“Fact is,” he said, addressing himself to his two companions, whose eyelids were still fast shut, “the world’s a mistake. It ought never to have been created. Things go wrong in it from morning till night. Fellows who write books tell you how wrong it is; they ought to know.” Here he knocked off the end of his cigar into the ash-tray. “Then read the newspapers: by the Lord Harry! they’ll soon prove to you how wrong everything is everywhere!”
Man number two, in the chair next to Fairfax, happened to be the individual with the hair approved of by the sunshine — a long-limbed, well-built fellow with a rather handsome face. Unclosing his eyes, which were dark and languid, he sighed wearily.
“No world in it!” he murmured in brief sleepy accents, “Social institutions — civilisation — wrong. Man meant for free life — savage — forest; no houses — no clubs — raw meat — suits digestion — no dyspepsia — tear with fingers; polygamy. Read ‘Woman Who Did’ — female polygamist — live with anybody, noble; marriage, base degradation — white rose in hair — polygamous purity — died.”
Exhausted by this speech, he closed his eyes again, and would no doubt have relapsed into an easy slumber, had not Man number three suddenly waked up in earnest, disclosing a pair of very keen bright grey eyes, sparkling under brows that, by their shelving form, would have seemed to denote a fair depth of intelligence.
“Look here, you fellows,” he said sharply, “it’s no use mincing matters. Things have come to a crisis. We must take the law into our own hands and see what can be done. Life as we live it — married life — has become impossible. You said so yourself, Adair” — this with head reproachfully turned towards the languid being with the shut eyes—” you said no man of sense or spirit would stand it!”
Adair rolled his head feebly to and fro on the saddle-bag chair-pillow.
“Sense — spirit — all up in me!” he replied dolefully. “Pioneers!”
As this word escaped him, more in the way of a groan than an utterance, Man number three, otherwise known as John Dennison, gave a gesture of contempt. Dennison was a particularly lucky individual, who had managed to make a large fortune while he was yet young, through successful land speculations; and now at his present age of forty-eight he bore scarcely any traces of the passing of time, save the small bald spot on the top of his head which the sunlight had discovered, but which few less probing searchers would have perceived. He was of an energetic, determined temperament, and the listless attitude and confessed helplessness of Adair excited him to action. Shaking himself out of his reclining posture, and sitting bolt upright, he said sternly —
“Look here, Adair, you’re too lazy to go through with this thing. If you don’t show a little more character and firmness, Fairfax and I will have to slope it without you.”
At this Adair opened his eyes wide, and also sat up, wearing an extremely astonished and injured expression.
“I say, old man!” he expostulated—” no threats — bad form — sneak out of promise — oh, by Jove!”
“Well then, pay some attention to the question in hand,” said Dennison, mollified. “Have we, or have we not, resolved to make a move?”
“We have!” declared Fairfax emphatically.
“Must make a move!” groaned Adair.
“I ask you both,” went on Dennison, “does it look well, is it creditable to us as men — men of position, influence, and sufficient wealth — that we should be known in society as the merest appendages to our wives? Is it decent?”
“Damned indecent, I think!” said Fairfax hotly.
Adair gazed straight before him with the most woebegone expression.
“Awful lot of fellows — same predicament,” he remarked. “Wife pretty — drags ugly man round — introduces him casually, ‘Oh, my husband!’ — and all Society grins at the poor chap. Wife ugly — goes in for football — asks husband to be spectator — kicks ball his way — says ‘Excuse me!’ — then explains to people standing by, ‘My husband!’ and the poor devil wishes he were dead. Fact! Lots of ’em, I tell you! We’re not the only ones.”
“Of course we’re not,” said Dennison. “I never supposed we were. But we are Three — and three of us can show an example to the others. We will give these women a lesson, my boys! — a lesson they’ll never forget. Have you made up your minds?”
“I have!” said Fairfax determinedly. “And I know Adair will be with me — why, he and I were married on the same day, weren’t we, Frank?
Frank smiled mournfully.
“Yes, and didn’t the girls look pretty then — your Belle and my Laura!”
“Ah! who would have thought it!” sighed Fairfax. “Why, my wife was the simplest soul that ever lived then — happy as a bird, full of life and fun, no nonsense of any sort in her head; and as for dogs — well, she liked them, of course, but she didn’t worship them; she didn’t belong to the Ladies’ Kennel Association, or any other association, and she didn’t worry herself about prizes and exhibitions. Now it’s all dogs — dogs and horses; and as for that little beast Bibi, who has taken more medals than a fighting general, I believe she loves it better than her own boys. It’s a horrible craze for a woman to be doggy.”
“It’s not so bad as being Pioneery,” said Adair, rousing himself up at this part of the conversation. “Your wife’s a very pretty woman, George, and a clever one, but my wife — well—” He broke off and waved his hand in a descriptive fashion.
“Yes, I admit it,” said Fairfax respectfully. “Your wife is lovely — a really beautiful creature; no one can deny it.”
“That being the case,” continued Adair, “what do you suppose she can want with the Pioneers?”
The other two Wise Men shook their heads desperately.
“Only yesterday,” resumed Adair, “I went home quite unexpectedly in time for afternoon tea. She was in the drawing-room, wearing a new tea-gown and looking charming. ‘Oh!’ said she, with a cool smile, ‘you home! At this hour! How strange! Have some tea?’ And nothing more. Presently in came a gaunt woman — short hair, skimped skirt, and man’s coat. Up jumps Laura, hugs her, kisses her, cries ‘Oh, you dear thing! How sweet of you to come!’ She was a Pioneer — and she got kissed. I had no kiss. I was not called a ‘dear thing.’ I’ve got short hair and a man’s coat, but it doesn’t go down somehow, on me. It used to, before we were married; but it doesn’t now.”
“Stop a bit!” interposed Dennison suddenly and almost fiercely. “Think of me! I’ve been married longer than either of you, and I know a thing or two! Talk of fads! my wife goes in for them all! She’s mad on ’em! Wherever there’s a faddist, you’ll find her. Whether it’s the-Anti-Corset League, or the Nourishing Bread Society, or the Social Reformation Body, or anything else you like to think of — she’s in it. I’ve got nothing to say against her intentions; she means well, too well, all round; but she is so absorbed in her ‘meetings,’ and ‘councils,’ and ‘boards,’ and what not, that I assure you she forgets me entirely — I don’t believe she realises my existence! When I go home of an evening she hands me the papers and magazines with an amiably provoking smile, as if she thought the damned news was all I could possibly want; then she goes to her desk and writes letters — scratch, scratch all the time. She never gives me a word; and as for a kiss!” — here he gave an angry laugh—” God bless my soul! she never thinks of it!”
“I expect,” said George Fairfax seriously, “we are too old-fashioned in our notions, Dennison. Lots of fellows would go and console themselves with other women.”
“Of course they would,” retorted Dennison. “There are plenty of dirty cads about who act that way. And I believe, as it is, we don’t get much credit for keeping clean. I daresay our wives think we are as bad as we might be.”
“They’ve no cause to,” said Adair quietly. “And if I had any suspicion that Laura entertained a low opinion of me, I should take the liberty of giving her a piece of my mind.”
Fairfax and Dennison looked at him, g
ravely at first, then they laughed.
“A piece of your mind,” echoed Dennison. “I think I know what it would amount to; just a ‘By Jove! too bad!’ and you would go to smoke and think it over. No; we cannot offer ‘pieces of our minds’ to our spouses on any subject whatsoever, because, you see, we cannot bring any actual cause of complaint against them. They are good women—”
His friends nodded.
“Good-looking women—”
More nods.
“And clever women.”
“Yes!” sighed Adair. “That’s the worst of it.
If they had only been stupid—”
“They would have been dull!” interposed Fairfax. “And they might have grown fat,” murmured Adair, with a shudder.
“Well,” went on Dennison, “they are not stupid, they are not dull, and they are not fat. We have agreed that they are good, good-looking, and clever. Yet, with these three qualities, something is wrong with them. What is it?”
“I know,” said Adair. “It is want of heart.”
“Indifference to home and home-affections,” said Fairfax sternly.
“All comprised in one glaring fault,” declared Dennison; “a fault that entirely spoils the natural sweetness of their original dispositions. It is the want of proper respect and reverence for Us; for Us as men; for Us as husbands!”
Nothing could have been more majestically grandiloquent than Dennison’s manner while making this statement, and his two friends gazed admiringly at him in speechless approval.
“This state of things,” he went on, “must be remedied. All the unloved, miserable, hysterical women who have lately taken to cackling about their rights and wrongs, are doing it, I believe, out of sheer malice and envy, in an effort to make happy wives discontented. The upheaval and rending of home-affections must be stopped. Our wives, for example, appear to have no conception of our admiration and affection for them —— — —”
“Perhaps,” interposed Fairfax, “they think that we have no conception of their admiration and affection for us!”
“Oh! I say, that won’t do, old fellow,” murmured Adair. “Admiration for us is no go! You don’t suppose Laura, for instance, admires me? Not much; though I believe she used to. Of course Mrs. Fairfax may admire you—”
Here a faint smile began to play about his mouth, which widened into an open laugh as he surveyed Fairfax’s broad, good-natured countenance — a laugh in which Fairfax himself joined so heartily that the water came into his eyes.
“No; of course it’s ridiculous,” he said, recovering himself at last. “She couldn’t admire me. She’s too pretty herself. All she sees is a redfaced man coming home punctually to dinner. However, she admires Bibi.”
“Bother admiration,” struck in Dennison sharply. “I didn’t suggest that our wives should admire us; I said that they should reverence and respect us; and I also said I thought they appeared to be quite indifferent to the admiration and affection we have for them.”
“That’s true!” said Fairfax gloomily. “It’s a positive fact.”
“Well, then,” went on Dennison, “as they don’t seem to want us, let’s clear out.”
“Agreed!” said Adair. “Gold coast and fever for me!”
“Same for me,” said Fairfax. “I don’t want a healthy climate!”
“All right. I’ll see to that!” and Dennison stood up, smiling a grim smile. “We’ll take the worst part of the coast, where even the natives die! Of course I shall tell my wife where I am going.”
This with dreadful emphasis.
“And I shall tell mine,” said Fairfax.
“And I mine,” sighed Adair.
“Now come and look at the maps and the days of sailing,” went on Dennison. “We can easily start in a fortnight.”
They left the smoking-room for the reading-room, and were soon absorbed in the discussion of their plans.
That evening, when Adair went home, he found his wife dressed for a party, and looking radiantly youthful and lovely.
“Going out somewhere to-night, Laura?” he inquired languidly, as his eyes took in every detail of her graceful figure and really beautiful face.
“Yes,” she replied. “Only round the corner to the Jacksons. They have an ‘at home.’ Will you come?”
“No, thanks,” he said, as he sat down to dinner. “I hate crushes.”
She made no comment, but simply took her place at table and smiled upon him like a beneficent angel. He, meanwhile, was thinking within himself that she was the very prettiest woman he had ever seen; but he considered that if he ventured to express that thought aloud she would laugh at him. A husband to compliment his wife? Pooh! the thing was unheard of! Besides, the butler was in the room — a civil man in black, of high repute and decorous character — and he would have been truly shocked had his master made any remark of a personal nature during the course of his attendance at dinner. When this dignified retainer had departed, leaving husband and wife alone to dessert, the impulse to say pretty things to his better half was no longer dominant in Adair’s mind, so instead of a compliment he made an announcement.
“Laura, I am going away.”
She looked at him straightly, her soft violet eyes opening a little more than usual.
“Are you?”
“Yes. I want a change,” he said, keeping his gaze riveted on the table-cloth, and trying to work himself up to the required pitch of melodramatic feeling, “a change from this hum-drum society life where — where I am not wanted. You see, I don’t get enough to do here in London. I’m sick of town life. I’m not necessary to you” — this with a touch of bitterness. “You can do the social round well enough without me, and I — I’m going to try roughing it for a time.”
Had he looked up that moment, he would have seen his wife’s face growing pale, and he might also have noted that her breath came and went quickly, as though she were trying to suppress some strong emotion; but he did not look — not just then; he only heard her speak, and her voice was both cheerful and calm.
“What fun!” she said. “It will do you a world of good!”
He looked up this time, and his expression was one of reproachful astonishment.
“Fun!” he echoed. “Well, I don’t know about that I am going to the Gold Coast with Jack Dennison. It’s full of fever, and even the natives die. I don’t suppose I shall escape scot-free.”
“Why do you go, then?” she asked, with a smile, rising from her chair and preparing to put on her evening cloak. Adair rose also, and taking the mantle from her hands, put it round her.
“Why do I go?” he echoed, with just the slightest suspicion of a tremor in his voice. “Well, if you can’t guess, Laura, I can’t explain. I couldn’t be rough with you for the world, and it might sound rough to say that I know you’re sick of me, and that I’m better out of your way for a time. Married people ought to separate occasionally; it’s quite natural you should get bored seeing me every day of your life. You wouldn’t take to the ‘Pioneers’ if you weren’t in need of a change of some sort from the monotony of my company. If I go off to Africa, I shall have the pleasure of hoping you’ll be glad to see me back. It’ll give you time to be glad. At present you can’t be glad, because you see too much of me. You don’t mind my going?”
“Not in the least!” she answered, and to his secret indignation he fancied he saw almost a laugh in her eyes. “I think it will be jolly for you. And Jack Dennison is going, is he?”
“Yes; and George Fairfax.”
“Really! How nice! You three were always such good chums. I expect you’ll have a perfectly lovely trip. When are you thinking of starting?”
“In a fortnight.”
“Delightful! We must have a little dinnerparty before you go to wish you all luck! I hope you mean to bring me some nuggets and any amount of queer necklaces and bracelets and barbaric ornaments. Ta-ta for the present! I must be off or I shall be late at the Jacksons. Don’t sit up for me!”
S
he floated gracefully out of the room like a sylph on wings, giving him a dazzling smile as she went. When she had quite disappeared he flung himself into a chair and said, “Damn it! very gently. Then he lit a big cigar, and meditated.
“She doesn’t care a bit!” he reflected. “That hint about even the natives dying didn’t affect her in the least. She is quite callous. Ah! this is what comes of social faddists and problemists, and the artificial ‘tone’ at which life is taken nowadays. All humbug and sham, and no time for sentiment. Love? — pooh! — that’s over and done with; there’s no such thing. Upon my life, I believe if I were dead, Laura would only squeeze a couple of tears out of those pretty eyes of hers, and then set about considering the newest fashions for mourning.”
While he sat thus absorbed in solitary musings of a sufficiently dreary and despondent character, his friend George Fairfax had likewise gone home to dinner, and had, in quite another sort of fashion, broken the news of his intended departure to his wife, an exceedingly pretty, lively little woman, with a quantity of fair hair and dancing, laughing, roguish blue eyes.
“Well, I sha’n’t be here for the Dog Show!” he remarked abruptly, shooting out the words with fierce emphasis, and casting an indignant glance at a tiny Yorkshire “toy” terrier that was curled up in its mistress’s lap like a ball of fine spun silk. “I shall be thousands of miles away. And if you want to ‘wire’ me any of Bibi’s triumphs you’ll find it expensive.”
“Really!” and Mrs. Fairfax looked up sweetly, stroking her pet the while. “Why, where are you going?”
“To Africa!” replied her husband solemnly. “To the Gold Coast — to the worst part, where fever rages, and where even the natives die!’
He pronounced the last words with particular emphasis. But she remained perfectly placid; she only bent over Bibi, and murmured with an ecstatic chuckle, “Oh, zoo ducky ‘ittle sing!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 896