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 kenHow little—I, who’ve dwelt this forty-yearAt 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 comeThat forty-year. We’re out on the selfsame road,The three of us: but, she’s the stoniest bitTo 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 notA ditch-born nettle, but, among the nettles,Only a woman, naked to every sting:And there are slugs and slithery toads and paddocksIn the ditch-bottom; and their slimy touchIs 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 hadOne 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, andEzra Barrasfordappears in the doorway. Turning to go,Judithmeets 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 adderSlink through the bent. I’m deafer than an adder—Deaf as the stone-wall Johnny Looney builtAround 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 kennedThat Judith was the lucky lass. You said’Twas somebody else: I cannot mind the name—Some fly-by-the-sky, outlandish name: but IWas right, you see. Though I be blind and deaf,I’m not so dull as some folk think. There’s othersAre getting on in years, forby old Ezra.Though some have ears to hear the churchyard wormsStirring beneath the mould, and think it timeThat he was straked and chested, the old dobbyIs not a corpse yet: and it well may happenHe’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 carcaseWhen 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 heldA 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 fromJudith, before she realizes what he is doing, and hobbles away with it to the high-backed settle by the fire, out of sight. BeforeJudithcan move to follow him, steps are heard on the threshold.)
Eliza:
Ah, God: they’re at the door!
As she speaks,JimandPhœbe Barrasfordenter, talking and laughing.Judith Ellershawshrinks into the shadow behind the door, while they come between her and the settle on whichEzrais nursing the baby unseen.Elizastands 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-towtheryAt 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 supTo 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 milkpailShe 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 ghostHas 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(toPhœbe):
Daughter, may you ...
Ezra(crooning, unseen, to the baby):
“Dance for your mammy,
Dance for your daddy ...”
Jim:
What ails the old runt now?Youmustn’theed him, Phœbe, lass: he’s blindAnd 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 cameBefore the parson had time to read the prayers.But, he’s a rum dad ...
(Judith Ellershawsteps forward to take the child fromEzra.)
Jim:
Judith Ellershaw!Why, lass, where ever have ...
(He steps towards her, then stops in confusion. Nobody speaks asJudithgoes towards thesettle, takes the child fromEzra, and wraps it in her shawl. She is moving to the door whenPhœbesteps before her and closes it, then turns and facesJudith.)
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 heardThat name before.
Judith:
You heard no good of it,Whoever spoke.
Phœbe:
I heard it from the lipsThat uttered it just now.
Judith:
From Jim’s? Well, JimKens what I am. I wonder he lets you talkWith me. Come ...
Phœbe:
Not until I know the nameOf 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 worldWho has a better right.
Judith:
You’d never heedA 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 keepThe 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(toPhœbe):
Nay: let her go. You’re young and hard:And I was hard, though far from young: I’ve longBeen growing old; though little I realizedHow 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 thenIn 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 keepYour happiness. When you’re old, you’ll not let slipA 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 rightTo question her: but folk who stand on their rightsGet little rest: they’re on a quaking mossWithout a foothold; and find themselves to the neckIn Deadman’s Flow, before they’ve floundered far.Rights go for little, in this life: few are worthThe risk of losing peace and quiet. You’ll havePlenty to worrit, and keep you wakeful, withoutA pillow stuffed with burrs and briars: so, takeAn 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, butPhœbestill 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 bitWith any mare, I see. I doubt you’ll proveA 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!(ToEliza)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 nowTo tell me what I was—a cruel tongueCracking about my ears: and have you noneTo answer your son’s wife, and save the ladFrom 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,Ezrahas risen from the settle, unnoticed; and has hobbled to wherePhœbeandJudithconfront one another. He suddenly touchesPhœbe’sarm.)
Ezra:
Cackling like guinea-fowl when a hawk’s in air!I must have snoozed; yet, I caught the gabble. There’ll beA 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 towardsEzra):
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 titMay chivvy a blind kestrel. Ay, I’m oldAnd weak—so waffly in arms and shanks, that nowI 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 ropeThat’ll throttle you one day, you gallows-bird.But, something’s happening that a blind man’s senseCannot 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(toPhœbe):
You’d weigh an old man’s gossipAgainst my word? O woman, pay no heedTo idle tongues, if you’d keep happiness.
Phœbe:
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 doubtYour 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 ...
Phœbe:
I’ve not been used to doubting people’s word.My father’s daughter couldn’t but be trustfulOf what men said; for he was truth itself.If only he’d lived, I mightn’t ...
Judith:
If Jim denies ...
Phœbe:
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 kenThe bairn’s no bairn of yours. Come, lad, speak out;And don’t stand gaping. You ken as well as IThe bairn ... Speak! Speak! Have you no tongue at all?
(She pauses; butJimhesitates to speak.)
Don’t think of me. You’ve naught to fear from me.Tell all you ken of me right out: no wordOf 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 modestIt 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!
(Jimstill 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 bratOf mine, Phœbe, I swear ...
(He stops in confusion, dropping his eyes.Phœbeturns from him, lays one hand on the latch and the other onJudith’sarm.)
Phœbe:
Come, lass, it’s timeWe were getting home.
Judith:
We?
Phœbe:
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 goingTo leave him, Phœbe? 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.
Phœbe:
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 wellTo get it over, once and for all. That’s that.And now, let Judith go. Come, Phœbe, lass:I thought you’d a tender heart. Don’t be too hardOn 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?
Phœbe:
Judith, you’re ready?
Jim:
Let the lass bide, and sup with us. I’ll warrantShe’ll not say nay: she’s a peckish look, as thoughShe’d tasted no singing-hinnies this long while back.Mother, another cup. Draw up your chairs.We’ve not a wedding-party every dayAt Krindlesyke. I’m ravenous as a squab,When someone’s potted dad and mammy crow.So sit down, Phœbe, before I clear the board.
Phœbe:
Judith, it’s time we were getting home.
Judith:
Home, lass?I’ve got no home: I’ve long been homeless: I ...
Phœbe:
That much he told me about you: he spoke the truthSo 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 justA 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.Jimsteps 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 betwattledLike a stoorded tup! And this is my wedding-day!
(He stands speechless; but at length turns toJudith, who is gazing afterPhœbewith 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 youWere always easy-going, and fond of me—Ay, fond and faithful. Look, how you stood upTo 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.
(Judithstarts, shrinking fromJim: and then, clutching her baby to her bosom, she goes quickly out of the door.)
Judith:
I’m coming, Phœbe, coming home with you!
(Jimstands 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 Inever 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 petticoatsAre 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 holdThe bairn.
Jim:
They’ve taken even her from me.
(Eliza, who has been filling the teapot, takesEzraby 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.
Midsummer morning.Ezra Barrasfordsits crouched over the fire.Eliza Barrasford, looking old and worn, and as if dazed by a shock, comes from the ben, or inner room, with a piece of paper in her hand. As she sinks to a chair to recover her breath, the paper flutters to the floor, where she lets it lie, and sits staring before her.
Eliza:
So that’s the last.
Ezra:
The last? The last of what?
Eliza:
The last of your sons to leave you. Jim’s gone now.
Ezra:
Gone where, the tyke? After his wife, I’ll warrant.’Twill take him all his time to catch her up:She’s three months’ start of him. The gonneril,To be forsaken on his wedding-day:And the ninneyhammer let her go—he let her!Do you reckon I’d let a woman I’d fetched homeGo gallivanting off at her own sweet will?No wench I’d ringed, and had a mind to hold,Should quit the steading till she was carried, feet-firstAnd shoulder-high, packed snug in a varnished box.The noodle couldn’t stand up to a woman’s tongue:And so, lightheels picked up her skirts, and flitted,Before he’d even bedded her—skelped offLike a ewe turned lowpy-dyke; and left the nowt,The laughing-stock of the countryside. He shouldHave used his fist to teach her manners. She seemedTo have the fondy flummoxed, till his witsWere fozy as a frosted swede. Do you reckonI’d let a lass ...
Eliza:
And yet, six lads have left you,Without a by-your-leave.
Ezra:
Six lads?
Eliza:
Your sons.
Ezra:
Ay ... but they’d not the spunk to scoot till IWas blind and crippled. The scurvy rats skidaddledAs the old barn-roof fell in. While I’d my sight,They’d scarce the nerve to look me in the eye,The blinking, slinking squealers!
Eliza:
Ay, we’re old.The heat this morning seems to suffocate me,My head’s a skep of buzzing bees; and I pantLike an old ewe under a dyke, when the sun gives scarceAn inch of shade. You harp on sight: but eyesAren’t everything: my sight’s a girl’s: and yetI’m old and broken: you’ve broken me, among you.I’d count the pens of a hanging hawk: yet my eyesHave saved me little: they’ve never seen to the bottomOf the blackness of men’s hearts. The very sonsOf my body, I reckoned to ken through and through,As every mother thinks she knows her sons,Have been pitch night to me. We never learn.I thought I’d got by heart each turn and twistOf all Jim’s stupid cunning: but even he’sOutwitted me. Six sons, and not one left;All gone in bitterness—firstborn to reckling:Peter, twelve-year since, that black Christmas Eve:And now Jim ends ...
Ezra:
You mean Jim’s gone for good?
Eliza:
For good and all: he’s taken Peter’s road.
Ezra:
And who’s to tend the ewes? He couldn’t go—No herd could leave his sheep to an old wife’s care:For this old carcase, once counted the best herd’sIn the countryside, is a useless bag of bones now.Jim couldn’t leave ...
Eliza:
For all I ken or care,He’s taken them with him too.
Ezra:
You’re havering!Your sons aren’t common thieves, I trust. And JimWould scarce have pluck to sneak a swede from the mullsOf a hobbled ewe, much less make off with a flock—Though his forbears lifted a wheen Scots’ beasts in their time—And Steel would have him by the heels beforeHe’d travelled a donkey’s gallop, though he skelped alongLike Willie Pigg’s dick-ass. But how do you kenThe gawky’s gone for good? He couldn’t leave ...
Eliza:
I found a paper in the empty chest,Scrawled with a bit of writing in his hand:“Tell dad I’ve gone to look for his lost wits:And he’ll not see me till he gets new eyesTo seek me himself.”
Ezra:
Eyes or no eyes, I’ll breakThe foumart’s back, in this world or the next:He’ll not escape. He thinks he’s the laugh of me;But I’ve never let another man laugh last.Though he should take the short cut to the gallows,I’ll have him, bibbering on his bended kneesBefore me yet, even if I have to waitTill I find him, brizzling on the coals of hell.But, what do you say—the empty chest—what chest?
Eliza:
The kist beneath the bed.
Ezra:
But, that’s not empty!How could you open it, when I’d the keyStrung safely on a bootlace next my skin?
Eliza:
The key—you should have chained the kist, itself,As a locket round your neck, if you’d have keptYour precious hoard from your own flesh and blood.
Ezra:
To think a man begets the thieves to rob him!But, how ...
Eliza:
I had no call to open it.I caught my foot against the splintered lid,When I went to make the bed.
Ezra:
The splintered lid!And the kist—the kist! You say ’twas empty?
Eliza:
Not quite:The paper was in.
Ezra:
But the money, you dam of thieves—Where was the money?
Eliza:
It wasn’t in the box—Not a brass farthing.
Ezra:
The money gone—all gone?Why didn’t you tell me about it right away?
Eliza:
I wasn’t minding money: I’d lost a son.
Ezra:
A son—a thief! I’ll have the law of him:I’ll sprag his wheel: for all his pretty pace,He’ll come a cropper yet, the scrunty wastrel.This comes of marrying into a coper’s family:I might have kenned: thieving runs in their blood.
Eliza:
I’ve seen the day that lie’d have roused ... But now,It’s not worth while ... worth while. I’ve never feltSuch heat: it smothers me: it’s like a nightmare,When you wake with your head in the blankets, all asweat:Only, I cannot wake ... It snowed the nightThat Peter went ...
Ezra:
Blabbering of heat and snow:And all that money gone—my hard-earned savings!We’re beggared, woman—beggared by your son:And then, to sit and yammer like a yieldewe:Come, stir your stumps; and clap your bonnet on:Up and away!
Eliza:
And where should I away to?
Ezra:
I’ll have the law of him: I’ll have him gaoled,And you must fetch the peeler.