Rachel (Jumping at him): Shoo! Shoo! Get out of here quickly, little chicken. (She follows him out. The outer door opens and shuts. Presently she returns. She looks old and worn and grey; calmly. Pauses). First, it’s little, black Ethel—and then’s it’s Jimmy. Tomorrow, it will be some other little child. The blight—sooner or later—strikes all. My little Jimmy, only seven years old poisoned! (Through the open window comes the laughter of little children at play. Rachel, shuddering, covers her ears). And once I said, centuries ago, it must have been: “How can life be so terrible, when there are little children in the world?” Terrible! Terrible! (In a whisper, slowly) That’s the reason it is so terrible. (The laughter reaches her again; this time she listens). And, suddenly, some day, from out of the black, the blight shall descend, and shall still forever—the laughter on those little lips, and in those little hearts. (Pauses thoughtfully). And the loveliest thing—almost, that ever happened to me, that beautiful voice, in my dream, those beautiful words: “Rachel, you are to be the mother to little children.” (Pauses, then slowly and with dawning surprise). Why, God, you were making a mock of me; you were laughing at me. I didn’t believe God could laugh at our sufferings, but He can. We are accursed, accursed! We have nothing, absolutely nothing. (Strong’s rosebuds attract her attention. She goes over to them, puts her hand out as if to touch them, and then shakes her head, very sweetly) No, little rosebuds, I may not touch you. Dear, little, baby rosebuds,—I am accursed. (Gradually her whole form stiffens, she breathes deeply; at last slowly). You God!—You terrible, laughing God! Listen! I swear—and may my soul be damned to all eternity, if I do break this oath—I swear—that no child of mine shall ever lie upon my breast, for I will not have it rise up, in the terrible days that are to be—and call me cursed. (A pause, very wistfully; questioningly). Never to know the loveliest thing in all the world—the feel of a little head, the touch of little hands, the beautiful utter dependence—of a little child? (With sudden frenzy) You can laugh, Oh God! Well, so can I. (Bursts into terrible, racking laughter) But I can be kinder than You. (Fiercely she snatches the rosebuds from the vase, grasps them roughly, tears each head from the stem, and grinds it under her feet. The vase goes over with a crash; the water drips unheeded over the table-cloth and floor). If I kill, You Mighty God, I kill at once—I do not torture. (Falls face downward on the floor. The laughter of the children shrills loudly through the window).
ACT III
ACT III.
Time: Seven o’clock in the evening, one week later.
Place: The same room. There is a coal fire in the grate. The curtains are drawn. A lighted oil lamp with a dark green porcelain shade is in the center of the table. Mrs. Loving and Tom are sitting by the table, Mrs. Loving sewing, Tom reading. There is the sound of much laughter and the shrill screaming of a child from the bedrooms. Presently Jimmy clad in a flannelet sleeping suit, covering all of him but his head and hands, chases a pillow, which has come flying through the doorway at the rear. He struggles with it, finally gets it in his arms, and rushes as fast as he can through the doorway again. Rachel jumps at him with a cry. He drops the pillow and shrieks. There is a tussle for possession of it, and they disappear. The noise grows louder and merrier. Tom puts down his paper and grins. He looks at his mother.
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).