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 gray 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 gray 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) Gosh, you do take the prize for daydreaming! And I see you’ve toted one of the old books along with you. (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) Look out you don’t get it full of dirt.

ANDREW. (glancing at his hands) That isn’t dirt—it’s good clean earth. (He turns over the pages. 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. I suppose it’s that year in college gave you a liking for that kind of stuff. I’m darn glad I stopped at 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.

ANDREW. 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’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 ANDREW 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. (After a pause) 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. 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) Oh, I can’t just explain it to you, Andy.

ANDREW. No need to, Rob. (Angry at himself) Hell! You want to go—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. You don’t realize how I’ve bucked up in the past few years. 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. Farming ain’t your nature. There’s all the difference shown in just the way us two feel about the farm. 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. For you it’s different. 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 traveling, you can go anywhere you’re 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. (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.

ANDREW. Well, you ought to.

ROBERT. No, I oughtn’t. (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 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. (frowning) Don’t, Andy. I’m serious.

ANDREW. Then you might as well stay 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, 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. 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 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, Ruth’ll be 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) 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 of 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 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. If only Pa was still living—— (She stops as if ashamed of her outburst) I suppose I shouldn’t complain this way. (She sighs) Poor Ma, Lord knows it’s hard enough for her. I suppose it’s natural to be cross when you’re not able ever to walk a step. 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. 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. (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—— (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?

ROBERT. (moodily) I doubt if you’ll understand. It’s difficult to explain, even to myself. Either you feel it, or you don’t. 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) 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. 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. I believed in fairies then. (With a smile) Perhaps I still do believe in them. Anyway, in those days they were real enough, and sometimes I could actually hear them calling to me 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. 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) 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! 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. I wasn’t going to tell you, but I feel I have to. It can’t matter now that I’m going so far away, and for so long—perhaps forever. I’ve loved you all these years, but the realization never came ’til I agreed to go away with Uncle Dick. Then I thought of leaving you, and the pain of that thought revealed 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 storming) I don’t! I don’t love Andy! I don’t! (ROBERT stares at her in stupid astonishment. RUTH weeps hysterically) 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) 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? Don’t you see I couldn’t go—on her account? (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. 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, our love is sweeter than any distant dream! (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. There’d be bound to be such a scene with them all together.

ROBERT. (kissing her—gayly) 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) Come, Rob, let’s go. (His eyes are fixed again on the horizon as he half turns to follow her. RUTH urges) 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 of laughing as

(The Curtain Falls)

ACT ONE
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. Neat 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. MAYO is his son ANDREW over again in body and face—an ANDREW sixty-five years old with a short, square, white beard. 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 mustache—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 sank 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.

MRS. MAYO. (her lips trembling) I wish Robbie weren’t going.

MAYO. (looking at her over his glasses—consolingly) There, Katey!

MRS. MAYO. (rebelliously) Well, I do wish he wasn’t!

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)—and settle down right here. (She stares down at the knitting in her lap—after a pause) 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.

SCOTT. It ain’t no good goin’ on that way, Kate, now it’s all settled.

MRS. MAYO. (on the verge of tears) It’s all right for you to talk. You’ve never had any children. You don’t know what it means to be parted from them—and Robbie my youngest, too. (ANDREW frowns and fidgets in his chair).

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 uneasiness seems to strike him) 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. That ends all argyment, you can see that. (Looking at his big silver watch) 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 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. 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. (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) 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) 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.

SCOTT. (disgustedly) God A’mighty, Kate, you treat Robert as if he was one year old!

MRS. MAYO. (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.) 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. (with a trace of defiance) Well, the point is this, Pa: 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? (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. I had never dared to dream——

MAYO. (irritably) 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 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.

MRS. MAYO. (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 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 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. (Then with 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 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. 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.

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).

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) Good gracious, Dick, you do act silly, flying into a temper over nothing.

SCOTT. (indignantly) 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 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.

SCOTT. (unplacated) 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. (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 spick ’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.

SCOTT. (disgruntedly) It’s hard to tell who’s jokin’ and who’s not in this house.

ANDREW. (firmly) I’m not joking, Uncle Dick. (As SCOTT looks at him uncertainly) You needn’t be afraid I’ll go back on my word.

ROBERT. (hurt by the insinuation he feels in ANDREW’S tone) Andy! That isn’t fair!

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.

ROBERT. Andy!

ANDREW. (half angrily) You shut up, Rob! (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, 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. 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. (Scornfully) Get a man to take your place! 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’ve got to. (He looks at his father defiantly) I feel I oughn’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.

MAYO. (shaking his finger at ANDY, 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 thin’s! You ain’t got no likin’ in the world to go. 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. ’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 ANDY 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!

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. 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.

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. 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).

MAYO. (he gulps convulsively and glares at ANDREW) 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) You don’t know him. (Defiantly) What’s said is said and can’t be unsaid; and I’ve chosen.

ROBERT. (with violent protest) Andy! You can’t go! This is all so stupid—and terrible!

ANDREW. (coldly) I’ll talk to you in a minute, Rob. (Crushed by his brother’s attitude ROBERT sinks down into a chair, holding his head in his hands).

SCOTT. (comes and slaps ANDREW on the back) 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) 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 goin’ aloft to turn in. 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) 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, 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. 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)—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 go crazy here, bein’ reminded every second of the day what a fool I’d made of myself. I’ve got to get away and try and forget, if I can. 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?

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. (Forcing a smile) I guess Ruth’s got a right to have who she likes. 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. 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) 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) 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)