They had awaited thousands and innumerable thousands of daybreaks in the
Broad, these Emperors, counting the long slow hours till the night were
over. It is in the night especially that their fallen greatness haunts
them. Day brings some distraction. They are not incurious of the lives
around them--these little lives that succeed one another so quickly. To
them, in their immemorial old age, youth is a constant wonder. And so
is death, which to them comes not. Youth or death--which, they had often
asked themselves, was the goodlier? But it was ill that these two things
should be mated. It was ill-come, this day of days.
Long after the Duke was in bed and asleep, his peal of laughter echoed
in the ears of the Emperors. Why had he laughed?
And they said to themselves “We are very old men, and broken, and in a
land not our own. There are things that we do not understand.”
Brief was the freshness of the dawn. From all points of the compass,
dark grey clouds mounted into the sky. There, taking their places
as though in accordance to a strategic plan laid down for them, they
ponderously massed themselves, and presently, as at a given signal,
drew nearer to earth, and halted, an irresistible great army, awaiting
orders.
Somewhere under cover of them the sun went his way, transmitting a
sulphurous heat. The very birds in the trees of Trinity were oppressed
and did not twitter. The very leaves did not whisper.
Out through the railings, and across the road, prowled a skimpy and
dingy cat, trying to look like a tiger.
It was all very sinister and dismal.
The hours passed. The Broad put forth, one by one, its signs of waking.
Soon after eight o’clock, as usual, the front-door of the Duke’s
lodgings was opened from within. The Emperors watched for the faint
cloud of dust that presently emerged, and for her whom it preceded. To
them, this first outcoming of the landlady’s daughter was a moment of
daily interest. Katie!--they had known her as a toddling child; and
later as a little girl scampering off to school, all legs and pinafore
and streaming golden hair. And now she was sixteen years old. Her hair,
tied back at the nape of her neck, would very soon be “up.” Her big
blue eyes were as they had always been; but she had long passed out of
pinafores into aprons, had taken on a sedateness befitting her years and
her duties, and was anxious to be regarded rather as an aunt than as
a sister by her brother Clarence, aged twelve. The Emperors had always
predicted that she would be pretty. And very pretty she was.
As she came slowly out, with eyes downcast to her broom, sweeping the
dust so seriously over the doorstep and then across the pavement, and
anon when she reappeared with pail and scrubbing-brush, and abased
herself before the doorstep, and wrought so vehemently there, what
filled her little soul was not the dignity of manual labour. The duties
that Zuleika had envied her were dear to her exactly as they would have
been, yesterday morning, to Zuleika. The Emperors had often noticed that
during vacations their little favourite’s treatment of the doorstep was
languid and perfunctory. They knew well her secret, and always (for who
can be long in England without becoming sentimental?) they cherished the
hope of a romantic union between her and “a certain young gentleman,” as
they archly called the Duke. His continued indifference to her they took
almost as an affront to themselves. Where in all England was a prettier,
sweeter girl than their Katie? The sudden irruption of Zuleika into
Oxford was especially grievous to them because they could no longer
hope against hope that Katie would be led by the Duke to the altar, and
thence into the highest social circles, and live happily ever after.
Luckily it was for Katie, however, that they had no power to fill her
head with their foolish notions. It was well for her to have never
doubted she loved in vain. She had soon grown used to her lot. Not until
yesterday had there been any bitterness. Jealousy surged in Katie at the
very moment when she beheld Zuleika on the threshold. A glance at the
Duke’s face when she showed the visitor up was enough to acquaint
her with the state of his heart. And she did not, for confirming her
intuition, need the two or three opportunities she took of listening at
the keyhole. What in the course of those informal audiences did surprise
her--so much indeed that she could hardly believe her ear--was that it
was possible for a woman not to love the Duke. Her jealousy of “that
Miss Dobson” was for a while swallowed up in her pity for him. What she
had borne so cheerfully for herself she could not bear for her hero. She
wished she had not happened to listen.
And this morning, while she knelt swaying and spreading over “his”
doorstep, her blue eyes added certain tears to be scrubbed away in the
general moisture of the stone. Rising, she dried her hands in her apron,
and dried her eyes with her hands. Lest her mother should see that she
had been crying, she loitered outside the door. Suddenly, her roving
glance changed to a stare of acute hostility. She knew well that the
person wandering towards her was--no, not “that Miss Dobson,” as she had
for the fraction of an instant supposed, but the next worst thing.
It has been said that Melisande indoors was an evidently French maid.
Out of doors she was not less evidently Zuleika’s. Not that she aped her
mistress. The resemblance had come by force of propinquity and devotion.
Nature had laid no basis for it. Not one point of form or colour had
the two women in common. It has been said that Zuleika was not strictly
beautiful. Melisande, like most Frenchwomen, was strictly plain. But
in expression and port, in her whole tournure, she had become, as
every good maid does, her mistress’ replica. The poise of her head, the
boldness of her regard and brilliance of her smile, the leisurely and
swinging way in which she walked, with a hand on the hip--all these
things of hers were Zuleika’s too. She was no conqueror. None but the
man to whom she was betrothed--a waiter at the Cafe Tourtel, named
Pelleas--had ever paid court to her; nor was she covetous of other
hearts. Yet she looked victorious, and insatiable of victories, and
“terrible as an army with banners.”
In the hand that was not on her hip she carried a letter. And on her
shoulders she had to bear the full burden of the hatred that Zuleika had
inspired in Katie. But this she did not know. She came glancing boldly,
leisurely, at the numbers on the front-doors.
Katie stepped back on to the doorstep, lest the inferiority of her
stature should mar the effect of her disdain.
“Good-day. Is it here that Duke D’Orsay lives?” asked Melisande, as
nearly accurate as a Gaul may be in such matters.
“The Duke of Dorset,” said Katie with a cold and insular emphasis,
“lives here.” And “You,” she tried to convey with her eyes, “you, for
all your smart black silk, are a hireling. I am Miss Batch. I happen to
have a hobby for housework. I have not been crying.”
“Then please mount this to him at once,” said Melisande, holding out the
letter. “It is from Miss Dobson’s part. Very express. I wait response.”
“You are very ugly,” Katie signalled with her eyes. “I am very pretty.
I have the Oxfordshire complexion. And I play the piano.” With her lips
she said merely, “His Grace is not called before nine o’clock.”
“But to-day you go wake him now--quick--is it not?”
“Quite out of the question,” said Katie. “If you care to leave
that letter here, I will see that it is placed on his Grace’s
breakfast-table, with the morning’s post.” “For the rest,” added her
eyes, “Down with France!”
“I find you droll, but droll, my little one!” cried Melisande.
Katie stepped back and shut the door in her face. “Like a little
Empress,” the Emperors commented.
The Frenchwoman threw up her hands and apostrophised heaven. To this day
she believes that all the bonnes of Oxford are mad, but mad, and of a
madness.
She stared at the door, at the pail and scrubbing-brush that had been
shut out with her, at the letter in her hand. She decided that she had
better drop the letter into the slit in the door and make report to Miss
Dobson.
As the envelope fell through the slit to the door-mat, Katie made at
Melisande a grimace which, had not the panels been opaque, would have
astonished the Emperors. Resuming her dignity, she picked the thing up,
and, at arm’s length, examined it. It was inscribed in pencil. Katie’s
lips curled at sight of the large, audacious handwriting. But it is
probable that whatever kind of handwriting Zuleika might have had would
have been just the kind that Katie would have expected.
Fingering the envelope, she wondered what the wretched woman had to
say. It occurred to her that the kettle was simmering on the hob in the
kitchen, and that she might easily steam open the envelope and master
its contents. However, her doing this would have in no way affected
the course of the tragedy. And so the gods (being to-day in a strictly
artistic mood) prompted her to mind her own business.
Laying the Duke’s table for breakfast, she made as usual a neat
rectangular pile of the letters that had come for him by post. Zuleika’s
letter she threw down askew. That luxury she allowed herself.
And he, when he saw the letter, allowed himself the luxury of leaving it
unopened awhile. Whatever its purport, he knew it could but minister to
his happy malice. A few hours ago, with what shame and dread it would
have stricken him! Now it was a dainty to be dallied with.
His eyes rested on the black tin boxes that contained his robes of the
Garter. Hateful had been the sight of them in the watches of the night,
when he thought he had worn those robes for the last time. But now--!
He opened Zuleika’s letter. It did not disappoint him.
“DEAR DUKE,--DO, DO forgive me. I am beyond words ashamed of the silly
tomboyish thing I did last night. Of course it was no worse than that,
but an awful fear haunts me that you MAY have thought I acted in anger
at the idea of your breaking your promise to me. Well, it is quite true
I had been hurt and angry when you hinted at doing that, but the moment
I left you I saw that you had been only in fun, and I enjoyed the joke
against myself, though I thought it was rather too bad of you. And
then, as a sort of revenge, but almost before I knew what I was doing,
I played that IDIOTIC practical joke on you. I have been MISERABLE ever
since. DO come round as early as possible and tell me I am forgiven. But
before you tell me that, please lecture me till I cry--though indeed I
have been crying half through the night. And then if you want to be VERY
horrid you may tease me for being so slow to see a joke. And then you
might take me to see some of the Colleges and things before we go on to
lunch at The MacQuern’s? Forgive pencil and scrawl. Am sitting up in bed
to write.--Your sincere friend,
“Z. D.
“P.S.--Please burn this.”
At that final injunction, the Duke abandoned himself to his mirth.
“Please burn this.” Poor dear young woman, how modest she was in the
glare of her diplomacy! Why there was nothing, not one phrase, to
compromise her in the eyes of a coroner’s jury!... Seriously, she
had good reason to be proud of her letter. For the purpose in view it
couldn’t have been better done. That was what made it so touchingly
absurd. He put himself in her position. He pictured himself as her,
“sitting up in bed,” pencil in hand, to explain away, to soothe, to
clinch and bind... Yes, if he had happened to be some other man--one
whom her insult might have angered without giving love its death-blow,
and one who could be frightened out of not keeping his word--this letter
would have been capital.
He helped himself to some more marmalade, and poured out another cup of
coffee. Nothing is more thrilling, thought he, than to be treated as a
cully by the person you hold in the hollow of your hand.
But within this great irony lay (to be glided over) another irony. He
knew well in what mood Zuleika had done what she had done to him last
night; yet he preferred to accept her explanation of it.
Officially, then, he acquitted her of anything worse than tomboyishness.
But this verdict for his own convenience implied no mercy to the
culprit. The sole point for him was how to administer her punishment the
most poignantly. Just how should he word his letter?
He rose from his chair, and “Dear Miss Dobson--no, MY dear Miss Dobson,”
he murmured, pacing the room, “I am so very sorry I cannot come to see
you: I have to attend two lectures this morning. By contrast with this
weariness, it will be the more delightful to meet you at The MacQuern’s.
I want to see as much as I can of you to-day, because to-night there is
the Bump Supper, and to-morrow morning, alas! I must motor to Windsor
for this wretched Investiture. Meanwhile, how can you ask to be forgiven
when there is nothing whatever to forgive? It seems to me that mine, not
yours, is the form of humour that needs explanation. My proposal to die
for you was made in as playful a spirit as my proposal to marry you. And
it is really for me to ask forgiveness of you. One thing especially,” he
murmured, fingering in his waistcoat-pocket the ear-rings she had given
him, “pricks my conscience. I do feel that I ought not to have let
you give me these two pearls--at any rate, not the one which went into
premature mourning for me. As I have no means of deciding which of the
two this one is, I enclose them both, with the hope that the pretty
difference between them will in time reappear”... Or words to that
effect... Stay! why not add to the joy of contriving that effect the
greater joy of watching it? Why send Zuleika a letter? He would obey her
summons. He would speed to her side. He snatched up a hat.
In this haste, however, he detected a certain lack of dignity. He
steadied himself, and went slowly to the mirror. There he adjusted his
hat with care, and regarded himself very seriously, very sternly, from
various angles, like a man invited to paint his own portrait for the
Uffizi. He must be worthy of himself. It was well that Zuleika should
be chastened. Great was her sin. Out of life and death she had fashioned
toys for her vanity. But his joy must be in vindication of what was
noble, not in making suffer what was vile. Yesterday he had been her
puppet, her Jumping-Jack; to-day it was as avenging angel that he would
appear before her. The gods had mocked him who was now their minister.
Their minister? Their master, as being once more master of himself. It
was they who had plotted his undoing. Because they loved him they were
fain that he should die young. The Dobson woman was but their agent,
their cat’s-paw. By her they had all but got him. Not quite! And now, to
teach them, through her, a lesson they would not soon forget, he would
go forth.
Shaking with laughter, the gods leaned over the thunder-clouds to watch
him.
He went forth.
On the well-whitened doorstep he was confronted by a small boy in
uniform bearing a telegram.
“Duke of Dorset?” asked the small boy.
Opening the envelope, the Duke saw that the message, with which was a
prepaid form for reply, had been handed in at the Tankerton post-office.
It ran thus:
Deeply regret inform your grace last night
two black owls came and perched on battlements
remained there through night hooting
at dawn flew away none knows whither
awaiting instructions Jellings
The Duke’s face, though it grew white, moved not one muscle.
Somewhat shamed now, the gods ceased from laughing.
The Duke looked from the telegram to the boy. “Have you a pencil?” he
asked.
“Yes, my Lord,” said the boy, producing a stump of pencil.
Holding the prepaid form against the door, the Duke wrote:
Jellings Tankerton Hall
Prepare vault for funeral Monday