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

to the roof, she looked round. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked.

He shook his head, and pointed to the raft in front of the barge. She quickly descended.

“Forgive me,” he said, “my gesture was not a summons. The raft is for men.”

“What do you want to do on it?”

“To wait there till the races are over.”

“But⁠—what do you mean? Aren’t you coming up on to the roof at all? Yesterday⁠—”

“Oh, I see,” said the Duke, unable to repress a smile. “But today I am not dressed for a flying-leap.”

Zuleika put a finger to her lips. “Don’t talk so loud. Those women up there will hear you. No one must ever know I knew what was going to happen. What evidence should I have that I tried to prevent it? Only my own unsupported word⁠—and the world is always against a woman. So do be careful. I’ve thought it all out. The whole thing must be sprung on me. Don’t look so horribly cynical⁠ ⁠… What was I saying? Oh yes; well, it doesn’t really matter. I had it fixed in my mind that you⁠—but no, of course, in that mantle you couldn’t. But why not come up on the roof with me meanwhile, and then afterwards make some excuse and⁠—” The rest of her whisper was lost in another growl of thunder.

“I would rather make my excuses forthwith,” said the Duke. “And, as the races must be almost due now, I advise you to go straight up and secure a place against the railing.”

“It will look very odd, my going all alone into a crowd of people whom I don’t know. I’m an unmarried girl. I do think you might⁠—”

“Goodbye,” said the Duke.

Again Zuleika raised a warning finger.

“Goodbye, John,” she whispered. “See, I am still wearing your studs. Goodbye. Don’t forget to call my name in a loud voice. You promised.”

“Yes.”

“And,” she added, after a pause, “remember this. I have loved but twice in my life; and none but you have I loved. This, too: if you hadn’t forced me to kill my love, I would have died with you. And you know it is true.”

“Yes.” It was true enough.

Courteously he watched her up the stairs.

As she reached the roof, she cried down to him from the throng, “Then you will wait down there to take me home afterwards?”

He bowed silently.

The raft was even more crowded than yesterday, but way was made for him by Judasians past and present. He took his place in the centre of the front row.

At his feet flowed the fateful river. From the various barges the last punt-loads had been ferried across to the towing-path, and the last of the men who were to follow the boats in their course had vanished towards the starting-point. There remained, however, a fringe of lesser enthusiasts. Their figures stood outlined sharply in that strange dark clearness which immediately precedes a storm.

The thunder rumbled around the hills, and now and again there was a faint glare on the horizon.

Would Judas bump Magdalen? Opinion on the raft seemed to be divided. But the sanguine spirits were in a majority.

“If I were making a book on the event,” said a middle-aged clergyman, with that air of breezy emancipation which is so distressing to the laity, “I’d bet two to one we bump.”

“You demean your cloth, sir,” the Duke would have said, “without cheating its disabilities,” had not his mouth been stopped by a loud and prolonged thunderclap.

In the hush thereafter, came the puny sound of a gunshot. The boats were starting. Would Judas bump Magdalen? Would Judas be head of the river?

Strange, thought the Duke, that for him, standing as he did on the peak of dandyism, on the brink of eternity, this trivial question of boats could have importance. And yet, and yet, for this it was that his heart was beating. A few minutes hence, an end to victors and vanquished alike; and yet⁠ ⁠…

A sudden white vertical streak slid down the sky. Then there was a consonance to split the drums of the world’s ears, followed by a horrific rattling as of actual artillery⁠—tens of thousands of gun-carriages simultaneously at the gallop, colliding, crashing, heeling over in the blackness.

Then, and yet more awful, silence; the little earth cowering voiceless under the heavens’ menace. And, audible in the hush now, a faint sound; the sound of the runners on the towing-path cheering the crews forward, forward.

And there was another faint sound that came to the Duke’s ears. It he understood when, a moment later, he saw the surface of the river alive with infinitesimal fountains.

Rain!

His very mantle was aspersed. In another minute he would stand sodden, inglorious, a mock. He didn’t hesitate.

“Zuleika!” he cried in a loud voice. Then he took a deep breath, and, burying his face in his mantle, plunged.

Full on the river lay the mantle outspread. Then it, too, went under. A great roll of water marked the spot. The plumed hat floated.

There was a confusion of shouts from the raft, of screams from the roof. Many youths⁠—all the youths there⁠—cried “Zuleika!” and leapt emulously headlong into the water. “Brave fellows!” shouted the elder men, supposing rescue-work. The rain pelted, the thunder pealed. Here and there was a glimpse of a young head above water⁠—for an instant only.

Shouts and screams now from the infected barges on either side. A score of fresh plunges. “Splendid fellows!”

Meanwhile, what of the Duke? I am glad to say that he was alive and (but for the cold he had caught last night) well. Indeed, his mind had never worked more clearly than in this swift dim underworld. His mantle, the cords of it having come untied, had drifted off him, leaving his arms free. With breath well-pent, he steadily swam, scarcely less amused than annoyed that the gods had, after all, dictated the exact time at which he should seek death.

I am loth to interrupt my narrative at this rather exciting moment⁠—a moment when the quick, tense style, exemplified in the last paragraph