The Greater Inclination

A Newport drawing-room.  Tapestries, flowers, bric-a-brac.  Through the windows, a geranium-edged lawn, the cliffs and the sea.  Isabel Warland sits reading.  Lucius Warland enters in flannels and a yachting-cap.

Isabel.  Back already?

Warland.  The wind dropped—­it turned into a drifting race.  Langham took me off the yacht on his launch.  What time is it?  Two o’clock?  Where’s Mrs. Raynor?

Isabel.  On her way to New York.

Warland.  To New York?

Isabel.  Precisely.  The boat must be just leaving; she started an hour ago and took Laura with her.  In fact I’m alone in the house—­that is, until this evening.  Some people are coming then.

Warland.  But what in the world—­

Isabel.  Her aunt, Mrs. Griscom, has had a fit.  She has them constantly.  They’re not serious—­at least they wouldn’t be, if Mrs. Griscom were not so rich—­and childless.  Naturally, under the circumstances, Marian feels a peculiar sympathy for her; her position is such a sad one; there’s positively no one to care whether she lives or dies—­except her heirs.  Of course they all rush to Newburgh whenever she has a fit.  It’s hard on Marian, for she lives the farthest away; but she has come to an understanding with the housekeeper, who always telegraphs her first, so that she gets a start of several hours.  She will be at Newburgh to-night at ten, and she has calculated that the others can’t possibly arrive before midnight.

Warland.  You have a delightful way of putting things.  I suppose you’d talk of me like that.

Isabel.  Oh, no.  It’s too humiliating to doubt one’s husband’s disinterestedness.

Warland.  I wish I had a rich aunt who had fits.

Isabel.  If I were wishing I should choose heart-disease.

Warland.  There’s no doing anything without money or influence.

Isabel (picking up her book).  Have you heard from Washington?

Warland.  Yes.  That’s what I was going to speak of when I asked for Mrs. Raynor.  I wanted to bid her good-bye.

Isabel.  You’re going?

Warland.  By the five train.  Fagott has just wired me that the Ambassador will be in Washington on Monday.  He hasn’t named his secretaries yet, but there isn’t much hope for me.  He has a nephew—­

Isabel.  They always have.  Like the Popes.

Warland.  Well, I’m going all the same.  You’ll explain to Mrs. Raynor if she gets back before I do?  Are there to be people at dinner?  I don’t suppose it matters.  You can always pick up an extra man on a Saturday.

Isabel.  By the way, that reminds me that Marian left me a list of the people who are arriving this afternoon.  My novel is so absorbing that I forgot to look at it.  Where can it be?  Ah, here—­Let me see:  the Jack Merringtons, Adelaide Clinton, Ned Lender—­all from New York, by seven P.M. train.  Lewis Darley to-night, by Fall River boat.  John Oberville, from Boston at five P.M.  Why, I didn’t know—­

Warland (excitedly).  John Oberville?  John Oberville?  Here?  To-day at five o’clock?  Let me see—­let me look at the list.  Are you sure you’re not mistaken?  Why, she never said a word!  Why the deuce didn’t you tell me?

Isabel.  I didn’t know.

Warland.  Oberville—­Oberville—!

Isabel.  Why, what difference does it make?

Warland.  What difference?  What difference?  Don’t look at me as if you didn’t understand English!  Why, if Oberville’s coming—­(a pause) Look here, Isabel, didn’t you know him very well at one time?

Isabel.  Very well—­yes.

Warland.  I thought so—­of course—­I remember now; I heard all about it before I met you.  Let me see—­didn’t you and your mother spend a winter in Washington when he was Under-secretary of State?

Isabel.  That was before the deluge.

Warland.  I remember—­it all comes back to me.  I used to hear it said that he admired you tremendously; there was a report that you were engaged.  Don’t you remember?  Why, it was in all the papers.  By Jove, Isabel, what a match that would have been!

Isabel.  You are disinterested!

Warland.  Well, I can’t help thinking—­

Isabel.  That I paid you a handsome compliment?

Warland (preoccupied).  Eh?—­Ah, yes—­exactly.  What was I saying?  Oh—­ about the report of your engagement. (Playfully.) He was awfully gone on you, wasn’t he?

Isabel.  It’s not for me to diminish your triumph.

Warland.  By Jove, I can’t think why Mrs. Raynor didn’t tell me he was coming.  A man like that—­one doesn’t take him for granted, like the piano-tuner!  I wonder I didn’t see it in the papers.

Isabel.  Is he grown such a great man?

Warland.  Oberville?  Great?  John Oberville?  I’ll tell you what he is—­the power behind the throne, the black Pope, the King-maker and all the rest of it.  Don’t you read the papers?  Of course I’ll never get on if you won’t interest yourself in politics.  And to think you might have married that man!

Isabel.  And got you your secretaryship!

Warland.  Oberville has them all in the hollow of his hand.

Isabel.  Well, you’ll see him at five o’clock.

Warland.  I don’t suppose he’s ever heard of me, worse luck! (A silence.) Isabel, look here.  I never ask questions, do I?  But it was so long ago—­and Oberville almost belongs to history—­he will one of these days at any rate.  Just tell me—­did he want to marry you?

Isabel.  Since you answer for his immortality—­(after a pause) I was very much in love with him.

Warland.  Then of course he did. (Another pause.) But what in the world—­

Isabel (musing).  As you say, it was so long ago; I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you.  There was a married woman who had—­what is the correct expression?—­made sacrifices for him.  There was only one sacrifice she objected to making—­and he didn’t consider himself free.  It sounds rather rococo, doesn’t it?  It was odd that she died the year after we were married.

Warland.  Whew!

Isabel (following her own thoughts).  I’ve never seen him since; it must be ten years ago.  I’m certainly thirty-two, and I was just twenty-two then.  It’s curious to talk of it.  I had put it away so carefully.  How it smells of camphor!  And what an old-fashioned cut it has! (Rising.) Where’s the list, Lucius?  You wanted to know if there were to be people at dinner tonight—­

Warland.  Here it is—­but never mind.  Isabel—­(silence) Isabel—­

Isabel.  Well?

Warland.  It’s odd he never married.

Isabel.  The comparison is to my disadvantage.  But then I met you.

Warland.  Don’t be so confoundedly sarcastic.  I wonder how he’ll feel about seeing you.  Oh, I don’t mean any sentimental rot, of course… but you’re an uncommonly agreeable woman.  I daresay he’ll be pleased to see you again; you’re fifty times more attractive than when I married you.

Isabel.  I wish your other investments had appreciated at the same rate.  Unfortunately my charms won’t pay the butcher.

Warland.  Damn the butcher!

Isabel.  I happened to mention him because he’s just written again; but I might as well have said the baker or the candlestick-maker.  The candlestick-maker—­I wonder what he is, by the way?  He must have more faith in human nature than the others, for I haven’t heard from him yet.  I wonder if there is a Creditor’s Polite Letter-writer which they all consult; their style is so exactly alike.  I advise you to pass through New York incognito on your way to Washington; their attentions might be oppressive.

Warland.  Confoundedly oppressive.  What a dog’s life it is!  My poor Isabel—­

Isabel.  Don’t pity me.  I didn’t marry yon for a home.

Warland (after a pause).  What did you marry me for, if you cared for Oberville? (Another pause.) Eh?

Isabel, Don’t make me regret my confidence.

Warland.  I beg your pardon.

Isabel.  Oh, it was only a subterfuge to conceal the fact that I have no distinct recollection of my reasons.  The fact is, a girl’s motives in marrying are like a passport—­apt to get mislaid.  One is so seldom asked for either.  But mine certainly couldn’t have been mercenary:  I never heard a mother praise you to her daughters.

Warland.  No, I never was much of a match.

Isabel.  You impugn my judgment.

Warland.  If I only had a head for business, now, I might have done something by this time.  But I’d sooner break stones in the road.

Isabel.  It must be very hard to get an opening in that profession.  So many of my friends have aspired to it, and yet I never knew any one who actually did it.

Warland.  If I could only get the secretaryship.  How that kind of life would suit you!  It’s as much for you that I want it—­

Isabel.  And almost as much for the butcher.  Don’t belittle the circle of your benevolence. (She walks across the room.) Three o’clock already—­ and Marian asked me to give orders about the carriages.  Let me see—­Mr. Oberville is the first arrival; if you’ll ring I will send word to the stable.  I suppose you’ll stay now?

Warland.  Stay?

Isabel.  Not go to Washington.  I thought you spoke as if he could help you.

Warland.  He could settle the whole thing in five minutes.  The President can’t refuse him anything.  But he doesn’t know me; he may have a candidate of his own.  It’s a pity you haven’t seen him for so long—­and yet I don’t know; perhaps it’s just as well.  The others don’t arrive till seven?  It seems as if—­How long is he going to be here?  Till to-morrow night, I suppose?  I wonder what he’s come for.  The Merringtons will bore him to death, and Adelaide, of course, will be philandering with Lender.  I wonder (a pause) if Darley likes boating. (Rings the bell.)

Isabel.  Boating?

Warland.  Oh, I was only thinking—­Where are the matches?  One may smoke here, I suppose? (He looks at his wife.) If I were you I’d put on that black gown of yours to-night—­the one with the spangles.—­It’s only that Fred Langham asked me to go over to Narragansett in his launch to-morrow morning, and I was thinking that I might take Darley; I always liked Darley.

Isabel (to the footman who enters).  Mrs. Raynor wishes the dog-cart sent to the station at five o’clock to meet Mr. Oberville.

Footman.  Very good, m’m.  Shall I serve tea at the usual time, m’m?

Isabel.  Yes.  That is, when Mr. Oberville arrives.

Footman (going out).  Very good, m’m.

Warland (to Isabel, who is moving toward the door).  Where are you going?

Isabel.  To my room now—­for a walk later.

Warland.  Later?  It’s past three already.

Isabel.  I’ve no engagement this afternoon.

Warland.  Oh, I didn’t know. (As she reaches the door.) You’ll be back, I suppose?

Isabel.  I have no intention of eloping.

Warland.  For tea, I mean?

Isabel.  I never take tea. (Warland shrugs his shoulders.)