XXIII
Twisting and turning in her flight, with wild eyes that fearfullyretained the image of that small man gathering himself to spring,Zuleika found herself suddenly where she could no further go.
She was in that grim ravine by which you approach New College. At sightof the great shut gate before her, she halted, and swerved to the wall.She set her brow and the palms of her hands against the cold stones. Shethrew back her head, and beat the stones with her fists.
It was not only what she had seen, it was what she had barely savedherself from seeing, and what she had not quite saved herself fromhearing, that she strove so piteously to forget. She was sorrier forherself, angrier, than she had been last night when the Duke laid handson her. Why should every day have a horrible ending? Last night shehad avenged herself. To-night's outrage was all the more foul and meanbecause of its certain immunity. And the fact that she had in somemeasure brought it on herself did but whip her rage. What a fool shehad been to taunt the man! Yet no, how could she have foreseen that hewould--do THAT? How could she have guessed that he, who had not daredseemly death for her in the gentle river, would dare--THAT?
She shuddered the more as she now remembered that this very day, in thatvery house, she had invited for her very self a similar fate. What ifthe Duke had taken her word? Strange! she wouldn't have flinched then.She had felt no horror at the notion of such a death. And thus she nowsaw Noaks' conduct in a new light--saw that he had but wished to provehis love, not at all to affront her. This understanding quickly steadiedher nerves. She did not need now to forget what she had seen; and, notneeding to forget it--thus are our brains fashioned--she was able toforget it.
But by removal of one load her soul was but bared for a more grievousother. Her memory harked back to what had preceded the crisis. Sherecalled those moments of doomed rapture in which her heart had soaredup to the apocalyptic window--recalled how, all the while she wasspeaking to the man there, she had been chafed by the inadequacy oflanguage. Oh, how much more she had meant than she could express! Oh,the ecstasy of that self-surrender! And the brevity of it! the suddenodious awakening! Thrice in this Oxford she had been duped. Thrice allthat was fine and sweet in her had leapt forth, only to be scourged backinto hiding. Poor heart inhibited! She gazed about her. The stone alleyshe had come into, the terrible shut gate, were for her a visible symbolof the destiny she had to put up with. Wringing her hands, she hastenedalong the way she had come. She vowed she would never again set foot inOxford. She wished herself out of the hateful little city to-night. Sheeven wished herself dead.
She deserved to suffer, you say? Maybe. I merely state that she didsuffer.
Emerging into Catherine Street, she knew whereabouts she was, and madestraight for Judas, turning away her eyes as she skirted the Broad, thatplace of mocked hopes and shattered ideals.
Coming into Judas Street, she remembered the scene of yesterday--thehappy man with her, the noise of the vast happy crowd. She suffered ina worse form what she had suffered in the gallery of the Hall. Fornow--did I not say she was not without imagination?--her self-pity wassharpened by remorse for the hundreds of homes robbed. She realised thetruth of what the poor Duke had once said to her: she was a danger inthe world... Aye, and all the more dire now. What if the youth of allEurope were moved by Oxford's example? That was a horribly possiblething. It must be reckoned with. It must be averted. She must not showherself to men. She must find some hiding-place, and there abide. Werethis a hardship? she asked herself. Was she not sickened for ever ofmen's homage? And was it not clear now that the absorbing need in hersoul, the need to love, would never--except for a brief while, now andthen, and by an unfortunate misunderstanding--be fulfilled?
So long ago that you may not remember, I compared her favourably withthe shepherdess Marcella, and pleaded her capacity for passion as anexcuse for her remaining at large. I hope you will now, despite yourrather evident animus against her, set this to her credit: that she did,so soon as she realised the hopelessness of her case, make just thatdecision which I blamed Marcella for not making at the outset. It was asshe stood on the Warden's door-step that she decided to take the veil.
With something of a conventual hush in her voice, she said to thebutler, "Please tell my maid that we are leaving by a very early trainto-morrow, and that she must pack my things to-night."
"Very well, Miss," said the butler. "The Warden," he added, "is in thestudy, Miss, and was asking for you."
She could face her grandfather without a tremour--now. She would hearmeekly whatever reproaches he might have for her, but their sting wasalready drawn by the surprise she had in store for him.
It was he who seemed a trifle nervous. In his
"Well, did you come and peep down from the gallery?" there was adistinct tremour.
Throwing aside her cloak, she went quickly to him, and laid a hand onthe lapel of his coat. "Poor grand-papa!" she said.
"Nonsense, my dear child," he replied, disengaging himself. "I didn'tgive it a thought. If the young men chose to be so silly as to stayaway, I--I--"
"Grand-papa, haven't you been told YET?"
"Told? I am a Gallio for such follies. I didn't inquire."
"But (forgive me, grand-papa, if I seem to you, for the moment, pert)you are Warden here. It is your duty, even your privilege, to GUARD.Is it not? Well, I grant you the adage that it is useless to bolt thestable door when the horse has been stolen. But what shall be said ofthe ostler who doesn't know--won't even 'inquire' whether--the horse HASbeen stolen, grand-papa?"
"You speak in riddles, Zuleika."
"I wish with all my heart I need not tell you the answers. I think Ihave a very real grievance against your staff--or whatever it is youcall your subordinates here. I go so far as to dub them dodderers. AndI shall the better justify that term by not shirking the duty they haveleft undone. The reason why there were no undergraduates in your Hallto-night is that they were all dead."
"Dead?" he gasped. "Dead? It is disgraceful that I was not told. Whatdid they die of?"
"Of me."
"Of you?"
"Yes. I am an epidemic, grand-papa, a scourge, such as the world has notknown. Those young men drowned themselves for love of me."
He came towards her. "Do you realise, girl, what this means to me? I aman old man. For more than half a century I have known this College. Toit, when my wife died, I gave all that there was of heart left in me.For thirty years I have been Warden; and in that charge has been all mypride. I have had no thought but for this great College, its honour andprosperity. More than once lately have I asked myself whether my eyeswere growing dim, my hand less steady. 'No' was my answer, and again'No.' And thus it is that I have lingered on to let Judas be struck downfrom its high eminence, shamed in the eyes of England--a College forever tainted, and of evil omen." He raised his head. "The disgrace tomyself is nothing. I care not how parents shall rage against me, and theHeads of other Colleges make merry over my decrepitude. It is becauseyou have wrought the downfall of Judas that I am about to lay my undyingcurse on you."
"You mustn't do that!" she cried. "It would be a sort of sacrilege. I amgoing to be a nun. Besides, why should you? I can quite well understandyour feeling for Judas. But how is Judas more disgraced than any otherCollege? If it were only the Judas undergraduates who had--"
"There were others?" cried the Warden. "How many?"
"All. All the boys from all the Colleges."
The Warden heaved a deep sigh. "Of course," he said, "this changes theaspect of the whole matter. I wish you had made it clear at once. Yougave me a very great shock," he said sinking into his arm-chair, "and Ihave not yet recovered. You must study the art of exposition."
"That will depend on the rules of the convent."
"Ah, I forgot that you were going into a convent. Anglican, I hope?"
Anglican, she supposed.
"As a young man," he said, "I saw much of dear old Dr. Pusey. It mighthave somewhat reconciled him to my marriage if he h
ad known that mygrand-daughter would take the veil." He adjusted his glasses, and lookedat her. "Are you sure you have a vocation?"
"Yes. I want to be out of the world. I want to do no more harm."
He eyed her musingly. "That," he said, "is rather a revulsion thana vocation. I remember that I ventured to point out to Dr. Pusey thedifference between those two things, when he was almost persuading meto enter a Brotherhood founded by one of his friends. It may be that theworld would be well rid of you, my dear child. But it is not the worldonly that we must consider. Would you grace the recesses of the Church?"
"I could but try," said Zuleika.
"'You could but try' are the very words Dr. Pusey used to me. I venturedto say that in such a matter effort itself was a stigma of unfitness.For all my moods of revulsion, I knew that my place was in the world. Istayed there."
"But suppose, grand-papa"--and, seeing in fancy the vast agitatedflotilla of crinolines, she could not forbear a smile--"suppose all theyoung ladies of that period had drowned themselves for love of you?"
Her smile seemed to nettle the Warden. "I was greatly admired," he said."Greatly," he repeated.
"And you liked that, grand-papa?"
"Yes, my dear. Yes, I am afraid I did. But I never encouraged it."
"Your own heart was never touched?"
"Never, until I met Laura Frith."
"Who was she?"
"She was my future wife."
"And how was it you singled her out from the rest? Was she verybeautiful?"
"No. It cannot be said that she was beautiful. Indeed, she was accountedplain. I think it was her great dignity that attracted me. She did notsmile archly at me, nor shake her ringlets. In those days it was thefashion for young ladies to embroider slippers for such men in holyorders as best pleased their fancy. I received hundreds--thousands--ofsuch slippers. But never a pair from Laura Frith."
"She did not love you?" asked Zuleika, who had seated herself on thefloor at her grandfather's feet.
I concluded that she did not. It interested me very greatly. It firedme.
"Was she incapable of love?"
"No, it was notorious in her circle that she had loved often, but lovedin vain."
"Why did she marry you?"
"I think she was fatigued by my importunities. She was not very strong.But it may be that she married me out of pique. She never told me. I didnot inquire."
"Yet you were very happy with her?"
"While she lived, I was ideally happy."
The young woman stretched out a hand, and laid it on the clasped handsof the old man. He sat gazing into the past. She was silent for a while;and in her eyes, still fixed intently on his face, there were tears.
"Grand-papa dear"--but there were tears in her voice, too.
"My child, you don't understand. If I had needed pity--"
"I do understand--so well. I wasn't pitying you, dear, I was envying youa little."
"Me?--an old man with only the remembrance of happiness?"
"You, who have had happiness granted to you. That isn't what made mecry, though. I cried because I was glad. You and I, with all this greatspan of years between us, and yet--so wonderfully alike! I had alwaysthought of myself as a creature utterly apart."
"Ah, that is how all young people think of themselves. It wears off.Tell me about this wonderful resemblance of ours."
He sat attentive while she described her heart to him. But when, at theclose of her confidences, she said, "So you see it's a case of sheerheredity, grand-papa," the word "Fiddlesticks!" would out.
"Forgive me, my dear," he said, patting her hand. "I was very muchinterested. But I do believe young people are even more staggered bythemselves than they were in my day. And then, all these grand theoriesthey fall back on! Heredity... as if there were something to baffle usin the fact of a young woman liking to be admired! And as if it werepassing strange of her to reserve her heart for a man she can respectand look up to! And as if a man's indifference to her were not of allthings the likeliest to give her a sense of inferiority to him! You andI, my dear, may in some respects be very queer people, but in the matterof the affections we are ordinary enough."
"Oh grand-papa, do you really mean that?" she cried eagerly.
"At my age, a man husbands his resources. He says nothing that he doesnot really mean. The indifference between you and other young womenis that which lay also between me and other young men: a specialattractiveness... Thousands of slippers, did I say? Tens of thousands. Ihad hoarded them with a fatuous pride. On the evening of my betrothal Imade a bonfire of them, visible from three counties. I danced round itall night." And from his old eyes darted even now the reflections ofthose flames.
"Glorious!" whispered Zuleika. "But ah," she said, rising to her feet,"tell me no more of it--poor me! You see, it isn't a mere specialattractiveness that _I_ have. _I_ am irresistible."
"A daring statement, my child--very hard to prove."
"Hasn't it been proved up to the hilt to-day?"
"To-day?... Ah, and so they did really all drown themselves for you?...Dear, dear!... The Duke--he, too?"
"He set the example."
"No! You don't say so! He was a greatly-gifted young man--a trueornament to the College. But he always seemed to me rather--what shall Isay?--inhuman... I remember now that he did seem rather excited whenhe came to the concert last night and you weren't yet there... You arequite sure you were the cause of his death?"
"Quite," said Zuleika, marvelling at the lie--or fib, rather: he hadbeen GOING to die for her. But why not have told the truth? Was itpossible, she wondered, that her wretched vanity had survived herrenunciation of the world? Why had she so resented just now the doubtcast on that irresistibility which had blighted and cranked her wholelife?
"Well, my dear," said the Warden, "I confess that I amamazed--astounded." Again he adjusted his glasses, and looked at her.
She found herself moving slowly around the study, with the gait of amannequin in a dress-maker's show-room. She tried to stop this; but herbody seemed to be quite beyond control of her mind. It had the insolenceto go ambling on its own account. "Little space you'll have in a conventcell," snarled her mind vindictively. Her body paid no heed whatever.
Her grandfather, leaning back in his chair, gazed at the ceiling, andmeditatively tapped the finger-tips of one hand against those of theother. "Sister Zuleika," he presently said to the ceiling.
"Well? and what is there so--so ridiculous in"--but the rest was lost intrill after trill of laughter; and these were then lost in sobs.
The Warden had risen from his chair. "My dear," he said, "I wasn'tlaughing. I was only--trying to imagine. If you really want to retirefrom--"
"I do," moaned Zuleika.
"Then perhaps--"
"But I don't," she wailed.
"Of course, you don't, my dear."
"Why, of course?"
"Come, you are tired, my poor child. That is very natural after thiswonderful, this historic day. Come dry your eyes. There, that's better.To-morrow--"
"I do believe you're a little proud of me."
"Heaven forgive me, I believe I am. A grandfather's heart--But there,good night, my dear. Let me light your candle."
She took her cloak, and followed him out to the hall table. There shementioned that she was going away early to-morrow.
"To the convent?" he slyly asked.
"Ah, don't tease me, grand-papa."
"Well, I am sorry you are going away, my dear. But perhaps, in thecircumstances, it is best. You must come and stay here again, lateron," he said, handing her the lit candle. "Not in term-time, though," headded.
"No," she echoed, "not in term-time."
XXIV
From the shifting gloom of the stair-case to the soft radiance castthrough the open door of her bedroom was for poor Zuleika an almostheartening transition. She stood awhile on the threshold, watchingMelisande dart to and fro like a shuttle across a loom. Already the mainpart of the pack
ing seemed to have been accomplished. The wardrobe was ayawning void, the carpet was here and there visible, many of thetrunks were already brimming and foaming over... Once more on the road!Somewhat as, when beneath the stars the great tent had been struck, andthe lions were growling in their vans, and the horses were pawing thestamped grass and whinnying, and the elephants trumpeting, Zuleika'smother may often have felt within her a wan exhilaration, so now did theheart of that mother's child rise and flutter amidst the familiar bustleof "being off." Weary she was of the world, and angry she was at notbeing, after all, good enough for something better. And yet--well, atleast, good-bye to Oxford!
She envied Melisande, so nimbly and cheerfully laborious till the dayshould come when her betrothed had saved enough to start a little cafeof his own and make her his bride and dame de comptoir. Oh, to have apurpose, a prospect, a stake in the world, as this faithful soul had!
"Can I help you at all, Melisande?" she asked, picking her way acrossthe strewn floor.
Melisande, patting down a pile of chiffon, seemed to be amused at sucha notion. "Mademoiselle has her own art. Do I mix myself in that?" shecried, waving one hand towards the great malachite casket.
Zuleika looked at the casket, and then very gratefully at the maid. Herart--how had she forgotten that? Here was solace, purpose. She wouldwork as she had never worked yet. She KNEW that she had it in her to dobetter than she had ever done. She confessed to herself that she had toooften been slack in the matter of practice and rehearsal, trusting herpersonal magnetism to carry her through. Only last night she had badlyfumbled, more than once. Her bravura business with the Demon Egg-Cup hadbeen simply vile. The audience hadn't noticed it, perhaps, but shehad. Now she would perfect herself. Barely a fortnight now before herengagement at the Folies Bergeres! What if--no, she must not think ofthat! But the thought insisted. What if she essayed for Paris thatwhich again and again she had meant to graft on to her repertory--theProvoking Thimble?
She flushed at the possibility. What if her whole present repertory werebut a passing phase in her art--a mere beginning--an earlier manner? Sheremembered how marvellously last night she had manipulated the ear-ringsand the studs. Then lo! the light died out of her eyes, and her facegrew rigid. That memory had brought other memories in its wake.
For her, when she fled the Broad, Noaks' window had blotted out allelse. Now she saw again that higher window, saw that girl flaunting herear-rings, gibing down at her. "He put them in with his own hands!"--thewords rang again in her ears, making her cheeks tingle. Oh, he hadthought it a very clever thing to do, no doubt--a splendid littlerevenge, something after his own heart! "And he kissed me in the openstreet"--excellent, excellent! She ground her teeth. And these doingsmust have been fresh in his mind when she overtook him and walked withhim to the house-boat! Infamous! And she had then been wearing hisstuds! She drew his attention to them when--
Her jewel-box stood open, to receive the jewels she wore to-night. Shewent very calmly to it. There, in a corner of the topmost tray, restedthe 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 yourfiance?"
"Je voudrais bien, mademoiselle."
"Then you shall give him these," said Zuleika, holding out the twostuds.
"Mais jamais de la vie! Chez Tourtel tout le monde le diraitmillionaire. Un garcon de cafe qui porte au plastron des perlespareilles--merci!"
"Tell him he may tell every one that they were given to me by the lateDuke of Dorset, and given by me to you, and by you to him."
"Mais--" The protest died on Melisande's lips. Suddenly she had ceasedto see the pearls as trinkets finite and inapposite--saw them as thingspresently 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. Thelook was transient. Nothing, she reflected, could undo what the Duke haddone. That hateful, impudent girl would take good care that every oneshould know. "He put them in with his own hands." HER ear-rings! "Hekissed me in the public street. He loved me"... Well, he had called out"Zuleika!" and every one around had heard him. That was something. Buthow glad all the old women in the world would be to shake their headsand 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 knewhe 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 totheirs?... But many of them had called out "Zuleika!" too. And of courseany really impartial person who knew anything at all about the matter atfirst hand would be sure in his own mind that it was perfectly absurd topretend that the whole thing wasn't entirely and absolutely for her...And of course some of the men must have left written evidence of theirintention. 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 aloudto her in the middle of luncheon. Oh, there would be proof positive asto many of the men. But of the others it would be said that they diedin trying to rescue their comrades. There would be all sorts of sillyfar-fetched theories, and downright lies that couldn't be disproved...
"Melisande, that crackling of tissue paper is driving me mad! Do leaveoff! Can't you see that I am waiting to be undressed?"
The maid hastened to her side, and with quick light fingers began toundress 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 soothinganon to sit merely night-gowned before the mirror, while, slowly andgently, strongly and strand by strand, Melisande brushed her hair.
After all, it didn't so much matter what the world thought. Let theworld whisper and insinuate what it would. To slur and sully, tobelittle and drag down--that was what the world always tried to do.But great things were still great, and fair things still fair. With nothought for the world's opinion had these men gone down to the waterto-day. Their deed was for her and themselves alone. It had sufficedthem. Should it not suffice her? It did, oh it did. She was a wretch tohave repined.
At a gesture from her, Melisande brought to a close the rhythmicalministrations, and--using no tissue paper this time--did what was yet tobe done among the trunks.
"WE know, you and I," Zuleika whispered to the adorable creature in themirror; 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 wasthe ghost of that one man who--THEY knew--had died irrelevantly, with acold 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, theghosts of all them who, being dead, could not die again; the poor ghostsof 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 ladyin the room, reproachfully at first, then--for were they notsisters?--relentingly, then pityingly. Each of the two covered her facewith her hands.
And there recurred, as by stealth, to the lady in the room a thoughtthat had assailed her not long ago in Judas Street... a thought aboutthe power of example...
And now, with pent breath and fast-beating heart, she stood staring atthe lady of the mirror, without seeing her; and now she wheeled roundand 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 consultinghim. "Mademoiselle will permit me to find that which she seeks?" askedMelisande.
"Be
quiet," said Zuleika. We always repulse, at first, any one whointervenes between us and Bradshaw.
We always end by accepting the intervention. "See if it is possible togo 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 toexasperation Zuleika sat watching the faint and frantic researches ofher maid.
"Stop!" she said suddenly. "I have a much better idea. Go down veryearly 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 ayawn, met in a smile. With both hands she pushed back her hair from hershoulders, and twisted it into a loose knot. Very lightly she slipped upinto bed, and very soon she was asleep.
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