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 n.o.body 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 G.o.d 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?