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_ They had awaited thousands and innumerable thousands of daybreaks in
the Broad, these Emperors, counting the long slow hours till the night
were over. It is in the night especially that their fallen greatness
haunts them. Day brings some distraction. They are not incurious of
the lives around them--these little lives that succeed one another so
quickly. To them, in their immemorial old age, youth is a constant
wonder. And so is death, which to them comes not. Youth or death--
which, they had often asked themselves, was the goodlier? But it was
ill that these two things should be mated. It was ill-come, this day
of days.
Long after the Duke was in bed and asleep, his peal of laughter echoed
in the ears of the Emperors. Why had he laughed?
And they said to themselves "We are very old men, and broken, and in a
land 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 places as
though in accordance to a strategic plan laid down for them, they
ponderously massed themselves, and presently, as at a given signal,
drew nearer to earth, and halted, an irresistible great army, awaiting
orders.
Somewhere under cover of them the sun went his way, transmitting a
sulphurous heat. The very birds in the trees of Trinity were oppressed
and did not twitter. The very leaves did not whisper.
Out through the railings, and across the road, prowled a skimpy and
dingy 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's
lodgings was opened from within. The Emperors watched for the faint
cloud of dust that presently emerged, and for her whom it preceded. To
them, this first outcoming of the landlady's daughter was a moment of
daily interest. Katie!--they had known her as a toddling child; and
later as a little girl scampering off to school, all legs and pinafore
and 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
big blue eyes were as they had always been; but she had long passed
out of pinafores into aprons, had taken on a sedateness befitting her
years and her duties, and was anxious to be regarded rather as an aunt
than as a sister by her brother Clarence, aged twelve. The Emperors
had always predicted that she would be pretty. And very pretty she
was.
As she came slowly out, with eyes downcast to her broom, sweeping the
dust so seriously over the doorstep and then across the pavement, and
anon when she reappeared with pail and scrubbing-brush, and abased
herself before the doorstep, and wrought so vehemently there, what
filled her little soul was not the dignity of manual labour. The
duties that Zuleika had envied her were dear to her exactly as they
would have been, yesterday morning, to Zuleika. The Emperors had
often noticed that during vacations their little favourite's treatment
of the doorstep was languid and perfunctory. They knew well her
secret, and always (for who can be long in England without becoming
sentimental?) they cherished the hope of a romantic union between her
and "a certain young gentleman," as they archly called the Duke. His
continued indifference to her they took almost as an affront to
themselves. Where in all England was a prettier, sweeter girl than
their Katie? The sudden irruption of Zuleika into Oxford was
especially grievous to them because they could no longer hope
against hope that Katie would be led by the Duke to the altar, and
thence into the highest social circles, and live happily ever after.
Luckily it was for Katie, however, that they had no power to fill her
head with their foolish notions. It was well for her to have never
doubted she loved in vain. She had soon grown used to her lot. Not
until yesterday had there been any bitterness. Jealousy surged in
Katie at the very moment when she beheld Zuleika on the threshold.
A glance at the Duke's face when she showed the visitor up was enough
to acquaint her with the state of his heart. And she did not, for
confirming her intuition, need the two or three opportunities she
took of listening at the keyhole. What in the course of those informal
audiences did surprise her--so much indeed that she could hardly
believe her ear--was that it was possible for a woman not to love the
Duke. Her jealousy of "that Miss Dobson" was for a while swallowed up
in her pity for him. What she had borne so cheerfully for herself she
could not bear for her hero. She wished 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 the
general 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 she had been crying, she loitered outside the door. Suddenly, her
roving glance changed to a stare of acute hostility. She knew well
that the person wandering towards her was--no, not "that Miss Dobson,"
as she had for 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
her mistress. The resemblance had come by force of propinquity and
devotion. Nature had laid no basis for it. Not one point of form or
colour had the two women in common. It has been said that Zuleika was
not strictly beautiful. Melisande, like most Frenchwomen, was strictly
plain. But in expression and port, in her whole tournure, she had
become, as every good maid does, her mistress' replica. The poise of
her head, the boldness of her regard and brilliance of her smile,
the leisurely and swinging way in which she walked, with a hand on
the hip--all these things of hers were Zuleika's too. She was no
conqueror. None but the man to whom she was betrothed--a waiter at
the Cafe Tourtel, named Pelleas--had ever paid court to her; nor
was she covetous of other hearts. 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 her
shoulders she had to bear the full burden of the hatred that Zuleika
had inspired 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 her
stature should mar the effect of her disdain.
"Good-day. Is it here that Duke D'Orsay lives?" asked Melisande, as
nearly 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, for
all your smart black silk, are a hireling. I am Miss Batch. I happen
to have a hobby for housework. I have not been crying."
"Then please mount this to him at once," said Melisande, holding out
the letter. "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
lips she 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 leave that
letter here, I will see that it is placed on his Grace's breakfast-
table, with the morning's post." "For the rest," added her eyes, "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 little
Empress," the Emperors commented.
The Frenchwoman threw up her hands and apostrophised heaven. To this
day she believes that all the bonnes of Oxford are mad, but mad, and
of a madness.
She stared at the door, at the pail and scrubbing-brush that had been
shut out with her, at the letter in her hand. She decided that she had
better drop the letter into the slit in the door and make report to
Miss Dobson.
As the envelope fell through the slit to the door-mat, Katie made at
Melisande a grimace which, had not the panels been opaque, would have
astonished the Emperors. Resuming her dignity, she picked the thing
up, and, at arm's length, examined it. It was inscribed in pencil.
Katie's lips curled at sight of the large, audacious handwriting. But
it is probable that whatever kind of handwriting Zuleika might have
had would have been just the kind that Katie would have expected.
Fingering the envelope, she wondered what the wretched woman had to
say. It occurred to her that the kettle was simmering on the hob in
the kitchen, and that she might easily steam open the envelope and
master its contents. However, her doing this would have in no way
affected the course of the tragedy. And so the gods (being to-day in a
strictly artistic mood) prompted her to mind her own business.
Laying the Duke's table for breakfast, she made as usual a neat
rectangular pile of the letters that had come for him by post.
Zuleika's letter she threw down askew. That luxury she allowed
herself.
And he, when he saw the letter, allowed himself the luxury of leaving
it unopened awhile. Whatever its purport, he knew it could but
minister to his happy malice. A few hours ago, with what shame and
dread it would have stricken him! Now it was a dainty to be dallied
with.
His eyes rested on the black tin boxes that contained his robes of the
Garter. 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 silly
tomboyish 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 anger
at the idea of your breaking your promise to me. Well, it is quite
true I had been hurt and angry when you hinted at doing that, but the
moment I left you I saw that you had been only in fun, and I enjoyed
the joke against myself, though I thought it was rather too bad of
you. And then, 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 ever since. DO come round as early as possible and tell me I
am forgiven. But before you tell me that, please lecture me till I
cry--though indeed I have been crying half through the night. And then
if you want to be VERY horrid you may tease me for being so slow to
see a joke. And then you might take me to see some of the Colleges and
things before we go on to lunch at The MacQuern's? Forgive pencil and
scrawl. Am sitting up in bed to 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 the
glare of her diplomacy! Why there was nothing, not one phrase, to
compromise her in the eyes of a coroner's jury! . . . Seriously, she
had good reason to be proud of her letter. For the purpose in view it
couldn't have been better done. That was what made it so touchingly
absurd. He put himself in her position. He pictured himself as her,
"sitting up in bed," pencil in hand, to explain away, to soothe, to
clinch and bind . . . Yes, if he had happened to be some other man--
one whom her insult might have angered without giving love its
death-blow, and one who could be frightened out of not keeping his
word--this letter would have been capital.
He helped himself to some more marmalade, and poured out another cup
of coffee. Nothing is more thrilling, thought he, than to be treated
as a cully by the person you hold in the hollow of your hand.
But within this great irony lay (to be glided over) another irony. He
knew well in what mood Zuleika had done what she had done to him last
night; 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 the culprit. The sole point for him was how to administer
her punishment the most 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 see you: I have to attend two lectures this morning. By
contrast with this weariness, 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 is the Bump Supper, and to-morrow morning,
alas! I must motor to Windsor for this wretched Investiture.
Meanwhile, how can you ask to be forgiven when there is nothing
whatever to forgive? It seems to me that mine, not yours, is the form
of humour that needs explanation. My proposal to die for you was made
in as playful a spirit as my proposal to marry you. And it is really
for me to ask forgiveness of you. One thing especially," he murmured,
fingering in his waistcoat-pocket the ear-rings she had given him,
"pricks my conscience. I do feel that I ought not to have let you
give me these two pearls--at any rate, not the one which went into
premature mourning for me. As I have no means of deciding which of the
two this one is, I enclose them both, with the hope that the pretty
difference between them will in time reappear" . . . Or words to that
effect . . . Stay! why not add to the joy of contriving that effect
the greater joy of watching it? Why send Zuleika a letter? He would
obey her summons. He would speed to her side. He snatched up a hat.
In this haste, however, he detected a certain lack of dignity. He
steadied himself, and went slowly to the mirror. There he adjusted his
hat with care, and regarded himself very seriously, very sternly, from
various angles, like a man invited to paint his own portrait for the
Uffizi. He must be worthy of himself. It was well that Zuleika should
be chastened. Great was her sin. Out of life and death she had
fashioned toys for her vanity. But his joy must be in vindication of
what was noble, not in making suffer what was vile. Yesterday he had
been her puppet, her Jumping-Jack; to-day it was as avenging angel
that he would appear before her. The gods had mocked him who was now
their minister. Their minister? Their master, as being once more
master of himself. It was they who had plotted his undoing. Because
they loved him they were fain 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, to teach them, through her, a lesson they
would not soon forget, he would go forth.
Shaking with laughter, the gods leaned over the thunder-clouds to
watch him.
He went forth.
On the well-whitened doorstep he was confronted by a small boy in
uniform bearing a telegram.
"Duke of Dorset?" asked the small boy.
Opening the envelope, the Duke saw that the message, with which was a
prepaid 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?" he
asked.
"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 in
that 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 a
postman. _
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