"O Peregrine," she moaned from this dainty mystery, "O rash boy--to
have sunk to this--sordid misery--rags--dirt! You that were wont to
shudder at a splash of mud and now--O kind heaven--grimed like a
dreadful collier and I think--yes, O shameless youth, actually smiling
through it--"
"And why not, m'dear creature?" sighed uncle Jervas. "Dirt is of many
kinds and Peregrine's is at least honest and healthy--"
"Cease, Sir Jervas, I pray!" cried my aunt with a flash of her fine
black eyes. "Nevermore will I heed your perfidious counsels, nor the
fatuous maunderings of graceless George. There stands my poor,
misguided Peregrine--an object for angels to weep over, an innocent
but a little while since--but now--now, alas--and you--both of you his
undoing!"
"Pardon me, dear Aunt," said I hastily, "but there you are in error
and do a monstrous injustice to my two generous uncles. Allow me to
reiterate the statement I set down in my letter, that I left Merivale
and you of my own accord; indeed my uncles would have stayed me, but I
was determined to be gone for your sake, their sake and my own.
Indeed, Aunt, so deep is my affection that I would see you truly
happy, and knowing the deep and--and honourable sentiments my uncles
have for you, I--I dreamed that they--that you--that one of them might
have won your hand and--and you find that happiness which you have
denied yourself on my account."
"Misguided boy!" murmured my aunt, lovely eyes abased, "Come, dear
Peregrine, doubtless one of your uncles can find you a cloak to--to
veil you from the curious vulgar--only let us be going, pray.
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