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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
61
She
raised
the
alarm
among
her
fellows.
They
searched
high
and
low.
Nowhere
was
their
mistress.
The
news
was
broken
to
their
master,
who,
without
comment,
rose,
bade
his
man
dress
him,
and
presently
walked
out
to
the
place
where
he
knew
he
would
find
her.
And
there,
to
be
sure,
she
was,
churning,
churning
for
dear
life.
Her
sleeves
were
rolled
above
her
elbows,
and
her
skirt
was
kilted
high;
and,
as
she
looked
back
over
her
shoulder
and
saw
the
Duke,
there
was
the
flush
of
roses
in
her
cheeks,
and
the
light
of
a
thousand
thanks
in
her
eyes.
‘Oh,’
she
cried,
‘what
a
curtsey
I
would
drop
you,
but
that
to
let
go
the
handle
were
to
spoil
all!’
And
every
morning,
ever
after,
she
woke
when
the
birds
woke,
rose
when
they
rose,
and
went
singing
through
the
dawn
to
the
dairy,
there
to
practise
for
her
pleasure
that
sweet
and
lowly
handicraft
which
she
had
once
practised
for
her
need.
And
every
evening,
with
her
milking-stool
under
her
arm,
and
her
milk-pail
in
her
hand,
she
went
into
the
field
and
called
the
cows
to
her,
as
she
had
been
wont
to
do.
To
those
other,
those
so
august,
accomplishments
she
no
more
pretended.
She
gave
them
the
go-by.
And
all
the
old
zest
and
joyousness
of
her
life
came
back
to
her.
Soundlier
than
ever
slept
she,
and
sweetlier
dreamed,
under
the
fine
silk
canopy,
till
the
birds
called
her
to
her
work.
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