Part 9 (1/2)
PETER: Only hark!
Well, dad, she's Bell--Bell Haggard, tinker-born-- She'll tell you she's blood-royal, likely as not-- And this lad happens to be hers and mine, Somehow, though we're not married.
BELL: What a fas.h.i.+on To introduce a boy to his grandfather-- And such a dear, respectable old sheep's head!
(_to MICHAEL_) Look well on granddad, son, and see what comes Of minding sheep.
MICHAEL: I mean to be a shepherd.
BELL: Well, you've a knack of getting your own way: But, tripe and trotters, you can look on him, And still say that? Ay, you're his grandson, surely-- All Barrasford, with not a dash of Haggard, No drop of the wild colt's blood. Ewe's milk you'd bleed If your nose were tapped. Who'd ever guess my dugs Had suckled you? Even your dad's no more Than three-parts mutton, with a strain of reynard-- A fox's heart, for all his weak sheep's head.
Lad, look well round on your ancestral halls: You'll likely not clap eyes on them again.
I'm eager to be off: we don't seem welcome.
Your venerable grandsire is asleep, Or else he's a deaf mute; though, likely enough, That's how folk look, awake, at Krindlesyke.
I'd fancied we were bound for the Happy Return: But we've landed at the Undertaker's Arms-- And after closing time, and all. You've done That little business, Peter--though it's not bulged Your pockets overmuch, that I can see?
PETER: Just setting about it, when you interrupted ...
BELL: Step lively, then. I find this welcome too warm On such a sultry day: I'm choked for air.
These whitewashed walls, they're too like--well, you ken Where you'll find yourself, if you get n.o.bbled ...
PETER: It seems There's no one here to nab us; Jim's gone off: But I'd as lief be through with it, and away, Before my mother's back.
BELL: You're safe enough: There's none but sheep in sight for three miles round: And they're all huddled up against the d.y.k.es, With lollering tongues too baked to bleat ”Stop thief!”
Look slippy! I'm half-sc.u.mfished by these walls-- A weak flame, easily snuffed out: the stink Of whitewash makes me queasy--sets me listening To catch the click of the cell-door behind me: I feel cold bracelets round my wrists, already.
Is thon the strong-room?
PETER: Ay.
BELL: Then sharp's the word: It's time that we were stepping, Deadwood d.i.c.k.
(_As PETER goes into the other room, EZRA tries to rise from his chair._)
EZRA: Help! Murder! Thieves!
BELL (_thrusting him easily back with one hand_): The oracle has spoken.
And so, old image, you've found your tongue at last: Small wonder you mislaid it, in such a mug.
Help, say you? But, you needn't bleat so loud: There's none within three miles to listen to you, But me and Peter and Michael; and we're not deaf: So don't go straining your voice, old nightingale, Or splitting your wheezy bellows. And ”thieves,” no less!
Tastes differ: but it isn't just the word I'd choose for welcoming my son and heir, When he comes home; and brings with him his--well, His son, and his son's mother, shall we say, So's not to scandalize your innocence?
And, come to think, it's none too nice a word For grandson's ears: and me, his tender mammy, Doing all I can to keep the lamb's heart pure.
And as for ”murder”--how could there be murder?
Murder's full-blooded--no mean word like ”thieves”: And who could murder a bundle of dried peas-sticks?
Flung on the fire, happen they'd crackle and blaze: But I'm hot enough, to-day, without you frizzling.
Still, ”thieves” sticks in my gullet, old heel-of-the-loaf.
Yet I'm not particular, myself, at times: And I've always gathered from your dutiful son Manners were taken for granted at Krindlesyke, And never missed: so I'll overlook the word.
You've not been used to talking with a lady, Old scrag-end: still, I'm truly honoured, sir, In making your acquaintance: for I've heard Some pretty things about you from your son.
(_EZRA, who has shrunk back, gasping, into his chair, suddenly starts chuckling to himself._)