ACT III
Scene: Same as Act One. Parlor at the Jordans’, two months later.
At rise the characters are grouped exactly as they were at the opening of the play. The white slip covers, however, have been removed from the chairs, and the backing through the window shows partly melted snow drifts. Henry sighs; the clock strikes two. Henry looks at his watch.
There is a pause. The outside door slams and Ben enters and looks about.
Well—here we all are again.
Yes.
I ain’t been in this room before since the funeral.
And I ain’t, and the last time before that was when father died.
I sat right here, in the same chair I ’m settin’ in now, but to your grandfather’s funeral, right after I married Henry, I was treated like one of the poor relations! I had to stand up.
I remember; it made considerable trouble.
I don’t know as it was ever what I called a cheerful room.
A parlor ’s where a person ’s supposed to sit and think of God, and you couldn't expect it to be cheerful!
Seems like we ’d had trouble and disgrace enough in this family without her takin’ all the slip covers off of the chairs and sofa!
It ain’t right!
That Boston woman that ’s building the house over on Elm Street ain’t so much as goin’ to have a parlor. I stopped her right on the street and asked her what she was plannin’ to do soon as the first of ’em died.
What did she say?
Said she tried not to think about such things.
We got Atheists enough in this town right now.
Well, if Jane ’s coming I wish she ’d come; this ain’t exactly my idea of pleasant company.
She says we ’re all to watt in here for Judge Bradford.
What did she send for us for?
I don’t know.
Why did n’t you ask her?
I did, and she most bit my head off.
She most bites mine off every time I see her. I must say she ’s changed, Jane has; she ain’t the same girl at all she was a few weeks ago.
She ’s actin’ just awful, especially to me!
Of course, I ’d be the last one to say anything against her, but———
But nothin’! There ain’t one of you here fit to tie her shoes!
We ain't?
And I ain’t! The only difference between us is I ain’t worth much and I know it, and you ain’t worth nothin’ and you don’t.
I guess you ’d better be careful how you talk!
If anybody says anything about Jane lately, that ’s the way he always talks! The worse she treats him the better he seems to like it.
Well, I don’t know as I ’m surprised more about his insultin’ the rest of us, but it ’s sort of comical his talkin’ that way about you, Nettie.
Nettie! What ’s Nettie got to do with him?
Oh! Excuse me! I did n’t know ’t was supposed to be a secret.
What is?
About the way those two have been carryin’ on together!
What!
Ben and Nettie!
Stop her, Ben, can’t you?
If I knew a way to stop women like her I ’d patent it and get rich!
Him and Nettie?
They passed my house together once a week ago Wednesday, once the Tuesday before that, and twice the Sunday after New Year’s.
Together!
And Eben Tilden’s boy told Abbie Palsey that Tilly Hickson heard Aaron Hamlin say he ’d seen ’em together at the picture show!
Is it true?
You ’ve been with him after all I told you!
It ain’t going to hurt her none just to talk to me, is it?
Them that touches pitch gets defiled!
I want you to tell me everything that ’s took place between you two.
Wait!
What?
Orin! Leave the room!
He don’t have to leave the room. I don’t care who knows what happened!
Go on then.
Well—Ben and I—We—Just for a few days—anyway, it was all his fault.
She threw me down because I was going to prison.
He said he ’d get out of it somehow, but he can’t, and I just won’t have folks laughing at me!
It ’s all right, it never meant nothin’ to her, and I guess it did n’t mean much to me. It ’s just as well it ’s over.
It ’s a whole lot better.
Well—what ’s passed is passed. Folks that plant the wind reap the whirlwind! There ’s no use cryin’ ever spilled milk,
Say, Mum! What do you s ’pose Uncle Henry thinks he means when he says things?
Somehow I can’t help wishin’ you was my son for just about five minutes.
[Hannah and Judge Bradford enter.
They ’re all in here, Judge.
Good afternoon,
How are you, Judge?
It ’s a mild day; winter ’s most over. Stop scratching yourself.
[This last to Orin who seems to be uneasy and frequently scratches himself.
I ’ll tell her you ’re here, Judge. She ’ll be right down.
[Hannah exits.
Won’t you sit?
Thanks.
[He sits by table.
What ’s it about? Why did she say we was to all be here at two o’clock?
She will probably be able to answer that question herself, Ben.
Don’t.
What?
Scratch!
Oh.
[Jane enters. The Judge rises.
Well, Jane?
Don’t get up, Judge.
Will you sit here?
[Judge turns to get a chair for Jane. Orin scratches himself. Ella rises.
What is the matter with this brat?
I itch!
It ’s warm, and he ’s got on his heavy flannels! He ’s as clean as you are!
[Jane and Judge sit.
You said to heat this room up and wait here for you and the Judge. Why? I got my stock to tend.
It ’s a bad time for me to get away from the store; What was it you wanted of us?
I ’m afraid it isn’t going to be easy to tell you.
Won’t you let me do it, Jane?
No. I ’ve come to know that your mother did n’t really want that I should have the Jordan money.
What ’s that?
I put it as simply as I could.
You mean a later will ’s been found?
No.
In a way, Judge, it ’s like there had. Your mother left me a letter dated later than the will.
Leavin’ the money different?
Tellin’ what she really wanted.
Well, what did she want?
It was like she left me all her money in trust, so I could keep it safe until the time she was hopin’ for come, and in a way it did come, not quite like she wanted it, but near enough so I can give up a burden I have n’t strength enough to carry any more.
[She stops.
Let me finish, Jane. Jane has asked me to draw a deed of gift, making the Jordan property over to Ben.
Why?
She wanted you to have it.
Why did n’t she will it to me, then?
She was afraid to trust you.
Well?
You ’ve learned to work; you ’ll keep on working.
You mean to say my mother wanted him to have it all?
Yes.
I am a religious man, but there was a time when even Job gave up! So—all our money goes to Ben—and he can’t even buy himself out of prison!
Ben is n’t going to prison.
Why? Who ’s to stop it?
Kimbal agreed not to press the charge against you. It seems that there were certain extenuating circumstances. A motion has been made for the dismissal of the indictment, and it won’t be opposed.
Why did he? Who fixed this thing.
Judge Bradford did.
[She looks at Judge.
It means a lot to me. There ’s things I ’d like to do. I have n’t dared to think about ’em lately—now I ’ll do ’em.
[There ts a pause.
Well, Ben, so you ’ve got the money! I guess maybe it’s better than her havin’ it; after all blood ’s thicker than water! We ’ll help you any way we can and—er—of course you ’ll help us.
Why will I?
We ’re brothers, Ben! We ’re old Jordans!
What was we when I got back from France? There was a band met us boys at the station. I was your brother all right that day, only somehow, in just a little while you forgot about it. I was a Jordan when I was hidin’ out from the police, and all that kept me from starvin’ was the money Jane sent me! I was your brother the night mother died, and you said you would n’t go my bail.
You ain’t going to be hard, Ben!
I ’m the head of the family now, ain’t I, and you can bet all you ’ve got I ’m going to be a real Jordan.
I think, Ben———
From now on, there ain’t nobody got any right to think in this house but just me! So run along home, the whole pack of you, and after this, when you feel like you must come here—come separate.
Turn us out, Ben?
Sure, why not?
There ain’t any reason why we can’t he friends, is there?
Well, I don’t know. There ’s only one way I could ever get to trust you.
What way, Ben?
I ’d have to go to jail for five years and see if you ’d wait for me!
It ’s an awful thing for a mother to have a fool for a child.
Well, I must say you made a nice mess of things!
Well, I don’t care! I don’t see how anybody would expect me to be a mind reader!
Come, Orin—say good-by to your Uncle Ben.
What will I do that for?
Because I tell you to!
Yesterday you told me he was n’t worth speakin’ to!
Are you going to move, you stupid little idiot.
[She drags him out.
What did I say? You let me alone!
I was wonderin’, Ben, how you ’d feel about endorsing that note of mine.
You was?
Yes, I don’t know what I ’m going to do about it.
As far as I care, you can go nail it on a door. (Henry and Emma start to exit) No, hold on, I ’ll pay it.
You will!
Yes, I don’t know as it would do me much good at the bank, havin’ a brother of mine in the poorhouse.
[Ben laughs as Henry and Emma exit.
Well, Ben? “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”
Depends on the head. Mine ’s thick, I guess. Anyhow, none of them is going to bother it. I ’m boss here now.
You ’ll find a copy here of the inventory of the estate, and other legal papers. Everything is in order.
And my accounts, Ben; you ’ll find the exact amount your mother left. I spent some money about six weeks ago, on myself, but I ’ve been careful ever since and I ’ve made up for it.
You said, Judge, she did n’t have to go by that letter of my mother’s, if she didn’t want to? She did n’t have to give anything back at all?
No, she did n’t.
Then if I was you—(to Jane) I would n’t talk so much about the little you spent on yourself, I guess to look at you it was n’t much.
Yes, it was.
Well, we ’ll fix things so you can keep on spendin’. Only let ’s see somethin’ come of it. I never was so damned sick of anything in my life as I am of that old black dress of yours!
[Crosses stage up and over right.
I ’ve got plenty of clothes upstairs. I ’m sorry now I ever bought them, but I ’ll take them with me when I go.
Go? Go where?
To Old Town. I’ve got a place there, clerking in the Pulp Mill.
You!
Yes.
But what about me?
Don’t you think Jane has done about enough for you?
She ’s done a lot, she ’s given up the money. I don’t know as I like that; ’course I like gettin’ it, but not if she ’s going away.
I could n’t stay now, and I would n’t want to.
I don’t suppose you remember about plannin’ what you and me was to do with this old farm?
I remember.
Well—then what are you going away for?
Because I could n’t be happy here, Ben—It ’s been harder than anything I ever thought could come to anybody, the last few weeks here—and so I ’m going. (She turns to Judge) I ’ll go upstairs and get my things. I ’ll stop at your office, Judge, on the way to the station.
Thank you, Jane.
You ’re goin’ to-day? Before I order my new farm machinery or anything? You ’re goin’ to leave me with all this work on my hands?
Yes, Ben.
[She exits.
Well—that ’s a lesson to me! Oh, she ’s a good woman! I ain’t denyin’ that—but she’s fickle!
You ’re a fool, Ben!
I been doin’ kitchen police around this town for quite a spell now, Judge, but from this day on I ain’t goin’ to take that sort of talk from anybody.
I assure you that you won’t have to take any sort of talk at all from me.
[He starts for the door.
I did n’t mean that. I don’t want you to think I ain’t grateful for all you ’ve done for me.
I have done nothing for you.
If it was n’t for you, I ’d want to die; that ’s what I did want. I was afraid of that prison, just a coward about it. Now I ’m a free man, with a big life openin’ out ahead of me—I got everything in the world right here in my two hands, everything—and I owe it to you!
I am very glad to say that you don’t owe me anything. I don’t like you, I have n’t forgiven you for what you did to your mother’s life. Nor for a worse thing, one you have n’t brains enough to even know you ’ve done. Don’t be grateful to me, Ben, please. I think nothing could distress me more than that.
You ’ve been a good friend to me.
I have n’t meant to be, as I said I don’t like you. I have n’t any faith in you. I don’t believe in this new life of yours. You made a mess of the old one, and I think you will of the new.
No matter what you say, you can’t get away from me, I ’ll be grateful till I die, But for you I ’d have gone to that damned prison!
But for Jane.
How Jane?
How Jane? Jane went your bond the day your mother died. Jane took you in and taught you how to work, made you work, taught you through the one decent spot in you something of a thing you ’d never know, self-respect. Worked over you, petted you, coaxed you—held you up—Then you hurt her—but she kept on—She went herself to Kimbal, after he had refused me, and got his help to keep you out of prison—then, against my will, against the best that I could do to stop her, she turns over all this to you—and goes out with nothing—and you ask “How Jane?”
Why? Why has she done this, all this, for me?
[The Judge looks at Ben with contempt and turns and exits. Ben is left in deep thought. Jane comes downstairs dressed for a journey with a hand bag, etc. She enters.
Good-by, Ben. (She crosses to him, her hand out) Good-by. Won’t you say good-by?
First, there ’s some things I got to know about.
I guess there ’s not much left for us to say, Ben.
There ’s things I got to know. (She looks at him but does not speak) The Judge tells me ’t was you got Kimbal to let me go free. (He looks at her—she half turns away) Answer me. (Pause) The Judge tells me you gave up what was yours—to me—without no other reason than because you wanted me to have it. That ’s true, ain’t it? (Pause) You sent me every cent you had, when you knew mother was dying, then you went bail for me, like he said—and did all them other things. I don’t know as any woman ever did any more—. I want to know why!
Why do you think?
I don’t know—I sort of thought—sort of hoped———
It was because I loved her, Ben———
Oh.
[He turns away disappointed.
You ’re forgetting, I guess, how long we was alone here—when you was in France—then the months we did n’t know where you was, when the police was looking for you—She used to make me promise if ever I could I ’d help you.
Well—all I ’ve got to say is you ’re no liar.
Good-by.
[She turns to go.
Wait. (Closes door) Let ’s see that letter you said she left for you.
No. I won’t do that. I ’ve done enough; you ’re free, you ’ve got the money and the farm.
They ain’t worth a damn with you gone—I did n't know that till just now, but they ain’t.
It ’s sort of sudden, the way you found that out.
Oh, it don’t take long for a man to get hungry—it only takes just a minute for a man to die; you can burn down a barn quick enough, or do a murder; it ’s just living and getting old that takes a lot of time—Can’t you stay here, Jane?
There ’s Nettie.
Nettie—that could n’t stand the gaff—that run out on me when I was in trouble.
It does n’t matter what folks do, if you love ’em enough.
What do you know about it? I suppose you ’ve been in love a lot of times?
No.
Then you be quiet and let an expert talk. I was lonesome and I wanted a woman; she was pretty and I wanted to kiss her—that ain’t what I call love.
You. You don’t even know the meaning of the word.
That don’t worry me none—I guess the feller that wrote the dictionary was a whole lot older ’n I am before he got down to the L’s.
You ’ve got good in you, Ben, deep down, if you ’d only try. (Ben turns) I know, it ’s always been that way! You ’ve never tried for long; you ’ve never had a real ambition.
When I was a kid I wanted to spit farther than anybody.
Good-by.
[She starts up to door.
And so you ’re going to break your word?
I don’t know what ’t was you promised mother, but you ’ve broke your word. No man ever needed a woman more ’n I need you, and you ’re leaving me.
That is n’t fair.
It ’s true, ain’t it; truth ain’t always fair—You ain’t helped me none, you ’ve hurt me—worse than being broke, worse than bein’ in jail.
It don’t seem like I could stand to have you talk like that.
What you done you done for her. I did n’t count, I never have, not with you.
When you ’ve been trying to do a thing as long as I have, it gets to be a part of you.
You done it all for her—well—she’s dead—you ’d better go.
Maybe I had, but if I do it will be with the truth between us. Here ’s the letter she left for me, Ben—I got a feeling somehow like she was here with us now, like she wanted you to read it. (She holds it out) It’ s like she was guiding us from the grave—Read it.
[Crosses up to window.
“My dear Jane: The doctor tells me I have n’t long to live and so I am doing this, the meanest thing I think I ’ve ever done to you. I ’m leaving you the Jordan money. Since my husband died there has been just one person I could get to care about, that ’s Ben, who was my baby so long after all the others had forgotten how to love me. (He mumbles the letter to himself, then brings out the words) “Hold out her heart and let him trample on it, as he has on mine.”
[Slowly he breaks down, sobbing bitterly.
Don’t, Ben———
Look what I done to her. Look what I done.
Oh, my dear—my dear!
I did love her, mor’n she thought, mor’n I ever knew how to tell her!
It was n’t all your fault—you were a lonely boy—she never said much—she was like you, Ben, ashamed to show the best that ’s in you.
The best in me. I ain’t fit that you should touch me Jane—you ’d better go.
Not if you need me, Ben, and I think you do.
I love you—mor’n I ever thought I could—tenderer—truer—but I ’m no good—You could n’t trust me—I could n’t trust myself.
Spring’s coming, Ben, everywhere, to you and me, if you would only try.
Can a feller change—Just ’cause he wants to?
I don’t want you changed. I want you what you are, the best of you—just a man that loves me—if you do love me, Ben.
Can’t you help me to be fit?
I ’m going to do the thing I always meant to do—Good times and bad, Ben, I ’m going to share with you.
God knows I———
Hush, Ben—I don’t want another promise.
What do you want?
You said I was a good sport once—You shook hands on what we ’d do to bring this old place back—there ’s plenty to be done. I ’ll stay and help you if you want me.
A good sport? (He takes her hand) I ’ll say you ’re all of that.
[Hannah enters.
If you ain’t careful you ’ll miss that train.
That ’s just what I want to do.
You ain’t going?
I ’m never going, Hannah.
You going to marry him?
You bet your life she is!
I guess you ’ll be mighty happy—marriage changes folks—and any change in him will be a big improvement.
[She picks up Jane’s bag and exits—Jane and Ben laugh.