Michael:
But you don’t mean to leave us?
Bell:
Pat it comes:You’ve just to twitch the wire and the bell rings:You’ll learn the trick, soon, Ruth.(ToMichael)Bat, don’t you seeI’ve just put on my nightcap, ready for bed—Grannie’s frilled mutch? I leave you, Michael? Son,The time came, as it comes to every man,When you’d to make a choice betwixt two women.You’ve made your choice: and chosen well: but I,Who’ve always done the choosing, and never yetTripped to the beck of any man, or bobbedTo any living woman—I’m free to followMy own bent, now that that old witch’s fingersHave slackened their cold clutch; and your dead grannieHas gained her ends, and seen you settled downAt Krindlesyke: and from this on I, too,Am dead to you. You’ll soon enough forget me:The world would end if a man could not forgetHis mother’s deathbed in his young wife’s arms—I’m far from corpse-cold yet; and it may be yearsBefore they pluck Bell Haggard’s kerchief off,To tie her chin up with, and ripe her pocketsOf her last pennies to shut up her eyes.Even then, they’ll have to tug the chin-clout tight,To keep her tongue from wagging. Well, my son,So, it’s good-bye till doomsday.
Michael:
You’re not going?I thought you only havered. You can’t go.Do you think I’d let you go, and ...
Bell:
Hearken, Ruth:That’s the true husband’s voice: for husbands think,If only they are headstrong and high-handed,They’re getting their own way: they charge, head-down,At their own image in the window-glass;And don’t come to their senses till their carcaseIs spiked with smarting splinters. But I’m your mother,Not your tame wife, lad: and I’ll go my gait.
Michael:
You shall not go, for all your crazy cackle—My mother, on the road, a tinker’s baggage,While I’ve a roof to shelter her!
Bell:
You pullThe handle downwards towards you, and the beerSpouts out. No hope for you, Ruth: lass, you’re safe—Safe as a linnet in a cage, for life:No need to read your hand, to tell your fortune:No gallivanting with the dark-eyed stranger,Calleevering over all the countryside,When the owls are hooting to the hunter’s moon,For the wife of Michael Barrasford. Well, boy,What if I choose to be a tinker’s baggage?It was a tinker’s baggage mothered you—For tying a white apron round the waistHas never made a housewife of a gipsy—And a tinker’s baggage went out of her wayTo set you well on yours: and now she turns.
Michael:
You shall not go, I say. I’m master here:And I won’t let you shame me. I’ve been decent;And have always done my duty by the sheep,Working to keep a decent home togetherTo bring a wife to: and, for all your jeers,There are worse things for a woman than a homeAnd husband and a lawful family.You shall not go. You say I ken my mind ...
Bell:
Ay: but not mine. What should a tinker’s trollopDo in the house of Michael Barrasford,But bring a blush to his children’s cheeks? God help them,If they take after me, if they’ve a dashOf Haggard blood—for ewe’s milk laced with brandyIs like to curdle: or, happen, I should say,God help their father!
Michael:
Mother, why should you go?Why should you want to travel the ditch-bottom,When you’ve a hearth to sit by, snug and clean?
Bell:
The fatted calf’s to be killed for the prodigal mother?You’ve not the hard heart of the young cockrobinThat’s got no use for parents, once he’s mated:But I’m, somehow, out of place within four walls,Tied to one spot—that never wander the world.I long for the rumble of wheels beneath me; to hearThe clatter and creak of the lurching caravan;And the daylong patter of raindrops on the roof:Ay, and the gossip of nights about the campfire—The give-and-take of tongues: mine’s getting stiffFor want of use, and spoiling for a fight.
Michael:
Nay: still as nimble and nippy as a flea!
Bell:
But, I could talk, at one time! There are daysWhen the whole world’s hoddendoon and draggletailed,Drooked through and through; and blury, gurly daysWhen the wind blows snell: but it’s something to be stirring,And not shut up between four glowering walls,Like blind white faces; and you never kenWhat traveller your wayside fire will drawOut of the night, to tell outlandish tales,Or crack a jest, or start quarrel with you,Till the words bite hot as ginger on the tongue.Anger’s the stuff to loose a tongue grown rusty:And keep it in good fettle for all chances.I’m sick of dozing by a dumb hearthstone—And the peat, with never a click or crackle in it—Famished for news.
Michael:
For scandal.
Bell:
There’s no scandalFor those who can’t be scandalized—just news:All’s fish that comes to their net. I was madeFor company.
Michael:
And you’d go back againTo that tag-rag-and-bobtail? What’s the useOf a man’s working to keep a decent home,When his own mother tries to drag him down?
Bell:
Nay: my pernicketty, fine gentleman,But I’ll not drag you down: you’re free of me:I’ve slipt my apron off; and you’re tied nowTo your wife’s apron-strings: for menfolk seemUneasy on the loose, and never happyUnless they’re clinging to some woman’s skirt.I’m out of place in any decent house,As a kestrel in a hencoop. Ay, you’re decent:But, son, remember a man’s decencyDepends on his braces; and it’s I who’ve sewnYour trouser-buttons on; so, when you fastenYour galluses, give the tinker’s baggage credit.She’s done her best for you; and scrubbed and scoured,Against the grain, for all these years, to keepYour home respectable; though, in her heart,Thank God, she’s never been respectable—No dry-rot in her bones, while she’s alive:Time and to spare for decency in the grave.So, you can do your duty by the sheep,While I go hunting with the jinneyhoolets—Birds of a feather—ay, and fleece with fleece:And when I’m a toothless, mumbling crone, you’ll beSo proper a gentleman, ’twill be hard to tellThe shepherd from the sheep. Someone must rearThe mutton and wool, to keep us warm and fed;But that’s not my line: please to step this wayFor the fancy goods and fakish faldalals,Trinkets and toys and fairings. Son, you say,You’re master here: well, that’s for Ruth to settle:I’ll be elsewhere. I’ve never knuckled downTo any man: and I’ll be coffin-coldBefore I brook a master; so, good-night,And pleasant dreams; and a long familyOf curly lambkins, bleating round the board.
Ruth:
Michael, you’ll never let her go alone?She’s only talking wild, because she’s jealous.Mothers are always jealous, when their sonsBring home a bride: though she needn’t be uneasy:I’d never interfere ...
Bell:
Too wise to putYour fingers ’twixt the cleaver and the block?Jealous—I wonder? Anyhow, it seems,I’ve got a daughter, too. Alone, you say?However long I stayed, I’d have to goAlone, at last: and I’d as lief be gone,While I can carry myself on my two pins.Being buried with the Barrasfords is a chanceI’ve little mind to risk a second time:I’m too much of a Haggard, to want to rise,At the last trump, among a flock of bleaters.If I’ve my way, there’ll be stampeding hoofsAbout me, startled at the crack of doom.
Michael:
When you’ve done play-acting ...
Bell:
Play-acting? Ay: I’m through:Exit the villain: ring the curtain downOn the happy ending—bride and bridegroom seatedOn either side the poor, but pious, hearth.
Michael:
I’d as soon argue with a weathercockAs with a woman ...
Bell:
Yet the weathervanesAre always cocks, not hens.
Michael:
You shall not go.
Bell:
Your naked hurdles cannot hold the wind.
Michael:
Wind? Ay, I’m fairly tewed and hattered with words:And yet, for all your wind, you shall not go.
Bell:
While you’ve a roof to shelter me, eh, son?You mean so well; and understand so little.Yours is a good thick fleece—no skin that twitchesWhen a breath tickles it. Sheep will be sheep,And horses, horses, till the day of judgment.
Michael:
Better a sound tup than a spavined nag.
Bell:
Ay, Ruth, you’ve kindled him! Good luck to you:And may your hearthfire warm you to the end.
(ToMichael.)
You’ve been a good son to me, in your way:Only, our ways are different; and here they part.For all my blether, there’s no bitternessOn my side: I’ve long kenned ’twas bound to come:And, in your heart, you know it’s for the best,For your sake, and for Ruth’s sake, and for mine.I couldn’t obey, where I have bid; nor riskMy own son’s fathering me in second childhood:And you’d not care to have me like old Ezra,A dothering haiveril in your chimney corner,Babbling of vanished gold? I read my fortuneIn the flames just now: and I’ll not rot to death:It’s time enough to moulder, underground.My death’ll come quick and chancy, as I’d have hadEach instant of life: but still there are risky yearsBefore me, and a sudden, unlooked-for ending.And I’ll not haunt you: ghosts enough, with Ezra,Counting his ghostly sovereigns all night long,And old Eliza, darning ghostly stockings.My ghost will ride a broomstick....
(As she speaks, the inner door opens, andRuthandMichael, turning sharply at the click of the latch, gaze, dumbfounded, atJudith Ellershaw, standing in the doorway.)
Bell:
Fee-fo-fum!The barguest bays; and boggles, brags, and bo-losFollow the hunt. How’s that for witchcraft, think you?Hark, how the lych-owl screeches!
Ruth(running to her mother’s arms):
Mother, you!
Bell:
Now there’s a sweet, domestic picture for you!My cue’s to vanish in a puff of smokeAnd reek of brimstone, like the witch I am.I’m coming, hoolet, my old cat with wings!It’s time I was away: there never yetWas room for two grandmothers in one house.I’m through with Krindlesyke. Good-bye, old gaol!
(WhileMichaelstill gazes atRuthand her mother in amazement,Bell Haggardslips out of the door, unnoticed, and away through the bracken in the gathering dusk. An owl hoots.)
A wet afternoon in May, six years later. The table is already set for tea.Judith Ellershawsits, knitting, by the hearth; a cradle with a young baby in it by her side. The outer door is closed, but unlatched. Presently the unkempt head of a man appears furtively at the window; then vanishes. The door is pushed stealthily open: andJim Barrasford, ragged and disreputable (and some twenty years older than when he marriedPhœbe Martin) stands on the threshold a moment, eyeingJudith’sunconscious back in silence: then he speaks, limping towards her chair.
Jim:
While the cat calleevers the hills of Back-o’-Beyont,The rats make free of the rick: and so, you doubled,As soon as my hurdies were turned on Krindlesyke,And settled yourself in the ingle?
Judith(starting up, and facing him):
Jim!
Jim:
Ay, Jim—No other, Judith. I’ll be bound you weren’tJust looking to see me: you seem overcomeBy the unexpected pleasure. Your pardon, mistress,If I intrude. By crikes! But I’m no ghostTo set you adither: you don’t see anything wrong—No, no! What should you see? I startled you.Happen I look a wee bit muggerishlike—A ragtag hipplety-clinch: but I’ve been travellingMischancy roads; and I’m fair muggert-up.Yet, why should that stagnate you? Where’s the senseOf expecting a mislucket man like meTo be as snod and spruce as a young shaver?But I’m all right: there’s naught amiss with Jim,Except too much of nothing in his belly.A good square meal, and a pipe, and a decent night’s rest,And I’ll be fit as a fiddle. I’ve hardly slept ...Well, now I’m home, I’ll make myself at home.
(He seizes the loaf of bread from the table; hacks off a hunch with his jack-knife; and wolfs it ravenously.)
Judith:
Home? You’ve come home, Jim?
Jim:
Nay, I’m my own fetch!God’s truth! there’s little else but skin and boneBeneath these tatters: just a two-legged boggart,With naught but wind to fill my waim—small wonderYou’re maiselt, to see a scarecrow stottering in—For plover’s eggs and heather-broth don’t sleekA wrinkled hide or swell a scrankit belly.But still, what should there be to flabbergast youAbout a man’s returning to his home?Naught wrong in coming home, I hope? By gox,A poor lad can’t come home, but he’s cross-questioned,And stared at like ... Why do you stare like that?It’s I should be agape, to find you here:But no, I’m not surprised: you can’t surprise me:I’m a travelled man: I’ve seen the world; and so,Don’t look for gratitude. My eyes were opened,Once and for all, by Phœbe and you, that day—Nigh twenty-year since: and they’ve not been shut ...By gum, that’s so! it seems like twenty-yearSince I’d a wink of sleep ... And, anyway,I’ve heard the story, all the goings-on;And a pretty tale it is: for I’d a drink,A sappy-crack with that old windywallops,Sep Shanks, in a bar at Bellingham: and he let outHow you’d crawled back to Krindlesyke with your daughter—Our daughter, I should say: and she, no less,Married to Peter’s son: though how the deuceYou picked him up, is more that I can fashion.Sep had already had his fill of cheerers,Before I met him; and that last rum-hotWas just the drop too much: and he got fuddled.Ay, Sep was mortal-clay, the addled egg:And I couldn’t make head or tail of his hiccuping,Though he tried to make himself plain: he did his best,Did Sep: I’ll say that for him—tried so hardTo make himself plain, he got us both chucked out:And I left him in the gutter, trying still.
Judith:
You’ve come from Bellingham hiring?
Jim:
I couldn’t standThe dindum: felt fair-clumpered in that cluther—Such a hubblyshew of gowks and flirtigigs,Craking and cackling like a gabble of geese:And folk kept looking: I might have been a bizen,The way they gaped: so I thought I’d just win homeFor a little peace and quiet. Where’s my daughter,And this young cuckoo, calls himself my nephew,And has made himself free and easy of my nest?Ay, but you’ve fettled things nicely, the lot of you,While I tramped the hungry roads. He’s pinched my job:But I bear no grudge: it’s not a job I’m after,Since I’ve a married daughter I can live with.I’ve seen the world, a sight too much: and I meanTo settle down, and end my days in peaceIn my old home.
Judith:
Your home? But you can’t stay here.
Jim:
You’ll see! Now that I’m home, I mean to clagLike a cleaver to a flagstone: they’ll have to liftThe hearth, to get me out of Krindlesyke.I’ve had enough of travelling the turnpike,Houffling and hirpling like a cadging faa:And, but for you and your brat, I’d settled down,A respectable married man, this twenty-year.But you shan’t drive me from my home again.
Judith:
We drove you?
Jim:
You began it, anyway—Made me an April-gowk and laughing-stock,Till I couldn’t face the neighbours’ fleers. By joes!You diddled me out of house and home, among you:And settled yourselves couthily in my calfyard,Like maggots in a muckheap, while I went cawdrife.But I’ve had my fill of it, Judith, Hexham-measure:I’m home for good: and isn’t she my daughter?You stole her from me once, when you made offWith hoity-toity Phœbe—ay, I kenShe died: I learned it at the time—you sneakedMy only bairn: I cannot mind her name,If ever I heard it: you kept even thatFrom me, her dad. But, anyway, she’s mine:I’ve only her and you to turn to now:A poor, lone widower I’ve been any timeThis twenty-year: that’s what’s been wrong with me,Though it hadn’t entered my noddle till this minute.But where’s the canny couple?
Judith:
Ruth and MichaelAre at the hiring.
Jim:
Well, I’ll not denyThat suits my book. I’d a notion, Judith lass,I’d find you alone, and make my peace with you,Before I tackled the young folk. Poor relationsAren’t made too welcome in this ungrateful world—Least so, by those who’ve taken the bread from their mouths,And beggared them of bit and brat: and soI thought ’twould be more couthy-like with you,Just having a crack and talking old times over,Till I was more myself. I don’t like strangers,Not even when they’re my own flesh and blood:They’ve got a trick of staring at a man:And all I want is to be let alone—Just let alone ... By God, why can’t they let meAlone! But you are kind and comfortable:And you won’t heckle me and stare at me:For I’m not quite myself: I’ll own to that—I’m not myself ... Though who the devil I amI hardly ken ... I’ve been that hunted and harried.
Judith:
Hunted?
Jim:
Ay, Judith—in a manner of speaking,Hunted’s the word: and I’m too old for the sport.I’m getting on in years: and you’re no youngerThan when I saw you last—you mind the day,My wedding-day? A fine fligarishonYou made of it between you, you and Phœbe:And wasn’t she the high and mighty madam,The niffy-naffy don’t-come-nigh-me nonesuch?But I’ve forgiven her: I bear no malice.
Judith:
You bear no malice: and she died of it!
Jim:
Ay, ay: she showed some sense of decencyIn that, at least: though she got her sting in firstLike an angry bee. But, Judith, doesn’t it seemWe two are tokened to end our days together?Nothing can keep us parted, seemingly:So let bygones be bygones.
(Catching sight of the cradle.)
What, another!Have you always got a brat about you, Judith?Last time you sprang a daughter on me, and now ...But I’m forgetting how the years have flitted.Don’t tell me I’m a grandfather?
Judith:
The boyIs Ruth’s.
Jim:
Well, I’ve come into a family,And no mistake—a happy family:And I was born to be a family-man.They’ll never turn against their bairn’s granddad:And I’m in luck.
Judith:
You cannot bide here, Jim.
Jim:
And who the hell are you, to say me nay?
Judith:
The boy’s grandmother.
Jim:
Ay: and so the grandam’sTo sit in the ingleneuk, while granddad hoofs it?
Judith:
When you left Krindlesyke, you quitted itFor good and all.
Jim:
And yet, I’m here again,Unless I’m dreaming. It seems we all come backTo Krindlesyke, like martins to the byre-baulks:It draws us back—can’t keep away, nohow.Ay, first and last, the old gaol is my home.You’re surely forgetting ...
Judith:
I’m forgetting nothing.It’s you’ve the knack of only recollectingWhat you’ve a mind to. How could you have comeIf you remembered all these walls have seen?
Jim:
So walls have eyes as well as ears? I can’tGet away from eyes ... But they’ll not freeze my blood,Or stare me out of countenance: they’ve no tonguesTo tittle-tattle: they’re no tell-tale-tits,No slinking skeadlicks, nosing and sniffing round,To wink and nod when I turn my back, colloguing,With heads together, to lay me by the heels.Nay: I’m not fleyed of a bit of whitewashed plaister.But you’re a nice one to welcome home a travellerWith “cannots” and clavers of eyes. Why can’t you letThings rest, and not hark back, routing things out,And casting them in my teeth? Why must you lugThe dead to light—dead days? ... I’m not afraidOf corpses: the dead are dead: their eyes are shut:Leastways, they cannot glower when once the mould’sAtop of them: though they follow a chap round the room,Seeking the coppers to clap them to ... dead eyesCan’t wink: and twopence shuts their bravest stare.So, ghosts won’t trouble my rest at Krindlesyke.I vowed that I’d sleep sound at Krindlesyke,When I ...
Judith:
You cannot bide.
Jim:
I bear no malice.Why can’t you let bygones be bygones? But that’sA woman all over; must be raking upThe ashes into a glow, and puffing them red,To roast a man for what he did, or didn’t,Twenty-year syne. Why should you still bear malice?
Judith:
I bear no malice: but you cannot bide.
Jim:
Why do you keep cuckooing “cannot, cannot”?And who’s to turn me out of Krindlesyke,Where I was born and bred, I’d like to ken?You can’t gainsay it’s my home.
Judith:
Not your home now.
Jim:
Then who the devil’s home ...
Judith:
It’s Ruth’s and Michael’s.
Jim:
My daughter’s and her man’s: their home’s my home.
Judith:
You shall not stay.
Jim:
It’s got to “shall not” now?The cuckoo’s changed his tune; but I can’t sayI like the new note better: it’s too harsh:The gowk’s grown croupy. But, lass, I never thoughtYou’d be harsh with me: yet even you’ve turned raspy ...First “cannot,” then ...
Judith:
Nay! I’ll not have their homePulled down about their ears by any man;And least of all by you—the home they’ve made ...
Jim:
Stolen, I’d say.
Judith:
Together, for themselvesAnd their three boys.
Jim:
Jim, granddad three times over?It’s well you broke it piecemeal: the old callant’sA waffly heart; and any sudden joyJust sets it twittering: but the more the merrier!
Judith:
You shall not wreck their happiness. I’d not dreamedSuch happiness as theirs could be in this world.Since it was built, there’s not been such a homeAt Krindlesyke: it’s only been a house ...
Jim:
’Twas just about as homely as a hearseIn my young days: but my luck’s turned, it seems.
Judith:
It takes more than four walls to make a home,And such a home as Michael’s made for Ruth.Though she’s a fendy lass; she’s too like me,And needs a helpmate, or she’ll waste herself;And, with another man, she might have wrecked,Instead of building. She’s got her man, her mate:Husband and father, born, day in, day out,He works to keep a home for wife and weans.There’s never been a luckier lass than Ruth:Though she deserves it, too; and it’s but seldomGood lasses are the lucky ones; and fewGet their deserts in this life.
Jim:
True, egox!
Judith:
Few, good or bad. But Ruth has everything—A home, a steady husband, and her boys.There never were such boys.
Jim:
A pretty picture:It takes my fancy: and the dear old grannie,Why do you leave her out? And there’s a cornerFor granddad in it, surely—an armchairOn the other side of the ingle, with a pipeAnd packet of twist, and a pot of nappy beer,Hot-fettled four-ale, handy on the hob?Ay: there’s the chair: I’d best secure it now.
(As he seats himself, with his back to the door, the head ofBell Haggard, in her orange-coloured kerchief, peeps round the jamb: then slowly withdraws, unseen ofJimorJudith.)
Jim:
Fetch up the swipes and shag. I can reach the cutty ...
(He takes downMichael’spipe from the mantel-shelf; and sticks it between his teeth: butJudithsnatches at it, breaking the stem, and flings the bowl on the fire.)
Judith:
And you, to touch his pipe!
(Jimstares at her, startled, as she stands before him, with drawn face and set teeth: then, still eyeing her uneasily, begins to bluster.)
Jim:
You scarting randy!I’ll teach you manners. That’s a good three-halfpenceSmashed into smithereens: and all for nothing.I’ve lammed a wench for less. I’ve half a mindTo snap you like the stopple, you yackey-yaa!De’il rive your sark! It’s long since I’ve had the priceOf a clay in my pouch: and I’m half-dead for a puff.What’s taken you? What’s set you agee with me?You used to like me; and you always seemedA menseful body: and I lippened to you.But you’re just a wheepie-leekie weathercockLike the lave of women, when a man’s mislucket,Moidart and mismeaved and beside himself.I fancied I’d be in clover at Krindlesyke,With you and all: but, sink me, if I haven’tJust stuck my silly head into a bee-bike!What’s turned you vicious? I only want to smokeA cutty in peace: and you go on the rampage.I mustn’t smoke young master’s pipe, it seems—His pipe, no less! Young cock-a-ride-a-roosieIs on the muckheap now; and all the hensAre clucking round him. I ken what it is:The cockmadendy’s been too easy with you.It doesn’t do to let you womenfolkGet out of hand. It’s time I came, i’ faiks,To pull you up, and keep you in your place.I’ll have no naggers, narr-narring all day long:I’ll stand no fantigues. If the cull’s too soft ...
Judith:
Soft, did you say? I’ve seen him hike a man,And a heftier man than you, over a dyke,For yarking a lame beast. That drover’ll mind—Ay, to his dying day, he’ll not forgetHe once ran into something hard.
Jim:
Ay—ay ...He’s that sort, is he? My luck is out again.I want a quiet life, to be let alone:And Krindlesyke won’t be a bed of roses,With that sort ramping round.(Starting uneasily.)
What’s that? I thought ...There’s no one in the other room, is there?I’ve a feeling in my bones somebody’s listening.You’ve not deceived me, Judith? You’ve not trapped ...I’m all a-swither, sweating like a brock.I little dreamt you’d turn against me, Judith:But even here I don’t feel safe now.
Judith:
Safe?
Jim:
So you don’t know? I fancied everyone kenned.Else why the devil should they stare like that?And when you, too, looked ... Nay, how could you learn?I’m davered, surely: Seppy Shank’s rumHas gone to my noddle: drink’s the very devilOn an empty waim: and I never had a head.What have I done? Ay, wouldn’t you like to ken,To holler on the hounds?
Judith:
Jim!
Jim:
But what matterWhether you ken or not? You’ve done for meAlready, dang you, with your hettle-tongue:You’ve put the notion in my head, the cursAre on my scent: and now, I cannot rest.Happen, they’re slinking now up Bloodysyke,Like adders through the bent ... Nay, they don’t yelp,The hounds that sleuth me: it’s only in my headI hear the yapping: they’re too cunning to yelp.The sleichers slither after me on their bellies,As dumb and slick as adders ... But I’m doitered,And doting like a dobby. I want to sleep ...A good night’s rest would pull my wits together.I swore I’d sleep ... but I couldn’t close an eye, nowSince ...
Judith:
Jim, what ails you? Tell me what you’ve done.I’m sorry, Jim ...
Jim:
I swear I never set outTo do it, Judith; and the thing was done,Before I came to my senses: that’s God’s truth:And may hell blast ... You’re sorry? Nay, but Jim’sToo old a bird to be caught with chaff. You’re fly:But, Jim’s fly, too. No: mum’s the word.
Judith:
O Jim,You, surely, never think I’d ...
Jim:
I don’t know.A man in my case can’t tell who to trust,When every mongrel’s yowling for his carcase.Mum’s my best friend, the only one ... though, whiles,It’s seemed even he had blabbered out my secrets,And hollered them to rouse the countryside,And draw all eyes on me. But, I must mizzle.
Judith:
You’re going, Jim?
Jim:
I’ll not be taken here,Like a brock in his earth: I’ll not be trapped and torn ...Yet, I don’t know. Why should I go? No worseTo be taken here than elsewhere: and I’m dead beat:I’m all to rovers, my wit’s all gone agate:And how can I travel in these boots? A week sinceThe soles bid a fond farewell to the uppers: I’ve beenHirpling it, barefoot—ay, kind lady, barefoot.You’d hardly care to be in my shoes, Judith?While you’ve been sitting doose ...
Judith:
I’ve known the road:I’ve trudged it, too, lad: and your feet are bleeding.I’ll bathe them for you, Jim, before you go:And you shall have a pair of Michael’s boots.
Jim:
So, I may have young master’s cast-off boots,Since he’s stepped into my shoes—a fair swap!And tug my forelock, like a lousy tinker;And whine God bless the master of this house,Likewise the mistress, too ... By gox, I’ve comeTo charity—Jim Barrasford’s come to moochFor charity at Krindlesyke! Shanks’s mare’sA sorry nag at best; and lets you down,Sooner or later, for certain—the last straw,When a man can’t trust his feet, and his own legsGive under him, in his need, and bring him downA devasher in the ditch as the dogs are on him!You’re sorry? I don’t know. How can I tell?You’re sly, you faggit; but don’t get over JimWith jookery-pawkry, Judith: I may be maiselt,But I’ve a little rummelgumption left:I still ken a bran from a brimmer—bless your heart!It suits you to get rid of me; and you judgeIt’s cheaply done at the price of a pair of tackities.Nay: I’ll be taken here.
Judith:
You cannot stay.
Jim:
Do you take me for a cangling cadger, to haggle ...Forgimety! I cannot ... God’s truth, I dare not!You’ve got me on the hop; and I must hirple;But if I go, I will not go alone:I’ve a mind to have a partner for this polka.
Judith:
Alone? And who do you think that ...
Jim:
Who but you?
Judith:
I!
Jim:
If I’ve got to take the road again,You’ve got to pad it with me: for I’m tiredOf travelling lonesome: I’ve a mind to haveMy doxy with me. By crikes! I’m fleyed to faceThe road again, alone. You’ll come ...
Judith:
I cannot.How could I leave ...
Jim:
Then I’ll be taken here:You’ll be to blame.
Judith:
But, Jim, how could I leave ...
Jim:
The sooner it’s over, the better I’ll be pleased.
Judith:
You mustn’t stop: and yet, I cannot go.How could I leave the bairn?
Jim:
The brat’s asleep.
Judith:
It won’t sleep long.
Jim:
Its mammy’ll soon be home.
Judith:
Not for three hours, at earliest.
Jim:
Then I’ll waitTill then: they can’t be on my track so soon:And when its dad and mammy come back ...
Judith:
Nay, nay:They mustn’t find you here.
Jim:
Judith, you’re right:For they might blab. I’d best be hooking it.I’ll go: but, mind, you’re not yet shot of me.
(As he is speaking,Bell Haggardappears in the doorway, and stands, with arms akimbo, watching them; butJimhas his back to the door, andJudith, gazing into the fire, doesn’t see her either.)
Jim:
I’ll wait for you beneath the Gallows Rigg,Where the burn skirts the planting, in the slackWe trysted in, in the old days—do you mind?
Judith:
I mind.
Jim:
Trust you for that! And I’ll lie low:It’s a dry bottom: and when the family’s snoringYou’ll come to me. Just whicker like a peesweepThree times, and I’ll be with you in a jiffy.We’ll take the road together, bonnie lass;For we were always marrows, you and I.If only that flirtigig, Phœbe, hadn’t comeBetween me and my senses, we’d have wed,And settled down at Krindlesyke for life:But now we’ve got to hoof it to the end.My sang! ’twill be a honeymoon for me,After the rig I’ve run. But, hearken, Judith:If you don’t turn up by ten o’clock, I’ll comeAnd batter on that door to wake the dead:I’ll make such a rumpus, such a Bob-’s-adying,Would rouse you, if you were straked. I’ll have you with me,If I’ve got to carry you, chested: sink my soul!And for all I care, that luggish slubberdegullionMay lounder my hurdies; and go to Hecklebarney!I’m desperate, Judith ... and I don’t mind much ...But, you’ll come, lass?
Judith:
I’ll come.
Jim:
Well, if you fail,They’ll take me here, as sure as death.
Bell(stepping forward):
That’s so.
Jim(wheeling round):
The devil!
Bell:
Nay: not yet: all in good time.But I question they’ll wait till ten o’clock: they seemedImpatient for your company, deuce kens why:But then, what’s one man’s meat ...
Jim:
What’s that you say?