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 together To bring a wife to: and, for all your jeers, There are worse things for a woman than a home And 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 trollop Do in the house of Michael Barrasford, But bring a blush to his children's cheeks? G.o.d help them, If they take after me, if they've a dash Of Haggard blood--for ewe's milk laced with brandy Is like to curdle: or, happen, I should say, G.o.d 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 c.o.c.krobin That'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 hear The 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 stiff For 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 days When the whole world's hoddendoon and draggletailed, Drooked through and through; and blury, gurly days When 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 ken What traveller your wayside fire will draw Out 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 scandal For those who can't be scandalized--just news: All's fish that comes to their net. I was made For company.

MICHAEL: And you'd go back again To that tag-rag-and-bobtail? What's the use Of 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 ap.r.o.n off; and you're tied now To your wife's ap.r.o.n-strings: for menfolk seem Uneasy on the loose, and never happy Unless 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 decency Depends on his braces; and it's I who've sewn Your trouser-b.u.t.tons on; so, when you fasten Your 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 keep Your home respectable; though, in her heart, Thank G.o.d, 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 be So proper a gentleman, 'twill be hard to tell The shepherd from the sheep. Someone must rear The mutton and wool, to keep us warm and fed; But that's not my line: please to step this way For 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 down To any man: and I'll be coffin-cold Before I brook a master; so, good-night, And pleasant dreams; and a long family Of 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 sons Bring home a bride: though she needn't be uneasy: I'd never interfere ...

BELL: Too wise to put Your 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 go Alone, 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 chance I'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 hoofs About 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 down On the happy ending--bride and bridegroom seated On either side the poor, but pious, hearth.

MICHAEL: I'd as soon argue with a weatherc.o.c.k As with a woman ...

BELL: Yet the weathervanes Are always c.o.c.ks, 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 twitches When 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.

(_To MICHAEL._)

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 bitterness On 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 risk My 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 fortune In 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 had Each instant of life: but still there are risky years Before 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, and RUTH and MICHAEL, turning sharply at the click of the latch, gaze, dumbfounded, at JUDITH ELLERSHAW, standing in the doorway._)

BELL: Fee-fo-fum!

The barguest bays; and boggles, brags, and bo-los Follow 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 smoke And 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 yet Was room for two grandmothers in one house.

I'm through with Krindlesyke. Good-bye, old gaol!

(_While MICHAEL still gazes at RUTH and her mother in amazement, BELL HAGGARD slips out of the door, unnoticed, and away through the bracken in the gathering dusk. An owl hoots._)

PART III

_A wet afternoon in May, six years later. The table is already set for tea. JUDITH ELLERSHAW sits, 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: and JIM BARRASFORD, ragged and disreputable (and some twenty years older than when he married PHBE MARTIN) stands on the threshold a moment, eyeing JUDITH's unconscious 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't Just looking to see me: you seem overcome By the unexpected pleasure. Your pardon, mistress, If I intrude. By crikes! But I'm no ghost To set you adither: you don't see anything wrong-- No, no! What should you see? I startled you.