“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.