Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

As she descended the last flight of stairs, her daughter had just shut the front-door, and was coming along the hall. “Poor Mr. Noaks--he’s gone,” said the mother. “Has he?” said Katie listlessly. “Yes he has, you heartless girl. What’s that you’ve got in your hand? Why, if it isn’t the black-leading! And what have you been doing with that?” “Let me alone, mother, do,” said poor Katie. She had done her lowly task. She had expressed her mourning, as best she could, there where she had been wont to express her love. XXI And Zuleika? She had done a wise thing, and was where it was best that she should be. Her face lay upturned on the water’s surface, and round it were the masses of her dark hair, half floating, half submerged. Her eyes were closed, and her lips were parted. Not Ophelia in the brook could have seemed more at peace. “Like a creature native and indued Unto that element,” tranquil Zuleika lay. Gently to and fro her tresses drifted on the water, or under the water went ever ravelling and unravelling. Nothing else of her stirred. What to her now the loves that she had inspired and played on? the lives lost for her? Little thought had she now of them. Aloof she lay. Steadily rising from the water was a thick vapour that turned to dew on the window-pane. The air was heavy with scent of violets. These are the flowers of mourning; but their scent here and now signified nothing; for Eau de Violettes was the bath-essence that Zuleika always had.