Chapter XV: The Real Reason Why Shelmerdene Was Late for Dinner

“Lord Tarlyon on the telephone, madam.”

“I cannot speak to him, Foster. You can see very well that I cannot speak to him and why I cannot speak to him, and so why didn’t you ask him his message straight away? And take away that towel and bring another not so new. You know very well, Foster, that one cannot dry oneself properly with a new towel. And then ask Lord Tarlyon what he has to say for himself?”

Foster returned.

“His lordship is sorry he disturbed you, madam, and rang up merely to beg you to be punctual for dinner at half-past eight. And may he send his car for you?”

“Tell his lordship,” said Shelmerdene, “that I am always punctual. Add, Foster, that punctuality is the only servile quality I have. And he may send his car for me. Thank him. And for Heaven’s sake, Foster, close those drawers! You know I can’t bear open drawers in a room. I knew something was worrying me.”

In the fulness of time Shelmerdene emerged from her bath and re-entered her bedroom. Her dressing-gown was of white velvet trimmed with ermine and lined with jade green charmeuse. She sat at the toilet-table and looked at herself in the mirror.

“Foster!” called Shelmerdene, softly, vaguely.

“Yes, madam?”

“What shall I wear to-night?”

“Well, madam....”

“Oh, dear! why are English maids so stupid! Why have they no taste! Why must good maids always be French? Oh, Foster, what shall I do? You are so lacking in ideas, in _finesse_, in judgment, in all sartorial courtliness! On the other hand, you are a very nice girl and I like you very much, and, anyway, you are clean, which is a good deal more than some of my friends are, what with being in a hurry and powder being so cheap. I withdraw everything I said previous to that last sentence, Foster.”

“There is the black sequin, madam....”

“There is certainly the black sequin, Foster. And there has been the black sequin ever since the Armistice. You may have it for yourself, Foster, for being such an ass.”

“Oh, thank you, madam!”

“So you say, but what will really happen will be that you will wear that black sequin dress one night at the Hammersmith Palais de Danse, which I hear is very modish these days, and some young man will take a fancy to you, and you will marry him, and then where will I be? I ask you, Foster, where will I be?”

“Oh, but, madam, I would never, never leave you!”

“Pouf!” said Shelmerdene. “But, talking of that, Foster, how would you like it if I married again? Or if my husband came back? Ah, yes,” said Shelmerdene softly, “if he came back....”

Foster did not know what to say. She wanted to ask a few questions. She was a nice girl, but she wanted frightfully to ask a few questions. She whispered:

“Do you think, madam, he will?”

Shelmerdene looked at her for a long, long time. Shelmerdene’s eyes were blue, they were as blue as night.

“I don’t know, Foster. He has been gone a very long time, you know--ten years is a long time, isn’t it? He was a very grim sort of man, let me tell you, and he made a very great mistake. And I was very young, and I made a great mistake. So there you are, Foster. Silly, isn’t it?”

And Shelmerdene looked at Foster for a long, long time; but Foster was quite sure that her mistress did not see her. She waited....

“You see, Foster, life is an awful mess, and men are extraordinary. You will notice, when you meet your young man at the Palais de Danse, how very extraordinary men are. They are always jealous about the wrong things ... and now I am thirty-four years old! I am thirty-four years old, Foster! Oh, dear, it is perfectly amazing how soon one becomes thirty-four years old!”

And Foster whispered:

“And did he go away, madam--just like that?”

“Don’t whisper, girl! We are speaking of commonplace things--love--never whisper about love, Foster! All the trouble in the world has come from whispering about love. I saw him going--day by day, night by night, I saw him going, and I let him go. I was too proud, too proud. But I am not proud now. You will, of course, bear me out in that?”

“Well, madam, I think you’ve got a great sort of pride--the sort, madam, that lets you let your friends use you as much as they like while you sit down and despise them all by yourself. I’ve watched you often, if I may say so, madam.”

“Muddled but pleasant, Foster. But if you had listened to what I was saying instead of thinking out how best you could slander those of my friends you like least, you would have realised I was talking about pride, not dignity. There is too much muck in pride, Foster. Remember that in your wretched moments. But I was very proud then, and I let him go, that queer, grim, good-looking man. He was very good-looking, Foster, in a naval sort of way--but what a fool! Oh, my God, what a fool!”

And Foster whispered:

“And if he came back now, madam--would you ...?”

“Ah,” said Shelmerdene, “you ask me what I don’t know. Ten years is a very long time, as I remarked before. I am in the fourth decade of my life, Foster, and I must have understanding. I know too much about love to want only love. Love, Foster, is just a trick of the heart to fool the mind--without understanding, it is no use to me. It is funny how well Englishmen can understand niggers and how idiotic they can be about women. They get so sleepy, Foster.... If he came back now, would I let him? I don’t know, I can’t tell. If he came back sweetly--oh, sweetly, Foster! then yes, yes, yes! But if he came back bitterly.... I will wear the new silver tissue from Lanvin, Foster. And the silver shoes--there, in that box from Hellstern. I am thirty-four years old, and I would like to look----”

“Here it is, madam. It _is_ a lovely dress!”

“Yes, it will do very well. I shall look like a greyhound to-night, though of course there will be no man there to notice it. I have often looked like a greyhound, but there is only one man who has ever remarked it. A very inadequate crowd of men about, Foster. If I could only write a book I would write one on men, and I would call it _Rats, Rape and Rheumatism_. Oh, what fun I would have with that book, Foster! Imagine the face of a publisher when I took him a book with that title! He would say: ‘Eh--but--eh--we cannot publish a book like this, you know!’ And I would say: ‘And why not, pray? Look at Mrs. Asquith.’ And after we had looked at Mrs. Asquith he would publish my book at once, and then I would go into Hatchard’s in Piccadilly and ask Mr. Humphreys: ‘And how is my book going, Mr. Humphreys?’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ he would say. ‘Yes, Mr. Humphreys, my book, _Rats, Rape and Rheumatism_.’ And I would say that very loud, you see, Foster, and every one in the shop would look at me, whispering among themselves: ‘There is that terrible woman who wrote that terrible book!’ And with one accord, in fact one might almost say in a body, they would drop the trash they had thought of buying and buy my book, for it is not every day, Foster, that a woman writes a book called _Rats, Rape and Rheumatism_.”

“I am sure you could write a very good book, madam. Your life would make such an interesting novel!”

“Oh, every woman thinks that! It is extraordinary how conceited women are about their past miseries. I can bear women less and less. And, oh, I wish I was not going out to dinner to-night! I would like to dine on an egg and then read a good book. What are you reading, Foster?”

“Well, madam.... It’s by Ethel M. Dell.”

“Is it any good? I have never read any of Miss Dell’s books. But then I have never read any of Henry James’s, either, not right through.”

“Well, madam.... It’s a love-story, about a girl and an earl, you know.”

“No, Foster, I don’t know. There are earls and earls, and, if you will forgive me, some need belting and some don’t. Will you bring the book and read it out to me? Please, Foster. You haven’t read out to me for such a long time.”

“Well, madam, here it is. Chapter One.

“‘I shall go to sea to-morrow,’ said Saltash, with sudden decision. ‘I’m so tired of this place, Larpent--fed up to repletion.’

“‘Then by all means let us go, my lord!’ said Larpent, with the faint glimmer of a smile behind his beard, which was the only expression of humour he ever permitted himself.’”

“Give me the nail-file, Foster.”

“‘Saltash turned and surveyed the skyline over the yacht’s rail with obvious discontent on his ugly face. His eyes were odd, one black, one grey, giving a curiously unstable appearance to a countenance which otherwise might have claimed to possess some strength. His brows were black and deeply marked----’”

“Foster, have you taken that stain off the blue serge?”

“Yes, madam. ‘A certain arrogance, a certain royalty of bearing characterised him. Whatever he did--and his actions were often far from praiseworthy--this careless distinction of mien always marked him. He received an almost involuntary respect wherever he went----’”

“Thank you, Foster. That is very nice. I don’t wonder this Saltash man received an almost involuntary respect wherever he went, what with having one grey eye and one black one. I once met a man with a black eye, but I don’t think I’ve ever met a man with eyes of various colours, earl or commoner. But perhaps I will meet one to-night, Foster, and fall in love with him! Oh, dear, it _is_ such a long time since I was in love with any one! What shall I do, Foster?”

“You had better let me do your hair now, madam. It’s getting on.”

“Yes, but how awful it would be never, never to fall in love again! Particularly now that the days are drawing in. Don’t pull so hard, Foster. Hair is, after all, but hair. Wintering in England is a cold business without a man in one’s life. There’s that wretched telephone again! You’re hurting me, girl! If it’s Mrs. Loyalty tell her I can’t lunch with her to-morrow, after all. I shall not be well to-morrow, I feel.”

Foster went to the telephone on the little table by the bed.

“Hallo! Hallo! Is that Mayfair 2794?”

“Yes,” said Foster. “Who is that speaking, please?”

“Is that Mrs.----?” asked the voice.

“Who is that speaking, please?”

“I say,” said the voice, “just tell Mrs.---- that I would like to speak to her, would you?”

“I’m afraid, sir, that madam will not speak to you unless you give your name.”

“What’s your name?” asked the voice.

“Foster, sir.”

“Well, look here, Foster, don’t be an ass all your life, be a dear instead and just ask your mistress to come to the telephone. It’s most important, tell her----”

Shelmerdene said, icily, from her chair:

“I hope, Foster, that you are having an entertaining conversation. May I ask how it concerns me?”

“Gentleman wants to speak to you, madam. Gives no name.”

“Any remarks?”

“He has a very pleasant voice, madam.”

Shelmerdene went to the telephone. She sat on the edge of the bed.

“Hallo, hallo!” said the voice.

“Just a moment,” said Shelmerdene. Her dressing-gown had slipped off her knee and her knee was cold, so she re-arranged the dressing-gown over her knee.

SHELMERDENE: Now!

THE VOICE: At last, Shelmerdene! How are you, dear?

SHELMERDENE: I am very well, thank you. May I know to whom I am giving this information?

THE VOICE: _Shelmerdene!_ Do you really mean to say that you don’t recognise my voice?

SHELMERDENE: I am sorry. I do hate to hurt people. And you have a very nice voice, too!

THE VOICE: Thank you, Shelmerdene. (_Bitterly_) Well, as you don’t recognise my voice I had better go away. Are you sure you don’t, my dear?

SHELMERDENE: Well, you know, the profusion of endearing epithets in your conversation leads me to conclude that you are either a friend or a person of colossal cheek. But now I come to think of it, I have a vague idea about you. You have the voice of a man I dined with once.

THE VOICE: Ah, yes! You dined with me once--upon a time.

SHELMERDENE: Oh, _la, la_! I said _once_, my friend.

THE VOICE: You were never a great mathematician, Shelmerdene. But what does it matter how often we dined, so long as we did dine? And ever since then I have remembered you, for there are very few beautiful women, even in one’s dreams. Therefore I have rung you up, after all these years.

SHELMERDENE: Thank you, stranger. You speak very prettily. Are you trying to pretend that you were in love with me at that distant time?

THE VOICE: I think I am in love with you now.

SHELMERDENE: You _think_! You are not very dexterous, sir....

THE VOICE: You are sitting on the edge of the bed now. Please, no ceremony with me, Shelmerdene! Lie down on the bed, dear--you wil be more comfortable so, on that virginal bed!

SHELMERDENE: Irony, my friend, does not become the moment. It is a vulgarity peculiar to cultured men. It is a knack, and I don’t like knacks. Shall I ring off?

THE VOICE: No, no! Please!

SHELMERDENE: Well, a moment. (_To Foster_) Leave us, Foster.

THE VOICE: Shelmerdene, you are very hard!

SHELMERDENE: No, I am very tired ... of hardness. You understand?

THE VOICE: I want to hear about your life, Shelmerdene. I have not seen you for so long! Do things still happen to you, and do you still let them happen?

SHELMERDENE: How bitter you are, aren’t you, in a hidden sort of way!

THE VOICE: Do things still happen to you, Shelmerdene?

SHELMERDENE: No.

THE VOICE: So abrupt!

SHELMERDENE: I was thinking of your voice. I like it, but it’s bitter.

THE VOICE: I have drunk vinegar.

SHELMERDENE: But I thought they called it gin-and-bitters in the navy!

THE VOICE: Have it your own way, Shelmerdene. But you have still told me nothing of yourself.

SHELMERDENE: But what am I to tell you? What is the use of my telling you that I have been in love only once in my life? You will not believe me.... But it is true, you know. Though, of course, there was a time when I was inquisitive.

THE VOICE: And that has passed?

SHELMERDENE: That has passed.

THE VOICE: But isn’t life very dull for you, then? What do you do?

SHELMERDENE: I wait.

THE VOICE: So serious!

SHELMERDENE: I must go on with my dressing now. I am very late.

THE VOICE: A moment, please, please! You said you had been in love only once in your life. Tell me of that.

SHELMERDENE: But the man’s mad! What is there to tell? It ended--it just ended! He said, you know, that love was like religion, for it must be done well or not at all.... And that’s all there is of it. He went. One can’t explain an ideal, one can only explain the failure of an ideal. One can’t describe a love-affair, one can only describe the end of a love-affair. I loved him, I lost him. And I’m still alive--and so, I suppose, is he! I wonder if he is a little softer than he was....

THE VOICE: And so you ended a beautiful thing because of a caprice?

SHELMERDENE: Oh, for God’s sake, don’t use that horrible word--“caprice!” It is just a label given to women by half-witted men. It is the name disappointed men give to women’s constancy. No, no, never use that silly word again! Besides, it is not worthy of your pleasant voice.

THE VOICE: Bother my voice! And how, why, did your one real love-affair end?

SHELMERDENE: We were too proud, you see. I was very young, and he would not understand. He simply would not understand!

THE VOICE: (_Impatiently_) But what is it that he would not understand? Women are always complaining of that....

SHELMERDENE: _Please_ don’t generalise! It is so easy to insult a woman by saying women. How did he fail? Oh, he would not understand that marriage is comradeship, not domination. It is very difficult for some men to understand that, and it is very difficult for some women to be dominated.

THE VOICE: It is very difficult for some women to be loyal!

SHELMERDENE: Again! Well, perhaps. Loyalty, like a sense of humour, is a quality universally praised because every one thinks he or she has it. And when you say that a woman is lacking in loyalty you really mean that she is not so celibate as you might wish. When you say that it is difficult for some women to be loyal, what you really mean is that it is difficult for some women to be celibate. You are quite right, it is. And why, in God’s name, should they be? Must all Englishwomen be made of stone because most Englishmen are educated only from the throat downwards! Now, tell me why did you ring me up--was it to discuss, “loyalty”?

THE VOICE: Your voice hurts rather, Shelmerdene. I have just returned to England.

SHELMERDENE: (_Very softly_) Yes?

THE VOICE: I was very ill, in Ceylon. And then one night, when I was better, I was wandering about the veranda of my friend’s station, and I happened to hear the whirr of the P. and O. from Colombo to England. It was very distant, four miles away at least, but the night was very, very still, and I not only heard the whirr but above it a twitter--a tinkling something--a very faint, long-drawn silly something, which could only be the music of the liner’s orchestra----

SHELMERDENE: Yes? I am listening.

THE VOICE: That is what I heard, Shelmerdene, and it somehow made me see things very far away. I, who had been abroad so long, saw England. Funny, wasn’t it? And I saw _you_--I saw you dancing, Shelmerdene! I saw you dancing as I last saw you, dancing very gaily and subtly through the maze of the Avalon’s ballroom, and smiling up into your partner’s face. How well you danced, Shelmerdene! Do you still dance so well?

SHELMERDENE: Dancing changes.

THE VOICE: Of course. And men and women die.

SHELMERDENE: But dancing is the only thing that changes.

THE VOICE: But I was telling you of my vision, that night in Ceylon. And in my vision, you somehow looked like a greyhound---- Hallo, hallo! What is it?

SHELMERDENE: Nothing, nothing! Go on.

THE VOICE: But there is no more, Shelmerdene! I came home. Now tell me a little about yourself--about the only man you’ve ever really loved! Did you say he was your husband?

SHELMERDENE: He _is_ my husband.

THE VOICE: Really! In spite of everything, you mean? Now, tell me, Shelmerdene----

SHELMERDENE: You mock. I will not tell you anything, because you mock. Yes, you are hard, and you mock. I made a mistake when I said that you had the voice of a man I dined with once. You have the voice of a man who has played with many women----

THE VOICE: Simply because I loved one unhappily! And you, Shelmerdene--and _you_! Why, I can see the whole procession of your past, the long, long procession of the men who have loved you, the men you have touched! Oh, my God!

SHELMERDENE: Silence, silence, silence! What I have done I have done because I wanted the world, but you have done it because you wanted revenge. What I have done I have done because I have too much heart, but you have done it because you have no heart. Through the telephone I can hear that you have no heart, and I can see the hole where your heart should be. My life has made me sad, but yours has made you bitter--oh, why, why?

THE VOICE: Heavens, how do I know! I am as God made me----

SHELMERDENE: No, no! You are much worse!

THE VOICE: Then I am as you made me.

SHELMERDENE: That is why my eyes are wet.

THE VOICE: Come, come, Shelmerdene, don’t be silly! We ran amok, that’s all----

SHELMERDENE: That’s all! I did not think I would live to see my own tragedy fulfilled--but I see it fulfilled in you! Isn’t that strange?

THE VOICE: All this, my dear, is quite beyond me. Will you answer a simple question? Suppose your husband--who you say was the only man you have ever loved and who, I am certain, has never loved any other woman but you--suppose this husband of yours came back to England and rang you up--to ask you to dine with him?

SHELMERDENE: Just because, after all these years, he suddenly remembered her one night! Just because, after all these years, he suddenly saw a vision of her dancing--as he had last seen her, he who had suddenly, bitterly, vengefully, left her life because, being a child, she had taken a silly fancy to make him jealous! Oh, no, no! I would not dine with him--like that. Life is not like that. I do not know what life is like, for I am not yet a million years old, but I know that it is not like that. It is not so easy as that.

THE VOICE: My God, how efficiently you damn him, don’t you! That would be your answer?... Hallo, hallo! Would that be your answer, Shelmerdene, if he came back like--me----

SHELMERDENE: Just like you?

THE VOICE: Well?

SHELMERDENE: He would just be a man I had dined with once.

(_A Silence._)

THE VOICE: I am sorry to have disturbed you. Good-night.

SHELMERDENE: Come back again, but----

THE VOICE: Good-night, Shelmerdene.

SHELMERDENE:--but sweetly, Gerald! Oh, my dear, sweetly!

THE VOICE: (_Very faintly_) Good-bye, Shelmerdene.

(_There is a soft click at the other end._)

SHELMERDENE: Good-bye, you ass!

Then Foster came in, with an anxious face.

“The car is here, madam.”

Shelmerdene turned to her.

“Gracious, madam, however will you go out with your eyes like that? Oh, dear!”

“Hurry, Foster; dress me! I shall be terribly late!”

THE END

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Armenian Revolutionary Societies.

[B] With apologies to, I believe, Catulle Mendès, but I am not sure, for I have not read his works. I would like to, but my French is limited. On the publication of this tale in a journal, a friend told me that the idea had already been used by Catulle Mendès: but I have retained it, I am not sure why.

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:

Aubbrey=> Aubrey {pg 61}

Mr. Childer’s political opinions=> Mr. Childers’s political opinions {pg 154}

lifted it a litle=> lifted it a little {pg 281}

his mesage straight=> his message straight {pg 283}