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Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story
·
Sir Max Beerbohm
91
She
laid
stress
on
his
youth,
his
great
position,
his
brilliant
attainments,
the
much
he
had
already
achieved,
the
splendid
possibilities
of
his
future.
Though
of
course
she
spoke
in
undertones,
not
to
be
overheard
by
the
throng
on
the
barge,
it
was
almost
as
though
his
health
were
being
floridly
proposed
at
some
public
banquet--say,
at
a
Tenants’
Dinner.
Insomuch
that,
when
she
ceased,
the
Duke
half
expected
Jellings,
his
steward,
to
bob
up
uttering,
with
lifted
hands,
a
stentorian
“For-or,”
and
all
the
company
to
take
up
the
chant:
“he’s--a
jolly
good
fellow.”
His
brief
reply,
on
those
occasions,
seemed
always
to
indicate
that,
whatever
else
he
might
be,
a
jolly
good
fellow
he
was
not.
But
by
Zuleika’s
eulogy
he
really
was
touched.
“Thank
you--thank
you,”
he
gasped;
and
there
were
tears
in
his
eyes.
Dear
the
thought
that
she
so
revered
him,
so
wished
him
not
to
die.
But
this
was
no
more
than
a
rush-light
in
the
austere
radiance
of
his
joy
in
dying
for
her.
And
the
time
was
come.
Now
for
the
sacrament
of
his
immersion
in
infinity.
“Good-bye,”
he
said
simply,
and
was
about
to
swing
himself
on
to
the
ledge
of
the
balustrade.
Zuleika,
divining
his
intention,
made
way
for
him.
Her
bosom
heaved
quickly,
quickly.
All
colour
had
left
her
face;
but
her
eyes
shone
as
never
before.
Already
his
foot
was
on
the
ledge,
when
hark!
the
sound
of
a
distant
gun.
To
Zuleika,
with
all
the
chords
of
her
soul
strung
to
the
utmost
tensity,
the
effect
was
as
if
she
herself
had
been
shot;
and
she
clutched
at
the
Duke’s
arm,
like
a
frightened
child.
He
laughed.
“It
was
the
signal
for
the
race,”
he
said,
and
laughed
again,
rather
bitterly,
at
the
crude
and
trivial
interruption
of
high
matters.
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