________________________________________________
_ From the shifting gloom of the stair-case to the soft radiance cast
through the open door of her bedroom was for poor Zuleika an almost
heartening transition. She stood awhile on the threshold, watching
Melisande dart to and fro like a shuttle across a loom. Already the
main part of the packing seemed to have been accomplished. The
wardrobe was a yawning void, the carpet was here and there visible,
many of the trunks were already brimming and foaming over . . . Once
more on the road! Somewhat as, when beneath the stars the great tent
had been struck, and the lions were growling in their vans, and the
horses were pawing the stamped grass and whinnying, and the elephants
trumpeting, Zuleika's mother may often have felt within her a wan
exhilaration, so now did the heart of that mother's child rise and
flutter amidst the familiar bustle of "being off." Weary she was of
the world, and angry she was at not being, after all, good enough
for something better. And yet--well, at least, good-bye to Oxford!
She envied Melisande, so nimbly and cheerfully laborious till the day
should come when her betrothed had saved enough to start a little cafe
of his own and make her his bride and dame de comptoir. Oh, to have a
purpose, a prospect, a stake in the world, as this faithful soul had!
"Can I help you at all, Melisande?" she asked, picking her way across
the strewn floor.
Melisande, patting down a pile of chiffon, seemed to be amused at such
a notion. "Mademoiselle has her own art. Do I mix myself in that?" she
cried, waving one hand towards the great malachite casket.
Zuleika looked at the casket, and then very gratefully at the maid.
Her art--how had she forgotten that? Here was solace, purpose. She
would work as she had never worked yet. She KNEW that she had it in
her to do better than she had ever done. She confessed to herself that
she had too often been slack in the matter of practice and rehearsal,
trusting her personal magnetism to carry her through. Only last night
she had badly fumbled, more than once. Her bravura business with the
Demon Egg-Cup had been simply vile. The audience hadn't noticed
it, perhaps, but she had. Now she would perfect herself. Barely a
fortnight now before her engagement at the Folies Bergeres! What
if--no, she must not think of that! But the thought insisted. What
if she essayed for Paris that which again and again she had meant
to graft on to her repertory--the Provoking Thimble?
She flushed at the possibility. What if her whole present repertory
were but a passing phase in her art--a mere beginning--an earlier
manner? She remembered how marvellously last night she had manipulated
the ear-rings and the studs. Then lo! the light died out of her eyes,
and her face grew rigid. That memory had brought other memories in its
wake.
For her, when she fled the Broad, Noaks' window had blotted out all
else. Now she saw again that higher window, saw that girl flaunting
her ear-rings, gibing down at her. "He put them in with his own
hands!"--the words rang again in her ears, making her cheeks tingle.
Oh, he had thought it a very clever thing to do, no doubt--a splendid
little revenge, something after his own heart! "And he kissed me in
the open street"--excellent, excellent! She ground her teeth. And
these doings must have been fresh in his mind when she overtook him
and walked with him to the house-boat! Infamous! And she had then been
wearing his studs! She drew his attention to them when--
Her jewel-box stood open, to receive the jewels she wore to-night. She
went very calmly to it. There, in a corner of the topmost tray, rested
the two great white pearls--the pearls which, in one way and another,
had meant so much to her.
"Melisande!"
"Mademoiselle?"
"When we go to Paris, would you like to make a little present to your
fiance?"
"Je voudrais bien, mademoiselle."
"Then you shall give him these," said Zuleika, holding out the two
studs.
"Mais jamais de la vie! Chez Tourtel tout le monde le dirait
millionaire. Un garcon de cafe qui porte au plastron des perles
pareilles--merci!"
Tell him he may tell every one that they were given to me by the late
Duke of Dorset, and given by me to you, and by you to him."
"Mais--" The protest died on Melisande's lips. Suddenly she had
ceased to see the pearls as trinkets finite and inapposite--saw them
as things presently transmutable into little marble tables, bocks,
dominos, absinthes au sucre, shiny black portfolios with weekly
journals in them, yellow staves with daily journals flapping from
them, vermouths secs, vermouths cassis . . .
"Mademoiselle is too amiable," she said, taking the pearls.
And certainly, just then, Zuleika was looking very amiable indeed. The
look was transient. Nothing, she reflected, could undo what the Duke
had done. That hateful, impudent girl would take good care that every
one should know. "He put them in with his own hands." HER ear-rings!
"He kissed me in the public street. He loved me" . . . Well, he had
called out "Zuleika!" and every one around had heard him. That was
something. But how glad all the old women in the world would be to
shake their heads and say "Oh, no, my dear, believe me! It wasn't
anything to do with HER. I'm told on the very best authority," and
so forth, and so on. She knew he had told any number of undergraduates
he was going to die for her. But they, poor fellows, could not bear
witness. And good heavens! If there were a doubt as to the Duke's
motive, why not doubts as to theirs? . . But many of them had called
out "Zuleika!" too. And of course any really impartial person who knew
anything at all about the matter at first hand would be sure in his
own mind that it was perfectly absurd to pretend that the whole thing
wasn't entirely and absolutely for her . . . And of course some of the
men must have left written evidence of their intention. She remembered
that at The MacQuern's to-day was a Mr. Craddock, who had made a will
in her favour and wanted to read it aloud to her in the middle of
luncheon. Oh, there would be proof positive as to many of the men. But
of the others it would be said that they died in trying to rescue
their comrades. There would be all sorts of silly far-fetched
theories, and downright lies that couldn't be disproved . . .
"Melisande, that crackling of tissue paper is driving me mad! Do leave
off! Can't you see that I am waiting to be undressed?"
The maid hastened to her side, and with quick light fingers began to
undress her. "Mademoiselle va bien dormir--ca se voit," she purred.
"I shan't," said Zuleika.
Nevertheless, it was soothing to be undressed, and yet more soothing
anon to sit merely night-gowned before the mirror, while, slowly and
gently, strongly and strand by strand, Melisande brushed her hair.
After all, it didn't so much matter what the world thought. Let the
world whisper and insinuate what it would. To slur and sully, to
belittle and drag down--that was what the world always tried to do.
But great things were still great, and fair things still fair. With no
thought for the world's opinion had these men gone down to the water
to-day. Their deed was for her and themselves alone. It had sufficed
them. Should it not suffice her? It did, oh it did. She was a wretch
to have repined.
At a gesture from her, Melisande brought to a close the rhythmical
ministrations, and--using no tissue paper this time--did what was yet
to be done among the trunks.
"WE know, you and I," Zuleika whispered to the adorable creature in
the mirror; and the adorable creature gave back her nod and smile.
THEY knew, these two.
Yet, in their happiness, rose and floated a shadow between them. It
was the ghost of that one man who--THEY knew--had died irrelevantly,
with a cold heart.
Came also the horrid little ghost of one who had died late and
unseemly.
And now, thick and fast, swept a whole multitude of other ghosts, the
ghosts of all them who, being dead, could not die again; the poor
ghosts of them who had done what they could, and could do no more.
No more? Was it not enough? The lady in the mirror gazed at the lady
in the room, reproachfully at first, then--for were they not sisters?
--relentingly, then pityingly. Each of the two covered her face with
her hands.
And there recurred, as by stealth, to the lady in the room a thought
that had assailed her not long ago in Judas Street . . . a thought
about the power of example . . .
And now, with pent breath and fast-beating heart, she stood staring at
the lady of the mirror, without seeing her; and now she wheeled round
and swiftly glided to that little table on which stood her two books.
She snatched Bradshaw.
We always intervene between Bradshaw and any one whom we see
consulting him. "Mademoiselle will permit me to find that which
she seeks?" asked Melisande.
"Be quiet," said Zuleika. We always repulse, at first, any one who
intervenes between us and Bradshaw.
We always end by accepting the intervention. "See if it is possible to
go direct from here to Cambridge," said Zuleika, handing the book on.
"If it isn't, then--well, see how to get there."
We never have any confidence in the intervener. Nor is the intervener,
when it comes to the point, sanguine. With mistrust mounting to
exasperation Zuleika sat watching the faint and frantic researches
of her maid.
"Stop!" she said suddenly. "I have a much better idea. Go down very
early to the station. See the station-master. Order me a special
train. For ten o'clock, say."
Rising, she stretched her arms above her head. Her lips parted in a
yawn, met in a smile. With both hands she pushed back her hair from
her shoulders, and twisted it into a loose knot. Very lightly she
slipped up into bed, and very soon she was asleep.
THE END.
Zuleika Dobson, by Max Beerbohm _
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