(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.