Zuleika Dobson by Max Beerbohm (i am reading a book TXT) 📕

returned. Zuleika’s behaviour during dinner⁠ ⁠… But that was how so many young women had behaved. It was no sign of disinterested love. It might mean merely⁠ ⁠… Yet no! Surely, looking into her eyes, he had seen there a radiance finer than could have been lit by common ambition. Love, none other, must have lit in those purple depths the torches whose clear flames had leapt out to him. She loved him. She, the beautiful, the wonderful, had not tried to conceal her love for him. She had shown him all⁠—had shown all, poor darling! only to be snubbed by a prig, driven away by a boor, fled from by a fool. To the nethermost corner of his soul, he cursed himself for what he had done, and for all he had left undone. He would go to her on his knees. He would implore her to impose on him insufferable penances. There was no penance, how bittersweet soever, could make him a little worthy of her.

“Come in!” he cried mechanically. Entered the landlady’s daughter.

“A lady downstairs,” she said, “asking to see your Grace. Says she’ll step round again later if your Grace is busy.”

“What is her name?” asked the Duke, vacantly. He was gazing at the girl with pain-shot eyes.

“Miss Zuleika Dobson,” pronounced the girl.

He rose.

“Show Miss Dobson up,” he said.

Noaks had darted to the looking-glass and was smoothing his hair with a tremulous, enormous hand.

“Go!” said the Duke, pointing to the door. Noaks went, quickly. Echoes of his boots fell from the upper stairs and met the ascending susurrus of a silk skirt.

The lovers met. There was an interchange of ordinary greetings: from the Duke, a comment on the weather; from Zuleika, a hope that he was well again⁠—they had been so sorry to lose him last night. Then came a pause. The landlady’s daughter was clearing away the breakfast-things. Zuleika glanced comprehensively at the room, and the Duke gazed at the hearthrug. The landlady’s daughter clattered out with her freight. They were alone.

“How pretty!” said Zuleika. She was looking at his star of the Garter, which sparkled from a litter of books and papers on a small side-table.

“Yes,” he answered. “It is pretty, isn’t it?”

“Awfully pretty!” she rejoined.

This dialogue led them to another hollow pause. The Duke’s heart beat violently within him. Why had he not asked her to take the star and keep it as a gift? Too late now! Why could he not throw himself at her feet? Here were two beings, lovers of each other, with none by. And yet⁠ ⁠…

She was examining a watercolour on the wall, seemed to be absorbed by it. He watched her. She was even lovelier than he had remembered; or rather her loveliness had been, in some subtle way, transmuted. Something had given to her a graver, nobler beauty. Last night’s nymph had become the Madonna of this morning. Despite her dress, which was of a tremendous tartan, she diffused the pale authentic radiance of a spirituality most high, most simple. The Duke wondered where lay the change in her. He could not understand. Suddenly she turned to him, and he understood. No longer the black pearl and the pink, but two white pearls!⁠ ⁠… He thrilled to his heart’s core.

“I hope,” said Zuleika, “you aren’t awfully vexed with me for coming like this?”

“Not at all,” said the Duke. “I am delighted to see you.” How inadequate the words sounded, how formal and stupid!

“The fact is,” she continued, “I don’t know a soul in Oxford. And I thought perhaps you’d give me luncheon, and take me to see the boat-races. Will you?”

“I shall be charmed,” he said, pulling the bell-rope. Poor fool! he attributed the shade of disappointment on Zuleika’s face to the coldness of his tone. He would dispel that shade. He would avow himself. He would leave her no longer in this false position. So soon as he had told them about the meal, he would proclaim his passion.

The bell was answered by the landlady’s daughter.

“Miss Dobson will stay to luncheon,” said the Duke. The girl withdrew. He wished he could have asked her not to.

He steeled himself. “Miss Dobson,” he said, “I wish to apologise to you.”

Zuleika looked at him eagerly. “You can’t give me luncheon? You’ve got something better to do?”

“No. I wish to ask you to forgive me for my behaviour last night.”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

“There is. My manners were vile. I know well what happened. Though you, too, cannot have forgotten, I won’t spare myself the recital. You were my hostess, and I ignored you. Magnanimous, you paid me the prettiest compliment woman ever paid to man, and I insulted you. I left the house in order that I might not see you again. To the doorsteps down which he should have kicked me, your grandfather followed me with words of kindliest courtesy. If he had sped me with a kick so skilful that my skull had been shattered on the kerb, neither would he have outstepped those bounds set to the conduct of English gentlemen, nor would you have garnered more than a trifle on account of your proper reckoning. I do not say that you are the first person whom I have wantonly injured. But it is a fact that I, in whom pride has ever been the topmost quality, have never expressed sorrow to anyone for anything. Thus, I might urge that my present abjectness must be intolerably painful to me, and should incline you to forgive. But such an argument were specious merely. I will be quite frank with you. I will confess to you that, in this humbling of myself before you, I take a pleasure as passionate as it is strange. A confusion of feelings? Yet you, with a woman’s instinct, will have already caught the clue to it. It needs no mirror to assure me that the clue is here for you, in my eyes. It needs no dictionary of quotations to remind me that the eyes