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 tomorrow.”
“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, tha’ ‘rt none topped up wi’ a thimbleful.”
I took whisky 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. George grinned and looked conscious; as he swallowed a gulp of whisky it crackled in his throat. The sound annoyed the old lady.
“Tha’ might be scar’d at summat,” she said. “Tha’ niver ‘ad six drops o’ spunk in thee.”
She turned again with a sniff to her glass. He frowned with irritation, half filled his glass with liquor, and drank again.
“I dare bet as tha’ niver kissed a wench in thy life — not proper”— and she tossed the last drops of her toddy down her skinny throat.
Here Meg came along the passage.
“Come, Gran’ma,” she said. “I’m sure it’s time as you was in bed — come on.”
“Sit thee down an’ drink a drop wi’s — it’s not ivry night as we ‘a’e cumpny.”
“No, let me take you to bed — I’m sure you must be ready.”
“Sit thee down ’ere, I say, an’ get thee a drop o’ port. Come — no argy-bargyin’.”
Meg fetched more glasses and a decanter. I made a place for her between me and George. We all had port wine. Meg, naïve and unconscious, waited on us deliciously. Her cheeks gleamed like satin when she laughed, save when the dimples held the shadow. Her suave, tawny neck was bare and bewitching. She turned suddenly to George as he asked her a question, and they found their faces close together. He kissed her, and when she started back, jumped and kissed her neck with warmth.
“La — là— dy — dà— là— dy — dà— dy — dà,” cried the old woman in delight, and she clutched her wineglass.
“Come on — chink!” she cried, “all together — chink to him!”
We four chinked and drank. George poured wine in a tumbler, and drank it off. He was getting excited, and all the energy and passion that normally were bound down by his caution and self-instinct began to flame out.
“Here, Aunt!” said he, lifting his tumbler, “here’s to what you want — you know!”
“I knowed tha’ wor as spunky as ony on’em,” she cried.
“Tha’ nobbut wanted warmin’ up. I’ll see as you’re all right. It’s a bargain. Chink again, iverybody.”
“A bargain,” said he before he put his lips to the glass. “What bargain’s that?” said Meg.
The old lady laughed loudly and winked at George, who, with his lips wet with wine, got up and kissed Meg soundly, saying:
“There it is — that seals it.”
Meg wiped her face with her big pinafore, and seemed uncomfortable.
“Aren’t you comin’, Gran’ma?” she pleaded.
“Eh, tha’ wants ter ‘orry me off — what’s thai say, George — a deep un, isna ‘er?”
“Dunna go, Aunt, dunna be hustled off.”
“Tush — Pish,” snorted the old lady. “Yah, tha’ ‘rt a slow un, an’ no mistakes! Get a candle, Meg, I’m ready.”
Meg brought a brass bedroom candlestick. Bill brought in the money in a tin box, and delivered it into the hands of the old lady.
“Go thy ways to bed now, lad,” said she to the ugly, wizened serving-man. He sat in a corner and pulled off his boots.
“Come an’ kiss me good night, George,” said the old woman — and as he did so she whispered in his ear, whereat he laughed loudly. She poured whisky into her glass and called to the serving-man to drink it. Then, pulling herself up heavily, she leaned on Meg and went upstairs. She had been a big woman, one could see, but now her shapeless, broken figure looked pitiful beside Meg’s luxuriant form. We heard them slowly, laboriously climb the stairs. George sat pulling his moustache and half smiling; his eyes were alight with that peculiar childish look they had when he was experiencing new and doubtful sensations. Then he poured himself more whisky.
“I say, steady!” I admonished.
“What for!” he replied, indulging himself like a spoiled child and laughing.
Bill, who had sat for some time looking at the hole in his stocking, drained his glass, and with a sad “Good night,” creaked off upstairs.
Presently Meg came down, and I rose and said we must be going.
“I’ll just come an’ lock the door after you,” said she, standing uneasily waiting.
George got up. He gripped the edge of the table to steady himself; then he got his balance, and, with his eyes on Meg, said:
“‘Ere!” he nodded his head to her. “Come here, I want ter ax thee sumwhat.”
She looked at him, half smiling, half doubtful. He put his arm round her and looking down into her eyes, with his face very close to hers, said:
“Let’s ha’e a kiss.”
Quite unresisting she yielded him her mouth, looking at him intently with her bright brown eyes. He kissed her, and pressed her closely to him.
“I’m going to marry thee,” he said.
“Go on!” she replied, softly, half glad, half doubtful.
“I am an’ all,” he repeated, pressing her more tightly to him.
I went down the passage, and stood in the open doorway looking out into the night. It seemed a long time. Then I heard the thin voice of the old woman at the top of the stairs:
“Meg! Meg! Send ’im off now. Come on!”
In the silence that followed there was a murmur of voices, and then they came into the passage.
“Good night, my lad,
