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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
58
“Did
I?
I
think
not.
I
will
tell
you
now...
That
cool
out-house
dates
from
the
middle
of
the
eighteenth
century.
My
great-great-grandfather,
when
he
was
a
very
old
man,
married
en
troisiemes
noces
a
dairy-maid
on
the
Tankerton
estate.
Meg
Speedwell
was
her
name.
He
had
seen
her
walking
across
a
field,
not
many
months
after
the
interment
of
his
second
Duchess,
Maria,
that
great
and
gifted
lady.
I
know
not
whether
it
was
that
her
bonny
mien
fanned
in
him
some
embers
of
his
youth,
or
that
he
was
loth
to
be
outdone
in
gracious
eccentricity
by
his
crony
the
Duke
of
Dewlap,
who
himself
had
just
taken
a
bride
from
a
dairy.
(You
have
read
Meredith’s
account
of
that
affair?
No?
You
should.)
Whether
it
was
veritable
love
or
mere
modishness
that
formed
my
ancestor’s
resolve,
presently
the
bells
were
ringing
out,
and
the
oldest
elm
in
the
park
was
being
felled,
in
Meg
Speedwell’s
honour,
and
the
children
were
strewing
daisies
on
which
Meg
Speedwell
trod,
a
proud
young
hoyden
of
a
bride,
with
her
head
in
the
air
and
her
heart
in
the
seventh
heaven.
The
Duke
had
given
her
already
a
horde
of
fine
gifts;
but
these,
he
had
said,
were
nothing--trash
in
comparison
with
the
gift
that
was
to
ensure
for
her
a
perdurable
felicity.
After
the
wedding-breakfast,
when
all
the
squires
had
ridden
away
on
their
cobs,
and
all
the
squires’
ladies
in
their
coaches,
the
Duke
led
his
bride
forth
from
the
hall,
leaning
on
her
arm,
till
they
came
to
a
little
edifice
of
new
white
stone,
very
spick
and
span,
with
two
lattice-windows
and
a
bright
green
door
between.
This
he
bade
her
enter.
A-flutter
with
excitement,
she
turned
the
handle.
In
a
moment
she
flounced
back,
red
with
shame
and
anger--flounced
forth
from
the
fairest,
whitest,
dapperest
dairy,
wherein
was
all
of
the
best
that
the
keenest
dairy-maid
might
need.
The
Duke
bade
her
dry
her
eyes,
for
that
it
ill
befitted
a
great
lady
to
be
weeping
on
her
wedding-day.
‘As
for
gratitude,’
he
chuckled,
‘zounds!
that
is
a
wine
all
the
better
for
the
keeping.’
Duchess
Meg
soon
forgot
this
unworthy
wedding-gift,
such
was
her
rapture
in
the
other,
the
so
august,
appurtenances
of
her
new
life.
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