(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 Phœbe steps before her and closes it, then turns and faces Judith.)

Phœbe:

You shall not go.

Judith:

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

Phœbe:

I—I’m Jim’s bride.

Judith:

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

Phœbe:

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 ...

Phœbe:

I heard your name. I’ve heard
That name before.

Judith:

You heard no good of it,
Whoever spoke.

Phœbe:

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 ...

Phœbe:

Not until I know the name
Of your baby’s father.

Judith:

You’ve no right to ask.

Phœbe:

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

Judith:

Come, woman, don’t be foolish.

Phœbe:

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 ...

Phœbe:

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 Phœbe):

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, Phœbe!

Judith:

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

(She tries to slip by, but Phœbe still does not make way for her.)

Jim:

Ay, Phœbe, 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.

Phœbe:

Judith, you lie.

Judith:

I lie! You mean ...

Phœbe:

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, Phœbe, 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 Phœbe and Judith confront one another. He suddenly touches Phœbe’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: