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?”