From the shifting gloom of the stair-case to the soft radiance cast
through the open door of her bedroom was for poor Zuleika an almost
heartening transition. She stood awhile on the threshold, watching
Melisande dart to and fro like a shuttle across a loom. Already the main
part of the packing seemed to have been accomplished. The wardrobe was a
yawning void, the carpet was here and there visible, many of the
trunks were already brimming and foaming over... Once more on the road!
Somewhat as, when beneath the stars the great tent had been struck, and
the lions were growling in their vans, and the horses were pawing the
stamped grass and whinnying, and the elephants trumpeting, Zuleika’s
mother may often have felt within her a wan exhilaration, so now did the
heart of that mother’s child rise and flutter amidst the familiar bustle
of “being off.” Weary she was of the world, and angry she was at not
being, after all, good enough for something better. And yet--well, at
least, good-bye to Oxford!
She envied Melisande, so nimbly and cheerfully laborious till the day
should come when her betrothed had saved enough to start a little cafe
of his own and make her his bride and dame de comptoir. Oh, to have a
purpose, a prospect, a stake in the world, as this faithful soul had!
“Can I help you at all, Melisande?” she asked, picking her way across
the strewn floor.
Melisande, patting down a pile of chiffon, seemed to be amused at such
a notion. “Mademoiselle has her own art. Do I mix myself in that?” she
cried, waving one hand towards the great malachite casket.
Zuleika looked at the casket, and then very gratefully at the maid. Her
art--how had she forgotten that? Here was solace, purpose. She would
work as she had never worked yet. She KNEW that she had it in her to do
better than she had ever done. She confessed to herself that she had too
often been slack in the matter of practice and rehearsal, trusting her
personal magnetism to carry her through. Only last night she had badly
fumbled, more than once. Her bravura business with the Demon Egg-Cup had
been simply vile. The audience hadn’t noticed it, perhaps, but she
had. Now she would perfect herself. Barely a fortnight now before her
engagement at the Folies Bergeres! What if--no, she must not think of
that! But the thought insisted. What if she essayed for Paris that
which again and again she had meant to graft on to her repertory--the
Provoking Thimble?
She flushed at the possibility. What if her whole present repertory were
but a passing phase in her art--a mere beginning--an earlier manner? She
remembered how marvellously last night she had manipulated the ear-rings
and the studs. Then lo! the light died out of her eyes, and her face
grew rigid. That memory had brought other memories in its wake.
For her, when she fled the Broad, Noaks’ window had blotted out all
else. Now she saw again that higher window, saw that girl flaunting her
ear-rings, gibing down at her. “He put them in with his own hands!”--the
words rang again in her ears, making her cheeks tingle. Oh, he had
thought it a very clever thing to do, no doubt--a splendid little
revenge, something after his own heart! “And he kissed me in the open
street”--excellent, excellent! She ground her teeth. And these doings
must have been fresh in his mind when she overtook him and walked with
him to the house-boat! Infamous! And she had then been wearing his
studs! She drew his attention to them when--
Her jewel-box stood open, to receive the jewels she wore to-night. She
went very calmly to it. There, in a corner of the topmost tray, rested
the two great white pearls--the pearls which, in one way and another,
had meant so much to her.
“Melisande!”
“Mademoiselle?”
“When we go to Paris, would you like to make a little present to your
fiance?”
“Je voudrais bien, mademoiselle.”
“Then you shall give him these,” said Zuleika, holding out the two
studs.
“Mais jamais de la vie! Chez Tourtel tout le monde le dirait
millionaire. Un garcon de cafe qui porte au plastron des perles
pareilles--merci!”
“Tell him he may tell every one that they were given to me by the late
Duke of Dorset, and given by me to you, and by you to him.”
“Mais--” The protest died on Melisande’s lips. Suddenly she had ceased
to see the pearls as trinkets finite and inapposite--saw them as things
presently transmutable into little marble tables, bocks, dominos,
absinthes au sucre, shiny black portfolios with weekly journals in them,
yellow staves with daily journals flapping from them, vermouths secs,
vermouths cassis...
“Mademoiselle is too amiable,” she said, taking the pearls.
And certainly, just then, Zuleika was looking very amiable indeed. The
look was transient. Nothing, she reflected, could undo what the Duke had
done. That hateful, impudent girl would take good care that every one
should know. “He put them in with his own hands.” HER ear-rings! “He
kissed me in the public street. He loved me”... Well, he had called out
“Zuleika!” and every one around had heard him. That was something. But
how glad all the old women in the world would be to shake their heads
and say “Oh, no, my dear, believe me! It wasn’t anything to do with HER.
I’m told on the very best authority,” and so forth, and so on. She knew
he had told any number of undergraduates he was going to die for her.
But they, poor fellows, could not bear witness. And good heavens!
If there were a doubt as to the Duke’s motive, why not doubts as to
theirs?... But many of them had called out “Zuleika!” too. And of course
any really impartial person who knew anything at all about the matter at
first hand would be sure in his own mind that it was perfectly absurd to
pretend that the whole thing wasn’t entirely and absolutely for her...
And of course some of the men must have left written evidence of their
intention. She remembered that at The MacQuern’s to-day was a Mr.
Craddock, who had made a will in her favour and wanted to read it aloud
to her in the middle of luncheon. Oh, there would be proof positive as
to many of the men. But of the others it would be said that they died
in trying to rescue their comrades. There would be all sorts of silly
far-fetched theories, and downright lies that couldn’t be disproved...
“Melisande, that crackling of tissue paper is driving me mad! Do leave
off! Can’t you see that I am waiting to be undressed?”
The maid hastened to her side, and with quick light fingers began to
undress her. “Mademoiselle va bien dormir--ca se voit,” she purred.
“I shan’t,” said Zuleika.
Nevertheless, it was soothing to be undressed, and yet more soothing
anon to sit merely night-gowned before the mirror, while, slowly and
gently, strongly and strand by strand, Melisande brushed her hair.
After all, it didn’t so much matter what the world thought. Let the
world whisper and insinuate what it would. To slur and sully, to
belittle and drag down--that was what the world always tried to do.
But great things were still great, and fair things still fair. With no
thought for the world’s opinion had these men gone down to the water
to-day. Their deed was for her and themselves alone. It had sufficed
them. Should it not suffice her? It did, oh it did. She was a wretch to
have repined.
At a gesture from her, Melisande brought to a close the rhythmical
ministrations, and--using no tissue paper this time--did what was yet to
be done among the trunks.
“WE know, you and I,” Zuleika whispered to the adorable creature in the
mirror; and the adorable creature gave back her nod and smile.
THEY knew, these two.
Yet, in their happiness, rose and floated a shadow between them. It was
the ghost of that one man who--THEY knew--had died irrelevantly, with a
cold heart.
Came also the horrid little ghost of one who had died late and unseemly.
And now, thick and fast, swept a whole multitude of other ghosts, the
ghosts of all them who, being dead, could not die again; the poor ghosts
of them who had done what they could, and could do no more.
No more? Was it not enough? The lady in the mirror gazed at the lady
in the room, reproachfully at first, then--for were they not
sisters?--relentingly, then pityingly. Each of the two covered her face
with her hands.
And there recurred, as by stealth, to the lady in the room a thought
that had assailed her not long ago in Judas Street... a thought about
the power of example...
And now, with pent breath and fast-beating heart, she stood staring at
the lady of the mirror, without seeing her; and now she wheeled round
and swiftly glided to that little table on which stood her two books.
She snatched Bradshaw.
We always intervene between Bradshaw and any one whom we see consulting
him. “Mademoiselle will permit me to find that which she seeks?” asked
Melisande.
“Be quiet,” said Zuleika. We always repulse, at first, any one who
intervenes between us and Bradshaw.
We always end by accepting the intervention. “See if it is possible to
go direct from here to Cambridge,” said Zuleika, handing the book on.
“If it isn’t, then--well, see how to get there.”
We never have any confidence in the intervener. Nor is the intervener,
when it comes to the point, sanguine. With mistrust mounting to
exasperation Zuleika sat watching the faint and frantic researches of
her maid.
“Stop!” she said suddenly. “I have a much better idea. Go down very
early to the station. See the station-master. Order me a special train.
For ten o’clock, say.”
Rising, she stretched her arms above her head. Her lips parted in a
yawn, met in a smile. With both hands she pushed back her hair from her
shoulders, and twisted it into a loose knot. Very lightly she slipped up
into bed, and very soon she was asleep.