De good Lawd, he ain' goin' fool roun' no mo' wif no gimsing!
Beeler.
Amused.
Why, I thought your ginseng bitters was His main holt.
Uncle Abe.
With a touch of regret.
Use to be, Mars' Beeler. It shore use to be.—Yes, sah. Bless de Lawd!
Shakes his head in reminiscence.
He sartinly did set sto' by them thah bitters.
Beeler.
With lazy amusement.
So the Lord's gone back on ginseng now, has He?
Uncle Abe.
Yes, sah.
Beeler.
What makes you think so?
Uncle Abe.
Solemnly.
Roots all kill by de fros'!
His manner grows more and more mysterious; he half closes his eyes, as he goes on in a strange, mounting singsong.
Knowed it more'n a monf ago, fo' dis hyah blin' worl' lef' de plough in de ploughshare an' de ungroun' wheat betwixen de millstones, and went a-follerin' aftah dis hyah new star outen de Eas', like a bride follerin' aftah de bridegroom!
Martha taps her forehead significantly, and goes back to her batter.
Beeler.
New star, Uncle? Tell us about it. Sounds interesting.
Uncle Abe.
Stares at each of them in turn.
Ain' you-all heerd?
Beeler.
You've got the advantage of us.
Uncle Abe.
Ain' you-all heerd 'bout de Healer?
Beeler.
Healer? What kind of a healer?
Uncle Abe.
With mounting indignation at Beeler's tone.
De Bible kin', dat's what kin'! De kin' what makes de lame fer to walk, and de blin' fer to see, an' de daid fer to riz up outen their daid col' graves. That's what kin'! Mean to say you-all ain' heerd nothin' 'bout him, you po' chillun o' dawkness?
Martha and Beeler look at each other in amazement. Rhoda sits looking at the old negro, white and tense with excitement.
Beeler.
Nope.
Recollecting.
Hold on!
Martha.
To Beeler.
Don't you remember, in the papers, two or three weeks ago? Where was it? Somewheres out West.
Beeler.
Believe I did read some such goin's-on. Don't pay much attention to such nonsense.
Uncle Abe.
Solemn and threatening.
Tek keer, Mistah Beeler! Tek keer what you say 'fore dese here cloudy witnesses. Don' you go cuttin' yo'self off from de Kingdom. Nor you, Mis' Martha, nor you, honey. Don' ye do it! It's a-comin'. Yo' ol' Uncle Abe he's seen and heerd.
Rhoda.
Tell us quickly what you mean!
Uncle Abe.
Mean jes' what I says, honey. Night fo' last, de Healer, he come, like's if he jes' plum' drop from de sky.
More mysteriously.
An' whar's he gone to? You listen to yo' ol' Uncle Abe a-tellin' you. He ain' gone no-whars! He's jes' meechin' roun' in de fawg, a-waitin' fer de Lawd to call folks. En He's a-callin' 'em! He's a-callin' 'em by tens an' by hundreds. Town's full a'ready, honey. Main Street look jes' lak a fiel' hospital, down Souf durin' de wah!
Martha.
Meeting Beeler's astonished look.
What did I tell you? Maybe you'll listen tomenext time.
Rhoda.
To Uncle Abe, in a low, agitated voice.
This man you call the Healer—is he alone?
Uncle Abe.
No, honey; folks says he don' nevah go no-wheres by hisse'f. Always got that thah young man wif 'im what he raise from de daid.
Beeler.
Rises, with a shrug.
Good evening!
He crosses to the portraits of Darwin and Spencer.
You made quite a stir in your time, didn't you? Well, it's all up with you!
Martha.
In a voice strident with nervousness.
Raised from the dead?
Uncle Abe.
That's what they says, Mis' Martha. Folks calls 'im Laz'rus in ref'ence to de Bible chil' what riz up jes' same way lak', outen de daid col' tomb.
The Indian boy enters from the kitchen, his shoes and trousers spattered with mud. Uncle Abe looks at him, then at the others, and whispers to Rhoda. Martha bustles forward, hiding her agitation in scolding speech.
Martha.
Well, did you get my coffee and my sal-soda?
Lazarus points, without speaking, to the kitchen.
Beeler.
To Martha.
Did you send him to the store?
Martha.
Yes, I did send him to the store. If I had my way, I'd send him—further.
The boy hesitates, then goes stolidly out by the stair door. Uncle Abe lifts his arm ecstatically.
Uncle Abe.
That's him! I tell ye that's the chil' what's said "Howdy" to the daid folks down yonder. I'se seen 'im in my dreams, an' now I'se seen 'im wif dese hyah two eyes.—O Lawd, bless dis hyah house o' grace!
Beeler.
I guess it's about time that fellow come out and exploded some of this tomfoolery.
He starts towards his wife's room.
Rhoda.
Stopping him.
Please don't.
Beeler.
Peevishly.
There's got to be an end to this hoodoo business in my house.
Annie enters from the kitchen, dabbled with dye. She holds two colored eggs in her hands.
Annie.
Look! I've colored two.
Martha.
Good gracious, child. What a mess!
Annie.
Pa! Play crack with me! Just once, to see how it goes.
Beeler.
Go in and ask your mother if she'll let you.
Annie, her eggs in her apron, opens the hall door. About to pass out, she stops, drops the eggs with a scream, and runs back, gazing towards the hall as she takes refuge behind Rhoda's skirts.
Annie.
Pa! Auntie! Ma's walking!
Mrs. Beeler enters, walking uncertainly, her face full of intense exaltation. Michaelis comes just behind her, transfigured by spiritual excitement.
Beeler and Martha.
Starting forward.
Mary!
Rhoda.
Aunt Mary!
Mrs. Beeler advances into the room, reaching out her hand to Annie, who takes it in speechless fright. She bends over and kisses the child's head, then stretches out her other hand to her husband.
Mrs. Beeler.
Mat, I'm cured! The Lord has heard our prayers, for His saint's sake.
Beeler.
Why, Mary, I can't believe this—it's too—it's not possible!
Mrs. Beeler.
Looking at Michaelis.
It is written that he who has faith, even as a grain of mustard seed—. I have had faith.
Martha.
Law, you've had faith enough any time these five years, Mary. There was something else wanting, 'pears to me.
Mrs. Beeler.
There was wanting the word of true belief, saying, "Suffer no more! Stoop and drink of the waters of mercy and healing."
Outside, the shrill soprano of a woman is heard, taking up a hymn. At the sound Michaelis goes to the window. He stands rigid, listening to the hymn to the end of the verse, when other voices join in the chorus. The fog has partially cleared.
Michaelis.
Turning slowly to Rhoda.
Who are they?
Rhoda.
Sick people.
Michaelis.
How did they find out I was here?
Rhoda.
It was known you were somewhere near.—They have been gathering for days.—They saw the boy, just now, in the village.
Mrs. Beeler.
Comes a step or two nearer Michaelis.
Your great hour is at hand!
He looks distractedly about. The light has faded from his face, giving place to strong nervous agitation, resembling fear. He speaks as if to himself.
Michaelis.
My hour!—My hour!—And I—and I—!
He puts his hand over his eyes, as if to shut out some vision of dread.
Mrs. Beeler.
You will not fail them? You cannot fail them, now.
Michaelis looks at Mrs. Beeler, then for a long time at Rhoda. He gathers himself together, and gazes steadfastly before him, as at some unseen presence.
No.—I have waited so long. I have had such deep assurances.—I must not fail. I must not fail.
CURTAIN
ACT II
Late afternoon of the same day.
Mrs. Beeler sits in a low chair near the window. She has ceased reading the Testament, which lies open in her lap.
Uncle Abe sits on the floor with Annie. They are playing with building blocks, piling up and tearing down various ambitious structures. Rhoda enters from outside, with hat and cloak, carrying a large bunch of Easter lilies.
Rhoda.
Kissing her aunt.
Still sitting up! You're not strong enough yet to do this. See, I've brought you some Easter lilies.
She hands one to Mrs. Beeler. As she takes off her things, she sees the old Negro gazing at her.
Well, Uncle Abe?
Uncle Abe.
I's awake an' a-watchin', honey!
He turns again to the child, shaking his head as at some unspoken thought, while Rhoda arranges the flowers in a vase.
Mrs. Beeler.
Rhoda!
Rhoda.
Yes, Aunt Mary?
Mrs. Beeler.
Come here.
Rhoda approaches. Mrs. Beeler speaks low, with suppressed excitement.
What is the news, outside?
Rhoda.
You mustn't excite yourself. You must keep your strength.
Mrs. Beeler.
I shall be strong enough.—Are the people still gathering from the town?
Rhoda.
Yes, and they keep coming in from other places.
Mrs. Beeler.
Are there many of them?
Rhoda.
Many! Many! It's as if the whole world knew.
Mrs. Beeler.
The more there are, the greater will be the witness.—Pause.When do you think he will go out to them?
Rhoda.
They believe he is waiting for Easter morning.
Martha enters from kitchen, with bonnet and shawl on, and a large basket in her hand.
Martha.
Mary, you'd ought to be abed. You're tempting Providence.
She takes off her bonnet and shawl, and deposits the basket.
I saw your doctor down in the village, and he allowed he'd come up to see you this afternoon. He was all on end about your bein' able to walk.
Rhoda.
I didn't know till to-day you had a doctor.
Mrs. Beeler.
Yes. He's a young man who's just come here to build up a practice.
Martha.
To Rhoda.
You better finish packin' the basket. There's a lot o' hungry mouths to feed out yonder.
Exit by hall door. Rhoda continues the preparation of the basket, taking articles from the cupboard and packing them. Annie has climbed on a chair by the picture of Pan and the Pilgrim. She points at the figure of Pan.
Annie.
Uncle Abe, tell me who that is.
Uncle Abe.
Glancing at Mrs. Beeler and Rhoda.
H'sh!
Annie.
What's he doing up there in the bushes, blowing on that funny whistle?
Uncle Abe.
Look hyah, chil', you jus' wastin' my time. I got frough wif dis hyah fool pictuh long 'go!
He tries to draw her away; she resists.
Annie.
Petulantly.
Uncle Abe! Who is it?
Uncle Abe.
Whispers, makes big eyes.
That thah's Ole Nick, that's who that thah is! That thah's de Black Man!
Annie, terror-stricken, jumps down and retreats to her mother's chair. Mrs. Beeler rouses from her revery and strokes her child's head.
Mrs. Beeler.
Oh, my child, how happy you are to see this while you are so young! You will never forget, will you, dear?
Annie.
Fidgeting.
Forget what?
Mrs. Beeler.
Tell me that whatever happens to you in the world, you won't forget that once, when you were a little girl, you saw the heavens standing open, and felt that God was very near, and full of pity for His children.
Annie.
I don't know what you're talking about! I can't hardly breathe the way people are in this house.
Mrs. Beeler.
You will understand, some day, what wonderful things your childish eyes looked on.
Annie retreats to Uncle Abe, who bends over the child and whispers in her ear. She grows amused, and begins to sway as to a tune, then chants.
Annie.
"Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,Ring dem charmin' bells."
"Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,Ring dem charmin' bells."
"Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,
Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,
Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,
Ring dem charmin' bells."
As she finishes the rhyme she runs out into the hall. Mrs. Beeler begins again to read her Testament. The old negro approaches Mrs. Beeler and Rhoda, and speaks mysteriously.
Uncle Abe.
That thah chil' she's talkin' sense. They's sumpin' ain't right about dis hyah house.
Mrs. Beeler.
Not right? What do you mean?
Uncle Abe.
Shakes his head dubiously.
Dunno, Mis' Beeler. I's jes' a ole fool colored pusson, been waitin' fer de great day what de 'Postle done promise. En hyah's de great day 'bout to dawn, an' de Lawd's Chosen 'bout to show Hisse'f in clouds o' glory 'fore de worl', an' lo 'n' behol'—
He leans closer and whispers.
de Lawd's Chosen One, he's done got a spell on 'im!
Mrs. Beeler.
Shocked and startled.
Uncle Abe!
Uncle Abe.
Pointing at the Pan and the Pilgrim.
Why do you keep that thah pictuh nail up thah fur?
Mrs. Beeler.
My husband likes it.
Uncle Abe.
Mighty funny kin' o' man, like to hev de Black Man lookin' pop-eyed at folks all day an' all night, puttin' de spell on folks!
Mrs. Beeler.
That's not the Black Man.
Uncle Abe.
That's him, shore's yo' born! Jes' what he looks like. I's seen 'im, more'n once.
Rhoda.
Seen the Black Man, Uncle?
Uncle Abe.
Yais, ma'am. I's spied 'im, sittin' in de paw-paw bushes in de springtime, when de snakes a-runnin', an' de jays a-hollerin', and de crick a-talkin' sassy to hisse'f.
He leans nearer, more mysteriously.
En what you s'pose I heerd him whis'lin', for all de worl' lak dem scan'lous bluejays?
Chants in a high, trilling voice.
"Chillun, chillun, they ain' no Gawd, they ain' no sin nor no jedgment, they's jes' springtime an' happy days, and folks carryin' on. Whar's yo' lil gal, Abe Johnson? Whar's yo' lil sweet-heart gal?" An' me on'y got religion wintah befo', peekin' roun' pie-eyed, skeered good. En fo' you could say "De Lawd's my Shepherd," kerchunk goes de Black Man in de mud-puddle, change' into a big green bullfrog!
Mrs. Beeler.
You just imagined all that.
Uncle Abe.
Indignant.
Jes' 'magine! Don' I know de Devil when I sees him, near 'nough to say "Howdy"?
Mrs. Beeler.
There isn't any Devil.
Uncle Abe.
Astounded.
Ain't no Devil?
Mrs. Beeler.
No.
Uncle Abe goes, with puzzled headshakings, towards the kitchen door. He stops to smell the Easter lilies, then raises his head and looks at her again, with puzzled scrutiny.
Uncle Abe.
Mis' Beelah, did I understan' you to say—they ain'—no Devil?
Mrs. Beeler.
Touching her breast.
Only here, Uncle Abe.
The old negro stares at her and Rhoda, and goes into the kitchen, feeling his own breast and shaking his head dubiously. Mrs. Beeler looks at the picture.
Do you think your Uncle Mat would mind if we took that picture down?
Rhoda unpins the picture from the wall, rolls it up, and lays it on the bookshelf. Her aunt goes on, hesitatingly.
Do you know, Rhoda, I have sometimes thought—You won't be hurt?
Rhoda.
No.
Mrs. Beeler.
I—I know what that old negro says is all foolishness, but—thereissomething the matter with Mr. Michaelis. Have you noticed?
Rhoda.
Avoiding her aunt's gaze.
Yes.
Mrs. Beeler.
Just when his great work is about to begin!—What do you think it can be?
Rhoda.
How should I know, Aunt Mary?
Mrs. Beeler.
I thought maybe—Rhoda, I have seen him look at you so strangely! Like—like the Pilgrim in the picture, when he hears that heathen creature playing on the pipe.—You are such a wild creature, or you used to be.
Rhoda comes to her aunt and stands a moment in silence.
Rhoda.
Auntie.
Mrs. Beeler.
Yes?
Rhoda.
I think I ought to go away.
Mrs. Beeler.
Astonished.
Go away? Why?
Rhoda.
So as not to—hinder him.
Mrs. Beeler.
Caressing her.
There, you have taken what I said too seriously. It was only a sick woman's imagination.
Rhoda.
No, it was the truth. You see it, though you try not to. Even Uncle Abe sees it. Just when Mr. Michaelis most needs his strength, weakness has come upon him.
Mrs. Beeler.
You mean—?
She hesitates.
You mean—because of you?—Rhoda, look at me.
Rhoda avoids her aunt's gaze; Mrs. Beeler draws down the girl's face and gazes at it.
Is there anything—that I don't know—between you and him?
Rhoda.
I—I must go away.—I ought to have gone before.
Mrs. Beeler.
My child, this—this troubles me very much. He is different from other men, and you—and you—
Rhoda.
With passion.
Say it, say it! What am I?
Mrs. Beeler.
Don't be hurt, Rhoda, but—you have a wild nature. You are like your father. I remember when he used to drive over to see sister Jane, with his keen face and eagle eyes, behind his span of wild colts, I used to tremble for my gentle sister. You are just like him, or you used to be.
Rhoda breaks away from her aunt, and takes her hat and cloak. Mrs. Beeler rises with perturbation, and crosses to detain her.
What are you going to do?
Rhoda.
I am going away—Imustgo away.
Martha enters from the hall.
Mrs. Beeler.
Speaks lower.
Promise me you won't! Promise me!
Martha.
To look at that, now! Seein' you on your feet, Mary, gives me a new start every time.
Mrs. Beeler.
To Rhoda.
You promise?
Rhoda bows her head as in assent.
Martha.
Doctor's in the parlor. Shall I bring him in here?
Mrs. Beeler.
No. I think I will rest awhile. He can come to my room.
She walks unsteadily. The others try to help her, but she motions them back.
No. It's so good to feel that I can walk alone!
Martha.
It does beat all!
Mrs. Beeler.
I'll just lie down on the couch. I want to go out, before dark, and speak to the people.
Mr. Beeler enters from the kitchen and crosses to help his wife. The others give place to him.
Oh Mat, our good days are coming back! I shall be strong and well for you again.
Beeler.
Yes, Mary. There will be nothing to separate us any more.
Mrs. Beeler.
Points at his books.
Not even—them?
He goes to the alcove, takes the books from the shelf, raises the lid of the window-seat, and throws them in.
Mrs. Beeler points to the pictures of Darwin and Spencer.
Nor them?
He unpins the pictures, lays them upon the heap of books, and returns to her.
You don't know how happy that makes me!
They go out by the hall door, Martha, as she lowers the lid of the window-seat, points derisively at the heap.
Martha.
That's a good riddance of bad rubbish!
She comes to the table and continues packing the basket.
You'd better help me with this basket. Them folks will starve to death, if the neighborhood round don't give 'em a bite to eat.
Rhoda fetches other articles from the cupboard.
I'd like to know what they think we are made of, with butter at twenty-five cents a pound and flour worth its weight in diamonds!
Rhoda.
All the neighbors are helping, and none of them with our cause for thankfulness.
Martha.
That's no sign you should go plasterin' on that butter like you was a bricklayer tryin' to bust the contractor!
She takes the bread from Rhoda and scrapes the butter thin.
Rhoda.
As the clock strikes five.
It's time for Aunt Mary to have her tea. Shall I make it?
Martha.
You make it! Not unless you want to lay her flat on her back again!
As she flounces out, Annie enters from the hall. She points with one hand at the retreating Martha, with the other toward her mother's room.
Annie.
Sings with sly emphasis.
"Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,Ring dem charmin' bells."
"Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,Ring dem charmin' bells."
"Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,
Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,
Mary an' a' Martha's jus' gone along,
Ring dem charmin' bells."
She climbs upon a chair by the table, and fingers the contents of basket as she sings.
Rhoda.
What's got into you, little imp?
Annie.
Brazenly.
I've been peeping through mamma's keyhole.
Rhoda.
That's not nice.
Annie.
I know it, but the minister's in there and Dr. Littlefield.
Rhoda.
Startled.
Who?
Annie.
You know, mamma's doctor.—Oh, he's never come since you've been here.
Rhoda.
In a changed voice, as she takes the child by the shoulders.
What does he look like?
Annie.
Don't, you're hurting me!—He's too red in the face, and looks kind of—insulting—and he wears the mostbeautifulneckties, and—
Exhausted by her efforts at description.
Oh, I don't know!
She sings as she climbs down, and goes out by the kitchen door.
"Free grace, undyin' love,Free grace, undyin' love,Free grace, undyin' love,Ring dem lovely bells."
"Free grace, undyin' love,Free grace, undyin' love,Free grace, undyin' love,Ring dem lovely bells."
"Free grace, undyin' love,
Free grace, undyin' love,
Free grace, undyin' love,
Ring dem lovely bells."
Dr. Littlefield enters from Mrs. Beeler's room. He speaks back to Beeler on the threshold.
Littlefield.
Don't bother! I'll find it.
Looking for something, he approaches Rhoda, who has her back turned.
Beg pardon. Have you seen a pocket thermometer I left here?
She faces him. He starts back in surprise.
Bless my soul and body! Rhoda Williams!
He closes the hall door, returns to her, and stands somewhat disconcerted.
Here, of all places!
Rhoda.
Mrs. Beeler is my aunt.
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 wouldn'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 wouldn't understand.
Littlefield.
No, I walk on simple shoe leather and eat mere victuals.—Just the same, it wasn'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,blessmy 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 haven'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, speaking half to himself.
That these lives of ours should be poured like a jelly, from one mould into another, until God Himself cannot remember what they were two years ago, or two hours ago!
Rhoda.
Why do you say that?
He does not answer, but walks nervously about. Rhoda, watching him, speaks, after a silence.
Last month—out West—were there many people there?
Michaelis.
No.—Two or three.
Rhoda.
The papers said—
Michaelis.
When the crowd began to gather, I—went away.
Rhoda.
Why?
Michaelis.
My time had not come.
He has stopped before the map and stands gazing at it.
Rhoda.
Has it come now?
She comes closer.
—Has your time come now?
Michaelis.
Yes.
Rhoda.
How do you know?
Michaelis.
Points at the map.
It is written there!
Rhoda.
How do you mean, written there?
Michaelis.
Can't you see it?
Rhoda.
I see the map, nothing more.
Michaelis.
Points again, gazing fixedly.
It seems to me to be written in fire.
Rhoda.
What seems written?
Michaelis.
What I have been doing, all these five years.
Rhoda.
Since your work began?
Michaelis.
It has never begun. Many times I have thought, "Now," and some man or woman has risen up healed, and looked at me with eyes of prophecy. But a Voice would cry, "On, on!" and I would go forward, driven by a force and a will not my own.—I didn't know what it all meant, but I know now.
He points at the map, his manner transformed with excitement and exaltation.
It is written there. It is written in letters of fire. My eyes are opened, and I see!
Rhoda.
Following his gaze, then looking at him again, awed and bewildered.
What is it that you see?
Michaelis.
The cross!
Rhoda.
I—I don't understand.
Michaelis.
All those places where the hand was lifted for a moment, and the power flowed into me—
He places his finger at various points on the map; these points lie in two transverse lines, between the Mississippi and the Pacific; one line runs roughly north and south, the other east and west.
Look! There was such a place, and there another, and there, and there. And there was one, and there, and there.—Do you see?
Rhoda.
I see.—It makes a kind of cross.
Michaelis.
You see it too! And do you see what it means—this sign that my feet have marked across the length and breadth of a continent?
He begins again to pace the room.
—And that crowd of stricken souls out yonder, raised up as by miracle, their broken bodies crying to be healed,—do you see what they mean?
Rhoda.
In a steady voice.
They mean what my aunt said this morning. They mean that your great hour has come.
Michaelis.
My hour! my hour!
He comes nearer, and speaks in a quieter tone.
I knew a young Indian once, a Hopi boy, who made songs and sang them to his people. One evening we sat on the roof of the chief's house and asked him to sing. He shook his head, and went away in the starlight. The next morning, I found him among the rocks under the mesa, with an empty bottle by his side.—He never sang again! Drunkenness had taken him. He never sang again, or made another verse.
Rhoda.
What has that to do with you? It's not—? You don't mean that you—?
Michaelis.
No. There is a stronger drink for such as I am!
Rhoda.
Forcing herself to go on.
What—"stronger drink"?
Michaelis.
Wildly.
The wine of this world! The wine-bowl that crowns the feasting table of the children of this world.
Rhoda.
What do you mean by—the wine of this world?
Michaelis.
You know that! Every woman knows.
He points out of the window, at the sky flushed with sunset color.
Out there, at this moment, in city and country, souls, thousands upon thousands of souls, are dashing in pieces the cup that holds the wine of heaven, the wine of God's shed blood, and lifting the cups of passion and of love, that crown the feasting table of the children of this earth! Look! The very sky is blood-red with the lifted cups. And we two are in the midst of them. Listen what I sing there, on the hills of light in the sunset: "Oh, how beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of my beloved!"
A song rises outside, loud and near at hand—Michaelis listens, his expression gradually changing from passionate excitement to brooding distress.
Vaguely, as the music grows fainter and dies away.
I—we were saying—.
He grasps her arm in nervous apprehension.
For God's sake, tell me.—Are there many people—waiting—out there?
Rhoda.
Hundreds, if not thousands.
Michaelis.
Walks about.
Thousands.—Thousands of thousands!—
He stops beside her.
You won't leave me alone?
Rhoda.
Hesitates, then speaks with decision.
No.
Michaelis.
Continuing his walk.
Thousands of thousands!
The hall door opens, Dr. Littlefield and a Clergyman, the Rev. John Culpepper, enter. The latter stares inquiringly from Michaelis to the Doctor, who nods affirmatively, and adjusts his glasses.
Culpepper.
Mutters to Littlefield.
Nonsense! Sacrilegious nonsense!
Littlefield.
Same tone.
I've done my best.
Behind them comes Mrs. Beeler, supported by her Husband. At the same moment Martha enters from the kitchen, with tea; Uncle Abe and Annie follow.
Beeler.
On the threshold.
Mary, take another minute to consider.
Mrs. Beeler, as if without hearing this protest, gazes at Michaelis, and advances into the room with a gesture of the arms which causes her supporter to loosen his hold, though he follows slightly behind, to render aid if necessary.
Mrs. Beeler.
To Michaelis.
Tell me that I may go out, and stand before them for a testimony!
Littlefield.
As a physician, I must formally protest.
Culpepper.
And I as a minister of the Gospel.
Mrs. Beeler.
To Michaelis, with a nervous, despairing gesture.
Speak to them! Explain to them! I am too weak.
There is a sound of excited voices outside, near at hand, then a sudden trample of footsteps at the entrance door. As Beeler goes hurriedly to the door it bursts open and a young woman with a baby in her arms crowds past him, and stands looking wildly about the room.
Beeler.
As he forces the others back.
You can't come in here, my friends! Stand back!
The woman gazes from one to another of the men. The old negro points at Michaelis. She advances to him, holding out the child.
Mother.
Don't let my baby die! For Christ's sake, don't let him die!
He examines the child's face, touches the mother's head tenderly, and signs to Rhoda to take them into the inner room.
Michaelis.
Take her with you, I will come.
Rhoda.
With gentle urgency, to the woman.
Come with me.
She leads the woman out through the hall door.
Michaelis.
To Mrs. Beeler, as he points outside.
Tell them to wait until to-morrow at sunrise.
Mr. and Mrs. Beeler move toward the entrance door; some of the others start after, some linger, curious to know what will happen to the child. Michaelis turns upon them with a commanding gesture.
Go, all of you!
The room is cleared except for Littlefield, who goes last, stops in the doorway, closes the door, and approaches Michaelis. He speaks in a friendly and reasonable tone.
Littlefield.
You're on the wrong track, my friend.
Michaelis.
I asked you to go.
Littlefield.
I heard you. I want to say a word or two first. For your own sake and for that woman's sake, you'd better listen. You can't do anything for her baby.
Michaelis.
Is that for you to say?
Littlefield.
Yes, sir! It is most decidedly for me to say.
Michaelis.
By what authority?
Littlefield.
By the authority of medical knowledge.—You are a very remarkable man, with a very remarkable gift. In your own field, I take off my hat to you. If you knew yourself as science knows you, you might make the greatest doctor living. Your handling of Mrs. Beeler's case was masterly. But—come right down to it—youdidn't work the cure.
Michaelis.
I know that.
Littlefield.
Who do you think did?
Michaelis.
Raising his hands.
He whom I serve, and whom you blaspheme!
Littlefield.
No, sir! He whomIserve, and whomyoublaspheme—Nature. Or rather, Mrs. Beeler did it herself.
Michaelis.
Herself?
Littlefield.
You gave her a jog, so to speak, here, or here,
Touches his brain and heart.
and she did the rest. But you can't do the same to everybody. Above all, you can't do it to a baby in arms. There's nothing either here or here,
Touches brain and heart.
to get hold of. I'm a modest man, and as I say, in your own field you're a wonder. But in a case like this one—
He points to the hall door.
I'm worth a million of you.
Michaelis.
Moves as if to give place to him, with a challenging gesture toward the door.
Try!
Littlefield.
Shrugs.
Not much! The woman wouldn't listen to me. And if she did, and I failed—oh, I'm no miracle worker!—they'd make short work of me, out there.
He points out and adds significantly.
They're in no mood for failures, out there.
Michaelis's gaze, as if in spite of himself, goes to the window. He rests his hand on the table, to stop its trembling. Littlefield goes on, watching him with interest.
Nervously speaking, you are a high power machine. The dynamo that runs you is what is called "faith," "religious inspiration," or whatnot. It's a dynamo which nowadays easily gets out of order. Well, my friend, as a doctor, I warn you that your little dynamo is out of order.—In other words, you've lost your grip. You're in a funk.
Rhoda opens the hall door and looks anxiously at the two. Michaelis approaches her with averted eyes. As he is about to pass out, she speaks timidly.
Rhoda.
Do you want me?
Michaelis.
In a toneless voice.
No.
She watches him until the inner door shuts. She and Littlefield confront each other in silence for a moment across the width of the room.
Rhoda.
Forcing herself to speak calmly.
Please go.
Littlefield.
Drops his professional tone for one of cynical badinage.
You make up well as one of the Wise Virgins, whose lamps are trimmed and burning for the bridegroom to pass by. I hope that personage won't disappoint you, nor the several hundred others, out yonder, whose lamps are trimmed and burning.
The outer door opens. Mrs. Beeler enters, supported by her husband, and accompanied by Martha and the Rev. Culpepper, with Uncle Abe following in the rear. Rhoda hastens to her aunt's side.
Mrs. Beeler.
Ah, Rhoda, I wish you had been out there with me. Such beautiful human faces! Such poor, suffering, believing human faces, lit up by such a wonderful new hope!
She turns to the minister.
Wasn't it a wonderful thing to see?
Culpepper.
It is wonderful to see human nature so credulous. And to me, very painful.
Mrs. Beeler.
To-morrow you will see how right these poor souls are to lift their trust so high.—
To Rhoda.
Where is he now?
Rhoda points in the direction of her own room.
How happy that young mother's heart will be to-night!
Uncle Abe.
Solemnly.
Amen!
Culpepper.
In a dry tone.
We will hope so.
They move to the hall door, where Beeler resigns his wife to Rhoda. The two pass out.
Culpepper, Littlefield, and Beeler remain. During the following conversation, Martha lights the lamp, after directing Uncle Abe, by a gesture, to take the provision basket into the kitchen. He does so.
Littlefield.
Pointing through the window.
They're just laying siege to you, ain't they? I guess they won't let your man give them the slip, this time—even though you do let him run loose.
Beeler.
With severity.
You have seen my wife walk alone to-day, the first time in five years.
Littlefield.
I beg your pardon. I understand how you feel about it.
Martha goes out into the kitchen.
And even if it proves to be only temporary—
Beeler.
Temporary!
Littlefield.
Permanent, let us hope. Anyway, it's a very remarkable case. Astonishing. I've only known one just like it—personally, I mean.
Beeler.
Astounded.
Just like it?
Littlefield.
Well, pretty much. Happened in Chicago when I was an interne at St. Luke's.
Beeler.
Then it's not—there's nothing—peculiar about it?
Littlefield.
Yes, sir-ree! Mighty peculiar!
Beeler.
I mean nothing, as you might say, outside nature?
Littlefield.
O, bless you, you can't get outside nature nowadays!
Moves his hands in a wide circle.
Tight as a drum, no air-holes.—Devilish queer, though—pardon me, Mr. Culpepper—really amazing, the power of the mind over the body.
Culpepper.
Would you be good enough to let us hear some of your professional experiences?
Littlefield.
Lights a cigarette, as he leans on the edge of the table.
Don't have to go to professional medicine for cases. They're lying around loose. Why, when I was at Ann Arbor—in a fraternity initiation—we bared a chap's shoulders, showed him a white-hot poker, blindfolded him, told him to stand steady, and—touched him with a piece of ice. A piece of ice, I tell you! What happened? Damned if it—pardon me, Mr. Culpepper—blessed if it didn'tburnhim—carries the scars to this day. Then there was that case in Denver. Ever hear about that? A young girl, nervous patient. Nails driven through the palms of her hands,—tenpenny nails,—under the hypnotic suggestion that she wasn't being hurt. Didn't leave a cicatrice as big as a bee sting! Fact!
Beeler.
You think my wife's case is like these?
Littlefield.
Precisely; with religious excitement to help out.
He points outside.
They're getting ready for Kingdom-come over it, out yonder, dear Dr. Culpepper.
Beeler.
They're worked up enough, if that's all that's needed.
Littlefield.
Worked up! Elijah in a chariot of fire, distributing cure-alls as he mounts to glory. They've got their ascension robes on, especially the niggers.
Culpepper.
With severity.
I take it you are the late Dr. Martin's successor.