BEYOND THE HORIZON

To Agnes

ORIGINAL PRODUCTION

BEYOND THE HORIZON was first presented at a special matinee performance

at the Morosco Theater on 2 February 1920, produced by John D Williams. The cast was:

ROBERT MAYO Richard Bennett

ANDREW MAYO Robert Kelly

RUTH ATKINS Elsie Rizer

CAPTAIN DICK SCOTT Sidney Macy

KATE MAYO Mary Jeffery

JAMES MAYO Erville Alderson

MRS ATKINS Louise Closser Hale

MARY Elfin Finn

BEN George Hadden

DOCTOR FAWCETT George Riddell

This production moved to the Little Theater, opening on 9 March 1920.

CHARACTERS

JAMES MAYO, a farmer

KATE MAYO, his wife

CAPTAIN DICK SCOTT, of the bark Sunda,

her brother

ANDREW MAYO and

ROBERT MAYO, sons of JAMES MAYO

RUTH ATKINS

MRS ATKINS, her widowed mother

MARY

BEN, a farm hand

DOCTOR FAWCETT

The "right" and "left" of the stage directions

are the audience's.

ACT ONE

Scene One

(A section of country highway. The road runs diagonally from the

left, forward,

to the right, rear, and can be seen in the distance winding toward

the horizon like

a pale ribbon between the low, rolling hills with their freshly plowed

fields clearly divided from each other, checkerboard fashion, by the

lines of stone walls and rough snake fences.)

(The forward triangle cut off by the road is a section of a field

from the dark earth of which myriad bright-green blades of fall-sown

rye are sprouting. A straggling line of piled rocks, too low to be

called a wall, separates this field from the road.)

(To the rear of the road is a ditch with a sloping, grassy bank

on the far side. From the center of this an old, gnarled apple tree,

just budding into leaf, strains its twisted branches heavenwards,

black against the pallor of distance. A snake-fence sidles from left

to right along the top of the bank, passing beneath the apple tree.)

(The hushed twilight of a day in May is just beginning. The horizon

hills are still rimmed by a faint line of flame, and the sky above

them glows with the crimson flush of the sunset. This fades gradually

as the action of the scene progresses.)

(At the rise of the curtain, ROBERT MAYO

is discovered sitting on the fence. He is

a tall, slender young man of twenty-three. There is a touch of the

poet about him expressed in his high forehead and wide, dark eyes.

His features are delicate and refined, leaning to weakness in the

mouth and chin. He is dressed in grey corduroy trousers pushed into

high laced boots, and a blue flannel shirt with a bright colored tie.

He is reading a book by the fading sunset light. He shuts this, keeping

a finger in to mark the place, and turns his head toward the horizon,

gazing out over the fields and hills. His lips move as if he were

reciting something to himself.)

(His brother ANDREW comes along the road from the

right, returning from his work in the fields. He is twenty-seven years

old, an opposite type to ROBERT: husky, sun-bronzed,

handsome in a large-featured, manly fashion--a son of the soil,

intelligent in a shrewd way, but with nothing of the intellectual

about him.

He wears overalls, leather boots, a grey flannel shirt open at the

neck, and a soft, mud-stained hat pushed back on his head. He stops

to talk to ROBERT, leaning on the hoe he carries.)

ANDREW: (Seeing ROBERT has not noticed

his presence--in a loud shout.)

Hey there!

(ROBERT turns with a start. Seeing who it is, he

smiles.)

ANDREW: Gosh, you do take the prize for day-dreaming! And

I see you've toted one of the old books along with you. Want to bust

your eyesight reading in this light?

ROBERT: (Glancing at the book in his hand with a rather

shamefaced air) I wasn't reading--just then, Andy.

ANDREW: No, but you have been. Shucks, you never will get

any sense, Rob. (He crosses the ditch and sits on the fence near

his brother.) What is it this time--

poetry, I'll bet. (He reaches for the book.) Let me see.

ROBERT: (Handing it to him rather reluctantly) Yes,

it's poetry. Look out you don't get it full of dirt.

ANDREW: (Glancing at his hands) That isn't dirt--it's

good clean earth; but I'll be careful of the old thing. I just wanted

to take a peep at it. (He turns over the pages.)

ROBERT: (Slyly) Better look out for your eyesight,

Andy.

ANDREW: Huh! If reading this stuff was the only way to get

blind, I'd see forever. (His eyes read something and he gives

an exclamation of disgust.) Hump! (With a provoking grin at

his brother he reads aloud in a doleful, sing-song voice.) "I

have loved wind and light and the bright sea. But holy and most sacred

night, not as I love and have loved thee." (He hands the book

back.) Here!

Take it and bury it. Give me a good magazine any time.

ROBERT: (With a trace of irritation) The Farm Journal?

ANDREW: Sure; anything sensible. I suppose it's that year

in college gave you a liking for that kind of stuff. I'm darn glad

I stopped with High School, or maybe I'd been crazy too. (He grins

and slaps ROBERT on the back affectionately.) Imagine

me reading poetry and plowing at the same time.

The team'd run away, I'll bet.

ROBERT: (Laughing) Or picture me plowing. That'd be

worse.

ANDREW: (Seriously) Pa was right never to sick you

onto the farm. You surely were never cut out for a farmer, that's

a fact--even if you'd never been took sick. (With concern)

Say, how'd you feel now, anyway? I've lost track of you. Seems as

if I never did get a chance to have a talk alone with you these days,

'count of the work. But you're looking fine as silk.

ROBERT: Why, I feel great--never better.

ANDREW: That's bully. You've surely earned it. You certainly

had enough sickness in the old days to last you the rest of your life.

ROBERT: A healthy animal like you, you brute, can hardly

understand what

I went through--althrough you saw it. You remember--sick one

day, and well the next--always weak--never able to last through

a whole term at school 'til I was years behind everyone my age--not

able to get in any games--it was hell! These last few years of

comparative health have been heaven to me.

ANDREW: I know; they must have been. (After a pause)

You should have gone back to college last fall, like I know you wanted

to. You're fitted for that sort of thing--just as I ain't.

ROBERT: You know why I didn't go back, Andy. Pa didn't like

the idea, even if he didn't say so; and I know he wanted the money

to use improving the farm. And besides, I had pretty much all I cared

for in that one year. I'm not keen on being a student, just because

you see me reading books all the time. What I want to do now is keep

on moving so that I won't take root in any one place.

ANDREW: Well, the trip you're leaving on tomorrow will keep

you moving all right. (At this mention of the trip they both fall

silent. There is a pause. Finally he goes on, awkwardly attempting

to speak casually.) Uncle says you'll be gone three years.

ROBERT: About that, he figures.

ANDREW: (Moodily) That's a long time.

ROBERT: Not so long when you come to consider it. You know

the Sunda sails around the Horn for Yokohama first, and that's

a long voyage on a sailing ship; and if we go to any of the other

places Uncle Dick mentions--

India, or Australia, or South Africa, or South America--they'll

be long voyages, too.

ANDREW: You can have all those foreign parts for all of me.

A trip to the port once in a while, or maybe down to New York a couple

of times a year--that's all the travel I'm hankering after. (He

looks down the road to

the right.) Here comes Pa.

(The noise of a team of horses coming slowly down the road is

heard, and a man's voice urging them on. A moment later JAMES

MAYO enters, driving the two weary horses which have been

unhitched from the plow. He is his son ANDREW over again

in body and face--an ANDREW sixty-five years old,

with a short, square, white beard. He is dressed much the same as

ANDREW.)

MAYO: (Checking his horses when he sees his sons)

Whoa there! Hello boys! What are you two doin' there roostin' on the

fence like a pair of hens?

ROBERT: (Laughing) Oh, just talking things over, Pa.

ANDREW: (With a sly wink) Rob's trying to get me into

reading poetry.

He thinks my education's been neglected.

MAYO: (Chuckling) That's good! You kin go out and

sing it to the stock

at nights to put 'em to sleep. What's that he's got there--'nother

book? Good Lord, I thought you'd read every book there was in the

world,

Robert; and here you go and finds 'nother one!

ROBERT: (With a smile) There's still a few left, Pa.

ANDREW: He's learning a new poem about the "bright sea"

so he'll be all prepared to recite when he gets on the boat tomorrow.

MAYO: (A bit rebukingly) He'll have plenty of time

to be thinkin' 'bout the water in the next years. No need to bother

'bout it yet.

ROBERT: (Gently) I wasn't. That's just Andy's fooling.

MAYO: (Changing the subject abruptly; turns to ANDREW)

How are things lookin' up to the hill lot, Andy?

ANDREW: (Enthusiastically) Fine as silk for this early

in the year. Those oats seem to be coming along great.

MAYO: I'm most done plowin' up the old medder--figger

I ought to have it all up by tomorrow noon; then you kin start in

with the harrowin'.

ANDREW: Sure. I expect I'll be through up above by then.

There ain't but a little left to do.

MAYO: (To the restive team) Whoa there! You'll get

your supper soon enough, you hungry critters. (Turning again to

ANDREW) It looks like a good year for us, son, with

fair luck on the weather--even if it's hard tucker gettin' things

started.

ANDREW: (With a grin of satisfaction) I can stand

my share of the hard work,

I guess--and then some.

MAYO: That's the way to talk, son. Work never done a man

harm yet--

leastways, not work done out in the open.

(ROBERT has been trying to pretend an interest in

their conversation, but he can't help showing that it bores him. ANDREW

notices this.)

ANDREW: But farming ain't poetry, is it, Rob?

(ROBERT smiles but remains silent.)

MAYO: (Seriously) There's more satisfaction in the

earth than ever was in any book; and Robert'll find it out sooner

or later. (A twinkle comes into his eyes.) When he's grown

up and got some sense.

ROBERT: (Whimsically) I'm never going to grow up--if

I can help it.

MAYO: Time'll tell. Well, I'll be movin' along home. Don't

you two stay gossipin' too long. (He winks at ROBERT.)

'Specially you, Andy. Ruth and

her Maw is comin' to supper, and you'd best be hurryin' to wash up

and put on your best Sunday-go-to-mettin' clothes.

(He laughs. ROBERT'S face contracts as if he were

wincing at some pain, but he forces a smile. ANDREW

grows confused and casts a quick side glance at his brother.)

ANDREW: I'll be along in a minute, Pa.

MAYO: And you, Robert, don't you stay moonin' at the sky

longer'n is needful. You'll get lots o' time for that the next three

years you're out on

the sea. Remember this is your last night at home, and you've got

to make an early start tomorrow, (He hesitates, then finishes

earnestly) 'n' your Ma'll

be wantin' to see all she kin o' you the little time left.

ROBERT: I'm not forgetting, Pa. I'll be home right away.

MAYO: That's right. I'll tell your Maw you're acomin'. (He

chucks to the horses.) Giddap, old bones! Don't you want no supper

tonight?

(The horses walk off, and he follows them. There is a pause. ANDREW

and ROBERT sit silently, without looking at each other.)

ANDREW: (After a while) Ma's going to miss you a lot,

Rob.

ROBERT: Yes--and I'll miss her.

ANDREW: And Pa ain't feeling none too happy to have you go--though

he's been trying not to show it.

ROBERT: I can see how he feels.

ANDREW: And you can bet that I'm not giving any cheers about

it. (He puts one hand on the fence near ROBERT.)

ROBERT: (Putting one hand on top of ANDREW'S

with a gesture almost of shyness) I know that too, Andy.

ANDREW: I'll miss you as much as anybody, I guess. I know

how lonesome the old place was winter before last when you was away

to college--and even then you used to come home once in a while;

but this time-- (He stops suddenly.)

ROBERT: Let's not think about it--'til afterward. We'll

only spoil this last night if we do.

ANDREW: That's good advice. (But after a pause, he returns

to the subject again.) You see, you and I ain't like most brothers--always

fighting and separated

a lot of the time, while we've always been together--just the two

of us. It's different with us. That's why it hits so hard, I guess.

ROBERT: (With feeling) It's just as hard for me, Andy--believe

that! I hate

to leave you and the old folks--but--I feel I've got to. There's

something calling me-- (He points to the horizon.) calling

to me from over there, beyond-- and I feel as if-- no matter

what happens-- Oh, I can't just explain it to you, Andy.

ANDREW: No need to, Rob. (Angry at himself) You needn't

try to explain.

It's all just as it ought to be. Hell! You want to go. You feel you

ought to, and you got to!-- that's all there is to it; and I wouldn't

have you miss this chance for the world.

ROBERT: It's fine of you to feel that way, Andy.

ANDREW: Huh! I'd be a nice son-of-a-gun if I didn't, wouldn't

I? When I know how you need this sea trip to make a new man of you--in

the body,

I mean--and give you your full health back.

ROBERT: (A trifle impatiently) All of you seem to

keep harping on my health. You were so used to seeing me lying around

the house in the old days that you never will get over the notion

that I'm a chronic invalid, and have to be looked after like a baby

all the time, or wheeled round in a chair like Misses Atkins. You

don't realize how I've bucked up in the past few years. Why,

I bet right now I'm just as healthy as you are--I mean just as

sound in wind and limb; and if I was staying on at the farm, I'd prove

it to you. You're suffering from a fixed idea about my delicateness--and

so are Pa and Ma. Every time I've offered to help, Pa has stared at

me as if he thought I was contemplating suicide.

ANDREW: (Conciliatingly) Nobody claimed the undertaker

was taking your measurements. All I was saying was the sea trip would

be bound to do anybody good.

ROBERT: If I had no other excuse for going on Uncle Dick's

ship but just my health, I'd stay right here and start in plowing.

ANDREW: Can't be done. No use in your talking that way, Rob.

Farming ain't your nature. There's all the difference shown in just

the way us two feel about the farm. I like it, all of it, and you--well,

you like the home part of it, I expect; but as a place to work and

grow things, you hate it. Ain't that right?

ROBERT: Yes, I suppose it is. I've tried to take an interest

but--well, you're the Mayo branch of the family, and I take after

Ma and Uncle Dick. It's natural enough when you come to think of it.

The Mayos have been farmers from way back, while the Scotts have been

mostly sea-faring folks, with a school teacher thrown in now and then

on the woman's side--just as Ma was before her marriage.

ANDREW: You do favor Ma. I remember she used always to have

her nose in a book when I was a kid; but she seems to have given it

up of late years.

ROBERT: (With a trace of bitterness) The farm has

claimed her in spite of herself. That's what I'm afraid it might do

to me in time; and that's why I feel I ought to get away. (Fearing

he has hurt ANDREW'S feelings.) You mustn't misunderstand

me, Andy. For you it's a different thing. You're a Mayo through and

through. You're wedded to the soil. You're as much a product of it

as an ear of corn is, or a tree. Father is the same. This farm is

his life-

work, and he's happy in knowing that another Mayo, inspired by the

same love, will take up the work where he leaves off. I can understand

your attitude, and Pa's; and I think it's wonderful and sincere. But

I--well,

I'm not made that way.

ANDREW: No, you ain't; but when it comes to understanding,

I guess I realize that you've got your own angle of looking at things.

ROBERT: (Musingly) I wonder if you do, really.

ANDREW: (Confidently) Sure I do. You've seen a bit

of the world, enough to make the farm seem small, and you've got the

itch to see it all.

ROBERT: It's more than that, Andy.

ANDREW: Oh, of course. I know you're going to learn navigation,

and all about a ship, so's you can be an officer. That's natural,

too. There's fair pay in it, I expect, when you consider that you've

always got a home and grub thrown in; and if you're set on travelling,

you can go anywhere you've a mind to, without paying fare.

ROBERT: (With a smile that is half-sad) It's more

than that, Andy.

ANDREW: Sure it is. There's always a chance of a good thing

coming your way in some of those foreign ports or other. I've heard

there are great opportunities for a young fellow with his eyes open

in some of those new countries that are just being opened up. And

with your education you ought to pick up the language quick. (Jovially)

I'll bet that's what you've been turning over in your mind under all

your quietness! (He slaps his brother on the back with a laugh.)

Well, if you get to be a millionaire all of a sudden, call 'round

once in a while and I'll pass the plate to you. We could use a lot

of money right here on the farm without hurting it any.

ROBERT: (Forced to laugh) I've never considered that

practical side of it for a minute, Andy.

(As ANDREW looks incredulous.)

ROBERT: That's the truth.

ANDREW: Well, you ought to.

ROBERT: No, I oughtn't. You're trying to wish an eye-for-business

on me I don't possess. (Pointing to the horizon--dreamily)

Supposing I was to tell you that it's just Beauty that's calling me,

the beauty of the far off and unknown, the mystery and spell of the

East, which lures me in the books I've read, the need of the freedom

of great wide spaces, the joy of wandering on and on--

in quest of the secret which is hidden just over there, beyond the

horizon? Suppose I told you that was the one and only reason for my

going?

ANDREW: I should say you were nutty.

ROBERT: Then I must be--because it's so.

ANDREW: I don't believe it. You've got that idea out of your

poetry books.

A good dose of sea-sickness will get that out of your system.

ROBERT: (Frowning) Don't, Andy. I'm serious.

ANDREW: Then you might as well stay right here, because we've

got all you're looking for right on this farm. There's wide space

enough, Lord knows; and you can have all the sea you want by walking

a mile down to the beach; and there's plenty of horizon to look at,

and beauty enough for anyone, except in the winter. (He grins.)

As for the mystery and spell, and other things you mentioned, I haven't

met 'em yet, but they're probably lying around somewheres. I'll have

you understand this is a first-class

farm with all the fixings. (He laughs.)

ROBERT: (Joining in the laughter in spite of himself)

It's no use talking to you, you chump!

ANDREW: Maybe; but you'll see I'm right before you've gone

far. You're

not as big a nut as you'd like to make out. You'd better not say anything

to Uncle Dick about spells and things when you're on the ship. He'll

likely chuck you overboard for a Jonah. (He jumps down from the

fence.) I'd better run along. I've got to wash up some as long

as Ruth's Ma is coming over

for supper.

ROBERT: (Pointedly--almost bitterly) And Ruth.

ANDREW: (Confused--looking everywhere except at ROBERT;

trying to appear unconcerned) Yes, Pa did say she was staying too.

Well, I better hustle,

I guess, and-- (He steps over the ditch to the road while he

is talking.)

ROBERT: (Who appears to be fighting some strong inward

emotion--impulsively) Wait a minute, Andy! (He jumps down

from the fence.) There is something I want to-- (He stops

abruptly, biting his lips, his face coloring.)

ANDREW: (Facing him; half-defiantly) Yes?

ROBERT: (Confusedly) No-- never mind-- it doesn't

matter, it was nothing.

ANDREW: (After a pause, during which he stares fixedly

at ROBERT's averted face) Maybe I can guess--

what you were going to say--but I guess you're right not to talk

about it.

(He pulls ROBERT's hand from his side and grips

it tensely; the two brothers stand looking into each other's eyes

for a minute.)

ANDREW: We can't help those things, Rob. (He turns away,

suddenly releasing ROBERT's hand.) You'll be coming

along shortly, won't you?

ROBERT: (Dully) Yes.

ANDREW: See you later, then.

(He walks off down the road to the left. ROBERT

stares after him for a moment; then climbs to the fence rail again,

and looks out over the hills, an expression of deep grief on his face.

After a moment or so, RUTH enters hurriedly from the

left. She is a healthy, blonde, out-of-door girl of twenty, with a

graceful, slender figure. Her face, though inclined to roundness,

is undeniably pretty, its large eyes of a deep blue set off strikingly

by the sun-bronzed complexion. Her small, regular features are marked

by a certain strength--an underlying, stubborn fixity of purpose

hidden in the frankly-appealing charm of her fresh youthfulness. She

wears a simple white dress but no hat.)

RUTH: (Seeing him) Hello, Rob!

ROBERT: (Startled) Hello, Ruth!

RUTH: (Jumps the ditch and perches on the fence beside

him) I was looking for you.

ROBERT: (Pointedly) Andy just left here.

RUTH: I know. I met him on the road a second ago. He told

me you were here. (Tenderly playful) I wasn't looking for Andy,

Smarty, if that's what

you mean. I was looking for you.

ROBERT: Because I'm going away tomorrow?

RUTH: Because your mother was anxious to have you come home

and asked me to look for you. I just wheeled Ma over to your house.

ROBERT: (Perfunctorily) How is your mother?

RUTH: (A shadow coming over her face) She's about

the same. She never seems to get any better or any worse. Oh, Rob,

I do wish she'd pick up a little or-- or try to make the best of

things that can't be helped.

ROBERT: Has she been nagging at you again?

RUTH: (Nods her head, and then breaks forth rebelliously)

She never stops nagging. No matter what I do for her she finds fault.

She's growing more irritable every day. Oh, Rob, you've no idea how

hard it is living there alone with her in that big lonely house. It's

enough to drive anyone mad. If only Pa was still living-- (She

stops as if ashamed of her outburst.) I suppose I shouldn't complain

this way. I wouldn't to anyone but you. (She sighs.)

Poor Ma, Lord knows it's hard enough for her--having to be wheeled

around in a chair ever since I was born. I suppose it's natural to

be cross when you're not able ever to walk a step. But why should

she be in a temper with me all the time? Oh, I'd like to be going

away some place--like you!

ROBERT: It's hard to stay--and equally hard to go, sometimes.

RUTH: There! If I'm not the stupid body! I swore I wasn't

going to speak about your trip--until after you'd gone; and there

I go, first thing!

ROBERT: Why didn't you want to speak of it?

RUTH: Because I didn't want to spoil this last night you're

here. Oh, Rob,

I'm going to--we're all going to miss you so awfully. Your mother

is going around looking as if she'd burst out crying any minute. You

ought to know how I feel. Andy and you and I--why it seems as if

we'd always been together.

ROBERT: (With a wry attempt at a smile) You and Andy

will still have each other. It'll be harder for me without anyone.

RUTH: But you'll have new sights and new people to take your

mind off; while we'll be here with the old, familiar place to remind

us every minute

of the day. It's a shame you're going--just at this time, in spring,

when everything is getting so nice. (With a sigh) I oughtn't

to talk that way when

I know going's the best thing for you--on account of your health.

The sea trip's bound to do you so much good, everyone says.

ROBERT: (With a half-resentful grimace) Don't tell

me you think I'm a hopeless invalid, too! I've heard enough of that

talk from the folks. Honestly, Ruth,

I feel better than I ever did in my life. I'm disgustingly healthy.

I wouldn't even consider my health an excuse for this trip.

RUTH: (Vaguely) Of course you're bound to find all

sorts of opportunities to get on, your father says.

ROBERT: (Heatedly) I don't give a damn about that!

I wouldn't take a voyage across the road for the best opportunity

in the world of the kind Pa thinks of. I'd run away from it instead.

(He smiles at his own irritation.) Excuse me, Ruth, for getting

worked up over it; but Andy gave me an overdose of the practical considerations.

RUTH: (Slowly puzzled) Well, then, if it isn't any

of those reasons-- (With sudden intensity) Oh, Rob, why

do you want to go?

ROBERT: (Turning to her quickly, in surprise--slowly)

Why do you ask that, Ruth?

RUTH: (Dropping her eyes before his searching glance)

Because-- (Lamely)

It seems such a shame.

ROBERT: (Insistently) Why?

RUTH: Oh, because--everything.

ROBERT: I could hardly back out now, even if I wanted to.

And I'll be forgotten before you know it.

RUTH: (Indignantly) You won't! I'll never forget--

(She stops and turns away

to hide her confusion.)

ROBERT: (Softly) Will you promise me that?

RUTH: (Evasively) Of course. It's mean of you to think

that any of us would forget so easily.

ROBERT: (Disappointedly) Oh!

RUTH: (With an attempt at lightness) But you haven't

told me your reason for leaving yet? Aren't you going to?

ROBERT: (Moodily) I doubt if you'll understand. It's

difficult to explain, even to myself. It's more an instinctive longing

that won't stand dissection. Either you feel it, or you don't. The

cause of it all is in the blood and the bone,

I guess, not in the brain, although imagination plays a large part

in it. I can remember being conscious of it first when I was only

a kid--you haven't forgotten what a sickly specimen I was then,

in those days, have you?

RUTH: (With a shudder) They're past. Let's not think

about them.

ROBERT: You'll have to, to understand. Well, in those days,

when Ma was fixing meals, she used to get me out of the way by pushing

my chair to the west window and telling me to look out and be quiet.

That wasn't hard.

I guess I was always quiet.

RUTH: (Compassionately) Yes, you always were--and

you suffering so much, too!

ROBERT: (Musingly) So I used to stare out over the

fields to the hills, out there--(He points to the horizon.)

and somehow after a time I'd forget any pain I was in, and start dreaming.

I knew the sea was over beyond those hills,--the folks had told

me--and I used to wonder what the sea was like, and try to form

a picture of it in my mind. (With a smile) There was all the

mystery in the world to me then about that--far-off sea--and

there still is!

It called to me then just as it does now. (After a slight pause)

And other times my eyes would follow this road, winding off into the

distance, toward the hills, as if it, too, was searching for the sea.

And I'd promise myself that when I grew up and was strong, I'd follow

that road, and it and I would find the sea together. (With a smile)

You see, my making this trip is only keeping that promise of long

ago.

RUTH: (Charmed by his low, musical voice telling the

dreams of his childhood)

Yes, I see.

ROBERT: Those were the only happy moments of my life then,

dreaming there at the window. I liked to be all alone--those times.

I got to know all the different kinds of sunsets by heart--the

clear ones and the cloudy ones, and all the color schemes of their

countless variations--although I could hardly name more than three

or four colors correctly. And all those sunsets took place over there--(He

points.) beyond the horizon. So gradually I came to believe that

all the wonders of the world happened on the other side of those hills.

There was the home of the good fairies who performed beautiful miracles.

(He smiles.) I believed in fairies then, although I suppose

I ought

to have been ashamed of it from a boy's standpoint. But you know how

contemptuous of all religion Pa's always been--even the mention

of it in

the house makes him angry.

RUTH: Yes. (Wearily) It's just the opposite to our

house.

ROBERT: He'd bullied Ma into being ashamed of believing in

anything and he'd forbidden her to teach Andy or me. There wasn't

much about our home but the life on the farm. I didn't like that,

so I had to believe in fairies. (With a smile) Perhaps I still

do believe in them. Anyway, in those days they were real enough, and

sometimes--I suppose the mental science folks would explain it

by self-hypnosis--I could actually hear them calling to

me in soft whispers to come out and play with them, dance with them

down the road in the dusk in a game of hide-and-seek to find out where

the sun was hiding himself. They sang their little songs to me, songs

that told of all the wonderful things they had in their home on the

other side of the hills; and they promised to show me all of them,

if I'd only come, come! But I couldn't come then, and I used to cry

sometimes and Ma would think I was in pain. (He breaks off suddenly

with a laugh.) That's why I'm going now, I suppose. For I can still

hear them calling, although I'm a man and have seen the other side

of many hills. But the horizon is as far away and as luring as ever.

(He turns to her--softly.) Do you understand now, Ruth?

RUTH: (Spellbound, in a whisper) Yes.

ROBERT: You feel it then?

RUTH: Yes, yes, I do!

(Unconsciously she snuggles close against his side. His arm steals

about her as if he were not aware of the action.)

RUTH: Oh, Rob, how could I help feeling it? You tell things

so beautifully!

ROBERT: (Suddenly realizing that his arm is around her,

and that her head is resting on his shoulder, gently takes his arm

away. RUTH, brought back to herself,

is overcome with confusion.) So now you know why I'm going. It's

for that reason--that and one other.

RUTH: You've another? Then you must tell me that, too.

ROBERT: (Looking at her searchingly. She drops her eyes

before his gaze.) I wonder if I ought to. I wonder if you'd really

care to hear it--if you knew. You'll promise not to be angry--whatever

it is?

RUTH: (Softly, her face still averted) Yes, I promise.

ROBERT: (Simply) I love you. That's the other reason.

RUTH: (Hiding her face in her hands) Oh, Rob!

ROBERT: You must let me finish now I've begun. I wasn't going

to tell you, but I feel I have to. It can't matter to you now that

I'm going so far away, and for so long--perhaps forever. I've loved

you all these years, but the realization of it never came to me 'til

I agreed to go away with Uncle Dick. Then I thought of leaving you,

and the pain of that thought revealed the truth to me in a flash--that

I loved you, had loved you as long as I could remember. (He gently

pulls one of RUTH's hands away from her face.) You

mustn't mind my telling you this, Ruth. I realize how impossible it

all is--and I understand; for the revelation of my own love seemed

to open my eyes to the love of others. I saw Andy's love for you--and

I knew that you must love him.

RUTH: (Breaking out stormily) I don't! I don't love

Andy! I don't!

(ROBERT stares at her in stupid astonishment. RUTH

weeps hysterically.)

RUTH: Whatever--put such a fool notion into--into your

head? (She suddenly throws her arms about his neck and hides her

head on his shoulder.)

Oh, Rob! Don't go away! Please! You mustn't, now! You can't! I won't

let you! It'd break my--my heart!

ROBERT: (The expression of stupid bewilderment giving

way to one of overwhelming joy. He presses her close to him--slowly

and tenderly.) Do you mean that--that you love me?

RUTH: (Sobbing) Yes, yes--of course I do--what

d'you s'pose? (She lifts up her head and looks into his eyes with

a tremulous smile.) You stupid thing!

(He kisses her.)

RUTH: I've loved you right along.

ROBERT: (Mystified) But you and Andy were always together!

RUTH: Because you never seemed to want to go any place with

me. You were always reading an old book, and not paying any attention

to me. I was too proud to let you see I cared because I thought the

year you had away to college had made you stuck-up, and you thought

yourself too educated to waste any time on me.

ROBERT: (Kissing her) And I was thinking-- (With

a laugh) What fools we've both been!

RUTH: (Overcome by a sudden fear) You won't go away

on the trip, will you, Rob? You'll tell them you can't go on account

of me, won't you? You can't go now! You can't!

ROBERT: (Bewildered) Perhaps--you can come too.

RUTH: Oh, Rob, don't be so foolish. You know I can't. Who'd

take care of Ma? She has no one in the world but me. I can't leave

her--the way she is. It'd be different if she was well and healthy

like other people. Don't you see I couldn't go--on her account?

ROBERT: (Vaguely) I could go--and then send for

you both--when I'd settled some place out there.

RUTH: Ma never could. She'd never leave the farm for anything;

and she couldn't make a trip anywhere 'til she got better--if she

ever does. And oh, Rob, I wouldn't want to live in any of those outlandish

places you were going to. I couldn't stand it there, I know I couldn't--not

knowing anyone. It makes me afraid just to think of it. I've never

been away from here, hardly and--I'm just a home body, I'm afraid.

(She clings to him imploringly.) Please don't go--not now.

Tell them you've decided not to. They won't mind. I know your mother

and father'll be glad. They'll all be. They don't want you to go so

far away from them. Please, Rob! We'll be so happy here together where

it's natural and we know things. Please tell me you won't go!

ROBERT: (Face to face with a definite, final decision,

betrays the conflict going on within him) But--Ruth--I--Uncle

Dick--

RUTH: He won't mind when he knows it's for your happiness

to stay.

How could he? (As ROBERT remains silent she bursts

into sobs again.) Oh, Rob! And you said--you loved me!

ROBERT: (Conquered by this appeal--an irrevocable

decision in his voice) I won't go, Ruth. I promise you. There!

Don't cry! (He presses her to him, stroking her hair tenderly.

After a pause he speaks with happy hopefulness.) Perhaps after

all Andy was right--righter than he knew--when he said I could

find all the things I was seeking for here, at home on the farm. The

mystery and the wonder--our love should bring them home to us.

I think love must have been the secret--the secret that called

to me from over the world's rim--

the secret beyond every horizon; and when I did not come, it came

to me. (He clasps RUTH to him fiercely.) Oh,

Ruth, you are right! Our love is sweeter than any distant dream. It

is the meaning of all life, the whole world. The kingdom of heaven

is within--us!

(He kisses her passionately and steps to the ground, lifting RUTH

in his arms and carrying her to the road where he puts her down.)

RUTH: (With a happy laugh) My, but you're strong!

ROBERT: Come! We'll go and tell them at once.

RUTH: (Dismayed) Oh, no, don't, Rob, not 'til after

I've gone. Then you can tell your folks and I'll tell Ma when I get

her home. There'd be bound to be such a scene with them all together.

ROBERT: (Kissing her--gaily) As you like--little

Miss Common Sense!

RUTH: Let's go, then.

(She takes his hand, and they start to go off left. ROBERT

suddenly stops and turns as though for a last look at the hills and

the dying sunset flush.)

ROBERT: (Looking upward and pointing) See! The first

star. (He bends down

and kisses her tenderly.) Our star!

RUTH: (In a soft murmur) Yes. Our very own star.

(They stand for a moment looking up at it, their arms around each

other.

Then RUTH takes his hand again and starts to lead him

away.)

RUTH: Come, Rob, let's go.

(His eyes are fixed again on the horizon as he half turns to follow

her. RUTH urges.)

RUTH: We'll be late for supper, Rob.

ROBERT: (Shakes his head impatiently, as though he were

throwing off some disturbing thought--with a laugh.) All right.

We'll run then. Come on!

(They run off laughing as the curtain falls.)

Scene Two

(The sitting room of the Mayo farm house about nine o'clock the

same night. On the left, two windows looking out on the fields. Against

the wall between the windows, an old-fashioned walnut desk. In the

left corner, rear, a sideboard with a mirror.

In the rear wall to the right of the sideboard, a window looking out

on the road. Next to the window a door leading out into the yard.

Farther right, a black horse-

hair sofa, and another door opening on a bedroom. In the corner, a

straight-backed chair. In the right wall, near the middle, an open

doorway leading to the kitchen. Farther forward a double-heater stove

with coal scuttle, etc. In the center of the newly carpeted floor,

an oak dining-room table with a red cover. In the center of

the table, a large oil reading lamp. Four chairs, three rockers with

crocheted tidies

on their backs, and one straight-backed, are placed about the table.

The walls are papered a dark red with a scrolly-figured pattern.)

(Everything in the room is clean, well-kept, and in its exact

place, yet there is no suggestion of primness about the whole. Rather

the atmosphere is one of the orderly comfort of a simple, hard-earned

prosperity, enjoyed and maintained by the family as a unit.)

(JAMES MAYO, his wife, her brother, CAPTAIN

DICK SCOTT, and ANDREW are discovered.

MRS MAYO is a slight, round-faced, rather prim-looking

woman of fifty-five who had once been a school teacher. The labors

of a farmer's wife have

bent but not broken her, and she retains a certain refinement of movement

and expression foreign to the Mayo part of the family. Whatever of

resemblance ROBERT has to his parents may be traced

to her. Her brother, the CAPTAIN, is short and stocky,

with a weather-beaten, jovial face and a white moustache--a typical

old salt, loud of voice and given to gesture. He is fifty-eight years

old.)

(JAMES MAYO sits in front of the table.

He wears spectacles, and a farm journal which he has been reading

lies in his lap. The CAPTAIN leans forward from a chair

in the rear, his hands on the table in front of him. ANDREW

is tilted back on the straight-backed chair to the left, his chin

sunk forward on his chest, staring at the carpet, preoccupied and

frowning.)

(As the curtain rises the CAPTAIN is just finishing

the relation of some sea episode. The others are pretending an interest

which is belied by the absent-minded expressions on their faces.)

THE CAPTAIN: (Chuckling) And that mission

woman, she hails me on the dock as I was acomin' ashore, and she says--with

her silly face all screwed up serious as judgment--"Captain,"

she says, "would you be so kind as to tell me where the sea-gulls

sleeps at nights?" Blow me if them warn't her exact words! (He

slaps the table with the palm of his hands and laughs loudly.

The others force smiles.) Ain't that just like a fool woman's question?

And I looks at her serious as I could, "Ma'm," says I, "I

couldn't rightly answer that question. I ain't never seed a sea-gull

in his bunk yet. The next time I hears one snorin'," I says, "I'll

make a note of where he's turned in, and write you a letter 'bout

it." And then she calls me a fool real spiteful and tacks away

from me quick. (He laughs again uproariously.) So I got rid

of her that way.

(The others smile but immediately relapse into expressions of

gloom again.)

MRS MAYO: (Absent-mindedly--feeling that

she has to say something) But when it comes to that, where do

sea-gulls sleep, Dick?

SCOTT: (Slapping the table) Ho! Ho! Listen to her,

James. 'Nother one! Well,

if that don't beat all hell--'scuse me for cussin', Kate.

MAYO: (With a twinkle in his eyes) They unhitch their

wings, Katey, and spreads 'em out on a wave for a bed.

SCOTT: And then they tells the fish to whistle to 'em when

it's time to turn out. Ho! Ho!

MRS MAYO: (With a forced smile) You men folks

are too smart to live, aren't you?

(She resumes her knitting. MAYO pretends to read

his paper; ANDREW stares at the floor.)

SCOTT: (Looks from one to the other of them with a puzzled

air. Finally he is unable to bear the thick silence a minute longer,

and blurts out) You folks look as if you was settin' up with a

corpse. (With exaggerated concern) God A'mighty, there ain't

anyone dead, be there?

MAYO: (Sharply) Don't play the dunce, Dick! You know

as well as we do there ain't no great cause to be feelin' chipper.

SCOTT: (Argumentatively) And there ain't no cause

to be wearin' mourning, either, I can make out.

MRS MAYO: (Indignantly) How can you talk

that way, Dick Scott, when you're taking our Robbie away from us,

in the middle of the night, you might say, just to get on that old

boat of yours on time! I think you might wait until morning when he's

had his breakfast.

SCOTT: (Appealing to the others hopelessly) Ain't

that a woman's way o' seein' things for you? God A'mighty, Kate, I

can't give orders to the tide that it's got to be high just when it

suits me to have it. I ain't gettin' no fun out o' missin' sleep and

leavin' here at six bells myself. (Protestingly) And the Sunda

ain't an old ship--leastways, not very old--and she's good's

she ever was. Your boy Robert'll be as safe on board o' her as he'd

be home in bed here.

MRS MAYO: How can you say that, Dick, when we read

in almost every paper about wrecks and storms, and ships being sunk.

SCOTT: You've got to take your chances with such things.

They don't happen often--not nigh as often as accidents do ashore.

MRS MAYO: (Her lips trembling) I wish Robbie

weren't going--not so far away and for so long.

MAYO: (Looking at her over his glasses--consolingly)

There, Katey!

MRS MAYO: (Rebelliously) Well, I do wish

he wasn't! It'd be different if he'd ever been away from home before

for any length of time. If he was healthy and strong too, it'd be

different. I'm so afraid he'll be taken down ill when you're miles

from land, and there's no one to take care of him.

MAYO: That's the very reason you was willin' for him to go,

Katey--'count o' your bein' 'fraid for his health.

MRS MAYO: (Illogically) But he seems to be

all right now without Dick taking him away.

SCOTT: (Protestingly) You'd think to hear you, Kate,

that I was kidnappin' Robert agin your will. Now I ain't asayin' I

ain't tickled to death to have him along, because I be. It's a'mighty

lonesome for a captain on a sailin' vessel

at times, and Robert'll be company for me. But what I'm sayin' is,

I didn't propose it. I never even suspicioned that he was hankerin'

to ship out,

or that you'd let him go 'til you and James speaks to me 'bout it.

And now you blames me for it.

MAYO: That's so. Dick's speaking the truth, Katey.

SCOTT: You shouldn't be taking it so hard, 's far as I kin

see. This vige'll make a man of him. I'll see to it he learns how

to navigate, 'n' study for a mate's c'tificate right off--and it'll

give him a trade for the rest of his life,

if he wants to travel.

MRS MAYO: --But I don't want him to travel all

his life. You've got to see

he comes home when this trip is over. Then he'll be all well, and

he'll want to--to marry--

(ANDREW sits forward in his chair with an abrupt

movement.)

MRS MAYO: --and settle down right here.

SCOTT: Well, in any case it won't hurt him to learn things

when he's travellin'. And then he'll get to see a lot of the world

in the ports we put

in at, 'n' that 'll help him afterwards, no matter what he takes up.

MRS MAYO: (Staring down at the knitting in her

lap--as if she hadn't heard him)

I never realized how hard it was going to be for me to have Robbie

go--

or I wouldn't have considered it a minute. (On the verge of tears)

Oh, if only he wouldn't go!

SCOTT: It ain't no good goin' on that way, Kate, now it's

all settled.

MRS MAYO: (Half-sobbing) It's all right for

you to talk. You've never had any children of your own, and you don't

know what it means to be parted from them--and Robbie my youngest,

too.

(ANDREW frowns and fidgets in his chair.)

MAYO: (A trace of command in his voice) No use takin'

on so, Katey! It's best for the boy. We've got to take that into consideration--no

matter how much we hate to lose him. (Firmly) And like Dick

says, it's all settled now.

ANDREW: (Suddenly turning to them) There's one thing

none of you seem

to take into consideration--that Rob wants to go. He's dead set

on it. He's been dreaming over this trip ever since it was first talked

about. It wouldn't be fair to him not to have him go. (A sudden

thought seems to strike him and he continues doubtfully.) At least,

not if he still feels the same way about it he did when he was talking

to me this evening.

MAYO: (With an air of decision) Andy's right, Katey.

Robert wants to go.

That ends all argyment, you can see that.

MRS MAYO: (Faintly, but resignedly) Yes.

I suppose it must be, then.

MAYO: (Looking at his big silver watch) It's past

nine. Wonder what's happened to Robert. He's been gone long enough

to wheel the widder

to home, certain. He can't be out dreamin' at the stars his last night.

MRS MAYO: (A bit reproachfully) Why didn't

you wheel Mrs. Atkins back tonight, Andy? You usually do when she

and Ruth come over.

ANDREW: (Avoiding her eyes) I thought maybe Robert

wanted to go tonight. He offered to go right away when they were leaving.

MRS MAYO: He only wanted to be polite.

ANDREW: (Gets to his feet) Well, he'll be right back,

I guess. (He turns to his father.) Guess I'll go take a look

at the black cow, Pa--see if she's ailing any.

MAYO: Yes--better had, son.

(ANDREW goes into the kitchen on the right.)

SCOTT: (As he goes out--in a low tone) There's

the boy that would make a good, strong sea-farin' man--if he'd

a mind to.

MAYO: (Sharply) Don't you put no such fool notions

in Andy's head, Dick--

or you 'n' me's goin' to fall out. (Then he smiles.) You couldn't

tempt him,

no ways. Andy's a Mayo bred in the bone, and he's a born farmer, and

a damn good one, too. He'll live and die right here on this farm,

like I expect to. (With proud confidence) And he'll make this

one of the slickest, best-payin' farms in the state, too, afore he

gits through!

SCOTT: Seems to me it's a pretty slick place right now.

MAYO: (Shaking his head) It's too small. We need more

land to make it amount to much, and we ain't got the capital to buy

it.

(ANDREW enters from the kitchen. His hat is on,

and he carries a lighted lantern

in his hand. He goes to the door in the rear leading out.)

ANDREW: (Opens the door and pauses) Anything else

you can think of to be done, Pa?

MAYO: No, nothin' I know of.

(ANDREW goes out, shutting the door.)

MRS MAYO: (After a pause) What's come over

Andy tonight, I wonder?

He acts so strange.

MAYO: He does seem sort o' glum and out of sorts. It's 'count

o' Robert leavin', I s'pose. (To SCOTT) Dick,

you wouldn't believe how them boys

o' mine sticks together. They ain't like most brothers. They've been

thick

as thieves all their lives, with nary a quarrel I kin remember.

SCOTT: No need to tell me that. I can see how they take to

each other.

MRS MAYO: (Pursuing her train of thought)

Did you notice, James, how queer everyone was at supper? Robert seemed

stirred up about something; and Ruth was so flustered and giggly;

and Andy sat there dumb, looking as if he'd lost his best friend;

and all of them only nibbled at their food.

MAYO: Guess they was all thinkin' about tomorrow, same as

us.

MRS MAYO: (Shaking her head) No. I'm afraid

somethin's happened--

somethin' else.

MAYO: You mean--'bout Ruth?

MRS MAYO: Yes.

MAYO: (After a pause--frowning) I hope her and

Andy ain't had a serious fallin'-out. I always sorter hoped they'd

hitch up together sooner or later. What d'you say, Dick? Don't you

think them two'd pair up well?

SCOTT: (Nodding his head approvingly) A sweet, wholesome

couple they'd make.

MAYO: It'd be a good thing for Andy in more ways than one.

I ain't what you'd call calculatin' generally, and I b'lieve in lettin'

young folks run their affairs to suit themselves; but there's advantages

for both o' them in this match you can't overlook in reason. The Atkins

farm is right next to ourn. Jined together they'd make a jim-dandy

of a place, with plenty o' room to work in. And bein' a widder with

only a daughter, and laid up all the time to boot, Mrs. Atkins can't

do nothin' with the place as it ought to be done. Her hired help just

goes along as they pleases, in spite o' her everlastin' complainin'

at 'em. She needs a man, a first-class farmer, to take hold o' things;

and Andy's just the one.

MRS MAYO: (Abruptly) I don't think Ruth loves

Andy.

MAYO: You don't? Well, maybe a woman's eyes is sharper in

such things, but--they're always together. And if she don't love

him now, she'll likely come around to it in time.

MAYO: (As MRS MAYO shakes her

head) You seem mighty fixed in your opinion, Katey. How d'you know?

MRS MAYO: It's just--what I feel.

MAYO: (A light breaking over him) You don't mean to

say--

(MRS MAYO nods. MAYO chuckles

scornfully.)

MAYO: Shucks! I'm losin' my respect for your eyesight, Katey.

Why,

Robert ain't got no time for Ruth, 'cept as a friend!

MRS MAYO: (Warningly) Sss-h-h!

(The door from the yard opens, and ROBERT enters.

He is smiling happily,

and humming a song to himself, but as he comes into the room an undercurrent

of nervous uneasiness manifests itself in his bearing.)

MAYO: So here you be at last!

(ROBERT comes forward and sits on ANDY'S

chair. MAYO smiles slyly at his wife.)

MAYO: What have you been doin' all this time--countin'

the stars to see if they all come out right and proper?

ROBERT: There's only one I'll ever look for any more, Pa.

MAYO: (Reproachfully) You might've even not wasted

time lookin' for that one--your last night.

MRS MAYO: (As if she were speaking to a child)

You ought to have worn your coat a sharp night like this, Robbie.

ROBERT: I wasn't cold, Ma. It's beautiful and warm on the

road.

SCOTT: (Disgustedly) God A'mighty, Kate, you treat

Robert as if he was one year old!

ROBERT: (With a smile) I'm used to that, Uncle.

SCOTT: (With joking severity) You'll learn to forget

all that baby coddlin' nights down off the Horn when you're haulin'

hell-bent on the braces with

a green sea up to your neck, and the old hooker doin' summersaults

under you. That's the stuff 'll put iron in your blood, eh Kate?

MRS MAYO: (Indignantly) What are you trying

to do, Dick Scott--frighten me out of my senses? If you can't say

anything cheerful, you'd better keep still.

SCOTT: Don't take on, Kate. I was only joshin' him and you.

MRS MAYO: You have strange notions of what's a joke,

I must say!

(She notices ROBERT's nervous uneasiness.) You

look all worked up over something, Robbie. What is it?

ROBERT: (Swallowing hard, looks quickly from one to the

other of them--then begins determinedly) Yes, there is something--something

I must tell you--

all of you.

(As he begins to talk ANDREW enters quietly from

the rear, closing the door behind him, and setting the lighted lantern

on the floor. He remains standing by the door, his arms folded, listening

to ROBERT with a repressed expression of pain on his

face. ROBERT is so much taken up with what he is going

to say that he does not notice ANDREW'S presence.)

ROBERT: Something I discovered only this evening--very

beautiful and wonderful--something I did not take into consideration

previously because I hadn't dared to hope that such happiness could

ever come to me. (Appealingly) You must all remember that fact,

won't you?

MAYO: (Frowning) Let's get to the point, son.

ROBERT: You were offended because you thought I'd been wasting

my time star-gazing on my last night at home. (With a trace of

defiance) Well, the point is this, Pa; it isn't my last

night at home. I'm not going--I mean--I can't go tomorrow with

Uncle Dick--or at any future time, either.

MRS MAYO: (With a sharp sigh of joyful relief)

Oh, Robbie, I'm so glad!

MAYO: (Astounded) You ain't serious, be you, Robert?

ROBERT: Yes, I mean what I say.

MAYO: (Severely) Seems to me it's a pretty late hour

in the day for you to

be upsettin' all your plans so sudden!

ROBERT: I asked you to remember that until this evening I

didn't know myself--the wonder which makes everything else in the

world seem

sordid and pitifully selfish by comparison. I had never dared to dream--

MAYO: (Irritably) Come to the point. What is this

foolishness you're talkin' of?

ROBERT: (Flushing) Ruth told me this evening that--she

loved me. It was after I'd confessed I loved her. I told her I hadn't

been conscious of my love until after the trip had been arranged,

and I realized it would mean--

leaving her. That was the truth. I didn't know until then. (As

if justifying himself to the others) I hadn't intended telling

her anything but--suddenly--

I felt I must. I didn't think it would matter, because I was going

away,

and before I came back I was sure she'd have forgotten. And I thought

she loved--someone else. (Slowly--his eyes shining) And

then she cried and said it was I she'd loved all the time, but I hadn't

seen it. (Simply) So we're going to be married--very soon--and

I'm happy--and that's all there is to say. (Appealingly)

But you see, I couldn't go away now--even if I wanted to.

MRS MAYO: (Getting up from her chair) Of

course not! (Rushes over and throws her arms about him) I knew

it! I was just telling your father when you came in--and, oh, Robbie,

I'm so happy you're not going!

ROBERT: (Kissing her) I knew you'd be glad, Ma.

MAYO: (Bewilderedly) Well, I'll be damned! You do

beat all for gettin' folks' minds all tangled up, Robert. And Ruth

too! Whatever got into her all of a sudden? Why, I was thinkin'--

MRS MAYO: (Hurriedly--in a tone of warning)

Never mind what you were thinking, James. It wouldn't be any use telling

us that now. (Meaningly)

And what you were hoping for turns out just the same almost, doesn't

it?

MAYO: (Thoughtfully--beginning to see this side of

the argument) Yes; I suppose you're right, Katey. (Scratching

his head in puzzlement) But how it ever come about! It do beat

anything ever I heard. (Finally he gets up with a sheepish grin

and walks over to ROBERT.) We're glad you ain't goin',

your Ma and I, for we'd have missed you terrible, that's certain and

sure; and we're glad you've found happiness. Ruth's a fine girl and'll

make a good wife to you.

ROBERT: (Much moved) Thank you, Pa. (He grips

his father's hand in his.)

ANDREW: (His face tense and drawn comes forward and holds

out his hand, forcing a smile) I guess it's my turn to offer congratulations,

isn't it?

ROBERT: (With a startled cry when his brother appears

before him so suddenly) Andy! (Confused) Why--I--I

didn't see you. Were you here when--

ANDREW: I heard everything you said; and here's wishing you

every happiness, you and Ruth. You both deserve the best there is.

ROBERT: (Taking his hand) Thanks, Andy, it's fine

of you to-- (His voice dies away as he sees the pain in ANDREW's

eyes.)

ANDREW: (Giving his brother's hand a final grip) Good

luck to you both!

(He turns away and goes back to the rear where he bends over the

lantern,

fumbling with it to hide his emotion from the others.)

MRS MAYO: (To the CAPTAIN, who

has been too flabbergasted by ROBERT's decision to say

a word.) What's the matter, Dick? Aren't you going to congratulate

Robbie?

SCOTT: (Embarrassed) Of course I be! (He gets

to his feet and shakes ROBERT's hand, muttering a vague)

Luck to you, boy. (He stands beside ROBERT as if

he wanted to say something more but doesn't know how to go about it.)

ROBERT: Thanks, Uncle Dick.

SCOTT: So you're not acomin' on the Sunda with me?

(His voice indicates disbelief.)

ROBERT: I can't, Uncle--not now. I'm very grateful to

you for having wanted to take me. I wouldn't miss it for anything

else in the world under any other circumstances. (He sighs unconsciously.)

But you see I've found--a bigger dream.

SCOTT: (Gruffly) Bring the girl along with you. I'll

fix it so there's room.

MRS MAYO: (Sharply) How can you propose such

a crazy idea, Dick--to take a young girl on a sail-boat all over

the world and not a woman on the boat but herself. Have you lost your

senses?

ROBERT: (Regretfully) It would be wonderful if we

could both go with you, Uncle--but it's impossible. Ruth couldn't

go on account of her mother,

and besides, I'm afraid she doesn't like the idea of the sea.

SCOTT: (Putting all his disapproval into an exclamation)

Humph! (He goes back and sits down at the table.)

ROBERT: (In joyous high spirits) I want you all to

understand one thing--

I'm not going to be a loafer on your hands any longer. This means

the beginning of a new life for me in every way. I'm sick and disgusted

at myself for sitting around and seeing everyone else hard at work,

while

all I've been doing is keep the accounts--a couple of hours work

a week! I'm going to settle right down and take a real interest in

the farm, and

do my share. I'll prove to you, Pa, that I'm as good a Mayo as you

are--

or Andy, when I want to be.

MAYO: (Kindly but skeptically) That's the right spirit,

Robert, but it ain't needful for you to--

MRS MAYO: (Interrupting him) No one said

you weren't doing your part, Robbie. You've got to look out for--

ROBERT: I know what you're going to say, and that's another

false idea you've got to get out of your heads. It's ridiculous for

you to persist in looking on me as an invalid. I'm as well as anyone,

and I'll prove it to you

if you'll give me half a chance. Once I get the hang of it, I'll be

able to do as hard a day's work as any one. You wait and see.

MAYO: Ain't none of us doubts your willin'ness, but you ain't

never learned--

ROBERT: Then I'm going to start learning right away, and

you'll teach me, won't you?

MAYO: (Mollifyingly) Of course I will, boy, and be

glad to, only you'd best go easy at first.

ROBERT: With the two farms to look after, you'll need me;

and when I marry Ruth I'll have to know how to take care of things

for her and her mother.

MAYO: That's so, son.

SCOTT: (Who has listened to this conversation in mingled

consternation and amazement) You don't mean to tell me you're goin'

to let him stay, do you, James?

MAYO: Why, things bein' as they be, Robert's free to do as

he's a mind to.

MRS MAYO: Let him! The very idea!

SCOTT: (More and more ruffled) Then all I got to say

is, you're a soft, weak-

willed critter to be permittin' a boy--and women, too--to be

layin' your course for you wherever they damn pleases.

MAYO: (Slyly amused) It's just the same with me as

'twas with you, Dick.

You can't order the tides on the seas to suit you, and I ain't pretendin'

I

can reg'late love for young folks.

SCOTT: (Scornfully) Love! They ain't old enough to

know love when they sight it! Love! I'm ashamed of you, Robert, to

go lettin' a little huggin' and kissin' in the dark spile your chances

to make a man out o' yourself. It ain't common sense--no siree,

it ain't--not by a hell of a sight! (He pounds the table with

his fists in exasperation.)

ROBERT: (Smiling) I'm afraid I can't help it, Uncle.

SCOTT: Humph! You ain't got any sand, that's what! And you,

James Mayo, lettin' boys and women run things to the devil and back--you've

got less sense than he has!

MAYO: (With a grin) If Robert can't help it, I'm sure

I ain't able, Dick.

MRS MAYO: (Laughing provokingly at her brother)

A fine one you are to be talking about love, Dick--an old cranky

bachelor like you. Goodness sakes!

SCOTT: (Exasperated by their joking) I've never been

a damn fool like most,

if that's what you're steerin' at.

MRS MAYO: (Tauntingly) Sour grapes, aren't

they, Dick?

(She laughs. ROBERT and his father chuckle. SCOTT

sputters with annoyance.)

MRS MAYO: Good gracious, Dick, you do act silly,

flying into a temper over nothing.

SCOTT: (Indignantly) Nothin'! Is that what you call

it--nothin'? You talk as if I wasn't concerned nohow in this here

business. Seems to me I've got a right to have my say. Ain't I gone

to all sorts o' trouble gettin' the sta'b'd cabin

all cleaned out and painted and fixed up so's that Robert o' yours

'd be comfortable? Ain't I made all arrangements with the owners and

stocked

up with some special grub all on Robert's account?

ROBERT: You've been fine, Uncle Dick; and I appreciate it.

Truly.

MAYO: 'Course; we all does, Dick.

MRS MAYO: And don't spoil it now by getting angry

at us.

SCOTT: (Unplacated) It's all right for you to say

don't this and don't that; but you ain't seen things from my side

of it. I've been countin' sure on havin' Robert for company on this

vige--to sorta talk to and show things to, and teach, kinda, and

I got my mind so set on havin' him I'm goin' to be double lonesome

this vige. (He pounds on the table, attempting to cover up this

confession of weakness.) Darn all this silly lovin' business, anyway.

MRS MAYO: (Touched) It's too bad you have

to be so lonesome, Dick.

Why don't you give up the old boat? You've been on the sea long enough,

heaven's knows. Why don't you make up your mind and settle down here

with us?

SCOTT: (Emphatically) And go diggin' up the dirt and

plantin' things? Not by a hell of a sight! You can have all the darned

dirt in the earth for all o' me.

I ain't sayin' it ain't all right--if you're made that way--but

I ain't. No settlin' down for me. No sirree! (Irritably)

But all this talk ain't tellin' me what I'm to do with that sta'b'd

cabin I fixed up. It's all painted white, an a bran new mattress on

the bunk, 'n' new sheets 'n' blankets 'n' things. And Chips built

in a book-case so's Robert could take his books along--with a slidin'

bar fixed across't it, mind, so's they couldn't fall out no matter

how she rolled. (With excited consternation) What d'you suppose

my officers is goin' to think when there's no one comes aboard to

occupy that sta'b'd cabin? And the men what did the work on it--what'll

they think? (He shakes his finger indignantly.) They're liable

as not to suspicion it was a woman I'd planned to ship along, and

that she gave me the go-by at the last moment! (He wipes his perspiring

brow in anguish at this thought.) Gawd A'mighty! They're only lookin'

to have the laugh on me for something like that. They're liable to

b'lieve anything, those fellers is!

MAYO: (With a wink) Then there's nothing to it but

for you to get right out and hunt up a wife somewheres for that spic

'n' span cabin. She'll have

to be a pretty one, too, to match it. (He looks at his watch with

exaggerated concern.) You ain't got much time to find her, Dick.

SCOTT: (As the others smile--sulkily) You kin go

to thunder, Jim Mayo!

ANDREW: (Comes forward from where he has been standing

by the door, rear, brooding. His face is set in a look of grim determination.)

You needn't worry about that spare cabin, Uncle Dick, if you've a

mind to take me in Robert's place.

ROBERT: (Turning to him quickly) Andy! (He sees

at once the fixed resolve in

his brother's eyes, and realizes immediately the reason for it--in

consternation.) Andy, you mustn't!

ANDREW: You've made your decision, Rob, and now I've made

mine.

You're out of this, remember.

ROBERT: (Hurt by his brother's tone) But Andy--

ANDREW: Don't interfere, Rob--that's all I ask. (Turning

to his uncle) You haven't answered my question, Uncle Dick.

SCOTT: (Clearing his throat, with an uneasy side glance

at JAMES MAYO who is staring at his elder son

as if he thought he had suddenly gone mad) O' course, I'd be glad

to have you, Andy.

ANDREW: It's settled then. I can pack the little I want to

take in a few minutes.

MRS MAYO: Don't be a fool, Dick. Andy's only joking

you. He wouldn't go for anything.

SCOTT: (Disgruntledly) It's hard to tell who's jokin'

and who's not in this house.

ANDREW: (Firmly) I'm not joking, Uncle Dick--and

since I've got your permission, I'm going with you.

(As SCOTT looks at him uncertainly)

ANDREW: You needn't be afraid I'll go back on my word. When

I say I'll go, I'll go.

ROBERT: (Hurt by the insinuation he feels in ANDREW's

tone) Andy! That isn't fair!

MRS MAYO: (Beginning to be disturbed) But

I know he must be fooling us. Aren't you, Andy?

ANDREW: No, Ma, I'm not.

MAYO: (Frowning) Seems to me this ain't no subject

to joke over--not for Andy.

ANDREW: (Facing his father) I agree with you, Pa,

and I tell you again, once and for all, that I've made up my mind

to go.

MAYO: (Dumbfounded--unable to doubt the determination

in ANDREW's voice--helplessly) But why, son? Why?

ANDREW: (Evasively) I've always wanted to go, even

if I ain't said anything about it.

ROBERT: Andy!

ANDREW: (Half-angrily) You shut up, Rob! I told you

to keep out of this. (Turning to his father again) I didn't

ever mention it because as long as Rob was going I knew it was no

use; but now Rob's staying on here, and Uncle Dick wants someone along

with him, there isn't any reason for me not to go.

MAYO: (Breathing hard) No reason? Can you stand there

and say that to me, Andrew?

MRS MAYO: (Hastily--seeing the gathering

storm) He doesn't mean a word of it, James.

MAYO: (Making a gesture to her to keep silence) Let

me talk, Katey. (In a more kindly tone) What's come over you

so sudden, Andy? You know's well as I do that it wouldn't be fair

o' you to run off at a moment's notice right now when we're up to

our necks in hard work.

ANDREW: (Avoiding his eyes) Rob'll hold his end up

as soon as he learns.

MAYO: You know that ain't so. Robert was never cut out for

a farmer,

and you was.

ANDREW: You can easily get a man to do my work.

MAYO: (Restraining his anger with an effort) It sounds

strange to hear you, Andy, that I always thought had good sense, talkin'

crazy like that. And you don't believe yourself one bit of what you've

been sayin'--not 'less you've suddenly gone out of your mind. (Scornfully)

Get a man to take

your place! Where'd I get him, tell me, with the shortage of farm

labor hereabouts? And if I could get one, what int'rest d'you suppose

he'd take beyond doin' as little work as he could for the money I

paid him? You ain't been workin' here for no hire, Andy, that you

kin give me your notice to quit like you've done. The farm is your'n

as well as mine. You've always worked on it with that understanding;

and what you're sayin' you intend doin' is just skulkin' out o' your

rightful responsibility.

ANDREW: (Looking at the floor--simply) I'm sorry,

Pa. (After a slight pause)

It's no use talking any more about it.

MRS MAYO: (In relief) There! I knew Andy'd

come to his senses!

ANDREW: Don't get the wrong idea, Ma. I'm not backing out.

MAYO: You mean you're goin' in spite of--everythin'?

ANDREW: Yes. I'm going. I want to--and--I've got to.

(He looks at his father defiantly.) I feel I oughtn't to miss

this chance to go out into the world and see things, and--I want

to go.

MAYO: (With bitter scorn) So--you want to go out

into the world and see thin's! (His voice raised and quivering

with anger) I never thought I'd live to see the day when a son

o' mine 'd look me in the face and tell a bare-faced lie! (Bursting

out) You're a liar, Andy Mayo, and a mean one to boot!

MRS MAYO: James!

ROBERT: Pa!

SCOTT: Steady there, Jim!

MAYO: (Waving their protests aside) He is and he knows

it.

ANDREW: (His face flushed) I won't argue with you,

Pa. You can think as badly of me as you like. I can't help that. Let's

not talk about it any more. I've made up my mind, and nothing you

can say will change it.

MAYO: (Shaking his finger at ANDREW, in

a cold rage) You know I'm speakin' truth--that's why you're

afraid to argy! You lie when you say you want to go 'way--and see

things! You ain't got no likin' in the world to go. Your place is

right here on this farm--the place you was born to by nature--and

you can't tell me no different. I've watched you grow up, and I know

your ways, and they're my ways. You're runnin' against your own nature,

and you're goin' to be a'mighty sorry for it if you do. You're tryin'

to pretend

to me something that don't fit in with your make-up, and it's damn

fool pretendin' if you think you're foolin' me. 'S if I didn't know

your real

reason for runnin' away! And runnin' away's the only words to fit

it.

You're runnin' away 'cause you're put out and riled 'cause your own

brother's got Ruth 'stead o' you, and--

ANDREW: (His face crimson--tensely) Stop, Pa! I

won't stand hearing that--not even from you!

MRS MAYO: (Rushing to ANDREW and

putting her arms about him protectingly.) Don't mind him, Andy

dear. He don't mean a word he's saying!

(ROBERT stands rigidly, his hands clenched, his

face contracted by pain. SCOTT sits dumbfounded and

open-mouthed. ANDREW soothes his mother who is on the

verge of tears.)

MAYO: (In angry triumph) It's the truth, Andy Mayo!

And you ought to be bowed in shame to think of it!

ROBERT: (Protestingly.) Pa! You've gone far enough.

It's a shame for you to talk that way!

MRS MAYO: (Coming from ANDREW

to his father; puts her hands on his shoulders as though to try and

push him back in the chair from which he has risen) Won't you be

still, James? Please won't you?

MAYO: (Looking at ANDREW over his wife's

shoulder--stubbornly) The truth--God's truth!

MRS MAYO: Sh-h-h! (She tries to put a finger

across his lips, but he twists his head away.)

ANDREW: (Who has regained control over himself) You're

wrong, Pa, it isn't truth. (With defiant assertiveness) I don't

love Ruth. I never loved her, and

the thought of such a thing never entered my head.

MAYO: (With an angry snort of disbelief) Hump! You're

pilin' lie on lie!

ANDREW: (Losing his temper--bitterly) I suppose

it'd be hard for you to explain anyone's wanting to leave this blessed

farm except for some outside reason like that. You think these few

measly acres are heaven, and that none'd want to ever do nothing in

all their lives but stay right here and work like a dog all the time.

But I'm sick and tired of it--whether you want to believe me or

not--and that's why I'm glad to get a chance to move on. I've been

sick and tired of farm life for a long time, and if I hadn't said

anything about it, it was only to save your feelings. Just because

you love it here, you've got your mind set that I like it, too. You

want me to stay on so's you can know that I'll be taking care of the

rotten farm after you're gone. Well, Rob'll be here, and he's a Mayo,

too. You can leave it in his hands.

ROBERT: Andy! Don't! You're only making it worse.

ANDREW: (Sulkily) I don't care. I've done my share

of work here. I've earned my right to quit when I want to. (Suddenly

overcome with anger and grief;

with rising intensity) I'm sick and tired of the whole damn business.

I hate the farm and every inch of ground in it. I'm sick of digging

in the dirt and sweating in the sun like a slave without getting a

word of thanks for it. (Tears of rage starting to his eyes--hoarsely)

I'm through, through for good

and all; and if Uncle Dick won't take me on his ship, I'll find another.

I'll get away somewhere, somehow.

MRS MAYO: (In a frightened voice) Don't you

answer him, James. He doesn't know what he's saying to you. Don't

say a word to him 'til he's in his right senses again. Please James,

don't--

MAYO: (Pushes her away from him; his face is drawn and

pale with the violence of his passion. He glares at ANDREW

as if he hated him.) You dare to--you dare to speak like that

to me? You talk like that 'bout this farm--the Mayo farm--

where you was born--you--you-- (He clenches his fist

above his head and advances threateningly on ANDREW.)

You damned whelp!

MRS MAYO: (With a shriek) James! (She

covers her face with her hands and sinks weakly into MAYO's

chair. ANDREW remains standing motionless, his face

pale and set.)

SCOTT: (Starting to his feet and stretching his arms

across the table toward MAYO) Easy there, Jim!

ROBERT: (Throwing himself between father and brother)

Stop! Are you mad?

MAYO: (Grabs ROBERT's arm and pushes him

aside--then stands for a moment gasping for breath before ANDREW.

He points to the door with a shaking finger.) Yes--go!--go!--You're

no son o' mine--no son o' mine! You can go to hell if you want

to! Don't let me find you here--in the mornin'--or--or--I'll

throw you out!

ROBERT: Pa! For God's sake!

(MRS MAYO bursts into noisy sobbing.)

SCOTT: (Placatingly) Ain't you goin' too far, Jim?

MAYO: (Turning on him furiously) Shut up, you--you

Dick! It's your fault--

a lot o' this--you and your cussed ship! Don't you take him--if

you do

--don't you dare darken this door again. Let him go by himself

and learn to starve--starve! (He gulps convulsively and turns

again to ANDREW.) And you go--tomorrow mornin'--and

by God--don't come back--don't dare come back--by God, not

while I'm livin'--or I'll--I'll-- (He shakes over his

muttered threat and strides toward the door rear, right.)

MRS MAYO: (Rising and throwing her arms around

him--hysterically) James! James! Where are you going?

MAYO: (Incoherently) I'm goin'--to bed, Katey.

It's late, Katey--it's late.

(He goes out.)

MRS MAYO: (Following him, pleading hysterically)

James! Take back what you've said to Andy. James!

(She follows him out. ROBERT and the CAPTAIN

stare after them with horrified eyes. ANDREW stands

rigidly looking straight in front of him, his fists clenched at his

sides.)

SCOTT: (The first to find his voice--with an explosive

sigh) Well, if he ain't the devil himself when he's roused! You

oughtn't to have talked to him that way, Andy 'bout the damn farm,

knowin' how touchy he is about it.

(With another sigh) Well, you won't mind what he's said in

anger. He'll be sorry for it when he's calmed down a bit.

ANDREW: (In a dead voice) No, he won't. You don't

know him. (Defiantly) What's said is said and can't be unsaid;

and I've chosen.

SCOTT: (Uncertainly) You don't mean--you're still

a mind to go--go with me, do you?

ANDREW: (Stubbornly) I haven't said I've changed my

mind, have I? There's all the reason in the world for me to go--now.

And I'm going if you're not afraid to take me after what he said.

ROBERT: (With violent protest) Andy! You can't! Don't

be a fool! This is all so stupid--and terrible.

ANDREW: (Coldly) I'll talk to you in a minute, Rob,

when we're alone. This is between Uncle and me.

(Crushed by his brother's cold indifference, ROBERT

sinks down into a chair, holding his head in his hands. ANDREW

turns again to SCOTT.)

ANDREW: If you don't want to take me, it's all right--there's

no hard feelings. I can understand you don't like to fall out with

Pa.

SCOTT: (Indignantly) Gawd A'mighty, Andy, I ain't

scared o' your Pa, nor no man livin,' I want t'have you come along!

Only I was thinkin' o' Kate. We don't want her to have to suffer from

his contrariness. Let's see. (He screws up his brows in thought.)

S'posing we both lie a little, eh? I'll tell 'em you're not comin'

with me, and you tell 'em you're goin' to the port to get another

ship. We can leave here in the team together. That's natural enough.

They can't suspect nothin' from that. And then you can write home

the first port we touch and explain things. (He winks at ANDREW

cunningly.) Are you on to the course?

ANDREW: (Frowning) Yes--if you think it's best.

SCOTT: For your Ma's sake. I wouldn't ask it, else.

ANDREW: (Shrugging his shoulders) All right then.

SCOTT: (With a great sigh of relief--comes and slaps

ANDREW on the back--

beaming) I'm damned glad you're shippin' on, Andy. I like your

spirit,

and the way you spoke up to him. (Lowering his voice to a cautious

whisper) You was right not to want to waste your life plowin' dirt

and pattin' it down again. The sea's the place for a young feller

like you that isn't half dead 'n' alive. (He gives ANDY

a final approving slap.) You'n' me 'll get

along like twins, see if we don't. I'm durned glad you're comin',

boy.

ANDREW: (Wearily) Let's not talk about it any more,

Uncle. I'm tired of talking.

SCOTT: Right! I'm goin' aloft to turn in, and leave you two

alone. Don't forget to pack your dunnage. And git some sleep, if you

kin. We'll want to sneak out extra early b'fore they're up. It'll

do away with more argyments. Robert can drive us down to the town,

and bring back the team. (He goes to the door in the rear, left.)

Well, good night.

ANDREW: Good night.

(SCOTT goes out. The two brothers remain silent

for a moment. Then ANDREW comes over to his brother

and puts a hand on his back. He speaks in a low voice,

full of feeling.)

ANDREW: Buck up, Rob. It ain't any use crying over spilt

milk; and it'll all turn out for the best--let's hope. It couldn't

be helped--what's happened.

ROBERT: (Wildly) But it's a lie, Andy, a lie!

ANDREW: Of course it's a lie. You know it and I know it--but

that's all ought to know it.

ROBERT: Pa'll never forgive you. Oh, why did you want to

anger him like that? You know how he feels about the farm. Oh, the

whole affair is so senseless--and tragic. Why did you think you

must go away?

ANDREW: You know better than to ask that. You know why. (Fiercely)

I can wish you and Ruth all the good luck in the world, and I do,

and I mean it; but you can't expect me to stay around here and watch

you two together, day after day--and me alone. You couldn't expect

that! I couldn't stand it--not after all the plans I'd made to

happen on this place thinking--

(His voice breaks.) Thinking she cared for me.

ROBERT: (Putting a hand on his brother's arm) God!

It's horrible! I feel so guilty--to think that I should be the

cause of your suffering, after we've been such pals all our lives.

If I could have foreseen what'd happen, I swear to you I'd have never

said a word to Ruth. I swear I wouldn't have, Andy.

ANDREW: I know you wouldn't; and that would've been worse,

for Ruth would've suffered then. (He pats his brother's shoulder.)

It's best as it is. It had to be, and I've got to stand the gaff,

that's all. Pa'll see how I felt--after a time.

(As ROBERT shakes his head)

ANDREW: --and if he don't--well, it can't be helped.

ROBERT: But think of Ma! God, Andy, you can't go! You can't!

ANDREW: (Fiercely) I've got to go--to get away!

I've got to, I tell you. I'd die here. I'd kill myself! Can't you

understand what it'd mean to me, how I'd suffer? You don't know how

I'd planned--for Ruth and me--the hopes I'd had about what the

future'd be like. You can't blame me to go. You'd do the same yourself.

I'd go crazy here, bein' reminded every second of the day how my life's

been smashed, and what a fool I'd made of myself. I'd have nothing

to hope or live for. I've got to get away and try and forget, if I

can.

I never could stay here--seeing her. And I'd hate the farm if I

stayed, hate it for bringin' things back. I couldn't take interest

in the work any more, work with no purpose in sight. Can't you see

what a hell it'd be? You love her too, Rob. Put yourself in my place,

and remember I haven't stopped loving her, and couldn't if I was to

stay. Would that be fair to you or to her? Put yourself in my place.

(He shakes his brother fiercely by the shoulder.) What'd you

do then? Tell me the truth! You love her. What'd you do? In spite

of

all hell, what'd you do?

ROBERT: (Chokingly) I'd--I'd go, Andy! (He

buries his face in his hands with a shuddering sob.) God!

ANDREW: (Seeming to relax suddenly all over his body--in

a low, steady voice) Then you know why I got to go; and there's

nothing more to be said.

ROBERT: (In a frenzy of rebellion) Why did this have

to happen to us?

It's damnable! (He looks about him wildly, as if his vengeance

were seeking

the responsible fate.)

ANDREW: (Soothingly--again putting his hands on his

brother's shoulder) It's no use fussing any more, Rob. It's done.

(Affectionately) You'll forget anything

I said to hurt when I was mad, won't you? I wanted to keep you out

of it.

ROBERT: Oh, Andy, it's me who ought to be asking your forgiveness

for the suffering I've brought on you.

ANDREW: (Forcing a smile) I guess Ruth's got a right

to have who she likes; you ain't to blame for that. She made a good

choice--and God bless her for it!

ROBERT: Andy! Oh, I wish I could tell you half I feel of

how fine you are!

ANDREW: (Interrupting him quickly) Shut up! Let's

go to bed. We've talked long enough, and I've got to be up long before

sun-up. You, too, if you're going to drive us down.

ROBERT: Yes. Yes.

ANDREW: (Turning down the lamp) And I've got to pack

yet. (He yawns with utter weariness.) I'm as tired as if I'd

been plowing twenty-four hours at a stretch. (Dully) I feel--dead.

(ROBERT covers his face again with his hands. ANDREW

shakes his head as if to get rid of his thoughts, and continues with

a poor attempt at cheery briskness.)

ANDREW: I'm going to douse the light. Come on.

(He slaps his brother on the back. ROBERT does not

move. ANDREW bends over and blows out the lamp. His

voice comes from the darkness.)

ANDREW: Don't sit there mourning, Rob. It'll all come out

in the wash. Come on and get some sleep. Everything 'll turn out all

right in the end.

(ROBERT can be heard stumbling to his feet, and

the dark figures of the two brothers can be seen groping their way

toward the doorway in the rear as)

(The curtain falls.)

END OF ACT ONE

ACT TWO

Scene One

(Same as ACT ONE, Scene Two. Sitting room of the farm house about

half past twelve in the afternoon of a hot, sun-baked day in mid-summer,

three years later. All the windows are open, but no breeze stirs the

soiled white curtains. A patched screen door is in the rear. Through

it the yard can be seen, its small stretch of lawn divided by the

dirt path leading to the door from the gate in the white picket fence

which borders the road.)

(The room has changed, not so much in its outward appearance as

in its general atmosphere. Little significant details give evidence

of carelessness, of inefficiency,

of an industry gone to seed. The chairs appear shabby from lack of

paint; the table cover is spotted and askew; holes show in the curtains;

a child's doll, with one arm gone, lies under the table; a hoe stands

in a corner; a man's coat is flung on the couch in the rear; the desk

is cluttered up with odds and ends; a number of books are piled carelessly

on the side-board. The noon enervation of the sultry, scorching day

seems to have penetrated indoors, causing even inanimate objects to

wear an aspect of despondent exhaustion.)

(A place is set at the end of the table, left, for someone's dinner.

Through the open door to the kitchen comes the clatter of dishes being

washed, interrupted at intervals by a woman's irritated voice and

the peevish whining of a child.)

(At the rise of the curtain MRS MAYO and

MRS ATKINS are discovered sitting facing each

other, MRS MAYO to the rear, MRS

ATKINS to the right of the table. MRS MAYO's

face has lost all character, disintegrated, become a weak mask wearing

a helpless, doleful expression of being constantly on the verge of

comfortless tears. She speaks in an uncertain voice, without assertiveness,

as if all power of willing had deserted her. MRS ATKINS

is in her wheel chair. She is a thin, pale-faced, unintelligent looking

woman of about forty-eight, with hard, bright eyes. A victim of partial

paralysis for many years, condemned to be pushed from day to day of

her life in a wheel chair, she has developed the selfish, irritable

nature of the chronic invalid. Both women are dressed in black. MRS

ATKINS knits nervously as she talks. A ball of unused yarn,

with needles stuck through it, lies on the table before MRS

MAYO.)

MRS ATKINS: (With a disapproving glance at the

place set on the table) Robert's late for his dinner again, as

usual. I don't see why Ruth puts up with it, and I've told her so.

Many's the time I've said to her "It's about time you put a stop

to his nonsense. Does he suppose you're runnin' a hotel--with no

one to help with things?" But she don't pay no attention. She's

as bad as he is, a'most--thinks she knows better than an old, sick

body like me.

MRS MAYO: (Dully) Robbie's always late for

things. He can't help it, Sarah.

MRS ATKINS: (With a snort) Can't help it!

How you do go on, Kate, findin' excuses for him! Anybody can help

anything they've a mind to--as long as they've got health, and

ain't rendered helpless like me, (She adds as a pious afterthought.)--through

the will of God.

MRS MAYO: Robbie can't.

MRS ATKINS: Can't! It do make me mad, Kate Mayo,

to see folks that God gave all the use of their limbs to potterin'

round and wastin' time doin' every thing the wrong way--and me

powerless to help and at their mercy, you might say. And it ain't

that I haven't pointed the right way to 'em.

I've talked to Robert thousands of times and told him how things ought

to be done. You know that, Kate Mayo. But d'you s'pose he takes any

notice of what I say? Or Ruth, either--my own daughter? No, they

think I'm a crazy, cranky old woman, half dead a'ready, and the sooner

I'm in the grave and out o' their way the better it'd suit them.

MRS MAYO: You mustn't talk that way, Sarah. They're

not as wicked as that. And you've got years and years before you.

MRS ATKINS: You're like the rest, Kate. You don't

know how near the end

I am. Well, at least I can go to my eternal rest with a clear conscience.

I've done all a body could do to avert ruin from this house. On their

heads be it!

MRS MAYO: (With hopeless indifference) Things

might be worse. Robert never had any experience in farming. You can't

expect him to learn in a day.

MRS ATKINS: (Snappily) He's had three years

to learn, and he's gettin' worse 'stead of better. He hasn't got it

in him, that's what; and I do say it to you, Kate Mayo, even if he

is your son. He doesn't want to learn. Everything I've told him he's

that pig-headed he's gone and done the exact opposite. And now look

where things are! They couldn't be worse, spite o' what you say. Not

on'y your place but mine too is driftin' to rack and ruin, and I can't

do nothin' to prevent, 'cause Ruth backs him up in his folly and shiftlessness.

MRS MAYO: (With a spark of assertiveness)

You can't say but Robbie works hard, Sarah.

MRS ATKINS: What good's workin' hard if it don't

accomplish anythin',

I'd like to know?

MRS MAYO: Robbie's had bad luck against him.

MRS ATKINS: Say what you've a mind to, Kate, the

proof of the puddin's in the eatin'; and you can't deny that things

have been goin' from bad to worse ever since your husband died two

years back.

MRS MAYO: (Wiping tears from her eyes with her

handkerchief) It was God's will that he should be taken.

MRS ATKINS: (Triumphantly) It was God's punishment

on James Mayo for the blasphemin' and denyin' of God he done all his

sinful life!

(MRS MAYO begins to weep softly.)

MRS ATKINS: There, Kate, I shouldn't be remindin'

you, I know. He's at peace, poor man, and forgiven, let's pray.

MRS MAYO: (Wiping her eyes--simply) James

was a good man.

MRS ATKINS: (Ignoring this remark) What I

was sayin' was that since Robert's been in charge things've been goin'

down hill steady. You don't know how bad they are. Robert don't let

on to you what's happinin'; and you'd never see it yourself if 'twas

under your nose. But, thank God, Ruth still comes to me once in a

while for advice when she's worried near out of her senses by his

goin's-on. Do you know what she told me last night? But I forgot,

she said not to tell you--still I think you've got a right to know,

and it's my duty not to let such things go on behind your back.

MRS MAYO: (Wearily) You can tell me if you

want to.

MRS ATKINS: (Bending over toward her--in

a low voice) Ruth was almost crazy about it. Robert told her he'd

have to mortgage the farm--said he didn't know how he'd pull through

'til harvest without it, and he can't get money any other way. (She

straightens up--indignantly.) Now what do you think of your

Robert?

MRS MAYO: (Resignedly) If it has to be--

MRS ATKINS: You don't mean to say you're goin' to

sign away your farm, Kate Mayo--after me warnin' you?

MRS MAYO: I'll do what Robbie says is needful.

MRS ATKINS: (Holding up her hands) Well,

of all the foolishness!--well,

it's your farm, not mine, and I've nothin' more to say.

MRS MAYO: Maybe Robbie'll manage till Andy gets

back and sees to things. It can't be long now.

MRS ATKINS: (With keen interest) Ruth says

Andy ought to turn up any day. When does Robert figger he'll get here?

MRS MAYO: He says he can't calculate exactly on

account o' the Sunda being a sail boat. Last letter he got

was from England, the day they were sailing for home. That was over

a month ago, and Robbie thinks they're overdue now.

MRS ATKINS: We can give praise to God then that

he'll be back in the nick o' time. I've got confidence in Andy and

always did have, when it comes to farmin'; and he ought to be tired

of travellin' and anxious to get home and settle down to work again.

MRS MAYO: Andy has been working. He's head

officer on Dick's boat, he wrote Robbie. You know that.

MRS ATKINS: That foolin' on ships is all right for

a spell, but he must be right sick of it by this. Andy's got to the

age where it's time he took hold of things serious and got this farm

workin' as it ought to be again.

MRS MAYO: (Musingly) I wonder if he's changed

much. He used to be so fine-looking and strong. (With a sigh)

Three years! It seems more like three hundred. (Her eyes filling--piteously)

Oh, if James could only have lived 'til he came back--and forgiven

him!

MRS ATKINS: He never would have--not James Mayo!

Didn't he keep his heart hardened against him till the last in spite

of all you and Robert did to soften him?

MRS MAYO: (With a feeble flash of anger)

Don't you dare say that! (Brokenly) Oh, I know deep down in

his heart he forgave Andy, though he was too stubborn ever to own

up to it. It was that brought on his death--breaking his heart

just on account of his stubborn pride. (She wipes her eyes with

her handkerchief and sobs.)

MRS ATKINS: (Piously) It was the will of

God.

(The whining crying of the child sounds from the kitchen. MRS

ATKINS frowns irritably.)

MRS ATKINS: Drat that young one! Seems as if she

cries all the time on purpose to set a body's nerves on edge.

MRS MAYO: (Wiping her eyes) It's the heat

upsets her. Mary doesn't feel

any too well these days, poor little child!

MRS ATKINS: She gets it right from her Pa--bein'

sickly all the time.

You can't deny Robert was always ailin' as a child. (She sighs

heavily.)

It was a crazy mistake for them two to get married. I argyed against

it at

the time, but Ruth was so spelled with Robert's wild poetry notions

she wouldn't listen to sense. Andy was the one would have been the

match for her. I always thought so in those days, same as your James

did; and I know she liked Andy. Then 'long comes Robert with his book-learnin'

and high-fangled talk--and off she goes and marries him.

MRS MAYO: I've often thought since it might have

been better the other way. But Ruth and Robbie seem happy enough together.

MRS ATKINS: At any rate it was God's work--and

His will be done.

(The two women sit in silence for a moment. RUTH

enters from the kitchen, carrying in her arms her two-year-old daughter,

MARY, a pretty but sickly and aenemic looking child

with a tear-stained face. RUTH has aged appreciably.

Her face has lost its youth and freshness. There is a trace in her

expression of something hard and spiteful. She sits in the rocker

in front of the table and sighs wearily. She wears a gingham dress

with a soiled apron tied around her waist.)

RUTH: Land sakes, if this isn't a scorcher! That kitchen's

like a furnace. Phew! (She pushes the damp hair back from her

forehead.)

MRS MAYO: Why didn't you call me to help with the

dishes?

RUTH: (Shortly) No. The heat in there'd kill you.

MARY: (Sees the doll under the table and struggles on

her mother's lap) Mary wants Dolly, Mama! Give Mary Dolly!

RUTH: (Pulling her back) It's time for your nap. You

can't play with Dolly now.

MARY: (Commencing to cry whiningly) Mary wants Dolly!

MRS ATKINS: (Irritably) Can't you keep that

child still? Her racket's enough to split a body's ears. Put her down

and let her play with the doll if it'll quiet her.

RUTH: (Lifting MARY to the floor) There!

I hope you'll be satisfied and keep still. You're only to play for

a minute, remember. Then you've got to take your nap.

(MARY sits down on the floor before the table and

plays with the doll in silence. RUTH glances at the

place set on the table.)

RUTH: It's a wonder Rob wouldn't try to get to meals on time

once in a while. Does he think I've nothing to do on a hot day like

this but stand

in that kitchen washing dishes?

MRS MAYO: (Dully) Something must have gone

wrong again.

RUTH: (Wearily) I s'pose so. Something's always going

wrong these days,

it looks like.

MRS ATKINS: (Snappily) It wouldn't if you

possessed a bit of spunk. The idea of you permittin' him to come in

to meals at all hours--and you doin' the work! You ought to force

him to have more consideration. I never heard of such a thin'. You

mind my words and let him go to the kitchen and get his own once in

a while, and see if he don't toe the mark. You're too easy goin',

that's the trouble.

RUTH: Do stop your nagging at me, Ma! I'm sick of hearing

you. I'll do as

I please about it; and thank you for not interfering. (She wipes

her moist forehead--wearily.) Phew! It's too hot to argue. Let's

talk of something pleasant. (Curiously) Didn't I hear you speaking

about Andy a while ago?

MRS MAYO: We were wondering when he'd get home.

RUTH: (Brightening) Rob says any day now he's liable

to drop in and surprise us--him and the Captain. I wonder if he's

changed much--what he'll be like. It'll certainly look natural

to see him around the farm again.

MRS ATKINS: Let's hope the farm'll look more natural,

too, when he's had a hand at it. The way thin's are now!

RUTH: (Irritably) Will you stop harping on that, Ma?

We all know things aren't as they might be. What's the good of your

complaining all the time?

MRS ATKINS: There, Kate Mayo! Ain't that just what

I told you? I can't say a word of advice to my own daughter even,

she's that stubborn and self-willed.

RUTH: (Putting her hands over her ears--in exasperation)

For goodness sakes, Ma!

MRS MAYO: (Dully) Never mind. Andy'll fix

everything when he comes.

RUTH: (Hopefully) Oh, yes, I know he will. He always

did know just the right thing ought to be done. (With weary vexation)

It's a shame for him to come home and have to start in with things

in such a topsy-turvy.

MRS MAYO: Andy'll manage.

RUTH: (Sighing) I s'pose it isn't Rob's fault things

go wrong with him.

MRS ATKINS: (Scornfully) Hump! (She fans

herself nervously.) Land o' Goshen, but it's bakin' in here! Let's

go out in under the trees in back where there's a breath of fresh

air. Come, Kate.

(MRS MAYO gets up obediently and starts

to wheel the invalid's chair toward the screen door.)

MRS ATKINS: You better come too, Ruth. It'll do

you good. Learn him a lesson and let him get his own dinner. Don't

be such a fool.

RUTH: (Going and holding the screen door open for them--listlessly)

He wouldn't mind. He tells me never to wait--but he wouldn't know

where to find anything.

MRS ATKINS: Let him go hungry then--and serve

him right.

RUTH: He wouldn't mind that, either. He doesn't eat much.

But I can't go anyway. I've got to put baby to bed.

MRS ATKINS: Let's go, Kate. I'm boilin' in here.

(MRS MAYO wheels her out and off left.

RUTH comes back and sits down in her chair.)

RUTH: (Mechanically) Come and let me take off your

shoes and stockings, Mary, that's a good girl. You've got to take

your nap now.

(The child continues to play as if she hadn't heard, absorbed

in her doll. An eager expression comes over RUTH's tired

face. She glances toward the door furtively--then gets up and goes

to the desk. Her movements indicate a guilty fear of discovery. She

takes a letter from a pigeon hole and retreats swiftly to her chair

with it. She opens the envelope and reads the letter with great interest,

a flush of excitement coming to her cheeks. ROBERT walks

up the path and opens the screen door quietly and comes into the room.

He, too, has aged. His shoulders are stooped as if under too great

a burden. His eyes are dull and lifeless, his face burned by the sun

and unshaven for days. Streaks of sweat have smudged the layer of

dust on

his cheeks. His lips, drawn down at the corners, give him a hopeless,

resigned expression. The three years have accentuated the weakness

of his mouth and chin. He is dressed in overalls, laced boots, and

a flannel shirt open at the neck.)

ROBERT: (Throwing his hat over on the sofa--with a

great sigh of exhaustion) Phew! The sun's hot today!

(RUTH is startled. At first she makes an instinctive

motion as if to hide the letter in her bosom. She immediately thinks

better of this and sits with the letter in her hands looking at him

with defiant eyes. He bends down and kisses her.)

RUTH: (Feeling of her cheek--irritably) Why don't

you shave? You look awful.

ROBERT: (Indifferently) I forgot--and it's too

much trouble this weather.

MARY: (Throwing aside her doll, runs to him with a happy

cry) Dada! Dada!

ROBERT: (Swinging her up above his head--lovingly)

And how's this little girl of mine this hot day, eh?

MARY: (Screeching happily) Dada! Dada!

RUTH: (In annoyance) Don't do that to her! You know

it's time for her nap and you'll get her all waked up; then I'll be

the one that'll have to sit beside her till she falls asleep.

ROBERT: (Sitting down in the chair on the left of table

and cuddling MARY on his lap) You needn't bother.

I'll put her to bed.

RUTH: (Shortly) You've got to get back to your work,

I s'pose.

ROBERT: (With a sigh) Yes, I was forgetting. (He

glances at the open letter on RUTH's lap.) Reading

Andy's letter again? I should think you'd know it by heart by this

time.

RUTH: (Coloring as if she'd been accused of something--defiantly)

I've got a right to read it, haven't I? He says it's meant for all

of us.

ROBERT: (With a trace of irritation) Right? Don't

be so silly. There's no question of right. I was only saying that

you must know all that's in it after so many readings.

RUTH: Well, I don't. (She puts the letter on the table

and gets wearily to her feet.)

I s'pose you'll be wanting your dinner now.

ROBERT: (Listlessly) I don't care. I'm not hungry.

It's almost too hot to eat.

RUTH: And here I been keeping it hot for you!

ROBERT: (Irritably) Oh, all right then. Bring it in

and I'll try to eat.

RUTH: I've got to get her to bed first. (She goes to

lift MARY off his lap.)

Come, dear. It's after time and you can hardly keep your eyes open

now.

MARY: (Crying) No, no, I don't wanter sleep! (Appealing

to her father) Dada! No!

RUTH: (Accusingly to ROBERT) There!

Now see what you've done! I told you not to--

ROBERT: (Shortly) Let her alone, then. She's all right

where she is. She'll fall asleep on my lap in a minute if you'll stop

bothering her.

RUTH: (Hotly) She'll not do any such thing! She's

got to learn to mind me, that she has! (Shaking her finger at

MARY) You naughty child! Will you come with Mama

when she tells you for your own good?

MARY: (Clinging to her father) No, Dada!

RUTH: (Losing her temper) A good spanking's what you

need, my young lady--and you'll get one from me if you don't mind

better, d'you hear?

(MARY starts to whimper frightenedly.)

ROBERT: (With sudden anger) Leave her alone! How often

have I told you not to threaten her with whipping? It's barbarous,

and I won't have it. That's got to be understood. (Soothing the

wailing MARY) There! There, little girl! Baby mustn't

cry. Dada won't like you if you do. Dada'll hold you and you must

promise to go to sleep like a good little girl. Will you when Dada

asks you?

MARY: (Cuddling up to him) Yes, Dada.

RUTH: (Looking at them, her pale face set and drawn)

I won't be ordered by you! She's my child as much as yours. A fine

one you are to be telling folks how to do things, you--

(She bites her lips. Husband and wife look into each other's eyes

with something akin to hatred in their expressions; then RUTH

turns away with a shrug of affected indifference.)

RUTH: All right, take care of her then, if you think it's

so easy. You'll be whipping her yourself inside of a week. (She

walks away into the kitchen.)

ROBERT: (Smoothing MARY's hair--tenderly)

We'll show Mama you're a good little girl, won't we?

MARY: (Crooning drowsily) Dada, Dada.

ROBERT: Let's see: Does your mother take off your shoes and

stockings before your nap?

MARY: (Nodding with half-shut eyes) Yes, Dada.

ROBERT: (Taking off her shoes and stockings) We'll

show Mama we know how to do those things, won't we? There's one old

shoe off--and there's the other old shoe--and here's one old

stocking--and there's the other old stocking. There we are, all

nice and cool and comfy. (He bends down and kisses her.) And

now will you promise to go right to sleep if Dada takes

you to bed?

(MARY nods sleepily.)

ROBERT: That's the good little girl.

(He gathers her up in his arms carefully and carries her into

the bedroom. His voice can be heard faintly as he lulls the child

to sleep. RUTH comes out of the kitchen and gets the

plate from the table. She hears the voice from the room and tiptoes

to the door to look in. Then she starts for the kitchen but stands

for a moment thinking,

a look of ill-concealed jealousy on her face. At a noise from inside

she hurriedly disappears into the kitchen. A moment later ROBERT

reenters. He comes forward and picks up the shoes and stockings which

he shoves carelessly under the table. Then, seeing no one about, he

goes to the sideboard and selects a book. Coming back to his chair,

he sits down and immediately becomes absorbed in reading. RUTH

returns from the kitchen bringing his plate heaped with food, and

a cup of tea.

She sets those before him and sits down in her former place. ROBERT

continues

to read, oblivious to the food on the table.)

RUTH: (After watching him irritably for a moment)

For heaven's sakes, put down that old book! Don't you see your dinner's

getting cold?

ROBERT: (Closing his book) Excuse me, Ruth. I didn't

notice. (He picks up his knife and fork and begins to eat gingerly,

without appetite.)

RUTH: I should think you might have some feeling for me,

Rob, and not always be late for meals. If you think it's fun sweltering

in that oven of a kitchen to keep things warm for you, you're mistaken.

ROBERT: I'm sorry, Ruth, really I am.

RUTH: That's what you always say; but you keep coming late

just the same.

ROBERT: I know; and I can't seem to help it. Something crops

up every day to delay me. I mean to be here on time.

RUTH: (With a sigh) Mean-tos don't count.

ROBERT: (With a conciliating smile) Then punish me,

Ruth. Let the food get cold and don't bother about me. Just set it

to one side. I won't mind.

RUTH: I'd have to wait just the same to wash up after you.

ROBERT: But I can wash up.

RUTH: A nice mess there'd be then!

ROBERT: (With an attempt at lightness) The food is

lucky to be able to get cold this weather.

(As RUTH doesn't answer or smile he opens his book

and resumes his reading, forcing himself to take a mouthful of food

every now and then. RUTH stares at him in annoyance.)

RUTH: And besides, you've got your own work that's got to

be done.

ROBERT: (Absent-mindedly, without taking his eyes from

the book) Yes, of course.

RUTH: (Spitefully) Work you'll never get done by reading

books all the time.

ROBERT: (Shutting the book with a snap) Why do you

persist in nagging at me for getting pleasure out of reading? Is it

because-- (He checks himself abruptly.)

RUTH: (Coloring) Because I'm too stupid to understand

them, I s'pose you were going to say.

ROBERT: (Shame-facedly) No--no. (In exasperation)

Oh, Ruth, why do you want to pick quarrels like this? Why do you goad

me into saying things I don't mean? Haven't I got my share of troubles

trying to work this cursed farm without your adding to them? You know

how hard I've tried to keep things going in spite of bad luck--

RUTH: (Scornfully) Bad luck!

ROBERT: And my own very apparent unfitness for the job, I

was going to add; but you can't deny there's been bad luck to it,

too. You know how unsuited I am to the work and how I hate it; and

I've managed to fight along somehow. Why don't you take things into

consideration? Why can't we pull together? We used to. I know it's

hard on you also. Then why can't we help each other instead of hindering?

That's the only way we can make life bearable for each other.

RUTH: (Sullenly) I do the best I know how.

ROBERT: (Gets up and puts his hand on her shoulder)

I know you do. But

let's both of us try to do better. We can both improve. Say a word

of encouragement once in a while when things go wrong, even if it

is my fault. You know the odds I've been up against since Pa died.

I'm not a farmer.

I've never claimed to be one. But there's nothing else I can do under

the circumstances, and I've got to pull things through somehow. With

your help, I can do it. With you against me-- (He shrugs his

shoulders. There is a pause. Then he bends down and kisses her hair--with

an attempt at cheerfulness.) So you promise that; and I'll promise

to be here when the clock strikes--

and anything else you tell me to. Is it a bargain?

RUTH: (Dully) I s'pose so.

ROBERT: The reason I was late today--it's more bad news,

so be prepared.

RUTH: (As if this was only what she expected) Oh!

(They are interrupted by the sound of a loud knock at the kitchen

door.)

RUTH: There's someone at the kitchen door. (She hurries

out. A moment later she reappears.) It's Ben. He says he wants

to see you.

ROBERT: (Frowning) What's the trouble now, I wonder?

(In a loud voice)

Come on in here, Ben.

(BEN slouches in from the kitchen. He is a hulking,

awkward young fellow with a heavy, stupid face and shifty, cunning

eyes. He is dressed in overalls, boots, etc., and wears a broad-brimmed

hat of coarse straw pushed back on his head.)

ROBERT: Well, Ben, what's the matter?

BEN: (Drawlingly) The mowin' machine's bust.

ROBERT: Why, that can't be. The man fixed it only last week.

BEN: It's bust just the same.

ROBERT: And can't you fix it?

BEN: No. Don't know what's the matter with the goll-darned

thing.

'Twon't work, anyhow.

ROBERT: (Getting up and going for his hat) Wait a

minute and I'll go look it over. There can't be much the matter with

it.

BEN: (Impudently) Don't make no diff'rence t'me whether

there be or not.

I'm quittin'.

ROBERT: (Anxiously) You're quitting? You don't mean

you're throwing up your job here?

BEN: That's what! My month's up today and I want what's owin'

t'me.

ROBERT: But why are you quitting now, Ben, when you know

I've so much work on hand? I'll have a hard time getting another man

at such short notice.

BEN: That's for you to figger. I'm quittin'.

ROBERT: But what's your reason? You haven't any complaint

to make about the way you've been treated, have you?

BEN: No. 'Tain't that. (Shaking his finger) Look-a-here.

I'm sick o' bein' made fun at, that's what; an' I got a job up to

Timms' place; an' I'm quittin' here.

ROBERT: Being made fun of? I don't understand you. Who's

making fun of you?

BEN: They all do. When I drive down with the milk in the

mornin' they all laughs and jokes at me--that boy up to Harris'

and the new feller up to Slocum's, and Bill Evans down to Meade's,

and all the rest on 'em.

ROBERT: That's a queer reason for leaving me flat. Won't

they laugh at you just the same when you're working for Timms?

BEN: They wouldn't dare to. Timms is the best farm hereabouts.

They was laughin' at me for workin' for you, that's what! "How're

things up to the Mayo place?" they hollers every mornin'. "What's

Robert doin' now--

pasturin' the cattle in the corn-lot? Is he seasonin' his hay with

rain this year, same as last?" they shouts. "Or is he inventin'

some 'lectrical milkin' engine to fool them dry cows o' his into givin'

hard cider?" (Very much ruffled) That's like they talks;

and I ain't goin' to put up with it no longer. Everyone's always knowd

me as a first-class hand hereabouts, and I ain't wantin' 'em to get

no different notion. So I'm quittin' you. And I wants what's comin'

to me.

ROBERT: (Coldly) Oh, if that's the case, you can go

to the devil.

BEN: This farm'd take me there quick 'nuff if I was fool

'nuff to stay.

ROBERT: (Angrily) None of your damned cheek! You'll

get your money tomorrow when I get back from town--not before!

BEN: (Turning to doorway to kitchen) That suits me.

(As he goes out he

speaks back over his shoulder) And see that I do get it, or there'll

be trouble.

(He disappears and the slamming of the kitchen door is heard.)

ROBERT: (As RUTH comes from where she has

been standing by the doorway and sits down dejectedly in her old place)

The stupid damn fool! And now what about the haying? That's an example

of what I'm up against. No one can

say I'm responsible for that.

RUTH: Yes you are! He wouldn't dare act that way with anyone

else. They do like they please with you, because you don't know how

to treat 'em. They think you're easy--and you are!

ROBERT: (Indignantly) I suppose I ought to be a slave

driver like the rest of the farmers--stand right beside them all

day watching every move they make, and work them to their last ounce

of strength? Well, I can't do it,

and I won't do it!

RUTH: It's better to do that than have to ask your Ma to

sign a mortgage on the place.

ROBERT: (Distractedly) Oh, damn the place! (He

walks to the window on left and stands looking out.)

RUTH: (After a pause, with a glance at ANDREW's

letter on the table) It's lucky Andy's coming back.

ROBERT: (Coming back and sitting down) Yes, Andy'll

see the right thing to

do in a jiffy. He has the knack of it; and he ought to be home any

time now. The Sunda's overdue. Must have met with head winds

all the way across.

RUTH: (Anxiously) You don't think--anything's happened

to the boat?

ROBERT: Trust Uncle Dick to bring her through all right!

He's too good a sailor to be caught napping. Besides we'll never know

the ship's here till Andy steps in the door. He'll want to surprise

us. (With an affectionate smile)

I wonder if the old chump's changed much? He doesn't seem to from

his letters, does he? Still the same practical hard-head. (Shaking

his head) But just the same I doubt if he'll want to settle down

to a hum-drum farm life, after all he's been through.

RUTH: (Resentfully) Andy's not like you. He likes

the farm.

ROBERT: (Immersed in his own thoughts--enthusiastically)

Gad, the things

he's seen and experienced! Think of the places he's been! Hong-Kong,

Yokohoma, Batavia, Singapore, Bangkok, Rangoon, Bombay--all the

marvelous East! And Honolulu, Sydney, Buenos Aires! All the wonderful

far places I used to dream about! God, how I envy him! What a trip!

(He springs to his feet and instinctively goes to the window and

stares out at

the horizon.)

RUTH: (Bitterly) I s'pose you're sorry now you didn't

go?

ROBERT: (Too occupied with his own thoughts to hear her--vindictively)

Oh, those cursed hills out there that I used to think promised me

so much! How I've grown to hate the sight of them! They're like the

walls of a narrow prison yard shutting me in from all the freedom

and wonder of life! (He turns back to the room with a gesture

of loathing.) Sometimes I think if it wasn't for you, Ruth, and--(His

voice softening)--little Mary, I'd chuck everything up and walk

down the road with just one desire in my heart--to put the whole

rim of the world between me and those hills, and be able to breathe

freely once more! (He sinks down into his chair and smiles with

bitter self-scorn.) There I go dreaming again--my old fool dreams.

RUTH: (In a low, repressed voice--her eyes smoldering)

You're not the only one!

ROBERT: (Buried in his own thoughts--bitterly)

And Andy, who's had the chance--what has he got out of it? His

letters read like the diary of a--of a farmer! "We're in Singapore

now. It's a dirty hole of a place and hotter than hell. Two of the

crew are down with fever and we're short-handed on the work. I'll

be damn glad when we sail again, although tacking back and forth in

these blistering seas is a rotten job too!" (Scornfully)

That's about the way he summed up his impressions of the East. Every

port they touched at he found the same silly fault with. God! The

only place he appeared to like was Buenos Aires--and that only

because he saw the business opportunities in a booming country like

Argentine.

RUTH: (Her repressed voice trembling) You needn't

make fun of Andy.

ROBERT: Perhaps I am too hard on him; but when I think--but

what's the use? You know I wasn't making fun of Andy personally. No

one loves him better than I do, the old chump! But his attitude toward

things is--is rank, in my estimation.

RUTH: (Her eyes flashing--bursting into uncontrollable

rage) You was too making fun of him! And I ain't going to stand

for it! You ought to be ashamed of yourself! A fine one you be!

(ROBERT stares at her in amazement. She continues

furiously.)

RUTH: A fine one to talk about anyone else--after the

way you've ruined everything with your lazy loafing!--and the stupid

way you do things!

ROBERT: (Angrily) Stop that kind of talk, do you hear?

RUTH: You findin' fault--with your own brother who's ten

times the man you ever was or ever will be--a thing like you to

be talking. You're jealous, that's what! Jealous because he's made

a man of himself, while you're nothing but a--but a-- (She

stutters incoherently, overcome by rage.)

ROBERT: Ruth! Ruth! Don't you dare--! You'll be sorry

for talking like that.

RUTH: I won't! I won't never be sorry! I'm only saying what

I've been thinking for years.

ROBERT: (Aghast) Ruth! You can't mean that!

RUTH: What do you think--living with a man like you--having

to suffer all the time because you've never been man enough to work

and do things like other people. But no! You never own up to that.

You think you're so much better than other folks, with your college

education, where you never learned a thing, and always reading your

stupid books instead of working.

I s'pose you think I ought to be proud to be your wife--a poor,

ignorant thing like me! (Fiercely) But I'm not. I hate it!

I hate the sight of you! Oh,

if I'd only known! If I hadn't been such a fool to listen to your

cheap, silly, poetry talk that you learned out of books! If I could

have seen how you were in your true self--like you are now--I'd

have killed myself before

I'd have married you! I was sorry for it before we'd been together

a month.

I knew what you were really like--when it was too late.

ROBERT: (His voice raised loudly) And now--I'm

finding out what you're really like--what a--a creature I've

been living with. (With a harsh laugh) God! It wasn't that

I haven't guessed how mean and small you are--but

I've kept on telling myself that I must be wrong--like a fool!--like

a damned fool!

RUTH: You were saying you'd go out on the road if it wasn't

for me. Well, you can go, and the sooner the better! I don't care!

I'll be glad to get rid of you! The farm'll be better off too. There's

been a curse on it ever since you took hold. So go! Go and be a tramp

like you've always wanted. It's all you're good for. I can get along

without you, don't you worry. I'll get

some peace. (Exulting fiercely) And Andy's coming back, don't

forget that! He'll attend to things like they should be. He'll show

what a man can do!

I don't need you. Andy's coming!

ROBERT: (They are both standing. ROBERT

grabs her by the shoulders and glares into her eyes.) What do you

mean? (He shakes her violently.) What are you thinking of?

What's in your evil mind, you--you-- (His voice is a harsh

shout.)

RUTH: (In a defiant scream) Yes I do mean it! I'd

say it if you was to kill me!

I do love Andy. I do! I do! I always loved him. (Exultantly)

And he loves me! He loves me! I know he does. He always did! And you

know he did, too!

So go! Go if you want to!

ROBERT: (Throwing her away from him. She staggers back

against the table--thickly.) You--you slut!

(He stands glaring at her as she leans back, supporting herself

by the table, gasping for breath. A loud frightened whimper sounds

from the awakened child in the bedroom. It continues. The man and

woman stand looking at one another in horror, the extent of their

terrible quarrel suddenly brought home to them. A pause.

The noise of a horse and carriage comes from the road before the house.

The two, suddenly struck by the same premonition, listen to it breathlessly,

as to a sound heard in a dream. It stops. They hear ANDY's

voice from the road shouting a long hail--"Ahoy there!")

RUTH: (With a strangled cry of joy) Andy! Andy! (She

rushes and grabs the

knob of the screen door, about to fling it open.)

ROBERT: (In a voice of command that forces obedience)

Stop!

(He goes to the door and gently pushes the trembling RUTH

away from it.

The child's crying rises to a louder pitch.)

ROBERT: I'll meet Andy. You better go in to Mary, Ruth.

(She looks at him defiantly for a moment, but there is something

in his eyes that makes her turn and walk slowly into the bedroom.)

ANDY'S VOICE: (In a louder shout) Ahoy there,

Rob!

ROBERT: (In an answering shout of forced cheeriness)

Hello, Andy!

(He opens the door and walks out as the curtain falls.)

Scene Two

(The top of a hill on the farm. It is about eleven o'clock the

next morning. The day is hot and cloudless. In the distance the sea

can be seen.)

(The top of the hill slopes downward slightly toward the left.

A big boulder stands in the center toward the rear. Further right,

a large oak tree. The faint trace of a path leading upward to it from

the left foreground can be detected through the bleached, sun-scorched

grass.)

(ROBERT is discovered sitting on the boulder, his

chin resting on his hands, staring out toward the horizon seaward.

His face is pale and haggard, his expression one of utter despondency.

MARY is sitting on the grass near him in the shade,

playing with her doll, singing happily to herself. Presently she casts

a curious glance at her father, and, propping her doll up against

the tree, comes over and clambers to his side.)

MARY: (Pulling at his hand--solicitously) Is Dada

sick?

ROBERT: (Looking at her with a forced smile) No, dear.

Why?

MARY: Then why don't he play with Mary?

ROBERT: (Gently) No, dear, not today. Dada doesn't

feel like playing today.

MARY: (Protestingly) Yes, please, Dada!

ROBERT: No, dear. Dada does feel sick--a little. He's

got a bad headache.

MARY: Let Mary see.

(He bends his head. She pats his hair.)

MARY: Bad head.

ROBERT: (Kissing her--with a smile) There! It's

better now, dear, thank you.

(She cuddles up close against him. There is a pause during which

each of them looks out seaward.)

MARY: (Pointing toward the sea) Is that all wa-wa,

Dada?

ROBERT: Yes, dear.

MARY: (Amazed by the magnitude of this conception)

Oh-oh! (She points to the horizon.) And it all stops there,

over farver?

ROBERT: No, it doesn't stop. That line you see is called

the horizon. It's where the sea and sky meet. Just beyond that is

where the good fairies live. (Checking himself--with a harsh

laugh) But you mustn't ever believe in fairies. It's bad luck.

And besides, there aren't any good fairies.

(MARY looks up into his face with a puzzled expression.)

MARY: Then if fairies don't live there, what lives there?

ROBERT: (Bitterly) God knows! Mocking devils, I've

found them.

(MARY frowns in puzzlement, turning this over in

her mind. There is a pause. Finally ROBERT turns to

her tenderly.)

ROBERT: Would you miss Dada very much if he went away?

MARY: Far--far away?

ROBERT: Yes. Far, far away.

MARY: And Mary wouldn't see him, never?

ROBERT: No; but Mary'd forget him very soon, I'm sure.

MARY: (Tearfully) No! No! Dada mustn't go 'way. No,

Dada, no!

ROBERT: Don't you like Uncle Andy--the man that came yesterday--

not the old man with the white moustache--the other?

MARY: But Dada mustn't go 'way. Mary loves Dada.

ROBERT: (With fierce determination) He won't go away,

baby. He was only joking. He couldn't leave his little Mary. (He

presses the child in his arms.)

MARY: (With an exclamation of pain) Oh! Dada hurts!

ROBERT: I'm sorry, little girl. (He lifts her down to

the grass.) Go play with Dolly, that's a good girl; and be careful

to keep in the shade.

(She reluctantly leaves him and takes up her doll again. A moment

later she

points down the hill to the left.)

MARY: Here comes mans, Dada.

ROBERT: (Looking that way) It's your Uncle Andy.

MARY: Will he play wiv me, Dada?

ROBERT: Not now, dear. You mustn't bother him. After a while

he will, maybe.

(A moment later ANDREW comes up from the left, whistling

cheerfully. He has changed but little in appearance, except for the

fact that his face has been deeply bronzed by his years in the tropics;

but there is a decided change in his manner.

The old easy-going good-nature seems to have been partly lost in a

breezy, business-like briskness of voice and gesture. There is an

authoritative note in his speech as though he were accustomed to give

orders and have them obeyed as a matter of course. He is dressed in

the simple blue uniform and cap of a merchant ship's officer.)

ANDREW: Here you are, eh?

ROBERT: Hello, Andy.

ANDREW: (Going over to MARY) And who's

this young lady I find you all alone with, eh? Who's this pretty young

lady?

(He tickles the laughing, squirming MARY, then lifts

her up at arm's length over his head.)

ANDREW: Upsy--daisy! (He sets her down on the ground

again.) And there you are!

(He walks over and sits down on the boulder beside ROBERT

who moves to one side to make room for him.)

ANDREW: Ruth told me I'd probably find you up top-side here;

but I'd have guessed it, anyway. (He digs his brother in the ribs

affectionately.) Still up to your old tricks, you old beggar! I

can remember how you used to come up here to mope and dream in the

old days.

ROBERT: (With a smile) I come up here now because

it's the coolest place on the farm. I've given up dreaming.

ANDREW: (Grinning) I don't believe it. You can't have

changed that much.

ROBERT: (Wearily) One gets tired of dreaming--when

they never come true.

ANDREW: (Scrutinizing his brother's face) You've changed

in looks all right. You look all done up, as if you'd been working

too hard. Better let up on yourself for a while.

ROBERT: Oh, I'm all right!

ANDREW: Take a fool's advice and go it easy. You remember--your

old trouble. You wouldn't want that coming back on you, eh? It pays

to keep top-notch in your case.

ROBERT: (Betraying annoyance) Oh, that's all a thing

of the past, Andy.

Forget it!

ANDREW: Well--a word to the wise does no harm? Don't be

touchy about it. (Slapping his brother on the back) You know

I mean well, old man, even if I do put my foot in it.

ROBERT: Of course, Andy. I'm not touchy about it. I don't

want you to worry about dead things, that's all. I've a headache today,

and I expect I do look done up.

ANDREW: Mum's the word, then! (After a pause--with

boyish enthusiasm)

Say, it sure brings back old times to be up here with you having a

chin all

by our lonesomes again. I feel great being back home.

ROBERT: It's great for us to have you back.

ANDREW: (After a pause--meaningly) I've been looking

over the old place with Ruth. Things don't seem to be--

ROBERT: (His face flushing--interrupts his brother

shortly) Never mind the damn farm! There's nothing about it we

don't both know by heart. Let's talk about something interesting.

This is the first chance I've had to have a word with you alone. To

the devil with the farm for the present. They think of nothing else

at home. Tell me about your trip. That's what I've been anxious to

hear about.

ANDREW: (With a quick glance of concern at ROBERT)

I suppose you do get an overdose of the farm at home. (Indignantly)

Say, I never realized that Ruth's mother was such an old rip 'till

she talked to me this morning. (With a grin) Phew! I pity you,

Rob, when she gets on her ear!

ROBERT: She is--difficult sometimes; but one must make

allowances. (Again changing the subject abruptly) But this

isn't telling me about the trip.

ANDREW: Why, I thought I told you everything in my letters.

ROBERT: (Smiling) Your letters were--sketchy, to

say the least.

ANDREW: Oh, I know I'm no author. You needn't be afraid of

hurting my feelings. I'd rather go through a typhoon again than write

a letter.

ROBERT: (With eager interest) Then you were through

a typhoon?

ANDREW: Yes--in the China sea. Had to run before it under

bare poles

for two days. I thought we were bound down for Davy Jones, sure. Never

dreamed waves could get so big or the wind blow so hard. If it hadn't

been for Uncle Dick being such a good skipper we'd have gone to the

sharks,

all of us. As it was we came out minus a main top-mast and had to

beat back to Hong-Kong for repairs. But I must have written you all

this.

ROBERT: You never mentioned it.

ANDREW: Well, there was so much dirty work getting things

ship-shape again I must have forgotten about it.

ROBERT: (Looking at ANDREW: marvelling)

Forget a typhoon? (With a trace of scorn) You're a strange

combination, Andy. And is what you've told me all you remember about

it?

ANDREW: Oh, I could give you your bellyful of details if

I wanted to turn loose on you; but they're not the kind of things

to fit in with your pretty notions of life on the ocean wave, I'll

give you that straight.

ROBERT: (Earnestly) Tell me. I'd like to hear them--honestly!

ANDREW: What's the use? They'd make a man want to live in

the middle

of America without even a river in a hundred miles of him so he'd

feel safe. It was rotten, that's what it was! Talk about work! I was

wishin' the ship'd sink and give me a rest, I was so dog tired toward

the finish. We didn't get

a warm thing to eat for nearly two weeks. There was enough China Sea

in the galley to float the stove, and the fo' c's'tle was flooded,

too. And you couldn't sleep a wink. No place on the darned old tub

stayed still long enough for you to lie on it. And every one was soaked

to the skin all the time, with green seas boiling over the deck keeping

you busy jumping for the rat-lines to keep from being washed over.

Oh, it was all-wool-and-a-

yard-wide-Hell, I'll tell you. You ought to have been there. I remember

thinking about you at the worst of it when you couldn't force a breath

out against the wind, and saying to myself: 'This'd cure Rob of them

ideas of his about the beautiful sea, if he could see it.' And it

would have too, you bet! (He nods emphatically.)

ROBERT: And you don't see any romance in that?

ANDREW: Romance be blowed! It was hell! (As an afterthought)

Oh, I was forgetting! One of the men was washed overboard--a

Norwegian--Ollie

we called him. (With a grin of sarcasm) I suppose that's romance,

eh? Well,

it might be for a fish, but not for me, old man!

ROBERT: (Dryly) The sea doesn't seem to have impressed

you very favorably.

ANDREW: I should say it didn't! It's a dog's life. You work

like the devil and put up with all kinds of hardships--for what?

For a rotten wage you'd be ashamed to take on shore.

ROBERT: Then you're not going to--follow it up?

ANDREW: Not me! I'm through! I'll never set foot on a ship

again if I can help it--except to carry me some place I can't get

to by train. No. I've had enough. Dry land is the only place for me.

ROBERT: But you studied to become an officer!

ANDREW: Had to do something or I'd gone mad. The days were

like years. Nothing to look at but sea and sky. No place to go. A

regular prison.

(He laughs.) And as for the East you used to rave about--well,

you ought

to see it, and smell it! And the Chinks and Japs and Hindus and the

rest

of them--you can have them! One walk down one of their filthy narrow

streets with the tropic sun beating on it would sicken you for life

with the "wonder and mystery" you used to dream of. I can

say one thing for it though--it certainly has the stink market

cornered.

ROBERT: (Shrinking from his brother with a glance of

aversion) So all you found in the East was a stench?

ANDREW: A stench! Ten thousand of them! That and the damned

fever!

You can have the tropics, old man. I never want to see them again.

At that, there's lots of money to be made down there--for a white

man. The natives are too lazy to work, that's the only trouble.

ROBERT: But you did like some of the places, judging from

your letters--

Sydney, Buenos Aires--

ANDREW: Yes, Sydney's a good town. (Enthusiastically)

But Buenos Aires--

there's the place for you. Argentine's a country where a fellow has

a chance to make good. You're right I liked it. And I'll tell you,

Rob, that's right where I'm going just as soon as I've seen you folks

a while and can get a ship. I don't intend to pay for my passage now

I can get a berth as second officer, and I'll jump the ship when I

get there. I'll need every cent of the wages Uncle's paid me to get

a start at something in B A.

ROBERT: (Staring at his brother--slowly) So you're

not going to stay on the farm?

ANDREW: Why sure not! Did you think I was? There wouldn't

be any sense. One of us is enough to run this little place.

ROBERT: I suppose it does seem small to you now.

ANDREW: (Not noticing the sarcasm in ROBERT's

tone) You've no idea, Rob, what a splendid place Argentine is.

I went around Buenos Aires quite a lot and got to know people--English

speaking people, of course. The town is full of them. It's foreign

capital that's developed the country, you know.

I had a letter from a marine insurance chap that I'd made friends

with in Hong-Kong to his brother, who's in the grain business in Buenos

Aires.

He took quite a fancy to me, and what's more important, he offered

me a

job if I'd come back there. I'd have taken it on the spot, only I

couldn't leave Uncle Dick in the lurch, and I'd promised you folks

to come home. But

I'm going back there very soon, you bet, and then you watch me get

on!

(He slaps ROBERT on the back.) But don't you

think it's a big chance, Rob?

ROBERT: It's fine--for you, Andy.

ANDREW: We call this a farm--but you ought to hear about

the farms down there--ten square miles where we've got an acre.

It's a new country where big things are opening up--and I want

to get in on something big before I die. That job I'm offered'll furnish

the wedge. I'm no fool when it comes to farming, and I know something

about grain. I've been reading up a lot on it, too, lately. (He

notices ROBERT's absent-minded expression and laughs.)

Wake up, you old poetry book worm, you! I know my talking about business

makes you want to choke me, doesn't it?

ROBERT: (With an embarrassed smile) No, Andy, I--I

just happened to think

of something else. (Frowning) There've been lots of times lately

that I've wished I had some of your faculty for business.

ANDREW: (Soberly) There's something I want to talk

about, Rob,--the farm. You don't mind, do you?

ROBERT: No.

ANDREW: I walked over it this morning with Ruth--and she

told me about things-- (Evasively)--the hard luck you'd

had and how things stood at present--and about your thinking of

raising a mortgage.

ROBERT: (Bitterly) It's all true I guess, and probably

worse than she told you.

ANDREW: I could see the place had run down; but you mustn't

blame yourself. When luck's against anyone--

ROBERT: Don't, Andy! It is my fault--my inability. You

know it as well as I do. The best I've ever done was to make ends

meet, and this year I can't do that without the mortgage.

ANDREW: (After a pause) You mustn't raise the mortgage,

Rob. I've got over a thousand saved, and you can have that.

ROBERT: (Firmly) No. You need that for your start

in Buenos Aires.

ANDREW: I don't. I can--

ROBERT: (Determinedly) No, Andy! Once and for all,

no! I won't hear of it!

ANDREW: (Protestingly) You obstinate old son of a

gun! (There is a pause.) Well, I'll do the best I can while

I'm here. I'll get a real man to superintend things for you--if

he can be got. That'll relieve you some. If he gets results, you can

afford to pay him.

ROBERT: Oh, everything'll be on a sound footing after harvest.

Don't worry about it.

ANDREW: (Doubtfully) Maybe. The prospects don't look

so bad.

ROBERT: And then I can pay the mortgage off again. It's just

to tide over.

ANDREW: (After a pause) I wish you'd let me help,

Rob.

ROBERT: (With a tone of finality) No. Please don't

suggest it any more.

My mind's made up on that point.

ANDREW: (Slapping his brother on the back--with forced

joviality) Well, anyway, you've got to promise to let me step in

when I've made my pile; and I'll make it down there, I'm certain;

and it won't take me long, either.

ROBERT: I've no doubt you will with your determination.

ANDREW: I'll be able to pay off all the mortgages you can

raise! Still, a mortgage isn't such a bad thing at that--it makes

a place heaps easier to sell--and you may want to cut loose from

this farm some day--come down and join me in Buenos Aires, that's

the ticket.

ROBERT: If I had only myself to consider--

ANDREW: Yes, I suppose they wouldn't want to come. (After

a pause) It's too bad Pa couldn't have lived to see things through.

(With feeling) It cut me up a lot--hearing he was dead.

Tell me about it. You didn't say much in your letter.

ROBERT: (Evasively) He's at peace, Andy. It'll only

make you feel bad to talk of it.

ANDREW: He never--softened up, did he--about me, I

mean?

ROBERT: He never understood, that's a kinder way of putting

it. He does now.

ANDREW: (After a pause) You've forgotten all about

what--caused me to go, haven't you Rob?

(ROBERT nods but keeps his face averted.)

ANDREW: I was a slushier damn fool in those days than you

were. But it was an act of Providence I did go. It opened my eyes

to how I'd been fooling myself. Why, I'd forgotten all about--that--before

I'd been at sea six months.

ROBERT: (Turns and looks into ANDREW's

eyes searchingly) You're speaking of--Ruth?

ANDREW: (Confused) Yes. I didn't want you to get false

notions in your head, or I wouldn't say anything. (Looking ROBERT

squarely in the eyes) I'm telling you the truth when I say I'd

forgotten long ago. It don't sound well for me, getting over things

so easy, but I guess it never really amounted to more than a kid idea

I was letting rule me. I'm certain now I never was in love--

I was getting fun out of thinking I was--and being a hero to myself.

(He heaves a great sigh of relief.) There! Gosh, I'm glad that's

off my chest.

I've been feeling sort of awkward ever since I've been home, thinking

of what you two might think. (A trace of appeal in his voice)

You've got it all straight now, haven't you, Rob?

ROBERT: (In a low voice) Yes, Andy.

ANDREW: And I'll tell Ruth, too, if I can get up the nerve.

She must feel kind of funny having me round--after what used to

be--and not knowing how I feel about it.

ROBERT: (Slowly) Perhaps--for her sake--you'd

better not tell her.

ANDREW: For her sake? Oh, you mean she wouldn't want to be

reminded of my foolishness? Still, I think it'd be worse if--

ROBERT: (Breaking out--in an agonized voice) Do

as you please, Andy; but for God's sake, let's not talk about it!

(There is a pause. ANDREW stares at ROBERT

in hurt stupefaction. ROBERT continues after a moment

in a voice which he vainly attempts to keep calm.)

ROBERT: Excuse me, Andy. This rotten headache has my nerves

shot to pieces.

ANDREW: (Mumbling) It's all right, Rob--long as

you're not sore at me.

ROBERT: Where did Uncle Dick disappear to this morning?

ANDREW: He went down to the port to see to things on the

Sunda. He said he didn't know exactly when he'd be back. I'll

have to go down and tend

to the ship when he comes. That's why I dressed up in these togs.

MARY: (Pointing down the hill to the left) See Dada!

Mama! Mama! (She jumps to her feet and starts to run down the

path.)

ANDREW: (Standing and looking down) Yes, here comes

Ruth. Must be looking for you, I guess. (Jumping forward and stopping

MARY) Hey up! You mustn't run down hill like that,

little girl. You'll take a bad fall, don't you know it?

ROBERT: Stay here and wait for your mother, Mary.

MARY: (Struggling to her feet) No! No! Mama! Dada!

ANDREW: Here she is!

(RUTH appears at left. She is dressed in white,

shows she has been fixing up.

She looks pretty, flushed and full of life.)

MARY: (Running to her mother) Mama!

RUTH: (Kissing her) Hello, dear! (She walks toward

the rock and addresses ROBERT coldly.) Jake wants

to see you about something. He finished working where he was. He's

waiting for you at the road.

ROBERT: (Getting up--wearily) I'll go down right

away. (As he looks at RUTH, noting her changed appearance,

his face darkens with pain.)

RUTH: And take Mary with you, please. (To MARY)

Go with Dada, that's a good girl. Grandma has your dinner most ready

for you.

ROBERT: (Shortly) Come, Mary!

MARY: (Taking his hand and dancing happily beside him)

Dada! Dada!

(They go down the hill to the left. RUTH looks after

them for a moment, frowning--then turns to ANDY with

a smile.)

RUTH: I'm going to sit down. Come on, Andy. It'll be like

old times.

(She jumps lightly to the top of the rock and sits down.) It's

so fine and cool

up here after the house.

ANDREW: (Half-sitting on the side of the boulder)

Yes. It's great.

RUTH: I've taken a holiday in honor of your arrival--from

work in the kitchen. (Laughing excitedly) I feel so free I'd

like to have wings and fly over the sea. You're a man. You can't know

how awful and stupid it is--cooking and washing dishes all the

time.

ANDREW: (Making a wry face) I can guess.

RUTH: Besides, your mother just insisted on getting your

first dinner to home, she's that happy at having you back. You'd think

I was planning

to poison you the flurried way she shooed me out of the kitchen.

ANDREW: That's just like Ma, bless her!

RUTH: She's missed you terrible. We all have. And you can't

deny the farm has, after what I showed you and told you when we was

looking over the place this morning.

ANDREW: (With a frown) Things are run down, that's

a fact! It's too darn hard on poor old Rob.

RUTH: (Scornfully) It's his own fault. He never takes

any interest in things.

ANDREW: (Reprovingly) You can't blame him. He wasn't

born for it; but I know he's done his best for your sake and the old

folks and the little girl.

RUTH: (Indifferently) Yes, I suppose he has. (Gaily)

But thank the Lord, all those days are over now. The "hard luck"

Rob's always blaming won't last long when you take hold, Andy. All

the farm's ever needed was someone with the knack of looking ahead

and preparing for what's going to happen.

ANDREW: Yes, Rob hasn't got that. He's frank to own up to

that himself.

I'm going to try and hire a good man for him--an experienced farmer--

to work the place on a salary and percentage. That'll take it off

of Rob's hands, and he needn't be worrying himself to death any more.

He looks

all worn out, Ruth. He ought to be careful.

RUTH: (Absent-mindedly) Yes, I s'pose. (Her mind

is filled with premonitions by the first part of his statement.)

ANDREW: It would be a good idea if Rob could pull out of

here--get a job in town on a newspaper, or something connected

with writing--and this plan of mine'd give him a chance.

RUTH: (Vaguely) He's always wanted to get away. (Suspiciously)

Why do you want to hire a man to oversee things? Seems as if now that

you're back it wouldn't be needful.

ANDREW: Oh, of course I'll attend to everything while I'm

here. I mean after I'm gone.

RUTH: (As if she couldn't believe her ears) Gone!

ANDREW: Yes. When I leave for the Argentine again.

RUTH: (Aghast) You're going away to sea again!

ANDREW: Not to sea, no; I'm through with the sea for good

as a job.

I'm going down to Buenos Aires to get in the grain business.

RUTH: But--that's way far off--isn't it?

ANDREW: (Easily) Six thousand miles more or less.

It's quite a trip.

(With enthusiasm) I've got a peach of a chance down there,

Ruth. Ask Rob

if I haven't. I've just been telling him all about it. I won't bother

you by repeating. Rob can tell you.

RUTH: (A flush of anger coming over her face) And

didn't he try to stop you from going?

ANDREW: (In surprise) No, of course not. Why?

RUTH: (Slowly and vindictively) That's just like him--not

to.

ANDREW: (Resentfully) Rob's too good a chum to try

and stop me when he knows I'm set on a thing. And he could see just

as soon's I told him what a good chance it was. You ask him about

it.

RUTH: (Dazedly) And you're bound on going?

ANDREW: Sure thing. Oh, I don't mean right off. I'll have

to wait for a ship sailing there for quite a while, likely. Anyway,

I want to stay to home and visit with you folks a spell before I go.

RUTH: (Dumbly) I s'pose. (With sudden anguish)

Oh, Andy, you can't go!

You can't. Why we've all thought--we've all been hoping and praying

you was coming home to stay, to settle down on the farm and see to

things. You mustn't go! Think of how your Ma'll take on if you go--and

how the farm'll be ruined if you leave it to Rob to look after. You

can see that.

ANDREW: (Frowning) Rob hasn't done so bad. When I

get a man to direct things the farm'll be safe enough.

RUTH: (Insistently) But your Ma--think of her.

ANDREW: She's used to me being away. She won't object when

she knows it's best for her and all of us for me to go. You ask Rob.

In a couple of years down there I'll make my pile, see if I don't;

and then I'll come back and settle down and turn this farm to the

crackiest place in the whole state.

In the meantime, I can help you both from down there. (Earnestly)

I tell you, Ruth, I'm going to make good right from the minute I land,

if working hard and a determination to get on can do it; and I know

they can! I'll have money and lots of it before long, and none of

you'll have to worry about

this pesky little farm any more. (Excitedly--in a rather boastful

tone) I tell you, I feel ripe for bigger things than settling down

here. The trip did that for me, anyway. It showed me the world in

a larger proposition than ever I thought it was in the old days. I

couldn't be content any more stuck here like a fly in molasses. There

ain't enough to do. It all seems trifling, somehow. You ought to be

able to understand what I feel.

RUTH: (Dully) Yes--I s'pose I ought.

ANDREW: I felt sure you'd see; and wait till Rob tells you

about--

RUTH: (A dim suspicion forming in her mind--interrupting

him) What did he tell you--about me?

ANDREW: Tell? About you? Why, nothing.

RUTH: (Staring at him intensely) Are you telling me

the truth, Andy Mayo? Didn't he say--I--(She stops confusedly.)

ANDREW: (Surprised) No, he didn't mention you, I can

remember. Why? What made you think he did?

RUTH: (Wringing her hands) Oh, I wish I could tell

if you're lying or not!

ANDREW: (Indignantly) What're you talking about? I

didn't used to lie to you, did I? And what in the name of God is there

to lie for?

RUTH: (Still unconvinced) Are you sure--will you

swear--it isn't the reason-- (She lowers her eyes and half

turns away from him.) The same reason that made you go last time

that's driving you away again? 'Cause if it is--

I was going to say--you mustn't go--on that account. (Her

voice sinks to a tremulous, tender whisper as she finishes.)

ANDREW: (Confused--forces a laugh) Oh, is that

what you're driving at? Well, you needn't worry about that no more--

(Soberly) I don't blame you, Ruth, feeling embarrassed having

me around again, after the way I played the dumb fool about going

away last time. You'll have to put it down to me just being young

and foolish and not responsible for my actions--and forgive me

and forget it. Will you?

RUTH: (In anguish buries her face in her hands) Oh,

Andy!

ANDREW: (Misunderstanding) I know I oughtn't to talk

about such foolishness to you. Still I figure it's better to get it

out of my system so's we three can be together same's years ago, and

not be worried thinking one of us might have the wrong notion. No,

don't you fret about me having any such reason for going this time.

I'm not a calf any more. Why honest, Ruth, before the ship got to

Hong Kong I'd near forgot all that part of it. All I remembered was

the awful scrap I'd had with Pa--and I was darned cut

up about that.

RUTH: Andy! Please! Don't!

ANDREW: Let me finish now that I've started. It'll help clear

things up.

I don't want you to think once a fool always a fool, and be upset

all the

time I'm here on my fool account. I want you to believe I put all

that silly nonsense back of me a long time ago--and now--it

seems--well--as if you'd always been my sister, that's what,

Ruth.

RUTH: (At the end of her endurance--laughing hysterically)

For God's sake, Andy--won't you please stop talking! (She again

hides her face in her hands, her bowed shoulders trembling.)

ANDREW: (Ruefully) Seem's if I put my foot in it whenever

I open my mouth today. Rob shut me up with almost them same words

when I tried speaking to him about it.

RUTH: (Fiercely) You told him--what you've told

me?

ANDREW: (Astounded) Why sure! Why not?

RUTH: (Shuddering) Oh, my God!

ANDREW: (Alarmed) Why? Shouldn't I have?

RUTH: (Hysterically) Oh, I don't care what you do!

I don't care! Leave me alone!

(ANDREW gets up and walks down the hill to the left,

embarrassed, hurt, and greatly puzzled by her behavior.)

ANDREW: (After a pause--pointing down the hill)

Hello! Here they come back--

and the Captain's with them. How'd he come to get back so soon, I

wonder? That means I've got to hustle down to the port and get on

board. Rob's got the baby with him.

(He comes back to the boulder. RUTH keeps her face averted

from him.)

ANDREW: Gosh, I never saw a father so tied up in a kid as

Rob is! He just watches every move she makes. And I don't blame him.

You both got a right to feel proud of her. She's surely a little winner.

(He glances at RUTH to see if this very obvious

attempt to get back in her good graces is having any effect.)

I can see the likeness to Rob standing out all over her, can't you?

But there's no denying she's your young one, either. There's something

about her eyes--

RUTH: (Piteously) Oh, Andy, I've a headache! I don't

want to talk! Leave me alone, won't you please?

ANDREW: (Stands staring at her for a moment--then

walks away saying in a hurt tone) Everybody hereabouts seems to

be on edge today. I begin to feel as if I'm not wanted around.

(He stands near the path, left, kicking at the grass with the

toe of his shoe. A moment later CAPTAIN DICK

SCOTT enters, followed by ROBERT carrying

MARY. The CAPTAIN seems scarcely to have

changed at all from the jovial, booming person he was three years

before. He wears a uniform similar to ANDREW's. He is

puffing and breathless from his climb and mops wildly at his perspiring

countenance. ROBERT casts a quick glance at ANDREW,

noticing the latter's discomfited look,

and then turns his eyes on RUTH who, at their approach,

has moved so her back

is toward them, her chin resting on her hands as she stares out seaward.)

MARY: Mama! Mama!

(ROBERT puts her down and she runs to her mother.

RUTH turns and grabs her up in her arms with a sudden

fierce tenderness, quickly turning away again from the others. During

the following scene she keeps MARY in her arms.)

SCOTT: (Wheezily) Phew! I got great news for you,

Andy. Let me get my wind first. Phew! God A'mighty, mountin' this

damned hill is worser'n goin' aloft to the skys'l yard in a blow.

I got to lay to a while. (He sits down on the grass, mopping his

face.)

ANDREW: I didn't look for you this soon, Uncle.

SCOTT: I didn't figger it, neither; but I run across a bit

o' news down to the Seamen's Home made me 'bout ship and set all sail

back here to find you.

ANDREW: (Eagerly) What is it, Uncle?

SCOTT: Passin' by the Home I thought I'd drop in an' let

'em know I'd be lackin' a mate next trip count o' your leavin'. Their

man in charge o' the shippin' asked after you 'special curious. 'Do

you think he'd consider a berth as Second on a steamer, Captain?'

he asks. I was goin' to say no when I thinks o' you wantin' to get

back down south to the Plate agen; so I asks him: 'What is she and

where's she bound?' 'She's the El Paso, a brand new tramp,' he says,

'and she's bound for Buenos Aires.'

ANDREW: (His eyes lighting up--excitedly) Gosh,

that is luck! When does she sail?

SCOTT: Tomorrow mornin'. I didn't know if you'd want to ship

away agen so quick an' I told him so. 'Tell him I'll hold the berth

open for him until late this afternoon,' he says. So I said I'd tell

you an' I catches the first car back to town. So there you be, an'

you can make your own choice.

ANDREW: I'd like to take it. There may not be another ship

for Buenos Aires with a vacancy in months. (His eyes roving from

ROBERT to RUTH and back again--uncertainly)

Still--damn it all--tomorrow morning is soon. I wish she wasn't

leaving for a week or so. That'd give me a chance--it seems hard

to go right away again when I've just got home. And yet it's a chance

in a thousand-- (Appealing to ROBERT) What

do you think, Rob? What would you do?

ROBERT: (Forcing a smile) He who hesitates, you know.

(Frowning) It's a piece of good luck thrown in your way--and--from

what you've told me of your plans--I think you owe it to yourself

to jump at it. But don't ask me to decide for you.

RUTH: (Turning to look at ANDREW; in a

tone of fierce resentment) Yes go, Andy! (She turns quickly

away again. There is a moment of embarrassed silence.)

ANDREW: (Thoughtfully) Yes, I guess I will. It'll

be the best thing for all of us in the end, don't you think so, Rob?

(ROBERT nods but remains silent.)

SCOTT: (Getting to his feet) Then, that's settled.

ANDREW: (Now that he has definitely made a decision his

voice rings with hopeful strength and energy.) Yes, I'll take the

berth. The sooner I go the sooner I'll be back, that's a certainty;

and I won't come back with empty hands next time. You bet I won't!

SCOTT: You ain't got so much time, Andy. To make sure you'd

best leave here soon's you kin. You can't put too much trust in them

fellers. I got to

get right back aboard. You'd best come with me.

ANDREW: I'll go to the house and repack my bag right away.

ROBERT: (Quietly) You'll both be here for dinner,

won't you?

ANDREW: (Worriedly) I don't know. Will there be time?

What time is it now,

I wonder?

ROBERT: (Reproachfully) Ma's been getting dinner especially

for you, Andy.

ANDREW: (Flushing--shamefacedly) Hell! And I was

forgetting! I'm a damn fool. Of course I'll stay for dinner if I missed

every damned ship in the world. (He turns to the CAPTAIN--briskly.)

Come on, Uncle. Walk down

with me to the house and you can tell me more about this berth on

the way. I've got to pack before dinner.

(He and the CAPTAIN start down to the left. ANDREW

calls back over his shoulder.)

ANDREW: You're coming soon, aren't you, Rob?

ROBERT: Yes. I'll be right down.

(ANDREW and the CAPTAIN leave. RUTH

puts MARY on the ground and hides

her face in her hands. Her shoulders shake as if she were sobbing.

ROBERT stares

at her with a grim, somber expression. MARY walks backward

toward ROBERT,

her wondering eyes fixed on her mother.)

MARY: (Her voice vaguely frightened, taking her father's

hand) Dada, Mama's cryin', Dada.

ROBERT: (Bending down and stroking her hair--in a

voice he endeavors to keep from being harsh) No, she isn't, little

girl. The sun hurts her eyes, that's all. Aren't you beginning to

feel hungry, Mary?

MARY: (Decidedly) Yes, Dada.

ROBERT: (Meaningly) It must be your dinner time now.

RUTH: (In a muffled voice) I'm coming, Mary. (She

wipes her eyes quickly and, without looking at ROBERT,

comes and takes MARY's hand--in a dead voice.)

Come on and I'll get your dinner for you. (She walks out left,

her eyes fixed on the ground, the skipping MARY tugging at her hand.

ROBERT waits a moment for them to get ahead and then

slowly follows as the curtain falls.)

END OF ACT TWO

ACT THREE

Scene One

(Same as ACT TWO, Scene One--The sitting room of the farm house

about six o'clock in the morning of a day toward the end of October

five years later. It is not yet dawn, but as the action progresses

the darkness outside the windows gradually fades to grey.)

(The room, seen by the light of the shadeless oil lamp with a

smoky chimney which stands on the table, presents an appearance of

decay, of dissolution. The curtains at the windows are torn and dirty

and one of them is missing. The closed desk is grey with accumulated

dust as if it had not been used in years. Blotches of dampness disfigure

the wall paper. Threadbare trails, leading to the kitchen and outer

doors, show in the faded carpet. The top of the coverless table is

stained with the imprints of hot dishes and spilt food. The rung of

one rocker has been clumsily mended with a piece of plain board. A

brown coating of rust covers the unblacked stove. A pile of wood is

stacked up carelessly against the wall by the stove.)

(The whole atmosphere of the room, contrasted with that of former

years, is one

of an habitual poverty too hopelessly resigned to be any longer ashamed

or even conscious of itself.)

(At the rise of the curtain RUTH is discovered sitting

by the stove, with hands outstretched to the warmth as if the air

in the room were damp and cold. A heavy shawl is wrapped about her

shoulders, half-concealing her dress of deep mourning. She has aged

horribly. Her pale, deeply lined face has the stony lack of expression

of one to whom nothing more can ever happen, whose capacity for emotion

has been exhausted. When she speaks her voice is without timbre, low

and monotonous.

The negligent disorder of her dress, the slovenly arrangement of her

hair, now streaked with grey, her muddied shoes run down at the heel,

give full evidence

of the apathy in which she lives.)

(Her mother is asleep in her wheel chair beside the stove toward

the rear, wrapped up in a blanket.)

(There is a sound from the open bedroom door in the rear as if

someone were getting out of bed. RUTH turns in that

direction with a look of dull annoyance. A moment later ROBERT

appears in the doorway, leaning weakly against it for support. His

hair is long and unkempt, his face and body emaciated. There are bright

patches of crimson over his cheek bones and his eyes are burning with

fever. He is dressed in corduroy pants, a flannel shirt, and wears

worn carpet slippers on his bare feet.)

RUTH: (Dully) S-s-s-h-h! Ma's asleep.

ROBERT: (Speaking with an effort) I won't wake her.

(He walks weakly to a rocker by the side of the table and sinks

down in it exhausted.)

RUTH: (Staring at the stove) You better come near

the fire where it's warm.

ROBERT: No. I'm burning up now.

RUTH: That's the fever. You know the doctor told you not

to get up and move round.

ROBERT: (Irritably) That old fossil! He doesn't know

anything. Go to bed

and stay there--that's his only prescription.

RUTH: (Indifferently) How are you feeling now?

ROBERT: (Buoyantly) Better! Much better than I've

felt in ages. Really I'm quite healthy now--only very weak. It's

the turning point, I guess. From now on I'll pick up so quick I'll

surprise you--and no thanks to that old

fool of a country quack, either.

RUTH: He's always tended to us.

ROBERT: Always helped us to die, you mean! He "tended"

to Pa and Ma and--(His voice breaks.)--and to--Mary.

RUTH: (Dully) He did the best he knew, I s'pose. (After

a pause) Well, Andy's bringing a specialist with him when he comes.

That ought to suit you.

ROBERT: (Bitterly) Is that why you're waiting up all

night?

RUTH: Yes.

ROBERT: For Andy?

RUTH: (Without a trace of feeling) Somebody had got

to, when he's bringing that doctor with him. You can't tell when he

might get here if he's coming from the port in an auto like he telegraphed

us. And besides it's only right for someone to meet him after he's

been gone five years.

ROBERT: (With bitter mockery) Five years! It's a long

time.

RUTH: Yes.

ROBERT: (Meaningly) To wait!

RUTH: (Indifferently) It's past now.

ROBERT: Yes, it's past. (After a pause) Have you got

his two telegrams with you?

(RUTH nods.)

ROBERT: Let me see them, will you? My head was so full of

fever when they came I couldn't make head or tail to them. (Hastily)

But I'm feeling fine now. Let me read them again.

(RUTH takes them from the bosom of her dress and

hands them to him.)

RUTH: Here. The first one's on top.

ROBERT: (Opening it) New York. "Just landed from

steamer. Have important business to wind up here. Will be home as

soon as deal is completed."

(He smiles bitterly.) Business first was always Andy's motto.

(He reads.) "Hope you are all well. Andy." (He

repeats ironically.) "Hope you are all well!"

RUTH: (Dully) He couldn't know you'd been took sick

till I answered that and told him.

ROBERT: (Contritely) Of course he couldn't. You're

right. I'm a fool. I'm touchy about nothing lately. Just what did

you say in your reply? I forget.

RUTH: (Inconsequentially) I had to send it collect.

(ROBERT frowns.)

RUTH: I wrote you were pretty low and for him to hurry up

here.

ROBERT: (Irritably) He'll think I'm dying or some

such foolishness. What an idiotic exaggeration! What did you say was

the matter with me? Did you mention that?

RUTH: I wrote you had lung trouble--just those two words.

(Dully) The boy said it wouldn't cost any more for two words.

ROBERT: (Flying into a petty temper) You are a fool!

How often have I explained to you that it's pleurisy is the

matter with me. You can't seem

to get it in your head that the pleura is outside the lungs, not in

them!

RUTH: (Callously) I only wrote what Doctor Smith told

me.

ROBERT: (Angrily) He's a damned ignoramus!

RUTH: (Dully) Makes no difference. I had to tell Andy

something, didn't I?

ROBERT: (After a pause, opening the other telegram)

He sent this last evening. Let's see. (He reads.) "Leave

for home on midnight train. Just received your wire. Am bringing specialist

to see Rob. Will motor to farm from Port."

(He calculates.) The midnight gets in the Port about four-thirty,

I think, or five. It should take a car an hour or more to get here.

What time is it now?

RUTH: Round six, must be.

ROBERT: He ought to be here soon. I'm glad he's bringing

a doctor who knows something. I'm tired of being at the mercy of that

cheap old quack.

A specialist will tell you in a second that there's nothing the matter

with my lungs.

RUTH: (Stolidly) You've been coughing an awful lot

lately.

ROBERT: (Irritably) What nonsense! For God's sake,

haven't you ever had a bad cold yourself?

(RUTH stares at the stove in silence. ROBERT

fidgets in his chair. There is a pause. Finally ROBERT's

eyes are fixed on the sleeping MRS ATKINS.)

ROBERT: Your mother is lucky to be able to sleep so soundly.

RUTH: Ma's tired. She's been sitting up with me most of the

night.

ROBERT: (Mockingly) Is she waiting for Andy, too?

(There is a pause. He sighs.) I couldn't get to sleep to save

my soul. I counted ten million sheep if I counted one. No use! My

brain kept pounding out thoughts as if its life depended on it. I

gave up trying finally and just laid there in the dark thinking. (He

pauses, then continues in a tone of tender sympathy.) I was thinking

about you, Ruth--of how hard these last years must have been

for you. (Appealingly) I'm sorry, Ruth.

RUTH: (In a dead voice) I don't know. They're past

now. They were hard on all of us.

ROBERT: Yes; on all of us but Andy. (With a flash of

sick jealousy) Andy's made a big success of himself--the kind

he wanted. He's got lots of money and,

I suppose, a reputation for being a sharp business man. (Mockingly)

What else is there in life to wish for, eh, Ruth? And now he's coming

home to let us admire his greatness. (Frowning--irritably)

What does it matter? What am I talking about? My brain must be sick,

too. (After a pause) Yes, these years have been terrible for

both of us. (His voice is lowered to a trembling whisper.)

Especially the last eight months since Mary--died. (He forces

back a sob with

a convulsive shudder--then breaks out in a passionate agony.)

Our last hope of happiness! I could curse God from the bottom of my

soul--if there was a God! (He is racked by a violent fit of

coughing and hurriedly puts his handkerchief to his lips.)

RUTH: (Without looking at him) Mary's better off--being

dead.

ROBERT: (Gloomily) We'd all be better off for that

matter. (With sudden exasperation) You tell that mother of

yours she's got to stop saying that Mary's death was due to a weak

constitution inherited from me. (On the verge of tears of weakness)

It's got to stop, I tell you!

RUTH: (Sullenly) She's only saying what Doctor Smith

said.

ROBERT: (Fiercely) He's an old ass, and I'll tell

him if--

RUTH: (Sharply) S-h-h! You'll wake her; and then she'll

nag at me--not you.

ROBERT: (Coughs and lies back in his chair weakly--a

pause) It's all because your mother's down on me for not begging

Andy for help when things got worse here.

RUTH: (Resentfully) You might have. He's got plenty,

if what he says is true.

ROBERT: How can you of all people think of taking money from

him?

RUTH: (Dully) I don't see the harm. He's your own

brother.

ROBERT: (Shrugging his shoulders) What's the use of

talking to you? Well,

I couldn't. (Proudly) And I've managed to keep things going,

thank God. You can't deny that without help I've succeeded in--

(He breaks off with a bitter laugh.) My God, what am I boasting

of? Debts to this one and that, taxes, interest unpaid! I'm a fool!

(He lies back in his chair closing his eyes for

a moment, then speaks in a low voice.) I'll be frank, Ruth. I've

been an utter failure, and I've dragged you with me. I couldn't blame

you in all justice--for hating me.

RUTH: (Without feeling) I don't hate you. It's been

my fault too, I s'pose.

ROBERT: No. You couldn't help loving--Andy.

RUTH: (Dully) I don't love anyone.

ROBERT: (Waving her remark aside) You needn't deny

it. It doesn't matter. (After a pause--with a tender smile)

Do you know Ruth, what I've been dreaming back there in the dark?

(With a short laugh) It may sound silly

of me but--I was planning our future when I get well.

(He looks at her with appealing eyes as if afraid she will sneer

at him. Her expression does not change. She stares at the stove. His

voice takes on a note of eagerness.)

ROBERT: After all, why shouldn't we have a future? We're

young yet. If we can only shake off the curse of this farm! It's the

farm that's ruined our lives, damn it! And now that Andy's coming

back--I'm going to sink my foolish pride, Ruth! I'll borrow the

money from him to give us a good start in the city. We'll go where

people live instead of stagnating, and start all over again. (Confidently)

I won't be the failure there that I've been here, Ruth.

You won't need to be ashamed of me there. I'll prove to you the reading

I've done can be put to some use. (Vaguely) I'll write, or

something of that sort. I've always wanted to write. (Pleadingly)

You'll want to do that, won't you, Ruth?

RUTH: (Dully) There's Ma.

ROBERT: She can come with us.

RUTH: She wouldn't.

ROBERT: (Angrily) So that's your answer!

(He trembles with violent passion. His voice is so strange that

RUTH turns to look at him in alarm.)

ROBERT: You're lying, Ruth! Your mother's just an excuse.

You want to stay here. You think that because Andy's coming back that--

(He chokes and has an attack of coughing.)

RUTH: (Getting up--in a frightened voice) What's

the matter? (She goes to him.) I'll go with you, Rob. I don't

care for Andy like you think. Stop that coughing for goodness sake!

It's awful bad for you. (She soothes him in dull tones.) I'll

go with you to the city--soon's you're well again. Honest I will,

Rob, I promise!

(ROBERT lies back and closes his eyes. She stands

looking down at him anxiously.)

RUTH: Do you feel better now?

ROBERT: Yes.

(RUTH goes back to her chair. After a pause he opens

his eyes and sits up in his chair. His face is flushed and happy.)

ROBERT: Then you will go, Ruth?

RUTH: Yes.

ROBERT: (Excitedly) We'll make a new start, Ruth--just

you and I. Life owes us some happiness after what we've been through.

(Vehemently) It must! Otherwise our suffering would be meaningless--and

that is unthinkable.

RUTH: (Worried by his excitement) Yes, yes, of course,

Rob, but you mustn't--

ROBERT: Oh, don't be afraid. I feel completely well, really

I do--now that

I can hope again. Oh if you knew how glorious it feels to have something

to look forward to--not just a dream, but something tangible, something

already within our grasp! Can't you feel the thrill of it, too--the

vision of

a new life opening up after all the horrible years?

RUTH: Yes, yes, but do be--

ROBERT: Nonsense! I won't be careful. I'm getting back all

my strength.

(He gets lightly to his feet.) See! I feel light as a feather.

(He walks to her chair and bends down to kiss her smilingly.)

One kiss--the first in years, isn't it?--

to greet the dawn of a new life together.

RUTH: (Submitting to his kiss--worriedly) Sit down,

Rob, for goodness' sake!

ROBERT: (With tender obstinacy--stroking her hair)

I won't sit down.

You're silly to worry. (He rests one hand on the back of her chair.)

Listen.

All our suffering has been a test through which we had to pass to

prove ourselves worthy of a finer realization. (Exultingly)

And we did pass through it! It hasn't broken us! And now the dream

is to come true!

Don't you see?

RUTH: (Looking at him with frightened eyes as if she

thought he had gone mad) Yes, Rob, I see; but won't you go back

to bed now and rest?

ROBERT: No. I'm going to see the sun rise. It's an augury

of good fortune.

(He goes quickly to the window in the rear, left, and pushing

the curtains aside, stands looking out. RUTH springs

to her feet and comes quickly to the table, left, where she remains

watching ROBERT in a tense, expectant attitude. As he

peers out his body seems gradually to sag, to grow limp and tired.

His voice is mournful as he speaks.)

ROBERT: No sun yet. It isn't time. All I can see is the black

rim of the damned hills outlined against a creeping greyness. (He

turns around, letting the curtains fall back, stretching a hand out

to the wall to support himself. His false strength of a moment has

evaporated leaving his face drawn and hollow eyed.

He makes a pitiful attempt to smile.) That's not a very happy augury,

is it?

But the sun'll come--soon. (He sways weakly.)

RUTH: (Hurrying to his side and supporting him) Please

go to bed, won't you, Rob? You don't want to be all wore out when

the specialist comes, do you?

ROBERT: (Quickly) No. That's right. He mustn't think

I'm sicker than I am. And I feel as if I could sleep now--(Cheerfully)--a

good, sound, restful sleep.

RUTH: (Helping him to the bedroom door) That's what

you need most.

(They go inside. A moment later she reappears calling back.)

RUTH: I'll shut this door so's you'll be quiet. (She

closes the door and goes quickly to her mother and shakes her by the

shoulder.) Ma! Ma! Wake up!

MRS ATKINS: (Coming out of her sleep with a

start) Glory be! What's the matter with you?

RUTH: It was Rob. He's just been talking to me out here.

I put him back

to bed. (Now that she is sure her mother is awake her fear passes

and she relapses into dull indifference. She sits down in her chair

and stares at the stove--dully.)

He acted--funny; and his eyes looked so--so wild like.

MRS ATKINS: (With asperity) And is that all

you woke me out of a sound sleep for, and scared me near out of my

wits?

RUTH: I was afraid. He talked so crazy--staring out of

the window as if

he saw--something--and speaking about the hills, and wanting

to see

the sun rise--and all such notions. I couldn't quiet him. It was

like he used to talk--only mad, kind of. I didn't want to be alone

with him that way. Lord knows what he might do.

MRS ATKINS: (Scornfully) Humph! A poor help

I'd be to you and me not

able to move a step! Why didn't you run and get Jake?

RUTH: (Dully) Jake isn't here. I thought I'd told

you. He quit last night.

He hasn't been paid in three months. You can't blame him.

MRS ATKINS: (Indignantly) No, I can't blame

him when I come to think of it. What decent person'd want to work

on a place like this? (With sudden exasperation) Oh, I wish

you'd never married that man!

RUTH: (Wearily) You oughtn't to talk about him now

when he's sick in his bed.

MRS ATKINS: (Working herself into a fit of rage)

It's lucky for me and you, too,

I took my part of the place out of his hands years ago. You know very

well, Ruth Mayo, if it wasn't for me helpin' you on the sly out of

my savin's, you'd both been in the poor house--and all 'count of

his pig-headed pride in not lettin' Andy know the state thin's were

in. A nice thing for me to have to support him out of what I'd saved

for my last days--and me an invalid with no one to look to!

RUTH: Andy'll pay you back, Ma. I can tell him so's Rob'll

never know.

MRS ATKINS: (With a snort) What'd Rob think

you and him was livin' on,

I'd like to know?

RUTH: (Dully) He didn't think about it, I s'pose.

(After a slight pause)

He said he'd made up his mind to ask Andy for help when he comes.

(As a clock in the kitchen strikes six.)

RUTH: Six o'clock. Andy ought to get here directly.

MRS ATKINS: D'you think this special doctor'll do

Rob any good?

RUTH: (Hopelessly) I don't know.

(The two women remain silent for a time staring dejectedly at

the stove.)

MRS ATKINS: (Shivering irritably) For goodness'

sake put some wood on

that fire. I'm most freezin'!

RUTH: (Pointing to the door in the rear) Don't talk

so loud. Let him sleep if he can. (She gets wearily from the chair

and puts a few pieces of wood in the stove. Then she tiptoes to the

bedroom door and listens.)

MRS ATKINS: (In a sharp whisper) Is he sleepin'?

RUTH: (Coming back) I couldn't hear him move. I s'pose

he is. (She puts another stick in the stove.) This is the last

of the wood in the pile. I don't

know who'll cut more now that Jake's left. (She sighs and walks

to the window in the rear, left, pulls the curtains aside, and looks

out.) It's getting grey out.

It'll be light soon and we can put out that lamp. (She comes back

to the stove.) Looks like it'd be a nice day. (She stretches

out her hands to warm them.) Must've been a heavy frost last night.

We're paying for the spell of warm weather we've been having.

(The throbbing whine of a motor sounds from the distance outside.)

MRS ATKINS: (Sharply) S-h-h! Listen! Ain't

that an auto I hear?

RUTH: (Without interest) Yes. It's Andy, I s'pose.

MRS ATKINS: (With nervous irritation) Don't

sit there like a silly goose.

Look at the state of this room! What'll this strange doctor think

of us?

Look at that lamp chimney all smoke! Gracious sakes, Ruth--

RUTH: (Indifferently) I've got a lamp all cleaned

up in the kitchen.

MRS ATKINS: (Peremptorily) Wheel me in there

this minute. I don't want him to see me looking a sight. I'll lay

down in the room the other side. You don't need me now and I'm dead

for sleep. I'll have plenty of time to see Andy.

(RUTH wheels her mother off right. The noise of

the motor grows louder and finally ceases as the car stops on the

road before the farmhouse. RUTH returns from the kitchen

with a lighted lamp in her hand which she sets on the table beside

the other. The sound of footsteps on the path is heard--then a

sharp rap on the door. RUTH goes and opens it. ANDREW

enters, followed by DOCTOR FAWCETT carrying

a small black bag. ANDREW has changed greatly. His face

seems to have grown high-strung, hardened by the look of decisiveness

which comes from being constantly under a strain where judgments on

the spur of the moment are compelled to be accurate. His eyes are

keener and more alert. There is even a suggestion of ruthless cunning

about them. At present, however, his expression is one of tense anxiety.

DOCTOR FAWCETT is a short, dark, middle-aged

man with a Vandyke beard. He wears glasses.)

RUTH: Hello, Andy! I've been waiting--

ANDREW: (Kissing her hastily) I know. I got here as

soon as I could.

(He throws off his cap and heavy overcoat on the table, introducing

RUTH and

the DOCTOR as he does so. He is dressed in an expensive

business suit and appears stouter.) My sister-in-law, Mrs. Mayo--Doctor

Fawcett.

(They bow to each other silently. ANDREW casts a

quick glance about the room.)

ANDREW: Where's Rob?

RUTH: (Pointing) In there.

ANDREW: I'll take your coat and hat, Doctor. (As he helps

the DOCTOR with his things) Is he very bad, Ruth?

RUTH: (Dully) He's been getting weaker.

ANDREW: Damn! This way, Doctor. Bring the lamp, Ruth.

(He goes into the bedroom, followed by the DOCTOR

and RUTH carrying the clean lamp. RUTH

reappears almost immediately closing the door behind her, and goes

slowly to the outside door, which she opens, and stands in the doorway

looking out. The sound of ANDREW's and ROBERT's

voices comes from the bedroom. A moment later ANDREW

re-enters, closing the door softly. He comes forward and sinks down

on the rocker on the right of table, leaning his head on his hand.

His face is drawn in a shocked expression of great grief. He sighs

heavily, staring mournfully in front of him. RUTH turns

and stands watching him. Then she shuts the door and returns to her

chair by the stove, turning it so she can face him.)

ANDREW: (Glancing up quickly--in a harsh voice)

How long has this been going on?

RUTH: You mean--how long has he been sick?

ANDREW: (Shortly) Of course! What else?

RUTH: It was last summer he had a bad spell first, but he's

been ailin' ever since Mary died--eight months ago.

ANDREW: (Harshly) Why didn't you let me know--cable

me? Do you want him to die, all of you? I'm damned if it doesn't look

that way! (His voice breaking) Poor old chap! To be sick in

this out-of-the-way hole without anyone to attend to him but a country

quack! It's a damned shame!

RUTH: (Dully) I wanted to send you word once, but

he only got mad when I told him. He was too proud to ask anything,

he said.

ANDREW: Proud? To ask me? (He jumps to his feet and paces

nervously back and forth.) I can't understand the way you've acted.

Didn't you see how sick he was getting? Couldn't you realize--why,

I nearly dropped in my tracks when I saw him! He looks--(He

shudders.)--terrible! (With fierce scorn)

I suppose you're so used to the idea of his being delicate that you

took his sickness as a matter of course. God, if I'd only known!

RUTH: (Without emotion) A letter takes so long to

get where you were--and we couldn't afford to telegraph. We owed

everyone already, and I couldn't ask Ma. She'd been giving me money

out of her savings for the last two years till she hadn't much left.

Don't say anything to Rob about it. I never told him. He'd only be

mad at me if he knew. But I had to, because--God knows how we'd

have got on if I hadn't.

ANDREW: You mean to say-- (His eyes seem to take in

the poverty-stricken appearance of the room for the first time.)

You sent that telegram to me collect. Was it because--

(RUTH nods silently. ANDREW pounds

on the table with his fist.)

Good God! And all this time I've been--why I've had everything!

(He sits down in his chair and pulls it close to RUTH's--impulsively.)

But--I can't get it through my head. Why? Why? What has happened?

How did it ever come about? Tell me!

RUTH: (Dully) There's nothing much to tell. Things

kept getting worse, that's all--and Rob didn't seem to care.

ANDREW: But hasn't he been working the farm?

RUTH: He never took any interest since way back when your

Ma died. After that he got men to take charge, and they nearly all

cheated him--he couldn't tell--and left one after another. And

then there'd be times when there was no one to see to it, when he'd

be looking to hire someone new. And the hands wouldn't stay. It was

hard to get them. They didn't want to work here, and as soon as they'd

get a chance to work some other place they'd leave. Then after Mary

died he didn't pay no heed to anything any more--

just stayed indoors and took to reading books again. So I had to ask

Ma if she wouldn't help us some.

ANDREW: (Surprised and horrified) Why, damn it, this

is frightful! Rob must be mad not to have let me know. Too proud to

ask help of me! It's an insane idea! It's crazy! And for Rob, of all

people, to feel that way! What's the matter with him in God's name?

He didn't appear to have changed when I was talking to him a second

ago. He seemed same old Rob--only very sick physically. (A

sudden, horrible suspicion, entering his mind) Ruth! Tell me the

truth. His mind hasn't gone back on him, has it?

RUTH: (Dully) I don't know. Mary's dying broke him

up terrible--but he's used to her being gone by this, I s'pose.

ANDREW: (Looking at her queerly) Do you mean to say

you're used to it?

RUTH: (In a dead tone) There's a time comes--when

you don't mind any more--anything.

ANDREW: (Looks at her fixedly for a moment--with great

pity) I'm sorry I talked the way I did just now, Ruth--if I

seemed to blame you. I didn't realize-- The sight of Rob lying

in bed there, so gone to pieces--it made me furious

at everyone. Forgive me, Ruth.

RUTH: There's nothing to forgive. It doesn't matter.

ANDREW: (Springing to his feet again and pacing up and

down) Thank God I came back before it was too late. This doctor

will know exactly what to do to bring him back to health. That's the

first thing to think of. When Rob's

on his feet again we can get the farm working on a sound basis once

more. I'll see to it so that you'll never have any more trouble--before

I leave.

RUTH: You're going away again?

ANDREW: Yes. Back to Argentine. I've got to.

RUTH: You wrote Rob you was coming back to stay this time.

ANDREW: I expected to--until I got to New York. Then I

learned certain

facts that make it necessary. (With a short laugh) To be candid,

Ruth, I'm not the rich man you've probably been led to believe by

my letters--not now.

I was when I wrote them. I made money hand over fist as long as I

stuck to legitimate trading; but I wasn't content with that. I wanted

it to come easier, so like all the rest of the idiots, I tried speculation.

It was funny, too. I'd always been dead set against that form of gambling

before. I guess there's still enough of the farmer in me to make me

feel squeamish about Wheat Pits. But I got into it just the same,

and it seemed as if I never had a chance to get out. Oh, I won all

right! Several times I've been almost a millionaire--

on paper--and then come down to earth again with a bump. Finally

the strain was too much. I got disgusted with myself and made up my

mind

to get out and come home and forget it and really live again. I got

out--

with just a quarter of a million dollars more than I'd had when I

landed there five years before. (He gives a harsh laugh.) And

now comes the funny part. The day before the steamer sailed I saw

what I thought was a chance

to become a millionaire again. (He snaps his fingers.) That

easy! I plunged. Then, before things broke, I left--I was so confident

I couldn't be wrong--

and I left explicit orders to friends. (Bitterly) Friends!

Well, maybe it wasn't their fault. A fool deserves what he gets. Anyway,

when I landed in New York--I wired you I had business to wind up,

didn't I? Well, it was the business that wound me up! (He smiles

grimly, pacing up and down, his hands in his pockets.)

RUTH: (Dully) You found--you'd lost everything?

ANDREW: (Sitting down again) Practically. (He

takes a cigar from his pocket,

bites the end off, and lights it.) Oh, I don't mean I'm dead broke.

I've saved ten thousand from the wreckage, maybe twenty. But that's

a poor showing for five years' hard work. That's why I'll have to

go back. (Confidently) I can make it up in a year or so down

there--and I don't need but a shoestring

to start with. (A weary expression comes over his face and he

sighs heavily.)

I wish I didn't have to. I'm sick of it all. And I'd made so many

plans

about converting this place into a real home for all of us, and a

working proposition that'd pay big at the same time. (With another

sigh) It'll have

to wait.

RUTH: It's too bad--things seem to go wrong so.

ANDREW: (Shaking of his depression--briskly) They

might be much worse. There's enough left to fix the farm O K before

I go. I won't leave 'til Rob's

on his feet again. In the meantime I'll make things fly around here.

(With satisfaction) I need a rest, and the kind of rest I need

is hard work in the open--just like I used to do in the old days.

I'll organize things on a working basis and get a real man to carry

out my plans while I'm away--

what I intended to do the last time. (Stopping abruptly and lowering

his voice cautiously) Not a word to Rob about my losing money!

Remember that, Ruth! You can see why. If he's grown so touchy he'd

never accept a cent

if he thought I was hard up; see?

RUTH: Yes, Andy.

(After a pause, during which ANDREW puffs at his

cigar abstractedly, his mind evidently busy with plans for the future,

the bedroom door is opened and DOCTOR FAWCETT

enters, carrying a bag. He closes the door quietly behind him and

comes forward, a grave expression on his face. ANDREW

springs out of his chair.)

ANDREW: Ah, Doctor! (He pushes a chair between his own

and RUTH's.)

Won't you have a chair?

FAWCETT: (Glancing at his watch) I must catch the

nine o'clock back to the city. It's imperative. I have only a moment.

(Sitting down and clearing his throat--in a perfunctory, impersonal

voice.) The case of your brother, Mr. Mayo, is-- (He stops

and glances at RUTH and says meaningly to ANDREW.)

Perhaps it would be better if you and I--

RUTH: (With dogged resentment) I know what you mean,

Doctor; but I'm not going. I'm his wife, and I've got a right to hear

what you're going to say. (Dully) Don't be afraid I can't stand

it. I'm used to bearing trouble by this; and I can guess what you've

found out. Don't you s'pose I could see it staring out of his eyes

at me these last days? (She hesitates for a moment--

then continues in a monotonous voice.) Rob's going to die.

ANDREW: (Angrily) Ruth!

FAWCETT: (Raising his hand as if to command silence)

In view of what you have said, Misses Mayo, I see no reason to withhold

the facts from you. (He turns to ANDREW.) I am

afraid my diagnosis of your brother's condition forces me to the same

conclusion as Misses Mayo's.

ANDREW: (Groaning) But Doctor, surely--

FAWCETT: (Calmly) I am concerned only with facts,

my dear sir, and this

is one of them. Your brother has not long to live--perhaps a few

days, perhaps only a few hours. I would not dare to venture a prediction

on

that score. It is a marvel that he is alive at this moment. My examination

revealed that both of his lungs are terribly affected. A hemorrhage,

resulting from any exertion or merely through the unaided progress

of the disease itself, will undoubtedly prove fatal.

ANDREW: (Brokenly) Good God!

(RUTH keeps her eyes fixed on her lap in a trance-like

stare.)

FAWCETT: I am sorry I have to tell you this, sorry my trip

should prove to be of such little avail. If there was anything that

could be done--

ANDREW: There isn't anything?

FAWCETT: (Shaking his head) I am afraid not. It is

too late. Six months ago there might have--

ANDREW: (In anguish) But if we were to take him to

the mountains--

or to Arizona--or--

FAWCETT: That might have prolonged his life six months ago.

(ANDREW groans.)

FAWCETT: But now-- (He shrugs his shoulders significantly.)

I would only be raising a hope in you foredoomed to disappointment

if I encouraged any belief that a change of air could accomplish the

impossible. He could not make a journey. The excitement, the effort

required, would inevitably bring on the end.

ANDREW: (Appalled by a sudden thought) Good heavens,

you haven't told him this, have you, Doctor?

FAWCETT: No. I lied to him. I said a change of climate to

the mountains,

the desert would bring about a cure. (Perplexedly) He laughed

at that.

He seemed to find it amusing for some reason or other. I am sure he

knew I was lying. A clear foresight seems to come to people as near

death as he is. (He sighs.) One feels foolish lying to them;

and yet one feels one ought to do it, I don't know why. (He looks

at his watch again nervously.) I must take my leave of you. It

is really imperative that I take no risk of missing-- (He gets

up.)

ANDREW: (Getting to his feet--insistently) But

there must still be a chance for him, isn't there, Doctor?

FAWCETT: (As if he were reassuring a child) There

is always that last chance--

the miracle. We doctors see it happen too often to disbelieve in it.

(He puts on his hat and coat--bowing to RUTH.)

Goodby, Misses Mayo.

RUTH: (Without raising her eyes--dully) Goodby.

ANDREW: (Mechanically) I'll walk to the car with you,

Doctor.

(They go out the door. RUTH sits motionlessly. The

motor is heard starting and the noise gradually recedes into the distance.

ANDREW re-enters and sits down in his chair, holding

his head in his hands.)

ANDREW: Ruth!

(She lifts her eyes to his.)

ANDREW: Hadn't we better go in and see him? God! I'm afraid

to! I know he'll read it in my face.

(The bedroom door is noiselessly opened and ROBERT

appears in the doorway.

His cheeks are flushed with fever, and his eyes appear unusually large

and brilliant. ANDREW continues with a groan.)

ANDREW: It can't be, Ruth. It can't be as hopeless as he

said. There's always a fighting chance. We'll take Rob to Arizona.

He's got to get well. There must be a chance!

ROBERT: (In a gentle tone) Why must there, Andy?

(RUTH turns and stares at him with terrified eyes.)

ANDREW: (Whirling around) Rob! (Scoldingly)

What are you doing out of bed? (He gets up and goes to him.)

Get right back now and obey the Doc, or you're going to get a licking

from me!

ROBERT: (Ignoring these remarks) Help me over to the

chair, please, Andy.

ANDREW: Like hell I will! You're going right back to bed,

that's where you're going, and stay there! (He takes hold of ROBERT's

arm.)

ROBERT: (Mockingly) Stay there 'til I die, eh, Andy?

(Coldly) Don't behave like a child. I'm sick of lying down.

I'll be more rested sitting up.

(As ANDREW hesitates--violently) I swear I'll

get out of bed every time you put me there. You'll have to sit on

my chest, and that wouldn't help my health any. Come on, Andy. Don't

play the fool. I want to talk to you, and I'm going to. (With

a grim smile)

ROBERT: A dying man has some rights, hasn't he?

ANDREW: (With a shudder) Don't talk that way, for

God's sake! Remember.

(He helps ROBERT to the chair between his own and

RUTH's.)

ANDREW: Easy now! There you are! Wait, and I'll get a pillow

for you.

(He goes into the bedroom. ROBERT looks at RUTH

who shrinks away from him

in terror. ROBERT smiles bitterly. ANDREW

comes back with the pillow which he places behind ROBERT's

back.)

ANDREW: How's that?

ROBERT: (With an affectionate smile) Fine! Thank you!

(As ANDREW sits down)

ROBERT: Listen, Andy. You've asked me not to talk--and

I won't after I've made my position clear. (Slowly) In the

first place I know I'm dying.

(RUTH bows her head and covers her face with her

hands. She remains like this all during the scene between the two

brothers.)

ANDREW: Rob! That isn't so!

ROBERT: (Wearily) It is so! Don't lie to me. It's

useless and it irritates me. After Ruth put me to bed before you came,

I saw it clearly for the first time. (Bitterly) I'd been making

plans for our future--Ruth's and mine--so it came hard at first--the

realization. Then when the doctor examined me,

I knew--although he tried to lie about it. And then to make sure

I listened

at the door to what he told you. So, for my sake, don't mock me with

fairy tales about Arizona, or any such rot as that. Because I'm dying

is no reason you should treat me as an imbecile or a coward. Now that

I'm sure what's happening I can say Kismet to it with all my heart.

It was only the silly uncertainty that hurt.

(There is a pause. ANDREW looks around in impotent

anguish, not knowing what

to say. ROBERT regards him with an affectionate smile.)

ANDREW: (Finally blurts out) It isn't foolish. You

have got a chance. If you heard all the Doctor said that ought to

prove it to you.

ROBERT: Oh, you mean when he spoke of the possibility of

a miracle? (Dryly) The Doctor and I disagree on that point.

I don't believe in miracles--in my case. Beside I know more than

any doctor in earth could know--because I feel what's coming. (Dismissing

the subject) But we've agreed not to talk of it. Tell me about

yourself, Andy, and what you've done all these years. That's what

I'm interested in. Your letters were too brief and far apart to be

illuminating.

ANDREW: I meant to write oftener.

ROBERT: (With a faint trace of irony) I judge from

them you've accomplished all you set out to do five years ago?

ANDREW: That isn't much to boast of.

ROBERT: (Surprised) Have you really, honestly reached

that conclusion?

ANDREW: Well, it doesn't seem to amount to much now.

ROBERT: But you're rich, aren't you?

ANDREW: (With a quick glance at RUTH)

Yes I s'pose so.

ROBERT: I'm glad. You can do to the farm all I've undone.

(With a smile)

Do you know I was too proud to ask you for money when things went

bad here? You'll have to forgive me for that, Andy.

ANDREW: I knew it wasn't like you to feel that way.

ROBERT: But what did you do down there? Tell me. You went

in the grain business with that friend of yours?

ANDREW: Yes. After two years I had a share in it. I sold

out last year.

(He is answering ROB's questions with great reluctance.)

ROBERT: And then?

ANDREW: I went in on my own.

ROBERT: Your own business?

ANDREW: I s'pose you'd call it that.

ROBERT: Still in grain?

ANDREW: Yes.

ROBERT: What's the matter? What's there to be ashamed of?

You look as if

I was accusing you of crimes.

ANDREW: I'm proud enough of the first four years. It's after

that I'm not boasting of. You see, I couldn't make money easy enough

that way, so I took to speculating.

ROBERT: In wheat?

ANDREW: Yes.

ROBERT: And you made money--gambling?

ANDREW: Yes.

ROBERT: I can't imagine you as the easy-come, easy-go kind.

ANDREW: I'm not. I'm sick of it.

ROBERT: (Thoughtfully) I've been wondering what the

great change was in you. I can see now. It's your eyes. There's an

expression about them as if you were constantly waiting to hear a

cannon go off, and wincing at the bang beforehand.

ANDREW: (Grimly) I've felt just that way all the past

year.

ROBERT: (After a pause during which his eyes search ANDREW's

face) Why haven't you ever married?

ANDREW: Never wanted to. Didn't have time to think of it,

I guess.

ROBERT: (After a pause) You--a farmer--to gamble

in a wheat pit with scraps of paper. There's a spiritual significance

in that picture, Andy. (He smiles bitterly.) I'm a failure,

and Ruth's another--but we can both justly lay some of the blame

for our stumbling on God. But you're the deepest-dyed failure of the

three, Andy. You've spent eight years running away from yourself.

Do you see what I mean? You used to be a creator when you loved the

farm. You and life were in harmonious partnership. And now-- (He

stops as if seeking vainly for words.) My brain is muddled. But

part of what I mean is that your gambling with the thing you used

to love to create proves how far astray you've gotten from the truth.

So you'll be punished. You'll have to suffer to win back-- (His

voice grows weaker and he sighs wearily.) It's no use.

I can't say it. (He lies back and closes his eyes, breathing pantingly.)

ANDREW: (Slowly) I think I know what you're driving

at, Rob--and it's true, I guess.

(ROBERT smiles gratefully and stretches out his

hand, which ANDREW takes in his.)

ROBERT: I want you to promise me to do one thing, Andy, after--

ANDREW: I'll promise anything, as God is my Judge!

ROBERT: Remember, Andy, Ruth has suffered double her share,

and you haven't suffered at all. (His voice faltering with weakness.)

Only through contact with suffering, Andy, will you--awaken. Listen.

You must marry Ruth--afterwards.

RUTH: (With a cry) Rob!

(ROBERT lies back, his eyes closed, gasping heavily

for breath.)

ANDREW: (Making signs to her to humor him--gently.)

You're tired out, Rob. You shouldn't have talked so much. You better

lie down and rest a while, don't you think? We can talk later on.

ROBERT: (With a mocking smile) Later on! You always

were an optimist, Andy! (He sighs with exhaustion.) Yes, I'll

go and rest a while.

(As ANDREW comes to help him)

ROBERT: It must be near sunrise, isn't it? It's getting grey

out.

ANDREW: Yes--pretty near. It's after six.

ROBERT: (As ANDREW helps him to the bedroom)

Pull the bed around so it'll face the window, will you, Andy? I can't

sleep, but I'll rest and forget if I can watch the rim of the hills

and dream of what is waiting beyond.

(They go into the bedroom.)

ROBERT: And shut the door, Andy. I want to be alone.

(ANDREW reappears and shuts the door softly. He

comes and sits down on his chair again, supporting his head on his

hands. His face is drawn with the intensity of his dry-eyed anguish.)

RUTH: (Glancing at him--fearfully) He's out of

his mind now, isn't he?

ANDREW: He may be a little delirious. The fever would do

that. (With impotent rage) God, what a shame! And there's nothing

we can do but sit and--wait! (He springs from his chair and

walks to the stove.)

RUTH: (Dully) He was talking--wild--like he

used to--only this time it sounded--unnatural, don't you think?

ANDREW: I don't know. The things he said to me had truth

in them--even

if he did talk them way up in the air, like he always sees things.

Still--

(He glances down at RUTH keenly.) Why do you

suppose he wanted us to promise we'd-- (Confusedly) You

know what he said.

RUTH: (Dully) His mind was wandering, I s'pose.

ANDREW: (With conviction) No--there was something

back of it.

RUTH: He wanted to make sure I'd be all right--after he'd

gone, I expect.

ANDREW: No, it wasn't that. He knows very well I'd naturally

look after you without--anything like that.

RUTH: He might be thinking of--something happened five

years back,

the time you came home from the trip.

ANDREW: What happened? What do you mean?

RUTH: (Dully) It was the day you came. We had a fight.

ANDREW: A fight? What has that to do with me?

RUTH: It was about you--in a way.

ANDREW: (Amazed) About me?

RUTH: Yes, mostly. You see I'd found out I'd made a mistake

about Rob soon after we were married--when it was too late.

ANDREW: Mistake? (Slowly) You mean--you found out

you didn't love Rob?

RUTH: Yes.

ANDREW: Good God!

RUTH: And then I thought that when Mary came it'd be different,

and I'd love him; but it didn't happen that way. And I couldn't bear

with his blundering and book-reading--and I grew to hate him, almost.

ANDREW: Ruth!

RUTH: I couldn't help it. No woman could. It had to be because

I loved someone else, I'd found out. (She sighs wearily.) It

can't do no harm to tell you now--when it's all past and gone--and

dead. You were the one I

really loved--only I didn't come to the knowledge of it 'til too

late.

ANDREW: (Stunned) Ruth! Do you know what you're saying?

RUTH: It was true--then. (With sudden fierceness)

How could I help it?

No woman could.

ANDREW: Then--you loved me--that time I came home?

RUTH: Yes.

ANDREW: But--couldn't you see--I didn't love you--that

way?

RUTH: (Doggedly) Yes--I saw then; but I'd known

your real reason for leaving home the first time--everybody knew

it--and for three years I'd been thinking--

ANDREW: That I loved you?

RUTH: Yes. Then that day on the hill you laughed about what

a fool you'd been for loving me once--and I knew it was all over.

ANDREW: Good God, but I never thought-- (He stops,

shuddering at his remembrance.) And did Rob--

RUTH: That was what I'd started to tell. We'd had a fight

just before you came and I got crazy mad--and I told him all I've

told you.

ANDREW: (Gaping at her speechlessly for a moment)

You told Rob--you loved me?

RUTH: Yes.

ANDREW: (Shrinking away from her in horror) You--you--you

mad fool, you! How could you do such a thing?

RUTH: I couldn't help it. I'd got to the end of bearing things--without

talking.

ANDREW: And the thought of the child--his child and yours--couldn't

keep your mouth shut?

RUTH: I was crazy mad at him--when I told.

ANDREW: Then Rob must have known every moment I stayed here!

And yet he never said or showed--God, how he must have suffered!

Didn't you know how much he loved you?

RUTH: (Dully) Yes. I knew he liked me.

ANDREW: Liked you! How can you talk in that cold tone--now--when

he's dying! What kind of a woman are you? I'd never believe it was

in you to be so-- Couldn't you have kept silent--no matter what

you felt or thought? Did you have to torture him? No wonder he's dying.

I don't see how he's lived through it as long as he has. I couldn't.

No. I'd have killed myself--or killed you.

RUTH: (Dully) I wish he had--killed me.

ANDREW: And you've lived together for five years with this

horrible secret between you?

RUTH: We've lived in the same house--not as man and wife.

ANDREW: But what does he feel about it now? Tell me! Does

he still think--

RUTH: I don't know. We've never spoke a word about it since

that day. Maybe, from the way he went on, he s'poses I care for you

yet. Maybe that's one reason he said what he did.

ANDREW: But you don't. You can't. It's outrageous. It's stupid!

You don't love me!

RUTH: (Slowly) I wouldn't know how to feel love, even

if I tried, any more.

ANDREW: (Brutally) And I don't love you, that's sure!

(He sinks into his chair, his head between his hands.) It's

damnable such a thing should be between Rob and me--we that have

been pals ever since we were born, almost. Why, I love Rob better'n

anybody in the world and always did. There isn't a thing on God's

green earth I wouldn't have done to keep trouble away from him. And

now I have to be the very one--it's damnable! How am I going to

face him again? What can I say to him now? (He groans with anguished

rage. After a pause) He asked me to promise--what am I going

to do?

RUTH: You can promise--so's it'll ease his mind--and

not mean anything.

ANDREW: What? Lie to him now--when he's dying? Can you

believe I'd descend as low as that? And there's no sense in my lying.

He knows I don't love you. (Determinedly) No! It's you who'll

have to do the lying, since it must be done. You're the cause of all

this. You've got to! You've got a chance now to undo some of all the

suffering you've brought on Rob.

Go in to him! Tell him you never loved me--it was all a mistake.

Tell him you only said so because you were mad and didn't know what

you were saying, and you've been ashamed to own up to the truth before

this. Tell him something, anything, that'll bring him peace and make

him believe you've loved him all the time.

RUTH: (Dully) It's no good. He wouldn't believe me.

ANDREW: (Furiously) You've got to make him believe

you, do you hear? You've got to--now--hurry--you never know

when it may be too late.

(As she hesitates--imploringly)

ANDREW: For God's sake, Ruth! Don't you see you owe it to

him? You'll never forgive yourself if you don't.

RUTH: (Dully) I'll go. (She gets wearily to her

feet and walks slowly toward the bedroom.) But it won't do any

good.

(ANDREW's eyes are fixed on her anxiously. She opens

the door and steps inside the room. She remains standing there for

a minute. Then she calls in a frightened voice.)

RUTH: Rob! Where are you? (Then she hurries back, trembling

with fright.) Andy! Andy! He's gone!

ANDREW: (Misunderstanding her--his face pale with

dread) He's not--

RUTH: (Interrupting him--hysterically) He's gone!

He isn't in there. The bed's empty. The window's wide open. He must

have crawled out into the yard!

ANDREW: (Springing to his feet. He rushes into the bedroom

and returns immediately with an expression of alarmed amazement on

his face.) Come!

He can't have gone far! We've got to find him! (Grabbing his hat

he takes RUTH's arm and shoves her toward the door.)

Come on! (Opening the door)

Let's hope to God-- (The door closes behind them, cutting off

his words as the curtain falls.)

Scene Two

(Same as ACT ONE, Scene One--A section of country highway.

The sky to the east is already alight with bright color and a thin,

quivering line of flame is spreading slowly along the horizon rim

of the dark hills. The roadside, however, is still steeped in the

greyness of the dawn, shadowy and vague. The field in the foreground

has

a wild uncultivated appearance as if it had been allowed to remain

fallow the preceding summer. Parts of the snake-fence in the rear

have been broken down.

The apple tree is leafless and seems dead.)

(ROBERT staggers weakly in from the left. He stumbles

into the ditch and lies there for a moment; then crawls with a great

effort to the top of the bank where he can see the sun rise, and collapses

weakly. RUTH and ANDREW come hurriedly

along the road from the left.)

ANDREW: (Stopping and looking about him) There he

is! I knew it! I knew we'd find him here.

ROBERT: (Trying to raise himself to a sitting position

as they hasten to his side--with a wan smile) I thought I'd

given you the slip.

ANDREW: (With kindly bullying) Well you didn't, you

old scoundrel, and we're going to take you right back where you belong--in

bed. (He makes

a motion to lift ROBERT.) What d'you mean by running

away like this, eh?

ROBERT: Don't, Andy. Don't, I tell you! I can't bear it!

ANDREW: You're in pain?

ROBERT: (Simply) No. I'm dying.

(He falls back weakly. RUTH sinks down beside him

with a sob and pillows his head on her lap.)

ROBERT: Don't try to move me, Andy. It would mean--. I

had a bad hemorrhage--trying to get here. I knew then-- it was

only--a few minutes more.

(ANDREW stands looking down at him helplessly. ROBERT

moves his head restlessly on RUTH's lap.)

ROBERT: There! Just so I can see--the sun. I couldn't

stand it back there

in the room. It seemed as if all my life--I'd been cooped in a

room. So I thought I'd try to end as I might have--if I'd had the

courage to live my dream. Alone--in a ditch by the open road--watching

the sun rise.

ANDREW: Rob! Don't talk. You're wasting your strength. Rest

a while and then we'll carry you--

ROBERT: Still hoping, Andy? Don't. I know. (There is

a pause during which

he breathes heavily, straining his eyes toward the horizon.) The

sun comes so slowly. I haven't long--to wait. (With an ironical

smile) The doctor told me to go to the far-off places--and I'd

be cured. He was right. That was always the cure for me. It's too

late--for this world--but in the next I'll not miss--the

secret. (He has a fit of coughing which racks his body.)

ANDREW: (With a hoarse sob) Rob! (He clenches

his fists in an impotent rage against fate.) God! God!

(RUTH sobs brokenly and wipes ROBERT's

lips with her handkerchief.)

ROBERT: (In a voice which is suddenly ringing with the

happiness of hope)

You mustn't feel sorry for me. It's ridiculous! Don't you see I'm

happy at last--because I'm making a start to the far-off places--free--free!--freed

from the farm--free to wander on and on--eternally! Even the

hills are powerless to shut me in now. (He raises himself on his

elbow, his face radiant, and points to the horizon.) Look! Isn't

it beautiful beyond the hills? I can hear the old voices calling me

to come-- (Exultantly) And this time I'm going--

I'm free! It isn't the end. It's a free beginning--the start of

my voyage!

Don't you see? I've won to my trip--the right of release--beyond

the horizon! Oh, you ought to be glad--glad--for my sake! (He

collapses weakly.) Andy!

(ANDREW bends down to him.)

ROBERT: Remember Ruth--

ANDREW: I'll take care of her, I swear to you, Rob!

ROBERT: Ruth has suffered--and for your own sake and hers--remember,

Andy--only through sacrifice--the secret beyond there-- (He

suddenly raises himself with his last remaining strength and points

to the horizon where the edge

of the sun's disc is rising from the rim of the hills.) The sun!

(He remains with his eyes fixed on it for a moment. A rattling

noise throbs from his throat. He mumbles:) Remember!

(And falls back and is still. RUTH gives a cry of

horror and springs to her feet, shuddering, her hands over her eyes.

ANDREW bends on one knee beside the body, placing a

hand over ROBERT's heart, then he kisses his brother

reverentially on the forehead and stands up.)

ANDREW: (Facing RUTH, the body between

them--in a dead voice) He's dead. (With a sudden burst of

fury) God damn you, you never told him!

RUTH: (Piteously) He was so happy without my lying

to him.

ANDREW: (Pointing to the body--trembling with the

violence of his rage) This is your doing, you damn woman, you coward,

you murderess! He's dead because you've killed him, do you hear?

RUTH: (Sobbing) Don't, Andy! Stop! I couldn't help

it--and he knew how I'd suffered, too. He told you--to remember.

ANDREW: (Stares at her for a moment, his rage ebbing

away, an expression of deep pity gradually coming over his face. Then

he glances down at his brother and speaks brokenly in a compassionate

voice.) Forgive me, Ruth--for his sake. I know he was right--and

I'll remember what he said.

(RUTH lets her hands fall from her face and looks

at him uncomprehendingly.

He lifts his eyes to hers and forces out falteringly:)

ANDREW: I--you--we've both made such a mess of things!

We must try to help each other--and--in time--we'll come

to know what's right to do-- (Desperately) And perhaps we--

(But RUTH, if she is aware of his words, gives no

sign. She remains silent, gazing at him dully with the sad humility

of exhaustion, her mind already sinking back into that spent calm

beyond the further troubling of any hope.)

(The curtain falls.)

END OF PLAY