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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
272
“Shame!”
screamed
Clarence,
who
had
darted
out
into
the
fray.
“I
found
him
hiding
behind
the
curtain,”
chimed
in
Katie.
“And
I
a
mother
to
him!”
said
Mrs.
Batch,
shaking
her
fist.
“‘What
is
life
without
love?’
indeed!
Oh,
the
cowardly,
underhand--”
“Wretch,”
prompted
her
cronies.
“Let’s
kick
him
out
of
the
house!”
suggested
Clarence,
dancing
for
joy.
Zuleika,
smiling
brilliantly
down
at
the
boy,
said
“Just
you
run
up
and
fight
him!”
“Right
you
are,”
he
answered,
with
a
look
of
knightly
devotion,
and
darted
back
into
the
house.
“No
escape!”
she
cried
up
to
Noaks.
“You’ve
got
to
fight
him
now.
He
and
you
are
just
about
evenly
matched,
I
fancy.”
But,
grimly
enough,
Zuleika’s
estimate
was
never
put
to
the
test.
Is
it
harder
for
a
coward
to
fight
with
his
fists
than
to
kill
himself?
Or
again,
is
it
easier
for
him
to
die
than
to
endure
a
prolonged
cross-fire
of
women’s
wrath
and
scorn?
This
I
know:
that
in
the
life
of
even
the
least
and
meanest
of
us
there
is
somewhere
one
fine
moment--one
high
chance
not
missed.
I
like
to
think
it
was
by
operation
of
this
law
that
Noaks
had
now
clambered
out
upon
the
window-sill,
silencing,
sickening,
scattering
like
chaff
the
women
beneath
him.
He
was
already
not
there
when
Clarence
bounded
into
the
room.
“Come
on!”
yelled
the
boy,
first
thrusting
his
head
behind
the
door,
then
diving
beneath
the
table,
then
plucking
aside
either
window-curtain,
vowing
vengeance.
Vengeance
was
not
his.
Down
on
the
road
without,
not
yet
looked
at
but
by
the
steadfast
eyes
of
the
Emperors,
the
last
of
the
undergraduates
lay
dead;
and
fleet-footed
Zuleika,
with
her
fingers
still
pressed
to
her
ears,
had
taken
full
toll
now.
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