When I heard "Barrasford of Krindlesyke,"

My heart went cold within me, thinking of Jim, And what he'd been to me. I'd had no news Of all that's happened since I left the day Jim wedded; and ...

BELL: The nowt felt like a poacher, When keeper's sneaked his bunny, and broken his snare?

JUDITH: I fancied he, perhaps ...

BELL: Ay, likely enough.

Jim's wasted a sight of matches, since that day He burnt his fingers so badly: but he's not kindled A hearthfire yet at Krindlesyke. Anyway, For Michael to be his son, I'd need to be Even an older flame of his than you: For Michael's twenty-one.

JUDITH: As old as that?

But I could never rest, till I'd made sure.

Knowing myself, I did not question Ruth ...

BELL: What's worth the kenning's seldom learned by speiring.

JUDITH: Though, knowing myself, I dreaded what might chance, What might already ...

BELL: You'd no cause to worrit Michael'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 love Once 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 underground Fire smoulders still: and still might burst to flame.

Deceived and broken ...

BELL: What's this jackadandy, That you and Phbe, both--and kenning him!

JUDITH: What's kenning got to do with love? It makes No difference, once you've given ...

BELL: If I've a heart, And it's broken, it's a broken stone, sunk deep In bottomless moss.h.a.gs, where no heat can touch it, Till the whole world grills, at last, on h.e.l.l's gridiron.

JUDITH: Nothing you ken of broken hearts, or h.e.l.l, To talk so lightly. I have come through h.e.l.l: 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 sport Like yarking a shivering hide: you ask for it.

JUDITH: I've been through much.

BELL: And so, you should ken better Than 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 f.a.ggots on the blaze, In losing all for love--a crazy joy Long years of suffering cannot quench, I'd have Ruth spared that madness: and kenning she's just myself Born 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 when The kindled peatstack fires the steading? Far better To perish in a flare, than smoulder away Your life in smother: and what are f.a.ggots 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 lugs Just asks for pelting. It's shame makes life bad travelling-- The stone in the shoe that lames you. Other folk Might 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 thief That snivels, because the fruit he relishes Is 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, Ruth and ...

JUDITH: Never been A better daughter!

BELL: Then, what would you have?

You've had her to yourself, without the worrit Of 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 up Husbands they've no more use for between meals.

But I wasn't born to kick my heels in air For a plaguey husband: and if I'm to dangle, 'Twon't be for that, but something worth putting myself Out of the way for. You say I'll scorn you, woman.

Who 'm I, to scorn? You're not my sort: but I ken Too much of life for easy scorn: I've learnt The 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 wash Of 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 'taties The 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 take Mine, 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 appet.i.te, At Krindlesyke, I'm a ewe overhead in a drift That's cropped the gra.s.s round its feet, and mumbles its wool For 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 ring Make the old game worth the candle: variety At 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 pay For what we have, or haven't; and I believe In value for my money.

JUDITH: Peace and quiet And a good home are worth ...

BELL: But, you've no turn For circuses: your heart's a pipeclayed hearthstone-- No ring for hoofs to trample to the clang Of 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 itched Sorely 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 been Cook, s.l.u.t, and butler here this fifteen-year, As thrang as Throp's wife when she hanged herself With her own dishclout. Needs must, the fire will burn, Barred in the grate: burn--nay, I've only smouldered Like 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 cunning That challenged me, hinting I'd not have grit To 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 gums To grin at me: and how could I go through life, Haunted by her dead smile? But now the spell Is 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?