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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
90
But
she
would
have
no
ellipses.
“What
are
you
going
to
do?”
she
whispered.
“Do
you
not
know?”
“Tell
me.”
“Once
and
for
all:
you
cannot
love
me?”
Slowly
she
shook
her
head.
The
black
pearl
and
the
pink,
quivering,
gave
stress
to
her
ultimatum.
But
the
violet
of
her
eyes
was
all
but
hidden
by
the
dilation
of
her
pupils.
“Then,”
whispered
the
Duke,
“when
I
shall
have
died,
deeming
life
a
vain
thing
without
you,
will
the
gods
give
you
tears
for
me?
Miss
Dobson,
will
your
soul
awaken?
When
I
shall
have
sunk
for
ever
beneath
these
waters
whose
supposed
purpose
here
this
afternoon
is
but
that
they
be
ploughed
by
the
blades
of
these
young
oarsmen,
will
there
be
struck
from
that
flint,
your
heart,
some
late
and
momentary
spark
of
pity
for
me?”
“Why
of
course,
of
COURSE!”
babbled
Zuleika,
with
clasped
hands
and
dazzling
eyes.
“But,”
she
curbed
herself,
“it
is--it
would--oh,
you
mustn’t
THINK
of
it!
I
couldn’t
allow
it!
I--I
should
never
forgive
myself!”
“In
fact,
you
would
mourn
me
always?”
“Why
yes!..
Y-es-always.”
What
else
could
she
say?
But
would
his
answer
be
that
he
dared
not
condemn
her
to
lifelong
torment?
“Then,”
his
answer
was,
“my
joy
in
dying
for
you
is
made
perfect.”
Her
muscles
relaxed.
Her
breath
escaped
between
her
teeth.
“You
are
utterly
resolved?”
she
asked.
“Are
you?”
“Utterly.”
“Nothing
I
might
say
could
change
your
purpose?”
“Nothing.”
“No
entreaty,
howsoever
piteous,
could
move
you?”
“None.”
Forthwith
she
urged,
entreated,
cajoled,
commanded,
with
infinite
prettiness
of
ingenuity
and
of
eloquence.
Never
was
such
a
cascade
of
dissuasion
as
hers.
She
only
didn’t
say
she
could
love
him.
She
never
hinted
that.
Indeed,
throughout
her
pleading
rang
this
recurrent
motif:
that
he
must
live
to
take
to
himself
as
mate
some
good,
serious,
clever
woman
who
would
be
a
not
unworthy
mother
of
his
children.
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