Zuleika Dobson - Max Beerbohm [103]
"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.
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