Page:Representative American plays.pdf/854

by a jug-full. You'll hear from me yet.

Michaelis. She shall never hear from you, nor of you.

Littlefield. (In the door.) Last call, old girl!—Women!

Michaelis. Poor child! Poor child!

Rhoda. I am sorry that you have had to suffer this.

Michaelis. It is you who have suffered.

(Martha enters from the hall, wheeling Mrs. Beeler in the invalid chair. She lies lower than in the first act, her manner is weaker and more dejected. Rhoda, whose back is turned, goes on as the two women enter.)

Rhoda. I deserve to suffer, but it will always be sweet to me that in my need you defended me, and gave me back my courage.

Mrs. Beeler. My poor friend! (Martha, resigning the chair to Rhoda, goes out. Mrs. Beeler looks up at Rhoda anxiously.) What were you saying when I came in? (As Rhoda does not answer, she turns to Michaelis.) Something about your defending her.—Against what?

Michaelis. Nothing. Her nature is its own defence.

Mrs. Beeler. (Caressing her.) Ah, no! She needs help. She cannot bear it that this disaster has come, through her. It has made her morbid. She says things about herself, that make me tremble. Has she spoken to you—about herself?

Michaelis. She has laid her heart bare to me.

Mrs. Beeler. That is good. Young people, when they are generous, always lay disaster at their own door. (She kisses Rhoda. The girl goes into the porch, where she lingers a moment, then disappears. Mrs. Beeler sinks back in her chair again, overtaken by despondency.) Is n't it strange that I should be lying here again, and all those poor people waking up into a new day that is no new day at all, but the old weary day they have known so long? Is n't it strange, and sad?

Michaelis. I ask you not to lose hope.

Mrs. Beeler. (Rousing from her dejection into vague excitement.) You ask me that?—Is there—any hope? Oh, don't deceive me—now! I could n't bear it now!—Is there any hope?

Michaelis. A half-hour ago I thought there was none. But now I say, have hope.

Mrs. Beeler. (Eagerly.) Do you? Do you? Oh, I wonder—I wonder if that could be the meaning—?

Michaelis. The meaning—?

Mrs. Beeler. Of something I felt, just now, as I sat there in my room by the open window.

Michaelis. What was it?

Mrs. Beeler. I—I don't know how to describe it.—It was like a new sweetness in the air.

Michaelis. The lilacs have opened during the night.

Mrs. Beeler. It was not the lilacs.—I get it now again, in this room. (She looks toward the lilies and shakes her head.) No, it is not the lilies either. If it were anyone else, I should be ashamed to say what I think. (She draws him down and speaks mysteriously.) It is not real flowers at all!

Michaelis. What is it to you?

Mrs. Beeler. It is like—it is like some kindness in the air, some new-born happiness—or a new hope rising. Now you will think I am—not quite right in my mind, as Mat does, and Martha!

Michaelis. Mrs. Beeler, there is such a perfume about us this beautiful Easter morning. You perceive it, with senses which suffering and a pure soul have made fine beyond the measure of woman. There is a kindness in the air, new-born happiness, and new-risen hope.

Mrs. Beeler. From whose heart does it rise?

Michaelis. From mine, from Rhoda's heart, though she knows it not, from yours, and soon, by God's mercy, from the heart of this waiting multitude.

Mrs. Beeler. The light has come into your face again! You are—you are—Oh, my brother, what has come to you?

Michaelis. I have shaken off my burden. Do you shake off yours. What is pain but a kind of selfishness? What is dis-