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

pearls’ demonstration of that.⁠—The pearls! They would betray her. He darted to the fender, and one of them he espied there instantly⁠—white? A rather flushed white, certainly. For the other he had to peer down. There it lay, not very distinct on the hearth’s black-leading.

He turned away. He blamed himself for not dismissing from his mind the hussy he had dismissed from his room. Oh for an ounce of civet and a few poppies! The water-jug stood as a reminder of the hateful visit and of⁠ ⁠… He took it hastily away into his bedroom. There he washed his hands. The fact that he had touched Zuleika gave to this ablution a symbolism that made it the more refreshing.

Civet, poppies? Was there not, at his call, a sweeter perfume, a stronger anodyne? He rang the bell, almost caressingly.

His heart beat at sound of the clinking and rattling of the tray borne up the stairs. She was coming, the girl who loved him, the girl whose heart would be broken when he died. Yet, when the tray appeared in the doorway, and she behind it, the tray took precedence of her in his soul not less than in his sight. Twice, after an arduous morning, had his luncheon been postponed, and the coming of it now made intolerable the pangs of his hunger.

Also, while the girl laid the tablecloth, it occurred to him how flimsy, after all, was the evidence that she loved him. Suppose she did nothing of the kind! At the Junta, he had foreseen no difficulty in asking her. Now he found himself a prey to embarrassment. He wondered why. He had not failed in flow of gracious words to Nellie O’Mora. Well, a miniature by Hoppner was one thing, a landlady’s live daughter was another. At any rate, he must prime himself with food. He wished Mrs. Batch had sent up something more calorific than cold salmon. He asked her daughter what was to follow.

“There’s a pigeon-pie, your Grace.”

“Cold? Then please ask your mother to heat it in the oven⁠—quickly. Anything after that?”

“A custard pudding, your Grace.”

“Cold? Let this, too, be heated. And bring up a bottle of champagne, please; and⁠—and a bottle of port.”

His was a head that had always hitherto defied the grape. But he thought that today, by all he had gone through, by all the shocks he had suffered, and the strains he had steeled himself to bear, as well as by the actual malady that gripped him, he might perchance have been sapped enough to experience by reaction that cordial glow of which he had now and again seen symptoms in his fellows.

Nor was he altogether disappointed of this hope. As the meal progressed, and the last of the champagne sparkled in his glass, certain things said to him by Zuleika⁠—certain implied criticisms that had rankled, yes⁠—lost their power to discommode him. He was able to smile at the impertinences of an angry woman, the tantrums of a tenth-rate conjurer told to go away. He felt he had perhaps acted harshly. With all her faults, she had adored him. Yes, he had been arbitrary. There seemed to be a strain of brutality in his nature. Poor Zuleika! He was glad for her that she had contrived to master her infatuation⁠ ⁠… Enough for him that he was loved by this exquisite meek girl who had served him at the feast. Anon, when he summoned her to clear the things away, he would bid her tell him the tale of her lowly passion. He poured a second glass of port, sipped it, quaffed it, poured a third. The grey gloom of the weather did but, as he eyed the bottle, heighten his sense of the rich sunshine so long ago imprisoned by the vintner and now released to make glad his soul. Even so to be released was the love pent for him in the heart of this sweet girl. Would that he loved her in return!⁠ ⁠… Why not?

“Prius insolentem
Serva Briseis niveo colore
Movit Achillem.”

Nor were it gracious to invite an avowal of love and offer none in return. Yet, yet, expansive though his mood was, he could not pretend to himself that he was about to feel in this girl’s presence anything but gratitude. He might pretend to her? Deception were a very poor return indeed for all her kindness. Besides, it might turn her head. Some small token of his gratitude⁠—some trinket by which to remember him⁠—was all that he could allow himself to offer⁠ ⁠… What trinket? Would she like to have one of his scarf-pins? Studs? Still more abs⁠—Ah! he had it, he literally and most providentially had it, there, in the fender: a pair of earrings!

He plucked the pink pearl and the black from where they lay, and rang the bell.

His sense of dramatic propriety needed that the girl should, before he addressed her, perform her task of clearing the table. If she had it to perform after telling her love, and after receiving his gift and his farewell, the bathos would be distressing for them both.

But, while he watched her at her task, he did wish she would be a little quicker. For the glow in him seemed to be cooling momently. He wished he had had more than three glasses from the crusted bottle which she was putting away into the chiffonier. Down, doubt! Down, sense of disparity! The moment was at hand. Would he let it slip? Now she was folding up the tablecloth, now she was going.

“Stay!” he uttered. “I have something to say to you.” The girl turned to him.

He forced his eyes to meet hers. “I understand,” he said in a constrained voice, “that you regard me with sentiments of something more than esteem.⁠—Is this so?”

The girl had stepped quickly back, and her face was scarlet.

“Nay,” he said, having to go through with it now, “there is no cause for embarrassment. And I am sure you will acquit me of wanton curiosity. Is it