Bell:
You’d no cause to worritMichael’s not that sort: he’s respectable—Too staid and sober for his tinker-mother:He’ll waste no matches, lighting wayside fires.
Judith:
Like me, Ruth’s easy kindled; hard to quench—A flying spark, and the heather’s afire in a gale;And the fell’s burned to the rock—naught but black ash,When the downpour comes, too late.
Bell:
Ay—but the flare,And crackle, and tossing flames, and golden smoke;And the sting of the reek in the nostrils!
Judith:
Ruth’ll loveOnce and for all: like me, she’s born for marriage:Though, in my eager trustfulness, I missed it.You’ll scorn me, as I often scorn myself:But, kenning the worst, in my heart of hearts, I hanker ...Jim meant so much to me once: I can’t forget,Or keep from dwelling on the might-have-been.Snow on the felltop, now: but undergroundFire smoulders still: and still might burst to flame.Deceived and broken ...
Bell:
What’s this jackadandy,That you and Phœbe, both—and kenning him!
Judith:
What’s kenning got to do with love? It makesNo difference, once you’ve given ...
Bell:
If I’ve a heart,And it’s broken, it’s a broken stone, sunk deepIn bottomless mosshags, where no heat can touch it,Till the whole world grills, at last, on hell’s gridiron.
Judith:
Nothing you ken of broken hearts, or hell,To talk so lightly. I have come through hell:But you have never loved. What’s given in love,Is given. It’s something to have loved, at least:And I have Ruth.
Bell:
Ay, the green bracken-shoots,Soon push through the black litter of charred heath:And you have Ruth.
Judith:
Or, had her, till last night:I’ve lost her, now, it seems.
Bell:
You let life hurt you:You shy at shadows; and shrink from the crack of the whip,Before the lash stings: and life loves no sportLike yarking a shivering hide: you ask for it.
Judith:
I’ve been through much.
Bell:
And so, you should ken betterThan to hang yourself, before the judge gives sentence:His honour can put the black cap on for himself,Without your aid. You’ll die a thousand deaths,Before your end comes, peacefully in bed.Why should you go half-way to meet your funeral?
Judith:
Though there’s a joy in giving recklessly,In flinging all your faggots on the blaze,In losing all for love—a crazy joyLong years of suffering cannot quench, I’d haveRuth spared that madness: and kenning she’s just myselfBorn over, how could I sleep with the dread upon me?She’d throw herself away; would burn to waste,Suffering as I have ...
Bell:
Anyway, you burned:And who’s to say what burns to waste, even whenThe kindled peatstack fires the steading? Far betterTo perish in a flare, than smoulder awayYour life in smother: and what are faggots for,If not for firing? But, you’ve suffered, woman,More than need be, because you were ashamed.The lurcher that slinks with drooping tail and lugsJust asks for pelting. It’s shame makes life bad travelling—The stone in the shoe that lames you. Other folkMight be ashamed to do the things I’ve done:That’s their look-out; they’ve got no call to do them:I’ve never done what I would blush to own to:I’ve got my self-respect. For all my talk,I’m proud of Michael: and you’re proud of Ruth,I take it?
Judith:
Ay.
Bell:
Then, where’s the need for shame,Because they were come-by-chances? A mean thiefThat snivels, because the fruit he relishesIs stolen; and keeps munching it to the core.Married, and so lived happily ever after?A deal of virtue in a wedding-ring:And marriage-lines make all the difference, don’t they?Your man and mine were born in lawful wedlock:And sober, honest, dutiful sons they’ve proved:While our two bastards, Ruth and ...
Judith:
Never beenA better daughter!
Bell:
Then, what would you have?You’ve had her to yourself, without the worritOf a man to wear your soul out, all these years.If I’d been married, before a week was through,I’d have picked my husband’s pocket, to buy rats’ bane:Envying the spiders who can gobble upHusbands they’ve no more use for between meals.But I wasn’t born to kick my heels in airFor a plaguey husband: and if I’m to dangle,’Twon’t be for that, but something worth putting myselfOut of the way for. You say I’ll scorn you, woman.Who ’m I, to scorn? You’re not my sort: but I kenToo much of life for easy scorn: I’ve learntThe lessons of the road.
Judith:
I’ve known the road, too;And learned its bitter ...
Bell:
You didn’t relish it?It’s meat to me; but then, I like mixed pickles—Life, with an edge, and a free hand with the pepper.You can’t make a good hotchpotch with only ’taties:And a good hotchpotch I’m fairly famished for:I’ve starved on the lean fare of Krindlesyke:My mouth is watering for the old savoury mess—Life, piping hot: for I’m no man-in-the-moon,To sup off cold peaseporridge: and it’s the washOf bitters over the tongue gives bite to the pepper:But you’ve no taste for bitters, or devilled collops—Roast scrag on Sunday: cold mutton and boiled ’tatiesThe rest of the week, is the most you’d ask of life—Nay, a cup of milky tea by a white hearth—And you’re in heaven!
Judith:
You’re not far out.
Bell:
I takeMine, laced with rum, by a camp-fire under the stars;And not too dainty to mind the smatch of smoke.
Judith:
Tastes differ.
Bell:
Yet, for all my appetite,At Krindlesyke, I’m a ewe overhead in a driftThat’s cropped the grass round its feet, and mumbles its woolFor nourishment: and that’s what you call life!You’re you: I’m I. It takes all turns for a circus:And it’s just the change and chances of the ringMake the old game worth the candle: varietyAt all costs: hurly-burly, razzle-dazzle—Life, cowping creels through endless flaming hoops,A breakneck business, ending with a crash,If only in the big drum. The devil’s to payFor what we have, or haven’t; and I believeIn value for my money.
Judith:
Peace and quietAnd a good home are worth ...
Bell:
But, you’ve no turnFor circuses: your heart’s a pipeclayed hearthstone—No ring for hoofs to trample to the clangOf cymbals, blare of trumpets, rattle of drums:No dash of brandy in your stirabout:Porridge in peace, with a door ’twixt you and the weather;A sanded floor; and the glow and smother of peat:But I’d rather be a lean pig, running free,Than the fattest flitch of bacon on the rafters.
Judith:
And yet, you’ve kept ...
Bell:
Ay: but my fingers have itchedSorely to fire the peatstack in a west wind,That flames might swarm walls and rooftree, and Krindlesyke,Perishing in a crackle and golden flare-up,Tumble a smoking ruin of blackened stone.
Judith:
Yet, you’ve kept house ...
Bell:
Ay, true enough; I’ve beenCook, slut, and butler here this fifteen-year,As thrang as Throp’s wife when she hanged herselfWith her own dishclout. Needs must, the fire will burn,Barred in the grate: burn—nay, I’ve only smoulderedLike sodden peat. Ay, true, I’ve drudged; and yet,What could I do against that old dead witch,Lying in wait for me the day I came?Her very patience was a kind of cunningThat challenged me, hinting I’d not have gritTo stand her life, even for a dozen years.What could I do, but prove I could stick it out?If I’d turned tail, she’d have bared her toothless gumsTo grin at me: and how could I go through life,Haunted by her dead smile? But now the spellIs snapt: I’ve proved her wrong: she cannot hold me.I’ve served my sentence: the cell-door opens: and yet,You would have done that fifteen-years-hard willingly?Some folk can only thrive in gaol—no nerveTo face the risks outside; and never happyTill lagged for life: meals punctual and no cares:And the king for landlord. While I’ve eaten my head off,You’ve been a galled jade, fretting for the stable.Tastes differ: but it’s just that you’re not my sortPuzzles me why you gave yourself to Jim.
Judith:
There are no whys and wherefores, when you love.
Bell:
I gave myself to Peter, with a difference.You’d have wed Jim: I just let Peter travelWith me, to keep the others from pestering;And scooted him when Michael could manage the sheep.
Judith:
You never loved him. I loved Jim ...
Bell:
A dealOf difference that’s made!
Judith:
More than you can guess.
Bell:
Peter stuck longer, tangled in the brambles.
Judith:
I loved Jim; so, I trusted him.
Bell:
But whenYou found him out?
Judith:
If you had loved, you’d kenThat finding out makes little difference.There are things in this life you don’t understand,For all your ready tongue.
Bell:
Ay: men and womenI’ve given up—just senseless marionettes,Jigging and bobbing to the twitching strings:Though I like to fancy I pick my steps, and chooseThe tunes I dance to; happen, that’s my pride;But, choose or not, we’ve got to pay the piper.
Judith:
Ay: in your pride, you think you’ve the best of life.You’re missing more than you reckon, the best of all.
Bell:
Well, I’ve no turn for penal servitude.But, have you never gabbed to keep your heart up?What are hats for, if not for talking through?Pride—we’ve both pride; yours, hot and fierce, and mineCareless and cold: yet, both came the same cropper—Not quite ... for you were hurt to death almost:While I picked myself up, scatheless; not a scratch;Only my skirt torn; and it always draggled.
Judith:
You never cared: I couldn’t have borne myself,If I’d not cared: I’d hate myself as muchAs I’ve hated Jim, whiles, when I thought of all.They’re mixter-maxter, hate and love: and, often,I’ve wondered if I loathed, or loved, Jim most.I understand as little as you, it seems:Yet, it’s only caring counts for anythingIn this life; though it’s caring’s broken me.
Bell:
It stiffens some. But, why take accidentsSo bitterly? It’s all a rough-and-tumbleOf accidents, from the accident of birthTo the last accident that lays us out—A go-as-you-please, and the devil take the hindmost.It’s pluck that counts, and an easy seat in the saddle:Better to break your neck at the first ditch,Than waste the day in seeking gates to slip through:Cold-blooded crawlers I’ve no sort of use for.You took the leap, and landed in the quickset:But, at least, you leapt sky-high, before you tumbled:And it’s silly to lie moaning in the prickles:Best pick yourself up sharp, and shake the thorns out,Else the following hoofs will bash you. Give life leaveTo break your heart, ’twill trample you ...
Judith:
Leave, say you?Life takes French-leave: your heart’s beneath the hoofsBefore ...
Bell:
But grin, and keep yourself heartwhole;And you’ll find the fun of the fair’s in taking chances:It’s the uncertainty makes the race—no sportIn putting money on dead-certainties.I back the dark horse; stake my soul againstThe odds: and I’ll not grouse if life should proveA welsher in the end: I’ll have had my fling,At least: and yet talk’s cheap ...
Judith:
Ay, cheap.
Bell:
Dirt-cheap:Three-shots-a-penny; and it’s not every timeYou hit Aunt Sally and get a good cigar,Or even pot a milky coconut:And, all this while, life’s had the upper hand:I slipt, the day I came; and lost my grip:Life got me by the scruff of the neck, and heldMy proud nose to the grindstone. My turn, now—I’ll be upsides with life, and teach it manners,Before death gets the stranglehold: I’ll haveThe last laugh, though it choke me. And what’s death,To set us twittering? I’ll be no frightened squirrel:Scarting and scolding never yet scared death:When he’s a mind to crack me like a nut,I’d be no husk: still ripe and milky, I’d have himSwallow the kernel, and spit out the shell,Before all’s shrivelled to black dust. But, tombstones,What’s turned my thoughts to death? It’s these white walls,After a day in the open. When I came,At first, these four walls seemed to close in on me,As though they’d crush the life out: and I feltI’d die between them: but, after all ... And yet,Who kens what green sod’s to be broken for him?Queer, that I’ll lie, like any innocentBeneath the daisies; but the gowans must wait.Sore-punished, I’m not yet knocked out: life’s hadMy head in chancery; but I’ll soon be freeTo spar another round or so with him,Before he sends me spinning to the ropes.And life would not be life, without the hazards.
Judith:
Too many hazards for me.
Bell:
Ay: so it seems:But you’re too honest for the tricky game.I’ve a sort of honesty—a liar and thiefIn little things—I’m honesty itselfIn the things that matter—few enough, deuce kens:But your heart’s open to the day; while mine’sA pitchy night, with just a star or soTo light me to cover at the keeper’s step.You’re honest, to your hurt: your honesty’sA knife that cuts through all; and will be cutting—Hacking and jabbing, and thirsting to draw blood;And turning in the wound it makes—a gulley,To cut your heart out, if you doubted it:And so, you’re faithful, even to a fool;While I would just be faithful to myself.You thrive on misery.
Judith:
Nay: I’ve only askedA little happiness of life: I’ve starvedFor happiness, God kens.
Bell:
What’s happiness?You’ve got a sweet-tooth; and don’t relish life:You want run-honey, when it’s the honeycombThat gives the crunch and flavour. Would you beAs happy as a maggot in a medlar,Swelling yourself in sweet deliciousness,Till the blackbird nips you? None escapes his crop.You’d quarrel with the juiciest plum, becauseYour teeth grit on the stone, instead of crackingThe shell, and savouring the bitter kernel.Nigh all the jests life cracks have bitter kernels.
Judith:
Ay, bitter enough to set my teeth on edge.
Bell:
What are teeth for, if we must live on pap?The sweetest marrow’s in the hardest bone,As you’ve found with Ruth, I take it.
Judith:
Ay: and still,You have been faithful, Bell.
Bell:
A faithful fool,Against the grain, this fifteen-year: my sonAnd that dead woman were too strong for me:They turned me false to my nature; broke me inLike a flea in harness, that draws a nutshell-coach.Till then I’d jumped, and bit, at my own sweet will.Oh! amn’t I the wiseacre, the downy owl,Fancying myself as knowing as a signpost?And yet, there’s always some new twist to learn.Life’s an old thimblerigger; and, it seems,Can still get on the silly side of me,Can still bamboozle me with his hanky-panky:He always kens a trick worth two of mine;Though he lets me spot the pea beneath the thimbleJust often enough to keep me in good conceit.And he’s kept you going, too, with Ruth to live for.
Judith:
If it hadn’t been for Ruth ...
Bell:
He kens, he kens:As canny as he’s cute, for his own ends,He’s a wise showman; and doesn’t overfeedThe living skeleton or let the fat lady starve:And so, we’re each kept going, in our own kind,Till we’ve served our turn. Mine’s talking, you’ll have gathered!
Judith:
Ay, you’ve a tongue.
Bell:
It rattles in my headLike crocks in a mugger’s cart: but I’ve had fewTo talk with here; and too much time for brooding,Turning things over and over in my own mind,These fifteen years.
Judith:
True: neighbours, hereabouts,Are few, and far to seek.
Bell:
The devil a chanceI’ve ever had of a gossip: and, as for news,I’ve had to fall back on the wormy BibleThat props the broken looking-glass: so, nowI’ve got the chance of a crack, my tongue goes randy;And patters like a cheapjack’s, or a bookie’sOffering you odds against the favourite, life:Or, wasn’t life the dark horse? I have talkedMy wits out, till I’m like a drunken tipster,Too milled to ken the dark horse from the favourite.My sharp tongue’s minced my very wits to words.
Judith:
Ay, it’s been rattling round.
Bell:
A slick tongue sparesThe owner the fag of thinking: it’s the listenersWho get the headache. And yet, I could talkAt one time to some purpose—didn’t dribbleLike a tap that needs a washer: and, by carties,It’s talking I’ve missed most: I’ve always beenLike an urchin with a withy—must be slashing—Thistles for choice: and not once, since I came,Have I had a real good shindy to warm my blood.
Judith:
I’d have thought Ezra ...
Bell:
Ay: we fratched, at first;For he’d a tongue of his own; and could use it, too,Better than most menfolk—a bonnie sparrer,I warrant, in his time; but past his bestBefore I kenned him; little fight left in him:And when his wits went cranky, he just havered—Ground out his two tunes like a hurdygurdy,With most notes missing and a creaky handle.
Judith:
And Michael?
Bell:
Michael! The lad will sit mumchanceThe evening through: he’s got a powerful giftOf saying nothing: no sparks to strike off him;Though he’s had to serve as a whetstone, this long while,To keep an edge on my tongue.
Judith:
He’s quiet?
Bell:
Quiet!A husband born. No need to fear for Ruth:She’s safe with Michael, safe for life.
Judith:
He’s steady?
Bell:
He’s not his mother’s son: he banks his money;And takes no hazards; never risks his shirt:As canny as I’m spendthrift, he’s the sortCan pouch his cutty, half-smoked, ten minutes afterI’ve puffed away my pipeful. Ay: Ruth’s safe.His peatstacks never fire: he’ll never loseA lamb, or let a ewe slip through his hands,For want of watching; though he go for nightsWithout a nap. The day of Ezra’s funeral,A score of gimmers perished in the snow,But not a ewe of Michael’s: his were foldedBefore the wind began to pile the drifts:He takes no risks.
Judith:
Ruth needs a careful man:For she’s the sort that’s steady with the steady,And a featherhead with featherheads. She’s sense:And Michael ...
Bell:
Michael’s sense itself—a cobToo steady to shy even at the crack of doom:He’ll keep the beaten track, the road that leadsTo four walls, and the same bed every night.Talk of the devil—but he’s coming nowUp Bloodysyke: ay, and there’s someone with him—A petticoat, no less!
Judith:
Mercy! It’s Ruth:Yet I didn’t leave, till she was safely offTo work ...
Bell:
Work? Michael, too, had businessIn Bellingham this morning, oddly enough.Doubtless, they helped each other; and got throughThe job the quicker, working well together:And a parson took a hand in it for certain,If I ken Michael: likes things proper, he does;And always had a weakness for black lambs.But, who’d have guessed he’d ... Surely, there’s a strainOf Haggard in the young limb, after all:No Haggard stops to ask a parent’s leave,Even should they happen to ken the old folk by sight:My own I knew by hearsay. But, what luckYou’re here to welcome the young pair.
Judith:
No! They’ll wonder ...I bring no luck to weddings ... I must go ...
Bell:
You can’t, without being spotted: but you can hideBehind the door, till I speak with them.
Judith:
No! No!Not that door ... I can’t hide behind that doorAgain.
Bell:
That door? Well, you ken best what’s beenBetween that door and you. It’s crazy and old,But, it looks innocent, wooden-faced humbug: yetI don’t trust doors myself; they’ve got a knackOf shutting me in. But you’ll be snug enoughIn the other room: I’d advise you to lie down,And rest; you’re looking trashed: and, come to think,I’ve a deal to say to the bridegroom, before I go.
Judith:
Go?
Bell:
Quick, this way: step lively, or they’ll catchYour skirt-tail whisking round the doorcheek.
(BellhustlesJudithinto the inner room; closing the door behind her. She then thrusts the orange-coloured kerchief into her pocket; picks up the bracken, and flings it on the fire; seats herself on the settle, with her back to the door; and gazes at the blaze: not even glancing up, asMichaelandRuthenter.)
Michael:
Mother!
Bell:
Is that you, Prodigal son? You’re late, to-day,As always when you’ve business in Bellingham.That’s through, I trust: those ewes have taken a dealOf seeing to: and I’m lonely as a milestone,When you’re away.
Michael:
I’ve taken the last trip, mother:That job’s through: and I’ve made the best of bargains.You’ll not be lonely, now, when I’m not here:I’ve brought you a daughter to keep you company.
Bell(turning sharply):
I might have known you were no Prodigal son:He didn’t bring home even a single sausage,For all his keeping company with swine.But, what should I do with a daughter, lad?Do you fancy, if I’d had a mind for daughters,I couldn’t have had a dozen of my own?One petticoat’s enough in any house:And who are you, to bring your mother a daughter?
Michael:
Her husband. Ruth’s my bride. Ruth EllershawShe was till ten o’clock: Ruth Barrasford,Till doomsday, now.
Bell:
When did I give you leaveTo bring strange lasses to disturb my peace,Just as I’m getting used to Krindlesyke?To think you’d wed, without a word!
Michael:
Leave, say you?You’ll always have your jest. I said no word:For words breed words: and I’d not have a swarmOf stinging ants bumming about my lugsFor days beforehand.
Bell:
Ants? They’d need be kaids,To burrow through your fleece, and prog your skin.
Michael:
I’d as lief ask leave of the tricky wind as you:And, leave or not, I’d see you damned, if you triedTo part us. None of your games! I’m no young wether,To be let keep his old dam company;Trotting beside her ...
Bell:
Cock-a-whoop, my lad!Well done, for you, Ruth, lass; you’ve kindled him,As Icould never do, for all my chaff.I little dreamt he’d ever turn lobstroplous:I hardly ken him, with his dander up,Swelling and bridling like a bubblyjock.If I pricked him now, he’d bleed red blood—not ewe’s milk:The flick of my tongue can nettle him at last:His haunches quiver, for all his woolly coat;He’ll prove a Haggard, yet. Nay—he said “husband”:No Haggard I’ve heard tell on’s been a husband:But, if your taste’s for husbands, lass, you’re suited,Till doomsday, as he says. He kens his mind:When barely breeched, he chose to bide with sheep;Though he might have travelled with horses: and it’s sheepHis heart is set on still. But, I’ve no turnFor certainties myself: no sheep for me:Life, with a tossing mane, and clattering hoofs,The chancy life for me—not certain death,With the stink of tar and sheepdip in my nostrils.
Michael:
Life, with a clattering tongue, you mean to say.
Bell:
Well: you’re a bonnie lass, I must admit:And, if I’d fancied daughters, I might have doneMuch worse than let young Michael pick them for me:He’s not gone poseying in the kitchen garden.I never guessed he’d an eye for aught but ewes:As, blind as other mothers, I’d have swornI’d kenned him, inside-out, since he was—nay!But he was never a rapscallion ripstitch—Always a prim and proper little man,A butter-won’t-melt-in-my-mouth young sobersides,Since he found his own feet. Yet, the blade that’s wed—The jack-knife, turned into a pair of scissors—Without a word, is not the son I thought him.There’s something of his mammy, after all,In Michael: and as for you, my lass, you’re justYour minney’s very spit.
Ruth:
You ken my mother?
Bell:
Ken Judith Ellershaw? You’ll ask me, next,If I’m acquainted with Bell Haggard. Well,Gaping for turnips, Michael?
Michael:
I never heard ...
Bell:
What have you heard this fifteen-year, exceptThe bleat of sheep, till Ruth’s voice kittled your ear?But, Judith sent some message by her daughter?
Ruth:
She doesn’t ken I’ve come: nay, doesn’t dreamI’m married even; though I meant to tell herThis morning; but I couldn’t: she started so,When I let slip Michael’s name; and turned so pale.I don’t know why; but I feared some word of hersMight come between us: and I couldn’t letEven my mother come between us now:So, I pretended to set out for workAs usual: then, when we were married, went backWith Michael, to break the news. But the door was locked:And neighbours said she was out—been gone some time:And Michael was impatient to be home:So, I had to come. I can’t think what has happened.I hated leaving her like that: I’ve neverIn all my life done such a thing.
Bell:
Well, MichaelShould be relieved to learn it’s a first offence.
Ruth:
She’d gone without a word ...
Bell:
A family failing—And, happen, on like errand to your own.
Ruth:
Mother? Nay, she’s too old: you said you knew her.
Bell:
Ay, well enough to reckon I’m her elder:And who’s to tell me I’m too old to marry?A woman is never too old for anything:It’s only men grow sober and faint-hearted:And Judith’s just the sort whose soul is setOn a husband and a hearthstone: I ken that.
Ruth:
Nay: mother’ll never marry.
Bell:
You can speakWith all the cock-a-whoop of ignorance:For you’re too young to dare to doubt your wisdom.It’s a wise man, or a fool, can speak for himself,Let alone for others, in this haphazard life.But give me a young fool, rather than an old—A plucky plunger, than a canny croneWho’s old enough to ken she doesn’t ken.You’re right: for doubting is a kind of dotage:Experience ages and decays; while folkWho never doubt themselves die young—at ninety.Age never yet brought gumption to a ninny:And you cannot reckon up a stranger’s witsBy counting his bare patches and grey hairs:It’s seldom sense that makes a bald head shine:And I’m not partial to Methuselahs.Keep your cocksureness, while you can: too soon,Time plucks the feathers off you; and you lie,Naked and skewered, with not a cock-a-doodle,Or flap of the wings to warm your heart again.And so, you quitted your mammy, without a word,When the jockey whistled?
Ruth:
Nay: I left a letter:’Twas all I could do.
Bell:
She’s lost a daughter; and gotA bit of paper, instead: and what have I,For my lost son?
Michael:
You’ve lost no son; but gainedA daughter. You’ll always live with us.
Bell:
Just so.I’ve waited for you to say that: and it comes pat.You’ll think his thoughts; and mutter them in your mind,Before he can give them tongue, Ruth. He’s not saidAn unexpected thing since he grew outOf his first breeches: and, like the most of men,He speaks so slowly, you can almost catchThe creaking of his wits between the words.
Ruth:
Well: I’ve a tongue for two: and you, yourself,Don’t lack for ...
Bell:
So, all’s settled: you’ve arrangedThe world for your convenience; and have plannedYour mothers’ lives between you? I’m to beThe dear old grannie in the ingleneuk;And hide my grizzled wisps in a mutch with frills?Nay, God forbid! I’m no tame pussycat,To snuggle on the corner of a settle,With one eye open for the chance-thrown titbit,While the good housewife goes about her duties:Me! lapping with blinking eyes and possing paws,The saucer of skim-milk that young skinflint spares me,And purring, when her darlings pull my tail—Great-grandchildren, too, to Ezra, on both sides.Ay: you may gape like a brace of guddled brandling:But that old bull-trout’s grandsire to you both;And a double dose of his blue blood will runIn the veins of your small fry—if fish have veins.
Michael:
You surely never mean to say ...
Bell:
I do.More than a little for you young know-alls to learn,When you meet Judith Ellershaw: for haversAs it sounds to your young lugs, the world went round,And one or two things happened, before you were born.Yet, none of us kens what life’s got up his sleeve:He’s played so long: and had a deal of practice,Since he sat down with Adam: he’s always gotA trump tucked out of sight, that takes the trick.But, son, you’ve lived with me for all these years;And yet ken me so little? Grannie’s mutch-frills!I’d as lief rig myself in widow’s weedsFor my fancy man, who may have departed this life,For all I ken or care.
Michael:
Come, hold your tongue:Enough of shameless talk. I’m master, now:And I’ll not have Ruth hear this radgy slack.If you’ve no shame yourself, I’ll find a wayTo bridle your loose tongue: so mind yourself:I’ll have no tinker’s tattle.
Bell:
The tinker’s bratRides the high-horse now, mounted on prime mutton.Ruth, lass, you’re safe, you’re safe—if safety’s all:He’ll never guess your heart, unless you blab.I’ve never told him mine: I’ve kept him easy,Till he’d found someone else to victual him,And make his bed, and darn his hose; and youSeem born to take the job out of my hands.
Ruth:
But I’d not come between you ...
Bell:
Think not, lass?I bear you no ill-will: you set me free.I’m a wildcat, all bristling fur and claws:At Krindlesyke, I’ve been a wildcat, caged:And Michael never twigged! Son, don’t you mindThe day we came—was I a tabby then?The day we came here, with no thought to bide,Once we had got the plunder; and were trappedBetween these four white walls by a dead woman?She held me—forced my feet into her shoes—Held me for your sake. Ay: there seemed some link’Twixt your dead grannie and you, too strong for meTo break; though it’s been strained to the snapping-point,Times out of mind, whenever a hoolet’s screechSang through my blood; or poaching foxes barkedOn a shiny night to the cackle of wild geese,Travelling from sea to sea far overhead:Or whenever, waking in the quiet dark,The ghosts of horses whinneyed in my heart.Ghosts! Nay, I’ve been the mare between the limmersWho hears the hunters gallop gaily by;Or, rather, the hunter, bogged in a quaking moss,Fankit in sluthery strothers, belly-deep,With the tune of the horn tally-hoing through her blood,As the field sweeps out of sight.
Michael:
Wildcats and hunters—A mongrel breed, eh, Ruth?
Bell:
But, now it seems,I can draw my hocks out of the clungy sumpI’ve floundered in so long; and, snuffing the wind,Shew a clean pair of heels to Krindlesyke.A mongrel breed, say you? And who but a manCould have a wildcat-hunter making his bedFor him for fifteen-year, and never know it?But, the old wife’s satisfied, at last: she should be:She’s had my best years: I’ve grown old and grizzled,And full of useless wisdom, in her service.She’s taught me much: for I’ve had time and to spare,Brooding among these God-forsaken fells,To turn life inside-out in my own mind;And study every thread of it, warp and weft.I’m far from the same woman who came here:And I’ll take up my old life with a difference,Now she and you’ve got no more use for me:You’ve squeezed me dry betwixt you.
Michael:
Dry, do you say?The Tyne’s in spate; and we must swim for life,Eh, Ruth? But, you’ll soon get used ...
Bell:
She’s done with me.She’ll not be sorry to lose me: I fancy, at times,She felt she’d got more than she’d bargained for—A wasp, rampaging in her spider’s web.“Far above rubies” has never been my line,Though I could wag a tongue with Solomon,Like the Queen of Sheba herself: I doubt if sheRose in the night to give meat to her household.She must have been an ancestor of mine:For she’d traik any distance for a crack,The gipsy-hearted ganwife that she was.
Michael:
Wildcats and hunters and the Queen of Sheba—A royal family, Ruth, you’ve married into!
Bell:
But now I can kick Eliza’s shoes sky-high:Nay—I must shuffle them quietly off; and layThe old wife’s shoes decently by the hearth,As Ifound them when I came—a slattern stopgap—Ready for the young wife to step into.They’ll fit her, as they never fitted me:For all her youth, they will not gall her heels,Or give her corns: she’s the true Cinderella:The clock has struck for her; and the dancing’s done;And the Prince has brought her home—to wash the dishes.But now I’m free: and I’ll away to-night.My bones have been restless in me all day long:They felt their freedom coming, before I kenned.I’ve little time to lose: I’m getting old—Stiff-jointed in my wits, that once were nimbleAs a ferret among the bobtails, old and dull.A night or so may seem to matter little,When I’ve already lost full fifteen-year:But I hear the owls call: and my fur’s a-tingle:The Haggard blood is pricking in my veins.
(She loosens the string of her apron, which slips to the ground, kilts her skirt to her knee, takes the orange-coloured kerchief from her pocket, and twists it about her head; whileMichaelandRuthwatch the transformation in amazement.)