ROBERT. And you made money—gambling?
ANDREW. Yes.
ROBERT. (thoughtfully) I’ve been wondering what the great change was in you. (After a pause) You—a farmer—to gamble in a wheat pit with scraps of paper. There’s a spiritual significance in that picture, Andy. (He smiles bitterly) I’m a failure, and Ruth’s another—but we can both justly lay some of the blame for our stumbling on God. But you’re the deepest-dyed failure of the three, Andy. You’ve spent eight years running away from yourself. Do you see what I mean? You used to be a creator when you loved the farm. You and life were in harmonious partnership. And now—— (He stops as if seeking vainly for words) My brain is muddled. But part of what I mean is that your gambling with the thing you used to love to create proves how far astray—— So you’ll be punished. You’ll have to suffer to win back—— (His voice grows weaker and he sighs wearily) It’s no use. I can’t say it. (He lies back and closes his eyes, breathing pantingly).
ANDREW. (slowly) I think I know what you’re driving at, Rob—and it’s true, I guess. (ROBERT smiles gratefully and stretches out his hand, which ANDREW takes in his).
ROBERT. I want you to promise me to do one thing, Andy, after——
ANDREW. I’ll promise anything, as God is my Judge!
ROBERT. Remember, Andy, Ruth has suffered double her share. (His voice faltering with weakness) Only through contact with suffering, Andy, will you—awaken. Listen. You must marry Ruth—afterwards.
RUTH. (with a cry) Rob! (ROBERT lies back, his eyes closed, gasping heavily for breath).
ANDREW. (making signs to her to humor him—gently) You’re tired out, Rob. You better lie down and rest a while, don’t you think? We can talk later on.
ROBERT. (with a mocking smile) Later on! You always were an optimist, Andy! (He sighs with exhaustion) Yes, I’ll go and rest a while. (As ANDREW comes to help him) It must be near sunrise, isn’t it?