I declined firmly, but did not escape.
“Nay,” declared the old dame. “I s’ll ha’e none o’ thy no’s. Should ter like it ’ot?—Say th’ word, an’ tha’ ’as it.”
I did not say the word.
“Then gi’e ’im claret,” pronounced my hostess, “though it’s thin-bellied stuff ter to ter bed on”—and claret it was.
Meg went out again to see about closing. The grand-aunt sighed, and sighed again, for no perceptible reason but the whiskey.
“It’s well you’ve come ter see me now,” she moaned, “for you’ll none ’a’e a chance next time you come’n;—No—I’m all gone but my cap——” She shook that geraniumed erection, and I wondered what sardonic fate left it behind.
“An’ I’m forced ter say it, I s’ll be thankful to be gone,” she added, after a few sighs.
This weariness of the flesh was touching. The cruel truth is, however, that the old lady clung to life like a louse to a pig’s back. Dying, she faintly, but emphatically declared herself, “a bit better—a bit better. I s’ll be up to-morrow.”
“I should a gone before now,” she continued, “but for that blessed wench—I canna abear to think o’ leavin ’er—come drink up, my lad, drink up—nay, tha’ ’rt nobbut young yet, that’ ’rt none topped up wi’ a thimbleful.”
I took whiskey in preference to the acrid stuff.
“Ay,” resumed the grand-aunt. “I canna go in peace till ’er’s settled—an’ ’er’s that tickle o’ choosin’. Th’ right sort ’asn’t th’ gumption ter ax’ er.”
She sniffed, and turned scornfully to her glass.
