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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
184
That
faint
monotonous
sound
in
the
stillness
of
the
night--the
Duke
remembered
it
now.
What
he
had
thought
to
be
only
his
fancy
had
been
his
death-knell,
wafted
to
him
along
uncharted
waves
of
ether,
from
the
battlements
of
Tankerton.
It
had
ceased
at
daybreak.
He
wondered
now
that
he
had
not
guessed
its
meaning.
And
he
was
glad
that
he
had
not.
He
was
thankful
for
the
peace
that
had
been
granted
to
him,
the
joyous
arrogance
in
which
he
had
gone
to
bed
and
got
up
for
breakfast.
He
valued
these
mercies
the
more
for
the
great
tragic
irony
that
came
of
them.
Aye,
and
he
was
inclined
to
blame
the
gods
for
not
having
kept
him
still
longer
in
the
dark
and
so
made
the
irony
still
more
awful.
Why
had
they
not
caused
the
telegram
to
be
delayed
in
transmission?
They
ought
to
have
let
him
go
and
riddle
Zuleika
with
his
scorn
and
his
indifference.
They
ought
to
have
let
him
hurl
through
her
his
defiance
of
them.
Art
aside,
they
need
not
have
grudged
him
that
excursion.
He
could
not,
he
told
himself,
face
Zuleika
now.
As
artist,
he
saw
that
there
was
irony
enough
left
over
to
make
the
meeting
a
fine
one.
As
theologian,
he
did
not
hold
her
responsible
for
his
destiny.
But
as
a
man,
after
what
she
had
done
to
him
last
night,
and
before
what
he
had
to
do
for
her
to-day,
he
would
not
go
out
of
his
way
to
meet
her.
Of
course,
he
would
not
actually
avoid
her.
To
seem
to
run
away
from
her
were
beneath
his
dignity.
But,
if
he
did
meet
her,
what
in
heaven’s
name
should
he
say
to
her?
He
remembered
his
promise
to
lunch
with
The
MacQuern,
and
shuddered.
She
would
be
there.
Death,
as
he
had
said,
cancelled
all
engagements.
A
very
simple
way
out
of
the
difficulty
would
be
to
go
straight
to
the
river.
No,
that
would
be
like
running
away.
It
couldn’t
be
done.
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