The Man with a Shadow

“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.”