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Mr Taverner scrutinised him rather closely for a moment. He said, coming further into the room: ‘Then I am unfortunate. She mentioned the other day that she had an ambition to see Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks, and I came to propose escorting her. But another morning will do as well. I am not interrupting you, I trust? You were busy, I think, when I came in.’
‘Oh, not in the least; it is of no particular moment,’ said Peregrine, stretching out his hand to pull the bell. ‘You’ll take a glass of wine, won’t you?’
‘Thank you, a little sherry, if I may.’
The servant came, the order was given, and Peregrine begged his cousin to be seated. Mr Taverner began to talk on a number of idle topics. Peregrine’s replies were delivered in a mechanical way; it was plain that his thoughts were elsewhere. When the wine had been brought, and the servant had gone away again, Mr Taverner said in his quiet voice: ‘Forgive me, Perry, but has anything happened to put you out?’
Peregrine disclaimed at once, and tried to start some other topic for conversation. His cousin’s eyes were upon him, however, and he presently gave up the attempt to appear at his ease, and said with a jerky little laugh: ‘I see you have guessed it; my mind is occupied with another matter. I have certain dispositions to make. Well, you are a good fellow, Bernard: I can trust you. The fact is I am engaged to meet Farnaby to-morrow morning at – well, it’s no matter where.’
Mr Taverner put down his wine-glass. ‘Am I to understand an affair of honour? You cannot mean that!’
Peregrine shrugged. ‘There was no avoiding it. The fellow insulted me, I landed him a facer, and received his challenge.’
‘I am sorry for it,’ Mr Taverner said, with a grave look.
‘Oh, as to that I do not anticipate any very serious con sequences,’ said Peregrine. ‘But it is well to be prepared, you know. I was writing a letter to Judith, and another to – to Miss Fairford when you came in, in case I should be fatally injured.’
‘I take it it is impossible for you to draw back?’
‘Quite impossible,’ said Peregrine decidedly. ‘I need not engage your silence, I am sure. You will understand that I don’t want the affair to come to my sister’s or to Miss Fairford’s ears.’
Mr Taverner bowed. ‘Certainly. You may trust me in that. Who acts for you?’
‘Fitzjohn.’ Peregrine fidgeted with his fob. ‘Bernard, if anything should happen to me – if I should not return, in short – you will keep your eye upon Judith, won’t you? She is in Worth’s hands, of course, but she don’t like him, and you are our cousin, and will see she don’t come to harm.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Taverner rather curtly. He got up. ‘I’ll leave you now; you have your affairs to settle. Believe me, I am sorry for this.’
Peregrine spent the rest of the day very sensibly. He went to Jackson’s Saloon, and forgot his troubles in sparring; and from there drove to Albemarle Street to solicit permission to take Miss Fairford in the Park in his tilbury. Dinner at Richardson’s Hotel, a visit to Drury Lane, and supper at the Piazza Coffee House ended the day, and he returned soon after midnight to Brook Street too weary to be kept long awake by his thoughts.
His valet, who had of necessity been taken into his confidence, drew back the bed-curtains at six o’clock next morning and began to get the shaving tackle ready, while Peregrine, with his night-cap over one eye, sat up and sipped a cup of hot chocolate. One of the chambermaids brought in a faggot, and kindled a fire in the empty grate. It was a raw morning, and the fact of being obliged to dress by candle-light was curiously depressing. When the chambermaid had gone Peregrine got out of bed, put on his dressing-gown, and sat down before the mirror to be shaved. His valet, whom he had brought with him from Yorkshire, was looking very gloomy, and when Peregrine made a careful choice amongst his many suits of clothes he heaved a gusty sigh, and seemed to think such particularity frivolous. But Peregrine, wondering in his heart whether this might be the last choice he would make, was determined not to let it appear that he had not cared to bestow all his usual attention on his appearance. He put on a pair of buff pantaloons and a light waistcoat, arranged his cravat with great nicety, struggled into a blue coat with silver buttons, and pulled on a pair of Hessians with swinging tassels. ‘My new hat, John, and I will wear the large driving-coat with the Belcher handkerchief.’
‘Oh, sir!’ groaned the valet, ‘I never thought to live to see this day!’
Peregrine’s underlip trembled slightly, but a gleam entered his eyes, and he said with the quiver of a laugh: ‘You! Why, it is I who might rather be wondering whether I shall live to see very much of this day!’
‘If only we had never come to London!’ said the valet.
‘Tush!’ said Peregrine, who found no comfort in this conversation. ‘What’s o’clock? Past seven, is it? Very well, help me into this coat, and I’ll be off. You can snuff the candles now; it is growing quite light. You have those letters I gave you?’
‘I have them in my pocket now, sir, but please God I won’t be called on to do more than burn them!’
‘Why, certainly,’ said Peregrine, picking up his hat and gloves. He stretched out his right hand, and watched it closely. It was steady enough. That cheered him a little. He went softly out of the room and down the stairs, followed by the valet, who carried a branch of candles to light the darkened stairway, and drew back the bolts of the front door.
A neat town-coach was drawn up outside the house, and Mr Fitzjohn was standing on the pavement, muffled in a greatcoat and consulting his watch.
‘Good-bye, John,’ said Peregrine. ‘And if I don’t see you again – well, good-bye, and don’t forget the letters. I’m not late, Fitz, am I?’
‘Bang up to the mark,’ Mr Fitzjohn assured him. He ran an eye over Peregrine’s person, and seemed satisfied. ‘Get in, Perry. Did you sleep well?’
‘Sleep! Lord, yes! Never stirred till my man roused me this morning!’ replied Peregrine, taking his place in the coach.
‘Damme, you might be an old hand!’ remarked Mr Fitzjohn approvingly. ‘Is this your first meeting, or have you been out before?’
‘Well, no, as a matter of fact, it is my first,’ confessed Peregrine. ‘But not, I hope, my last.’
‘No fear of that,’ said Mr Fitzjohn, rather too heartily. He began to prod the opposite seat with the tip of his walking-cane. ‘You don’t want to kill him, and I can’t for the life of me see why he should want to kill you. At the same time, Perry, it don’t do to take chances, and you’ll fire the moment the word’s given, do you see? You’ve shot at Manton’s, haven’t you? Well, you know how to come up quick on to the mark, and all you have to do is to fancy yourself at the Gallery, firing at a wafer. There’s no difference.’
Peregrine withdrew his gaze from the passing houses and gave his friend a long clear look. ‘Is there no difference?’ he asked.
