Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  The following week Mr and Mrs. Dennison gave a little dinner-party. The company numbered six, and were the host and hostess, Mr and Mrs. Adair, and Mr and Mrs. Fairfax. It was a “farewell” feast; the ladies were in high spirits, the gentlemen spasmodically mirthful and anon depressed. Bright Mrs. Fairfax, at dessert, made a telling little speech, proposing the healths of “Our Three dear Husbands! A pleasant trip and a safe return to their loving wives!” Laura smiled sweetly, and looked volumes as she kissed her glass and waved it prettily to Adair. Mrs. Dennison nodded smiling from the head of the table to her husband sitting glumly at the foot thereof, and Mrs. Fairfax openly wafted a kiss to the silent George, whose face was uncommonly red, and who, moreover, had evidently lost his usual excellent appetite. As a matter of fact the Three Wise Men were very uncomfortable. Their wives had never seemed to them so perfectly fascinating, and they themselves had never felt so utterly “small” and embarrassed. However, they were all too obstinate to confess their sensations one to another; their resolve was made, and there was no going back upon it without, as they considered, a loss of dignity.

  The days flew on with incalculable speed, and the evening came at last when they all said “goodbye” to the fair partners of their lives, and started for Southampton. They had purposely arranged to leave London on the evening before the steamer sailed, in order that during the silence and solitude of night each wife might have ample opportunity for mournful meditation and the shedding of such repentant tears as are supposed to befit these occasions. But up to the last moment the fair ones maintained their aggravating cheerfulness; they were evidently more inclined to laugh than to cry, and they bade farewell to their husbands “with nods and becks and wreathed smiles” suitable to festal jollity. There was no sentiment in their last words either; Mrs. Dennison tripped out of her house to see her husband into his hansom, and pitching her “sweet soprano” in its highest key cried, “Remember, your things for the voyage are in the yellow portmanteau! The yellow portmanteau, mind! Good-bye!”

  “Good-bye!” growled John. Then gathering himself up into a heap in one corner of the cab, he said, “Damn the yellow portmanteau!”

  “Good-bye, Frank, dear!” Laura Adair had chirruped like some pretty tame bird, as she raised herself on tip-toe to kiss her tall and handsome spouse. “All I ask is, do try not to get your nose sunburnt! It is so unbecoming. Such a lot of African travellers have a peeled nose!”

  “I’ll do my best, Laura,” returned Frank, with melancholy resignation. “If I live, I will take care of — my — nose. If I die—”

  “Oh, but you won’t die!” declared Laura vivaciously. “You will come home and bring me heaps of nuggets.”

  Then the cab had driven off with him, and Laura had run into the house like a wild creature to cry over the chair where he had lately sat, and to kiss the stump of cigar he had left in the ashtray, and roll it up in paper like a precious relic. Laughing and crying together, she behaved like a lunatic for about five minutes; then becoming rapidly sensible, she murmured “Darling! It will soon be all right,” and went quietly upstairs to finish something she had to do in the way of packing.

  George Fairfax had to kiss the dog Bibi as well as his wife when he left, and his parting words were gruff and husky. He loved the bright little woman with the blue eyes who stood watching him off with her little toy-terrier in her arms — loved her with all the tenderness of a strong man’s heart and once or twice he was tempted to break his promise to Dennison and throw up the whole business. But he fought obstinately against his rising sentiment, and said, “Ta-ta, Belle!” as if he were going to the club for an hour, and she laughed, waved her hand, and said, “Ta-ta!” also. When he had actually gone, however, she, like her friend Laura, cried, and kissed things of his which she found lying about; then she, too, became composed and practical, and drying her eyes, went in her turn to finish something she had to do in the way of packing.

  Next morning the Three Wise Men stood together on the deck of the great ship outward bound, and mournfully watched the shores of England receding rapidly from their view. They had been almost the last to come on board, for having carefully told their wives at what hotel in Southampton a telegram would find them, they had, each one secretly, hoped against hope that some urgent message from home might have forced them (much against their wills, of course) to return in haste to London. But no such “reprieve” had been granted; no news of any kind had arrived, and so there they were — perfectly free to carry out their plans, and steaming away as fast as possible from the land they held dearest and fairest in all the world. They were very silent, but they thought a good deal. The captain of the ship, a jolly man, with a pleasant twinkle in his eye, spoke to them now and then in passing, and told them casually that there were several very pleasant ladies among the saloon passengers. They heard this with stoical indifference, verging on bilious melancholy. As the English coast vanished at last into a thin blue line on the edge of the horizon, George Fairfax broke the “dumb spell” by a profane “swear.”

  “Damn it! I think Belle might have wired to say good-bye!”

  “I confess I am surprised,” murmured Adair slowly, “that Laura never thought of it.”

  “Women are all alike,” snapped Dennison. “Court them and they’re all romance; marry them, and they’re dead to feeling.”

  And grumbling inaudibly he went below. The other two followed him in gloomy resignation, angry with themselves and with all their surroundings. When, later on, they took their places at the dinner-table, they were so unsocial, morose, and irritable that none of the passengers cared to talk to them or attempted to “draw them out.” As for the women—” I see no pretty ones,” said Adair.

  “All old frumps!” grunted Fairfax.

  “Women’s rights and men’s lefts!” snarled Dennison.

  Three seats at table were empty, “Those three ladies who came on board early this morning are dining below?” inquired the captain cheerfully of the steward.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Towards evening the wind freshened, and presently blew a heavy gale. The waves ran high, and many a bold heart began to sicken at the giddy whirl of waters, the nervous plunging of the ship, the shuddering of her huge bulk as she slipped down into the gulfs and climbed up again on the peaks of the foam-crested and furious billows. Next day, and the two next after that, the storm went on increasing, till, in the Bay of Biscay, the clamour and confusion of the elements became truly appalling. All the passengers were kept below by the captain’s orders. The Three Wise Men lay in their berths because it seemed better to lie there than try to stand upright, and be tumbled about with the risk of breaking bones. Adair, too, was grievously seasick, and so reduced to utter mental and bodily misery, that he thought nothing, knew nothing, and cared nothing, though the heavens should crack. One night the wind sank suddenly, the waves continued to run into high hills and deep hollows with dizzy pertinacity; but there was a comparative calm, and with the calm came a blinding close grey sea-fog. The steamer’s speed was slackened: the dismal foghorn blew its melancholy warning note across the heaving waste of waters; and partially soothed by the deadly monotony of the sound, and the slower pace at which the ship moved, all Three Wise Men dropped off into a profound and peaceful slumber — the deepest and most restful they had enjoyed since they came on board. All at once, about the middle of the night, they were startled up and thrown violently from their berths by a frightful shock — a huge crash and cracking of timber. All the lights went out; then came roarings of men’s voices, whistlings, and faint shriekings of women, accompanied by the rush and swirl of water.

  “What’s the matter?” shouted Dennison, picking himself up from the floor of his cabin.

  “Collision, I should say!” returned Adair, out of the darkness. “Get your clothes on. Where’s George?”

  “Here!” answered Fairfax. “I am standing in a pool of water. Our window’s smashed in — the sea’s pouring through the port-hole.”
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  They threw on what clothes they could find, and made the best of their way on deck, where they at once learned the extent of the disaster. A large foreign steamer had borne down upon their vessel in the fog, making a huge rent in the hull through which the water was pouring, and the prospect of sinking within half an hour seemed imminent. The foreign liner had gone on her way, as usual, without stopping to learn what damage she had done; all the passengers and crew were assembled on deck, the former quiet and self-possessed, the latter engaged in actively lowering the boats; and the captain was issuing his orders with the customary coolness of a brave Englishman who cares little whether his own lot be death or life so long as he does his duty.

  “By Jove!” exclaimed Dennison as he surveyed the scene: “we’re in for it! They’re beginning to fill the boats; women and children first of course. If there’s no room for us, we’ll have to sink or swim in grim earnest!”

  His two friends, Fairfax and Adair, looked on at the scene for a moment in silence. What each man thought within himself concerning the comfortable homes they had left behind cannot here be expressed — they kept their feelings to themselves, and merely went forward at once to proffer their assistance to the captain.

  “Oh, you will take care of me, I’m sure!” sud’ denly said a sweet pleading voice behind Adair, while a face, fair as an angel’s, shone full upon him out of the storm and darkness, “I shall not be at all frightened with you!”

  Adair turned sharply round, “Laura!” he gasped.

  She slipped her arm through his, and smiled bravely up at him.

  “Yes, it’s me!” she said. “You didn’t suppose I was going to part with you for such a long, uncertain time, did you? Oh no, darling! How could you think it! Are we going to be drowned? I don’t mind, if I stop with you, and you hold me very tight as we go down. I’m so glad I came!”

  He caught her in his arms, and kissed her with the frenzied passion of a Romeo. Indeed it would have been difficult even for a Shakespeare to depict the tragic tumult then raging in this “modern” husband’s soul — the love, joy, terror, remorse, and reverence that centred round this delicate and beautiful creature who loved him so well that she was ready to confront a horrible death for his sake! Meanwhile a little blue-eyed woman was clinging to George Fairfax, sobbing and laughing together.

  “Oh, are we going to die?” she inquired hysterically, “Dear George, are we going to die? Do let us keep together, and poor Bi-bi with us! I’ve brought Bi-bi!”

  “Heaven bless Bibi!” cried George fervently, hugging little woman and little dog together. “Oh, my darling Belle! who would have thought of seeing you here! Why did you come?”

  “To take care of you, of course!” she replied, her blue eyes full of tears. “I didn’t mean to show myself till we got to that horrid place in Africa, where you said the natives die of fever and things. Oh, dear, are we to get into boats? I won’t go without you, George; nothing shall induce me!”

  “My dearest, women and children must go first,” said the unhappy George. “Oh, what fools we were to leave England! To think we should have brought you to this! Why, there’s Mrs. Dennison!”

  There she was indeed, calm, and almost smiling in the midst of danger. She held her husband’s arm, for bluff John Dennison was completely taken aback and unnerved, and made no attempt to hide the tears that filled his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.

  “It’s all my fault,” he said huskily. “If it hadn’t been for me, Fairfax and Adair would never have started on this unlucky journey, and you dear women would not have got into this danger. As it is, God help us all! I believe we are doomed.”

  “Oh let us hope not,” answered Mrs. Dennison softly and cheerily, “and if we are, it’s not a hard death if we can only keep together. Look! there’s the captain beckoning us now; come, girls!”

  And how it happened none of them could ever quite realise, but certain it is, that within the next few minutes, the Three Wise Men found themselves in a small open boat, with their three wives, rocking up and down in the wallowing trough of the sea, the dog Bibi being the only other passenger. Fortunately, the clearance of the living freight from the sinking steamer had been effected with such promptness and method, that every soul on board got safely away before she began to heel under, and the pale light of morning showed the little fleet of boats riding high on the crests of the still uproarious billows. But as the hours went on, and the sun rose, these boats began to part company, and by ten o’clock in the morning, the little skiff containing the Three Wise Men and their fair partners was the only object visible on the shining expanse of the sea. The steamer had sunk.

  Slowly and heedfully the Three pulled at their oars, and many a loving and anxious look did each man cast at the soft bundled-up figures in the stern, huddled together for warmth and support. All three women slept, out of sheer exhaustion, and the morning sunshine beamed full on the sweet face of the beautiful Laura, her peacefully closed eyelids making her look like some dreaming saint, while the fresh wind ruffled the bright uncovered locks of Belle Fairfax, whose tiny dog, curled close against her breast, was not asleep, but, on the contrary, was watchfully observing, with sharp eyes and attentively quivering nose, every wave that threatened to disturb his mistress’s slumbers. Presently John Dennison essayed a remark.

  “They’re too good for us.”

  The silence of his friends gave tacit consent. Encouraged, he offered another opinion.

  “If we drown we shall deserve it. We’ve been fools.”

  Again silence implied agreement. Then all three bent to the oars more earnestly, now and then turning their heads to scan the ocean in search of some home-returning ship which might offer them rescue. The sun rose higher and higher, the great sea sank to smoothness and turned to liquid gold, and at about midday Belle awoke. At first she looked frightened; but, meeting her husband’s fond eyes, she smiled.

  “Well, we’re not dead yet!” she said briskly. “But I’m afraid we shall soon be hungry!”

  “I’m afraid so too!” responded George dejectedly.

  Laura sat up just then, whereupon Mrs. Dennison spoke as if she herself had not been asleep at all.

  “I have some biscuits and some brandy,” she said, in her bright clear voice. “We can hold out for a little while on that.”

  “Of course,” said Belle; then mournfully, “If the worst comes to the worst, we must eat Bibi!”

  At this a smile came on every face. Bibi himself, always alert at the mention of his own name, seemed much interested at the direful proposal; and presently, despite anxiety and danger, they all laughed outright.

  “I’d cut off my own hand and eat it rather than eat Bibi,” declared George emphatically. “Besides, poor little chap, he would hardly be a mouthful for a hungry man.”

  “Oh, but he would be better than nothing!” said Belle, bravely, winking away the tears that would come at the thought of the possible end of her small favourite. “I would rather he were eaten than that anybody should suffer—”

  As he spoke the distant heavy throbbing of engines across the water was heard. Adair sprang up in the boat, shading his eyes from the sun.

  “Here comes a liner!” he cried, “bearing straight down upon us, by Jove! Here, let us wave something; they’re sure to see us!”

  Quick as thought Mrs. Dennison slipped off a dainty white petticoat she wore, and handed it to her husband to serve as a signal of distress. Tied to an oar, its lace frills fluttered to the breeze, and in less time than it takes to relate they were perceived and rescued. The vessel that took them on board was bound for Southampton, and in due time the Three Wise Men, with their wives and Bibi, were landed on their native shore, none the worse, though much the wiser, for their little experience. The rest of the shipwrecked passengers, together with the captain and crew, were similarly rescued.

  About a week after their safe return to London, Mr and Mrs. Dennison gave another little dinnerparty. The same number sat down to table as b
efore, and the party was composed of the same persons. It was a very blithe and festive gathering indeed, and the Three Wise Men were much merrier than most wise men are supposed to be.

  Healths were proposed of a strange and wild character by both the ladies and the gentlemen.

  “Here’s to Bibi!” cried George Fairfax, enthusiastically. “Long may he hold his own as the smallest and prettiest of Yorkshires!”

  Loud applause ensued, accompanied by wild yapping on the part of the toasted canine hero, who, in due consideration of his having been shipwrecked and run the risk of being eaten, was on a velvet cushion within kissable distance of his mistress, Then Mrs. Adair got up, glass in hand.

  “I beg to propose the continuance of lovemaking between husbands and wives!” she said, blushing divinely. “Kind words never do harm, — tender nothings are more than learned somethings! Pretty courtesies save many misunderstandings; and, coupled with my toast, I will ask you to drink to the womanlier and happier enlightenment of my friends the Pioneers!”

  Amid loud clappings the toast was drunk; and, on silence being restored, John Dennison rose to his feet, and, in a voice somewhat tremulous with feeling, said —

  “My dear boys — Frank Adair and George Fairfax, I have only one toast to propose, the only one in my opinion worth proposing — our wives! The dear women who have patiently borne with our humours, who have allowed us to have our own way, who followed us in faithful devotion, when out of a mere fit of the spleen we left them, and who proved that they were ready and willing to die with us if death had come. We imagined they were faulty women — just because they endeavoured to find some useful employment for themselves while we were wasting our time at our clubs and billiard-rooms; but we have discovered that the biggest fault we can accuse them of is their love for us! My boys, we don’t deserve it, but we may as well try to. Any man who has won for himself the treasure of a good woman’s entire love, should do his level best to make himself as worthy of it as he can. We’re all lucky men; we’ve got three of the best women alive to share our fortunes with us; we behaved like fools in leaving them, and they behaved like angels in coming after us, and now we’re all together again there’s nothing more to say, but here’s to them with all our hearts. Our love to them! our devotion! our reverence!”