“No, no, doctor,” said the old man uneasily, “no more—no more.”
“Yes, you will want some more,” said the doctor meaningly; and the old man returned his fixed look, and then stood rubbing his withered yellow cheek with the key of the vault as the doctor walked away.
“I don’t like it,” he muttered. “I don’t like it. Not in my way. Ah, Dally, my lass, going home?”
“I’m going back to the Rectory, if that’s what you mean,” said the girl shortly, as she turned away.
“Ah, there she goes,” muttered the old man, “and why not? She’s handsome enough. But the doctor—the doctor, coming down to-night. Well, I must do it; I must do it, I suppose, for I can’t get on without him, and it’s too soon to die just yet. Bit o’ money, too—a bit o’ money. Man must save up, so as not to go in the workhouse. Dally, too. Fine clothes and feathers, and make a lady of her. Why not, eh? How do I know he wouldn’t poison me next time if I didn’t mind what he said?”
Volume Two—Chapter Three.
For a Special Reason.
Jonadab Moredock sat smoking his pipe on the night of the funeral, after Luke Candlish had been laid to his rest. The old man sat in the dark for economical reasons, and whenever he drew hard at his pipe, the glow in the bowl faintly lit up his weird old face.