The Greater Inclination

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"Why not? Do I look like a Hercules?" He held up his loose-skinned hand
and shrunken wrist. "Not built for the part, certainly; but that doesn't
count, of course. Man's unconquerable soul, and all the rest of it ...
well, I was a coward every inch of me, body and soul."

He paused and glanced up and down the road. There was no one in sight.

"It happened when I was a young chap just out of college. I was travelling
round the world with another youngster of my own age and an older man--
Charles Meriton--who has since made a name for himself. You may have heard
of him."

"Meriton, the archaeologist? The man who discovered those ruined African
cities the other day?"

"That's the man. He was a college tutor then, and my father, who had known
him since he was a boy, and who had a very high opinion of him, had asked
him to make the tour with us. We both--my friend Collis and I--had an
immense admiration for Meriton. He was just the fellow to excite a boy's
enthusiasm: cool, quick, imperturbable--the kind of man whose hand is
always on the hilt of action. His explorations had led him into all sorts
of tight places, and he'd shown an extraordinary combination of
calculating patience and reckless courage. He never talked about his
doings; we picked them up from various people on our journey. He'd been
everywhere, he knew everybody, and everybody had something stirring to
tell about him. I daresay this account of the man sounds exaggerated;
perhaps it is; I've never seen him since; but at that time he seemed to me
a tremendous fellow--a kind of scientific Ajax. He was a capital
travelling-companion, at any rate: good-tempered, cheerful, easily amused,
with none of the been-there-before superiority so irritating to
youngsters. He made us feel as though it were all as new to him as to us:
he never chilled our enthusiasms or took the bloom off our surprises.
There was nobody else whose good opinion I cared as much about: he was the
biggest thing in sight.

"On the way home Collis broke down with diphtheria. We were in the
Mediterranean, cruising about the Sporades in a felucca. He was taken ill
at Chios. The attack came on suddenly and we were afraid to run the risk
of taking him back to Athens in the felucca. We established ourselves in
the inn at Chios and there the poor fellow lay for weeks. Luckily there
was a fairly good doctor on the island and we sent to Athens for a sister
to help with the nursing. Poor Collis was desperately bad: the diphtheria
was followed by partial paralysis. The doctor assured us that the danger
was past; he would gradually regain the use of his limbs; but his recovery
would be slow. The sister encouraged us too--she had seen such cases
before; and he certainly did improve a shade each day. Meriton and I had
taken turns with the sister in nursing him, but after the paralysis had
set in there wasn't much to do, and there was nothing to prevent Meriton's
leaving us for a day or two. He had received word from some place on the
coast of Asia Minor that a remarkable tomb had been discovered somewhere
in the interior; he had not been willing to take us there, as the journey
was not a particularly safe one; but now that we were tied up at Chios
there seemed no reason why he shouldn't go and take a look at the place.
The expedition would not take more than three days; Collis was
convalescent; the doctor and nurse assured us that there was no cause for
uneasiness; and so Meriton started off one evening at sunset. I walked
down to the quay with him and saw him rowed off to the felucca. I would
have given a good deal to be going with him; the prospect of danger
allured me.

"'You'll see that Collis is never left alone, won't you?' he shouted back
to me as the boat pulled out into the harbor; I remembered I rather
resented the suggestion.

"I walked back to the inn and went to bed: the nurse sat up with Collis at
night. The next morning I relieved her at the usual hour. It was a sultry
day with a queer coppery-looking sky; the air was stifling. In the middle
of the day the nurse came to take my place while I dined; when I went back
to Collis's room she said she would go out for a breath of air.

"I sat down by Collis's bed and began to fan him with the fan the sister
had been using. The heat made him uneasy and I turned him over in bed, for
he was still helpless: the whole of his right side was numb. Presently he
fell asleep and I went to the window and sat looking down on the hot
deserted square, with a bunch of donkeys and their drivers asleep in the
shade of the convent-wall across the way. I remember noticing the blue
beads about the donkeys' necks.... Were you ever in an earthquake? No? I'd
never been in one either. It's an indescribable sensation ... there's a
Day of Judgment feeling in the air. It began with the donkeys waking up
and trembling; I noticed that and thought it queer. Then the drivers
jumped up--I saw the terror in their faces. Then a roar.... I remember
noticing a big black crack in the convent-wall opposite--a zig-zag crack,
like a flash of lightning in a wood-cut.... I thought of that, too, at the
time; then all the bells in the place began to ring--it made a fearful
discord.... I saw people rushing across the square ... the air was full of
crashing noises. The floor went down under me in a sickening way and then
jumped back and pitched me to the ceiling ... but where _was_ the ceiling?
And the door? I said to myself: _We're two stories up--the stairs are just
wide enough for one_.... I gave one glance at Collis: he was lying in bed,
wide awake, looking straight at me. I ran. Something struck me on the head
as I bolted downstairs--I kept on running. I suppose the knock I got dazed
me, for I don't remember much of anything till I found myself in a
vineyard a mile from the town. I was roused by the warm blood running down
my nose and heard myself explaining to Meriton exactly how it had
happened....

"When I crawled back to the town they told me that all the houses near the
inn were in ruins and that a dozen people had been killed. Collis was
among them, of course. The ceiling had come down on him."

Mr. Carstyle wiped his forehead. Vibart sat looking away from him.

"Two days later Meriton came back. I began to tell him the story, but he
interrupted me.

"'There was no one with him at the time, then? You'd left him alone?'

"'No, he wasn't alone.'

"'Who was with him? You said the sister was out.'

"'I was with him.'

"'_You were with him?_'

"I shall never forget Meriton's look. I believe I had meant to explain, to
accuse myself, to shout out my agony of soul; but I saw the uselessness of
it. A door had been shut between us. Neither of us spoke another word. He
was very kind to me on the way home; he looked after me in a motherly way
that was a good deal harder to stand than his open contempt. I saw the man
was honestly trying to pity me; but it was no good--he simply couldn't."

Mr. Carstyle rose slowly, with a certain stiffness.

"Shall we turn toward home? Perhaps I'm keeping you."

They walked on a few steps in silence; then he spoke again.

"That business altered my whole life. Of course I oughtn't to have allowed
it to--that was another form of cowardice. But I saw myself only with
Meriton's eyes--it is one of the worst miseries of youth that one is
always trying to be somebody else. I had meant to be a Meriton--I saw I'd
better go home and study law....

"It's a childish fancy, a survival of the primitive savage, if you like;
but from that hour to this I've hankered day and night for a chance to
retrieve myself, to set myself right with the man I meant to be. I want to
prove to that man that it was all an accident--an unaccountable deviation
from my normal instincts; that having once been a coward doesn't mean that
a man's cowardly... and I can't, I can't!"

Mr. Carstyle's tone had passed insensibly from agitation to irony. He had
got back to his usual objective stand-point.

"Why, I'm a perfect olive-branch," he concluded, with his dry indulgent
laugh; "the very babies stop crying at my approach--I carry a sort of
millennium about with me--I'd make my fortune as an agent of the Peace
Society. I shall go to the grave leaving that other man unconvinced!"

Vibart walked back with him to Millbrook. On her doorstep they met Mrs.
Carstyle, flushed and feathered, with a card-case and dusty boots.

"I don't ask you in," she said plaintively, to Vibart, "because I can't
answer for the food this evening. My maid-of-all-work tells me that she's
going to a ball--which is more than I've done in years! And besides, it
would be cruel to ask you to spend such a hot evening in our stuffy little
house--the air is so much cooler at Mrs. Vance's. Remember me to Mrs.
Vance, please, and tell her how sorry I am that I can no longer include
her in my round of visits. When I had my carriage I saw the people I
liked, but now that I have to walk, my social opportunities are more
limited. I was not obliged to do my visiting on foot when I was younger,
and my doctor tells me that to persons accustomed to a carriage no
exercise is more injurious than walking."

She glanced at her husband with a smile of unforgiving sweetness.

"Fortunately," she concluded, "it agrees with Mr. Carstyle."

THE TWILIGHT OF THE GOD

I

_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_.)

II

_The same drawing-room. _Isabel_ enters from the lawn in hat and gloves.
The tea-table is set out, and the footman just lighting the lamp under the
kettle_.

_Isabel_. You may take the tea-things away. I never take tea.

_Footman_. Very good, m'm. (_He hesitates_.) I understood, m'm, that Mr.
Oberville was to have tea?

_Isabel_. Mr. Oberville? But he was to arrive long ago! What time is it?

_Footman_. Only a quarter past five, m'm.

_Isabel_. A quarter past five? (_She goes up to the clock_.) Surely you're
mistaken? I thought it was long after six. (_To herself_.) I walked and
walked--I must have walked too fast ... (_To the Footman_.) I'm going out
again. When Mr. Oberville arrives please give him his tea without waiting
for me. I shall not be back till dinner-time.

_Footman_. Very good, m'm. Here are some letters, m'm.

_Isabel (glancing at them with a movement of disgust)_. You may send them
up to my room.

_Footman_. I beg pardon, m'm, but one is a note from Mme. Fanfreluche, and
the man who brought it is waiting for an answer.

_Isabel_. Didn't you tell him I was out?

_Footman_. Yes, m'm. But he said he had orders to wait till you came in.

_Isabel_. Ah--let me see. (_She opens the note_.) Ah, yes. (_A pause_.)
Please say that I am on my way now to Mme Fanfreluche's to give her the
answer in person. You may tell the man that I have already started. Do you
understand? Already started.

_Footman_. Yes, m'm.

_Isabel_. And--wait. (_With an effort_.) You may tell me when the man has
started. I shall wait here till then. Be sure you let me know.

_Footman_. Yes, m'm. (_He goes out_.)

_Isabel (sinking into a chair and hiding her face)_. Ah! (_After a moment
she rises, taking up her gloves and sunshade, and walks toward the window
which opens on the lawn_.) I'm so tired. (_She hesitates and turns back
into the room_.) Where can I go to? (_She sits down again by the tea-
table, and bends over the kettle. The clock strikes half-past five_.)

_Isabel (picking up her sunshade, walks back to the window)_. If I _must_
meet one of them...

_Oberville (speaking in the hall)_. Thanks. I'll take tea first. (_He
enters the room, and pauses doubtfully on seeing Isabel_.)

_Isabel (stepping towards him with a smile)_. It's not that I've changed,
of course, but only that I happened to have my back to the light. Isn't
that what you are going to say?

_Oberville_. Mrs. Warland!

_Isabel_. So you really _have_ become a great man! They always remember
people's names.

_Oberville_. Were you afraid I was going to call you Isabel?

_Isabel_. Bravo! _Crescendo!_

_Oberville_. But you have changed, all the same.

_Isabel_. You must indeed have reached a dizzy eminence, since you can
indulge yourself by speaking the truth!

_Oberville_. It's your voice. I knew it at once, and yet it's different.

_Isabel_. I hope it can still convey the pleasure I feel in seeing an old
friend. (_She holds out her hand. He takes it_.) You know, I suppose, that
Mrs. Raynor is not here to receive you? She was called away this morning
very suddenly by her aunt's illness.

_Oberville_. Yes. She left a note for me. (_Absently_.) I'm sorry to hear
of Mrs. Griscom's illness.

_Isabel_. Oh, Mrs. Griscom's illnesses are less alarming than her
recoveries. But I am forgetting to offer you any tea. (_She hands him a
cup_.) I remember you liked it very strong.

_Oberville_. What else do you remember?

_Isabel_. A number of equally useless things. My mind is a store-room of
obsolete information.

_Oberville_. Why obsolete, since I am providing you with a use for it?

_Isabel_. At any rate, it's open to question whether it was worth storing
for that length of time. Especially as there must have been others more
fitted--by opportunity--to undertake the duty.

_Oberville_. The duty?

_Isabel_. Of remembering how you like your tea.

_Oberville (with a change of tone)_. Since you call it a duty--I may
remind you that it's one I have never asked any one else to perform.

_Isabel_. As a duty! But as a pleasure?

_Oberville_. Do you really want to know?

_Isabel_. Oh, I don't require and charge you.

_Oberville_. You dislike as much as ever having the _i_'s dotted?

_Isabel_. With a handwriting I know as well as yours!

_Oberville (recovering his lightness of manner)_. Accomplished woman! (_He
examines her approvingly_.) I'd no idea that you were here. I never was
more surprised.

_Isabel_. I hope you like being surprised. To my mind it's an overrated
pleasure.

_Oberville_. Is it? I'm sorry to hear that.

_Isabel_. Why? Have you a surprise to dispose of?

_Oberville_. I'm not sure that I haven't.

_Isabel_. Don't part with it too hastily. It may improve by being kept.

_Oberville (tentatively)_. Does that mean that you don't want it?

_Isabel_. Heaven forbid! I want everything I can get.

_Oberville_. And you get everything you want. At least you used to.

_Isabel_. Let us talk of your surprise.

_Oberville_. It's to be yours, you know. (_A pause. He speaks gravely_.) I
find that I've never got over having lost you.

_Isabel (also gravely)_. And is that a surprise--to you too?

_Oberville_. Honestly--yes. I thought I'd crammed my life full. I didn't
know there was a cranny left anywhere. At first, you know, I stuffed in
everything I could lay my hands on--there was such a big void to fill. And
after all I haven't filled it. I felt that the moment I saw you. (_A
pause_.) I'm talking stupidly.

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