Chapter 9

_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 you 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.

_Isabel_. It would be odious if you were eloquent.

_Oberville_. What do you mean?

_Isabel_. That’s a question you never used to ask me.

_Oberville_. Be merciful. Remember how little practise I’ve had lately.

_Isabel_. In what?

_Oberville_. Never mind! (_He rises and walks away; then comes back and stands in front of her_.) What a fool I was to give you up!

_Isabel_. Oh, don’t say that! I’ve lived on it!

_Oberville_. On my letting you go?

_Isabel_. On your letting everything go--but the right.

_Oberville_. Oh, hang the right! What is truth? We had the right to be happy!

_Isabel (with rising emotion)_. I used to think so sometimes.

_Oberville_. Did you? Triple fool that I was!

_Isabel_. But you showed me--

_Oberville_. Why, good God, we belonged to each other--and I let you go! It’s fabulous. I’ve fought for things since that weren’t worth a crooked sixpence; fought as well as other men. And you--you--I lost you because I couldn’t face a scene! Hang it, suppose there’d been a dozen scenes--I might have survived them. Men have been known to. They’re not necessarily fatal.

_Isabel_. A scene?

_Oberville_. It’s a form of fear that women don’t understand. How you must have despised me!

_Isabel_. You were--afraid--of a scene?

_Oberville_. I was a damned coward, Isabel. That’s about the size of it.

_Isabel_. Ah--I had thought it so much larger!

_Oberville_. What did you say?

_Isabel_. I said that you have forgotten to drink your tea. It must be quite cold.

_Oberville_. Ah--

_Isabel_. Let me give you another cup.

_Oberville (collecting himself)_. No--no. This is perfect.

_Isabel_. You haven’t tasted it.

_Oberville (falling into her mood) _. You always made it to perfection. Only you never gave me enough sugar.

_Isabel_. I know better now. (_She puts another lump in his cup_.)

_Oberville (drinks his tea, and then says, with an air of reproach)_. Isn’t all this chaff rather a waste of time between two old friends who haven’t met for so many years?

_Isabel (lightly)_. Oh, it’s only a _hors d’oeuvre_--the tuning of the instruments. I’m out of practise too.

_Oberville_. Let us come to the grand air, then. (_Sits down near her_.) Tell me about yourself. What are you doing?

_Isabel_. At this moment? You’ll never guess. I’m trying to remember you.

_Oberville_. To remember me?

_Isabel_. Until you came into the room just now my recollection of you was so vivid; you were a living whole in my thoughts. Now I am engaged in gathering up the fragments--in laboriously reconstructing you....

_Oberville_. I have changed so much, then?

_Isabel_. No, I don’t believe that you’ve changed. It’s only that I see you differently. Don’t you know how hard it is to convince elderly people that the type of the evening paper is no smaller than when they were young?

_Oberville_. I’ve shrunk then?

_Isabel_. You couldn’t have grown bigger. Oh, I’m serious now; you needn’t prepare a smile. For years you were the tallest object on my horizon. I used to climb to the thought of you, as people who live in a flat country mount the church steeple for a view. It’s wonderful how much I used to see from there! And the air was so strong and pure!

_Oberville_. And now?

_Isabel_. Now I can fancy how delightful it must be to sit next to you at dinner.

_Oberville_. You’re unmerciful. Have I said anything to offend you?

_Isabel_. Of course not. How absurd!

_Oberville_. I lost my head a little--I forgot how long it is since we have met. When I saw you I forgot everything except what you had once been to me. (_She is silent_.) I thought you too generous to resent that. Perhaps I have overtaxed your generosity. (_A pause_.) Shall I confess it? When I first saw you I thought for a moment that you had remembered--as I had. You see I can only excuse myself by saying something inexcusable.

_Isabel (deliberately)_. Not inexcusable.

_Oberville_. Not--?

_Isabel_. I had remembered.

_Oberville_. Isabel!

_Isabel_. But now--

_Oberville_. Ah, give me a moment before you unsay it!

_Isabel_. I don’t mean to unsay it. There’s no use in repealing an obsolete law. That’s the pity of it! You say you lost me ten years ago. (_A pause_.) I never lost you till now.

_Oberville_. Now?

_Isabel_. Only this morning you were my supreme court of justice; there was no appeal from your verdict. Not an hour ago you decided a case for me--against myself! And now--. And the worst of it is that it’s not because you’ve changed. How do I know if you’ve changed? You haven’t said a hundred words to me. You haven’t been an hour in the room. And the years must have enriched you--I daresay you’ve doubled your capital. You’ve been in the thick of life, and the metal you’re made of brightens with use. Success on some men looks like a borrowed coat; it sits on you as though it had been made to order. I see all this; I know it; but I don’t _feel_ it. I don’t feel anything... anywhere... I’m numb. (_A pause_.) Don’t laugh, but I really don’t think I should know now if you came into the room--unless I actually saw you. (_They are both silent_.)

_Oberville (at length)_. Then, to put the most merciful interpretation upon your epigrams, your feeling for me was made out of poorer stuff than mine for you.

_Isabel_. Perhaps it has had harder wear.

_Oberville_. Or been less cared for?

_Isabel_. If one has only one cloak one must wear it in all weathers.

_Oberville_. Unless it is so beautiful and precious that one prefers to go cold and keep it under lock and key.

_Isabel_. In the cedar-chest of indifference--the key of which is usually lost.

_Oberville_. Ah, Isabel, you’re too pat! How much I preferred your hesitations.

_Isabel_. My hesitations? That reminds me how much your coming has simplified things. I feel as if I’d had an auction sale of fallacies.

_Oberville_. You speak in enigmas, and I have a notion that your riddles are the reverse of the sphinx’s--more dangerous to guess than to give up. And yet I used to find your thoughts such good reading.

_Isabel_. One cares so little for the style in which one’s praises are written.

_Oberville_. You’ve been praising me for the last ten minutes and I find your style detestable. I would rather have you find fault with me like a friend than approve me like a _dilettante_.

_Isabel_. A _dilettante_! The very word I wanted!

_Oberville_. I am proud to have enriched so full a vocabulary. But I am still waiting for the word _I_ want. (_He grows serious_.) Isabel, look in your heart--give me the first word you find there. You’ve no idea how much a beggar can buy with a penny!

_Isabel_. It’s empty, my poor friend, it’s empty.

_Oberville_. Beggars never say that to each other.

_Isabel_. No; never, unless it’s true.

_Oberville (after another silence)_. Why do you look at me so curiously?

_Isabel_. I’m--what was it you said? Approving you as a _dilettante_. Don’t be alarmed; you can bear examination; I don’t see a crack anywhere. After all, it’s a satisfaction to find that one’s idol makes a handsome _bibelot_.

_Oberville (with an attempt at lightness)_. I was right then--you’re a collector?

_Isabel (modestly)_. One must make a beginning. I think I shall begin with you. (_She smiles at him_.) Positively, I must have you on my mantel-shelf! (_She rises and looks at the clock_.) But it’s time to dress for dinner. (_She holds out her hand to him and he kisses it. They look at each other, and it is clear that he does not quite understand, but is watching eagerly for his cue_.)

_Warland (coming in)_. Hullo, Isabel--you’re here after all?

_Isabel_. And so is Mr. Oberville. (_She looks straight at Warland_.) I stayed in on purpose to meet him. My husband--(_The two men bow_.)

_Warland (effusively)_. So glad to meet you. My wife talks of you so often. She’s been looking forward tremendously to your visit.

_Oberville_. It’s a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Warland.

_Isabel_. But now we are going to make up for lost time. (_As he goes to the door_.) I claim you to-morrow for the whole day.

_Oberville bows and goes out_.

_Isabel_. Lucius... I think you’d better go to Washington, after all. (_Musing_.) Narragansett might do for the others, though.... Couldn’t you get Fred Langham to ask all the rest of the party to go over there with him to-morrow morning? I shall have a headache and stay at home. (_He looks at her doubtfully_.) Mr. Oberville is a bad sailor.

_Warland advances demonstratively_.

_Isabel (drawing back)_. It’s time to go and dress. I think you said the black gown with spangles?

A CUP OF COLD WATER

It was three o’clock in the morning, and the cotillion was at its height, when Woburn left the over-heated splendor of the Gildermere ballroom, and after a delay caused by the determination of the drowsy footman to give him a ready-made overcoat with an imitation astrachan collar in place of his own unimpeachable Poole garment, found himself breasting the icy solitude of the Fifth Avenue. He was still smiling, as he emerged from the awning, at his insistence in claiming his own overcoat: it illustrated, humorously enough, the invincible force of habit. As he faced the wind, however, he discerned a providence in his persistency, for his coat was fur-lined, and he had a cold voyage before him on the morrow.

It had rained hard during the earlier part of the night, and the carriages waiting in triple line before the Gildermeres’ door were still domed by shining umbrellas, while the electric lamps extending down the avenue blinked Narcissus-like at their watery images in the hollows of the sidewalk. A dry blast had come out of the north, with pledge of frost before daylight, and to Woburn’s shivering fancy the pools in the pavement seemed already stiffening into ice. He turned up his coat-collar and stepped out rapidly, his hands deep in his coat-pockets.

As he walked he glanced curiously up at the ladder-like door-steps which may well suggest to the future archaeologist that all the streets of New York were once canals; at the spectral tracery of the trees about St. Luke’s, the fretted mass of the Cathedral, and the mean vista of the long side-streets. The knowledge that he was perhaps looking at it all for the last time caused every detail to start out like a challenge to memory, and lit the brown-stone house-fronts with the glamor of sword-barred Edens.

It was an odd impulse that had led him that night to the Gildermere ball; but the same change in his condition which made him stare wonderingly at the houses in the Fifth Avenue gave the thrill of an exploit to the tame business of ball-going. Who would have imagined, Woburn mused, that such a situation as his would possess the priceless quality of sharpening the blunt edge of habit?

It was certainly curious to reflect, as he leaned against the doorway of Mrs. Gildermere’s ball-room, enveloped in the warm atmosphere of the accustomed, that twenty-four hours later the people brushing by him with looks of friendly recognition would start at the thought of having seen him and slur over the recollection of having taken his hand!