Chapter 1

PHOEBE BARRASFORD

_Krindlesyke is a remote shepherd's cottage on the Northumbrian fells, at least three miles from any other habitation. It consists of two rooms, a but and a ben. EZRA BARRASFORD, an old herd, blind and decrepit, sits in an armchair in the but, or living-room, near the open door, on a mild afternoon in April. ELIZA BARRASFORD, his wife, is busy, making griddle-cakes over the peat fire._

ELIZA (_glancing at the wag-at-the-wa'_): It's hard on three o'clock, and they'll be home Before so very long now.

EZRA: Eh, what's that?

ELIZA: You're growing duller every day. I said They'd soon be home now.

EZRA: They? And who be they?

ELIZA: My faith, you've got a memory like a milk-sile! You've not forgotten Jim's away to wed? You're not that dull.

EZRA: We cannot all be needles: And some folk's tongues are sharper than their wits. Yet, till thon spirt of hot tar blinded me, No chap was cuter in all the countryside, Or better at a bargain; and it took A nimble tongue to bandy words with mine. You'd got to be up betimes to get round Ezra: And none was a shrewder judge of ewes, or women. My wits just failed me once, the day I married: But, you're an early riser, and your tongue Is always up before you, and with an edge, Unblunted by the dewfall, and as busy As a scythe in the grass at Lammas. So Jim's away To wed, is he, the limb? I thought he'd gone For swedes; though now, I mind some babblement About a wedding: but, nowadays, words tumble Through my old head like turnips through a slicer; And naught I ken who the bowdykite's to wed-- Some bletherskite he's picked up in a ditch, Some fond fligary flirtigig, clarty-fine, Who'll turn a slattern-shrew and a cap-river Within a week, if I ken aught of Jim. Unless ... Nay, sure, 'twas Judith Ellershaw.

ELIZA: No, no; you're dull, indeed. It's Phoebe Martin.

EZRA: Who's Phoebe Martin? I ken naught of her.

ELIZA: And I, but little.

EZRA: Some trapsing tatterwallops, I'll warrant. Well, these days, the lads are like The young cockgrouse, who doesn't consult his dad Before he mates. In my--yet, come to think, I didn't say overmuch. My dad and mammy Scarce kenned her name when I sprung my bride on them; Just loosed on them a gisseypig out of a poke They'd heard no squeak of. They'd to thole my choice, Lump it or like it. I'd the upper hand then: And well they kenned their master. No tawse to chide, Nor apron-strings to hold young Ezra then: His turn had come; and he was cock of the midden, And no braw cockerel's hustled him from it yet, For all their crowing. The blind old bird's still game. They've never had his spirit, the young cheepers, Not one; and Jim's the lave of the clutch; and he Will never lord it at Krindlesyke till I'm straked. But this what's-her-name the gaby's bringing ...

ELIZA: Phoebe.

EZRA: A posical name; I never heard the like. She'll be a flighty faggit, mark my words.

ELIZA: She's only been here once before; and now She'll be here all the time. I'll find it strange With another woman in the house. Needs must Get used to it. Your mother found it strange, Likely ... It's my turn now, and long in coming. Perhaps, that makes it harder. I've got set Like a vane, when the wind's blown east so long, it's clogged With dust, and cannot whisk with the chopping breeze. 'Twill need a wrench to shift my bent; for change Comes sore and difficult at my time of life.

EZRA: Ay, you may find your nose put out of joint, If she's a spirited wench.

ELIZA: Due east it's blown Since your mother died. She barely outlived my coming; And never saw a grandchild. I wonder ... Yet, I spared her all I could. Ay, that was it: She couldn't abide to watch me trying to spare her, Another woman doing her work, finoodling At jobs she'd do so smartly, tidying her hearth, Using her oven, washing her cups and saucers, Scouring her tables, redding up her rooms, Handling her treasures, and wearing out her gear. And now, another, wringing out my dishclout, And going about my jobs in her own fashion; Turning my household, likely, howthery-towthery, While I sit mum. But it takes forty years' Steady east wind to teach some folk; and then They're overdried to profit by their learning. And so, without a complaint, and keeping her secrets, Your mother died with patient, quizzical eyes, Half-pitying, fixed on mine; and dying, left Krindlesyke and its gear to its new mistress.

EZRA: A woman, she was. You've never had her hand At farls and bannocks; and her singing-hinnies Fair melted in the mouth--not sad and soggy As yours are like to be. She'd no habnab And hitty-missy ways; and she'd turn to, At shearing-time, and clip with any man. She never spared herself.

ELIZA: And died at forty, As white and worn as an old table-cloth, Darned, washed, and ironed to a shred of cobweb, Past mending; while your father was sixty-nine Before he could finish himself, soak as he might.

EZRA: Don't you abuse my father. A man, he was-- No fonder of his glass than a man should be. Few like him now: I've not his guts, and Jim's Just a lamb's head, gets half-cocked on a thimble, And mortal, swilling an eggcupful; a gill Would send him randy, reeling to the gallows. Dad was the boy! Got through three bottles a day, And never turned a hair, when his own master, Before we'd to quit Rawridge, because the dandy Had put himself outside of all his money-- Teeming it down his throat in liquid gold, Swallowing stock and plenishing, gear and graith. A bull-trout's gape and a salamander thrapple-- A man, and no mistake!

ELIZA: A man; and so, She died; and since your mother was carried out, Hardly a woman's crossed the threshold, and none Has slept the night at Krindlesyke. Forty-year, With none but men! They've kept me at it; and now Jim's bride's to take the work from my hands, and do Things over that I've done over for forty-year, Since I took them from your mother--things some woman's Been doing at Krindlesyke since the first bride Came home.

EZRA: Three hundred years since the first herd Cut peats for that hearth's kindling. Set alow, Once and for all, it's seen a wheen lives burn Black-out: and when we, too, lie in the house That never knew housewarming, 'twill be glowing. Ay! and some woman's tongue's been going it, Like a wag-at-the-wa', in this steading, three hundred years, Tick-tocking the same things over.

ELIZA: Dare say, we'll manage: A decent lass--though something in her eye, I couldn't quite make out. Hardly Jim's sort ... But, who can ever tell why women marry? And Jim ...

EZRA: Takes after me: and wenches buzz Round a handsome lad, as wasps about a bunghole.

ELIZA: Though now they only see skin-deep, those eyes Will search the marrow. Jim will have his hands full, Unless she's used to menfolk and their ways, And past the minding. She'd the quietness That's a kind of pride, and yet, not haughty--held Her head like a young blood-mare, that's mettlesome Without a touch of vice. She'll gan her gait Through this world, and the next. The bit in her teeth, There'll be no holding her, though Jim may tug The snaffle, till he's tewed. I've kenned that look In women's eyes, and mares', though, with a difference. And Jim--yet she seemed fond enough of Jim: His daffing's likely fresh to her, though his jokes Are last week's butter. Last week's! For forty-year I've tholed them, all twice-borrowed, from dad and granddad, And rank, when I came to Krindlesyke, to find Life, the same jobs and same jests over and over.

EZRA: A notion, that, to hatch, full-fledged and crowing! You must have brooded, old clocker.

ELIZA: True enough, Marriage means little more than a new gown To some: but Phoebe's not a fancicle tauntril, With fingers itching to hansel new-fangled flerds. Why she'd wed ...

EZRA: Tuts! Girls take their chance. And you'd Conceit enough of Jim, at one time--proud As a pipit that's hatched a cuckoo: and if the gowk Were half as handsome as I--you ken, yourself, You needed no coaxing: I wasted little breath Whistling to heel: you came at the first "Isca!"

ELIZA: Who kens what a lass runs away from, crazed to quit Home, at all hazards, little realizing It's life, itself, she's trying to escape; And plodging deeper.

EZRA: Trust a wench for kenning. I've to meet the wife who'd be a maid again: Once in the fire, no wife, though she may crackle On the live coals, leaps back to the frying-pan. It's against nature.

ELIZA: Maybe: and yet, somehow, Phoebe seemed different.

EZRA: I've found little difference Betwixt one gimmer and another gimmer, When the ram's among them. But, where does she hail from?

ELIZA: Allendale way. Jim met her at Martinmas fair.

EZRA: We met ...

ELIZA: Ay, fairs have much to answer for.

EZRA: I thought 'twas Judith Ellershaw.

ELIZA: God forbid 'Twas Judith I'd to share with: though Jim fancied The lass, at one time. He's had many fancies: Light come, light go, it's always been with Jim.

EZRA: And I was gay when I was young--as brisk As a yearling tup with the ewes, till I'd the pains, Like red-hot iron, clamping back and thighs. My heart's a younker's still; but even love Gives in, at last, to rheumatics and lumbago. Now, I'm no better than an old bell-wether, A broken-winded, hirpling tattyjack That can do nothing but baa and baa and baa. I'd just to whistle for a wench at Jim's age: And Jim's ...

ELIZA: His father's son.

EZRA: He's never had My spirit. No woman's ever bested me. For all his bluster, he's a gaumless nowt, With neither guts nor gall. He just butts blindly-- A woolly-witted ram, bashing his horns, And spattering its silly brains out on a rock: No backbone--any trollop could twiddle him Round her little finger: just the sort a doxy, Or a drop too much, sets dancing, heels in air: He's got the gallows' brand. But none of your sons Has a head for whisky or wenches; and not one Has half my spunk, my relish. I'd not trust Their judgment of a ewe, let alone a woman: But I could size a wench up, at a glance; And Judith ...

ELIZA: Ay: but Krindlesyke would be A muckheap-lie-on, with that cloffy slut For mistress. But she flitted one fine night.

EZRA: Rarely the shots of the flock turn lowpy-dyke; Likelier the tops have the spunk to run ramrace; And I think no worse ...

ELIZA: Her father turned her out, 'Twas whispered; and he's never named her, since: And no one's heard a word. I couldn't thole The lass. She'd big cow-eyes: there's little good In that sort. Jim's well shot of her; he'll not Hear tell of her: that sort can always find Another man to fool: they don't come back: Past's past, with them.

EZRA: I liked ...

ELIZA: Ay, you're Jim's dad. But now he's settling down, happen I'll see Bairn's bairns at Krindlesyke, before I die. Six sons--and only the youngest of the bunch Left in the old home to do his parents credit.

EZRA: Queer, all went wild, your sons, like collies bitten With a taste for mutton bleeding-hot. Cold lead Cures dogs of that kidney, peppering them one fine night From a chink in a stell; but, when they're two-legged curs, They've a longer run; and, in the end, the gallows Don't noose them, kicking and squealing like snarled rabbits, Dead-certain, as 'twould do in the good old days.

ELIZA: You crack your gallows-jokes on your own sons-- And each the spit of the father that drove them wild, With cockering them and cursing them; one moment, Fooling them to their bent, the moment after, Flogging them senseless, till their little bodies Were one blue bruise.

EZRA: I never larruped enough, But let the varmints off too easily: That was the mischief. They should have had my dad-- An arm like a bullock-walloper, and a fist Could fell a stot; and faiks, but he welted me Skirlnaked, yarked my hurdies till I yollered, In season and out, and made me the man I am. Ay, he'd have garred the young eels squirm.

ELIZA: And yet, My sons, as well: though I lost my hold of each Almost before he was off my lap, with you To egg them on against me. Peter went first: And Jim's the lave. But he may settle down. God kens where you'd be, if you'd not wed young.

EZRA: And the devil where you'd be, if we hadn't met That hiring-day at Hexham, on the minute. I'd spent last hiring with another wench, A giggling red-haired besom; and we were trysted To meet at the Shambles: and I was awaiting her, When I caught the glisk of your eye: but she was late; And you were a sonsy lassie, fresh and pink; Though little pink about you now, I'd fancy.

ELIZA: Nay, forty-year of Krindlesyke, and all!

EZRA: Young carroty-pow must have been in a fine fantigue, When she found I'd mizzled. Yet, if she'd turned up In time, poor mealy-face, for all your roses, You'd never have clapped eyes on Krindlesyke: This countryside and you would still be strangers.

ELIZA: In time!

EZRA: A narrow squeak.

ELIZA: If she'd turned up, The red-haired girl had lived at Krindlesyke, Instead of me, this forty-year: and I-- I might ... But we must dree our weird. And yet, To think what my life might have been, if only-- The difference!

EZRA: Ay, and hers, "if ifs and ans!" But I'm none certain she'd have seen it, either. I could have had her without wedding her, And no mistake, the nickering, red-haired baggage. Though she was merry, she'd big rabbit-teeth, Might prove gey ill to live with; ay, and a swarm Of little sandy moppies like their doe, Buck-teeth and freckled noses and saucer-eyes, Gaping and squealing round the table at dinner, And calling me their dad, as likely as not: Though little her mug would matter, now I'm blind; And by this there'll scarce be a stump in her yellow gums, And not a red hair to her nodding poll-- That shock of flame a shrivelled, grizzled wisp Like bracken after a heathfire; that creamy skin, Like a plucked hen's. But she'd a merry eye, The giglet; and that coppertop of hers Was good to think on of a nippy morning: While you--but you were young then ...

ELIZA: Young and daft.

EZRA: Nay, not so gite; for I was handsome then.

ELIZA: Ay, the braw birkie of that gairishon Of menseless slubberdegullions: and I trusted My eyes, and other people's tongues, in those days: And you'd a tongue to glaver a guff of a girl, The devil's own; and whatever's gone from you, You've still a tongue, though with a difference: Now it's all edge.

EZRA: The knife that spreads the butter Will slice the loaf. But it's sharper than my teeth.

ELIZA: Ay, tongues cut deeper than any fang can bite, Sore-rankling wounds.

EZRA: You talk of tongues! I'm deaf: But, for my sins, I cannot be deaf to yours, Nattering me into my grave; and, likely, your words Will flaffer about my lugs like channering peesweeps, When I lie cold.

ELIZA: Yes, I was young, and agape For your wheedling flum, till it fleeched my self from me. There's something in a young girl seems to work Against her better sense, and gives her up, Almost in spite of her.

EZRA: It's nature.

ELIZA: Then Nature has more than enough to answer for. Young, ay! And you, as gallant as the stallion, With ribboned tail and mane, that pranced to the crack Of my father's whip, when first I saw you gaping, Kenspeckle in that clamjamfrey of copers.

EZRA: Love at first sight!

ELIZA: And I was just as foolish As you were braw.

EZRA: Well, we'd our time of it, Fools, or no fools. And you could laugh in those days, And didn't snigger like the ginger fizgig. Your voice was a bird's: but you laugh little now; And--well, maybe, your voice is still a bird's. There's birds and birds. Then, 'twas a cushy-doo's That's brooding on her nest, while the red giglet's Was a gowk's at the end of June. Do you call to mind We sat the livelong day in a golden carriage, Squandering a fortune, forby the tanner I dropt? They wouldn't stop to let me pick it up; And when we alighted from the roundabout, Some skunk had pouched it: may he pocket it Red-hot in hell through all eternity! If I'd that fortune now safe in my kist! But I was a scatterpenny: and you were bonnie-- Pink as a dog-rose were your plump cheeks then: Your hair'd the gloss and colour of clean straw: And when, at darkening, the naphtha flares were kindled, And all the red and blue and gold aglitter-- Drums banging, trumpets braying, rattles craking; And we were rushing round and round, the music-- The music and the dazzle ...

ELIZA: Ay: that was it-- The rushing and the music and the dazzle. Happen 'twas on a roundabout that Jim Won Phoebe Martin.

EZRA: And when you were dizzy, And all a hazegaze with the hubblyshew; You cuddled up against me, snug and warm: And round and round we went--the music braying And beating in my blood: the gold aglitter ...

ELIZA: And there's been little dazzle since, or music.

EZRA: But I was merry, till I fetched you home, To swarm the house with whinging wammerels.

ELIZA: You fetched me from my home. If I'd but known Before I crossed the threshold. I took my arles, And had to do my darg. And another bride Comes now. They'll soon be here: the train was due At half-past one: they'd walk it in two hours, Though bride and groom.

EZRA: I wish he'd married Judith. Cow-eyed, you called the wench; but cows have horns, And, whiles, they use them when you least expect. 'Twould be no flighty heifer you'd to face, If she turned mankeen. But, I liked the runt. Jim might do worse.

ELIZA: You liked ... But come, I'll set Your chair outside, where you can feel the sun; And hearken to the curlew; and be the first To welcome Jim and Phoebe as man and wife. Come!

EZRA: Are the curlew calling?

ELIZA: Calling? Ay! And they've been at it all the blessed day, As on the day I came to Krindlesyke. Likely the new bride--though 'twasn't at the time I noticed them: too heedless and new-fangled. She may be different: she may hear them now: They're noisy enough.

EZRA: I cannot catch a note: I'm getting old, and deaved as well as darkened. When I was young, I liked to hear the whaups Calling to one another down the slacks: And I could whistle, too, like any curlew. 'Twas an ancient bird wouldn't answer my call: and now I'm ancient myself--an old, blind, doddering heron, Dozing his day out in a syke, while minnows Play tiggy round his shanks and nibble his toes; And the hawk hangs overhead. But then the blood Was hot, and I'd a relish--such a relish! Keen as a kestrel ... and now ...

ELIZA: It's Jim and Phoebe-- The music and the dazzle in their heads: And they'll be here ...

EZRA: I wish he'd married Judith: She's none the worse for being a ruddled ewe.

ELIZA: Nay, God forbid! At least, I'm spared that bildert.

(_EZRA rises; and ELIZA carries out his chair, and he hobbles after her. She soon returns, and puts griddle-cakes into the oven to keep hot. Presently a step is heard on the threshold, and JUDITH ELLERSHAW stands in the doorway, a baby in her arms. ELIZA does not notice her for a few moments; then, glancing up, recognizes her with a start._)

ELIZA: You, Judith Ellershaw! I thought 'twas Jim.

JUDITH: You thought 'twas Jim?

ELIZA: Jim and ... To think it's you! Where've you sprung from? It's long since you've shown face In these parts; and we'd seen the last of you, I reckoned, little dreaming--and, least of all, To-day!

JUDITH: And should I be more welcome, then, On any other?

ELIZA: Welcome? I hardly know. Decent folk don't keep open house for your sort At any time. Your foot's not dirtied that doorstone A dozen times in your life: and then, to come, To-day, of all days, just when Jim ... (_Breaks off abruptly._)

JUDITH: When Jim?

ELIZA: But, don't stand there. You're looking pale and peaked. It's heavy, traiking the fell-tracks with a baby: Come in, and rest a moment, if you're tired. You cannot bide here long: I'm sorry, lass; But I'm expecting company; and you Yourself, I take it, won't be over-eager For company.

JUDITH: I'm tired enough, God kens-- Bone-weary: but we'll not stay long, to shame you: And you can send us packing in good time, Before your company comes.

(_She enters, and seats herself on a chair near the door. ELIZA busies herself, laying the table for tea, and there is silence for a while._)

JUDITH: And so, Jim's gone To fetch the company?

ELIZA: Ay, Jim has gone ...

(_She breaks off again abruptly, and says no more for a while. Presently she goes to the oven, takes out a griddle-cake, splits and butters it, and hands it to JUDITH._)

ELIZA: Likely, you're hungry, and could do with a bite?

JUDITH (_taking it_): I'm famished. Cake! We're grand, to-day, indeed! And scones and bannocks--carties, quite a spread! It's almost like a wedding.

ELIZA: A wedding, woman? Can't folk have scones and bannocks and singing-hinnies, But you must prate of weddings--you, and all!

JUDITH: I meant no harm. I thought, perhaps, Jim might ... Though, doubtless, he was married long ago?

(_ELIZA does not answer. JUDITH's baby begins to whimper, and she tries to hush it in an absent manner._)

JUDITH: Whisht, whisht! my little lass! You mustn't cry, And shame the ears of decent folk. Whisht, whisht!

ELIZA: Why, that's no way to hush the teelytoon. Come, give the bairn to me. Come, woman, come! (_Taking the child from JUDITH._) I'll show you how to handle babies. There!

JUDITH: And you would nurse my brat?

ELIZA: A bairn's a bairn-- Ay, even though its mother ...

(_Breaks off abruptly, and stands, gazing before her, clasping the baby to her bosom._)

JUDITH: Why don't you finish? "Ay, even though its mother ..." you were saying.

ELIZA: It's ill work, calling names.

JUDITH: You needn't fear To make me blush by calling me any name That hasn't stung me to the quick already. My pious father had a holy tongue; And he had searched the Scriptures to some purpose.

ELIZA (_gazing before her in an abstracted manner_): Ay: likely enough.... Poor bairn, poor little bairn-- It's strange, but, as you snuggled to my breast, I could have fancied, a moment, 'twas Jim I held In my arms again. I'm growing old and foolish, To have such fancies.

JUDITH: Fancied 'twas Jim, your son-- My bastard brat?

ELIZA: Shame on you, woman, to call Your own bairn such, poor innocent. It's not To blame for being a chance-bairn. Yet ... O Jim!

JUDITH: Why do you call on Jim? He's not come home yet? But I must go, before your son brings back ... Give me the bairn ...

ELIZA (_withholding the baby_): Nay, daughter, not till I learn The father's name.

JUDITH: What right have you ...

ELIZA: God kens ... And yet ...

JUDITH: Give me the bairn. You'll never learn The father's name from me.

ELIZA: Go, daughter, go. What ill-chance made you come to-day, of all days?

JUDITH: Why not to-day? Come, woman, I'd ken that, Before I go. I've half a mind to stay.

ELIZA: Nay, lass, you said ...

JUDITH: I've said a lot, in my time. I've changed my mind. 'Twas Jim I came to see-- Though why, God kens! I liked the singing-hinny: Happen, there'll be some more for me, if I stay. I find I cannot thrive on nettle-broth: And it's not every day ...

ELIZA: Judith, you ken.

JUDITH: Ken? I ken nothing, but what you tell me.

ELIZA: Daughter, I'll tell you all. You'll never have the heart ...

JUDITH: The heart!

ELIZA: To stay and shame us, when you ken all.

JUDITH: All?

ELIZA: When you talked of weddings, you'd hit the truth: And Jim brings home his bride to-day. Even now ...

JUDITH: And Jim brings home ...

ELIZA: I looked for them by this: But you've still time ...

JUDITH: The bride comes home to-day. Brides should come home: it's right a man should bring His bride home--ay! And we must go, my wean, To spare her blushes. We're no company For bride and bridegroom. Happen, we should meet them, You must not cry to him: I must not lift My eyes to his. We're nothing now to him. Your cry might tell her heart too much: my eyes Might meet her eyes, and tell ... It isn't good For a bride to know too much. So, we must hide In the ditch, as they pass by, if we should chance To meet them on the road--their road and ours-- The same road, though we're travelling different ways. The bride comes home. Brides come home every day. And you and I ...

ELIZA: There's nothing else for it.

JUDITH: There's nothing else?

ELIZA: Nay, lass! How could you bide? They'll soon ... But, you'll not meet them, if you go ...

JUDITH: Go, where?

ELIZA: And how should I ken where you're bound for? I thought you might be making home.

JUDITH: Home--home! I might be making home? And where's my home-- Ay, and my bairn's home, if it be not here?

ELIZA: Here? You'd not stay?

JUDITH: Why not? Have I no right?

ELIZA: If you'll not go for my sake, go for Jim's. If you were fond ...

JUDITH: And, think you, I'd be here, If I had not been fond of Jim? And yet, Why should I spare him? He's not spared me much, Who gave him all a woman has to give.

ELIZA: But, think of her, the bride, and her home-coming.

JUDITH: I'll go.

ELIZA: You lose but little: too well I ken How little--I, who've dwelt this forty-year At Krindlesyke.

JUDITH: Happen you never loved.

ELIZA: I, too, was young, once, daughter.

JUDITH: Ay: and yet, You've never tramped the road I've had to travel. God send it stretch not forty-year!

ELIZA: I've come That forty-year. We're out on the selfsame road, The three of us: but, she's the stoniest bit To travel still--the bride just setting out, And stepping daintily down the lilylea. We've known the worst.

JUDITH: But, she can keep the highway, While I must slink in the ditch, among the nettles.

ELIZA: I've kept the hard road, daughter, forty-year: The ditch may be easier going, after all: Nettles don't sting each other.

JUDITH: Nay: but I'm not A ditch-born nettle, but, among the nettles, Only a woman, naked to every sting: And there are slugs and slithery toads and paddocks In the ditch-bottom; and their slimy touch Is worse to bear than any nettle ...

ELIZA: Ay-- The pity of it! A maid blooms only once: And then, that a man should ruin ... But, you've your bairn: And bairns, while we can hold them safe in our arms, And they still need the breast, make up for much: For there's a kind of comfort in their clinging, Though they only cling till they can stand alone. But yours is not a son. If I'd only had One daughter ...

JUDITH: Well, you'll have a daughter now. But we must go our way to--God kens where! Before Jim brings the bride home. You've your wish: Jim brings you home a daughter ...

(_As she speaks, a step is heard, and EZRA BARRASFORD appears in the doorway. Turning to go, JUDITH meets him. She tries to pass him, but he clutches her arm; and she stands, dazed, while his fingers grope over her._)

EZRA: So Jim's back: And has slipped by his old dad without a word? I caught no footfall, though once I'd hear an adder Slink through the bent. I'm deafer than an adder-- Deaf as the stone-wall Johnny Looney built Around the frog that worried him with croaking. I couldn't hear the curlew--not a note. But I forget my manners. Jim, you dog, To go and wed, and never tell your dad! I thought 'twas swedes you were after: and, by gox! It's safer fetching turnips than a wife. But, welcome home! Is this the bonnie bride? You're welcome, daughter, home to Krindlesyke. (_Feeling her face._) But, wife, it's Judith, after all! I kenned That Judith was the lucky lass. You said 'Twas somebody else: I cannot mind the name-- Some fly-by-the-sky, outlandish name: but I Was right, you see. Though I be blind and deaf, I'm not so dull as some folk think. There's others Are getting on in years, forby old Ezra. Though some have ears to hear the churchyard worms Stirring beneath the mould, and think it time That he was straked and chested, the old dobby Is not a corpse yet: and it well may happen He'll not be the first at Krindlesyke to lie, Cold as a slug, with pennies on his eyes. Aiblains, the old ram's cassen, but he's no trake yet: And, at the worst, he'll be no braxy carcase When he's cold mutton. Ay, I'm losing grip; But I've still got a kind of hold on life; And a young wench in the house makes all the difference. We've hardly blown the froth off, and smacked our lips, Before we've reached the bottom of the pot: Yet the last may prove the tastiest drop, who kens? You're welcome, daughter.

(_His hand, travelling over her shoulder, touches the child._)

Ah, a brat--Jim's bairn! He hasn't lost much time, has Jim, the dog! Come, let me take it, daughter. I've never held A grandchild in my arms. Six sons I've had, But not one's made me granddad, to my knowledge: And all the hoggerels have turned lowpy-dyke, And scrambled, follow-my-leader, over the crag's edge, But Jim, your husband: and not for me to say, Before his wife, that he's the draft of the flock. Give me the baby: I'll not let it fall: I've always had a way with bairns, and women. It's not for naught I've tended ewes and lambs, This sixty-year.

(_He snatches the baby from JUDITH, before she realizes what he is doing, and hobbles away with it to the high-backed settle by the fire, out of sight. Before JUDITH can move to follow him, steps are heard on the threshold._)

ELIZA: Ah, God: they're at the door!

_As she speaks, JIM and PHOEBE BARRASFORD enter, talking and laughing. JUDITH ELLERSHAW shrinks into the shadow behind the door, while they come between her and the settle on which EZRA is nursing the baby unseen. ELIZA stands dazed in the middle of the room._

JIM: And they lived happy ever afterwards, Eh, lass? Well, mother: I've done the trick: all's over; And I'm a married man, copt fair and square, Coupled to Phoebe: and I've brought her home. You call the lass to mind, though you look moidart? What's dozzened you? She'll find her wits soon, Phoebe: They're in a mullock, all turned howthery-towthery At the notion of a new mistress at Krindlesyke-- She'll come to her senses soon, and bid you welcome. Take off your bonnet; and make yourself at home. I trust tea's ready, mother: I'm fairly famished. I've hardly had a bite, and not a sup To wet my whistle since forenoon: and dod! But getting married is gey hungry work. I'm hollow as a kex in a ditch-bottom: And just as dry as Molly Miller's milkpail She bought, on the chance of borrowing a cow. Eh, Phoebe, lass! But you've stopped laughing, have you? And you look fleyed: there's nothing here to scare you: We're quiet folk at Krindlesyke. Come, mother, Have you no word of welcome for the lass, That you gape like a foundered ewe at us? What ghost Has given you a gliff, and set you chittering? Come, shake yourself, before I rax your bones; And give my bride the welcome due to her-- My bride, the lady I have made my wife. Poor lass, she's quaking like a dothery-dick.

ELIZA (_to PHOEBE_): Daughter, may you ...

EZRA (_crooning, unseen, to the baby_):

"Dance for your mammy, Dance for your daddy ..."

JIM: What ails the old runt now? You mustn't heed him, Phoebe, lass: he's blind And old and watty: but there's no harm in him.

(_Goes towards settle._)

Come, dad, and jog your wits, and stir your stumps, And welcome ... What the devil's this? Whose brat ...

EZRA: Whose brat? And who should ken--although they say, It's a wise father knows his own child. Ay! If he's the devil, you're the devil's brat, And I'm the devil's daddy. Happen you came Before the parson had time to read the prayers. But, he's a rum dad ...

(_JUDITH ELLERSHAW steps forward to take the child from EZRA._)

JIM: Judith Ellershaw! Why, lass, where ever have ...

(_He steps towards her, then stops in confusion. Nobody speaks as JUDITH goes towards the settle, takes the child from EZRA, and wraps it in her shawl. She is moving to the door when PHOEBE steps before her and closes it, then turns and faces JUDITH._)

PHOEBE: You shall not go.

JUDITH: And who are you to stop me? Come, make way-- Come, woman, let me pass.

PHOEBE: I--I'm Jim's bride.

JUDITH: And what should Jim's bride have to say to me? Come, let me by.

PHOEBE: You shall not go.

JUDITH: Come, lass. You do not ken me for the thing I am: If you but guessed, you'd fling the door wide open, And draw your petticoats about you tight, Lest any draggletail of mine should smutch them. I never should have come 'mid decent folk: I never should have crawled out of the ditch. You little ken ...

PHOEBE: I heard your name. I've heard That name before.

JUDITH: You heard no good of it, Whoever spoke.

PHOEBE: I heard it from the lips That uttered it just now.

JUDITH: From Jim's? Well, Jim Kens what I am. I wonder he lets you talk With me. Come ...

PHOEBE: Not until I know the name Of your baby's father.

JUDITH: You've no right to ask.

PHOEBE: Maybe: and yet, you shall not cross that doorsill, Until I know.

JUDITH: Come, woman, don't be foolish.

PHOEBE: You say I've no right. Pray God, you speak the truth: But there may be no woman in the world Who has a better right.

JUDITH: You'd never heed A doting dobby's blethering, would you, lass-- An old, blind, crazy creature ...

PHOEBE: If I've no right, You'll surely never have the heart to keep The name from me? You'll set my mind at ease?

JUDITH: The heart! If it will set your mind at ease, I'll speak my shame ... I'll speak my shame right out ... I'll speak my shame right out, before you all.

JIM: But, lass!

ELIZA (_to PHOEBE_): Nay: let her go. You're young and hard: And I was hard, though far from young: I've long Been growing old; though little I realized How old. And when you're old, you don't judge hardly: You ken things happen, in spite of us, willy-nilly. We think we're safe, holding the reins; and then In a flash the mare bolts; and the wheels fly off; And we're lying, stunned, beneath the broken cart. So, let the lass go quietly; and keep Your happiness. When you're old, you'll not let slip A chance of happiness so easily: There's not so much of it going, to pick and choose: The apple's speckled; but it's best to munch it, And get what relish out of it you can; And, one day, you'll be glad to chew the core: For all its bitterness, few chuck it from them, While they've a sense left that can savour aught. So, let the lass go. You may have the right To question her: but folk who stand on their rights Get little rest: they're on a quaking moss Without a foothold; and find themselves to the neck In Deadman's Flow, before they've floundered far. Rights go for little, in this life: few are worth The risk of losing peace and quiet. You'll have Plenty to worrit, and keep you wakeful, without A pillow stuffed with burrs and briars: so, take An old wife's counsel, daughter: let well alone; And don't go gathering grievances. The lass ...

JIM: Ay, don't be hard on her. Though mother's old, She talks sense, whiles. So let the poor lass go.

JUDITH: The father of my bairn ...

JIM: She's lying, Phoebe!

JUDITH: The father of my bairn is--William Burn-- A stranger to these parts. Now, let me pass.

(_She tries to slip by, but PHOEBE still does not make way for her._)

JIM: Ay, Phoebe, let her go. She tells the truth. I thought ... But I mistook her. Let her go. I never reckoned you'd be a reesty nag: Yet, you can set your hoofs, and champ your bit With any mare, I see. I doubt you'll prove A rackle ramstam wife, if you've your head. She's answered what you asked; though, why, unless ... Well, I don't blame the wench: she should ken best.

PHOEBE: Judith, you lie.

JUDITH: I lie! You mean ...

PHOEBE: To-day, I married your bairn's father.

ELIZA: O God!

JIM: Come, lass, I say!

JUDITH: No woman, no! I spoke the truth. Haven't I shamed myself enough already-- That you must call me liar! (_To ELIZA_) Speak out now, If you're not tongue-tied: tell her all you ken-- How I'm a byword among honest women, And yet, no liar. You'd tongue enough just now To tell me what I was--a cruel tongue Cracking about my ears: and have you none To answer your son's wife, and save the lad From scandal?

ELIZA: I've not known the lass to lie ... And she's the true heart, Phoebe, true as death, Whatever it may seem.

JIM: That's that: and so ...

(_While they have been talking, EZRA has risen from the settle, unnoticed; and has hobbled to where PHOEBE and JUDITH confront one another. He suddenly touches PHOEBE's arm._)

EZRA: Cackling like guinea-fowl when a hawk's in air! I must have snoozed; yet, I caught the gabble. There'll be A clatter all day now, with two women's tongues, Clack-clack against each other, in the house-- Two pendulums in one clock. Lucky I'm deaf. But, I remember. Give me back the bairn. Nay: this is not the wench. I want Jim's bride-- The mother of his daughter. Judith, lass, Where are you? Come, I want to nurse my grandchild-- Jim's little lass.

ELIZA (_stepping towards EZRA_): Come, hold your foolish tongue. You don't know what you're saying. Come, sit down.

(_Leads him back to the settle._)

JIM: If he don't stop his yammer, I'll slit his weasen-- I'll wring his neck for him!

EZRA: What's wrong? What's wrong? I'm an old man, now; and must do as I'm bid like a bairn-- I, who was master, and did all the bidding. And you, Jim, I'd have broken your back like a rabbit's, At one time, if you'd talked to me like that. But now I'm old and sightless; and any tit May chivvy a blind kestrel. Ay, I'm old And weak--so waffly in arms and shanks, that now I couldn't even hold down a hog to be clipped: So, boys can threaten me, and go unskelped: So you can bray; and I must hold my peace: Yet, mark my words, the hemp's ripe for the rope That'll throttle you one day, you gallows-bird. But, something's happening that a blind man's sense Cannot take hold of; so, I'd best be quiet-- Ay, just sit still all day, and nod and nod, Until I nod myself into my coffin: That's all that's left me.

JUDITH (_to PHOEBE_): You'd weigh an old man's gossip Against my word? O woman, pay no heed To idle tongues, if you'd keep happiness.

PHOEBE: While the tongue lies, the eyes speak out the truth.

JUDITH: The eyes? Then you'll not take my word for it, But let a dotard's clatterjaw destroy you? You ken my worth: yet, if you care for Jim, You'll trust his oath. If he denies the bairn, Then, you'll believe? You'd surely never doubt Your husband's word, and on your wedding-day? Small wonder you'd be duberous of mine. But Jim's not my sort; he's an honest lad; And he'll speak truly. If he denies the bairn ...

PHOEBE: I've not been used to doubting people's word. My father's daughter couldn't but be trustful Of what men said; for he was truth itself. If only he'd lived, I mightn't ...

JUDITH: If Jim denies ...

PHOEBE: If Jim can look me in the eyes, and swear ...

JUDITH: Come, set her mind at ease. Don't spare me, Jim; But look her in the eyes, and tell her all; For she's your wife; and has a right to ken The bairn's no bairn of yours. Come, lad, speak out; And don't stand gaping. You ken as well as I The bairn ... Speak! Speak! Have you no tongue at all?

(_She pauses; but JIM hesitates to speak._)

Don't think of me. You've naught to fear from me. Tell all you ken of me right out: no word Of yours can hurt me now: I'm shameless, now: I'm in the ditch, and spattered to the neck. Come, don't mince matters: your tongue's not so modest It fears to make your cheeks burn--I ken that; And when the question is a woman's virtue, It rattles like a reaper round a wheatfield, And as little cares if it's cutting grain or poppies. So, it's too late to blush and stammer now, And let your teeth trip up your tongue. Speak out!

(_JIM still hesitates._)

Your wife is waiting; if you don't tell her true, And quick about it, it's your own look-out. I wouldn't be in your shoes, anyway. See, how she's badgered me; and all because ... Come: be a man: and speak.

JIM: The brat's no brat Of mine, Phoebe, I swear ...

(_He stops in confusion, dropping his eyes. PHOEBE turns from him, lays one hand on the latch and the other on JUDITH's arm._)

PHOEBE: Come, lass, it's time We were getting home.

JUDITH: We?

PHOEBE: Ay, unless you'd stay? You've the right.

JUDITH: I stay? O God, what have I done! That I'd never crossed the threshold!

ELIZA: You're not going To leave him, Phoebe? You cannot: you're his wife; And cannot quit ... But, I'm getting old ...

JIM: Leave me? Leave me? She's mad! I never heard the like-- And on my wedding-day--stark, staring mad! But, I'm your husband; and I bid you bide.

PHOEBE: O Jim, if you had only told the truth, I might, God knows--for I was fond of you, And trusted ...

JIM: Now you're talking sense. Leave me-- And married to me in a church, and all! But, that's all over; and you're not huffed now. There's naught in me to take a scunner at. Yet the shying filly may prove a steady mare, Once a man's astriddle her who'll stand no capers. You've got to let a woman learn who's master, Sooner or later: so, it's just as well To get it over, once and for all. That's that. And now, let Judith go. Come, Phoebe, lass: I thought you'd a tender heart. Don't be too hard On a luckless wench: but let bygones be bygones. All's well that ends well. And what odds, my lass, Even if the brat were mine?

PHOEBE: Judith, you're ready?

JIM: Let the lass bide, and sup with us. I'll warrant She'll not say nay: she's a peckish look, as though She'd tasted no singing-hinnies this long while back. Mother, another cup. Draw up your chairs. We've not a wedding-party every day At Krindlesyke. I'm ravenous as a squab, When someone's potted dad and mammy crow. So sit down, Phoebe, before I clear the board.

PHOEBE: Judith, it's time we were getting home.

JUDITH: Home, lass? I've got no home: I've long been homeless: I ...

PHOEBE: That much he told me about you: he spoke the truth So far, at least: but I have still a home, My mother will be glad to see me back-- Ay, more than glad: she was loth to let me go; Though, trusting Jim, as she trusted everyone, She said but little: and she'll welcome you, If only for your baby's sake. She's just A child, with children. Unless you are too proud ... Nay! But I see you'll come. We'll live and work, And tend the bairn, as sisters, we who care. Come, Judith.

(_She throws the door wide and goes out, without looking back. JIM steps forward to stay her, but halts, bewildered, on the threshold, and stands gazing after her._)

JIM: I'm damned! Nay, lass, I bid you bide: I'd see you straked, before I'd let you go ... Do you hear, I bid ... The blasted wench, she's gone-- Gone! I've a mind ... If I don't hang for her ... Just let me get my fingers ... But, I'm betwattled Like a stoorded tup! And this is my wedding-day!

(_He stands speechless; but at length turns to JUDITH, who is gazing after PHOEBE with an unrealizing stare._)

JIM: Well ... anyway, you'll not desert me, Judith. Old friends are best: and I--I always liked you. The other lass was a lamb to woo, but wed, A termagant: and I'm well shot of her. I'd have wrung the pullet's neck for her one day, If she'd--and the devil to pay! So it's good riddance ... Yet, she'd a way with her, she had, the filly! And I'd have relished breaking her in. But you Were always easy-going, and fond of me-- Ay, fond and faithful. Look, how you stood up To her, the tawpy tauntril, for my sake! We'll let bygones be bygones, won't we, Judith? My chickens have come home to roost, it seems. And so, this is my baby? Who'd have dreamt ... I little looked to harvest my wild oats.

(_JUDITH starts, shrinking from JIM: and then, clutching her baby to her bosom, she goes quickly out of the door._)

JUDITH: I'm coming, Phoebe, coming home with you!

(_JIM stands on the doorstone, staring after her, dumbfounded, till she is out of sight; then he turns, and clashes the door to._)

ELIZA: Ay, but it's time to bar the stable door.

JIM: I've done with women: they're a faithless lot.

EZRA: I can't make head or tail of all the wrangling-- Such a gillaber and gilravishing, As I never heard in all my born days, never. Weddings were merrymakings in my time: The reckoning seldom came till the morrow's morn. But, Jim, my boy, though you're a baa-waa body, And gan about like a goose with a nicked head, You've, aiblains, found out now that petticoats Are kittle-cattle, the whole rabblement. The reesty nags will neither heck nor gee: And they're all clingclang like the Yetholm tinkers. Ay: though you're just a splurging jackalally, You've spoken truth for once, Jim: womenfolk, Wenches and wives, are all just weathercocks. I've ever found them faithless, first and last. But, where's your daughter, Jim? I want to hold The bairn.

JIM: They've taken even her from me.

(_ELIZA, who has been filling the teapot, takes EZRA by the hand, and leads him to his seat at the table._)

ELIZA: Come, husband: sup your tea, before it's cold: And you, too, son. Ay, we're a faithless lot.

* * * * *