Some folk can only thrive in gaol--no nerve To face the risks outside; and never happy Till 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 sort Puzzles 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 travel With 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 deal Of 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 when You found him out?

JUDITH: If you had loved, you'd ken That finding out makes little difference.

There are things in this life you don't understand, For all your ready tongue.

BELL: Ay: men and women I've given up--just senseless marionettes, Jigging and bobbing to the twitching strings: Though I like to fancy I pick my steps, and choose The 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 mine Careless 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 much As 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 anything In this life; though it's caring's broken me.

BELL: It stiffens some. But, why take accidents So bitterly? It's all a rough-and-tumble Of accidents, from the accident of birth To 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 p.r.i.c.kles: Best pick yourself up sharp, and shake the thorns out, Else the following hoofs will bash you. Give life leave To break your heart, 'twill trample you ...

JUDITH: Leave, say you?

Life takes French-leave: your heart's beneath the hoofs Before ...

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 sport In putting money on dead-certainties.

I back the dark horse; stake my soul against The odds: and I'll not grouse if life should prove A 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 time You 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 held My 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 have The 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 him Swallow the kernel, and spit out the sh.e.l.l, 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 felt I'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 innocent Beneath the daisies; but the gowans must wait.

Sore-punished, I'm not yet knocked out: life's had My head in chancery; but I'll soon be free To 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 thief In little things--I'm honesty itself In the things that matter--few enough, deuce kens: But your heart's open to the day; while mine's A pitchy night, with just a star or so To light me to cover at the keeper's step.

You're honest, to your hurt: your honesty's A 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 asked A little happiness of life: I've starved For happiness, G.o.d kens.

BELL: What's happiness?

You've got a sweet-tooth; and don't relish life: You want run-honey, when it's the honeycomb That gives the crunch and flavour. Would you be As 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, because Your teeth grit on the stone, instead of cracking The sh.e.l.l, 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 son And that dead woman were too strong for me: They turned me false to my nature; broke me in Like a flea in harness, that draws a nutsh.e.l.l-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 thimble Just 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 overfeed The 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 head Like crocks in a mugger's cart: but I've had few To 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 chance I've ever had of a gossip: and, as for news, I've had to fall back on the wormy Bible That props the broken looking-gla.s.s: so, now I've got the chance of a crack, my tongue goes randy; And patters like a cheapjack's, or a bookie's Offering you odds against the favourite, life: Or, wasn't life the dark horse? I have talked My 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 spares The owner the f.a.g of thinking: it's the listeners Who get the headache. And yet, I could talk At one time to some purpose--didn't dribble Like a tap that needs a washer: and, by carties, It's talking I've missed most: I've always been Like 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 ...