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By dinner-time Grantham was quiet. A few gentlemen stayed on overnight, but they were not many. Miss Taverner could go to bed in the expectation of a night’s unbroken repose.
She thought herself reasonably safe from any further talk of the fight. It had been described to her in detail at least five times. There could be no more to say.
There was no more to say. Peregrine realised it, and beyond exclaiming once or twice during breakfast next morning that he never hoped to see a better mill, and asking his sister whether he had told her of this or that hit, he did not talk of it. He was out of spirits; after the excitement of the previous day, Sunday in Grantham was insipid beyond bearing. He was cursed flat, was only sorry Judith’s scruples forbade them setting forward for London at once.
There was nothing to do but go to church, and stroll about the town a little with his sister on his arm. Even the gig had had to be returned to its owner.
They attended the service together, and after it walked slowly back to the George. Peregrine was all yawns and abstraction. He could not be brought to admire anything, was not interested in the history even of the Angel Inn, where it was said that Richard the Third had once lain. Judith must know he had never cared a rap for such fusty old stuff. He wished there were some way of passing the time; he could not think what he should do with himself until dinner.
He was grumbling on in this strain when the pressure of Judith’s fingers on his arm compelled his attention. She said in a low voice: ‘Perry, the gentleman who gave up his rooms to us! I wish you would speak to him: we owe him a little extraordinary civility.’
He brightened at once, and looked round him. He would be glad to shake hands with the fellow; might even, if Judith was agreeable, invite him to dine with them.
The gentleman was approaching them, upon the same side of the road. It was evident that he had recognised them; he looked a little conscious, but did not seem to wish to stop. As he drew nearer he raised his hat and bowed slightly, and would have passed on if Peregrine, dropping his sister’s arm, had not stood in the way.
‘I beg pardon,’ Peregrine said, ‘but I think you are the gentleman who was so obliging to us on Friday?’
The other bowed again, and murmured something about it being of no moment.
‘But it was of great moment to us, sir,’ Judith said. ‘I am afraid we thanked you rather curtly, and you may have thought us very uncivil.’
He raised his eyes to her face, and said earnestly: ‘No, indeed not, ma’am. I was happy to be of service; it was nothing to me: I might command a lodging elsewhere. I beg you won’t think of it again.’
He would have passed on, and seeing him so anxious to be gone Miss Taverner made no further effort to detain him. But Peregrine was less perceptive, and still barred the way. ‘Well, I’m glad to have met you again, sir. Say what you will, I am in your debt. My name is Taverner – Peregrine Taverner. This is my sister, as perhaps you know.’
The gentleman hesitated for an instant. Then he said in rather a low voice: ‘I did know. That is to say, I heard your name mentioned.’
‘Ay, did you so? I daresay you might. But we did not hear yours, sir,’ said Peregrine, laughing.
‘No. I was unwilling to – I did not wish to thrust myself upon your notice,’ said the other. A smile crept into his eyes; he said a little ruefully: ‘My name is also Taverner.’
‘Good God!’ cried Peregrine in great astonishment. ‘You don’t mean – you are not related to us, are you?’
‘I am afraid I am,’ said Mr Taverner. ‘My father is Admiral Taverner.’
‘Well, by all that’s famous!’ exclaimed Peregrine. ‘I never knew he had a son!’
Judith had listened with mixed feelings. She was amazed, at once delighted to find that she had so unexpectedly amiable a relative, and sorry that he should be the son of a man her father had mistrusted so wholeheartedly. His modesty, the delicacy with which he had refrained from instantly making himself known to them, his manners, which were extremely engaging, outweighed the rest. She held her hand out to him, saying in a friendly way: ‘Then we are cousins, and should know each other better.’
He bowed over her fingers.‘You are very good. I have wished to speak to you, but the disagreements – the estrangement, rather, between your father and mine made me diffident.’
‘Oh well, there’s no reason why that should concern us!’ said Peregrine, brushing it aside with an airy gesture. ‘I daresay my uncle is as hasty as my father was, eh, Judith?’
She could not assent to it; he should not be speaking of their father in that fashion to one who was quite a stranger to them.
Mr Taverner seemed to feel it also. He said: ‘I believe there were grave faults, but we can hardly judge – I certainly must not. You will understand – it is difficult for me. But I have already said too much.’
He addressed himself more particularly to Judith. She fancied there was a faint bitterness in th
e way he spoke. She found herself more than ever disposed to like him. His manner indicated – or so she thought – that he was aware of some behaviour on his father’s part which he could not approve. She respected him for his reticence; he seemed to feel just as he ought. It was with pleasure that she heard Peregrine invite him to dine with them.
He was obliged to excuse himself: he was engaged with his friends; he wished it had been in his power to accept.
He was obviously sincere; he looked disconsolate. For her part Judith was sadly disappointed, but she would neither press him, nor permit Peregrine to do so.
Mr Taverner bowed over her hand again, and held it a moment.‘I am more than sorry. I should have liked excessively – But it must not be. I am promised. May I – you will be open with me, cousin – may I give myself the pleasure of calling on you in town?’
She smiled and gave permission.
