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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
161
And
then,
as
though
Oxford
herself
were
speaking
up
to
me,
the
air
vibrated
with
a
sweet
noise
of
music.
It
was
the
hour
of
one;
the
end
of
the
Duke’s
hour
of
grace.
Through
the
silvery
tangle
of
sounds
from
other
clocks
I
floated
quickly
down
to
the
Broad.
XIII
I
had
on
the
way
a
horrible
apprehension.
What
if
the
Duke,
in
his
agony,
had
taken
the
one
means
to
forgetfulness?
His
room,
I
could
see,
was
lit
up;
but
a
man
does
not
necessarily
choose
to
die
in
the
dark.
I
hovered,
afraid,
over
the
dome
of
the
Sheldonian.
I
saw
that
the
window
of
the
room
above
the
Duke’s
was
also
lit
up.
And
there
was
no
reason
at
all
to
doubt
the
survival
of
Noaks.
Perhaps
the
sight
of
him
would
hearten
me.
I
was
wrong.
The
sight
of
Noaks
in
his
room
was
as
dismal
a
thing
as
could
be.
With
his
chin
sunk
on
his
breast,
he
sat
there,
on
a
rickety
chair,
staring
up
at
the
mantel-piece.
This
he
had
decked
out
as
a
sort
of
shrine.
In
the
centre,
aloft
on
an
inverted
tin
that
had
contained
Abernethy
biscuits,
stood
a
blue
plush
frame,
with
an
inner
rim
of
brass,
several
sizes
too
big
for
the
picture-postcard
installed
in
it.
Zuleika’s
image
gazed
forth
with
a
smile
that
was
obviously
not
intended
for
the
humble
worshipper
at
this
execrable
shrine.
On
either
side
of
her
stood
a
small
vase,
one
holding
some
geraniums,
the
other
some
mignonette.
And
just
beneath
her
was
placed
that
iron
ring
which,
rightly
or
wrongly,
Noaks
supposed
to
alleviate
rheumatism--that
same
iron
ring
which,
by
her
touch
to-night,
had
been
charged
for
him
with
a
yet
deeper
magic,
insomuch
that
he
dared
no
longer
wear
it,
and
had
set
it
before
her
as
an
oblation.
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