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“Hold, hold! You run on so fast you lose your breath
and the King’s Danish too. Don’t blame me, blame
yourself. If you ’d been patient with Marie last winter, if you ’d
taught her gently the right knack of things, you might have
had some help from her now, but you were rough and
cross-grained, she was sulky, and the two of you came nigh to
splitting each other alive. ’T is to be more than thankful
for there ’s an end on ’t.”
“Ay, stand up fer M’ree! You ’re free to do it, but ef
you stand up fer yours, I stand up fer mine, and whether
you take it bad or not, I tell you M’ree’s more sperrit than
she can carry through the world. Let that be fer the fault
it is, but she’s bad. You may say ‘No,’ but I say she is. She
can never let little Anne be—never. She’s a-pinchin’ and
a-naggin,’ her all day long and a-castin’ foul words after
her, till the poor child might wish she’d never been born,—and
I wish she had n’t, though it breaks my heart. Alack-a-day,
may God have mercy upon us! Ye’re not the same
father to the two children, but sure it’s right that the sins
of the fathers should be visited upon the children unto the
third and fourth generation—and the sins of the mother
too, and little Anne’s nothin’ but a whore’s brat—ay, I tell
ye to yer face, she’s nothin’ but a whore’s brat, a whore’s
brat in the sight of God and man,—but you, her father!—shame
on ye,shame!—yes, I tell ye, even ’f ye lay hands
on me, as ye did two years ago come Michaelmas, shame
on ye! Fie on ye that ye let yer own child feel she’s
conceived in sin! ye do let her feel it, you and M’ree both of
ye let her feel it,—even ef ye hit me, I say ye let her feel
it—”
Erik Grubbe sprang up and stamped the floor.
“Gallows and wheel! Are you spital-mad, woman?
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