VIII
A few minutes before half-past seven, the Duke, arrayed for dinner,passed leisurely up the High. The arresting feature of his costume wasa mulberry-coloured coat, with brass buttons. This, to any one versed inOxford lore, betokened him a member of the Junta. It is awful to thinkthat a casual stranger might have mistaken him for a footman. It doesnot do to think of such things.
The tradesmen, at the doors of their shops, bowed low as he passed,rubbing their hands and smiling, hoping inwardly that they took noliberty in sharing the cool rosy air of the evening with his Grace. Theynoted that he wore in his shirt-front a black pearl and a pink. "Daring,but becoming," they opined.
The rooms of the Junta were over a stationer's shop, next door but oneto the Mitre. They were small rooms; but as the Junta had now, besidesthe Duke, only two members, and as no member might introduce more thanone guest, there was ample space.
The Duke had been elected in his second term. At that time there werefour members; but these were all leaving Oxford at the end of the summerterm, and there seemed to be in the ranks of the Bullingdon and theLoder no one quite eligible for the Junta, that holy of holies. Thus itwas that the Duke inaugurated in solitude his second year of membership.From time to time, he proposed and seconded a few candidates, after"sounding" them as to whether they were willing to join. But always,when election evening--the last Tuesday of term--drew near, he began tohave his doubts about these fellows. This one was "rowdy"; that onewas over-dressed; another did not ride quite straight to hounds; in thepedigree of another a bar-sinister was more than suspected. Electionevening was always a rather melancholy time. After dinner, when the twoclub servants had placed on the mahogany the time-worn Candidates' Bookand the ballot-box, and had noiselessly withdrawn, the Duke, clearinghis throat, read aloud to himself "Mr. So-and-So, of Such-and-SuchCollege, proposed by the Duke of Dorset, seconded by the Duke ofDorset," and, in every case, when he drew out the drawer of theballot-box, found it was a black-ball that he had dropped into the urn.Thus it was that at the end of the summer term the annual photographic"group" taken by Messrs. Hills and Saunders was a presentment of theDuke alone.
In the course of his third year he had become less exclusive. Notbecause there seemed to be any one really worthy of the Junta; butbecause the Junta, having thriven since the eighteenth century, mustnot die. Suppose--one never knew--he were struck by lightning, the Juntawould be no more. So, not without reluctance, but unanimously, he hadelected The MacQuern, of Balliol, and Sir John Marraby, of Brasenose.
To-night, as he, a doomed man, went up into the familiar rooms, he waswholly glad that he had thus relented. As yet, he was spared the tragicknowledge that it would make no difference.*
* The Junta has been reconstituted. But the apostolic line was broken, the thread was snapped; the old magic is fled.
The MacQuern and two other young men were already there.
"Mr. President," said The MacQuern, "I present Mr. Trent-Garby, ofChrist Church."
"The Junta is honoured," said the Duke, bowing.
Such was the ritual of the club.
The other young man, because his host, Sir John Marraby, was not yet onthe scene, had no locus standi, and, though a friend of The MacQuern,and well known to the Duke, had to be ignored.
A moment later, Sir John arrived. "Mr. President," he said, "I presentLord Sayes, of Magdalen."
"The Junta is honoured," said the Duke, bowing.
Both hosts and both guests, having been prominent in the throng thatvociferated around Zuleika an hour earlier, were slightly abashed inthe Duke's presence. He, however, had not noticed any one in particular,and, even if he had, that fine tradition of the club--"A member of theJunta can do no wrong; a guest of the Junta cannot err"--would haveprevented him from showing his displeasure.
A Herculean figure filled the doorway.
"The Junta is honoured," said the Duke, bowing to his guest.
"Duke," said the newcomer quietly, "the honour is as much mine asthat of the interesting and ancient institution which I am this nightprivileged to inspect."
Turning to Sir John and The MacQuern, the Duke said "I present Mr.Abimelech V. Oover, of Trinity."
"The Junta," they replied, "is honoured."
"Gentlemen," said the Rhodes Scholar, "your good courtesy is just suchas I would have anticipated from members of the ancient Junta. Like mostof my countrymen, I am a man of few words. We are habituated out thereto act rather than talk. Judged from the view-point of your beautifulold civilisation, I am aware my curtness must seem crude. But,gentlemen, believe me, right here--"
"Dinner is served, your Grace."
Thus interrupted, Mr. Oover, with the resourcefulness of a practisedorator, brought his thanks to a quick but not abrupt conclusion. Thelittle company passed into the front room.
Through the window, from the High, fading daylight mingled with thecandle-light. The mulberry coats of the hosts, interspersed by the blackones of the guests, made a fine pattern around the oval table a-gleamwith the many curious pieces of gold and silver plate that had accruedto the Junta in course of years.
The President showed much deference to his guest. He seemed to listenwith close attention to the humorous anecdote with which, in theAmerican fashion, Mr. Oover inaugurated dinner.
To all Rhodes Scholars, indeed, his courtesy was invariable. He went outof his way to cultivate them. And this he did more as a favour to LordMilner than of his own caprice. He found these Scholars, good fellowsthough they were, rather oppressive. They had not--how could theyhave?--the undergraduate's virtue of taking Oxford as a matter ofcourse. The Germans loved it too little, the Colonials too much. TheAmericans were, to a sensitive observer, the most troublesome--as beingthe most troubled--of the whole lot. The Duke was not one of thoseEnglishmen who fling, or care to hear flung, cheap sneers at America.Whenever any one in his presence said that America was not largein area, he would firmly maintain that it was. He held, too, in hisenlightened way, that Americans have a perfect right to exist. Buthe did often find himself wishing Mr. Rhodes had not enabled them toexercise that right in Oxford. They were so awfully afraid of havingtheir strenuous native characters undermined by their delight in theplace. They held that the future was theirs, a glorious asset, far moreglorious than the past. But a theory, as the Duke saw, is one thing, anemotion another. It is so much easier to covet what one hasn't than torevel in what one has. Also, it is so much easier to be enthusiasticabout what exists than about what doesn't. The future doesn't exist. Thepast does. For, whereas all men can learn, the gift of prophecy has diedout. A man cannot work up in his breast any real excitement about whatpossibly won't happen. He cannot very well help being sentimentallyinterested in what he knows has happened. On the other hand, he owes aduty to his country. And, if his country be America, he ought to try tofeel a vivid respect for the future, and a cold contempt for the past.Also, if he be selected by his country as a specimen of the best moral,physical, and intellectual type that she can produce for the astoundingof the effete foreigner, and incidentally for the purpose of raisingthat foreigner's tone, he must--mustn't he?--do his best to astound,to exalt. But then comes in this difficulty. Young men don't like toastound and exalt their fellows. And Americans, individually, are ofall people the most anxious to please. That they talk overmuch is oftentaken as a sign of self-satisfaction. It is merely a mannerism. Rhetoricis a thing inbred in them. They are quite unconscious of it. It is asnatural to them as breathing. And, while they talk on, they really dobelieve that they are a quick, businesslike people, by whom things are"put through" with an almost brutal abruptness. This notion of theirs israther confusing to the patient English auditor.
Altogether, the American Rhodes Scholars, with their splendid nativegift of oratory, and their modest desire to please, and their not lessevident feeling that they ought merely to edify, and their constantdelight in all that of Oxford their English brethren don't notice, andtheir constant fear that they are being corrupted, ar
e a noble, ratherthan a comfortable, element in the social life of the University. So, atleast, they seemed to the Duke.
And to-night, but that he had invited Oover to dine with him, he couldhave been dining with Zuleika. And this was his last dinner on earth.Such thoughts made him the less able to take pleasure in his guest.Perfect, however, the amenity of his manner.
This was the more commendable because Oover's "aura" was even moredisturbing than that of the average Rhodes Scholar. To-night, besidesthe usual conflicts in this young man's bosom, raged a special onebetween his desire to behave well and his jealousy of the man who hadto-day been Miss Dobson's escort. In theory he denied the Duke's rightto that honour. In sentiment he admitted it. Another conflict, you see.And another. He longed to orate about the woman who had his heart; yetshe was the one topic that must be shirked.
The MacQuern and Mr. Trent-Garby, Sir John Marraby and Lord Sayes, theytoo--though they were no orators--would fain have unpacked their heartsin words about Zuleika. They spoke of this and that, automatically, nonelistening to another--each man listening, wide-eyed, to his own heart'ssolo on the Zuleika theme, and drinking rather more champagne than wasgood for him. Maybe, these youths sowed in themselves, on this night,the seeds of lifelong intemperance. We cannot tell. They did not livelong enough for us to know.
While the six dined, a seventh, invisible to them, leaned moodilyagainst the mantel-piece, watching them. He was not of their time. Hislong brown hair was knotted in a black riband behind. He wore a palebrocaded coat and lace ruffles, silken stockings, a sword. Privy totheir doom, he watched them. He was loth that his Junta must die. Yes,his. Could the diners have seen him, they would have known him by hisresemblance to the mezzotint portrait that hung on the wall above him.They would have risen to their feet in presence of Humphrey Greddon,founder and first president of the club.
His face was not so oval, nor were his eyes so big, nor his lips sofull, nor his hands so delicate, as they appeared in the mezzotint. Yet(bating the conventions of eighteenth-century portraiture) the likenesswas a good one. Humphrey Greddon was not less well-knit and gracefulthan the painter had made him, and, hard though the lines of the facewere, there was about him a certain air of high romance that could notbe explained away by the fact that he was of a period not our own. Youcould understand the great love that Nellie O'Mora had borne him.
Under the mezzotint hung Hoppner's miniature of that lovely andill-starred girl, with her soft dark eyes, and her curls all astray frombeneath her little blue turban. And the Duke was telling Mr. Oover herstory--how she had left her home for Humphrey Greddon when she was butsixteen, and he an undergraduate at Christ Church; and had lived for himin a cottage at Littlemore, whither he would ride, most days, to be withher; and how he tired of her, broke his oath that he would marry her,thereby broke her heart; and how she drowned herself in a mill-pond; andhow Greddon was killed in Venice, two years later, duelling on the RivaSchiavoni with a Senator whose daughter he had seduced.
And he, Greddon, was not listening very attentively to the tale. Hehad heard it told so often in this room, and he did not understandthe sentiments of the modern world. Nellie had been a monstrous prettycreature. He had adored her, and had done with her. It was right thatshe should always be toasted after dinner by the Junta, as in the dayswhen first he loved her--"Here's to Nellie O'Mora, the fairest witchthat ever was or will be!" He would have resented the omission of thattoast. But he was sick of the pitying, melting looks that were alwayscast towards her miniature. Nellie had been beautiful, but, by God! shewas always a dunce and a simpleton. How could he have spent his lifewith her? She was a fool, by God! not to marry that fool Trailby, ofMerton, whom he took to see her.
Mr. Oover's moral tone, and his sense of chivalry, were of the Americankind: far higher than ours, even, and far better expressed. Whereas theEnglish guests of the Junta, when they heard the tale of Nellie O'Mora,would merely murmur "Poor girl!" or "What a shame!" Mr. Oover said in atone of quiet authority that compelled Greddon's ear "Duke, I hope I amnot incognisant of the laws that govern the relations of guest and host.But, Duke, I aver deliberately that the founder of this fine oldclub; at which you are so splendidly entertaining me to-night, was anunmitigated scoundrel. I say he was not a white man."
At the word "scoundrel," Humphrey Greddon had sprung forward, drawinghis sword, and loudly, in a voice audible to himself alone, challengedthe American to make good his words. Then, as this gentleman took nonotice, with one clean straight thrust Greddon ran him through theheart, shouting "Die, you damned psalm-singer and traducer! And so dieall rebels against King George!"* Withdrawing the blade, he wiped itdaintily on his cambric handkerchief. There was no blood. Mr. Oover,with unpunctured shirt-front, was repeating "I say he was not a whiteman." And Greddon remembered himself--remembered he was only a ghost,impalpable, impotent, of no account. "But I shall meet you in Hellto-morrow," he hissed in Oover's face. And there he was wrong. It isquite certain that Oover went to Heaven.
* As Edward VII. was at this time on the throne, it must have been to George III. that Mr. Greddon was referring.
Unable to avenge himself, Greddon had looked to the Duke to act for him.When he saw that this young man did but smile at Oover and make a vaguedeprecatory gesture, he again, in his wrath, forgot his disabilities.Drawing himself to his full height, he took with great deliberation apinch of snuff, and, bowing low to the Duke, said "I am vastly obleegedto your Grace for the fine high Courage you have exhibited in the behalfof your most Admiring, most Humble Servant." Then, having brushed awaya speck of snuff from his jabot, he turned on his heel; and only in thedoorway, where one of the club servants, carrying a decanter in eachhand, walked straight through him, did he realise that he had notspoilt the Duke's evening. With a volley of the most appallingeighteenth-century oaths, he passed back into the nether world.
To the Duke, Nellie O'Mora had never been a very vital figure. He hadoften repeated the legend of her. But, having never known what love was,he could not imagine her rapture or her anguish. Himself the quarry ofall Mayfair's wise virgins, he had always--so far as he thought ofthe matter at all--suspected that Nellie's death was due to thwartedambition. But to-night, while he told Oover about her, he could seeinto her soul. Nor did he pity her. She had loved. She had known theone thing worth living for--and dying for. She, as she went down to themill-pond, had felt just that ecstasy of self-sacrifice which he himselfhad felt to-day and would feel to-morrow. And for a while, too--for afull year--she had known the joy of being loved, had been for Greddon"the fairest witch that ever was or will be." He could not agree withOover's long disquisition on her sufferings. And, glancing at herwell-remembered miniature, he wondered just what it was in her that hadcaptivated Greddon. He was in that blest state when a man cannot believethe earth has been trodden by any really beautiful or desirable ladysave the lady of his own heart.
The moment had come for the removal of the table-cloth. The mahogany ofthe Junta was laid bare--a clear dark lake, anon to reflect in its stilland ruddy depths the candelabras and the fruit-cradles, the slenderglasses and the stout old decanters, the forfeit-box and the snuff-box,and other paraphernalia of the dignity of dessert. Lucidly, andunwaveringly inverted in the depths these good things stood; and, sosoon as the wine had made its circuit, the Duke rose and with upliftedglass proposed the first of the two toasts traditional to the Junta."Gentlemen, I give you Church and State."
The toast having been honoured by all--and by none with a richerreverence than by Oover, despite his passionate mental reservation infavour of Pittsburg-Anabaptism and the Republican Ideal--the snuff-boxwas handed round, and fruit was eaten.
Presently, when the wine had gone round again, the Duke rose and withuplifted glass said "Gentlemen, I give you--" and there halted.Silent, frowning, flushed, he stood for a few moments, and then, witha deliberate gesture, tilted his glass and let fall the wine to thecarpet. "No," he said, looking round the table, "I cannot give youNellie O'Mora."
"You have a right to ask that," said the Duke, still standing. "I canonly say that my conscience is stronger than my sense of what is due tothe customs of the club. Nellie O'Mora," he said, passing his hand overhis brow, "may have been in her day the fairest witch that ever was--sofair that our founder had good reason to suppose her the fairest witchthat ever would be. But his prediction was a false one. So at least itseems to me. Of course I cannot both hold this view and remain Presidentof this club. MacQuern--Marraby--which of you is Vice-President?"
"He is," said Marraby.
"Then, MacQuern, you are hereby President, vice myself resigned. Takethe chair and propose the toast."
"I would rather not," said The MacQuern after a pause.
"Then, Marraby, YOU must."
"Not I!" said Marraby.
"Why is this?" asked the Duke, looking from one to the other.
The MacQuern, with Scotch caution, was silent. But the impulsiveMarraby--Madcap Marraby, as they called him in B.N.C.--said "It'sbecause I won't lie!" and, leaping up, raised his glass aloft and cried"I give you Zuleika Dobson, the fairest witch that ever was or will be!"
Mr. Oover, Lord Sayes, Mr. Trent-Garby, sprang to their feet; TheMacQuern rose to his. "Zuleika Dobson!" they cried, and drained theirglasses.
Then, when they had resumed their seats, came an awkward pause. TheDuke, still erect beside the chair he had vacated, looked very graveand pale. Marraby had taken an outrageous liberty. But "a member of theJunta can do no wrong," and the liberty could not be resented. The Dukefelt that the blame was on himself, who had elected Marraby to the club.
Mr. Oover, too, looked grave. All the antiquarian in him deploredthe sudden rupture of a fine old Oxford tradition. All the chivalrousAmerican in him resented the slight on that fair victim of the feudalsystem, Miss O'Mora. And, at the same time, all the Abimelech V. in himrejoiced at having honoured by word and act the one woman in the world.
Gazing around at the flushed faces and heaving shirt-fronts of thediners, the Duke forgot Marraby's misdemeanour. What mattered far moreto him was that here were five young men deeply under the spell ofZuleika. They must be saved, if possible. He knew how strong hisinfluence was in the University. He knew also how strong was Zuleika's.He had not much hope of the issue. But his new-born sense of duty to hisfellows spurred him on. "Is there," he asked with a bitter smile, "anyone of you who doesn't with his whole heart love Miss Dobson?"
Nobody held up a hand.
"As I feared," said the Duke, knowing not that if a hand had been heldup he would have taken it as a personal insult. No man really in lovecan forgive another for not sharing his ardour. His jealousy for himselfwhen his beloved prefers another man is hardly a stronger passion thanhis jealousy for her when she is not preferred to all other women.
"You know her only by sight--by repute?" asked the Duke. They signifiedthat this was so. "I wish you would introduce me to her," said Marraby.
"You are all coming to the Judas concert tonight?" the Duke asked,ignoring Marraby. "You have all secured tickets?" They nodded. "To hearme play, or to see Miss Dobson?" There was a murmur of "Both--both.""And you would all of you, like Marraby, wish to be presented to thislady?" Their eyes dilated. "That way happiness lies, think you?"
"Oh, happiness be hanged!" said Marraby.
To the Duke this seemed a profoundly sane remark--an epitome of his ownsentiments. But what was right for himself was not right for all. Hebelieved in convention as the best way for average mankind. And so,slowly, calmly, he told to his fellow-diners just what he had told a fewhours earlier to those two young men in Salt Cellar. Not knowing thathis words had already been spread throughout Oxford, he was rathersurprised that they seemed to make no sensation. Quite flat, too, fellhis appeal that the syren be shunned by all.
Mr. Oover, during his year of residence, had been sorely tried by thequaint old English custom of not making public speeches after privatedinners. It was with a deep sigh of satisfaction that he now rose to hisfeet.
"Duke," he said in a low voice, which yet penetrated to every cornerof the room, "I guess I am voicing these gentlemen when I say that yourwords show up your good heart, all the time. Your mentality, too, isbully, as we all predicate. One may say without exaggeration that yourscholarly and social attainments are a by-word throughout the solarsystem, and be-yond. We rightly venerate you as our boss. Sir, weworship the ground you walk on. But we owe a duty to our own free andindependent manhood. Sir, we worship the ground Miss Z. Dobson treadson. We have pegged out a claim right there. And from that locationwe aren't to be budged--not for bob-nuts. We asseverate wesquat--where--we--squat, come--what--will. You say we have no chance towin Miss Z. Dobson. That--we--know. We aren't worthy. We lie prone. Lether walk over us. You say her heart is cold. We don't pro-fess wecan take the chill off. But, Sir, we can't be diverted out of lovingher--not even by you, Sir. No, Sir! We love her, and--shall, and--will,Sir, with--our--latest breath."
This peroration evoked loud applause. "I love her, and shall, and will,"shouted each man. And again they honoured in wine her image. Sir JohnMarraby uttered a cry familiar in the hunting-field. The MacQuerncontributed a few bars of a sentimental ballad in the dialect of hiscountry. "Hurrah, hurrah!" shouted Mr. Trent-Garby. Lord Sayes hummedthe latest waltz, waving his arms to its rhythm, while the wine he hadjust spilt on his shirt-front trickled unheeded to his waistcoat. Mr.Oover gave the Yale cheer.
The genial din was wafted down through the open window to thepassers-by. The wine-merchant across the way heard it, and smiledpensively. "Youth, youth!" he murmured.
The genial din grew louder.
At any other time, the Duke would have been jarred by the disgrace tothe Junta. But now, as he stood with bent head, covering his face withhis hands, he thought only of the need to rid these young men, hereand now, of the influence that had befallen them. To-morrow his tragicexample might be too late, the mischief have sunk too deep, the agony belife-long. His good breeding forbade him to cast over a dinner-table theshadow of his death. His conscience insisted that he must. He uncoveredhis face, and held up one hand for silence.
"We are all of us," he said, "old enough to remember vividly thedemonstrations made in the streets of London when war was declaredbetween us and the Transvaal Republic. You, Mr. Oover, doubtless heardin America the echoes of those ebullitions. The general idea was thatthe war was going to be a very brief and simple affair--what was called'a walk-over.' To me, though I was only a small boy, it seemed that allthis delirious pride in the prospect of crushing a trumpery foe argueda defect in our sense of proportion. Still, I was able to understand thedemonstrators' point of view. To 'the giddy vulgar' any sort of victoryis pleasant. But defeat? If, when that war was declared, every one hadbeen sure that not only should we fail to conquer the Transvaal, butthat IT would conquer US--that not only would it make good its freedomand independence, but that we should forfeit ours--how would thecits have felt then? Would they not have pulled long faces, spoken inwhispers, wept? You must forgive me for saying that the noise you havejust made around this table was very like to the noise made on the vergeof the Boer War. And your procedure seems to me as unaccountable aswould have seemed the antics of those mobs if England had been plainlydoomed to disaster and to vassalage. My guest here to-night, in thecourse of his very eloquent and racy speech, spoke of the need that heand you should preserve your 'free and independent manhood.' That seemedto me an irreproachable ideal. But I confess I was somewhat taken abackby my friend's scheme for realising it. He declared his intention oflying prone and letting Miss Dobson 'walk over' him; and he advised youto follow his example; and to this counsel you gave evident approval.Gentlemen, suppose that on the verge of the aforesaid war, some oratorhad said to the British people 'It is going to be a walk-over for ourenemy in the field. Mr. Kruger holds us in the hollow of his hand.In subjection to him we shall find our long-lost freedom andindependence'--what would have been Britannia's a
nswer? What, onreflection, is yours to Mr. Oover? What are Mr. Oover's own secondthoughts?" The Duke paused, with a smile to his guest.
"Go right ahead, Duke," said Mr. Oover. "I'll re-ply when my turncomes."
"And not utterly demolish me, I hope," said the Duke. His was the Oxfordmanner. "Gentlemen," he continued, "is it possible that Britannia wouldhave thrown her helmet in the air, shrieking 'Slavery for ever'? You,gentlemen, seem to think slavery a pleasant and an honourable state. Youhave less experience of it than I. I have been enslaved to Miss Dobsonsince yesterday evening; you, only since this afternoon I, at closequarters; you, at a respectful distance. Your fetters have not galledyou yet. MY wrists, MY ankles, are excoriated. The iron has entered intomy soul. I droop. I stumble. Blood flows from me. I quiver and curse. Iwrithe. The sun mocks me. The moon titters in my face. I can stand it nolonger. I will no more of it. Tomorrow I die."
The flushed faces of the diners grew gradually pale. Their eyes lostlustre. Their tongues clove to the roofs of their mouths.
At length, almost inaudibly, The MacQuern asked "Do you mean you aregoing to commit suicide?"
"Yes," said the Duke, "if you choose to put it in that way. Yes. And itis only by a chance that I did not commit suicide this afternoon."
"You--don't--say," gasped Mr. Oover.
"I do indeed," said the Duke. "And I ask you all to weigh well mymessage."
"But--but does Miss Dobson know?" asked Sir John.
"Oh yes," was the reply. "Indeed, it was she who persuaded me not to dietill to-morrow."
"But--but," faltered Lord Sayes, "I saw her saying good-bye to you inJudas Street. And--and she looked quite--as if nothing had happened."
"Nothing HAD happened," said the Duke. "And she was very much pleasedto have me still with her. But she isn't so cruel as to hinder me fromdying for her to-morrow. I don't think she exactly fixed the hour. Itshall be just after the Eights have been rowed. An earlier death wouldmark in me a lack of courtesy to that contest... It seems strange toyou that I should do this thing? Take warning by me. Muster all yourwill-power, and forget Miss Dobson. Tear up your tickets for theconcert. Stay here and play cards. Play high. Or rather, go back to yourvarious Colleges, and speed the news I have told you. Put all Oxford onits guard against this woman who can love no lover. Let all Oxfordknow that I, Dorset, who had so much reason to love life--I, thenonpareil--am going to die for the love I bear this woman. And let noman think I go unwilling. I am no lamb led to the slaughter. I am priestas well as victim. I offer myself up with a pious joy. But enoughof this cold Hebraism! It is ill-attuned to my soul's mood.Self-sacrifice--bah! Regard me as a voluptuary. I am that. All mybaffled ardour speeds me to the bosom of Death. She is gentle andwanton. She knows I could never have loved her for her own sake. Shehas no illusions about me. She knows well I come to her because nototherwise may I quench my passion."
There was a long silence. The Duke, looking around at the bent heads anddrawn mouths of his auditors, saw that his words had gone home. It wasMarraby who revealed how powerfully home they had gone.
"Dorset," he said huskily, "I shall die too."
The Duke flung up his hands, staring wildly.
"I stand in with that," said Mr. Oover.
"So do I!" said Lord Sayes. "And I!" said Mr. Trent-Garby; "And I!" TheMacQuern.
The Duke found voice. "Are you mad?" he asked, clutching at his throat."Are you all mad?"
"No, Duke," said Mr. Oover. "Or, if we are, you have no right to be atlarge. You have shown us the way. We--take it."
"Just so," said The MacQuern, stolidly.
"Listen, you fools," cried the Duke. But through the open window camethe vibrant stroke of some clock. He wheeled round, plucked out hiswatch--nine!--the concert!--his promise not to be late!--Zuleika!
All other thoughts vanished. In an instant he dodged beneath the sashof the window. From the flower-box he sprang to the road beneath. (Thefacade of the house is called, to this day, Dorset's Leap.) Alightingwith the legerity of a cat, he swerved leftward in the recoil, and wasoff, like a streak of mulberry-coloured lightning, down the High.
The other men had rushed to the window, fearing the worst. "No," criedOover. "That's all right. Saves time!" and he raised himself on to thewindow-box. It splintered under his weight. He leapt heavily but well,followed by some uprooted geraniums. Squaring his shoulders, he threwback his head, and doubled down the slope.
There was a violent jostle between the remaining men. The MacQuerncannily got out of it, and rushed downstairs. He emerged at thefront-door just after Marraby touched ground. The Baronet's left anklehad twisted under him. His face was drawn with pain as he hopped downthe High on his right foot, fingering his ticket for the concert. Nextleapt Lord Sayes. And last of all leapt Mr. Trent-Garby, who, catchinghis foot in the ruined flower-box, fell headlong, and was, I regret tosay, killed. Lord Sayes passed Sir John in a few paces. The MacQuernovertook Mr. Oover at St. Mary's and outstripped him in RadcliffeSquare. The Duke came in an easy first.
Youth, youth!
Zuleika Dobson Or, An Oxford Love Story Page 8
