"It's little better than murder: it's cruel, that's what it is. What
does he mean by being ill and shutting hisself up, and won't see
anybody? What right has a doctor to go and be ill? Yah!"
Old Moredock stared his clock full in the face as it ticked away slowly
and regularly in the most unconcerned way.
"Yes! go it!" cried the old man, "go on marking it off, all your minutes
and hours, but I don't mean to die yet, so you needn't think it. I'm
not so old as all that, and if doctor 'll only get well, I'll astonish
some on 'em."
He changed his position, stared at his fire, and laboriously, and with
many a groan, got down his old leaden tobacco box and pipe, filled
slowly, lit up, and began to smoke; but somehow he did not seem to enjoy
his pipe, and removed it again and again to go on muttering to himself.
"Well, suppose I did? A man must make a few pounds to keep himself out
of the workhouse. They should pay the saxon better if they didn't want
him to. Tchah! What's a few old bones?"
There was an interval of smoking, and then the old man resumed his
complainings.
"Turning ill like that. What did he go and turn ill like that for, just
as I wanted him so badly? It's too bad o' doctor. I wouldn't ha' let
him go to the old morslem if I'd known he'd turn queer arterward. It's
my b'leef that young Tom Candlish gave him an ugly knock that night.
But I warn't there. Hi--hi--hi! I warn't there. I didn't want to be
mixed up with it."
He shifted his seat, and as he did so painfully, his jaw dropped, and he
sat fixed and staring at the window, where at one corner there was a
curious, rough-looking object, which remained stationary for some time
and then moved slowly till first one and then a second eye appeared,
gazed into the little cottage interior, and slowly descended again.
"Who--who--what's that?" faltered the old man. "Is it--is it--tchah!
It's Joe Chegg, peeping and prying again to see if my Dally's here."
Recovering from his scare, the old man smoked away viciously for a time,
and then grinned hideously.
"If I'd only been well," he muttered, "and that doctor had let me have
some more of his stuff, I'd ha' took my spade and crope round by the
back, and I'd ha' come ahint that iddit and give him such a flop.
Sneaking allus after my Dally, as if it was like she'd wed a thing like
him."
"Why don't doctor come?" he groaned, as a twinge made him twist
painfully in his seat. "It's about murder: that's what it is; and they
all want to get rid of me now--parson and all; and then things 'll go to
ruin about the old church. But they may get a new saxon if they like.
Let 'em have Joe Chegg: I don't care. Much good he'll do 'em. Disgrace
to the old church: that's what he'll be; and go in o' Sundays smelling
of paint and putty, till he most drives Parson Salis mad. Disgrace to
the church: that's what he'll be. Eh? eh? Who's that? Who's that?
Hallo! Eh? Who's that at the door? You, Dally? Oh, you've come at
last!"
"Yes, gran'fa, I've come at last," said the girl in a sullen tone.
"I might ha' died for all you'd ha' cared," grumbled the old man; "but I
wouldn't--nay, I wouldn't do that."
Dally made no answer, but plumped herself down on the old shred
hearthrug, and put her hands round one knee, so as to stare at the fire.
"Well," said the old man after a pause, "ain't you going to speak?"
Dally turned and looked at him sharply, with her brow knit and her mouth
tightened up; but she only shook her head.
"Never been a-nigh me for three days," grumbled Moredock; "after all
I've done for you. But don't you make too sure. Young 'uns often goes
'fore old folk, and maybe I'll bury you, and Joe Chegg too, if he don't
mind what he's about."
Dally paid no heed, but stared at the fire.
"Seen doctor?" said Moredock.
Dally looked round again as if she did not quite hear his question, and
then shook her head again.
"Never mind; I don't want him," grumbled the old man. "Let him doctor
hisself. I'm not so bad but what I can get well without him. I'm not
worn out yet! I'm not worn out yet!"
Dally paid no heed, and her curious attitude and her silence took the
old man's attention at last. He reached round painfully till he could
get hold of a thick oak stick, whose hook held it upon the back of the
covered arm-chair.
With this the old man poked at his grandchild to draw her attention to
him.
"Here, Dally, what's the matter? Here!"
"Don't!" cried the girl angrily; but he poked at her again.
"Don't, gran'fa! do you hear?" she cried, giving herself a vicious
twist; but the old man only chuckled, and deliberately changing his hold
upon his stick, he leaned forward, with one hand upon the arm-chair,
till he could reach Dally easily as she crouched there, half turned from
the old sexton, staring thoughtfully at the fire.
The old man chuckled softly as he extended the stick as a shepherd might
his crook, till he could hook Dally by the neck, and drew her slowly
towards him, grasping the stick now with both hands.
"Don't, gran'fa!" cried the girl fiercely, as she started up and took
hold of the stick with both hands, getting her neck out of the hook, and
struggling with her grandfather for its possession, in which she was
triumphant, and ending by nearly dragging Moredock from his seat, as she
made a final snatch, obtained the stick, and threw it viciously across
the room.
"You--you--you nearly--you fetch that stick!"
"I won't stand it, gran'fa!" cried Dally, ignoring his command, and
stamping her foot as she stared at him. "I won't have it! If he thinks
he's got a baby to deal with, like Leo Salis, he's mistaken."
"Eh? eh?" croaked the old man, staring at her, and forgetting the stick,
as he saw the girl's excitement.
"He's not going to play with me, gran'fa, and so I'll tell him."
"Eh? Who, Dally? Joe Chegg?"
"He said he'd marry me."
Then sharply:
"He's not going to play with me, and so I precious soon mean to tell
him. He should marry me if I followed him all round the world for ever.
There!"
She emphasised her words with a stamp, and then, taking the old man by
the shoulders, she pushed him back in his chair, and arranged his collar
and tie--the one, a limp piece of linen; the other, something a little
more limp and loose.
"What's the matter, Dally? What's wrong, my gel?"
"After the way he has talked to me, and then to go off like that without
a word!"
"But you don't want him, Dally, and I don't want him."
"Yes, I do; and I'll have him, too!" cried the girl, with savage
vehemence.
"Nay, nay. He's an iddit."
"Yes, I know that," cried Dally vindictively; "and a drunken idjut; but
I don't care for that."
"He was here to-night, staring in at the corner of the windy there."
"What, Tom Candlish?" cried Dally excitedly.
"Nay, nay; Joe Chegg."
"Joe Chegg!" cried Dally, in a tone of disgust that would have cut the
village Jack-of-all-trades to the heart. "Who said anything about Joe
Chegg? I was talkin' about young squire."
"Eh? About young squire? Well, Dally, well? When's it to be?"
"It's going to be soon, gran'fa, or I'll know the reason why; I'm not
going to have him playing Miss Leo off against me."
"Nay, that I wouldn't, Dally," cried the old man.
"She's got to mind, or she may be ill again," cried the girl, with a
vindictive look in her eyes.
"Ill again! Has she, Dally? Nay, nay, nay, my gel; you mustn't talk
like that."
"Mustn't I, gran'fa? but I will," cried the girl. "I'm not going to be
played with, and if Tom Candlish wants to drink himself into a coffin--"
"Eh? What?--what?" cried Moredock, the last word making him prick up
his ears. "Nay, nay; don't you talk like that, my gel. He's a young,
strong man yet."
"I say if Tom Candlish wants to drink himself into his coffin, he may.
But he's got to make me Lady Candlish first."
"Lady Candlish of the Hall, eh, Dally? Lady Candlish of the Hall? Ay,
ay! Let him make you Lady Candlish first, Dally."
"Yes, and then he may drink himself into his coffin as soon as he
likes."
"And I'll bury him, eh, Dally? In the old morslem, eh? And doctor
can--"
He stopped short with a chuckle, and rubbed his hands.
"Yes, the doctor can try and stop him from drinking, for I can't," said
Dally acidly. "It's of no use to talk to him."
"And you wouldn't break your heart, Dally, if he was to die, would you?"
said the old man, with a chuckle.
"I should if he was to die now, gran'fa," said the girl; "but when he
marries me he can do what he likes."
"Ay, when he's married you, Dally, and you've got the Hall and all his
money. But, look here, Dally; I want doctor to come and see me and
bring me some of his stuff. You go up and tell him he must come--that I
say he must come; I want him. Tell him I say he is to come, and that he
is to bring some o' that stuff he give me those nights. You say o'
those nights, and he'll know. Rare stuff, Dally, as goes right down
into your toes. Rare stuff, as sets you up and makes you have a good
nap sometimes."
Dally looked at the sexton searchingly.
"You're not looking well, gran'fa," she said.
"Nay, I look well enough, but I do want the doctor a bit."
"You see you're a very old man now."
"Tchah! stuff! Old? I'm not an old man yet. Lots o' go in me. Man
takes care of himself, and he ought to live to two hundred."
"Two hundred, gran'fa!" cried the girl, looking at him wonderingly.
"Ay. Why not? Look at the paytrarchs, seven and eight and nine
hundred. I don't mean to die yet, Dally," he chuckled; "and you'll have
a long time to wait if you think you want the bit o' money I've saved
up."
"Where do you keep that stuff now, gran'fa?"
"What stuff?" said the old man.
"That stuff you used to keep in the blue bottle in the corner cupboard."
"How did you know I kept stuff in that corner cupboard?"
"Because I looked," said the girl pertly. "Then I won't have you look
in my cupboards. I--"
"Why not?" said Dally calmly. "There, I know, gran'fa, most everything
you've got. Now, tell me, what have you done with that bottle that you
used to use for your eyes?"
"Poured it away, and put the bottle in the fire."
"Oh, gran'fa!"
"My eyes are right enough now, and I didn't want to go some night in the
dark--candles cost money, Dally--and take the wrong stuff. Doctor gives
me some drops in a little bottle, and I shouldn't ha' liked to make a
mistake."
"And you've thrown it all away?" said the girl in a disappointed tone.
"Ay, my gel. It was poison, only to use outside, and you wouldn't ha'
liked your poor old gran'fa to make a mistake?"
"Gone!" said Dally, to herself.
"Now, you go to doctor and say your gran'fa wants him. Tell him I say
it's all nonsense for him to be ill, and he must come."
"Yes, gran'fa."
"And you wait, Dally. I arn't an old man yet, but I shall be sure to
die some day, and then there'll be a bit o' money for you."
"I don't want your money, gran'fa," she said sourly, as the old man
grinned and rubbed his hands.
"That's right. Good gel. Be independent," he said. "Now go and tell
doctor he must come."
Dally did not stir, but stood gazing straight before her thoughtfully.
"How much does it cost to go to London, gran'fa?" she said, at last, as
the old man beat upon the arm of his chair to take her attention.
"Heaps o' money--heaps o' money. What do you want to know for?"
"Because I'm going there."
"Going? What for?"
"To find him and bring him back."
"Whatcher talking about? You go and fetch doctor."
"About Tom Candlish. I went to the Hall last night, and he was gone."
"What, young squire? Well, you mustn't go after him, gel."
"Yes, I must," said Dally, with a lurid look in her dark eyes. "I'm
going after him to bring him back here, gran'fa. But are you sure you
threw that stuff away?"
"Ay, I'm sure enough. Now go and fetch doctor, I tell you; and ask him
to give you some more of it if your eyes are bad. Now go."
Dally nodded shortly, neither displaying, nor being expected to display,
any affection for her grandfather, as she left the cottage; when the old
man relit his pipe and sat back thinking as he smoked.
"What does she want with that stuff?" he said thoughtfully; "'tis
poison, and she knowed where it was. She wouldn't want to take none
herself. She wouldn't do that; and she wouldn't want to give none to
Tom Candlish, because that wouldn't make him marry her. I dessay she
wants it--she wants it--to--"
The old man's drowsy head had sunk back, his pipe-holding hand fell in
his lap, and he slept heavily, to wake, after a few hours, cold and
shivering, ready to creep to bed, murmuring against the doctor for not
coming, and forgetting all about Dally and her desire to get that bottle
which used to stand in the corner cupboard.
Volume 3, Chapter XVI.