Zuleika Dobson; Or, An Oxford Love Story

It troubled him that he could swim. Twice, indeed, from his yacht, he had swum the Hellespont. And how about the animal instinct of self-preservation, strong even in despair? No matter! His soul’s set purpose would subdue that. The law of gravitation that brings one to the surface? There his very skill in swimming would help him. He would swim under water, along the river-bed, swim till he found weeds to cling to, weird strong weeds that he would coil round him, exulting faintly... As they turned into Radcliffe Square, the Duke’s ear caught the sound of a far-distant gun. He started, and looked up at the clock of St. Mary’s. Half-past four! The boats had started. He had heard that whenever a woman was to blame for a disappointment, the best way to avoid a scene was to inculpate oneself. He did not wish Zuleika to store up yet more material for penitence. And so “I am sorry,” he said. “That gun--did you hear it? It was the signal for the race. I shall never forgive myself.” “Then we shan’t see the race at all?” cried Zuleika. “It will be over, alas, before we are near the river. All the people will be coming back through the meadows.” “Let us meet them.” “Meet a torrent? Let us have tea in my rooms and go down quietly for the other Division.” “Let us go straight on.” Through the square, across the High, down Grove Street, they passed. The Duke looked up at the tower of Merton, “os oupot authis alla nyn paunstaton.” Strange that to-night it would still be standing here, in all its sober and solid beauty--still be gazing, over the roofs and chimneys, at the tower of Magdalen, its rightful bride. Through untold centuries of the future it would stand thus, gaze thus. He winced. Oxford walls have a way of belittling us; and the Duke was loth to regard his doom as trivial.