BELL: But, now it seems, I can draw my hocks out of the clungy sump I’ve floundered in so long; and, snuffing the wind, Shew a clean pair of heels to Krindlesyke. A mongrel breed, say you? And who but a man Could have a wildcat-hunter making his bed For him for fifteen-year, and never know it? But, the old wife’s satisfied, at last: she should be: She’s had my best years: I’ve grown old and grizzled, And full of useless wisdom, in her service. She’s taught me much: for I’ve had time and to spare, Brooding among these God-forsaken fells, To turn life inside-out in my own mind; And study every thread of it, warp and weft. I’m far from the same woman who came here: And I’ll take up my old life with a difference, Now she and you’ve got no more use for me: You’ve squeezed me dry betwixt you. MICHAEL: Dry, do you say? The Tyne’s in spate; and we must swim for life, Eh, Ruth? But, you’ll soon get used ... BELL: She’s done with me. She’ll not be sorry to lose me: I fancy, at times, She felt she’d got more than she’d bargained for-- A wasp, rampaging in her spider’s web. “Far above rubies” has never been my line, Though I could wag a tongue with Solomon, Like the Queen of Sheba herself: I doubt if she Rose in the night to give meat to her household. She must have been an ancestor of mine: For she’d traik any distance for a crack, The gipsy-hearted ganwife that she was. MICHAEL: Wildcats and hunters and the Queen of Sheba-- A royal family, Ruth, you’ve married into! BELL: But now I can kick Eliza’s shoes sky-high: Nay--I must shuffle them quietly off; and lay The old wife’s shoes decently by the hearth, As I found them when I came--a slattern stopgap-- Ready for the young wife to step into. They’ll fit her, as they never fitted me: For all her youth, they will not gall her heels, Or give her corns: she’s the true Cinderella: The clock has struck for her; and the dancing’s done; And the Prince has brought her home--to wash the dishes. But now I’m free: and I’ll away to-night. My bones have been restless in me all day long: They felt their freedom coming, before I kenned. I’ve little time to lose: I’m getting old-- Stiff-jointed in my wits, that once were nimble As a ferret among the bobtails, old and dull. A night or so may seem to matter little, When I’ve already lost full fifteen-year: But I hear the owls call: and my fur’s a-tingle: The Haggard blood is pricking in my veins. (_She loosens the string of her apron, which slips to the ground, kilts her skirt to her knee, takes the orange-coloured kerchief from her pocket, and twists it about her head; while MICHAEL and RUTH watch the transformation in amazement._) MICHAEL: But you don’t mean to leave us?