Part 15 (1/2)

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 set On a husband and a hearthstone: I ken that.

RUTH: Nay: mother'll never marry.

BELL: You can speak With all the c.o.c.k-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 crone Who's old enough to ken she doesn't ken.

You're right: for doubting is a kind of dotage: Experience ages and decays; while folk Who never doubt themselves die young--at ninety.

Age never yet brought gumption to a ninny: And you cannot reckon up a stranger's wits By counting his bare patches and grey hairs: It's seldom sense that makes a bald head s.h.i.+ne: And I'm not partial to Methuselahs.

Keep your c.o.c.ksureness, while you can: too soon, Time plucks the feathers off you; and you lie, Naked and skewered, with not a c.o.c.k-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 got A bit of paper, instead: and what have I, For my lost son?

MICHAEL: You've lost no son; but gained A 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 said An unexpected thing since he grew out Of his first breeches: and, like the most of men, He speaks so slowly, you can almost catch The 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 arranged The world for your convenience; and have planned Your mothers' lives between you? I'm to be The dear old grannie in the ingleneuk; And hide my grizzled wisps in a mutch with frills?

Nay, G.o.d forbid! I'm no tame p.u.s.s.ycat, To snuggle on the corner of a settle, With one eye open for the chance-thrown t.i.tbit, 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 run In 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 havers As 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 got A 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 weeds For 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 way To bridle your loose tongue: so mind yourself: I'll have no tinker's tattle.

BELL: The tinker's brat Rides the high-horse now, mounted on prime mutton.

Ruth, la.s.s, 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 you Seem born to take the job out of my hands.

RUTH: But I'd not come between you ...

BELL: Think not, la.s.s?

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 mind The day we came--was I a tabby then?