Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.
Dally’s Appeal.
“Nay! nay! nay! I know what you want. There, give me my pipe,” said Moredock, settling himself down in his big-armed Windsor chair.
“Yes, gran’fa, dear,” cried Dally, bustling about and fetching the clay pipe with a clean white bowl, consequent upon its having been thoroughly burned in the fire before it was stood up in the corner on the hob. “There’s your pipe, dear, and there’s your tobacco box. Oh, how heavy it is!”
“It arn’t heavy with ’bacco, lass. Should ha’ thought a girl as I’ve brought up, as I’ve brought up you ever since your mother and father died, would have give her poor old gaffer a pinch o’ ’bacco now and agen.”
“And so I will, gran’fa, dear,” cried Dally, taking the lid off the heavy leaden pot. “Next time I go into town I’ll bring you a beautiful packet of the best. Let me fill your pipe, dear, same as I used to.”
“Ay, you was a good little gel then,” said Moredock, as he watched the brown, plump fingers busily charging the bowl, while a grim smile puckered his face, and he lay back with a satisfied air.
“So I am now, gran’fa, dear.”
“Nay; you’ve come to bother your poor old gran’fa about money for silk dresses, and feathers, and gloves. I know.”
“No, you don’t, gran’fa, dear,” cried Dally. “There, now it’s nice and full.”
“You’ve jammed it in too tight.”
“No, I haven’t, gran’fa. I know exactly how you like it. There! hold still while I fetch you a light. There! there, then. Now pull. Don’t you remember how you used to puff the smoke in my face and make me cough?”
“Ay; and I ’member how you tried to smoke my pipe, and how sick it made you.”
“Yes, I remember,” said Dally, clapping her hands. “Ah! how happy I used to be then with you, gran’fa! Do you remember how you used to take me to the church?”
“Ay,” grunted the old man, puffing away, with a dreamy look in his face.
“And how you used to pretend to bury yourself in the graves when you were digging, so as to frighten me?”
“Ah!” grunted Moredock.
“Then there was that old skull, gran’fa, that I had to play with. What became of that skull?”
“Up in the cupboard in your old bedroom,” grunted Moredock.
“How happy I used to be then!” sighed Dally, stroking a thin wisp off her grandfather’s hideous old forehead.
“Ah, you was a good little gel then, and thought about your poor old gran’fa, and didn’t come bothering him for money.”
“Yes, I did, gran’fa—for sweeties,” said Dally.
“Ay; but I wouldn’t give you none, gel.”
“Yes, you did sometimes, gran’fa; and so you would now to buy some nice things—a pretty bonnet—if I asked you.”
“Nay, I wouldn’t. And I knew it. You’ve come a-purpose to worry me out of some money.”
“No, I haven’t, gran’fa.”
“Ay, but you have. I know. Look here, how’s that going on? If it’s going to be my leddy, you shall have as much as you want; but not without. Is he courting of you?”
“No, gran’fa.”
“Whaaart?”
“Only sometimes, gran’fa; and that’s what made me come to you.”
“You—you haven’t come for the brass?”
“No, gran’fa, I want you to help me, for I’m such a miserable little girl.”
“What about?—what about?” cried the old man, smoking furiously, and staring with a peculiarly angry look at the girl.
“I wanted to tell you, gran’fa,” cried Dally, plumping herself down at the old man’s feet, and laying her rosy cheek upon his corduroy-covered knee, stained with the clay from many a grave. “It’s all such a muddle.”
“What is?—what is?”
“Why, everything,” cried Dally, with a petulant twitch; “but he’s not going to play with me. He’s told me many a time that he’d marry me, and make me Lady Candlish; and he shall, shan’t he, gran’fa?”
“Ay, that he shall,” cried the old man, patting Dally’s curly head. “That’s sperrit, that is. You keep him to it. But what’s all a muddle?”
“Why, everything, gran’fa,” cried Dally, bursting into tears, and speaking in an excited, passionate way. “But he shall marry me; and you’ll help me make him, won’t you, gran’fa?”
“Ay, that I will, my pretty. That’s the way. Don’t you be beat.”
“I won’t; and I won’t have him come courting Leo Salis.”
“Nay, you won’t,” said the old man, smoking away as he patted the fierce little creature’s head.
“He said it was all nonsense, and I believed him because he was so fond of me; but he courts her, too.”
“Nay, does he, Dally?”
“Yes, gran’fa; and he shan’t. He shall marry me. If he don’t, I’ll kill him!”
“So you shall, my pretty,” chuckled the old man; “and I’ll bury him. And then the doctor—”
He checked himself and chuckled again. “What’s the use of the doctor when he’s dead?” cried Dally pettishly, as she tugged angrily at a fold of the old man’s trousers. “And Doctor North’s a fool!”
“Nay! nay! nay! Doctor’s a very clever man, Dally.”
“He isn’t; he’s a fool, gran’fa!”
“Tut, tut! Shoo, shoo!”
“I say he is, or he wouldn’t be courting and making love to Miss Leo.”
“Do he, Dally?—do he?”
“Why, yes, gran’fa, of course he does and she’s carrying on all the time with Tom. Oh, how I do hate her! Wish he’d let her die!”
“Ay, would ha’ been a good job for everybody—and for me, Dally. But doctor don’t know?”
“Know? Of course not. He’s too stupid. He’s a fool!”
“Nay, he’s not a fool,” said the old man, smoking rapidly. “Doctor’s head’s screwed on right way. He don’t know, or—”
“Or what, gran’fa—or what?”
“He! he! he!” chuckled the old man, as Dally screwed herself round and gazed eagerly in his face. “Here, gently, gently! Don’t stick your little claws into my legs like that, pussy.”
“But what, gran’fa, what?—what would the doctor do?”
“Give him a nasty dose, I should say, Dally,” chuckled the old man. “Doctor don’t know—he arn’t no fool. Does Miss Leo know young squire courts you?”
“I don’t know,” cried Dally thoughtfully.
“She be a bad ’un,” grunted the old man.
“She’s a wretch, and I hate her! Oh, I wish master was the doctor instead of the parson!”
“Why, Dally, my lass?” said the old man, whose lips were drawn open to a terrible extension—a savage grin—as if he gloried in the display of fierce vindictive spite which the girl displayed.
“I’d get something out of the surgery and poison her!”
“Nay, nay, Dally, that wouldn’t do,” he chuckled. “They’d find you out and hang you.”
“I wouldn’t care if I killed her first,” said Dally fiercely. “She shouldn’t have him.”
“What—the doctor?”
“No. Don’t be so stupid. You know—Tom.”
“Ah, well, wait a bit. Dessay the things ’ll come right. Wait till doctor finds it out; he’ll half kill Tom Candlish, same as Parson Salis did when squire was after Miss Leo.”
“Did he? Oh, I know! It was when master’s knuckles was all cut.”
“That’s right, Dally. I was in the wood and see it all, but I never said a word till now. And don’t you. I thought it was all over between young Tom and pretty Miss up at the Rect’ry.”
“But it isn’t all over, gran’fa, and I won’t have it. They shan’t meet. I’ll tear her eyes out first. Nice one she is to lecture me!”
“You wait till doctor finds it out, if he’s courting Leo Salis. He’ll half kill Tom Candlish.”
“But I don’t want him half killed,” cried Dally. “Yes I do; it’ll bring him to his senses, and when he’s ill I can go and give him a bit of my mind.”
“Ah, to be sure; so you can, my pretty.”
“I’ll let him know. He shall marry me, that he shall.”
“Ay, so he shall, Dally.”
“And you’ll help me, gran’fa?”
“Of course I will, my pretty.”
“Then I’ll tell you what I came to say.”
“Wasn’t it for money, then?”
“Money? No. A girl with a face like mine don’t want money, and I shall have plenty when I’m up at the Hall.”
“Toe be sure, Dally. Toe be sure. Ay, but you are a clever gel!”
“Then, look here, gran’fa, you’ll help me to make doctor give Tom Candlish a big thrashing.”
“Ay, if I can. I should like it. He threatened me wi’ his whip t’other day ’cause I said the sheep mustn’t come in th’ churchyard. Parson May found fault, and Squire ca’d me an old mummy, and said he’d put in pigs if he liked. I’d like to see doctor mummying him, same as he does his brother—eh; help you, lass?”
“Yes; but it wasn’t the doctor, it was master made a mummy of Squire Tom. You’re mixing ’em up.”
“Ay, I s’pose I am, Dally; but I’m not very old yet.”
“Then you’ll help me, gran’fa?”
“Will it help you to get to be my lady at the Hall?” said the old man dubiously. “Of course, gran’fa, or I wouldn’t do it,” said the girl, who had wrenched herself round, kneeling at the old man’s feet, and resting her elbows on his knees, her little dimpled chin upon her hands.
“What do you want me to do, then?”
“I want you to help me serve them out.”
“Ay, and how?”
“I want doctor to find out that Leo Salis is a down bad one.”
“Ay, she is, my lass; and not good enough for him.”
“And I want the doctor to beat Tom Candlish and stop him from going after Leo Salis, and then he’d come altogether to me.”
“Ay, that’s right, Dally; that’s right. I want to see thee my leddy up at the Hall.”
“Then, look here: you take the doctor some night, and show him when Leo—ugh! how I hate the minx!—is along with my Tom.”
“Ay, but how, lass, how?”
“I’ll tell you, gran’fa,” whispered Dally vindictively. “Master ordered Squire Tom never to come to the Rectory again.”
“Ay.”
“So he gave me notes to take to Miss Leo.”
“And you was fool enough to take ’em?”
“Yes, gran’fa; but that’s how it began with me, and he soon told me he didn’t care for her, and that he only wrote to Leo so as to make her send me out with notes to him, so that we could court.”
“Oh! He’s a nice ’un,” growled Moredock. “He allus was. Well?”
“And now Tom’s fooling me and meets Leo, and they court, and I dare say they laugh at me,” cried Dally vindictively.
“I dessay; but you’ll make him marry you, Dally.”
“I will, gran’fa. Now listen: because Tom can’t come to the Rectory, and Leo can’t go to him because master watches her, they meet of a night.”
“Nay. Tchah!”
“They do, gran’fa.”
“What? Does he come to the Rect’ry o’ nights?”
“No. She waits till every one’s asleep, and then she goes to him.”
“Nay, do she, lass?” cried the old man. “Yes, gran’fa. She gets out of her bedroom window, and down on to the summer-house, and then goes.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve seen her out of my window, gran’fa, night after night: and then she runs down the green path to the meadows, and—”
“Meets him there?”
“No,” said Dally, shaking her head.
“Where does she go, then?”
“Can’t you guess, gran’fa?”
“Nay. Yes. Up to the Hall.”
“Where the servants would find it out? No; they’re too cunning for that.”
“Where then?” cried the old man, chuckling, and evidently enjoying it all.
“Why, to a place where nobody would go of a night—where it would all be quiet and still, and people would be afraid to walk for fear of seeing ghosts. Where would that be, gran’fa?”
Old Moredock’s jaw dropped, and he gazed down at his grandchild in a startled way.
“Not to the old morslem?” he whispered, in an awe-stricken tone.
“Pooh! No; but next door to it.”
“Not to my church, gel?”
“Not quite, gran’fa; but to the vestry.”
“What?”
“Yes, gran’fa,” whispered Dally excitedly. “Leo Salis gets out of the window and goes straight to the vestry, and meets Tom Candlish there night after night.”
“And she gets parson’s keys, and goes in at the south door, and through the porch, and ’long the south aisle, and then across to the chancel?”
“Yes, gran’fa, with a great veil all over her head; but how did you know?”
“Why, you’re telling me, arn’t you?” said the old man testily, as he recalled the draped head he had seen hastily gliding above the pews. “And Squire Tom?”
“He goes across the meadows and over the churchyard wall, and in at the vestry door by the big vault.”
“Does he, though?” said Moredock, with his jaw dropped still more; “and how does he get the keys?—of course, he’s churchwarden! Hah! nice game in my church! Tchah!” he cried, after a pause. “Stuff! You dreamt it.”
“Oh, no, I didn’t,” said Dally. “I watched her, and saw her go. And another night I watched and followed, and I saw a man go up to the Candlish vault.”
“Eh! You saw that?” cried the old man, catching the girl’s arm.
She nodded.
“Who was it, eh? Not me?”
“You? No, gran’fa!”
“Nor the doctor?”
“The doctor? No! It was my Tom Candlish!”
“Are you sure, gel?”
“I am now, gran’fa; I wasn’t then. I half thought it was the doctor, and I did hope it was him. It was so dark, I couldn’t quite be sure; and he stopped by the gate in the iron railings and looked about so that I daren’t go and make sure.”
“Phew!” whistled the old man, dropping his pipe and wiping his brow as the fragile stem broke into atoms. “And you there, Dally, watching?”
“Yes, gran’fa; for I was, oh, so jealous!”
“And you’re not sure now?”
“Yes I am, gran’fa; for I made sure.”
“You went again—in the middle of the night?”
“Yes, gran’fa. I got out of my bedroom window next time and went first.”
“And you saw them go. Did you see—?”
The old man stopped short.
“No, I didn’t see much, gran’fa; but I heard. I went into the church.”
“How did you get in?”
“Through one of the lead windows, as I’ve often climbed through when I was a little girl; and then went into the vestry and up the screw stairs, and into the little place in the loft.”
“How did you get the key?”
“How did I get the key? Why, I came and took it from here.”
“You jade.”
“And you came and caught me.”
“Did you take anything else?”
“No, gran’fa, of course not,” cried the girl. “I was obliged to do it. Then I waited till I could just see Leo Salis come in along the church, and she passed under me and went into the vestry.”
“Sure?”
“Sure? Of course I am; and then I stole down the screw stairs and waited by the door till I heard him come in from the churchyard.”
“And me about there in the morslem all the time!” muttered Moredock. “Well,” he added aloud, “was it young Squire Tom?”
“Yes, gran’fa; it was him, safe enough, and it was Leo Salis, and she scolded him for being so late, and they stopped together for ever so long; him smoking.”
“Smoking?”
“Yes; I heard him strike a match, and I could smell it—a wretch!”
“And I thought it was the parson,” said Moredock, chuckling.
“They stayed there two hours, gran’fa; and they go regular, and I had to wait till they’d gone before I could go back.”
“And weren’t you afraid, Dally?” said the old man with a grin.
“’Fraid! What of?” said the girl. “I wasn’t afraid, but I felt as if I could have killed them both.”
“Ay, you must, my pretty. And now what do you mean me to do?”
“Do? Take the doctor there, and let him find Leo out, and beat Tom. It’ll stop it all, and serve him right. You will, won’t you, gran’fa?”
“Ay, lass, I will.”
“You good old, darling old gran’fa; and—look—look!”
The old man’s eyes caught sight of a face at the lattice window at the same moment; and almost before she had spoken, Moredock had caught up the heavy leaden tobacco jar, and hurled it with so good an aim that it went out through the diamond panes with a loud crash.
Daily stood in the fire-lit room half paralysed; but the old man had hobbled to the door, and gazed out in the darkness for a few moments, listening to the sound of retreating feet.
“Who was it, gran’fa?” whispered Dally.
“Well, I arn’t quite sure,” said the old man with asperity; “but I should say it was that Joe Chegg.”
“And he heard all I said?”
“Nay, I shouldn’t think he did; but I just give him warning if he comes spying and listening about my place, he’ll get it with the maddick or the spade.”
“I don’t think he came to spy, gran’fa.”
“Then it was after you, and I won’t have it.”
“Never mind him, gran’fa,” said Dally, with quiet confidence; “even if he did hear, I can silence him.”
“No courtin’, for I won’t have it.”
“Courting with him!” cried Dally scornfully. “Don’t be afraid that I shall do that, gran’fa! But you’ll tell doctor?”
“Don’t you be afraid, my gel.”
“And when?”
“First chance I have,” said the old man grimly; and then to himself: “He shan’t call me a mummy for naught.”
“Good night, gran’fa.”
“Good night, my leddy,” cried the old man, chuckling. “Don’t you be skeered. I’ll do it, and p’r’aps to-night.”