"But Peregrine, you will not desert me now--now that I have found you--you will not--cannot! Ah, come back, Peregrine!" she cried, deep bosom resurgent, arms outstretched and eyes dim with unshed tears.

"Dear Aunt, it is impossible!" I mumbled. "Loving you as I do, yet must I leave you a while, foregoing the tender shelter of your love for--for--"

"Dirt and misery!" she broke in. "The shameful allurement of a sly minx, an unspeakable--"

"Madam!" I cried, "have done! You shame yourself and me! It has been my good fortune to have fallen in with honest people with whom I shall remain awhile, enduring their lot, living their life and by their brave patience learn fort.i.tude, and their proud humility shall in time, I hope, teach me the duties of a gentleman--"

"My poor, distraught Peregrine!" she sighed. "My poor, poor boy. So thus I leave you because I must. But some day, when your stubborn will is broken, when your proud head is bowed with grief and shame, come back, dear prodigal, come back, and you shall find these arms outstretched in eager welcome, this solitary heart still open to shelter and protect. Farewell, my Peregrine--I go to weep and pray for you in the night silences. George--Jervas, lead me hence!"

Now as I stood, my eyes smarting with tears evoked by her last words, my uncles tendered their arms with grave and ready courtesy, but in that moment as I watched in a silent grief conjured up by my aunt's last words, the keen glance of uncle Jervas met mine for one brief moment and, in that s.p.a.ce, his right eyelid flickered unmistakably; then uncle George coughed explosively and at the same instant tossed something to the foot of a tree; coming thither, I took up a well-filled leathern wallet and a heavy purse; with these, my uncles'

parting benefactions in my hands, what wonder that I saw their retreating forms through a mist of tears.

CHAPTER XXVIII

EXEMPLIFYING THAT CLOTHES DO MAKE THE MAN

"The Rubicon," said the Tinker, "the Rubicon is a river as no Roman ever crossed without doo thought. 'The die,' as Julius Caesar remarked when he crossed it, 'the die is cast!' Friend Peregrine, you ha' sent away your lady aunt a-grieving, poor ma'm, and your fine gentlemen uncles likewise, and consequently what I asks is--what now?"

"Clothes!" said I. "This afternoon let us drive into Tonbridge, find a tailor, get rid of these atrocities and afterwards sup at some cosy inn."

"Your gentlefolk brought you money then?"

"They did," said I, and laying by my platter, I drew from my breeches pockets the wallet of my uncle Jervas and uncle George's purse.

"Ha!" exclaimed the Tinker, rubbing his long chin with the haft of his knife. "How much?"

"We will investigate," said I, and opening the wallet, I discovered the sum of thirty pounds in gold and notes and a carefully folded missive with these words:

'If you wish to tinker, Peregrine, tinker like a gentleman. If you must make love, do it like a Vereker, that is to say, a man of honour.'

"My soul!" exclaimed the Tinker, round of eye.

In uncle George's purse were twenty guineas with a crumpled paper bearing this scrawl,

'More when you want it, Perry lad.'

"Lord love me!" exclaimed the Tinker, staring at the money I had placed on the gra.s.s between us. "It's a fine thing to have uncles--rich 'uns. What d' you think, Ann?"

"That you'd better eat your dinner while it's hot."

"But--fifty pound, Ann! Never saw so much money all at once in my life--an' all gold an' bank notes, nothing s' common as silver or copper--Lord! Fifty pound!"

"Divided by four is exactly twelve pounds ten shillings," said I, and counting out this sum, I thrust it into the Tinker's hand.

"Eh--what--why, why, what's this?" he demanded.

"Your share," I answered.

"But why--what for?"

"Because we are friends and comrades, I hope, and according to the rules of the Brotherhood of the Roadside as expounded by you, 'those that have, give to those that haven't--it would be a poor world else.'"

"No, no!" he exclaimed, "no, no, can't be done--I think ye mean kindly, but it won't do."

"But why not?" I demanded.

"Because no man as is a man takes money unless he's earned it or lent it, or happens to be starving--"

"Nor woman either!" said Diana.

"Very well!" quoth I, a little ruefully, cramming the money back into my pockets. "Then perhaps you will come to Tonbridge and help me to spend it?"

"I would wi' j'y, but there's my work--ask Ann, she'll go wi' you."

"I'm busy, too!" said she, whereupon I turned and strode off in high dudgeon. But presently she overtook me, "Don't you think you'd better wash first?" she enquired. At this I stopped, for I had clean forgotten my grime.

"Why should I trouble to wash? How can it matter to you?"

"Not much, Peregrine, but you look a little better with a clean face and we shall likely meet plenty o' folk--"

"Do you mean you will come with me?"

"Yes, Peregrine."

"Then I'll wash."

"Yes, I brought you the soap and towel." So we came to the brook where she sat to watch while I performed my so necessary ablutions.

"I have no wish to hinder your work," said I, towelling vigorously.

"No, Peregrine."

"And I am quite able to find my way to Tonbridge alone."

"Yes, Peregrine."

"And it is a goodish distance, so if you would rather not come, pray do not trouble."

"No, Peregrine."

"Heavens, girl!" I cried. "Cannot you say more than 'yes and no, Peregrine'?"

"Aye, I could!" she nodded. "I could say you are a fool and a sight too c.o.c.ksure--and, oh, a lot more--but I won't!" with which she rose and left me. My toilet achieved, I returned to find Jerry busy harnessing Diogenes, the pony.