Regency Buck (19 page)

“Leave that to me, I’ll see to it,” said Mr. Fitzjohn, getting up. “I’m going now. I’ll call for you at a quarter-past seven to-morrow.”

Peregrine smiled jauntily. “I shall be ready. Don’t oversleep!”

“Never fear!” said Mr. Fitzjohn.

He let himself out of Peregrine’s bedroom and descended the stairs to the hall. Here he rather unfortunately met Miss Taverner, who was dressed for the street, and had just come out of the breakfast-parlour.

She looked a little surprised to see him so early in the morning, and glanced laughingly at the clock. “How do you do? Forgive me, but I did not think you were ever abroad until midday! As for Perry, he is a sad case: did you find him in his bed?”

“No, no, he is up,” Mr. Fitzjohn assured her. “I had a little business with him; nothing of importance, you know, but I thought I might call.”

Miss Taverner, who was holding a very pretty buhl snuffbox in her left hand, flicked it open, and took a pinch with an elegant turn of her wrist. “I think it must have been important to bring you out before noon,” she said.

Mr. Fitzjohn, watching her manoeuvers with the snuff-box in a good deal of astonishment, said: “Oh no, just a trifling question of a horse he had a mind to purchase. But Miss Taverner—don’t be offended—in the general way I don’t like to see a lady take snuff, but upon my word, you do it with such an air! It passes everything!”

Miss Taverner, who had spent a week in practising the art, was more than satisfied with the effect it had produced on her first audience.

Mrs. Scattergood appearing at that moment at the head of the stairs, Mr. Fitzjohn took his leave, and went out of the house into the street. He paused for a moment on the steps, considering which surgeon he should engage, shook his head at a couple of chairmen who were signalling their readiness to carry him anywhere he pleased, and after staring abstractedly at a shabbily dressed lad who was lounging against the railings of an adjacent house, set off in the direction of Great Ormond Street.

Arrived there, he ran up the steps of Dr. Lane’s establishment, knocked loudly on the door, and was soon admitted. He came out again presently with all the satisfied air of one who has successfully accomplished his task, called up a hackney, and drove back to Cork Street.

Half an hour later a tilbury drove up Great Ormond Street, and stopped outside Dr. Lane’s house. A second gentleman knocked on the doctor’s door, and was admitted. His visit lasted a little longer than Mr. Fitzjohn’s, but when he at length emerged he, too, wore the look of one perfectly satisfied with the success of his mission.

Meanwhile Peregrine, when Mr. Fitzjohn had left him, finished his toilet with less than his usual care, and tried not to think too much about the morrow. His thoughts, however, showed a disposition to creep back to it, and he found himself recalling all the fatal duels of which he had heard. Happily none of these were very recent. The only recent duels he could call to mind were the Duke of York’s meeting with Colonel Lennox (which had taken place three years before his own birth), and Lord Castlereagh’s late affair with Mr. Canning. Neither of these meetings had proved fatal, but Peregrine could not but acknowledge that there might have been a score of others between lesser persons of which he had never heard. An exchange of shots between himself and Farnaby would, in all probability, end the quarrel, but the possibility of a more serious outcome had to be faced. With a sigh and a heavy heart Peregrine went down to the saloon to compose a letter to his sister.

He was engaged on this difficult task when Mr. Bernard Taverner was shown into the room.

Peregrine looked up with a start, and quickly concealed his letter under a blank sheet of paper. “Oh, it’s you, is it? Good morning; did you come to see me or Judith? She’s out, shopping with Maria, you know.”

Mr. Taverner scrutinized 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 consequences,” 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 nightcap 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.

Mr. Fitzjohn met his eyes for a moment, and then studied the head of his cane. “Yes, there is a difference,” he said. “But my father once told me that the secret of a good duellist is to imagine that there is none.”

Peregrine nodded and picked up the flat case that lay on the seat opposite and opened it. A pair of plain duelling pistols lay in it.

“You can handle ’em; they’re not loaded,” said Mr. Fitzjohn.

Peregrine lifted one from its bed, weighed it in his hand, and tested the pull. Then he laid it down, again and shut the case. “Nicely balanced,” he remarked.

“Yes, they’re a first-rate pair,” agreed Mr. Fitzjohn. “Hair trigger, of course. It’ll go off at a touch.”

The coach stopped in Great Ormond Street to pick up the doctor, who came out of his house almost as soon as the horses pulled up, and jumped nimbly into the coach. He had a black case under his arm, which Peregrine knew must contain the instruments of his profession. Oddly enough, the sight of it affected him more unpleasantly than the case of pistols had done.

“You are in good time, gentlemen,” said the doctor, rubbing his hands together. “It is a cold morning, is it not?”

“Cold enough,” said Mr. Fitzjohn. “But it won’t be long before we are all of us drinking hot coffee in a place I know of hard by the Green.”

“Myself, I never touch coffee,” said the doctor. “I hold it to be injurious to the stomach. Cocoa, now—there is no harm in a cup of cocoa; I have even known it to prove in some cases extremely beneficial.”

Interested in his subject, and possibly with some notion of diverting Peregrine’s mind from the coming duel, he went on to discuss the effects of wine and tea on the human system, and was still talking when the coach arrived at the hamlet of Westbourn Green.

The meeting-place was at no great distance from the road; the coach was able to drive within sight of it over a field.

“First on the ground,” said Mr. Fitzjohn, jumping down. “But we shan’t have long to wait, for it’s close on eight now. Unless, of course, our man has thought better of it. Perry, if there’s any offer of apology I shall accept it.”

“Very well,” said Peregrine, who was finding it increasingly difficult to talk.

He got down from the coach and walked beside his friend to the ground. The day, though dull, was by this time quite light. A sharp wind was blowing, and some scudding clouds overhead gave warning of rain to come. Peregrine thrust his hands into his pockets to keep them warm, and glanced up at the sky. He had rather an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach, but apart from that he felt curiously detached.

Hardly five minutes after their arrival another conveyance, this time a travelling chaise, drove into the field, and Mr. Farnaby and Captain Crake got out.

Mr. Fitzjohn, observing the chaise, was conscious once more of that faint feeling of unease. Unless he was much mistaken there was a box strapped onto the back of the chaise, and although the vehicle was only drawn by a pair of horses with one postilion, it had all the appearance of being about to make a journey of some distance. His lips tightened; he began to suspect Mr. Farnaby of having a sterner purpose than he had supposed possible, and determined, in the event of Peregrine’s receiving a mortal wound, to put every obstacle in the way of his opponent’s flight.

Both the newcomers were stamping their feet on the ground and slapping their hands on their arms, but Captain Crake soon came across the field to where Mr. Fitzjohn awaited him, and after the briefest of greetings the pair set about the task of inspecting and loading the pistols. No second shot was to be allowed, so that only Mr. Fitzjohn’s pistols (a very fine pair of Manton’s, ten inches in length, in the barrels, and with steel sights) were loaded.