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Mrs. Beeler enters, alone, from the hall. She is in a state of vague alarm. Her husband hastens to help her.
MRS. BEELER.
What is it? What is the matter? I thought I heard—
She breaks off, as a murmur of voices rises outside. There is a sound of stumbling and crowding on the outer steps, and violent knocking. The outer door is forced open, and a crowd of excited people is about to pour into the room. Beeler, the Doctor, and the Preacher are able to force the crowd back only after several have made an entrance.
BEELER.
Keep back! You can't come in here.
As he pushes them roughly back, excited voices speak together.
VOICES IN THE CROWD.
Where is he?—They say he's gone away. We seen his boy makin' for the woods.—Oh, it's not true! Make him come out.
BEELER.
Curse you, keep back, I say!
Rhoda has entered from the hall, and Martha from the kitchen. The two women support Mrs. Beeler, who remains standing, the fear deepening in her face.
A VOICE.
On the outskirts of the crowd.
Where's he gone to?
BEELER.
He's here. In the next room. Keep back! Here he comes now.
Michaelis appears in the hall door. There is a low murmur of excitement, expectation, and awe among the people crowded in the entrance. Beeler crosses to help his wife, and the other men step to one side, leaving Michaelis to confront the crowd alone. Confused, half-whispered exclamations:
VOICES IN THE CROWD.
Hallelujah! Emmanuel!
A NEGRO.
Praise de Lamb.
A WOMAN.
Above the murmuring voices.
"He hath arisen, and His enemies are scattered."
MICHAELIS.
Who said that?
A woman, obscurely seen in the crowd, lifts her hands and cries again, this time in a voice ecstatic and piercing.
A WOMAN.
"The Lord hath arisen, and His enemies are scattered!"
MICHAELIS.
His enemies are scattered! Year after year I have heard His voice calling me—and year after year I have said, "Show me the way." And He showed me the way. He brought me to this house, and He raised up the believing multitude around me. But in that hour I failed Him, I failed Him. He has smitten me, as His enemies are smitten.—As a whirlwind He has scattered me and taken my strength from me forever.
He advances into the room, with a gesture backward through the open door.
In yonder room a child lies dead on its mother's knees, and the mother's eyes follow me with curses.
At the news of the child's death, Mrs. Beeler has sunk with a low moan into a chair, where she lies white and motionless. Michaelis turns to her.
And here lies one who rose at my call, and was as one risen; but now—
He breaks off, raises his hand to her, and speaks in a voice of pleading.
Arise, my sister!
She makes a feeble gesture of the left hand.
Rise up once more, I beseech you!
She attempts to rise, but falls back helpless.
BEELER.
Bending over her.
Can't you get up, Mother?
She shakes her head.
MICHAELIS.
Turning to the people.
Despair not, for another will come, and another and yet another, to show you the way. But as for me—
He sinks down by the table, and gazes before him, muttering in a tragic whisper.
Broken! Broken! Broken!
CURTAIN
ACT III
The next morning, just before sunrise. Both door and windows are open, and a light breeze sways the curtains. Outside is a tree-shaded and vine-clad porch, with balustrade, beyond which is a tangle of flowering bushes and fruit trees in bloom. The effect is of a rich warm dawn—a sudden onset of summer weather after a bleak spring.
Beeler, with Uncle Abe looking on, is busy putting up the pictures which he has taken down in the preceding act. Martha enters from the hall.
BEELER.
To Martha.
Is Mary up?
MARTHA.
Yes. Wants to go out on the porch and watch the sun rise, same as she's done every Easter morning since Seth died.
BEELER.
Won't hurt her, I reckon, bad off as she is.—A reg'lar old-fashioned, sunshiny, blossomy spring mornin'—summer here with a jump and fine growin' weather.
Pause.
All the same, sun might as well stay in China this Easter!
MARTHA.
Is that why you're tackin' up them fool pictures again?
BEELER.
Yes, ma'am. That's just why. Religion!
MARTHA.
You wa'n't so sure yesterday, when you saw your wife stand up on her two dead feet and walk.
BEELER.
Well, she ain't walkin' now.
MARTHA.
No, she ain't, poor thing.
BEELER.
Natural cure, natural relapse. Doctor says the new medical books explain it.
MARTHA.
Give it a name, maybe!
BEELER.
Bursts out petulantly.
You women don't want things explained, any more'n Abe here! You prefer hocus-pocus. And nothin' will teach you. Take Rhody! Sees Michaelis flunk his job miserable. Sees Mary go down like a woman shot, hands and legs paralyzed again,—Doctor says, for good, this time. And what does the girl do about it? Spends the night out yonder laborin' with them benighted sick folks, tellin' 'em the healer will make good. Lots of makin' good he'll do!
He points at the ceiling.
A fine picture of a healer he makes.
MARTHA.
Looking up.
Still as a stone! I'd rather have him ragin' round same as yesterday, like a lion with the epizootic.
BEELER.
He's a dead one. Rhody might as well give up tryin' to make folks think different.
MARTHA.
Maybe Rhody holds she's to blame.
BEELER.
To blame? To blame for what?
MARTHA.
For him a-peterin' out.
BEELER.
What's she got to do with it?
MARTHA.
Maybe she ain't got nothin' to do with it, and maybe she's got a whole lot.
BEELER.
Marthy, I don't want it to get out, but you're a plum' luny sentimental old maid fool!
Uncle Abe has been hovering, with superstitions interest, near the picture of Pan and the Pilgrim. With side glances at it, he speaks, taking advantage of the lull in conversation which follows Beeler's outburst.
UNCLE ABE.
Mistah Beelah, 'scuse me troublin' you, but—'scuse me troublin' you.
BEELER.
What is it, Abe?
UNCLE ABE.
It's purty brash o' me to be askin', but—Mista Beelah, fur do Lawd's sake give me that thar devil—pictuh!
BEELER.
What do you want with it?
UNCLE ABE.
Want to hang it up in my ole cabin.
His tone rises to one of eager pleading.
Mars Beelah, you give it to me! For Gawd's sake, say Ole Uncle Abe kin have it, to hang up in his ole cabin.
BEELER.
Well, if you feel as strong as that about it, Abe, take it along.
UNCLE ABE.
As he unpins it with feverish eagerness.
Thank ye, Mistah Beelah, thank ye. I'll wo'k fur ye and I'll slave fur ye, long as the worl' stan's. Maybe it ain't goin' to stan' much longer aftah all. Maybe de chariot's comin' down in de fiery clouds fo' great while. An' what'll yo' ole Uncle Abe be doin'? He'll be on his knees 'fore a big roarin' fire, singing hallelujah, an' a-jammin' red-hot needles right plum' frough dis heah black devil's breas' bone! I'se got him now! I'll fix'm.
Shakes his fist at the print, as he goes toward the kitchen.
Put yo' black spell on the Lawd's chosen, would ye? I'se got ye. I'll make ye sing, "Jesus, my ransom," right out'n yo' ugly black mouf!
Exit.
BEELER.
There's a purty exhibition for this present year o' grace! Thinks our friend Pan there has bewitched the healer.
MARTHA.
Maybe he has!
BEELER.
Thought you said Rhody done it.
MARTHA.
Same thing, I reckon, by all that you tell about that Panjandrum and his goin's on!
BEELER.
Nonsense!
MARTHA.
If you're so wise, why do you think Michaelis petered out?
BEELER.
Couldn't stand the strain. Bit off more'n he could chaw, in the healin' line.—Never looked at Rhody.
MARTHA.
Looked at her till he couldn't see nothin' else, in heaven or earth or the other place.
BEELER.
You're dead wrong. I tell you he never looked cross-eyed at Rhody, nor Rhody at him. Doctor's more in her line.—By the way, did you give the Doctor a snack to stay his stomach?
MARTHA.
Done nothin' but feed him all night long. Seems to be mighty exhaustin' work to tend a sick baby.
BEELER.
Does he think it'll live?
MARTHA.
Not likely. But he thinks he will, if fed reg'lar.—What do you call that trance the baby's in?
BEELER.
Doctor calls it comy. Spelled it out for me: c-o-m-a, comy.
Beeler goes out on the porch and disappears. Martha continues her task of tidying up the room. Michaelis enters from the stair, carrying his hat and a foot-traveller's knapsack. Martha regards him with curiosity, tempered now by feminine sympathy with the defeated.
MARTHA.
Good morning, sir.
MICHAELIS.
Tonelessly.
Good morning.
MARTHA.
Pointing at his hat and knapsack.
Hope you ain't off. Don't mind sayin' the way you acted was human decent, sendin' for Doctor when you found the baby wa'n't dead, an' you wa'n't no healer any more.
MICHAELIS.
Is it any better?
Martha makes a disconsolate gesture, implying that there is little or no hope. Michaelis turns away with bent head. Annie enters from the kitchen. Michaelis holds out his hand to her, and she takes it with shy hesitation.
MARTHA.
Guess you'd like to know where Rhody is, wouldn't you? She's where she's been all night,—out yonder with the sick folks.
MICHAELIS.
What is she doing there?
MARTHA.
Feedin' 'em, first off, an' then heart'nin' of 'em up. That's a purty hard job, I reckon; but it's the way o' women when they feel like she does.
Michaelis sinks in a chair, drawing Annie to him. Mrs. Beeler's bell rings; Martha goes out by the hall door. Annie watches his bent head in silence for a moment.
ANNIE.
Are you ever going up again, on the rope?
MICHAELIS.
Not remembering.
On the rope?
ANNIE.
You know ... the magic rope.—Ain't you ever going to climb up in the sky again?
MICHAELIS.
Recollecting.
Never again, Annie. Never again.
ANNIE.
Have you got the rope still?
MICHAELIS.
No, I have lost it.
ANNIE.
Won't you ever find it?
MICHAELIS.
It can only be found by some one who will know how to use it better than I did.
ANNIE.
How better?
MICHAELIS.
By some one who can climb up, toward the sun and the stars, and yet never leave the earth, the cities, and the people.
ANNIE.
Then he'll have to take them up with him.
Michaelis nods for yes.
Gracious!
She runs to the porch door to meet Rhoda, who appears outside.
Cousin Rhoda! What do you think he says about the magic rope?
RHODA.
What, Annie?
ANNIE.
He says that first thing you know, everything will be going up in the air, towns and people and everything.
RHODA.
Does he?
ANNIE.
Runs out into the hall, balancing her arms above her head and gazing up laughingly.
Dear me! That will be very tippy!
Rhoda enters.
MICHAELIS.
You are here! The fear came over me, just now—
RHODA.
I could not go until I had told you the truth—about myself—about us.
MICHAELIS.
You will tell me the whole truth, and I will tell you the same. But that will be for later. Come! Come away with me, into the new life.
RHODA.
A life rooted in the failure of all that life has meant to you from the beginning!
MICHAELIS.
Until yesterday I did not know what my life was.
RHODA.
You do not know that, even yet. You know it now less than ever—what your life is, what it means to you, what it means to the world.
MICHAELIS.
To the world it can mean nothing. That is ended. But to us it can mean happiness. Let us make haste to gather it. Come!
RHODA.
Where do you want me to go?
MICHAELIS.
Anywhere—to that place I told you of—high in the great mountains.
RHODA.
I was there last night.
MICHAELIS.
In your thoughts?
RHODA.
I was there, and saw all the beauty of it, all the peace. But one thing was not there, and for lack of it, in a little while the beauty faded and the peace was gone.
MICHAELIS.
What was not there?
RHODA.
The work you have to do.
MICHAELIS.
That was a dream I could not realize. I have striven, and I have failed.
RHODA.
Do you know why you have failed?
MICHAELIS.
Yes.
RHODA.
Tell me why.
MICHAELIS.
Because I have loved you more than the visions that came to me in desert places, more than the powers that fell upon me at the bedside of the sick, more than the spirit hands and spirit voices that have guided me on my way.
RHODA.
What of the sick and suffering out yonder, who are waiting and hoping against hope? What of them?
MICHAELIS.
I cannot help them.
RHODA.
Once you dreamed you could.
MICHAELIS.
Yes. But that is over.
RHODA.
And who is to blame that that great dream is over?
MICHAELIS.
No one is to blame. It has happened so.
RHODA.
Doesn't it seem strange that the love of a woman entering into your heart should take away such a dream as that?
MICHAELIS.
I do not question. It is so.
RHODA.
But if your love had fallen, by some sad chance, upon a woman who was not worthy of love?
MICHAELIS.
What are you saying?
RHODA.
You know less than nothing of me. You have not asked me a single question about my life.
MICHAELIS.
There was no need.
RHODA.
There was need! There was need!
MICHAELIS.
Be careful what you say. Go on!
RHODA.
In the first hour of our meeting, and all the hours of the next day, you swept me along and lifted me above myself, like a strong mind. I didn't know what you were. I didn't know why I was happy and exalted. It was so long since I had been happy, and I had never been as happy as that, or anything like it. Then, yesterday morning, came the revelation of what you were, like a blinding light out of the sky! And while I stood dazed, trembling, I saw something descend upon you like a shadow. You loved me, and that love was dreadful to you. You thought it was so because I was a woman and stole your spirit's strength away. But it was not that. It was because I was a wicked woman.
MICHAELIS.
Why do you call yourself a wicked woman?
RHODA.
Because I am so.
MICHAELIS.
I cannot believe it.
RHODA.
It is true.
MICHAELIS.
Is that why you wanted to go away?
RHODA.
Yes, I tried to go away. You wouldn't let me go. Then I tried to tell you the truth. I knew why I took your strength away, and I had nerved myself to tell you why. But you began to speak—those wild words. I could not resist you. You took me in your arms; and all the power of your soul went from you, and your life went crashing down in darkness.
Long pause.
MICHAELIS.
Wicked? A wicked woman?
RHODA.
I was young then, wild-hearted, pitifully ignorant. I thought that love had come to me. Girls are so eager for love. They snatch at the shadow of it.—That is what I did.—I am not trying to plead for myself.—Some things are not to be forgiven.—Somewhere in my nature there was a taint—a plague-spot.—If life is given me, I shall find it and root it out. I only ask for time to do that. But meanwhile I have done what I could. I have told you the truth. I have set you free. I have given you back your mission.
Dr. Littlefield enters, carrying his hat and medicine case. He looks sharply at Rhoda, then turns to Michaelis. His manner towards him is politely contemptuous, toward Rhoda it is full of covert passion, modified by his habitual cynicism and satire.
LITTLEFIELD.
To Rhoda.
Good morning.
To Michaelis.
Good morning, my friend. I understood that you sent for me, last night.
MICHAELIS.
I did.
LITTLEFIELD.
Glad to accommodate a fellow practitioner, even if he is in a side line. Some folks think your way of business is a little shady, but Lord, if they knew the secrets of our charnel-house!
MICHAELIS.
How did you leave the child?
LITTLEFIELD.
Done for. I said I was worth a million of you in a case like this, but I didn't realize how far things had gone. The next time, call me in a little sooner.
He writes on his note pad, tears out a leaf, and lays it on the table.
Mrs. Beeler will continue the old prescription, alternating with this.
He puts the note pad in his pocket, and turns to Rhoda. He speaks in a tone which implies command, under the veil of request.
Will you walk a ways with me, Miss Williams?
RHODA.
Pale and trembling.
No.
LITTLEFIELD.
Pardon! I must have a short talk. It is important.
RHODA.
I cannot go with you.
LITTLEFIELD.
I think you had better reconsider.
MICHAELIS.
Astonished at his tone.
You have heard that she does not wish to go.
LITTLEFIELD.
Ignoring Michaelis.
I have no time to waste, and I shall not stop to mince my words. You are coming with me, and you are coming now.
MICHAELIS.
To Rhoda.
Who is this man?
LITTLEFIELD.
Wheeling upon him angrily.
'Pon my honor! "Who is this man?" "Remove the worm!" Decidedly tart, from a miracle-monger in a state of bankruptcy.
MICHAELIS.
To Rhoda.
Is this the man you told me of?
RHODA.
Steadily.
Yes.
LITTLEFIELD.
To Rhoda, as he eyes Michaelis with dislike.
So you have called in a father confessor, eh?
To Michaelis.
Well, since the lady can't keep her secrets to herself, this is the man. Very painful, no doubt, but these little things will happen.
To Rhoda.
I should have chosen a more secluded nook to say this in, but you're skittish, as I have learned to my cost, and likely to bolt. What I want to say is, don't bolt. It won't do you any good.—I've found you once, and I'll find you again, no matter what rabbit's hole you dodge into.
To Michaelis.
This ain't George Littlefield, M.D., talking now. It's the caveman of Borneo. He's got arms as long as rakes, and teeth that are a caution.—Look out for him!
MICHAELIS.
Holding himself in stern restraint.
Your arms and teeth are long enough, and eager enough to do damage, but they will not avail you here. This girl is in other keeping, and I dare to say, better.
LITTLEFIELD.
In other keeping, eh? Yours, I suppose.
MICHAELIS.
Yes, mine.
LITTLEFIELD.
Bless my soul!
He turns to Rhoda, pointedly ignoring Michaelis.
Look here, Rho, be sensible. I'm tired of this hole of a town already. We'll go west and renew our youth. Country's big, and nobody to meddle. You'll flourish like a green bay tree.
Rhoda turns distractedly, as to escape; he intercepts her.
Confound it, if you're so set on it, I'll marry you! Say yes, and let John the Baptist here give us his blessing. Speak up. Is it a go?—Till death us do part.
MICHAELIS.
Death has already parted you and her.
LITTLEFIELD.
So? I feel like a reasonably healthy corpse.
MICHAELIS.
There is no health in you. Every word you speak gives off corruption.
LITTLEFIELD.
Indeed! My advice to you is, make tracks for your starvation desert. A parcel of locoed Indians are about right for a busted prophet.
MICHAELIS.
What I am is no matter. What this girl is, though you lived a thousand years, you would never have the grace to imagine. She gave you her young love, in childish blindness, not knowing what she did, and you killed it idly, wantonly, as a beast tortures its frail victim, for sport. You find her again, still weak and bleeding from her wounds, and you fling her marriage, in words whose every syllable is an insult. Marriage! When every fibre of her nature must cry out against you, if she is woman. Take your words and your looks from her, and that instantly, or you will curse the day you ever brought your evil presence into her life.
He advances upon him threateningly.
Instantly, I say, or by the wrath of God your wretched soul, if you have one, shall go this hour to its account!
LITTLEFIELD.
Backing toward the door, scared, but keeping his brazen tone.
All right.—I'm off.—Caveman for caveman, you've got the reach!
To Rhoda.
But remember, my lady, we're not quits 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!
He goes out, slamming the door behind him. Long pause.
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.
Michaelis goes to Mrs. Beeler; she gives him her left hand as at first.
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.
Isn'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? Isn'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 couldn'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.
She looks out at the open window, where the spring breeze lightly wafts the curtains.
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!
Song rises outside—faint and distant.
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.
The song, though still distant, grows louder. Mrs. Beeler turns to Michaelis and gazes intently into his face.
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 disease but a kind of sin? Lay your suffering and your sickness from you as an out-worn garment. Rise up! It is Easter morning. One comes, needing you. Rise up and welcome her!
Mrs. Beeler rises and goes to meet Rhoda, entering from the porch.
RHODA.
Aunt Mary! You are walking again!
MRS. BEELER.
He told me to arise, and once more my dead limbs heard.
RHODA.
God in His mercy be thanked!
MRS. BEELER.
I rose without knowing what I did. It was as if a wind lifted me.
RHODA.
Yes, yes. For good, this time!
MRS. BEELER.
So different from yesterday. I was still weak then, and my limbs were heavy. Now I feel as if wings were on my shoulders.
She looks toward the outer door, and listens to the singing, now risen to a more joyful strain.
I must go out to them.
She turns to Michaelis.
Say that I may go out, and give them the good tidings of great joy.
MICHAELIS.
May the Lord be with you as you go!
To Rhoda, who starts to help her aunt.
Alone!
MRS. BEELER.
Yes, alone. I want to go alone.
She takes a lily from the vase, and lifting it above her head, goes out through the porch, which is now flooded with sunshine. As she goes out she says:
The Easter sun has risen, with healing in its wings!
She crosses the porch and disappears.
RHODA.
I felt something dragging me back. It was Aunt Mary's spirit.
MICHAELIS.
No, it was mine.
RHODA.
Yours?
MICHAELIS.
My spirit, crying to you that I was delivered.
RHODA.
I delivered you. That is enough happiness for one life.
MICHAELIS.
You delivered me, yes. But not as you dream. Yesterday when the multitude began to gather, the thing I had been waiting for all my life was there, and I—because of you—I was not ready. In that blind hour my life sank in ruin.—I had thought love denied to such as had my work to do, and in the darkness of that thought disaster overwhelmed me.—I have come to know that God does not deny love to any of his children, but gives it as a beautiful and simple gift to them all.—Upon each head be the use that is made of it!
RHODA.
It is not I—who—harm you?
MICHAELIS.
It is you who bless me, and give me back the strength that I had lost.
RHODA.
I?
MICHAELIS.
A little while ago you told me your life's bitter story. I tasted your struggle, went down with you into the depths of your anguish, and in those depths,—the miracle! Behold, once more the stars looked down upon me from their places, and I stood wondering as a child wonders. Out of those depths arose new-born happiness and new-risen hope. For in those star-lit depths of pain and grief, I had found at last true love. You needed me. You needed all the powers I had thrown away for your sake. You needed what the whole world needs—healing, healing, and as I rose to meet that need, the power that I had lost poured back into my soul.
RHODA.
Oh, if I thought that could be!
MICHAELIS.
By the mystery that is man, and the mercy that is God, I say it is so.—
Puts his hand on her head, and gazes into her face.
I looked into your eyes once, and they were terrible as an army with banners. I look again now, and I see they are only a girl's eyes, very weak, very pitiful. I told you of a place, high in the great mountains. I tell you now of another place higher yet, in more mysterious mountains. Let us go there together, step by step, from faith to faith, and from strength to strength, for I see depths of life open and heights of love come out, which I never dreamed of till now!
A song rises outside, nearer and louder than before.
RHODA.
Against your own words they trust you still.
MICHAELIS.
It was you who held them to their trust!
RHODA.
You will go out to them now.
MICHAELIS.
As he kisses her.
Until the victory!
The song rises to a great hymn, of martial and joyous rhythm. They go together to the threshold. They look at each other in silence. Rhoda speaks, with suppressed meaning.
RHODA.
Shall it be—on earth?
MICHAELIS.
On the good human earth, which I never possessed till now!
RHODA.
But now—these waiting souls, prisoned in their pain—
MICHAELIS.
By faith all prisoned souls shall be delivered.
RHODA.
By faith.
MICHAELIS.
By faith which makes all things possible, which brings all things to pass.
He disappears. Rhoda stands looking after him. The young mother hurries in.
THE YOUNG MOTHER.
Ecstatic, breathless.
Come here—My baby! I believe—I do believe—
She disappears.
RHODA.
Following her.
I believe. I do believe!
The music rises into a vast chorus of many mingled strains.
CURTAIN
WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY'S
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"This play stands as a noteworthy achievement in the history of American dramatic literature, not alone as a drama of absorbing interest and significance, but as a distinct achievement from a literary point of view. It is a pleasure to read the crisp, admirable English, a prose at once vigorous, clear, and balanced. In the cold black and white of print and paper, without the accessories of the stage or the personality of actors to help illusion or enforce the story told, the real strength of the drama is most impressive. Mr. Moody has long been known as a poet of unusual gifts; he has now proven himself a dramatist of marked ability."—Brooklyn Daily Eagle.
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