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THE FAITH HEALER
Did you happen to notice how long that fog has been hangin' over this house?
Beeler. How long? Why, since Thursday.
Martha. No, sir, since Wednesday night.
Beeler. (Looking at her, astonished.) Martha Beeler! You don't mean to say—he brought the fog? (She flounces out without answering. He lights lantern, with dubious head-shaking, and holds it up before the print portraits.) Mornin', Mr. Darwin. Same to you, Mr. Spencer. Still keepin' things straight? (Grunts as he turns down his lantern, which is smoking.) I guess not very.
(The hall door again opens, and Rhoda Williams, a girl of twenty, enters, with Annie Beeler, a child of ten. Rhoda is running, with Annie in laughing pursuit.)
Rhoda. (Taking refuge behind the table.) King's X!
Annie. (Catching her.) You did n't have your fingers crossed.
Rhoda. (Turning Annie about, and beginning to button the child's long slip.) And you did n't have your dress buttoned.
Annie. That does n't count.
Rhoda. Yes, it does, before breakfast!
Beeler. (At the outer door.) How does your aunt strike you this morning?
Rhoda. (Sobered.) She seems wonderfully better.
Beeler. Better!
Rhoda. I don't mean her poor body. She's got past caring for that.
Beeler. (With sarcasm.) You mean in her mind, eh?
Rhoda. Yes, I mean better in her mind.
Beeler. Because of what this fellow has been sayin' to her, I suppose.
Rhoda. Yes, because of that.
Beeler. (As he puts on an old fur cap.) An out-and-out fakir!
Rhoda. You don't know him.
Beeler. I suppose you do, after forty-eight hours. What in the name of nonsense is he, anyway? And this deaf and dumb Indian boy he drags around with him. What's his part in the show?
Rhoda. I know very little about either of them. But I know Mr. Michaelis is not—what you say.
Beeler. Well, he's a crank at the best of it. He's worked your aunt up now so's she can't sleep. You brought him here, and you've got to get rid of him. (Exit by outer door, with inarticulate grumblings, among which can be distinguished.) Hump! Ulrich Michaelis! There's a name for you.
Annie. What's a fakir? (Rhoda does not answer.) Cousin Rho, what's a fakir?
Rhoda. (Humoring her.) A man, way off on the other side of the world, in India, who does strange things.
Annie. What kind of things?
Rhoda. Well, for instance, he throws a rope up in the air, right up in the empty air, with nothing for it to catch on, and then—he—climbs—up—the—rope!
Annie. Don't he fall?
(Rhoda shakes her head in portentous negation. Steps are heard descending the stairs. The child fidgets nervously.)
Annie. Listen! He's coming down!
Rhoda. Yes, he's coming down, right out of the blue sky.
Annie. (In a panic.) Let me go.
(She breaks away and retreats to the hall door, watching the stair door open, and Ulrich Michaelis enter. Thereupon, with a glance of frightened curiosity, she flees. Michaelis is a man of twenty-eight or thirty, and his dark, emaciated face, wrinkled by sun and wind, looks older. His abundant hair is worn longer than common. His frame, though slight, is powerful, and his way of handling himself has the freedom and largeness which come from much open-air life. There is nevertheless something nervous and restless in his movements. He has a trick of handling things, putting them down only to take them up again immediately, before renouncing them for good. His face shows the effect of sleeplessness, and his gray flannel shirt and dark, coarse clothing are rumpled and neglected.)
Rhoda. (As he enters.) Good morning.
Michaelis. (Watching Annie's retreat.) Is—is that child afraid of me?
Rhoda. (As she adds the finishing touches to the breakfast table.) Oh, Annie's a queer little body. She has her mother's nerves. And then she sees no one, living here on the back road. If this dreadful fog ever lifts, you'll see that, though we're quite near town, it's almost as if we were in the wilderness. (The stair door opens, and an Indian boy, about