ROBERT. (after a pause, opening the other telegram) He sent this last evening. Let’s see. (He reads) “Leave for home on midnight train. Just received your wire. Am bringing specialist to see Rob. Will motor to farm from Port.” (He calculates) What time is it now?
RUTH. Round six, must be.
ROBERT. He ought to be here soon. I’m glad he’s bringing a doctor who knows something. A specialist will tell you in a second that there’s nothing the matter with my lungs.
RUTH. (stolidly) You’ve been coughing an awful lot lately.
ROBERT. (irritably) What nonsense! For God’s sake, haven’t you ever had a bad cold yourself? (RUTH stares at the stove in silence. ROBERT fidgets in his chair. There is a pause. Finally ROBERT’S eyes are fixed on the sleeping MRS. ATKINS) Your mother is lucky to be able to sleep so soundly.
RUTH. Ma’s tired. She’s been sitting up with me most of the night.
ROBERT. (mockingly) Is she waiting for Andy, too? (There is a pause. ROBERT sighs) I couldn’t get to sleep to save my soul. I counted ten million sheep if I counted one. No use! I gave up trying finally and just laid there in the dark thinking. (He pauses, then continues in a tone of tender sympathy) I was thinking about you, Ruth—of how hard these last years must have been for you. (Appealingly) I’m sorry, Ruth.
RUTH. (in a dead voice) I don’t know. They’re past now. They were hard on all of us.
ROBERT. Yes; on all of us but Andy. (With a flash of sick jealousy) Andy’s made a big success of himself—the kind he wanted. (Mockingly) And now he’s coming home to let us admire his greatness. (Frowning—irritably) What am I talking about? My brain must be sick, too. (After a pause) Yes, these years have been terrible for both of us. (His voice is lowered to a trembling whisper) Especially the last eight months since Mary—died. (He forces back a sob with a convulsive shudder—then breaks out in a passionate agony) Our last hope of happiness! I could curse God from the bottom of my soul—if there was a God! (He is racked by a violent fit of coughing and hurriedly puts his handkerchief to his lips).
RUTH. (without looking at him) Mary’s better off—being dead.