“Oi bain’t so old as Sidrach,” he had retorted, not without resentment, “and Oi doubt he ain’t left off bein’ a rollin’ stone. And Oi reckon Oi can fit into that chest of drawers better than when Oi was bonkka.”
But the shrivelled form, with the hollow cheeks, flaming eyes, and snowy beard, was still shaking her angrily, and her sense of his pathos vanished in a sick fear, not so much for herself, though his fingers seemed formidably sinister, as for his aged brain under this disappointment. “Why did you say ’twas your wedding morn?”
The Dutch clock, providentially striking three, offered a fresh chance of temporizing.
“There, Gran’fer! Can’t be my wedding morn yet, only three o’clock!”
He let go her hands. “Ain’t ye ashamed to have fun with your Gran’fer?” he asked, vastly relieved. “But it’s a middlin’ long drive to Chipstone before breakfus.”
“It’s not at Chipstone—the wedding’s at Little Bradmarsh.”
“Oh!” he said blankly.
“So there’s lots of time, Gran’fer, and you can go back to bed.”
“Not me! Do, Oi mightn’t wake in time agen.”
“I’ll wake you—but I’ll be fit for nothing in the morning, if I don’t go to sleep now.”