“I’ve left the stage. My voice went when I got a bad cold again, and I couldn’t stand the draughts of the theatre, and so I couldn’t dance, either. I’m finished with the stage. I’ve come out here for good and all.”
“Where did you think of livin’ out here?”
“I’d like to have gone to Lumley’s, but that’s not possible, is it? Anyway, I couldn’t afford it now. So I thought I’d stay here, if there was room for me.”
“You want to board here?”
“I didn’t put it to myself that way. I thought perhaps you’d be glad to have me. I’m handy. I can cook, I can sew, and I’m quite cheerful and kind. Then there’s George—little George. I thought you’d like to have your grandson here with you.”
“I’ve lived without him—or his father—for eight years, an’ I could bear it awhile yet, mebbe.”
There was a half-choking sound from the old woman in the rocking-chair, but she did not speak, though her knitting dropped into her lap.
“But if you knew us better, perhaps you’d like us better,” rejoined Cassy, gently. “We’re both pretty easy to get on with, and we see the bright side of things. He has a wonderful disposition, has George.”
“I ain’t goin’ to like you any better,” said the old man, getting to his feet. “I ain’t goin’ to give you any rights here. I’ve thought it out, and my mind’s made up. You can’t come it over me. You ruined my boy’s life and sent him to his grave. He’d have lived to be an old man out here; but you spoiled him. You trapped him into marrying you, with your kicking and your comic songs, and your tricks of the stage, and you parted us—parted him and me forever.”
“That was your fault. George wanted to make it up.”