but, my old pirate, who is she?

the orderliness of the room had been carried to excess; it suggested the austere orderliness of death. life is untidy; it has no time for folded hands. the room’s garnished aspect had the chill of unkind preparedness.

from the window a bar of sunlight streamed across a woman lying on a white, unruffled bed. its brilliance revealed the deep hollows of her eyes; they were like violets springing up in wells of ivory. her arms, withdrawn from the sheets, stretched straightly by her side; the fingers were bloodless, as if molded from wax. her head, which was narrow and shapely, lay cushioned on a mass of chestnut hair. she had the purged voluptuousness of one of rossetti’s women who had turned saint. her valiant mouth was smiling. only her eyes and mouth, of all her body, seemed alive. she had spoken with effort. it was as though the bar of gold, which fell across her breast, was pinning her to the bed. some such thought must have occurred to the man who was standing astraddle and bowed before the fire. he crossed the room and commenced to pull down the blind.

“don’t, please. there’s to be no lowering of blinds—not yet.”

he paused rigid, as though he had been stabbed; then went slowly back to his old position before the fire.

“i didn’t mean to say it,” she whispered pleadingly. “i’m not going to die, jimmie boy—not so long as you need me. if i were lying here dead and you were to call, i—i should get up and come to you, jimmie boy. ’dearie, i say unto thee arise’—that’s what you’d say, i expect, like christ to the daughter of jairus—‘dearie, i say unto thee arise.’”

a third person, who had been sitting on the counterpane, playing with her hand, looked up. “and would you if i said it?”

“perhaps, but i’m not going to give you the chance—not yet.”

“i’m glad,” sighed the little boy, “’cause, you know, i might forget the words.”

the ghost of a laugh escaped the woman’s lips and quickly spent itself. “jimmie boy’s glad too, only he’s such an old awkward, he won’t tell. he hates being laughed at, even by his wife.”

the man raised his shaggy head. his voice sounded gruff and furious. “if you want to know, jimmie boy’s doing his best not to cry.”

his head jerked back upon his breast.

the woman lay still, gazing at him with adoring eyes. he cared—he was trying not to cry. she never quite knew what went on inside his head—never quite knew how to take him. when others would have said most, he was most silent he was noisy as a child over the little things of life. he did everything differently from other men. it was a proof of his genius.

in the presence of her frailty he looked more robust, more of a phoenician pirate than ever. she gloried in his picturesque lawlessness, in the unrestraint of his gestures, in his uncouth silences. what a lover for a woman to have! as she lay there in her weakness she recalled the passion of his arms about her: how he had often hurt her with his kisses, and she had been glad. she wished that she might feel his arms about her now.

“who is she?” she asked again.

her question went unanswered. she turned her head wearily to the little boy. “teddy, what’s my old pirate been doing? who is she? you’ll tell.”

before teddy could answer, her husband laughed loudly. “if you’re jealous, you’re not going to die.”

the riot of relief in his voice explained his undemonstrativeness. tears sprang into her eyes. how she had misjudged him! she rolled her head luxuriously from side to side. “you funny boy—die! how could i, when you’d be left?”

running across the room, he sprawled himself out on the edge of the bed. forgetting she was fragile, he leant across her breast and kissed her heavily on the mouth. she raised herself up to prolong the joy and fell back exhausted. “oh, that was good!” she murmured. “the dear velvet jacket and the smoky smell—all that’s you! all that’s life! i’m not jealous any longer; but who is she?”

he pulled the loose ends of his tie and shook his head. “don’t know, and that’s a fact. she just turned up and wanted to be painted. when i’d smarted, i lost my head; couldn’t stop; got carried away. don’t know whether you’d like her, dearie; she’s a wonderful person. sings like a bird—sets me thinking—inspires. work! why, i’ve not worked so steadily since—i don’t know when. i was worried about you and glad to forget hard luck on you, dearie; i’m a stupid fellow to show my sorrow by stopping away. but as to who she is, seems to me that teddy can tell you best.”

she squeezed the little boy’s hand. “who is she, teddy?” teddy looked blank. “don’t know—not exactly. she was in mrs. sheerug’s house with hal, and—and then she came and sang to me in bed.”

“she did that?” his mother smiled. “she must be a good woman to love my little boy.” then to her husband, after a moment’s reflection: “but what’s the picture?”

his face lit up with enthusiasm. “it’s going to do the trick this time. it’ll make us famous. we’ll move into a big house. you’ll have breakfast in bed with a boudoir cap, and all your gowns’ll come from paris.”

she stroked the sleeve of his jacket affectionately. “yes, that’s sure to happen. but what’s it all about?”

he commenced reciting, “‘she feedeth among the lilies. a garden enclosed is my sister: a spring shut up, a fountain sealed. awake, o north wind, and come thou south. blow upon my garden that the spices thereof may flow out.’ catch the idea? it was mine; teddy didn’t have a thing to do with it see what i’m driving at?”

he sat back from her to take in the effect. she drew him near again. “it sounds beautiful; but i don’t quite see all of it yet.”

he knotted his hands, trying to reduce his imagination to words. “it’s the women who aren’t like you, dearie—the women who love themselves. they feed among lilies; the soul of love is in ’em, but they won’t let it out they’re gardens enclosed, fountains sealed, springs shut up. now are you getting there? the symbolism of it caught me. there i have her, just as she is in her bang-up modern dress, feeding among the lilies of an eastern garden. everything’s heavy with fragrance, beautiful and lonely; the hot sun’s shining and nothing stirs. the windows of the harem are trellised and shut. from under clouds the north and south wind are staring and puffing their cheeks as though they’d burst. through a locked gate in the garden you get a glimpse of an oriental street with the dust scurrying; but in my sister’s garden the air hangs listless. the fountain is dry; the well is boarded over. and here’s the last touch: halting in the street, peering in through the bars of the gate is the figure of love. the woman doesn’t see him, though he’s whispering and beckoning. love’s got to be stark naked; that’s how he always comes. because he’s naked he looks the same in all ages. d’you get the contrast between love and the girl’s modern dress? there’s where i’ll need you, teddy.”

teddy blushed. he spoke woefully. “but—but i’m not going to undress before her.”

for answer his father laughed.

“but can’t i have any clothes at all—not even my shirt?”

“not even your shirt. she won’t see you, old man; in the picture she’s looking in the other direction. and as for the real live lady, we’ll paint you when she’s not on hand.”

“it’s roo-ude,” teddy stammered. “besides, it’s silly. nobody eats lilies; they’re for easter and funerals, and they’re too expensive. and—and can’t i wear just my trousers?”

his father frowned in mock displeasure. “for a boy of ideas and the son of an artist you’re surprisingly modest. now if you were jane i could understand it. love would always put on trousers when he went to visit her. but you’re dearie’s son. i’m disappointed in you, teddy; you really ought to know more about love.”

“but i do know about love.” teddy screwed up his mouth. “i’ve learnt from harriet.”

“and who’s harriet?”

“a kind of princess.”

“pooh!” his father turned to dearie. “what d’you think of ‘a garden enclosed is my sister’’?”

dearie kissed his hand. “splendid! but does the lady expect to be painted like that?”

he shrugged his shoulders. “i don’t know and i don’t care. i’m not telling her.”

the violet eyes met his. “dear old glorious impractical. perhaps she’s like jane and’ll want her love in trousers.” jimmie wagged his head from side to side in negation. “if i’m any judge of character, she isn’t easily shocked.” he rose and stood staring out of the window. his shadow blotted out the bar of sunlight and lay across her breast he turned. “this light’s too good to lose. i must get back to my work.”

she clung to his lips. until he had completely vanished her eyes followed.

“teddy, is she beautiful?” her whisper came sharply. “the most beautiful—after you, mother, she’s the most beautiful person in the world.”

she closed her eyes and smiled. “after me! i’m glad you put me first.” she stretched out her hand and drew him to her. “now i’m ill, he’s lonely. he’s got no one to care for him. don’t let him be by himself.”

“not at all, mummie?”

“not for a moment. you’d better go to him now.”

he was on his way to the door when she beckoned him back. “what’s she called, teddy?”

“vashti.”

“vashti.” she repeated the word.

“don’t let him be lonely, teddy—not for a moment alone with her. good-by, darling. go to him now.”