Same as Act One, Scene Two. Sitting room of the farm house about half past twelve in the afternoon of a hot, sun-baked day in mid-summer, three years later. All the windows are open, but no breeze stirs the soiled white curtains. A patched screen door is in the rear. Through it the yard can be seen, its small stretch of lawn divided by the dirt path leading to the door from the gate in the white picket fence which borders the road.

The room has changed, not so much in its outward appearance as in its general atmosphere. Little significant details give evidence of carelessness, of inefficiency, of an industry gone to seed. The chairs appear shabby from lack of paint; the table cover is spotted and askew; holes show in the curtains; a child’s doll, with one arm gone, lies under the table; a hoe stands in a corner; a man’s coat is flung on the couch in the rear; the desk is cluttered up with odds and ends; a number of books are piled carelessly on the sideboard. The noon enervation of the sultry, scorching day seems to have penetrated indoors, causing even inanimate objects to wear an aspect of despondent exhaustion.

A place is set at the end of the table, left, for someone’s dinner. Through the open door to the kitchen comes the clatter of dishes being washed, interrupted at intervals by a woman’s irritated voice and the peevish whining of a child.

At the rise of the curtain MRS. MAYO and MRS. ATKINS are discovered sitting facing each other, MRS. MAYO to the rear MRS. ATKINS to the right of the table. MRS. MAYO’S face has lost all character, disintegrated, become a weak mask wearing a helpless, doleful expression of being constantly on the verge of comfortless tears. She speaks in an uncertain voice, without assertiveness, as if all power of willing had deserted her. MRS. ATKINS is in her wheel chair. She is a thin, pale-faced, unintelligent looking woman of about forty-eight, with hard, bright eyes. A victim of partial paralysis for many years, condemned to be pushed from day to day of her life in a wheel chair, she has developed the selfish, irritable nature of the chronic invalid. Both women are dressed in black. MRS. ATKINS knits nervously as she talks. A ball of unused yarn, with needles stuck through it, lies on the table before MRS. MAYO.

MRS. ATKINS. (with a disapproving glance at the place set on the table) Robert’s late for his dinner again, as usual. I don’t see why Ruth puts up with it, and I’ve told her so. Many’s the time I’ve said to her “It’s about time you put a stop to his nonsense. Does he suppose you’re runnin’ a hotel—with no one to help with things?” But she don’t pay no attention. She’s as bad as he is, a’most—thinks she knows better than an old, sick body like me.

MRS. MAYO. (dully) Robbie’s always late for things. He can’t help it, Sarah.

MRS. ATKINS. (with a snort) Can’t help it! How you do go on, Kate, findin’ excuses for him! Anybody can help anything they’ve a mind to—as long as they’ve got health, and ain’t rendered helpless like me—(She adds as a pious afterthought)—through the will of God.

MRS. MAYO. Robbie can’t.

MRS. ATKINS. Can’t! It do make me mad, Kate Mayo, to see folks that God gave all the use of their limbs to potterin’ round and wastin’ time doin’ everything the wrong way—and me powerless to help and at their mercy, you might say. And it ain’t that I haven’t pointed the right way to ’em. I’ve talked to Robert thousands of times and told him how things ought to be done. You know that, Kate Mayo. But d’you s’pose he takes any notice of what I say? Or Ruth, either—my own daughter? No, they think I’m a crazy, cranky old woman, half dead a’ready, and the sooner I’m in the grave and out o’ their way the better it’d suit them.

MRS. MAYO. You mustn’t talk that way, Sarah. They’re not as wicked as that. And you’ve got years and years before you.

MRS. ATKINS. You’re like the rest, Kate. You don’t know how near the end I am. Well, at least I can go to my eternal rest with a clear conscience. I’ve done all a body could do to avert ruin from this house. On their heads be it!

MRS. MAYO. (with hopeless indifference) Things might be worse. Robert never had any experience in farming. You can’t expect him to learn in a day.

MRS. ATKINS. (snappily) He’s had three years to learn, and he’s gettin’ worse ’stead of better. Not on’y your place but mine too is driftin’ to rack and ruin, and I can’t do nothin’ to prevent.

MRS. MAYO. (with a spark of assertiveness) You can’t say but Robbie works hard, Sarah.

MRS. ATKINS. What good’s workin’ hard if it don’t accomplish anythin’, I’d like to know?

MRS. MAYO. Robbie’s had bad luck against him.

MRS. ATKINS. Say what you’ve a mind to, Kate, the proof of the puddin’s in the eatin’; and you can’t deny that things have been goin’ from bad to worse ever since your husband died two years back.

MRS. MAYO. (wiping tears from her eyes with her handkerchief) It was God’s will that he should be taken.

MRS. ATKINS. (triumphantly) It was God’s punishment on James Mayo for the blasphemin’ and denyin’ of God he done all his sinful life! (MRS. MAYO begins to weep softly) There, Kate, I shouldn’t be remindin’ you, I know. He’s at peace, poor man, and forgiven, let’s pray.

MRS. MAYO. (wiping her eyes—simply) James was a good man.

MRS. ATKINS. (ignoring this remark) What I was sayin’ was that since Robert’s been in charge things’ve been goin’ down hill steady. You don’t know how bad they are. Robert don’t let on to you what’s happenin’; and you’d never see it yourself if ’twas under your nose. But, thank the Lord, Ruth still comes to me once in a while for advice when she’s worried near out of her senses by his goin’s-on. Do you know what she told me last night? But I forgot, she said not to tell you—still I think you’ve got a right to know, and it’s my duty not to let such things go on behind your back.

MRS. MAYO. (wearily) You can tell me if you want to.

MRS. ATKINS. (bending over toward her—in a low voice) Ruth was almost crazy about it. Robert told her he’d have to mortgage the farm—said he didn’t know how he’d pull through ’til harvest without it, and he can’t get money any other way. (She straightens up—indignantly) Now what do you think of your Robert?

MRS. MAYO. (resignedly) If it has to be——

MRS. ATKINS. You don’t mean to say you’re goin’ to sign away your farm, Kate Mayo—after me warnin’ you?

MRS. MAYO.—I’ll do what Robbie says is needful.

MRS. ATKINS. (holding up her hands) Well, of all the foolishness!—— well, it’s your farm, not mine, and I’ve nothin’ more to say.

MRS. MAYO. Maybe Robbie’ll manage till Andy gets back and sees to things. It can’t be long now.

MRS. ATKINS. (with keen interest) Ruth says Andy ought to turn up any day. When does Robert figger he’ll get here?

MRS. MAYO. He says he can’t calculate exactly on account o’ the Sunda being a sail boat. Last letter he got was from England, the day they were sailing for home. That was over a month ago, and Robbie thinks they’re overdue now.

MRS. ATKINS. We can give praise to God then that he’ll be back in the nick o’ time. He ought to be tired of travelin’ and anxious to get home and settle down to work again.

MRS. MAYO. Andy has been working. He’s head officer on Dick’s boat, he wrote Robbie. You know that.

MRS. ATKINS. That foolin’ on ships is all right for a spell, but he must be right sick of it by this.

MRS. MAYO. (musingly) I wonder if he’s changed much. He used to be so fine-looking and strong. (With a sigh) Three years! It seems more like three hundred. (Her eyes filling—piteously) Oh, if James could only have lived ’til he came back—and forgiven him!

MRS. ATKINS. He never would have—not James Mayo! Didn’t he keep his heart hardened against him till the last in spite of all you and Robert did to soften him?

MRS. MAYO. (with a feeble flash of anger) Don’t you dare say that! (Brokenly) Oh, I know deep down in his heart he forgave Andy, though he was too stubborn ever to own up to it. It was that brought on his death—breaking his heart just on account of his stubborn pride. (She wipes her eyes with her handkerchief and sobs).

MRS. ATKINS. (piously) It was the will of God. (The whining crying of the child sounds from the kitchen. MRS. ATKINS frowns irritably) Drat that young one! Seems as if she cries all the time on purpose to set a body’s nerves on edge.

MRS. MAYO. (wiping her eyes) It’s the heat upsets her. Mary doesn’t feel any too well these days, poor little child!

MRS. ATKINS. She gets it right from her Pa—bein’ sickly all the time. You can’t deny Robert was always ailin’ as a child. (She sighs heavily) It was a crazy mistake for them two to get married. I argyed against it at the time, but Ruth was so spelled with Robert’s wild poetry notions she wouldn’t listen to sense. Andy was the one would have been the match for her.

MRS. MAYO. I’ve often thought since it might have been better the other way. But Ruth and Robbie seem happy enough together.

MRS. ATKINS. At any rate it was God’s work—and His will be done. (The two women sit in silence for a moment. RUTH enters from the kitchen, carrying in her arms her two year old daughter, MARY, a pretty but sickly and Ænemic looking child with a tear-stained face. RUTH has aged appreciably. Her face has lost its youth and freshness. There is a trace in her expression of something hard and spiteful. She sits in the rocker in front of the table and sighs wearily. She wears a gingham dress with a soiled apron tied around her waist).

RUTH. Land sakes, if this isn’t a scorcher! That kitchen’s like a furnace. Phew! (She pushes the damp hair back from her forehead).

MRS. MAYO. Why didn’t you call me to help with the dishes?

RUTH. (shortly) No. The heat in there’d kill you.

MARY. (sees the doll under the table and struggles on her mother’s lap) Dolly, Mama! Dolly!

RUTH. (pulling her back) It’s time for your nap. You can’t play with Dolly now.

MARY. (commencing to cry whiningly) Dolly!

MRS. ATKINS. (irritably) Can’t you keep that child still? Her racket’s enough to split a body’s ears. Put her down and let her play with the doll if it’ll quiet her.

RUTH. (lifting MARY to the floor) There! I hope you’ll be satisfied and keep still. (MARY sits down on the floor before the table and plays with the doll in silence. RUTH glances at the place set on the table) It’s a wonder Rob wouldn’t try to get to meals on time once in a while.

MRS. MAYO. (dully) Something must have gone wrong again.

RUTH. (wearily) I s’pose so. Something’s always going wrong these days, it looks like.

MRS. ATKINS. (snappily) It wouldn’t if you possessed a bit of spunk. The idea of you permittin’ him to come in to meals at all hours—and you doin’ the work! I never heard of such a thin’. You’re too easy goin’, that’s the trouble.

RUTH. Do stop your nagging at me, Ma! I’m sick of hearing you. I’ll do as I please about it; and thank you for not interfering. (She wipes her moist forehead—wearily) Phew! It’s too hot to argue. Let’s talk of something pleasant. (Curiously) Didn’t I hear you speaking about Andy a while ago?

MRS. MAYO. We were wondering when he’d get home.

RUTH. (brightening) Rob says any day now he’s liable to drop in and surprise us—him and the Captain. It’ll certainly look natural to see him around the farm again.

MRS. ATKINS. Let’s hope the farm’ll look more natural, too, when he’s had a hand at it. The way thin’s are now!

RUTH. (irritably) Will you stop harping on that, Ma? We all know things aren’t as they might be. What’s the good of your complaining all the time?

MRS. ATKINS. There, Kate Mayo! Ain’t that just what I told you? I can’t say a word of advice to my own daughter even, she’s that stubborn and self-willed.

RUTH. (putting her hands over her ears—in exasperation) For goodness sakes, Ma!

MRS. MAYO. (dully) Never mind. Andy’ll fix everything when he comes.

RUTH. (hopefully) Oh, yes, I know he will. He always did know just the right thing ought to be done. (With weary vexation) It’s a shame for him to come home and have to start in with things in such a topsy-turvy.

MRS. MAYO. Andy’ll manage.

RUTH. (sighing) I s’pose it isn’t Rob’s fault things go wrong with him.

MRS. ATKINS. (scornfully) Hump! (She fans herself nervously) Land o’ Goshen, but it’s bakin’ in here! Let’s go out in under the trees in back where there’s a breath of fresh air. Come, Kate. (MRS. MAYO gets up obediently and starts to wheel the invalid’s chair toward the screen door) You better come too, Ruth. It’ll do you good. Learn him a lesson and let him get his own dinner. Don’t be such a fool.

RUTH. (going and holding the screen door open for them—listlessly) He wouldn’t mind. He doesn’t eat much. But I can’t go anyway. I’ve got to put baby to bed.

MRS. ATKINS. Let’s go, Kate. I’m boilin’ in here. (MRS. MAYO wheels her out and off left. RUTH comes back and sits down in her chair).

RUTH. (mechanically) Come and let me take off your shoes and stockings, Mary, that’s a good girl. You’ve got to take your nap now. (The child continues to play as if she hadn’t heard, absorbed in her doll. An eager expression comes over RUTH’S tired face. She glances toward the door furtively—then gets up and goes to the desk. Her movements indicate a guilty fear of discovery. She takes a letter from a pigeon-hole and retreats swiftly to her chair with it. She opens the envelope and reads the letter with great interest, a flush of excitement coming to her cheeks. ROBERT walks up the path and opens the screen door quietly and comes into the room. He, too, has aged. His shoulders are stooped as if under too great a burden. His eyes are dull and lifeless, his face burned by the sun and unshaven for days. Streaks of sweat have smudged the layer of dust on his cheeks. His lips drawn down at the corners, give him a hopeless, resigned expression. The three years have accentuated the weakness of his mouth and chin. He is dressed in overalls, laced boots, and a flannel shirt open at the neck).

ROBERT. (throwing his hat over an the sofa—with a great sigh of exhaustion) Phew! The sun’s hot today! (RUTH is startled. At first she makes an instinctive motion as if to hide the letter in her bosom. She immediately thinks better of this and sits with the letter in her hands looking at him with defiant eyes. He bends down and kisses her).

RUTH. (feeling of her cheek—irritably) Why don’t you shave? You look awful.

ROBERT. (indifferently) I forgot—and it’s too much trouble this weather.

MARY. (throwing aside her doll, runs to him with a happy cry) Dada! Dada!

ROBERT. (swinging her up above his head—lovingly) And how’s this little girl of mine this hot day, eh?

MARY. (screeching happily) Dada! Dada!

RUTH. (in annoyance) Don’t do that to her! You know it’s time for her nap and you’ll get her all waked up; then I’ll be the one that’ll have to sit beside her till she falls asleep.

ROBERT. (sitting down in the chair on the left of table and cuddling MARY on his lap) You needn’t bother. I’ll put her to bed.

RUTH. (shortly) You’ve got to get back to your work, I s’pose.

ROBERT. (with a sigh) Yes, I was forgetting. (He glances at the open letter on RUTH’S lap) Reading Andy’s letter again? I should think you’d know it by heart by this time.

RUTH. (coloring as if she’d been accused of something—defiantly) I’ve got a right to read it, haven’t I? He says it’s meant for all of us.

ROBERT. (with a trace of irritation) Right? Don’t be so silly. There’s no question of right. I was only saying that you must know all that’s in it after so many readings.

RUTH. Well, I don’t. (She puts the letter on the table and gets wearily to her feet) I s’pose you’ll be wanting your dinner now.

ROBERT. (listlessly) I don’t care. I’m not hungry.

RUTH. And here I been keeping it hot for you!

ROBERT. (irritably) Oh, all right then. Bring it in and I’ll try to eat.

RUTH. I’ve got to get her to bed first. (She goes to lift MARY off his lap) Come, dear. It’s after time and you can hardly keep your eyes open now.

MARY. (crying) No, no! (Appealing to her father) Dada! No!

RUTH. (accusingly to ROBERT) There! Now see what you’ve done! I told you not to——

ROBERT. (shortly) Let her alone, then. She’s all right where she is. She’ll fall asleep on my lap in a minute if you’ll stop bothering her.

RUTH. (hotly) She’ll not do any such thing! She’s got to learn to mind me! (Shaking her finger at MARY) You naughty child! Will you come with Mama when she tells you for your own good?

MARY. (clinging to her father) No, Dada!

RUTH. (losing her temper) A good spanking’s what you need, my young lady—and you’ll get one from me if you don’t mind better, d’you hear? (MARY starts to whimper frightenedly).

ROBERT. (with sudden anger) Leave her alone! How often have I told you not to threaten her with whipping? I won’t have it. (Soothing the wailing MARY) There! There, little girl! Baby mustn’t cry. Dada won’t like you if you do. Dada’ll hold you and you must promise to go to sleep like a good little girl. Will you when Dada asks you?

MARY. (cuddling up to him) Yes, Dada.

RUTH. (looking at them, her pale face set and drawn) A fine one you are to be telling folks how to do things! (She bites her lips. Husband and wife look into each other’s eyes with something akin to hatred in their expressions; then RUTH turns away with a shrug of affected indifference) All right, take care of her then, if you think it’s so easy. (She walks away into the kitchen).

ROBERT. (smoothing MARY’S hair—tenderly) We’ll show Mama you’re a good little girl, won’t we?

MARY. (crooning drowsily) Dada, Dada.

ROBERT. Let’s see: Does your mother take off your shoes and stockings before your nap?

MARY. (nodding with half-shut eyes) Yes, Dada.

ROBERT. (taking of her shoes and stockings) We’ll show Mama we know how to do those things, won’t we? There’s one old shoe off—and there’s the other old shoe—and here’s one old stocking—and there’s the other old stocking. There we are, all nice and cool and comfy. (He bends down and kisses her) And now will you promise to go right to sleep if Dada takes you to bed? (MARY nods sleepily) That’s the good little girl. (He gathers her up in his arms carefully and carries her into the bedroom. His voice can be heard faintly as he lulls the child to sleep. RUTH comes out of the kitchen and gets the plate from the table. She hears the voice from the room and tiptoes to the door to look in. Then she starts for the kitchen but stands for a moment thinking, a look of ill-concealed jealousy on her face. At a noise from inside she hurriedly disappears into the kitchen. A moment later ROBERT re-enters. He comes forward and picks up the shoes and stockings which he shoves carelessly under the table. Then, seeing no one about, he goes to the sideboard and selects a book. Coming back to his chair, he sits down and immediately becomes absorbed in reading. RUTH returns from the kitchen bringing his plate heaped with food, and a cup of tea. She sets those before him and sits down in her former place. ROBERT continues to read, oblivious to the food on the table).

RUTH. (after watching him irritably for a moment) For heaven’s sakes, put down that old book! Don’t you see your dinner’s getting cold?

ROBERT. (closing his book) Excuse me, Ruth. I didn’t notice. (He picks up his knife and fork and begins to eat gingerly, without appetite).

RUTH. I should think you might have some feeling for me, Rob, and not always be late for meals. If you think it’s fun sweltering in that oven of a kitchen to keep things warm for you, you’re mistaken.

ROBERT. I’m sorry, Ruth, really I am. Something crops up every day to delay me. I mean to be here on time.

RUTH. (with a sigh) Mean-tos don’t count.

ROBERT. (with a conciliating smile) Then punish me, Ruth. Let the food get cold and don’t bother about me.

RUTH. I’d have to wait just the same to wash up after you.

ROBERT. But I can wash up.

RUTH. A nice mess there’d be then!

ROBERT. (with an attempt at lightness) The food is lucky to be able to get cold this weather. (As RUTH doesn’t answer or smile he opens his book and resumes his reading, forcing himself to take a mouthful of food every now and then. RUTH stares at him in annoyance).

RUTH. And besides, you’ve got your own work that’s got to be done.

ROBERT. (absent-mindedly, without taking his eyes from the book) Yes, of course.

RUTH. (spitefully) Work you’ll never get done by reading books all the time.

ROBERT. (shutting the book with a snap) Why do you persist in nagging at me for getting pleasure out of reading? Is it because—— (He checks himself abruptly).

RUTH. (coloring) Because I’m too stupid to understand them, I s’pose you were going to say.

ROBERT. (shame-facedly) No—no. (In exasperation) Why do you goad me into saying things I don’t mean? Haven’t I got my share of troubles trying to work this cursed farm without your adding to them? You know how hard I’ve tried to keep things going in spite of bad luck——

RUTH. (scornfully) Bad luck!

ROBERT. And my own very apparent unfitness for the job, I was going to add; but you can’t deny there’s been bad luck to it, too. Why don’t you take things into consideration? Why can’t we pull together? We used to. I know it’s hard on you also. Then why can’t we help each other instead of hindering?

RUTH. (sullenly) I do the best I know how.

ROBERT. (gets up and puts his hand on her shoulder) I know you do. But let’s both of us try to do better. We can both improve. Say a word of encouragement once in a while when things go wrong, even if it is my fault. You know the odds I’ve been up against since Pa died. I’m not a farmer. I’ve never claimed to be one. But there’s nothing else I can do under the circumstances, and I’ve got to pull things through somehow. With your help, I can do it. With you against me—— (He shrugs his shoulders. There is a pause. Then he bends down and kisses her hair—with an attempt at cheerfulness) So you promise that; and I’ll promise to be here when the clock strikes—and anything else you tell me to. Is it a bargain?

RUTH. (dully) I s’pose so. (They are interrupted by the sound of a loud knock at the kitchen door) There’s someone at the kitchen door. (She hurries out. A moment later she reappears) It’s Ben.

ROBERT. (frowning) What’s the trouble now, I wonder? (In a loud voice) Come on in here, Ben. (BEN slouches in from the kitchen. He is a hulking, awkward young fellow with a heavy, stupid face and shifty, cunning eyes. He is dressed in overalls, boots, etc., and wears a broad-brimmed hat of coarse straw pushed back on his head) Well, Ben, what’s the matter?

BEN. (drawlingly) The mowin’ machine’s bust.

ROBERT. Why, that can’t be. The man fixed it only last week.

BEN. It’s bust just the same.

ROBERT. And can’t you fix it?

BEN. No. Don’t know what’s the matter with the goll-darned thing. ’Twon’t work, anyhow.

ROBERT. (getting up and going for his hat) Wait a minute and I’ll go look it over. There can’t be much the matter with it.

BEN. (impudently) Don’t make no diff’rence t’ me whether there be or not. I’m quittin’.

ROBERT. (anxiously) You don’t mean you’re throwing up your job here?

BEN. That’s what! My month’s up today and I want what’s owin’ t’ me.

ROBERT. But why are you quitting now, Ben, when you know I’ve so much work on hand? I’ll have a hard time getting another man at such short notice.

BEN. That’s for you to figger. I’m quittin’.

ROBERT. But what’s your reason? You haven’t any complaint to make about the way you’ve been treated, have you?

BEN. No. ’Tain’t that. (Shaking his finger) Look-a-here. I’m sick o’ being made fun at, that’s what; an’ I got a job up to Timms’ place; an’ I’m quittin’ here.

ROBERT. Being made fun of? I don’t understand you. Who’s making fun of you?

BEN. They all do. When I drive down with the milk in the mornin’ they all laughs and jokes at me—that boy up to Harris’ and the new feller up to Slocum’s, and Bill Evans down to Meade’s, and all the rest on ’em.

ROBERT. That’s a queer reason for leaving me flat. Won’t they laugh at you just the same when you’re working for Timms?

BEN. They wouldn’t dare to. Timms is the best farm hereabouts. They was laughin’ at me for workin’ for you, that’s what! “How’re things up to the Mayo place?” they hollers every mornin’. “What’s Robert doin’ now—pasturin’ the cattle in the cornlot? Is he seasonin’ his hay with rain this year, same as last?” they shouts. “Or is he inventin’ some ’lectrical milkin’ engine to fool them dry cows o’ his into givin’ hard cider?” (Very much ruffled) That’s like they talks; and I ain’t goin’ to put up with it no longer. Everyone’s always knowed me as a first-class hand hereabouts, and I ain’t wantin’ ’em to get no different notion. So I’m quittin’ you. And I wants what’s comin’ to me.

ROBERT. (coldly) Oh, if that’s the case, you can go to the devil. You’ll get your money tomorrow when I get back from town—not before!

BEN. (turning to doorway to kitchen) That suits me. (As he goes out he speaks back over his shoulder) And see that I do get it, or there’ll be trouble. (He disappears and the slamming of the kitchen door is heard).

ROBERT. (as RUTH comes from where she has been standing by the doorway and sits down dejectedly in her old place) The stupid damn fool! And now what about the haying? That’s an example of what I’m up against. No one can say I’m responsible for that.

RUTH. He wouldn’t dare act that way with anyone else! (Spitefully, with a glance at ANDREW’S letter on the table) It’s lucky Andy’s coming back.

ROBERT. (without resentment) Yes, Andy’ll see the right thing to do in a jiffy. (With an affectionate smile) I wonder if the old chump’s changed much? He doesn’t seem to from his letters, does he? (Shaking his head) But just the same I doubt if he’ll want to settle down to a hum-drum farm life, after all he’s been through.

RUTH. (resentfully) Andy’s not like you. He likes the farm.

ROBERT. (immersed in his own thoughts—enthusiastically) Gad, the things he’s seen and experienced! Think of the places he’s been! All the wonderful far places I used to dream about! God, how I envy him! What a trip! (He springs to his feet and instinctively goes to the window and stares out at the horizon).

RUTH. (bitterly) I s’pose you’re sorry now you didn’t go?

ROBERT. (too occupied with his own thoughts to hear her—vindictively) Oh, those cursed hills out there that I used to think promised me so much! How I’ve grown to hate the sight of them! They’re like the walls of a narrow prison yard shutting me in from all the freedom and wonder of life! (He turns back to the room with a gesture of loathing) Sometimes I think if it wasn’t for you, Ruth, and—(his voice softening)—little Mary, I’d chuck everything up and walk down the road with just one desire in my heart—to put the whole rim of the world between me and those hills, and be able to breathe freely once more! (He sinks down into his chair and smiles with bitter self-scorn) There I go dreaming again—- my old fool dreams.

RUTH. (in a low, repressed voice—her eyes smoldering) You’re not the only one!

ROBERT. (buried in his own thoughts—bitterly) And Andy, who’s had the chance—what has he got out of it? His letters read like the diary of a—of a farmer! “We’re in Singapore now. It’s a dirty hole of a place and hotter than hell. Two of the crew are down with fever and we’re short-handed on the work. I’ll be damn glad when we sail again, although tacking back and forth in these blistering seas is a rotten job too!” (Scornfully) That’s about the way he summed up his impressions of the East.

RUTH. (her repressed voice trembling) You needn’t make fun of Andy.

ROBERT. When I think—but what’s the use? You know I wasn’t making fun of Andy personally, but his attitude toward things is——

RUTH. (her eyes flashing—bursting into uncontrollable rage) You was too making fun of him! And I ain’t going to stand for it! You ought to be ashamed of yourself! (ROBERT stares at her in amazement. She continues furiously) A fine one to talk about anyone else—after the way you’ve ruined everything with your lazy loafing!—and the stupid way you do things!

ROBERT. (angrily) Stop that kind of talk, do you hear?

RUTH. You findin’ fault—with your own brother who’s ten times the man you ever was or ever will be! You’re jealous, that’s what! Jealous because he’s made a man of himself, while you’re nothing but a—but a—— (She stutters incoherently, overcome by rage).

ROBERT. Ruth! Ruth! You’ll be sorry for talking like that.

RUTH. I won’t! I won’t never be sorry! I’m only saying what I’ve been thinking for years.

ROBERT. (aghast) Ruth! You can’t mean that!

RUTH. What do you think—living with a man like you—having to suffer all the time because you’ve never been man enough to work and do things like other people. But no! You never own up to that. You think you’re so much better than other folks, with your college education, where you never learned a thing, and always reading your stupid books instead of working. I s’pose you think I ought to be proud to be your wife—a poor, ignorant thing like me! (Fiercely) But I’m not. I hate it! I hate the sight of you. Oh, if I’d only known! If I hadn’t been such a fool to listen to your cheap, silly, poetry talk that you learned out of books! If I could have seen how you were in your true self—like you are now—I’d have killed myself before I’d have married you! I was sorry for it before we’d been together a month. I knew what you were really like—when it was too late.

ROBERT. (his voice raised loudly) And now—I’m finding out what you’re really like—what a—a creature I’ve been living with. (With a harsh laugh) God! It wasn’t that I haven’t guessed how mean and small you are—but I’ve kept on telling myself that I must be wrong—like a fool!—like a damned fool!

RUTH. You were saying you’d go out on the road if it wasn’t for me. Well, you can go, and the sooner the better! I don’t care! I’ll be glad to get rid of you! The farm’ll be better off too. There’s been a curse on it ever since you took hold. So go! Go and be a tramp like you’ve always wanted. It’s all you’re good for. I can get along without you, don’t you worry. (Exulting fiercely) Andy’s coming back, don’t forget that! He’ll attend to things like they should be. He’ll show what a man can do! I don’t need you. Andy’s coming!

ROBERT. (they are both standing. ROBERT grabs her by the shoulders and glares into her eyes) What do you mean? (He shakes her violently) What are you thinking of? What’s in your evil mind, you—you—— (His voice is a harsh shout).

RUTH. (in a defiant scream) Yes I do mean it! I’d say it if you was to kill me! I do love Andy. I do! I do! I always loved him. (Exultantly) And he loves me! He loves me! I know he does. He always did! And you know he did, too! So go! Go if you want to!

ROBERT. (throwing her away from him. She staggers back against the table—thickly) You—you slut! (He stands glaring at her as she leans back, supporting herself by the table, gasping for breath. A loud frightened whimper sounds from the awakened child in the bedroom. It continues. The man and woman stand looking at one another in horror, the extent of their terrible quarrel suddenly brought home to them. A pause. The noise of a horse and carriage comes from the road before the house. The two, suddenly struck by the same premonition, listen to it breathlessly, as to a sound heard in a dream. It stops. They hear ANDY’S voice from the road shouting a long hail—“Ahoy there!”)

RUTH. (with a strangled cry of joy) Andy! Andy! (She rushes and grabs the knob of the screen door, about to fling it open).

ROBERT. (in a voice of command that forces obedience) Stop! (He goes to the door and gently pushes the trembling RUTH away from it. The child’s crying rises to a louder pitch) I’ll meet Andy. You better go in to Mary, Ruth. (She looks at him defiantly for a moment, but there is something in his eyes that makes her turn and walk slowly into the bedroom).

ANDY’S VOICE. (in a louder shout) Ahoy there, Rob!

ROBERT. (in an answering shout of forced cheeriness) Hello, Andy! (He opens the door and walks out as

(The Curtain Falls)

ACT TWO
Scene Two

The top of a hill on the farm. It is about eleven o’clock the next morning. The day is hot and cloudless. In the distance the sea can be seen.

The top of the hill slopes downward slightly toward the left. A big boulder stands in the center toward the rear. Further right, a large oak tree. The faint trace of a path leading upward to it from the left foreground can be detected through the bleached, sun-scorched grass.

ROBERT is discovered sitting on the boulder, his chin resting on his hands, staring out toward the horizon seaward. His face is pale and haggard, his expression one of utter despondency. MARY is sitting on the grass near him in the shade, playing with her doll, singing happily to herself. Presently she casts a curious glance at her father, and, propping her doll up against the tree, comes over and clambers to his side.

MARY. (pulling at his hand—solicitously) Dada sick?

ROBERT. (looking at her with a forced smile) No, dear. Why?

MARY. Play wif Mary.

ROBERT. (gently) No, dear, not today. Dada doesn’t feel like playing today.

MARY. (protestingly) Yes, Dada!

ROBERT. No, dear. Dada does feel sick—a little. He’s got a bad headache.

MARY. Mary see. (He bends his head. She pats his hair) Bad head.

ROBERT. (kissing her—with a smile) There! It’s better now, dear, thank you. (She cuddles up close against him. There is a pause during which each of them looks out seaward) (Finally ROBERT turns to her tenderly) Would you like Dada to go away?—far, far away?

MARY. (tearfully) No! No! No, Dada, no!

ROBERT. Don’t you like Uncle Andy—the man that came yesterday—not the old man with the white mustache—the other?

MARY. Mary loves Dada.

ROBERT. (with fierce determination) He won’t go away, baby. He was only joking. He couldn’t leave his little Mary. (He presses the child in his arms).

MARY. (with an exclamation of pain) Oh! Hurt!

ROBERT. I’m sorry, little girl. (He lifts her down to the grass) Go play with Dolly, that’s a good girl; and be careful to keep in the shade. (She reluctantly leaves him and takes up her doll again. A moment later she points down the hill to the left).

MARY. Mans, Dada.

ROBERT. (looking that way) It’s your Uncle Andy. (A moment later ANDREW comes up from the left, whistling cheerfully. He has changed but little in appearance, except for the fact that his face has been deeply bronzed by his years in the tropics; but there is a decided change in his manner. The old easy-going good-nature seems to have been partly lost in a breezy, business-like briskness of voice and gesture. There is an authoritative note in his speech as though he were accustomed to give orders and have them obeyed as a matter of course. He is dressed in the simple blue uniform and cap of a merchant ship’s officer).

ANDREW. Here you are, eh?

ROBERT. Hello, Andy.

ANDREW. (going over to MARY) And who’s this young lady I find you all alone with, eh? Who’s this pretty young lady? (He tickles the laughing, squirming MARY, then lifts her up at arm’s length over his head) Upsy—daisy! (He sets her down on the ground again) And there you are! (He walks over and sits down on the boulder beside ROBERT who moves to one side to make room for him) Ruth told me I’d probably find you up top-side here; but I’d have guessed it, anyway. (He digs his brother in the ribs affectionately) Still up to your old tricks, you old beggar! I can remember how you used to come up here to mope and dream in the old days.

ROBERT. (with a smile) I come up here now because it’s the coolest place on the farm. I’ve given up dreaming.

ANDREW. (grinning) I don’t believe it. You can’t have changed that much. (After a pause—with boyish enthusiasm) Say, it sure brings back old times to be up here with you having a chin all by our lonesomes again. I feel great being back home.

ROBERT. It’s great for us to have you back.

ANDREW. (after a pause—meaningly) I’ve been looking over the old place with Ruth. Things don’t seem to be——

ROBERT. (his face flushing—interrupts his brother shortly) Never mind the damn farm! Let’s talk about something interesting. This is the first chance I’ve had to have a word with you alone. Tell me about your trip.

ANDREW. Why, I thought I told you everything in my letters.

ROBERT. (smiling) Your letters were—sketchy, to say the least.

ANDREW. Oh, I know I’m no author. You needn’t be afraid of hurting my feelings. I’d rather go through a typhoon again than write a letter.

ROBERT. (with eager interest) Then you were through a typhoon?

ANDREW. Yes—in the China sea. Had to run before it under bare poles for two days. I thought we were bound down for Davy Jones, sure. Never dreamed waves could get so big or the wind blow so hard. If it hadn’t been for Uncle Dick being such a good skipper we’d have gone to the sharks, all of us. As it was we came out minus a main top-mast and had to beat back to Hong-Kong for repairs. But I must have written you all this.

ROBERT. You never mentioned it.

ANDREW. Well, there was so much dirty work getting things ship-shape again I must have forgotten about it.

ROBERT. (looking at ANDREW—marveling) Forget a typhoon? (with a trace of scorn) You’re a strange combination, Andy. And is what you’ve told me all you remember about it?

ANDREW. Oh, I could give you your bellyful of details if I wanted to turn loose on you. It was all-wool-and-a-yard-wide-Hell, I’ll tell you. You ought to have been there. I remember thinking about you at the worst of it, and saying to myself: “This’d cure Rob of them ideas of his about the beautiful sea, if he could see it.” And it would have too, you bet! (He nods emphatically).

ROBERT. (dryly) The sea doesn’t seem to have impressed you very favorably.

ANDREW. I should say it didn’t! I’ll never set foot on a ship again if I can help it—except to carry me some place I can’t get to by train.

ROBERT. But you studied to become an officer!

ANDREW. Had to do something or I’d gone mad. The days were like years. (He laughs) And as for the East you used to rave about—well, you ought to see it, and smell it! One walk down one of their filthy narrow streets with the tropic sun beating on it would sicken you for life with the “wonder and mystery” you used to dream of.

ROBERT. (shrinking from his brother with a glance of aversion) So all you found in the East was a stench?

ANDREW. A stench! Ten thousand of them!

ROBERT. But you did like some of the places, judging from your letters—Sydney, Buenos Aires——

ANDREW. Yes, Sydney’s a good town. (Enthusiastically) But Buenos Aires—there’s the place for you. Argentine’s a country where a fellow has a chance to make good. You’re right I like it. And I’ll tell you, Rob, that’s right where I’m going just as soon as I’ve seen you folks a while and can get a ship. I can get a berth as second officer, and I’ll jump the ship when I get there. I’ll need every cent of the wages Uncle’s paid me to get a start at something in B. A.

ROBERT. (staring at his brother—slowly) So you’re not going to stay on the farm?

ANDREW. Why sure not! Did you think I was? There wouldn’t be any sense. One of us is enough to run this little place.

ROBERT. I suppose it does seem small to you now.

ANDREW. (not noticing the sarcasm in ROBERT’S voice) You’ve no idea, Rob, what a splendid place Argentine is. I had a letter from a marine insurance chap that I’d made friends with in Hong-Kong to his brother, who’s in the grain business in Buenos Aires. He took quite a fancy to me, and what’s more important, he offered me a job if I’d come back there. I’d have taken it on the spot, only I couldn’t leave Uncle Dick in the lurch, and I’d promised you folks to come home. But I’m going back there, you bet, and then you watch me get on! (He slaps ROBERT on the back) But don’t you think it’s a big chance, Rob?

ROBERT. It’s fine—for you, Andy.

ANDREW. We call this a farm—but you ought to hear about the farms down there—ten square miles where we’ve got an acre. It’s a new country where big things are opening up—and I want to get in on something big before I die. I’m no fool when it comes to farming, and I know something about grain. I’ve been reading up a lot on it, too, lately. (He notices ROBERT’S absent-minded expression and laughs) Wake up, you old poetry book worm, you! I know my talking about business makes you want to choke me, doesn’t it?

ROBERT. (with an embarrassed smile) No, Andy, I—I just happened to think of something else. (Frowning) There’ve been lots of times lately that I’ve wished I had some of your faculty for business.

ANDREW. (soberly) There’s something I want to talk about, Rob,—the farm. You don’t mind, do you?

ROBERT. No.

ANDREW. I walked over it this morning with Ruth—and she told me about things—— (Evasively) I could see the place had run down; but you mustn’t blame yourself. When luck’s against anyone——

ROBERT. Don’t, Andy! It is my fault. You know it as well as I do. The best I’ve ever done was to make ends meet.

ANDREW. (after a pause) I’ve got over a thousand saved, and you can have that.

ROBERT. (firmly) No. You need that for your start in Buenos Aires.

ANDREW. I don’t. I can——

ROBERT. (determinedly) No, Andy! Once and for all, no! I won’t hear of it!

ANDREW. (protestingly) You obstinate old son of a gun!

ROBERT. Oh, everything’ll be on a sound footing after harvest. Don’t worry about it.

ANDREW. (doubtfully) Maybe. (After a pause) It’s too bad Pa couldn’t have lived to see things through. (With feeling) It cut me up a lot—hearing he was dead. He never—softened up, did he—about me, I mean?

ROBERT. He never understood, that’s a kinder way of putting it. He does now.

ANDREW. (after a pause) You’ve forgotten all about what—caused me to go, haven’t you, Rob? (ROBERT nods but keeps his face averted) I was a slushier damn fool in those days than you were. But it was an act of Providence I did go. It opened my eyes to how I’d been fooling myself. Why, I’d forgotten all about—that—before I’d been at sea six months.

ROBERT. (turns and looks into ANDREW’S eyes searchingly) You’re speaking of—Ruth?

ANDREW. (confused) Yes. I didn’t want you to get false notions in your head, or I wouldn’t say anything. (Looking ROBERT squarely in the eyes) I’m telling you the truth when I say I’d forgotten long ago. It don’t sound well for me, getting over things so easy, but I guess it never really amounted to more than a kid idea I was letting rule me. I’m certain now I never was in love—I was getting fun out of thinking I was—and being a hero to myself. (He heaves a great sigh of relief) There! Gosh, I’m glad that’s off my chest. I’ve been feeling sort of awkward ever since I’ve been home, thinking of what you two might think. (A trace of appeal in his voice) You’ve got it all straight now, haven’t you, Rob?

ROBERT. (in a low voice) Yes, Andy.

ANDREW. And I’ll tell Ruth, too, if I can get up the nerve. She must feel kind of funny having me round—after what used to be—and not knowing how I feel about it.

ROBERT. (slowly) Perhaps—for her sake—you’d better not tell her.

ANDREW. For her sake? Oh, you mean she wouldn’t want to be reminded of my foolishness? Still, I think it’d be worse if——

ROBERT. (breaking out—in an agonized voice) Do as you please, Andy; but for God’s sake, let’s not talk about it! (There is a pause. ANDREW stares at ROBERT in hurt stupefaction. ROBERT continues after a moment in a voice which he vainly attempts to keep calm) Excuse me, Andy. This rotten headache has my nerves shot to pieces.

ANDREW. (mumbling) It’s all right, Rob—long as you’re not sore at me.

ROBERT. Where did Uncle Dick disappear to this morning?

ANDREW. He went down to the port to see to things on the Sunda. He said he didn’t know exactly when he’d be back. I’ll have to go down and tend to the ship when he comes. That’s why I dressed up in these togs.

MARY. (pointing down the hill to the left) See! Mama! Mama! (She struggles to her feet. RUTH appears at left. She is dressed in white, shows she has been fixing up. She looks pretty, flushed and full of life).

MARY. (running to her mother) Mama!

RUTH. (kissing her) Hello, dear! (She walks toward the rock and addresses ROBERT coldly) Jake wants to see you about something. He finished working where he was. He’s waiting for you at the road.

ROBERT. (getting up—wearily) I’ll go down right away. (As he looks at RUTH, noting her changed appearance, his face darkens with pain).

RUTH. And take Mary with you, please. (To MARY) Go with Dada, that’s a good girl. Grandma has your dinner most ready for you.

ROBERT. (shortly) Come, Mary!

MARY. (taking his hand and dancing happily beside him) Dada! Dada! (They go down the hill to the left. RUTH looks after them for a moment, frowning—then turns to ANDY with a smile) I’m going to sit down. Come on, Andy. It’ll be like old times. (She jumps lightly to the top of the rock and sits down) It’s so fine and cool up here after the house.

ANDREW. (half-sitting on the side of the boulder) Yes. It’s great.

RUTH. I’ve taken a holiday in honor of your arrival. (Laughing excitedly) I feel so free I’d like to have wings and fly over the sea. You’re a man. You can’t know how awful and stupid it is—cooking and washing dishes all the time.

ANDREW. (making a wry face) I can guess.

RUTH. Besides, your mother just insisted on getting your first dinner to home, she’s that happy at having you back. You’d think I was planning to poison you the flurried way she shooed me out of the kitchen.

ANDREW. That’s just like Ma, bless her!

RUTH. She’s missed you terrible. We all have. And you can’t deny the farm has, after what I showed you and told you when we was looking over the place this morning.

ANDREW. (with a frown) Things are run down, that’s a fact! It’s too darn hard on poor old Rob.

RUTH. (scornfully) It’s his own fault. He never takes any interest in things.

ANDREW. (reprovingly) You can’t blame him. He wasn’t born for it; but I know he’s done his best for your sake and the old folks and the little girl.

RUTH. (indifferently) Yes, I suppose he has. (Gayly) But thank the Lord, all those days are over now. The “hard luck” Rob’s always blaming won’t last long when you take hold, Andy. All the farm’s ever needed was someone with the knack of looking ahead and preparing for what’s going to happen.

ANDREW. Yes, Rob hasn’t got that. He’s frank to own up to that himself. I’m going to try and hire a good man for him—an experienced farmer—to work the place on a salary and percentage. That’ll take it off of Rob’s hands, and he needn’t be worrying himself to death any more. He looks all worn out, Ruth. He ought to be careful.

RUTH. (absent-mindedly) Yes, I s’pose. (Her mind is filled with premonitions by the first part of his statement) Why do you want to hire a man to oversee things? Seems as if now that you’re back it wouldn’t be needful.

ANDREW. Oh, of course I’ll attend to everything while I’m here. I mean after I’m gone.

RUTH. (as if she couldn’t believe her ears) Gone!

ANDREW. Yes. When I leave for the Argentine again.

RUTH. (aghast) You’re going away to sea!

ANDREW. Not to sea, no; I’m through with the sea for good as a job. I’m going down to Buenos Aires to get in the grain business.

RUTH. But—that’s far off—isn’t it?

ANDREW. (easily) Six thousand miles more or less. It’s quite a trip. (With enthusiasm) I’ve got a peach of a chance down there, Ruth. Ask Rob if I haven’t. I’ve just been telling him all about it.

RUTH. (a flush of anger coming over her face) And didn’t he try to stop you from going?

ANDREW. (in surprise) No, of course not. Why?

RUTH. (slowly and vindictively) That’s just like him—not to.

ANDREW. (resentfully) Rob’s too good a chum to try and stop me when he knows I’m set on a thing. And he could see just as soon’s I told him what a good chance it was.

RUTH. (dazedly) And you’re bound on going?

ANDREW. Sure thing. Oh, I don’t mean right off. I’ll have to wait for a ship sailing there for quite a while, likely. Anyway, I want to stay to home and visit with you folks a spell before I go.

RUTH. (dumbly) I s’pose. (With sudden anguish) Oh, Andy, you can’t go! You can’t. Why we’ve all thought—we’ve all been hoping and praying you was coming home to stay, to settle down on the farm and see to things. You mustn’t go! Think of how your Ma’ll take on if you go—and how the farm’ll be ruined if you leave it to Rob to look after. You can see that.

ANDREW. (frowning) Rob hasn’t done so bad. When I get a man to direct things the farm’ll be safe enough.

RUTH. (insistently) But your Ma—think of her.

ANDREW. She’s used to me being away. She won’t object when she knows it’s best for her and all of us for me to go. You ask Rob. In a couple of years down there I’ll make my pile, see if I don’t; and then I’ll come back and settle down and turn this farm into the crackiest place in the whole state. In the meantime, I can help you both from down there. (Earnestly) I tell you, Ruth, I’m going to make good right from the minute I land, if working hard and a determination to get on can do it; and I know they can! (Excitedly—in a rather boastful tone) I tell you, I feel ripe for bigger things than settling down here. The trip did that for me, anyway. It showed me the world is a larger proposition than ever I thought it was in the old days. I couldn’t be content any more stuck here like a fly in molasses. It all seems trifling, somehow. You ought to be able to understand what I feel.

RUTH. (dully) Yes—I s’pose I ought. (After a pause—a sudden suspicion forming in her mind) What did Rob tell you—about me?

ANDREW. Tell? About you? Why, nothing.

RUTH. (staring at him intensely) Are you telling me the truth, Andy Mayo? Didn’t he say—I—— (She stops confusedly).

ANDREW. (surprised) No, he didn’t mention you, I can remember. Why? What made you think he did?

RUTH. (wringing her hands) Oh, I wish I could tell if you’re lying or not!

ANDREW. (indignantly) What’re you talking about? I didn’t used to lie to you, did I? And what in the name of God is there to lie for?

RUTH. (still unconvinced) Are you sure—will you swear—it isn’t the reason—— (She lowers her eyes and half turns away from him) The same reason that made you go last time that’s driving you away again? ’Cause if it is—I was going to say—you mustn’t go—on that account. (Her voice sinks to a tremulous, tender whisper as she finishes).

ANDREW. (confused—forces a laugh) Oh, is that what you’re driving at? Well, you needn’t worry about that no more—— (Soberly) I don’t blame you, Ruth, feeling embarrassed having me around again, after the way I played the dumb fool about going away last time.

RUTH. (her hope crushed—with a gasp of pain) Oh, Andy!

ANDREW. (misunderstanding) I know I oughtn’t to talk about such foolishness to you. Still I figure it’s better to get it out of my system so’s we three can be together same’s years ago, and not be worried thinking one of us might have the wrong notion.

RUTH. Andy! Please! Don’t!

ANDREW. Let me finish now that I’ve started. It’ll help clear things up. I don’t want you to think once a fool always a fool, and be upset all the time I’m here on my fool account. I want you to believe I put all that silly nonsense back of me a long time ago—and now—it seems—well—as if you’d always been my sister, that’s what, Ruth.

RUTH. (at the end of her endurance—laughing hysterically) For God’s sake, Andy—won’t you please stop talking! (She again hides her face in her hands, her bowed shoulders trembling).

ANDREW. (ruefully) Seem’s if I put my foot in it whenever I open my mouth today. Rob shut me up with almost the same words when I tried speaking to him about it.

RUTH. (fiercely) You told him—what you’ve told me?

ANDREW. (astounded) Why sure! Why not?

RUTH. (shuddering) Oh, my God!

ANDREW. (alarmed) Why? Shouldn’t I have?

RUTH. (hysterically) Oh, I don’t care what you do! I don’t care! Leave me alone! (ANDREW gets up and walks down the hill to the left, embarrassed, hurt, and greatly puzzled by her behavior).

ANDREW. (after a pause—pointing down the hill) Hello! Here they come back—and the Captain’s with them. How’d he come to get back so soon, I wonder? That means I’ve got to hustle down to the port and get on board. Rob’s got the baby with him. (He comes back to the boulder. RUTH keeps her face averted from him) Gosh, I never saw a father so tied up in a kid as Rob is! He just watches every move she makes. And I don’t blame him. You both got a right to feel proud of her. She’s surely a little winner. (He glances at RUTH to see if this very obvious attempt to get back in her good graces is having any effect) I can see the likeness to Rob standing out all over her, can’t you? But there’s no denying she’s your young one, either. There’s something about her eyes——

RUTH. (piteously) Oh, Andy, I’ve a headache! I don’t want to talk! Leave me alone, won’t you please?

ANDREW. (stands staring at her for a moment—then walks away saying in a hurt tone): Everybody hereabouts seems to be on edge today. I begin to feel as if I’m not wanted around. (He stands near the path, left, kicking at the grass with the toe of his shoe. A moment later CAPTAIN DICK SCOTT enters, followed by ROBERT carrying MARY. The CAPTAIN seems scarcely to have changed at all from the jovial, booming person he was three years before. He wears a uniform similar to ANDREW’S. He is puffing and breathless from his climb and mops wildly at his perspiring countenance. ROBERT casts a quick glance at ANDREW, noticing the latter’s discomfited look, and then turns his eyes on RUTH who, at their approach, has moved so her back is toward them, her chin resting on her hands as she stares out seaward).

MARY. Mama! Mama! (ROBERT puts her down and she runs to her mother. RUTH turns and grabs her up in her arms with a sudden fierce tenderness, quickly turning away again from the others. During the following scene she keeps MARY in her arms).

SCOTT. (wheezily) Phew! I got great news for you, Andy. Let me get my wind first. Phew! God A’mighty, mountin’ this damned hill is worser’n goin’ aloft to the skys’l yard in a blow. I got to lay to a while. (He sits down on the grass, mopping his face).

ANDREW. I didn’t look for you this soon, Uncle.

SCOTT. I didn’t figger it, neither; but I run across a bit o’ news down to the Seamen’s Home made me ’bout ship and set all sail back here to find you.

ANDREW. (eagerly) What is it, Uncle?

SCOTT. Passin’ by the Home I thought I’d drop in an’ let ’em know I’d be lackin’ a mate next trip count o’ your leavin’. Their man in charge o’ the shippin’ asked after you ’special curious. “Do you think he’d consider a berth as Second on a steamer, Captain?” he asks. I was goin’ to say no when I thinks o’ you wantin’ to get back down south to the Plate agen; so I asks him: “What is she and where’s she bound?” “She’s the El Paso, a brand new tramp,” he says, “and she’s bound for Buenos Aires.”

ANDREW. (his eyes lighting up—excitedly) Gosh, that is luck! When does she sail?

SCOTT. Tomorrow mornin’. I didn’t know if you’d want to ship away agen so quick an’ I told him so. “Tell him I’ll hold the berth open for him until late this afternoon,” he says. So there you be, an’ you can make your own choice.

ANDREW. I’d like to take it. There may not be another ship for Buenos Aires with a vacancy in months. (His eyes roving from ROBERT to RUTH and back again—uncertainly) Still—damn it all—tomorrow morning is soon. I wish she wasn’t leaving for a week or so. That’d give me a chance—it seems hard to go right away again when I’ve just got home. And yet it’s a chance in a thousand—— (Appealing to ROBERT) What do you think, Rob? What would you do?

ROBERT. (forcing a smile) He who hesitates, you know. (Frowning) It’s a piece of good luck thrown in your way—and—I think you owe it to yourself to jump at it. But don’t ask me to decide for you.

RUTH. (turning to look at ANDREW—in a tone of fierce resentment) Yes, go, Andy! (She turns quickly away again. There is a moment of embarrassed silence).

ANDREW. (thoughtfully) Yes, I guess I will. It’ll be the best thing for all of us in the end, don’t you think so, Rob? (ROBERT nods but remains silent).

SCOTT. (getting to his feet) Then, that’s settled.

ANDREW. (now that he has definitely made a decision his voice rings with hopeful strength and energy) Yes, I’ll take the berth. The sooner I go the sooner I’ll be back, that’s a certainty; and I won’t come back with empty hands next time. You bet I won’t!

SCOTT. You ain’t got so much time, Andy. To make sure you’d best leave here soon’s you kin. I got to get right back aboard. You’d best come with me.

ANDREW. I’ll go to the house and repack my bag right away.

ROBERT. (quietly) You’ll both be here for dinner, won’t you?

ANDREW. (worriedly) I don’t know. Will there be time? What time is it now, I wonder?

ROBERT. (reproachfully) Ma’s been getting dinner especially for you, Andy.

ANDREW. (flushing—shame-facedly) Hell! And I was forgetting! Of course I’ll stay for dinner if I missed every damned ship in the world. (He turns to the CAPTAIN—briskly) Come on, Uncle. Walk down with me to the house and you can tell me more about this berth on the way. I’ve got to pack before dinner. (He and the CAPTAIN start down to the left. ANDREW calls back over his shoulder) You’re coming soon, aren’t you, Rob?

ROBERT. Yes. I’ll be right down. (ANDREW and the CAPTAIN leave. RUTH puts MARY on the ground and hides her face in her hands. Her shoulders shake as if she were sobbing. ROBERT stares at her with a grim, somber expression. MARY walks backward toward ROBERT, her wondering eyes fixed on her mother).

MARY. (her voice vaguely frightened, taking her father’s hand) Dada, Mama’s cryin’, Dada.

ROBERT. (bending down and stroking her hair—in a voice he endeavors to keep from being harsh) No, she isn’t, little girl. The sun hurts her eyes, that’s all. Aren’t you beginning to feel hungry, Mary?

MARY. (decidedly) Yes, Dada.

ROBERT. (meaningly) It must be your dinner time now.

RUTH. (in a muffled voice) I’m coming, Mary. (She wipes her eyes quickly and, without looking at ROBERT, comes and takes MARY’S hand—in a dead voice) Come on and I’ll get your dinner for you. (She walks out left, her eyes fixed on the ground, the skipping MARY tugging at her hand. ROBERT waits a moment for them to get ahead and then slowly follows as

(The Curtain Falls)