Rachel (Grimke 1920)/Act III

Tom: Well, who’s the giddy one in this family now?

Mrs. Loving (Shaking her head in a troubled manner): I don’t like it. It worries me. Rachel—(Breaks off).

Tom: Have you found out, yet—

Mrs. Loving (Turning and looking toward the rear doorway, quickly interrupting him): Sh! (Rachel, laughing, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, comes rushing into the room. Jimmy is in close pursuit. He tries to catch her, but she dodges him. They are both breathless).

​Mrs. Loving (Deprecatingly): Really, Rachel, Jimmy will be so excited he won’t be able to sleep. It’s after his bedtime, now. Don’t you think you had better stop?

Rachel: All right, Ma dear. Come on, Jimmy; let’s play “Old Folks” and sit by the fire. (She begins to push the big armchair over to the fire. Tom jumps up, moves her aside, and pushes it himself. Jimmy renders assistance.]

Tom: Thanks, Big Fellow, you are “sure some” strong. I’ll remember you when these people around here come for me to move pianos and such things around. Shake! (They shake hands).

Jimmy (Proudly): I am awful strong, am I not?

Tom: You “sure” are a Hercules. (Hurriedly, as Jimmy’s mouth and eyes open wide). And see here! don’t ask me tonight who that was. I’ll tell you the first thing tomorrow morning. Hear? (Returns to his chair and paper).

Rachel (Sitting down): Come on, honey boy, and sit in my lap.

Jimmy (Doubtfully): I thought we were going to play “Old Folks.”

Rachel: We are.

Jimmy: Do old folks sit in each other’s laps?

Rachel: Old folks do anything. Come on.

Jimmy (Hesitatingly climbs into her lap, but presently snuggles down and sighs audibly from sheer content; Rachel starts to bind up her hair): Ma Rachel, don’t please! I like your hair like that. You’re—you’re pretty. I like to feel of it; and it smells like—like—oh!—like a barn.

Rachel: My! how complimentary! I like that. Like a barn, indeed!

Jimmy: What’s “complimentry”?

Rachel: Oh! saying nice things about me. (Pinching his cheek and laughing) That my hair is like a barn, for instance.

​Jimmy (Stoutly): Well, that is “complimentary.” It smells like hay—like the hay in the barn you took me to, one day, last summer. ’Member?

Rachel: Yes honey.

Jimmy (After a brief pause): Ma Rachel!

Rachel: Well?

Jimmy: Tell me a story, please. It’s “story-time,” now, isn’t it?

Rachel: Well, let’s see. (They both look into the fire for a space; beginning softly) Once upon a time, there were two, dear, little boys, and they were all alone in the world. They lived with a cruel, old man and woman, who made them work hard, very hard—all day, and beat them when they did not move fast enough, and always, every night, before they went to bed. They slept in an attic on a rickety, narrow bed, that went screech! screech! whenever they moved. And, in summer, they nearly died with the heat up there, and in winter, with the cold. One wintry night, when they were both weeping very bitterly after a particularly hard beating, they suddenly heard a pleasant voice saying: “Why are you crying, little boys?” They looked up, and there, in the moonlight, by their bed, was the dearest, little old lady. She was dressed all in gray, from the peak of her little pointed hat to her little, buckled shoes. She held a black cane much taller than her little self. Her hair fell about her ears in tiny, grey corkscrew curls, and they bobbed about as she moved. Her eyes were black and bright—as bright as—well, as that lovely, white light there. No, there! And her cheeks were as red as the apple I gave you yesterday. Do you remember?

Jimmy (Dreamily): Yes.

Rachel: “Why are you crying, little boys?” she asked again, in a lovely, low, little voice. “Because we are tired and ​sore and hungry and cold; and we are all alone in the world; and we don’t know how to laugh any more. We should so like to laugh again.” “Why, that’s easy,” she said, “it’s just like this.” And she laughed a little, joyous, musical laugh. “Try!” she commanded. They tried, but their laughing boxes were very rusty, and they made horrid sounds. “Well,” she said, “I advise you to pack up, and go away, as soon as you can, to the Land of Laughter. You’ll soon learn there, I can tell you.” “Is there such a land?” they asked doubtfully. “To be sure there is,” she answered the least bit sharply. “We never heard of it,” they said. “Well, I’m sure there must be plenty of things you never heard about,” she said just the “leastest” bit more sharply. “In a moment you’ll be telling me flowers don’t talk together, and the birds.” “We never heard of such a thing,” they said in surprise, their eyes like saucers. “There!” she said, bobbing her little curls. “What did I tell you? You have much to learn.” “How do you get to the Land of Laughter?” they asked. “You go out of the eastern gate of the town, just as the sun is rising; and you take the highway there, and follow it; and if you go with it long enough, it will bring you to the very gates of the Land of Laughter. It’s a long, long way from here; and it will take you many days.” The words had scarcely left her mouth, when, lo! the little lady disappeared, and where she had stood was the white square of moonlight—nothing else. And without more ado these two little boys put their arms around each other and fell fast asleep. And in the grey, just before daybreak, they awoke and dressed; and, putting on their ragged caps and mittens, for it was a wintry day, they stole out of the house and made for the eastern gate. And just as they reached it, and passed through, the whole east leapt into fire. All day they walked, and many ​days thereafter, and kindly people, by the way, took them in and gave them food and drink and sometimes a bed at night. Often they slept by the roadside, but they didn’t mind that for the climate was delightful—not too hot, and not too cold. They soon threw away their ragged little mittens. They walked for many days, and there was no Land of Laughter. Once they met an old man, richly dressed, with shining jewels on his fingers, and he stopped them and asked: “Where are you going so fast, little boys?” “We are going to the Land of Laughter,” they said together gravely. “That,” said the old man, “is a very foolish thing to do. Come with me, and I will take you to the Land of Riches. I will cover you with garments of beauty, and give you jewels and a castle to live in and servants and horses and many things besides.” And they said to him: “No, we wish to learn how to laugh again; we have forgotten how, and we are going to the Land of Laughter.” “You will regret not going with me. See, if you don’t,” he said; and he left them in quite a huff. And they walked again, many days, and again they met an old man. He was tall and imposing-looking and very dignified. And he said: “Where are you going so fast, little boys?” “We are going to the Land of Laughter,” they said together very seriously. “What!” he said, “that is an extremely foolish thing to do. Come with me, and I will give you power. I will make you great men: generals, kings, emperors, Whatever you desire to accomplish will be permitted you.” And they smiled politely: “Thank you very much, but we have forgotten how to laugh, and we are going there to learn how.” He looked upon them haughtily, without speaking, and disappeared. And they walked and walked more days; and they met another old man. And he was clad in rags, and his face was thin, and his eyes were ​unhappy. And he whispered to them: “Where are you going so fast, little boys?” “We are going to the Land of Laughter,” they answered, without a smile. “Laughter! Laughter! that is useless. Come with me and I will show you the beauty of life through sacrifice, suffering for others. That is the only life. I come from the Land of Sacrifice.” And they thanked him kindly, but said: “We have suffered long enough. We have forgotten how to laugh. We would learn again.” And they went on; and he looked after them very wistfully. They walked more days, and at last they came to the Land of Laughter. And how do you suppose they knew this? Because they could hear, over the wall, the sound of joyous laughter,—the laughter of men, women, and children. And one sat guarding the gate, and they went to her. “We have come a long, long distance; and we would enter the Land of Laughter.” “Let me see you smile, first,” she said gently. “I sit at the gate; and no one who does not know how to smile may enter the Land of Laughter.” And they tried to smile, but could not. “Go away and practice,” she said kindly, “and come back tomorrow.” And they went away, and practiced all night how to smile; and in the morning they returned, and the gentle lady at the gate said: “Dear little boys, have you learned how to smile?” And they said: “We have tried. How is this?” “Better,” she said, “much better. Practice some more, and come back tomorrow.” And they went away obediently and practiced. And they came the third day. And she said: “Now try again.” And tears of delight came into her lovely eyes. “Those were very beautiful smiles,” she said. “Now, you may enter.” And she unlocked the gate, and kissed them both, and they entered the Land—the beautiful Land of Laughter. Never had they seen such blue skies, such green trees and grass; never had they ​heard such birds songs. And people, men, women and children, laughing softly, came to meet them, and took them in, and made them as home; and soon, very soon, they learned to sleep. And they grew up here, and married, and had laughing, happy children. And sometimes they thought of the Land of Riches, and said: “Ah! well!” and sometimes of the Land of Power, and sighed a little; and sometimes of the Land of Sacrifice—and their eyes were wistful. But they soon forgot, and laughed again. And they grew old, laughing. And then when they died—a laugh was on their lips. Thus are things in the beautiful Land of Laughter. (There is a long pause).

Jimmy: I like that story, Ma Rachel. It’s nice to laugh, isn’t is? Is there such a land?

Rachel (Softly): What do you think, honey?

Jimmy: I thinks it would be awful nice if there was. Don’t you?

Rachel (Wistfully): If there only were! If there only were!

Jimmy: Ma Rachel.

Rachel: Well?

Jimmy: It makes you think—kind of—doesn’t it—of sunshine medicine?

Rachel: Yes, honey,—but it isn’t medicine there. It’s always there—just like—well—like our air here. It’s always sunshine there.

Jimmy: Always sunshine? Never any dark?

Rachel: No, honey.

Jimmy: You’d—never—be—afraid there, then, would you? Never afraid of nothing?

Rachel: No, honey.

Jimmy (With a big sigh): Oh!—Oh! I wisht it was here—not there. (Puts his hand up to Rachel’s face; suddenly ​sits up and looks at her). Why, Ma Rachel dear, you’re crying. Your face is all wet. Why! Don’t cry! Don’t cry!

Rachel (Gently): Do you remember that I told you the lady at the gate had tears of joy in her eyes, when the two, dear, little boys smiled that beautiful smile?

Jimmy: Yes.

Rachel: Well, these are tears of joy, honey, that’s all—tears of joy.

Jimmy: It must be awful queer to have tears of joy, ’cause you’re happy. I never did. (With a sigh). But, if you say they are, dear Ma Rachel, they must be. You knows everything, don’t you?

Rachel (Sadly): Some things, honey, some things. (A silence).

Jimmy (Sighing happily): This is the beautiful-est night I ever knew. If you would do just one more thing, it would be lots more beautiful. Will you, Ma Rachel?

Rachel: Well, what, honey?

Jimmy: Will you sing—at the piano, I mean, it’s lots prettier that way—the little song you used to rock me to sleep by? You know, the one about the “Slumber Boat”?

Rachel: Oh! honey, not tonight. You’re too tired. It’s bedtime now.

Jimmy (Patting her face with his little hand; wheedlingly): Please! Ma Rachel, please! pretty please!

Rachel: Well, honey boy, this once, then. Tonight, you shall have the little song—I used to sing you to sleep by (half to herself) perhaps, for the last time.

Jimmy: Why, Ma Rachel, why the last time?

Rachel (Shaking her head sadly, goes to the piano; in a whisper): The last time. (She twists up her hair into a knot at the back of her head and looks at the keys for a few moments; then she plays the accompaniment of the ​“Slumber Boat” through softly, and, after a moment, sings. Her voice is full of pent-up longing, and heart-break, and hopelessness. She ends in a little sob, but attempts to cover it by singing, lightly and daintily, the chorus of “The Owl and the Moon.” . . Then softly and with infinite tenderness, almost against her will, she plays and sings again the refrain of the “Slumber Boat”):

(Presently she rises and goes to Jimmy, who is lolling back happily in the big chair. During the singing, Tom and Mrs. Loving apparently do not listen; when she sobs, however, Tom’s hand on his paper tightens; Mrs. Loving’s needle poises for a moment in mid-air. Neither looks at Rachel. Jimmy evidently has not noticed the sob).

Rachel (Kneeling by Jimmy): Well, honey, how did you like it?

Jimmy (Proceeding to pull down her hair from the twist): It was lovely, Ma Rachel. (Yawns audibly). Now, Ma Rachel, I’m just beautifully sleepy. (Dreamily) I think that p’r’aps I’ll go to the Land of Laughter tonight in my dreams. I’ll go in the “Slumber Boat” and come back in the morning and tell you all about it. Shall I?

Rachel: Yes, honey. (Whispers)

Tom (Suddenly): Rachel! (Rachel starts slightly). I nearly forgot. John is coming here tonight to see how you are. He told me to tell you so.

​Rachel (Stiffens perceptibly, then in different tones): Very well. Thank you. (Suddenly with a little cry she puts her arms around Jimmy) Jimmy! honey! don’t go tonight. Don’t go without Ma Rachel. Wait for me, honey. I do so wish to go, too, to the Land of Laughter. Think of it, Jimmy; nothing but birds always singing, and flowers always blooming, and skies always blue—and people, all of them, always laughing, laughing. You’ll wait for Ma Rachel, won’t you, honey?

Jimmy: Is there really and truly, Ma Rachel, a Land of Laughter?

Rachel: Oh! Jimmy, let’s hope so; let’s pray so.

Jimmy (Frowns): I’ve been thinking— (Pauses). You have to smile at the gate, don’t you, to get in?

Rachel: Yes, honey.

Jimmy: Well, I guess I couldn’t smile if my Ma Rachel wasn’t somewhere close to me. So I couldn’t get in after all, could I? Tonight, I’ll go somewhere else, and tell you all about it. And then, some day, we’ll go together, won’t we?

Rachel (Sadly): Yes, honey, some day—some day. (A short silence). Well, this isn’t going to “sleepy-sleep,” is it? Go, now, and say good-night to Ma Loving and Uncle Tom.

Jimmy (Gets down obediently, and goes first to Mrs. Loving. She leans over, and he puts his little arms around her neck. They kiss; very sweetly): Sweet dreams! God keep you all the night!

Mrs. Loving: The sweetest of sweet dreams to you, dear little boy! Good-night! (Rachel watches, unwatched, the scene. Her eyes are full of yearning).

Jimmy (Going to Tom, who makes believe he does not see him): Uncle Tom!

​Tom (Jumps as though tremendously startled; Jimmy laughs): My! how you frightened me. You’ll put my gizzard out of commission, if you do that often. Well, sir, what can I do for you?

Jimmy: I came to say good-night.

Tom (Gathering Jimmy up in his arms and kissing him; gently and with emotion) Good-night, dear little Big Fellow! Good-night!

Jimmy: Sweet dreams! God keep you all the night! (Goes sedately to Rachel, and holds out his little hand). I’m ready, Ma Rachel. (Yawns) I’m so nice and sleepy.

Rachel (With Jimmy’s hand in hers, she hesitates a moment, and then approaches Tom slowly. For a short time she stands looking down at him; suddenly leaning over him): Why, Tom, what a pretty tie! Is it new?

Tom: Well, no, not exactly. I’ve had it about a month. It is rather a beauty, isn’t it?

Rachel: Why, I never remember seeing it.

Tom (Laughing): I guess not. I saw to that.

Rachel: Stingy!

Tom: Well, I am—where my ties are concerned. I’ve had experience.

Rachel (Tentatively): Tom!

Tom: Well?

Rachel (Nervously and wistfully): Are you—will you—I mean, won’t you be home this evening?

Tom: You’ve got a long memory, Sis. I’ve that engagement, you know. Why?

Rachel (Slowly): I forgot; so you have.

Tom: Why?

Rachel (Hastily): Oh! nothing—nothing. Come on, Jimmy boy, you can hardly keep those little peepers open, can you? Come on, honey. (Rachel and Jimmy go out the rear doorway. There is a silence).

​Mrs. Loving (Slowly, as though thinking aloud): I try to make out what could have happened; but it’s no use—I can’t. Those four days, she lay in bed hardly moving, scarcely speaking. Only her eyes seemed alive. I never saw such a wide, tragic look in my life. It was as though her soul had been mortally wounded. But how? how? What could have happened?

Tom (Quietly): I don’t know. She generally tells me everything; but she avoids me now. If we are alone in a room—she gets out. I don’t know what it means.

Mrs. Loving: She will hardly let Jimmy out of her sight. While he’s at school, she’s nervous and excited. She seems always to be listening, but for what? When he returns, she nearly devours him. And she always asks him in a frightened sort of way, her face as pale and tense as can be: “Well, honey boy, how was school today?” And he always answers, “Fine, Ma Rachel, fine! I learned—”; and then he goes on to tell her everything that has happened. And when he has finished, she says in an uneasy sort of way: “Is—is that all?” And when he says “Yes,” she relaxes and becomes limp. After a little while she becomes feverishly happy. She plays with Jimmy and the children more than ever she did—and she played a good deal, as you know. They’re here, or she’s with them. Yesterday, I said in remonstrance, when she came in, her face pale and haggard and black hollows under her eyes: “Rachel, remember you’re just out of a sick-bed. You’re not well enough to go on like this.” “I know,” was all she would say, “but I’ve got to. I can’t help myself. This part of their little lives must be happy—it just must be.” (Pauses). The last couple of nights, Jimmy has awakened and cried most pitfully}. She wouldn’t let me go to him; said I had enough trouble, and she could quiet him. She never will let me know why he ​cries; but she stays with him, and soothes him until, at last, he falls asleep again. Every time she has come out like a rag; and her face is like a dead woman’s. Strange isn’t it, this is the first time we have ever been able to talk it over? Tom, what could have happened?

Tom: I don’t know, Ma, but I feel, as you do; something terrible and sudden has hurt her soul; and, poor little thing, she’s trying bravely to readjust herself to life again. (Pauses, looks at his watch and then rises, and goes to her. He pats her back awkwardly). Well, Ma, I’m going now. Don’t worry too much. Youth, you, know, gets over things finally. It takes them hard, that’s all—. At least, that’s what the older heads tell us. (Gets his hat and stands in the vestibule doorway). Ma, you know, I begin with John tomorrow. (With emotion) I don’t believe we’ll ever forget John. Good-night! (Exit. Mrs. Loving continues to sew. Rachel, her hair arranged, reenters through the rear doorway. She is humming).

Rachel: He’s sleeping like a top. Aren’t little children, Ma dear, the sweetest things, when they’re all helpless and asleep? One little hand is under his cheek; and he’s smiling. (Stops suddenly, biting her lips. A pause) Where’s Tom?

Mrs. Loving: He went out a few minutes ago.

Rachel (Sitting in Tom’s chair and picking up his paper. She is exceedingly nervous. She looks the paper over rapidly; presently trying to make her tone casual): Ma,—you—you—aren’t going anywhere tonight, are you?

Mrs. Loving: I’ve got to go out for a short time about half-past eight. Mrs. Jordan, you know. I’ll not be gone very long, though. Why?

Rachel: Oh! nothing particular. I just thought it would be cosy if we could sit here together the rest of the evening. Can’t you—can’t you go tomorrow?

​Mrs. Loving: Why, I don’t see how I can. I’ve made the engagement. It’s about a new reception gown; and she’s exceedingly exacting, as you know. I can’t afford to lose her.

Rachel: No, I suppose not. All right, Ma dear. (Presently, paper in hand, she laughs, but not quite naturally). Look! Ma dear! How is that for fashion, anyway? Isn’t it the “limit”? (Rises and shows her mother a picture in the paper. As she is in the act, the bell rings. With a startled cry). Oh! (Drops the paper, and grips her mother’s hand).

Mrs. Loving (Anxiously): Rachel, your nerves are right on edge; and your hand feels like fire. I’ll have to see a doctor about you; and that’s all there is to it.

Rachel (Laughing nervously, and moving toward the vestibule). Nonsense, Ma dear! Just because I let out a whoop now and then, and have nice warm hands? (Goes out, is heard talking through the tube) Yes! (Her voice emitting tremendous relief). Oh! bring it right up! (Appearing in the doorway) Ma dear, did you buy anything at Goddard’s today?

Mrs. Loving: Yes; and I’ve been wondering why they were so late in delivering it. I bought it early this morning. (Rachel goes out again. A door opens and shuts. She reappears with a bundle).

Mrs. Loving: Put it on my bed, Rachel, please. (Exit Rachel rear doorway; presently returns empty-handed; sits down again at the table with the paper between herself and mother; sinks in a deep revery. Suddenly there is the sound of many loud knocks made by numerous small fists. Rachel drops the paper, and comes to a sitting posture, tense again. Her mother looks at her, but says nothing. Almost immediately Rachel relaxes).

​Rachel: My kiddies! They’re late, this evening. (Goes out into the vestibule. A door opens and shuts. There is the shrill, excited sound of childish voices. Rachel comes in surrounded by the children, all trying to say something to her at once. Rachel puts her finger on her lip and points toward the doorway in the rear. They all quiet down. She sits on the floor in the front of the stage, and the children all cluster around her. Their conversation takes place in a half-whisper. As they enter they nod brightly at Mrs. Loving, who smiles in return). Why so late, kiddies? It’s long past “sleepy-time.”

Little Nancy: We’ve been playing “Hide and Seek,” and having the mostest fun. We promised, all of us, that if we could play until half-past seven tonight we wouldn’t make any fuss about going to bed at seven o’clock the rest of the week. It’s awful hard to go. I hate to go to bed!

Little Mary, Louise and Edith: So do I! So do I! So do I!

Little Martha: I don’t. I love bed. My bed, after my muzzer tucks me all in, is like a nice warm bag. I just stick my nose out. When I lifts my head up I can see the light from the dining-room come in the door. I can hear my muzzer and fazzer talking nice and low; and then, before I know it, I’m fast asleep, and I dream pretty things, and in about a minute it’s morning again. I love my little bed, and I love to dream.

Little Mary (Aggressively): Well, I guess I love to dream too. I wish I could dream, though, without going to bed.

Little Nancy: When I grow up, I’m never going to bed at night! (Darkly) You see.

Little Louise: “Grown-ups” just love to poke their heads out of windows and cry, “Child’run, it’s time for bed now; and you’d better hurry, too, I can tell you.” They “sure” are queer, for sometimes when I wake up, it must be ​about twelve o’clock, I can hear by big sister giggling and talking to some silly man. If it’s good for me to go to bed early—I should think—

Rachel (Interrupting suddenly): Why, where is my little Jenny? Excuse me, Louise dear.

Little Martha: Her cold is awful bad. She coughs like this (giving a distressing imitation) and snuffles all the time. She can’t talk out loud, and she can’t go to sleep. Muzzer says she’s fev’rish—I thinks that’s what she says. Jenny says she knows she could go to sleep, if you would come and sit with her a little while.

Rachel: I certainly will. I’ll go when you do, honey.

Little Martha (Softly stroking Rachel’s arm): You’re the very nicest “grown-up”, (loyally) except my muzzer, of course, I ever knew. You knows all about little chil’run and you can be one, although you’re all grown up. I think you would make a lovely muzzer. (To the rest of the children) Don’t you?

All (In excited whispers): Yes, I do.

Rachel (Winces, then says gently): Come, kiddies, you must go now, or your mothers will blame me for keeping you. (Rises, as do the rest. Little Martha puts her hand into Rachel’s). Ma dear, I’m going down to sit a little while with Jenny. I’ll be back before you go, though. Come, kiddies, say good-night to my mother.

All (Gravely): Good-night! Sweet dreams! God keep you all the night.

Mrs. Loving: Good-night dears! Sweet dreams, all!
(Exeunt Rachel and the children.
Mrs. Loving continues to sew. The bell presently rings three distinct times. In a few moments, Mrs. Loving gets up and goes out into the vestibule. A door opens and closes. Mrs. Loving and John Strong come in. He is a trifle pale but his imperturbable self. Mrs. Loving, ​somewhat nervous, takes her seat and resumes her sewing. She motions Strong to a chair. He returns to the vestibule, leaves his hat, returns, and sits down).

Strong: Well, how is everything?

Mrs. Loving: Oh! about the same, I guess. Tom’s out. John, we’ll never forget you—and your kindness.

Strong: That was nothing. And Rachel?

Mrs. Loving: She’ll be back presently. She went to sit with a sick child for a little while.

Strong: And how is she?

Mrs. Loving: She’s not herself yet, but I think she is better.

Strong (After a short pause): Well, what did happen—exactly?

Mrs. Loving: That’s just what I don’t know.

Strong: When you came home—you couldn’t get in—was that it?

Mrs. Loving: Yes. (Pauses). It was just a week ago today. I was down town all the morning. It was about one o’clock when I got back. I had forgotten my key. I rapped on the door and then called. There was no answer. A window was open, and I could feel the air under the door, and I could hear it as the draught sucked it through. There was no other sound. Presently I made such a noise the people began to come out into the hall. Jimmy was in one of the flats playing with a little girl named Mary. He told me he had left Rachel here a short time before. She had given him four cookies, two for him and two for Mary, and had told him he could play with her until she came to tell him his lunch was ready. I saw he was getting frightened, so I got the little girl and her mother to keep him in their flat. Then, as no man was at home, I sent out for help. Three men broke the door down. (Pauses). We found Rachel uncon​scious, lying on her face. For a few minutes I thought she was dead. (Pauses). A vase had fallen over on the table and the water had dripped through the cloth and onto the floor. There had been flowers in it. When I left, there were no flowers here. What she could have done to them, I can’t say. The long stems were lying everywhere, and the flowers had been ground into the floor. I could tell that they must have been roses from the stems. After we had put her to bed and called the doctor, and she had finally regained consciousness, I very naturally asked her what had happened. All she would say was, “Ma dear, I’m too—tired—please.” For four days she lay in bed scarcely moving, speaking only when spoken to. That first day, when Jimmy came in to see her, she shrank away from him. We had to take him out, and comfort him as best we could. We kept him away, almost by force, until she got up. And, then, she was utterly miserable when he was out of her sight. What happened, I don’t know. She avoids Tom, and she won’t tell me. (Pauses). Tom and I both believe her soul has been hurt. The trouble isn’t with her body. You’ll find her highly nervous. Sometimes she is very much depressed; again she is feverishly gay—almost reckless. What do you think about it, John?

Strong (Who has listened quietly): Had anybody been here, do you know?

Mrs. Loving: No, I don’t. I don’t like to ask Rachel; and I can’t ask the neighbors.

Strong: No, of course not. (Pauses). You say there were some flowers?

Mrs. Loving: Yes.

Strong: And the flowers were ground into the carpet?

Mrs. Loving: Yes.

​Strong: Did you happen to notice the box? They must have come in a box, don’t you think?

Mrs. Loving: Yes, there was a box in the kitchenette. It was from “Marcy’s.” I saw no card.

Strong (Slowly): It is rather strange. (A long silence, during which the outer door opens and shuts. Rachel is heard singing. She stops abruptly. In a second or two she appears in the door. There is an air of suppressed excitement about her).

Rachel: Hello! John. (Strong rises, nods at her, and brings forward for her the big arm-chair near the fire). I thought that was your hat in the hall. It’s brand new, I know—but it looks—“Johnlike.” How are you? Ma! Jenny went to sleep like a little lamb. I don’t like her breathing, though. (Looks from one to the other; flippantly) Who’s dead? (Nods her thanks to Strong for the chair and sits down).

Mrs. Loving: Dead, Rachel?

Rachel: Yes. The atmosphere here is so funereal,—it’s positively “crapey.”

Strong: I don’t know why it should be—I was just asking how you are.

Rachel: Heavens! Does the mere inquiry into my health precipitate such an atmosphere? Your two faces were as long, as long—(Breaks off). Kind sir, let me assure you, I am in the very best of health. And how are you, John?

Strong: Oh! I’m always well. (Sits down).

Mrs. Loving: Rachel, I’ll have to get ready to go now. John, don’t hurry. I’ll be back shortly, probably in three-quarters of an hour—maybe less.

Rachel: And maybe more, if I remember Mrs. Jordan. However, Ma dear, I’ll do the best I can—while you are away. I’ll try to be a credit to your training. (Mrs. ​Loving smiles and goes out the rear doorway). Now, let’s see—in the books of etiquette, I believe, the properly reared young lady, always asks the young gentleman caller—you’re young enough, aren’t you, to be classed still as a “young gentleman caller?” (No answer). Well, anyway, she always asks the young gentleman caller sweetly something about the weather. (Primly) This has been an exceedingly beautiful day, hasn’t it, Mr. Strong? (No answer from Strong, who, with his head resting against the back of the chair, and his knees crossed is watching her in an amused, quizzical manner). Well, really, every properly brought up young gentleman, I’m sure, ought to know, that it’s exceedingly rude not to answer a civil question.

Strong (Lazily): Tell me what to answer, Rachel.

Rachel: Say, “Yes, very”; and look interested and pleased when you say it.

Strong (With a half-smile): Yes, very.

Rachel: Well, I certainly wouldn’t characterize that as a particularly animated remark. Besides, when you look at me through half-closed lids like that—and kind of smile—what are you thinking? (No answer) John Strong, are you deaf—or just plain stupid?

Strong: Plain stupid, I guess.

Rachel (In wheedling tones): What were you thinking, John?

Strong (Slowly): I was thinking—(Breaks off)

Rachel (Irritably): Well?

Strong: I’ve changed my mind.

Rachel: You’re not going to tell me?

Strong: No.

Mrs. Loving: Goodbye, children. Rachel, don’t quarrel so much with John. Let me see—if I have my key. (Feels ​in her bag) Yes, I have it. I’ll be back shortly. Good-bye. (Strong and Rachel rise. He bows).

Rachel: Good-bye, Ma dear. Hurry back as soon as you can, won’t you? (Exit Mrs. Loving through the vestibule. Strong leans back again in his chair, and watches Rachel through half-closed eyes. Rachel sits in her chair nervously).

Strong: Do you mind, if I smoke?

Rachel: You know I don’t.

Strong: I am trying to behave like—Reginald “the properly reared young gentleman caller.” (Lights a cigar; goes over to the fire, and throws his match away. Rachel goes into the kitchenette, and brings him a saucer for his ashes. She places it on the table near him). Thank you. (They both sit again, Strong very evidently enjoying his cigar and Rachel). Now this is what I call cosy.

Rachel: Cosy! Why?

Strong: A nice warm room—shut in—curtains drawn—a cheerful fire crackling at my back—a lamp, not an electric or gas one, but one of your plain, old-fashioned kerosene ones—

Rachel (Interupting): Ma dear would like to catch you, I am sure, talking about her lamp like that. “Old-fashioned! plain!”—You have nerve.

Strong (Continuing as though he had not been interrupted): A comfortable chair—a good cigar—and not very far away, a little lady, who is looking charming, so near, that if I reached over, I could touch her. You there—and I here.—It’s living.

Rachel: Well! of all things! A compliment—and from you! How did it slip out, pray? (No answer). I suppose that you realize that a conversation between two persons is absolutely impossible, if one has to do her share all alone. Soon my ingenuity for introducing interesting ​subjects will be exhausted; and then will follow what, I believe, the story books call, “an uncomfortable silence.”

Strong (Slowly): Silence—between friends—isn’t such a bad thing.

Rachel: Thanks awfully. (Leans back; cups her cheek in her hand, and makes no pretense at further conversation. The old look of introspection returns to her eyes. She does not move).

Strong (Quietly): Rachel! (Rachel starts perceptibly) You must remember I’m here. I don’t like looking into your soul—when you forget you’re not alone.

Rachel: I hadn’t forgotten.

Strong: Wouldn’t it be easier for you, little girl, if you could tell—some one?

Rachel: No. (A silence)

Strong: Rachel,—you’re fond of flowers,—aren’t you?

Rachel: Yes.

Strong: Rosebuds—red rosebuds—particularly?

Rachel (Nervously): Yes.

Strong: Did you—dislike—the giver?

Rachel (More nervously; bracing herself): No, of course not.

Strong: Rachel,—why—why—did you—kill the roses—then?

Rachel (Twisting her hands): Oh, John! I’m so sorry, Ma dear told you that. She didn’t know, you sent them.

Strong: So I gathered. (Pauses and then leans forward; quietly). Rachel, little girl, why—did you kill them?

Rachel (Breathing quickly): Don’t you believe—it—a—a—kindness—sometimes—to kill?

Strong (After a pause): You—considered—it—a—kindness—to kill them?

Rachel: Yes. (Another pause)

Strong: Do you mean—just—the roses?

​Rachel (Breathing more quickly): John!—Oh! must I say?

Strong: Yes, little Rachel.

Rachel (In a whisper): No. (There is a long pause. Rachel leans back limply, and closes her eyes. Presently Strong rises, and moves his chair very close to hers. She does not stir. He puts his cigar on the saucer).

Strong (Leaning forward; very gently): Little girl, little girl, can’t you tell me why?

Rachel (Wearily): I can’t.—It hurts—too much—to talk about it yet,—please.

Strong (Takes her hand; looks at it a few minutes and then at her quietly). You—don’t—care, then? (She winces) Rachel!—Look at me, little girl! (As if against her will, she looks at him. Her eyes are fearful, hunted. She tries to look away, to draw away her hand; but he holds her gaze and her hand steadily). Do you?

Rachel (Almost sobbing): John! John! don’t ask me. You are drawing my very soul out of my body with your eyes. You must not talk this way. You mustn’t look—John, don’t! (Tries to shield her eyes).

Strong (Quietly takes both of her hands, and kisses the backs and the palms slowly. A look of horror creeps into her face. He deliberately raises his eyes and looks at her mouth. She recoils as though she expected him to strike her. He resumes slowly) If—you—do—care, and I know now—that you do—nothing else, nothing should count.

Rachel (Wrenching herself from his grasp and rising. She covers her ears; she breathes rapidly): No! No! No!—You must stop. (Laughs nervously; continues feverishly) I’m not behaving very well as a hostess, am I? Let’s see. What shall I do? I’ll play you something, John. How will that do? Or I’ll sing to you. You used to ​like to hear me sing; you said my voice, I remember, was sympathetic, didn’t you? (Moves quickly to the piano). I’ll sing you a pretty little song. I think it’s beautiful. You’ve never heard it, I know. I’ve never sung it to you before. It’s Nevin’s “At Twilight.” (Pauses, looks down, before she begins, then turns toward him and says quietly and sweetly) Sometimes—in the coming years—I want—you to remember—I sang you this little song.—Will you?—I think it will make it easier for me— when I—when I— (Breaks off and begins the first chords. Strong goes slowly to the piano. He leans there watching intently. Rachel sings):

(A long pause. Then Strong goes to her and lifts her from the piano-stool. He puts one arm around her very tenderly and pushes her head back so he can look into her eyes. She shuts them, but is passive).

Strong (Gently): Little girl, little girl, don’t you know that suggestions—suggestions—like those you are sending yourself constantly—are wicked things? You, who are so gentle, so loving, so warm—(Breaks off and crushes her to him. He kisses her many times. She does not resist, but in the midst of his caresses she breaks suddenly into convulsive laughter. He tries to hush the terrible sound with ​his mouth; then brokenly) Little girl—don’t laugh—like that.

Rachel (Interrupted throughout by her laughter): I have to.—God is laughing.—We’re his puppets.—He pulls the wires,—and we’re so funny to Him.—I’m laughing too—because I can hear my little children—weeping. They come to me generally while I’m asleep,—but I can hear them now.—They’ve begged me—do you understand?—begged me—not to bring them here;—and I’ve promised them—not to.—I’ve promised. I can’t stand the sound of their crying.—I have to laugh—Oh! John! laugh!—laugh too!—I can’t drown their weeping.
(Strong picks her up bodily and carries her to the arm-chair).

Strong (Harshly): Now, stop that!

Rachel (In sheer surprise): W-h-a-t?

Strong (Still harshly): Stop that!—You’ve lost your self-control.—Find yourself again!
(He leaves her and goes over to the fireplace, and stands looking down into it for some little time. Rachel, little by little, becomes calmer. Strong returns and sits beside her again. She doesn’t move. He smoothes her hair back gently, and kisses her forehead—and then, slowly, her mouth. She does not resist; simply sits there, with shut eyes, inert, limp).

Strong: Rachel!—(Pauses). There is a little flat on 43rd Street. It faces south and overlooks a little park. Do you remember it?—it’s on the top floor?—Once I remember your saying—you liked it. That was over a year ago. That same day—I rented it. I’ve never lived there. No one knows about it—not even my mother. It’s completely furnished now—and waiting—do you know for whom? Every single thing in it, I’ve bought myself—even to the pins on the little bird’s-eye maple dresser. It has been ​the happiest year I have ever known. I furnished it—one room at a time. It’s the prettiest, the most homelike little flat I’ve ever seen. (Very low) Everything there—breathes love. Do you know for whom it is waiting? On the sitting-room floor is a beautiful, Turkish rug—red, and blue and gold. It’s soft—and rich—and do you know for whose little feet it is waiting? There are delicate curtains at the windows and a bookcase full of friendly, eager, little books.—Do you know for whom they are waiting? There are comfortable leather chairs, just the right size, and a beautiful piano—that I leave open—sometimes, and lovely pictures of Madonnas. Do you know for whom they are waiting? There is an open fireplace with logs of wood, all carefully piled on gleaming andirons—and waiting. There is a bellows and a pair of shining tongs—waiting. And in the kitchenette painted blue and white, and smelling sweet with paint is everything: bright pots and pans and kettles, and blue and white enamel-ware, and all kinds of knives and forks and spoons—and on the door—a roller-towel. Little girl, do you know for whom they are all waiting? And somewhere—there’s a big, strong man—with broad shoulders. And he’s willing and anxious to do anything—everything, and he’s waiting very patiently. Little girl, is it to be—yes or no?

Rachel (During Strong’s speech life has come flooding back to her. Her eyes are shining; her face, eager. For a moment she is beautifully happy). Oh! you’re too good to me and mine, John. I—didn’t dream any one—could be—so good. (Leans forward and puts his big hand against her cheek and kisses it shyly).

Strong (Quietly): Is it—yes—or no, little girl?

Rachel (Feverishly, gripping his hands): Oh, yes! yes! yes! and take me quickly, John. Take me before I can think any more. You mustn’t let me think, John. And ​you’ll be good to me, won’t you? Every second of every minute, of every hour, of every day, you’ll have me in your thoughts, won’t you? And you’ll be with me every minute that you can? And, John, John!—you’ll keep away the weeping of my little children. You won’t let me hear it, will you? You’ll make me forget everything everything—won’t you?—Life is so short, John. (Shivers and then fearfully and slowly) And eternity so—long. (Feverishly again) And, John, after I am dead—promise me, promise me you’ll love me more. (Shivers again). I’ll need love then. Oh! I’ll need it. (Suddenly there comes to their ears the sound of a child’s weeping. It is monotonous, hopeless, terribly afraid. Rachel recoils). Oh! John!—Listen!—It’s my boy, again.—I—John—I’ll be back in a little while. (Goes swiftly to the door in the rear, pauses and looks back. The weeping continues. Her eyes are tragic. Slowly she kisses her hand to him and disappears. John stands where she has left him looking down. The weeping stops. Presently Rachel appears in the doorway. She is haggard, and grey. She does not enter the room. She speaks as one dead might speak—tonelessly, slowly).

Rachel: Do you wish to know why Jimmy is crying?

Strong: Yes.

Rachel: I am twenty-two—and I’m old; you’re thirty-two—and you’re old; Tom’s twenty-three—and he is old. Ma dear’s sixty—and she said once she is much older than that. She is. We are all blighted; we are all accursed—all of us—, everywhere, we whose skins are dark—our lives blasted by the white man’s prejudice. (Pauses) And my little Jimmy—seven years old, that’s all—is blighted too. In a year or two, at best, he will be made old by suffering. (Pauses). One week ago, today, some white boys, older and larger than my little Jimmy, as he ​was leaving the school—called him “Nigger”! They chased him through the streets calling him, “Nigger! Nigger! Nigger!” One boy threw stones at him. There is still a bruise on his little back where one struck him. That will get well; but they bruised his soul—and that—will never—get well. He asked me what “Nigger” meant. I made light of the whole thing, laughed it off. He went to his little playmates, and very naturally asked them. The oldest of them is nine!—and they knew, poor little things—and they told him. (Pauses). For the last couple of nights he has been dreaming—about these boys. And he always awakes—in the dark—afraid—afraid—of the now—and the future—I have seen that look of deadly fear—in the eyes—of other little children. I know what it is myself.—I was twelve—when some big boys chased me and called me names.—I never left the house afterwards—without being afraid. I was afraid, in the streets—in the school—in the church, everywhere, always, afraid of being hurt. And I—was not—afraid in vain. (The weeping begins again). He’s only a baby—and he’s blighted. (To Jimmy) Honey, I’m right here. I’m coming in just a minute. Don’t cry. (To Strong) If it nearly kills me to hear my Jimmy’s crying, do you think I could stand it, when my own child, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood—learned the same reason for weeping? Do you? (Pauses). Ever since I fell here—a week ago—I am afraid—to go—to sleep, for every time I do—my children come—and beg me—weeping—not to—bring them here—to suffer. Tonight, they came—when I was awake. (Pauses). I have promised them again, now—by Jimmy’s bed. (In a whisper) I have damned—my soul to all eternity—if I do. (To Jimmy) Honey, don’t! I’m coming. (To Strong) And John,—dear John—you see—it can never be—all the ​beautiful, beautiful things—you have—told me about. (Wistfully) No—they—can never be—now. (Strong comes toward her) No,—John dear,—you—must not—touch me—any more. (Pauses). Dear, this—is—“Good-bye.”

Strong (Quietly): It’s not fair—to you, Rachel, to take you—at your word—tonight. You’re sick; you’ve brooded so long, so continuously,—you’ve lost—your perspective. Don’t answer, yet. Think it over for another week and I’ll come back.

Rachel (Wearily): No,—I can’t think—any more.

Strong: You realize—fully—you’re sending me—for always?

Rachel: Yes.

Strong: And you care?

Rachel: Yes.

Strong: It’s settled, then for all time—“Good-bye!”

Rachel (After a pause): Yes.

Strong (Stands looking at her steadily a long time, and then moves to the door and turns, facing her; with infinite tenderness): Good-bye, dear, little Rachel—God bless you.

Rachel: Good-bye, John! (Strong goes out. A door opens and shuts. There is finality in the sound. The weeping continues. Suddenly; with a great cry) John! John! (Runs out into the vestibule. She presently returns. She is calm again. Slowly) No! No! John. Not for us. (A pause; with infinite yearning) Oh! John,—if it only—if it only— (Breaks off, controls herself. Slowly again; thoughtfully) No—No sunshine—no laughter—always, always—darkness. That is it. Even our little flat— (In a whisper) John’s and mine—the little flat—that calls, calls us—through darkness. It shall wait—and wait—in vain—in darkness. Oh, John! (Pauses). And my little children! my little children! (The weep​ing ceases; pauses). I shall never—see—you—now. Your little, brown, beautiful bodies—I shall never see.—Your dimples—everywhere—your laughter—your tears—the beautiful, lovely feel of you here. (Puts her hands against her heart). Never—never—to be. (A pause, fiercely) But you are somewhere—and wherever you are you are mine! You are mine! All of you! Every bit of you! Even God can’t take you away. (A pause; very sweetly; pathetically) Little children!—My little children!—No more need you come to me—weeping—weeping. You may be happy now—you are safe. Little weeping, voices, hush! hush! (The weeping begins again. To Jimmy, her whole soul in her voice) Jimmy! My little Jimmy! Honey! I’m coming.—Ma Rachel loves you so. (Sobs and goes blindly, unsteadily to the rear doorway; she leans her head there one second against the door; and then stumbles through and disappears. The light in the lamp flickers and goes out… It is black. The terrible, heart-breaking weeping continues).