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 Phœbe 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 Phœbe: 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, Phœbe:
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, Phœbe, 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 Phœbe):

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, Phœbe, 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 ...