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290
Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
284
XXIV
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.
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