Benita, An African Romance | Page 4

funnels of the mail steamer /Zanzibar/ lay low over the surface
of the sea like vast, floating ostrich plumes that vanished one by one in
the starlight. Benita Beatrix Clifford, for that was her full name, who
had been christened Benita after her mother and Beatrix after her
father's only sister, leaning idly over the bulwark rail, thought to herself
that a child might have sailed that sea in a boat of bark and come safely
into port.
Then a tall man of about thirty years of age, who was smoking a cigar,
strolled up to her. At his coming she moved a little as though to make
room for him beside her, and there was something in the motion which,
had anyone been there to observe it, might have suggested that these
two were upon terms of friendship, or still greater intimacy. For a
moment he hesitated, and while he did so an expression of doubt, of
distress even, gathered on his face. It was as though he understood that
a great deal depended on whether he accepted or declined that gentle
invitation, and knew not which to do.
Indeed, much did depend upon it, no less than the destinies of both of

them. If Robert Seymour had gone by to finish his cigar in solitude,
why then this story would have had a very different ending; or, rather,
who can say how it might have ended? The dread, foredoomed event
with which that night was big would have come to its awful birth
leaving certain words unspoken. Violent separation must have ensued,
and even if both of them had survived the terror, what prospect was
there that their lives would again have crossed each other in that wide
Africa?
But it was not so fated, for just as he put his foot forward to continue
his march Benita spoke in her low and pleasant voice.
"Are you going to the smoking-room or to the saloon to dance, Mr.
Seymour? One of the officers just told me that there is to be a dance,"
she added, in explanation, "because it is so calm that we might fancy
ourselves ashore."
"Neither," he answered. "The smoking-room is stuffy, and my dancing
days are over. No; I proposed to take exercise after that big dinner, and
then to sit in a chair and fall asleep. But," he added, and his voice grew
interested, "how did you know that it was I? You never turned your
head."
"I have ears in my head as well as eyes," she answered with a little
laugh, "and after we have been nearly a month together on this ship I
ought to know your step."
"I never remember that anyone ever recognized it before," he said,
more to himself than to her, then came and leaned over the rail at her
side. His doubts were gone. Fate had spoken.
For a while there was silence between them, then he asked her if she
were not going to the dance.
Benita shook her head.
"Why not? You are fond of dancing, and you dance very well. Also
there are plenty of officers for partners, especially Captain----" and he
checked himself.
"I know," she said; "it would be pleasant, but--Mr. Seymour, will you
think me foolish if I tell you something?"
"I have never thought you foolish yet, Miss Clifford, so I don't know
why I should begin now. What is it?"
"I am not going to the dance because I am afraid, yes, horribly afraid."
"Afraid! Afraid of what?"

"I don't quite know, but, Mr. Seymour, I feel as though we were all of
us upon the edge of some dreadful catastrophe--as though there were
about to be a mighty change, and beyond it another life, something new
and unfamiliar. It came over me at dinner--that was why I left the table.
Quite suddenly I looked, and all the people were different, yes, all
except a few."
"Was I different?" he asked curiously.
"No, you were not," and he thought he heard her add "Thank God!"
beneath her breath.
"And were you different?"
"I don't know. I never looked at myself; I was the seer, not the seen. I
have always been like that."
"Indigestion," he said reflectively. "We eat too much on board ship, and
the dinner was very long and heavy. I told you so, that's why I'm
taking--I mean why I wanted to take exercise."
"And to go to sleep afterwards."
"Yes, first the exercise, then the sleep. Miss Clifford, that is the rule of
life--and death. With sleep thought ends, therefore for some of us your
catastrophe is much to be desired, for it would mean long sleep and no
thought."
"I said that they were changed, not that they had ceased to think.
Perhaps they