Page:Representative American plays.pdf/830
This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY
813
sixteen years old, enters. He is dressed in ordinary clothes; his dark skin, longish hair, and the noiseless tread of his moccasined feet, are the only suggestions of his race. He bows to Rhoda, who returns his salutation; then, with a glance at Michaelis, he goes out doors. Rhoda nods toward the closing door.) It's really him Annie's afraid of. He's like a creature from another world, to her.
Michaelis. (Looks at her in an odd, startled way.) Another world?
Rhoda. Oh, you're used to his people. Your father was a missionary to the Indians, you told me.
Michaelis. Yes.
Rhoda. Where?
Michaelis. At Acoma.
Rhoda. Where is that?
Michaelis. (Standing near the wall map, touches it.) In New Mexico, by the map.
Rhoda. (Comes nearer.) What is it like?
Michaelis. It's—as you say—another world.
Rhoda. Describe it to me.
Michaelis. I could n't make you see it. It's—centuries and centuries from our time.—And since I came here, since I entered this house, it has seemed centuries away from my own life.
Rhoda. My life has seemed far off, too—my old life—
Michaelis. What do you mean by your old life?
Rhoda. (She breaks out impulsively.) I mean—I mean—. Three days ago I was like one dead! I walked and ate and did my daily tasks, but—I wondered sometimes why people did n't see that I was dead, and scream at me.
Michaelis. It was three days ago that I first saw you.
Rhoda. Yes.
Michaelis. Three nights ago, out there in the moonlit country.
Rhoda. Yes.
Michaelis. You were unhappy, then?
Rhoda. The dead are not unhappy, and I was as one dead.
Michaelis. Why was that?
Rhoda. I think we die more than once when things are too hard and too bitter.
Michaelis. Have things here been hard and bitter?
Rhoda. No. All that was before I came here! But it had left me feeling—. The other night, as I walked through the streets of the town, the people seemed like ghosts to me, and I myself like a ghost.
Michaelis. I cannot think of you as anything but glad and free.
Rhoda. When you met me on the road, and walked home with me, and said those few words, it was as if, all of a sudden, the dead dream was shattered, and I began once more to live. (Bell rings.) That is Aunt Mary's bell.
(Rhoda goes out by the hall door, wheeling the invalid chair. Martha enters from the kitchen, carrying a steaming coffee-pot and a platter of smoking meat, which she places on the table. Michaelis bows to her.)
Martha. (Snappishly.) Hope you slept well!
(She goes to the outer door, rings the breakfast bell loudly, and exit to kitchen. Rhoda enters, wheeling Mrs. Beeler in an invalid chair. Mrs. Beeler is a woman of forty, slight of body, with hair just beginning to silver. Her face has the curious refinement which physical suffering sometimes brings. Annie lingers at the door, looking timidly at Michaelis, as he approaches Mrs. Beeler and takes her hand from the arm of the chair.)
Michaelis. You are better?
Mrs. Beeler. (Speaks with low intensity.) Much, much better.
(He puts her hand gently back on the chair arm. Martha enters with other dishes. She pours out coffee, putting a cup at each plate. Mr. Beeler has entered from the kitchen, and the boy from outside. Beeler, with a glance of annoyance at his wife and Michaelis, sits down at the head of the table. Rhoda pushes Mrs. Beeler's chair to the foot of the table and stands feeding her, eating her own breakfast meanwhile.
(Michaelis sits at Mrs. Beeler's right, Martha opposite. At Mr. Beeler's right is the Indian boy, at his left Annie's vacant chair. Martha beckons to Annie to come to the table, but the child, eyeing the strangers, refuses, taking a chair behind her mother by the mantelpiece. Mrs. Beeler speaks after the meal has progressed for some time in silence.)