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‘Well, and I am sure it has all ended very much to Worth’s credit,’ said Mrs Scattergood. ‘You and I, my dear sir, can easily understand his scruples, however little these impatient young people may.’
Shortly after this Sir Geoffrey got up to take his leave of them, and until the tea-table was brought in the others were fully occupied in talking over what had passed. A knock on the front door put them in the expectation of receiving another visitor, but in a few minutes the butler came in with a note for Peregrine which had been brought round by hand from the Steyne. It was from Worth, requesting Peregrine to call at his house on the following morning for the purpose of discussing the marriage settlements. Judith listened to it being read aloud, and turned away to pick up one of the volumes of Self-Control from the sofa-table. But not even Laura’s passage down the Amazon had the power to hold her interest. It was evident that Worth had no desire to meet her; he would otherwise have appointed a meeting with Peregrine in Marine Parade.
The interview next morning served to put Peregrine in a mood of the greatest good humour. Worth became once more a very tolerable sort of fellow, and if his harshness at Cuckfield was not quite forgotten it was in a fair way to being forgiven.
The first person to share the news was Mr Bernard Taverner, whom Peregrine met in East Street, outside the post office. Peregrine had been feeling a good deal of coldness towards his cousin ever since the affair of his frustrated duel, but his present happiness made him at one with the whole world, and induced him to extend a cordial invitation to Mr Taverner to drink tea with them in Marine Parade that evening. The invitation was accepted, and shortly after nine o’clock Mr Taverner’s knock sounded on the door, and he was ushered into the drawing-room, to entertain the ladies with an account of the races, which he had been attending that afternoon, to wish Peregrine joy, and to make himself generally so agreeable that Mrs Scattergood, feeling all the undoubted attraction of air and manner, could almost find it in her to be sorry that his situation in life made him so ineligible a suitor. He had never been a favourite with her, but she did him the justice to acknowledge that he bore the news of his cousin’s approaching nuptials well – very much better, she guessed, than the Admiral would when next they had the doubtful pleasure of seeing him.
Peregrine’s marriage naturally formed the topic of a great part of their conversation. He was in spirits, and when he had talked over all his own plans, found it easy to quiz his sister, to exclaim at her ill-luck in being obliged to see him married before herself, and to throw out a good many dark hints that she would not be long in following him to the altar. ‘I do not mention any names,’ he said roguishly. ‘I am all discretion, you know! But it is safe to say that it will not be a certain gentleman who was bred to the sea, nor a tall, thin commoner with his calves gone to grass, nor that cursed rum touch who took you and Maria to the British Gallery, nor –’ ‘How can you talk so, Perry?’ interrupted his sister, turning her head away.
‘Oh, I would not betray you for the world!’ he replied incorrigibly. ‘If you have a preference for a red coat that is nothing out of the way! With females a red coat is everything, and if there is one officer amongst your acquaintance who is more dashing and gallant than the rest, I am sure no one can have the least notion who he may be!’
She was put quite out of countenance by this speech, and did not know how to meet her cousin’s grave look. Mrs Scattergood began to scold, for such talk did not suit her sense of propriety, but her efforts to check Peregrine only provoked him to be more teasing than ever. It was left to Mr Taverner to give the conversation a more proper direction, which he did by saying suddenly: ‘By the by, Perry, all this talk of being married puts me in mind of something I had to say to you. You will be enlarging your household, I daresay. Have you room for another groom? I am turning away a very good sort of man, and should be happy to find him an eligible situation. He leaves me for no fault, but I am putting down my carriage, you know, and unlike you wish to reduce my household.’
‘Putting down your carriage!’ exclaimed Peregrine, his thoughts instantly diverted. ‘How comes this about? Do not tell me your pockets are to let!’
‘It is not as bad as that,’ replied Mr Taverner, with a slight smile. ‘But I like to be beforehand with the world when I can, and I believe it will be prudent for me to retrench a little. My father keeps his carriage, of course, so I beg you will not be fancying me forced to walk. But if you have a place for my lad in your stables I should be glad to recommend him to you.’
‘Oh, certainly, there must always be something for a second groom to do,’ said Peregrine good-naturedly. ‘Let him come and see me. I will engage for Hinkson’s being obliged to you at least!’
‘I can readily believe that he may well be tired of the road to Worthing,’ said Mr Taverner slyly.
If Peregrine could have had his way Hinkson would have seen even more of that road, but happily for him Sir Geoffrey Fairford’s fondness for his son-in-law was not quite enough to make him view with complacence that young gentleman’s presence in his house every day of the week. He had laid it down as a rule that Peregrine might only visit Harriet on Mondays and Thursdays, but since Lady Fairford’s solicitude would not allow her to permit Peregrine to drive back to Brighton after dark these visits always lasted until the following day, and the lovers were not so very much to be pitied after all.
Mr Taverner thought it was rather Judith who should be pitied, and said as much to her one evening at the Assembly at the Castle inn. ‘Perry neglects you sadly,’ he remarked. ‘He thinks of nothing but being at Worthing.’
‘I assure you I don’t regard it. It is very natural that he should.’
‘You will be lonely when he is married.’
‘A little, perhaps. I don’t think of it, however.’
He took her empty glass of lemonade from her, and set it down. ‘He should count himself fortunate to possess such a sister.’ He picked up her shawl, and placed it carefully round her shoulders. ‘There is something I must say to you, Judith. In your own house Mrs Scattergood is always beside you; I can never get you alone. Will you walk out with me into the garden? It is a very mild night; I do not think you can take a chill.’
Her heart sank; she replied in a little confusion: ‘I had rather – that is, there can be no occasion for that degree of privacy, cousin, surely.’
‘Do not refuse me!’ he said. ‘Do you not owe me this much at least, that I should be allowed five minutes alone with you?’
‘I owe you a great deal,’ she said. ‘You have been all that is kind, but I beg you to believe that no purpose can be served by – by what you suggest.’
They were standing in one of the rooms adjoining the ballroom, and since another set was forming there no one but themselves now remained in the smaller apartment. Mr Taverner glanced round, and then clasping Judith’s hand, held it fast between both of his, and said: ‘Then let me speak now, for I can no longer be silent! Judith – dearest, sweetest cousin! – is there to be no hope for me? You do not look at me! you turn your head away! God knows I have little enough to offer you: nothing indeed but a heart that has been wholly your own from the first moment of setting eyes on you! Your circumstances and mine – alas, so widely apart! – have held me silent, but it will not do! I cannot continue so, be the event what it may! I have been forced to see others soliciting what I have not dared to ask. But it has grown to be more than a man may bear! Judith, I entreat you, look at me!’
She did contrive to raise her eyes to his face, but it was with considerable agitation that she answered: ‘I beg of you to say no more! Dear cousin, for your friendship I am and shall always be grateful, but if I have (unwittingly, believe me) led you to suppose that tenderer sentiments –’ Her voice became totally suspended; she made a gesture, imploring him to say no more.
‘How could I – how could any man – know you and not love you? I cannot offer you a title, I cannot offer you wealth –’
She recovered her voice enough to say: ‘That would not weigh with me if my affections had been touched! I give you pain: forgive me! But it can never be. Let us not speak of it again!’
‘Once before I asked you if there were another man.You told me “No”, and I believe it was true then. But now! Now could you return that answer?’
A deep flush suffused her cheeks. ‘You have no right to ask me such a question,’ she said.
‘No,’ he replied, ‘I have no right, but this I must and will say, Judith! – No man, I care not who he may be, can feel for you what I do! While Worth continues to be your guardian I know well that you will never be permitted to marry me, but in a very little while now you will be free, and no considerations of that –’
‘My refusal has nothing to do with Worth’s wishes!’ she said quickly. ‘I should desire always to be your friend; I esteem and value you as a cousin, but I cannot love you! Do not tease me further, I beg of you! Come, may we not remain good friends?’
He controlled himself with a strong effort, and after looking steadily into her face for a moment or two, raised her hand to his lips, and passionately kissed it.
A very dry voice said immediately behind them: ‘You will forgive me for intruding upon you, Miss Taverner, I trust.’
