Page:Representative American plays.pdf/842
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WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY
825
Littlefield. Well, well! The world is small.—Been here long?
Rhoda. Only a month.
Littlefield. And before that?
Rhoda. It's a long story. Besides, you would n't understand.
Littlefield. You might let me try. What in the world have you been doing all this time?
Rhoda. I have been searching for something.
Littlefield. What was it?
Rhoda. My own lost self. My own—lost soul.
Littlefield. (Amused at her solemnity.) You're a queer bundle of goods. Always were. Head full of solemn notions about life, and at the same time, when it came to a lark,—Oh, I'm no grandmother, but when you got on your high horse—well!
(He waves his hands expressively.)
Rhoda. (Bursts out.) The great town, the people, the noise, and the lights—after seventeen years of life on a dead prairie, where I'd hardly heard a laugh or seen a happy face!—All the same, the prairie had me still.
Littlefield. You don't mean you went back to the farm?
Rhoda. I mean that the years I'd spent out there in that endless stretch of earth and sky—. (She breaks off, with a weary gesture.) There's no use going into that. You would n't understand.
Littlefield. No, I walk on simple shoe leather and eat mere victuals.—Just the same, it was n't square of you to clear out that way—vanish into air without a word or a sign.
Rhoda. (Looking at him steadily.) You know very well why I went.
Littlefield. (Returning her gaze, unabashed, chants with meaning and relish.)
"Hey diddle, diddle,
The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon."
(Rhoda takes up the basket and goes toward the outer door. He intercepts her.)
Rhoda. Let me pass.
Littlefield. You're not taking part in this camp-meeting enthusiasm, are you?
Rhoda. Yes.
(As he stares at her, his astonishment changes to amusement; he chuckles to himself, then bursts out laughing, as in humorous reminiscence.)
Littlefield. Bless my soul! And to think that only a couple of little years ago—Oh, bless my soul!
(The stair door opens. Michaelis appears. His face in flushed, his hair disordered, and his whole person expresses a feverish and precarious exaltation.
Michaelis. (Looks at Littlefield with vague query, then at Rhoda.) Excuse me, I am very thirsty. I came down for a glass of water.
(Rhoda goes to the kitchen door, where she turns. The doctor puts on a pair of nose-glasses and scans Michaelis with interest. He holds out his hand, which Michaelis takes.)
Littlefield. We ought to know each other. We're colleagues, in a way.
Michaelis. Colleagues?
Littlefield. In a way, yes. I'm a practising physician. (Exit Rhoda.) You seem to have the call on us professionals, to judge by the number of your clients out yonder. (He points out of the window.) To say nothing of Exhibit One!
(He points to the hall door.)
Michaelis. (Vaguely.) I—I don't know that I— (Rhoda enters from the kitchen, with water, which he takes.) Thank you.
(He drinks thirstily. Mr. Beeler appears in the hall door; he looks at the group, taken aback.)
Beeler. Oh—!
Littlefield. I stopped to chat with your niece. She and I happen to be old acquaintances.
Beeler. You don't say?—Would you mind coming in here for a minute?
Littlefield. (Following him out.) What's up?
Beeler. My wife's got it in her head that she's called upon to—
(Door closes. Michaelis, who has followed Littlefield with his eyes, sets down the glass, and turns slowly to Rhoda.)
Michaelis. Who is that?
Rhoda. My aunt's doctor.
Michaelis. You know him well?
Rhoda. Yes.—No.
Michaelis. What does that mean?
Rhoda. I have n't seen him for nearly two years.—I can't remember much about the person I was, two years ago.
Michaelis. Yes! Yes! I understand. (He turns away, lifting his hands, speak-