John jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
‘Horses put to?’ inquired Mr Merriot.
‘Ay, they’re ready to be off. The men are in the taproom – it’s dry they are after the great fire. There’s an ostler to the horses’ heads.’
‘I don’t want that ostler there,’ said Mr Merriot. ‘Drive the chaise past Stilton, John, and hide it somewhere where the gentleman won’t find it too soon.’
‘Hide a chaise and horses, is it?’ John growled.
‘It is, John,’ said Mr Merriot serenely. ‘Tell that ostler that I want a horse saddled on the instant. One of our own, if need be. I shall set the dear gentleman after you, John. God speed you.’
‘Ah, it’s a mad couple you are!’ said John, but he moved away to where the lights of the chaise shone. Mr Merriot heard him give the order to the ostler, and offer to hold the horses’ heads. He heard the ostler run off towards the stables and himself turned back into the coffee-room smi
ling placidly.
Miss Merriot had come downstairs again and was standing by the fallen Mr Markham calmly surveying him. ‘Well, child, is it done?’ she asked.
The clatter of horses and the rumble of wheels on the cobbles answered her. John was off; they heard the chaise roll away down the road to London. Miss Merriot laughed and dropped her brother a mock curtsey. ‘My compliments, child. It’s you have the head, indeed. Now what to do for the poor gentleman? Water, my Peter, and a napkin. Observe me all solicitude.’ She sank down on to the floor, and lifted Mr Markham’s head into her lap. Mr Merriot was chuckling again as he handed her the water, and a napkin.
The landlord came hurrying in, and stared in horror at what he saw. ‘Sir – madam! The gentleman’s coach is off ! Oh law, madam! The gentleman!’
‘Off is it?’ Mr Merriot was interested. ‘Tut, tut! And the lady in it, belike?’
The landlord’s jaw dropped. ‘Ay, that would be it! But what’s come to the gentleman, sir? Good lord, sir, never say –’
‘The poor gentleman!’ said Miss Merriot, holding a wet napkin to Mr Markham’s brow. ‘’Twas the drink turned the head on his shoulders, I dare swear. An accident, host. I believe he won’t die of it.’
‘A warning to all abductors,’ said Mr Merriot piously.
A gleam of understanding shot into the landlord’s eyes. ‘Sir, he’ll be raving mad when he comes to.’
‘A warning to you, good fellow, not to be by,’ said Mr Merriot.
There was significance in Mr Merriot’s voice. It occurred to mine host that the less he knew of the matter the better it might be for himself, on all sides. He went out discreetly at what time Mr Markham gave vent to a faint groan.
Mr Markham came slowly back to consciousness, and opened heavy eyes. He did not at once remember much, but he was aware of a swollen jaw-bone which hurt him. A cool hand was placed on his brow, and something wet was laid on his sore chin. He rolled his eyes upwards, groaning, and saw a fair face bent over him, framed in golden ringlets. He stared up at it, trying to collect his bemused wits, and vaguely it seemed to him that he had seen that face before, with its fine, rather ironical blue eyes, and its curiously square chin. He blinked, and frowned in the effort to pull himself together, and saw the delicate mouth smile.
‘Thank God you are better!’ came a cooing voice. ‘I have been in an agony! Dear sir, pray lie still; ’twas a cruel blow, and oh the misunderstanding! Peter, a glass of wine for the gentleman! There, sir, let me but raise your head.’
Mr Markham allowed it, perforce, and sipped at the wine held to his lips. Some of the mists were clearing from his brain. He raised himself on his elbow, and looked round.
‘Oh, you are much better!’ cooed the voice. ‘But gently, sir. Don’t, I implore you, overtax your strength.’
Mr Markham’s gaze came to rest on a flowered waistcoat. He put a hand to his head, and his eyes travelled slowly up the waistcoat to Mr Merriot’s grave face. Mr Merriot was on one knee, glass of wine in hand; Mr Merriot looked all concern.
Recollection came. ‘Burn it, you’re the fellow –’ Mr Markham’s hand went to his jaw; he glared at Peter Merriot. ‘Did you – By God, sir, did you – ?’
‘Let me help you to a chair, sir,’ said Mr Merriot gently. ‘In truth you are shaken, and no wonder. Sir, I cannot sufficiently beg your pardon.’