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 gray.

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 gray 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 gray, 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 check 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-! 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 fine 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. 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) 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. I’m a fool. I’m touchy about nothing lately. Just what did you say in your reply?

RUTH. (inconsequentially) I had to send it collect.

ROBERT. (irritably) What did you say was the matter with me?

RUTH. I wrote you had lung trouble.

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) 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. 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) 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. ROBERT sighs) I couldn’t get to sleep to save my soul. I counted ten million sheep if I counted one. No use! 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. (Mockingly) And now he’s coming home to let us admire his greatness. (Frowning—irritably) 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 a 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. (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.

RUTH. (resentfully) You might have. He’s got plenty.

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) 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) 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) 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. 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! (ROB lies back and closes his eyes. She stands looking down at him anxiously) 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) 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! 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) No sun yet. It isn’t time. All I can see is the black rim of the damned hills outlined against a creeping grayness. (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) 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. I couldn’t quiet him. I didn’t want to be alone with him that way. Lord knows what he might do.

MRS. ATKINS. (scornfully) Humph! A 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. He quit last night. He hasn’t been paid in three months.

MRS. ATKINS. (indignantly) I can’t blame him. 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) 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 pigheaded pride in not lettin’ Andy know the state thin’s were in. A nice thin’ 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) 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) This is the last of the wood. 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 gray out. (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. (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 highstrung, 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 got here as soon as I could. (He throws of 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) 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 in 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 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. 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. 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! What’s the matter with him in God’s name? (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, 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. 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 that—before I leave.

RUTH. You’re going away again?

ANDREW. 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. 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. (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. But 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.

RUTH. It’s too bad—things seem to go wrong so.

ANDREW. (shaking off 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. (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. (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. (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) I am afraid my diagnosis of your brother’s condition forces me to the same conclusion as Mrs. Mayo’s.

ANDREW. (groaning) But, Doctor, surely——

FAWCETT. (calmly) Your brother hasn’t long to live—perhaps a few days, perhaps only a few hours. It’s a marvel that he’s alive at this moment. My examination revealed that both of his lungs are terribly affected.

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. If there was anything that could be done——

ANDREW. There isn’t anything?

FAWCETT. (shaking his head) It’s 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) But now—— (He shrugs his shoulders significantly).

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—— (He looks at his watch again nervously) I must leave you. (He gets up).

ANDREW. (getting to his feet—insistently) But there must still be some chance——

FAWCETT. (as if he were reassuring a child) There is always that last chance—the miracle. (He puts on his hat and coat—bowing to RUTH) Good-by, Mrs. Mayo.

RUTH. (without raising her eyes—dully) Good-by.

ANDREW. (mechanically) I’ll walk to the car with you, Doctor. (They go out of 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) Ruth! (She lifts her eyes to his) 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) 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) A dying man has some rights, hasn’t he?

ANDREW. (with a shudder) Don’t talk that way, for God’s sake! I’ll only let you sit down if you’ll promise that. Remember. (He helps ROBERT to the chair between his own and RUTH’S) 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) How’s that?

ROBERT. (with an affectionate smile) Fine! Thank you! (As ANDREW sits down) 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. 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 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 miracle? (Dryly) I don’t believe in miracles—in my case. Besides, I know more than any doctor on 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. 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. 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 ROBERT’S questions with great reluctance).

ROBERT. And then?

ANDREW. I went in on my own.

ROBERT. Still in grain?

ANDREW. Yes.

ROBERT. What’s the matter? You look as if I were accusing you of something.

ANDREW. I’m proud enough of the first four years. It’s after that I’m not boasting of. I took to speculating.

ROBERT. In wheat?

ANDREW. Yes.

ROBERT. And you made money—gambling?

ANDREW. Yes.

ROBERT. (thoughtfully) I’ve been wondering what the great change was in you. (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—— 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. (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 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) It must be near sunrise, isn’t it?

ANDREW. It’s after six.

ROBERT. (As ANDREW helps him into the bedroom) 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) 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. (doggedly) 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. 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! What kind of a woman are you? Couldn’t you have kept silent? Did you have to torture him? No wonder he’s dying! And you’ve lived together for five years with this between you?

RUTH. We’ve lived in the same house.

ANDREW. 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.

ANDREW. But you don’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. 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 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? (Determinedly) No! It’s you who’ll have to do the lying, since it must be done. 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! Tell him something, anything, that’ll bring him peace!

RUTH. (dully) 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) 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) 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! 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! (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)

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 grayness 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).

ROBERT. Don’t, Andy. Don’t, I tell you!

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. ANDREW stands looking down at him helplessly. ROBERT moves his head restlessly on RUTH’S lap) 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—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. (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 life—but—— (He has a fit of coughing which racks his body).

ANDREW. (with a hoarse sob) Rob! (He clenches his fist 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. Don’t you see I’m happy at last—free—free!—freed from the farm—free to wander on and on—eternally! (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! It isn’t the end. It’s a free beginning—the start of my voyage! 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) Remember Ruth——

ANDREW. I’ll take care of her, I swear to you, Rob!

ROBERT. Ruth has suffered—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!

RUTH. (sobbing) Don’t, Andy! 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—and I’ll remember—— (RUTH lets her hands fall from her face and looks at him uncomprehendingly. He lifts his eyes to hers and forces out falteringly) I—you—we’ve both made a mess of things! We must try to help each other—and—in time—we’ll come to know what’s right—— (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)

The Plays by
EUGENE O’NEILL

in this series are: