“You blasted fool!” said Antony—and with such contempt behind it that from being bored I got annoyed. I stretched out my hand on the inside of the library door and switched on the light.
“Turn that out, you fool!” came a frantic roar, and I had a vision of a red giant murdering the distance between us. I’ve never thanked God for anything so much as for having directed the body of George Tarlyon to be standing between Red Antony and myself. I turned off the light quick enough.
“Steady, Antony, steady!” said Tarlyon.
“Oh, go to hell!” growled Antony.
I thought to myself that we couldn’t be very far from it at the moment. But the spell, or smell, it seemed, was broken. I was thankful for that, anyway.
Back in the lighted dining-room Antony emptied his glass and grinned at me rather shamefacedly.
“Sorry, old boy,” he said. I grinned back, as though I had enjoyed it.
Tarlyon asked suddenly:
“Have you got a spare bedroom for me, Antony?”
I stared, Antony stared. Then Antony smiled, and never before had I seen him smile quite like that.
“Thank you, George,” he said, almost softly. “Now that’s really a friendly action. But I’ll be all right—you needn’t worry.”
Then he addressed me as well; I had never seen Antony so reasonable.
“Come to dinner here to-morrow night,” he begged. “Both of you. I can give you quite a good dinner.” He seemed very earnest, looking from one to the other of us. I was going to say I was engaged, but Tarlyon answered quickly:
“Right, Antony.” And because he looked at me in a certain way, I let it be.
In the taxi, at last, Tarlyon said:
“Ralph, you risked your life by turning on that light, but you did a great service.”
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you see anything?”
I then lost my temper.
“No,” I shouted. “I neither smelt anything in the dark nor saw anything in the light, except that red lunatic charging at me.”
“He was only preserving his illusion,” Tarlyon said mildly. “Didn’t you see, in that second of light, the open desk just by us, beside the door?”
“I saw nothing but Antony, but quite enough of him.”
“Pity. If you had seen the desk, you would have seen a telephone overturned on it, the receiver hanging down, and a revolver on the floor.”
This was getting serious. I struck a match and examined Tarlyon’s face. He was not smiling.
“Fact,” he assured me. “You would have seen the desk just as it was after Roger Poole had shot himself at it.”
“You don’t mean——”
“I mean, old boy, that Antony has goneand put everything back exactly as he last saw it in Roger’s library. Roger, Roger’s wife, Antony and another fellow were in the dining-room. The telephone-bell rang in the library and Roger went to answer it, telling Antony to come with him. He didn’t turn on the light in the library. The telephone told Roger that the police were after him. And the two in the dining-room heard Roger telling Antony what he thought of him as a man and brother, then they heard a shot; and when they got to the door and switched on the light, they saw Roger dead at the desk and Antony standing where he was standing to-night. Antony went out by the window into the garden—and he has reconstructed the scene exactly as he last saw it, even to a dummy telephone and a revolver! In fact, everything is there except Roger. Silly, isn’t it?”
Silly was not the word. “But why, why?”
“That’s what I want to find out,” said Tarlyon. “Antony is playing some sort of a game with himself, and he’s frightening himself to death in doing it. He always was a superstitious ass. Giants usually are, somehow—perhaps because, having nothing physical to fear, they fear the psychic. I’ll bet he goes into that library every night at thesame time—Roger shot himself at about twenty-five past eleven, by the way. Poor old Antony!”
“But what was all that nonsense about the smell?” I asked.
Tarlyon did not answer. At last he said:
“Did you ever hear, Ralph, the theory that if Judas Iscariot had not come after Jesus he might have done all that Jesus did? But as he found he could not because he was too late, he was doomed to crime. In a sort of far-fetched way it was the same way with Roger and Antony. The tragedy of those two brothers has something absurdly, fantastically reasonable about it. You see, Roger was a year older and did all that Antony wanted to do, the fine and brilliant things, while poor Antony could do nothing but make a fool of himself, which he did only too well. Antony would have been a man of many accomplishments, for he’s no fool, but for the fact that Roger was before him—so Antony thought. And Roger loved Antony, while Antony hated and admired and feared Roger. And at last, somehow or another, he managed to betray Roger. No one knows what that last moment held for those two—no one knows what lay behind the insults that Roger heaped on Antony at that final moment. For they were overheard, youknow, by Roger’s wife and the man who was dining there. But something seems to have stuck in Antony’s mind and grown very big with years. I’m rather concerned for the poor devil, Ralph. He’s still afraid of his elder brother. Or perhaps he feels that Roger left something unsaid which he must hear, and so he wants to re-create him.”
It was as the taxi stopped at my door that Tarlyon cried out as though he had made a discovery: “Good God, of course!”
“Of course what?”
“Smoke, you fool! Itwassmoke!”
What was our surprise, on entering the dining-room some minutes after nine o’clock the next evening—for Antony dined late—to see the table laid for four! And then a lady came in—a tall, dark young lady, a strange and unusual lady with a flash of very white teeth for a smile and a gardenia alight on the wing of her sleek black hair! I am afraid Tarlyon and I must have seemed very rude, for we were so surprised that we stared. The white teeth flashed at us. We bowed.
“My wife,” said Antony. We bowed again. She was the sort of woman one bowed to. Antony’s wife!
“Diavalen,” said Antony abruptly, “this is Lord Tarlyon and Mr. Trevor.”
Diavalen—Lady Poole!—said nothing. With that wonderful trick of flashing those wonderful teeth she didn’t need to say anything.
“She’s a Creole,” said Antony, as we sat at the table. He said it as he might have said that she was an orange. Those white teeth flashed at me, and I smiled back, feeling an ass. There didn’t seem much to say about her being a Creole....
I don’t know how Tarlyon felt about it, but it took me some time to get my wind. “My wife,” says Antony! Never a word nor a sign about being married—to that glorious, dark, alien creature with the flashing teeth and sleek black hair! Diavalen the Creole! Just like Red Antony to marry a Creole called Diavalen and then spring her on to you with a “my wife.” I remembered Antony once saying, years and years ago: “Never give away gratuitous information, old boy.” But there are limits. And one of them is to have a wife with flashing teeth, a gardenia in her hair, and a name like Diavalen, and then throw her in with the soup.
Red Antony was never what you might call a good host: not, particularly, at the beginning of dinner. To-night he was morose.But Tarlyon talked—to Lady Poole. It would take more than a lovely Creole to baffle Tarlyon. He seemed to have inside information as to what were the subjects best calculated to excite interest in a Creole married to a morose English baronet with ginger hair. Diavalen did not talk. But one did not realise that she wasn’t talking, for she was wonderfully expressive with her smiling, flashing, teeth. She seemed to have discovered the art of using teeth for something besides eating.
As Tarlyon talked to her she turned her face towards him, and of this I took advantage to stare at her face bit by bit. The perfection of that face was a challenge to a right-thinking man. “It is too small,” I thought. But it was not too small. “It is too white,” I thought. But it was not too white. For quite a long time I could not wrench my eyes away from those flashing teeth and scarlet curling lips—they fascinated me. Her face was white, the gardenia in her hair looked almost yellow beside the whiteness of Diavalen’s face; and I thought to myself that that white complexion was a considerable achievement, for I was sure her skin underneath was faintly, deliciously brown. It was a small face. It was a decoration, enchanting and unreal. And in thedecoration were painted in luminous paint two large black eyes; the eyelashes swept over them, often she half closed them—they were very lazy black eyes; and deep in them there was a sheen, as of a reflection of distant fire. I did not like the lady’s eyes very much, I don’t know why. But as to that sleek black hair in which lay a gardenia like a light in silken darkness—you felt that you simply must run your hand over that hair to see if it was as beautifully sleek and silky as it looked, and you wouldn’t have minded betting that it was. She was the most strangely lovely woman I have ever seen. And she was the most silent.
Even Tarlyon was at last baffled by the silence of Diavalen. A silence fell. The teeth flashed at me, and I was just about to say something to her when Antony’s voice hit the drum of my ear and I dropped my fork.
“I shouldn’t trouble,” said Antony. “She’s dumb.”
That is why I dropped my fork. The servant picked it up and gave me another. I made a considerable business of it, and then I ate furiously. Red Antony, vile Antony! I didn’t look at Tarlyon. He was furious, I knew. He was a man who did not take a very liberal view of jokes like that.But the worst of Antony was that he didn’t care what view any one took; he just said the first thing that came into his great red head.
If the dinner, which was excellent as to food and wine, had been a frost before, it was, naturally, not a howling success after that. The only thing to do was to pretend that Antony had not spoken. It seemed too silly to say to the lovely Creole: “Oh, I’msosorry!” Poor Diavalen! But I couldn’t pretend, I simply could not find anything to say which didn’t need an answer. Just try being suddenly planted with a dumb woman and see if conversation flows naturally from you.
Tarlyon and Antony talked about English heavyweight boxers. Antony was himself a super-heavyweight and seemed to have a poor opinion of English heavyweights. He wanted to know whether their weight was calculated by the noise they made on being smitten to the ground in the first round. He said that he was tired of opening a newspaper only to read of the domestic history of Famous British Boxers and of seeing photographs of the wives, mothers and children of Famous British Boxers. He said that the whole idea of the press was to impress on the public how gentle, amiable and loving Famous British Boxers were in thehome. He pointed out that the whole trouble lay in the fact that Famous British Boxers were too damned gentle, amiable, and loving in the ring. In fact, Antony, having put the lid on his wife, had woken up.
Then, at last, Diavalen rose, and we rose. I rushed to the door and held it open. Her teeth flashed at Tarlyon, and he bowed like a courtier. As she passed Antony, he said, “Good night, Diavalen,” but he said it as though he didn’t care whether her night was good or bad. As she passed Antony she gave him a look out of her large, black eyes. I was glad I did not know what that look said, but I was sure that Antony deserved it. “Good-night, Lady Poole,” I said; teeth flashed at me, a touch of pleasant scent hovered faintly, and Diavalen was gone.
“Heavens, she’s lovely!” I whispered, as I joined them at the table.
Tarlyon’s fingers played with the stem of his port-glass.
“Would you mind explaining, Antony,” he asked dangerously, “why you chose that infamous way of telling us that your wife was—well, not quite like the rest of us?” There was, I agreed, something blasphemous about the ghastly word “dumb” in relation to that lovely creature.
Red Antony leant back in his chair anddug his hands deep in his pockets, so that his white shirt-front stuck out like the breast-plate of a warrior. He looked bored.
“Favourite trick of hers,” he explained morosely. “Always tries to act as though she wasn’t dumb. If you had to live with that silly pretence it would get on your nerves, I can tell you. She does it very well, I admit. Takes a pride in it—making a fool of other people, I call it. On board ship from New York she put it over quite a number of people for a day or two. Lord, it would have got on any one’s nerves, the way she grinned and grinned and showed her teeth! Why not be honest and say one’s dumb and be done with it? Or let me say it! There’s no crime in being dumb, especially with a beautiful face like that. But she won’t see it, she must smile and flash her teeth—she’s got a repertoire of grins that would astonish a movie star; and she’s so proud of them that even if she could speak she wouldn’t. And sometimes all that grinning and toothwork gets me so raw that I could put back my head and howl—and she knows it. Sorry I offended you, George. But I’m nervy these days. I’m raw—raw!” He shouted that last word at us with a thump on the table; and raw he looked, with the eyes blazing out of him, and his once huge, once red, oncejolly face shrunk to a mockery of itself, with the skin drawn tight across his jaws and hollow in the cheeks.
Tarlyon picked up a liqueur-glass which the thump had upset. “Sorry about your unhappy marriage, Antony,” he said, “but, you know, it takes a Napoleon to marry a beautiful Creole. How did it happen?”
“How?” And Antony laughed; at least he made a noise which was perhaps intended to sound like laughter. “How? Because she made it happen—how else? D’you think because she’s dumb that she hasn’t got more fascination than a thousand women rolled together? Those eyes? Met eyes like that before, George? If hell has a face its eyes will be like that. Ihadto marry her.... In Mexico where I went after the Armistice. I suppose you fellows remember that I went to Mexico three years before the war. I was in love with the girl who became Roger’s wife—inevitable, wasn’t it, that the only woman I ever loved should fall to Roger? He didn’t do it on purpose, of course—it just happened. So I went to Mexico, to try to do something which Roger could not do before me. Last chance kind of thing, you know——” The rain of words faded out of him. He had moved considerably from the subject of Diavalen, but whocould hold a haunted face like that to a subject? I wished I could, for I didn’t want him to run amok about Roger. There was something—well, indecent, in talking about a man dead nine years or more as though he were alive and still wanting to “put it across” Antony at every turn. I wished Tarlyon would say something, but he was silent, his fingers fiddling with the stem of his port-glass. Antony was drinking next to nothing; round about his coffee-cup were at least six quarter-smoked cigarettes, and now he began to maul a cigar. I never saw him smoke that cigar.
“In Mexico,” Antony said softly, “I found oil. It was very good oil, as Roger said later, but there wasn’t much of it. My luck again! But I made Roger share it this time. You remember how I reappeared in England? Through that window over there, while Roger was giving a big dinner-party, sitting where I’m sitting now. You were here, George. Roger and I made it up before the lot of you—after a silence of years. Entirely on my side, the quarrel—Roger always loved me. We made it up, you remember, George? I wanted, you see, to plant Roger with that oil. Cascan Oil—it sounded like a big thing at the time. That was the last big dinner-party Roger evergave. He was unhappy at home—some love misunderstanding—and he took to me, Roger did. He went head over heels into that bucket-shop. Of course he soon saw through me and my oil—the man wasn’t born who could take Roger in—but he let the company go on. He wanted to see how farI’dgo. Giving me my head, you know. He had packets of money in reserve, and thought he could put the thing right any moment. But he got reckless—watching me and wondering how far I’d go. Roger had always loved me ever since we were children—he never thought of me but as a naughty baby with a bee in my red head about him. I could see all the time he was wondering how far Idaredgo. And he was unhappy at home, poor Roger; he and his wife somehow couldn’t get their particular ways of loving each other to work well together. So he had nothing to do but get reckless and chuckle over the naughty baby. I went the limit. The bucket-shop crashed on Roger’s head. He tried to pull up, chucked his money in, and other people’s, but it wouldn’t save it. Clear case of dirty work. A greasy bubble, Cascan Oil. Left a nasty mess when it burst. And all the papers signed in Roger’s name. Telephone rang in the next room while we were in here. I was sitting where you are,Trevor. Roger looks at me with a kind of crooked smile. ‘Come with me,’ he says, and I went. Into that room, the library. Roger didn’t trouble to switch on the light; the telephone was on the desk beside the door. The police were after him, said the man on the telephone—the police after Sir Roger Poole, Bart, M.P., and all the rest of it! ‘Listen,’ says Roger. And I listened while he told me a few things about myself. ‘A poor husk of a man,’ he called me. ‘A graveyard of a brother you are,’ he said. ‘And the epitaph on your grave will beDolor Ira,’ he said, for Roger was a great Latin scholar and could lash out bits of Tacitus as easily as a parson might give you the Bible. I thought he was going to shoot me, I was ready for it—but he’d shot himself. Roger loved me, you know——”
“Then why the hell,” Tarlyon blazed out, “did you take this cursed house?”
Antony mauled his cigar.
“Because,” he said with a grin, “it just happened that way. It was fate to find it empty—a fine, large house like this at a low rent while all England was yelling for houses. But I might not have taken it if Diavalen had been against it——”
“Oh,” said Tarlyon to that.
Antony looked at his wrist-watch, andjumped up in a mighty hurry. “God, the time’s gone! Excuse me a moment.”
“We will not!” cried Tarlyon, and had his back against the library door almost before you saw him leave the table.
But Antony walked his way to the library door without a word.
“Don’t, old Antony, don’t!” Tarlyon begged.
“Out of my way!” said Antony. He said it as though he was thinking of something else, which was Antony’s most dangerous way of saying anything.
Now Red Antony was a giant, and irresponsible at that. The two of us couldn’t have held him from that library door. Tarlyon let him pass with a wicked word, and has regretted it ever since. Antony slammed the door behind him, and we heard the twist of the key.
Without a word to me Tarlyon was at the French window; opened it, and disappeared. I stayed. I was extremely uncomfortable in that mad-house, you understand. Perhaps two minutes passed, perhaps ten. Where the devil was Tarlyon? And then I heard through the library door the thud of something falling. And then in there a window smashed, a sharp smash. I measured my distance from that door and crashed myshoulder at it, and fell into the library on top of the panel.
“Light,” said Tarlyon’s voice. I switched it on. On the floor between us was a heap of a man face downwards, with the back of a red head half-screwed under an outstretched arm. And there was red on the back of Tarlyon’s hand where he had put it through the window.
We knelt each side of Red Antony, and turned him over.
“Dead,” I said.
“Not he!” said Tarlyon. “He’s fainted—from fright.” But he knew as well as I did that Antony was dead—from fright. The huge bulk was as limp as a half-filled sack as we lifted it a little. Antony’s eyes were wide open, and they were like the eyes of a child that has just been thrashed.
“He’s been shot,” I said suddenly.
“There was no noise,” said Tarlyon, but he looked at me. There had been no noise, but there was the faint, acrid taste of pistol-smoke in the air. It’s unmistakable, that faint, acrid smell of a revolver just spent. But Antony had not been shot.
“It wasn’t an illusion, then!” Tarlyon whispered softly. “That smell ... of Roger’s revolver! And it’s killed Antony in the end!”
I stared down at the poor haunted face. And then I heard Tarlyon whisper. “My God!” And again: “My God—look at that!” But I did not look. I knew he was staring over my shoulder, and I was afraid to look. I was afraid of what I would see. And then I twisted my head over my shoulder, towards the far end of the room, where there was a little door from the hall. And I saw the thing sitting squat in the corner, the black thing with white teeth flashing in a white face and a gardenia in her hair. In the palm of one hand was a little golden bowl, and from this bowl floated up a wisp of smoke, just a wisp of smoke against the blackness of her dress, and this was the faint, acrid smell of a spent bullet. And Diavalen was laughing—the dumb woman was laughing with all the glory of ivory teeth and scarlet lips.... We left the thing to its joke. We went out by the window, and did not remember our hats and sticks.
“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, infinesse, 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 itfor 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 veryyoung, 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 youlet 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 theycan 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. Itisa 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 itRats, 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 calledRats, 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 havenever 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, itissuch 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, afterall. 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 saidonce, 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: Youthink! 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:Pleasedon’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? Mustall 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 sawyou—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: Heismy 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 oneunhappily! And you, Shelmerdene—andyou! 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 quitebeyond 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