Contrary to his sister’s expectations, Peregrine’s infatuation for Miss Fairford showed no sign of abating. He continued to go about town a great deal, but whenever opportunity offered he was to be found, if not on the Fairford doorstep, certainly at any party where they were likely to be present. Miss Taverner informed her cousin that she did not know whether to be cross or glad. A love-lorn Peregrine was tiresome, but if Miss Fairford’s attractions could keep him out of gaming clubs and taverns she must certainly be glad. When she found his thoughts to be dwelling on marriage she was a little dubious. He seemed to her to be too young to be thinking of such a thing.
However that might be, within one month of having met Miss Fairford he had come to such a good understanding with her that he took his courage in both hands, and sought an interview with her parents.
Lady Fairford, who besides wishing to see her daughter so triumphantly bestowed, was in a fair way to loving Peregrine quite for his own sake, showed a marked inclination to accept him into her family without any more ado, but Sir Geoffrey, with greater common sense, thought the young couple would do well to wait. He was by no means anxious to lose his daughter, and might conceivably feel some doubt of her suitor’s stability, but even he must feel that the match would be a better one than he had ever hoped to see his Harriet make. He would not forbid the engagement, but his notions of propriety, which were very nice, made him refuse to listen to any offer that was made without Lord Worth’s knowledge or approval.
This pronouncement had the effect of sending Peregrine off hot-foot to his guardian. Worth, however, proved to be somewhat elusive. Three consecutive calls at his house failed to discover him, and after an abortive attempt to compose a letter which should explain everything to his lordship, Peregrine hit upon the notion of looking for him at his clubs.
This plan was more successful. After being told at White’s that the Earl had gone out of town, and at the Alfred that he had not been inside the club for six months, he finally ran him to earth at Watier’s, where he was playing macao.
“Oh!” said Peregrine. “So you are here! I have been searching for you all over town!”
The Earl cast him a look of faint surprise, and gathered up his cards. “Well, now that you have found me, do you think you could sit down—keeping me under observation, if you like—until after the game?” he said.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you!” said Peregrine. “Only they told me at White’s you were out of town, and when I called at the Alfred they said you had not been there for months.”
“Come and take a hand,” said Lord Alvanley kindly. “You should not have wasted your time at the Half-Read, my boy. They have seventeen bishops there, so I hear. Worth and I gave it up after the eighth. As for White’s, it is my belief Worth taught them always to say he was out of town. Do you care to join us?”
Peregrine, much flattered, thanked him, and took a place between Sir Henry Mildmay and a gentleman with very red hair and very blue eyes, whom he discovered later to be Lord Yarmouth. The stakes at the table were extremely high, and he soon found that his luck was quite out. This did not trouble him much, for he did not think Worth could very well refuse to pay any debts he might incur over and above what little remained of the quarter’s allowance. He took his losses in good part, and cheerfully wrote a number of I O Us, which Worth, who held the bank, accepted with an unmoved countenance.
Mr. Brummell, who had come over to observe the game, lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing. The hour was considerably advanced, and the table broke up before the bank changed hands. Mr. Brummell took the Earl away with him in search of iced champagne, and murmured: “Must he play at your table, Julian? Really, you know, it does not look well.”
“Young fool,” said the Earl, unemotionally.
“Just a little out of place,” said Brummell, taking a glass from the tray a waiter was presenting to him.
The Duke of Bedford came up at that moment with Lord Frederick Bentinck and Mr. Skeffington, forming the nucleus of the circle that very soon gathered round Mr. Brummell, and nothing more was said of Peregrine and his losses. The Duke, who was a great personal friend of the Beau, wanted his opinion on a matter of some importance. “Now George, tell me!” he said earnestly. “I have changed my tailor, you know, and this is the coat my new man has made for me. What do you say? Will it answer? Do you like the cut of it?”
Mr. Brummell continued to sip his champagne, but over the rim of his glass he gazed thoughtfully at his grace, while the circle about him waited in interested silence for his verdict. The Duke stood anxiously showing himself off. Mr. Brummell’s eyes dwelled for an appreciable time upon the coat’s very bright gilt buttons; he gave a faint sigh and the Duke blenched.
“It sets well; I like the long tails,” said Lord Frederick. “Who made it, Duke? Nugee?”
“Turn round,” said Mr. Brummell.
The Duke pivoted obediently, and stood craning his head over his shoulder to see what effect this aspect of the garment produced on the Beau. Mr. Brummell examined him from head to foot, and walked slowly round him. He studied the length of the tails, and pursed his lips; he observed the cut across the shoulders, and raised his brows. Lastly, he took one of the lapels between his finger and thumb, and carefully felt it. “Bedford,” he said earnestly, “ do you call this thing a coat?”
The Duke, with a ludicrous expression, half of dismay, half of amusement, on his face, interrupted the laughter of the circle. “No, really, George, that’s too bad of you! Upon my word, I have a good mind to call you out for it!”
“You may call me, Bedford, but there it will end, I warn you,” replied Brummell. “I haven’t the least intention of putting a period to my existence in such a hideous way as that.”
“Did you ever fight a duel, Brummell?” inquired Mr. Montagu, astride a cabriole chair.
“Thank God, no!” said the Beau, with a shudder. “But I once had an affair at Chalk Farm, and a dreadful state I was in: never in my life shall I forget the horrors of the previous night!”
“Any sleep, George?” asked Worth, smiling.
“None, not a wink. It was out of the question. Dawn was to me the harbinger of Death, and yet I almost hailed it with pleasure. But my second’s step on the stair soon spoiled that feeling, for what must he do but carefully explain all the horrid details to me, thus annihilating the little—the very little—courage that had survived the anxieties of the night! We left the house, and no accident, no fortunate upset occurred on our way to the rendezvous, where we arrived, according to my idea, much too soon, a quarter of an hour before the time named.” He paused, closing his eyes as though overcome by the recollection.
“Go on, George: what happened?” demanded the Duke, highly entertained.
Mr. Brummell opened his eyes again, and fortified himself with champagne. “Well, Bedford, there was no one on the ground, and each minute seemed an age as in terror and semi-suffocation I awaited my opponent’s approach. At length the clock of the neighbouring church announced that the hour had come. We now looked in the direction of town, but there was no appearance of my antagonist. My military friend kindly hinted that clocks and watches varied, a fact I was well aware of, and which I thought he might have spared me the pleasure of hearing him remark upon: but a second is always such a ‘damned good-natured friend’! The next quarter of an hour passed in awful silence. Still no one appeared, not even on the horizon. My friend whistled, and, confound him! looked much disappointed. The half-hour struck—still no one; the third quarter; at last the hour. My Centurion of the Coldstream now came up, this time in truth my friend and said to me, and I can tell you they were the sweetest accents that ever fell on my ear: ‘Well, George, I think we may go.’ You may imagine my relief!—‘My dear fellow,’ I replied, ‘you have taken a load off my mind: let us go immediately!”
The shout of laughter that greeted this climax brought several other people over to the group, Peregrine amongst them, who arrived in time to hear his guardian say: “Had your bloodthirsty opponent met with the accident that did not befall you, George, or was his second less determined than yours?”
“I am inclined to believe,” replied the Beau gravely, “that he realized in time the social solecism he had committed in calling me out at all.”
Peregrine worked his way through the knot of persons to Worth’s side, and touched his sleeve. The Earl turned his head, frowning a little. “Well, Peregrine, what is it?”
“I thought you had gone,” said Peregrine in a low voice. “I must have a word with you; you know that is what I came for.”
“My good boy, you cannot be private with me at Watier’s, if that is what you want. You may come and see me at my house to-morrow morning.”
“Yes, but will you be there?” objected Peregrine. “I have been to your house three times already, and you are never at home. Could I not walk back with you now?”
“You may call at my house to-morrow,” repeated the Earl wearily. “In the meantime you are interrupting Mr. Brummell.”
Peregrine blushed, begged pardon, and withdrew in some haste just as Lord Alvanley came up. Lord Alvanley’s chubby face wore a look of concern. He laid his hand on Worth’s shoulder. “Julian, I am such a stupid fellow! do pray forgive me! But, do you know, you were so curt with the boy, and he looked so uncomfortable, that I had to ask him to join us.”
“If only you would not be kind-hearted!” said the Earl. “I had snubbed him quite successfully when you intervened.”
“Oh well, of course, he should not have broken in on the table as he did,” admitted Alvanley. “But he’s very young, after all, and quite a nice boy, from what I have seen.”
“Quite,” said Worth. “He will be still nicer when he has been snubbed a few more tunes. George, you might attend to it.”
Mr. Brummell shook his head. “My dear Worth, you really cannot expect me to do any more for your ward. Why, I once gave him my arm all the way here from White’s!”
“Ah, perhaps that may account for his presumption,” said Worth. “You had better have given him one of your cuts.”
“But I thought you wanted me to do what I could to bring him into fashion,” said the Beau plaintively.
Whether from a natural impatience, or from a fear of once more missing his guardian, Peregrine was in Cavendish Square by half-past ten next morning, only to be informed that his lordship was dressing. He had nothing to do, therefore, but to kick his heels in the saloon for half an hour, skim through the newspaper, and silently rehearse all he meant presently to say.
At eleven o’clock the footman came back, and informed him that his lordship would receive him. He followed the man up the broad stairway, and was ushered into the Earl’s bedroom. This was a large apartment with a canopy bed occupying the whole of one wall. It was an extremely fine piece, supported by two bronze gryphons, and with crimson silk hangings caught up by a pair of smaller gryphons on pedestals. A fifth gryphon surmounted the canopy with its wings spread ready for flight, and all the hangings depending apparently from its claws. Peregrine was so much struck by the splendour of this edifice that for some moments he could only stand and gaze at it.
The Earl, who was seated before a mahogany dressing-table with the drawer pulled out and the top pushed back to disclose a central mirror, cast him a fleeting glance, and went on attending to his toilet.
Peregrine, having taken in the bed in all its details, looked round for his guardian, and, perceiving him, blinked a little at the elegance of the brocade dressing-gown he was wearing, and wished that he could achieve the exquisite disorder of his lordship’s black locks. These were brushed into a style which Peregrine at once recognized as being au coup de vent. He himself had wasted half an hour in trying to arrange his own yellow curls in the same manner, and had had to be content in the end with a cherubim style.
“Good morning, Peregrine. You choose a very early hour for your calls,” said the Earl, “You need not wait, Foster. Stay, hand me the packet you will find on the table. Thank you; you may go.”
The valet put a chair forward for Peregrine, and went away. Peregrine sat down, looking rather uneasily at the papers the man had fetched for the Earl. He had not the least difficulty in recognizing them, and blurted out: “Those are my I O Us, are they not?”
“Yes,” said the Earl. “Those are your I O Us. Shall we settle before we go any further?”
Peregrine fixed his eyes anxiously on that calm profile, and moistened his lips. “Why—why, the fact of the matter is—I don’t think I can,” he confessed. “I’m not perfectly certain how much I lost last night, but—”
“Oh, not much above four thousand, I fancy,” said the Earl.
“Not much above—Oh! Well—well, that is not such a vast sum after all, is it?” said Peregrine valiantly.
“That,” said the Earl, taking a slender knife from the open drawer, and beginning to pare his nails with it, “depends very largely on the size of your fortune.”
“Yes,” agreed Peregrine. “Very true. I—I have a considerable fortune, haven’t I?”
“At the moment,” replied Worth, “you have what I should rather call an independence.”
“You mean I have what you allow me,” said Peregrine in a dissatisfied voice.
“I am glad to find that you realize that,” said Worth. “I was beginning to be afraid that you did not.”
“Of course I do. But the money’s there, ain’t it? It’s only a matter of advancing me some of it.”
The Earl laid the knife down, and dipped his hands in a bowl of water, placed at his elbow. Having rinsed them he began to dry them carefully on a fine napkin. “But I have not the least intention of advancing you any of it,” he said.
Peregrine stiffened. “What do you mean?” he asked.
The Earl raised his eyes for a moment, and coldly looked his ward over. “Between you, you and your sister credit me with an obscurity of meaning which I am unaware of having done anything to deserve. It really doesn’t amuse me. I mean precisely what I say.”
“But you can’t refuse to let me have money to pay my debts of honour!” said Peregrine indignantly.
“Can’t I?” said the Earl. “I was under the impression that I could.”
“Damme, I never heard of such a thing! I must pay my debts!”
“Naturally,” agreed the Earl.
“Well, how the devil can I if you won’t loosen the purse-strings?” demanded Peregrine, “You must know my pockets are pretty well to let till next quarter!”
“I didn’t know it, but I don’t find it very hard to believe. You have all my sympathy.”
“Sympathy! What’s the use of that to me?” cried Peregrine, a good deal injured.
“I’m afraid it isn’t of any use to you at all,” said Worth. “We are wandering a little from the point, are we not? You owe me something over four thousand pounds—if you look over those I O Us you may find out the exact sum for yourself—and I am anxious to know when you propose to pay me.”
“You are my guardian!” said Peregrine hotly. “You have control of all my fortune!”
The Earl lifted one well-manicured hand. “Oh no, Peregrine! You must leave me as your guardian quite out of this discussion, if you please. As your guardian I have already intimated that I have no intention of assisting you to game your fortune away. As your creditor I am merely desirous of knowing when it will suit your convenience to redeem these notes.”
By this time Peregrine was feeling very limp, but he kept his chin up, and said in as even a voice as he could manage: “In that case, sir, I shall have to ask you to have the goodness to wait until next quarter-day, when I shall be able to pay you—not all, but a large part of the sum I owe you.”
The Earl once more looked him over in a way that made the unfortunate Peregrine feel very small, and hot, and uncomfortable. “Perhaps I should have told you—in the character of your guardian—that it is customary to settle your debts of honour at once,” he said gently.
Peregrine flushed, gripped his hands together on his knee, and muttered: “I know.”
“Otherwise,” said the Earl, delicately adjusting one of the folds of his cravat, “you may find yourself obliged to resign from your clubs.”
Peregrine got up suddenly. “You shall have the money by to-morrow morning, Lord Worth,” he said, his voice trembling. “Had I known—had I guessed the attitude you would choose to assume I should have arranged the payment before ever I called on you.”
“Let me make one thing quite plain to you—I am speaking once more as your guardian, Peregrine.—If I find at any time during the next two years that you have visited my friends Howard and Gibbs, or, in fact, any other moneylender, you will return to Yorkshire until you come of age.”
Very white about the mouth, Peregrine stared down at the Earl, and said rather numbly: “What am I to do? What can I do?”
The Earl pointed to the chair. “Sit down.”
Peregrine obeyed, and sat with his eyes fixed anxiously on his guardian’s face.
“Do you quite understand that I mean what I have said? I will neither advance you money for your gaming debts, nor permit you to go to the Jews.”
“Yes, I understand,” said poor Peregrine, wondering what was to become of him.
“Very well then,” said Worth, and picked up the little sheaf of papers, tore them once across, and dropped them into a wastepaper-basket under the dressing-table.
Peregrine’s first emotion at this unexpected action was one of staggering relief. He gave a gasp, and his colour came flooding back. Then he got up quickly, and thrust his hand into the basket. “No!” he said jerkily. “I don’t play and not pay, sir! If you will neither advance me the money nor permit me to obtain it in my own way, keep my notes till I come of age, if you please!”
The Earl’s hand closed over his wrist, and the grip of his slender fingers made Peregrine wince. “Let them fall,” he said quietly.
Peregrine, who had caught up the torn notes, continued to clutch them in his prisoned hand. “I won’t! I lost the money in fair play, and I don’t choose to put myself under such an obligation to you! You are very good—extremely kind, I am sure—but I had rather lose my whole fortune than accept such generosity!”
“Let them fall,” repeated the Earl. “And do not flatter yourself that in destroying the notes I am trying to be kind to you. I do not choose to figure as the man who won over four thousand pounds from his own ward.”
Peregrine said sulkily: “I do not see what that signifies.”
“Then you must be very dull-witted,” returned the Earl. “I should warn you that my patience is by no means inexhaustible. Put those notes down!” He tightened his grip as he spoke. Peregrine drew in his breath sharply, and allowed the crumpled papers to fall back into the basket. Worth let him go. “What was it you wanted to say to me?” he asked calmly.
Peregrine swung over to the window, and stood staring blindly out, one hand fidgeting with the curtain-tassel. His whole pose suggested that he was labouring under a strong sensation of chagrin. The Earl sat and watched him, slight smile in his eyes. After a moment, as Peregrine seemed still to be struggling with himself, he got up and slipped off his dressing-gown, tossing it on to the bed. He strolled over to get his coat, and put it on. Having adjusted it carefully, flicked a speck of dust from his shining Hessians, and scrutinized his appearance critically in the long mirror, he picked up a Sevres snuff-box from his dressing-table, and said: “Come! we will finish this conversation downstairs.”
Peregrine turned reluctantly. “Lord Worth!” he began on a long breath.
“Yes, when we get downstairs,” said the Earl, opening the door.
Peregrine made a stiff little bow, and stood back for him to go first.
The Earl went in his leisurely fashion down the stairs, and led the way into a pleasant library behind the saloon. The butler was just setting a tray bearing glasses and a decanter on the table. He arranged these to his satisfaction, and withdrew, closing the door behind him.
The Earl picked up the decanter, and poured out two glasses of wine. One of them he held out to Peregrine. “Madeira, but if you prefer it I can offer you sherry,” he said.
“Thank you, nothing for me,” said Peregrine, with what he hoped was a fair imitation of his lordship’s own cold dignity.
Apparently it was not. “Don’t be stupid, Peregrine,” said Worth.
Peregrine looked at him for a moment, and then, lowering his gaze, took the glass with a murmured word of thanks, and sat down.
The Earl moved towards a deep chair with earpieces. “And now what is it?” he asked. “I apprehend it to be a matter of some importance, since it sends you looking all over town for me.”
His guardian’s voice being for once free from its usual blighting iciness, Peregrine, who had quite determined to go away without mentioning the business which had brought him, changed his mind, shot a swift, shy look at the Earl, and blurted out: “I want to talk to you on a—on a very delicate subject. In fact, marriage!” He gulped down half the wine in his glass, and took another look at the Earl, this time tinged with defiance.
Worth, however, merely raised his brows. “Whose marriage?” he asked.
“Mine!” said Peregrine.
“Indeed!” Worth twisted the stem of his wineglass between his finger and thumb, idly watching the light on the tawny wine. “It seems a trifle sudden. Who is the lady?”
Peregrine, who had been quite prepared to be met at the outset with a flat refusal to listen to him, took heart at this calm way of receiving the news, and sat forward in his chair. “I daresay you will not know her, sir, though I think you must know her parents, at least by repute.”
The Earl was in the act of raising his glass to his lips, but he lowered it again. “She has parents, then?” he asked, an inflection of surprise in his voice.
Peregrine stared. “Of course she has parents! What can you be thinking of?”
“Evidently of something quite different,” murmured his lordship. “But continue: who are these parents who are known to me by repute?”
“Sir Geoffrey and Lady Fairford,” said Peregrine, watching very anxiously to see how this disclosure would be met. “Sir Geoffrey is a member of Brook’s, I believe. They live in Albemarle Street, and have a place near St. Albans. He is a Member of Parliament.”
“They sound most respectable,” said Worth. “Pour yourself out another glass of wine, and tell me how long you have known this family.”
“Oh, a full month!” Peregrine assured him, getting up and going over to the table.
“That is certainly a period,” said the Earl gravely.
“Oh, yes,” said Peregrine, “you need not be afraid that I have just fallen in love yesterday. I am quite sure of my mind in this. A month is fully long enough for that.”
“Or a day, or an hour,” said the Earl musingly.
“Well, to tell you the truth,” confided Peregrine, reddening, “I was sure the instant I set eyes on Miss Fairford, but I waited, because I knew you would only say something cut—” He broke off in some confusion. “I mean—”
“Something cutting,” supplied the Earl. “You were probably right.”
“Well, I daresay you would not have listened to me,” said Peregrine defensively. “But now you must realize that it is perfectly serious. Only, from the circumstances of my being under age, Sir Geoffrey would have it that nothing could be in a way to be settled until your consent was gained.”
“Very proper,” commented the Earl.
“Sir Geoffrey will have no scruple in agreeing to it if you are not against it,” urged Peregrine. “Lady Fairford, too, is all complaisance. There is no objection there.”
The Earl threw him a somewhat scornful but not unkindly glance. “It would surprise me very much if there were,” he said.
“Well, have I your permission to address Miss Fairford?” demanded Peregrine. “It cannot signify to you in the least, after all!”
The Earl did not immediately reply to this. He sat looking rather enigmatically at his ward for some moments, and then opened his snuff-box, and meditatively took a pinch.
Peregrine fidgeted about the room, and at last burst out with: “Hang it, why should you object?”
“I was not aware that I had objected,” said Worth. “In fact, I have little doubt that if you are of the same mind in six months’ time I shall quite willingly give my consent.”
“Six months!” ejaculated Peregrine, dismayed.
“Were you thinking of marrying Miss Fairford at once?” inquired Worth.
“No, but we—I had hoped at least to be betrothed at once.”
“Certainly. Why not?” said the Earl.
Peregrine brightened. “Well, that is something, but I don’t see that we need wait all that time to be married. Surely if we were betrothed for three months, say—”
“At the end of six months,” said Worth, “we will talk about marriage. I am not in the mood today.”
Peregrine could not be satisfied, but having expected worse, he accepted it with a good grace, and merely asked whether the betrothal might be formally announced.
“It can make very little difference,” said the Earl, who seemed to be fast losing interest in the affair. “Do as you please about it: your prospective mother-in-law will no doubt inform all her acquaintance of it, so it may as well be as formal as you like.”
“Lady Fairford,” said Peregrine severely, “is a very superior woman, sir, quite above that sort of thing.”
“If she is above trying to secure a husband with an estate of twelve thousand pounds a year for her daughter she is unique,” said the Earl with a certain tartness.