Zuleika Dobson Or, An Oxford Love Story

  XIV

  They had awaited thousands and innumerable thousands of daybreaks in theBroad, these Emperors, counting the long slow hours till the night wereover. It is in the night especially that their fallen greatness hauntsthem. Day brings some distraction. They are not incurious of the livesaround them--these little lives that succeed one another so quickly. Tothem, in their immemorial old age, youth is a constant wonder. And sois death, which to them comes not. Youth or death--which, they had oftenasked themselves, was the goodlier? But it was ill that these two thingsshould be mated. It was ill-come, this day of days.

  Long after the Duke was in bed and asleep, his peal of laughter echoedin the ears of the Emperors. Why had he laughed?

  And they said to themselves "We are very old men, and broken, and in aland not our own. There are things that we do not understand."

  Brief was the freshness of the dawn. From all points of the compass,dark grey clouds mounted into the sky. There, taking their placesas though in accordance to a strategic plan laid down for them, theyponderously massed themselves, and presently, as at a given signal,drew nearer to earth, and halted, an irresistible great army, awaitingorders.

  Somewhere under cover of them the sun went his way, transmitting asulphurous heat. The very birds in the trees of Trinity were oppressedand did not twitter. The very leaves did not whisper.

  Out through the railings, and across the road, prowled a skimpy anddingy cat, trying to look like a tiger.

  It was all very sinister and dismal.

  The hours passed. The Broad put forth, one by one, its signs of waking.

  Soon after eight o'clock, as usual, the front-door of the Duke'slodgings was opened from within. The Emperors watched for the faintcloud of dust that presently emerged, and for her whom it preceded. Tothem, this first outcoming of the landlady's daughter was a moment ofdaily interest. Katie!--they had known her as a toddling child; andlater as a little girl scampering off to school, all legs and pinaforeand streaming golden hair. And now she was sixteen years old. Her hair,tied back at the nape of her neck, would very soon be "up." Her bigblue eyes were as they had always been; but she had long passed out ofpinafores into aprons, had taken on a sedateness befitting her years andher duties, and was anxious to be regarded rather as an aunt than asa sister by her brother Clarence, aged twelve. The Emperors had alwayspredicted that she would be pretty. And very pretty she was.

  As she came slowly out, with eyes downcast to her broom, sweeping thedust so seriously over the doorstep and then across the pavement, andanon when she reappeared with pail and scrubbing-brush, and abasedherself before the doorstep, and wrought so vehemently there, whatfilled her little soul was not the dignity of manual labour. The dutiesthat Zuleika had envied her were dear to her exactly as they would havebeen, yesterday morning, to Zuleika. The Emperors had often noticed thatduring vacations their little favourite's treatment of the doorstep waslanguid and perfunctory. They knew well her secret, and always (for whocan be long in England without becoming sentimental?) they cherished thehope of a romantic union between her and "a certain young gentleman," asthey archly called the Duke. His continued indifference to her they tookalmost as an affront to themselves. Where in all England was a prettier,sweeter girl than their Katie? The sudden irruption of Zuleika intoOxford was especially grievous to them because they could no longerhope against hope that Katie would be led by the Duke to the altar, andthence into the highest social circles, and live happily ever after.Luckily it was for Katie, however, that they had no power to fill herhead with their foolish notions. It was well for her to have neverdoubted she loved in vain. She had soon grown used to her lot. Not untilyesterday had there been any bitterness. Jealousy surged in Katie at thevery moment when she beheld Zuleika on the threshold. A glance at theDuke's face when she showed the visitor up was enough to acquainther with the state of his heart. And she did not, for confirming herintuition, need the two or three opportunities she took of listening atthe keyhole. What in the course of those informal audiences did surpriseher--so much indeed that she could hardly believe her ear--was that itwas possible for a woman not to love the Duke. Her jealousy of "thatMiss Dobson" was for a while swallowed up in her pity for him. What shehad borne so cheerfully for herself she could not bear for her hero. Shewished she had not happened to listen.

  And this morning, while she knelt swaying and spreading over "his"doorstep, her blue eyes added certain tears to be scrubbed away in thegeneral moisture of the stone. Rising, she dried her hands in her apron,and dried her eyes with her hands. Lest her mother should see that shehad been crying, she loitered outside the door. Suddenly, her rovingglance changed to a stare of acute hostility. She knew well that theperson wandering towards her was--no, not "that Miss Dobson," as she hadfor the fraction of an instant supposed, but the next worst thing.

  It has been said that Melisande indoors was an evidently French maid.Out of doors she was not less evidently Zuleika's. Not that she aped hermistress. The resemblance had come by force of propinquity and devotion.Nature had laid no basis for it. Not one point of form or colour hadthe two women in common. It has been said that Zuleika was not strictlybeautiful. Melisande, like most Frenchwomen, was strictly plain. Butin expression and port, in her whole tournure, she had become, asevery good maid does, her mistress' replica. The poise of her head, theboldness of her regard and brilliance of her smile, the leisurely andswinging way in which she walked, with a hand on the hip--all thesethings of hers were Zuleika's too. She was no conqueror. None but theman to whom she was betrothed--a waiter at the Cafe Tourtel, namedPelleas--had ever paid court to her; nor was she covetous of otherhearts. Yet she looked victorious, and insatiable of victories, and"terrible as an army with banners."

  In the hand that was not on her hip she carried a letter. And on hershoulders she had to bear the full burden of the hatred that Zuleika hadinspired in Katie. But this she did not know. She came glancing boldly,leisurely, at the numbers on the front-doors.

  Katie stepped back on to the doorstep, lest the inferiority of herstature should mar the effect of her disdain.

  "Good-day. Is it here that Duke D'Orsay lives?" asked Melisande, asnearly accurate as a Gaul may be in such matters.

  "The Duke of Dorset," said Katie with a cold and insular emphasis,"lives here." And "You," she tried to convey with her eyes, "you, forall your smart black silk, are a hireling. I am Miss Batch. I happen tohave a hobby for housework. I have not been crying."

  "Then please mount this to him at once," said Melisande, holding out theletter. "It is from Miss Dobson's part. Very express. I wait response."

  "You are very ugly," Katie signalled with her eyes. "I am very pretty.I have the Oxfordshire complexion. And I play the piano." With her lipsshe said merely, "His Grace is not called before nine o'clock."

  "But to-day you go wake him now--quick--is it not?"

  "Quite out of the question," said Katie. "If you care to leavethat letter here, I will see that it is placed on his Grace'sbreakfast-table, with the morning's post." "For the rest," added hereyes, "Down with France!"

  "I find you droll, but droll, my little one!" cried Melisande.

  Katie stepped back and shut the door in her face. "Like a littleEmpress," the Emperors commented.

  The Frenchwoman threw up her hands and apostrophised heaven. To this dayshe believes that all the bonnes of Oxford are mad, but mad, and of amadness.

  She stared at the door, at the pail and scrubbing-brush that had beenshut out with her, at the letter in her hand. She decided that she hadbetter drop the letter into the slit in the door and make report to MissDobson.

  As the envelope fell through the slit to the door-mat, Katie made atMelisande a grimace which, had not the panels been opaque, would haveastonished the Emperors. Resuming her dignity, she picked the thing up,and, at arm's length, examined it. It was inscribed in pencil. Katie'slips curled at sight of the large, audacious handwriting. But it isprobable that whatever kind of handwriting Zuleika might have had wouldhav
e been just the kind that Katie would have expected.

  Fingering the envelope, she wondered what the wretched woman had tosay. It occurred to her that the kettle was simmering on the hob in thekitchen, and that she might easily steam open the envelope and masterits contents. However, her doing this would have in no way affectedthe course of the tragedy. And so the gods (being to-day in a strictlyartistic mood) prompted her to mind her own business.

  Laying the Duke's table for breakfast, she made as usual a neatrectangular pile of the letters that had come for him by post. Zuleika'sletter she threw down askew. That luxury she allowed herself.

  And he, when he saw the letter, allowed himself the luxury of leaving itunopened awhile. Whatever its purport, he knew it could but minister tohis happy malice. A few hours ago, with what shame and dread it wouldhave stricken him! Now it was a dainty to be dallied with.

  His eyes rested on the black tin boxes that contained his robes of theGarter. Hateful had been the sight of them in the watches of the night,when he thought he had worn those robes for the last time. But now--!

  He opened Zuleika's letter. It did not disappoint him.

  "DEAR DUKE,--DO, DO forgive me. I am beyond words ashamed of the sillytomboyish thing I did last night. Of course it was no worse than that,but an awful fear haunts me that you MAY have thought I acted in angerat the idea of your breaking your promise to me. Well, it is quite trueI had been hurt and angry when you hinted at doing that, but the momentI left you I saw that you had been only in fun, and I enjoyed the jokeagainst myself, though I thought it was rather too bad of you. Andthen, as a sort of revenge, but almost before I knew what I was doing,I played that IDIOTIC practical joke on you. I have been MISERABLE eversince. DO come round as early as possible and tell me I am forgiven. Butbefore you tell me that, please lecture me till I cry--though indeed Ihave been crying half through the night. And then if you want to be VERYhorrid you may tease me for being so slow to see a joke. And then youmight take me to see some of the Colleges and things before we go on tolunch at The MacQuern's? Forgive pencil and scrawl. Am sitting up in bedto write.--Your sincere friend,

  "Z. D.

  "P.S.--Please burn this."

  At that final injunction, the Duke abandoned himself to his mirth."Please burn this." Poor dear young woman, how modest she was in theglare of her diplomacy! Why there was nothing, not one phrase, tocompromise her in the eyes of a coroner's jury!... Seriously, shehad good reason to be proud of her letter. For the purpose in view itcouldn't have been better done. That was what made it so touchinglyabsurd. He put himself in her position. He pictured himself as her,"sitting up in bed," pencil in hand, to explain away, to soothe, toclinch and bind... Yes, if he had happened to be some other man--onewhom her insult might have angered without giving love its death-blow,and one who could be frightened out of not keeping his word--this letterwould have been capital.

  He helped himself to some more marmalade, and poured out another cup ofcoffee. Nothing is more thrilling, thought he, than to be treated as acully by the person you hold in the hollow of your hand.

  But within this great irony lay (to be glided over) another irony. Heknew well in what mood Zuleika had done what she had done to him lastnight; yet he preferred to accept her explanation of it.

  Officially, then, he acquitted her of anything worse than tomboyishness.But this verdict for his own convenience implied no mercy to theculprit. The sole point for him was how to administer her punishment themost poignantly. Just how should he word his letter?

  He rose from his chair, and "Dear Miss Dobson--no, MY dear Miss Dobson,"he murmured, pacing the room, "I am so very sorry I cannot come to seeyou: I have to attend two lectures this morning. By contrast with thisweariness, it will be the more delightful to meet you at The MacQuern's.I want to see as much as I can of you to-day, because to-night there isthe Bump Supper, and to-morrow morning, alas! I must motor to Windsorfor this wretched Investiture. Meanwhile, how can you ask to be forgivenwhen there is nothing whatever to forgive? It seems to me that mine, notyours, is the form of humour that needs explanation. My proposal to diefor you was made in as playful a spirit as my proposal to marry you. Andit is really for me to ask forgiveness of you. One thing especially," hemurmured, fingering in his waistcoat-pocket the ear-rings she had givenhim, "pricks my conscience. I do feel that I ought not to have letyou give me these two pearls--at any rate, not the one which went intopremature mourning for me. As I have no means of deciding which of thetwo this one is, I enclose them both, with the hope that the prettydifference between them will in time reappear"... Or words to thateffect... Stay! why not add to the joy of contriving that effect thegreater joy of watching it? Why send Zuleika a letter? He would obey hersummons. He would speed to her side. He snatched up a hat.

  In this haste, however, he detected a certain lack of dignity. Hesteadied himself, and went slowly to the mirror. There he adjusted hishat with care, and regarded himself very seriously, very sternly, fromvarious angles, like a man invited to paint his own portrait for theUffizi. He must be worthy of himself. It was well that Zuleika shouldbe chastened. Great was her sin. Out of life and death she had fashionedtoys for her vanity. But his joy must be in vindication of what wasnoble, not in making suffer what was vile. Yesterday he had been herpuppet, her Jumping-Jack; to-day it was as avenging angel that he wouldappear before her. The gods had mocked him who was now their minister.Their minister? Their master, as being once more master of himself. Itwas they who had plotted his undoing. Because they loved him they werefain that he should die young. The Dobson woman was but their agent,their cat's-paw. By her they had all but got him. Not quite! And now, toteach them, through her, a lesson they would not soon forget, he wouldgo forth.

  Shaking with laughter, the gods leaned over the thunder-clouds to watchhim.

  He went forth.

  On the well-whitened doorstep he was confronted by a small boy inuniform bearing a telegram.

  "Duke of Dorset?" asked the small boy.

  Opening the envelope, the Duke saw that the message, with which was aprepaid form for reply, had been handed in at the Tankerton post-office.It ran thus:

  Deeply regret inform your grace last night two black owls came and perched on battlements remained there through night hooting at dawn flew away none knows whither awaiting instructions Jellings

  The Duke's face, though it grew white, moved not one muscle.

  Somewhat shamed now, the gods ceased from laughing.

  The Duke looked from the telegram to the boy. "Have you a pencil?" heasked.

  "Yes, my Lord," said the boy, producing a stump of pencil.

  Holding the prepaid form against the door, the Duke wrote:

  Jellings Tankerton Hall Prepare vault for funeral Monday

  Dorset

  His handwriting was as firmly and minutely beautiful as ever. Only inthat he forgot there was nothing to pay did he belie his calm. "Here,"he said to the boy, "is a shilling; and you may keep the change."

  "Thank you, my Lord," said the boy, and went his way, as happy as apostman.