She made no answer.
He looked across at her.
Her mouth was drawn tight at the corners: her face wore a queer, rigid
aspect. She looked, he thought, like a figure of stone.
'Ye're not feeling poorly, are ye, mother?' he asked.
She shook her head grimly: then, hobbling out into the room, began to
speak in a shrill, tuneless voice.
'Ye talked at one time o' takin' a farm over Scarsdale way. But ye'd
best stop here. I'll no hinder ye. Ye can have t' large bedroom in t'
front, and I'll move ower to what used to be my brother Jake's room. Ye
knaw I've never had no opinion of t' girl, but I'll do what's right by
her, ef I break my sperrit in t' doin' on't. I'll mak' t' girl welcome
here: I'll stand by her proper-like: mebbe I'll finish by findin' soom
good in her. But from this day forward, Tony, ye're na son o' mine. Ye've
dishonoured yeself: ye've laid a trap for me--ay, laid a trap, that's t'
word. Ye've brought shame and bitterness on yer ould mother in her ould
age. Ye've made me despise t' varra sect o' ye. Ye can stop on here, but
ye shall niver touch a penny of my money; every shillin' of 't shall go
t' yer child, or to your child's children.
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