She had picked up a quilt from the bed and wrapt it round him. Having
drawn a chair to the fire, she sat rocking with his head against her
shoulder. Since she had left the man, she had not spoken. Once the
tapestry, falling into place, rustled as though the door were being
opened. She turned gladly with a welcoming smile and remained staring
into the darkness long after the smile had vanished. A footstep came
along the passage. Again she turned, her lips parted in readiness to bid
him enter. The footstep slowed as it reached the bedroom, hesitated and
passed on.
She had ceased expecting; Teddy knew that by her “Don’t care” shrug of
annoyance. Though she held him closely, she seemed not to notice him.
With her head bent forward and her mouth a little trembling, she watched
the dancing of the flames. He stirred against her.
“Comfy?” she murmured.
“Very.”
She laughed softly. Her laughter had nothing to do with his answer; it
was the last retort in a bitter argument which had been waging in the
stillness of her mind. When she spoke it was as though she yawned,
rubbing unpleasant dreams from her eyes. “Well, little fellow, what are
you going to do with me?”
The implied accusation that he had carried her off thrilled him. It was
the way she said it--the coaxing music of her voice: it told him that
she was asking for his adoration. His arms reached up and went about her
neck; his lips stole up to hers. Made shy by what he had done, he hid
his face against her breast.
She rested her hand on his head, ruffling his hair and trying to
persuade him to look up.
“And I don’t even know your name! What do they call you? And do you kiss
all strange ladies like that?”
His throat was choking. He knew that the moment he heard his own voice
his eyes would brim over. But he was getting to an end of the list of
first things--getting to an age when it wasn’t manly to cry just because
the soul was stirred. So he bit his lip and kept silent.
“Ah, well,” she shook her head mournfully, “I can see what would happen.
If we married, you would make an obstinate husband. You don’t really
love me.”
Her despair sounded real. “Oh, it’s not that. It’s not that,” he cried,
dragging her face towards him with both hands.
She took his hands away and held them. “Then, what Is it?”
“You’re so beautiful. I can’t--can’t speak. I can’t tell you.”
She clasped him closer. “Oh, I’m sorry. It was only my fun. I didn’t
mean to make you cry. You’re the second person I’ve hurt to-night. But
you--you’re only a little boy, and such a dear little boy! We were going
to be such good friends. I must be bad-hearted to hurt everybody.”
“You’re not bad-hearted.” The fierceness with which he defended her made
her smile. “You’re not bad-hearted, and I do love you. And I want to
marry you only--only I’m so little, and you said it only in fun.”
She mothered him till he had grown quiet Then, with her lips against his
forehead, “Don’t be ashamed of crying; I like you for it. I’m so very
glad we met to-night I think--almost think--you were sent. I hadn’t been
kind, and I wasn’t feeling happy. But I’d like to do something good now;
I think I’d like to make you smile. How ought I to set about it?”
“Sing to me. Oh, please do.”
In the firelit room she sang to him in a half-voice, her long throat
stretched out and throbbing like a bird’s as she stooped above him. She
sang lullabies, making him feel very helpless; and then of lords and
cruel ladies and knights. Shadows, sprawling across walls and ceiling,
took fantastic shapes: horsemen galloping from castles; men waving
swords and grappling in fight A footstep in the passage! He felt her
arms tighten. “Close your eyes,” she sang, “close your eyes.”
She held up a hand as Mrs. Sheerug entered. “Shish!”
“Asleep?”
She nodded.
Mrs. Sheerug came over to the fire and gazed down. He could feel that
she was gazing and was afraid that she would detect that he was awake.
It was a relief when he heard her whisper: “It’s too bad of you, Vashti;
he’d just reached the turning-point. You’re as irresponsible as a child
when your moods take you.”
A second chair was drawn up. Vashti had made no reply. Mrs. Sheerug
commenced speaking again: “Hal----”
“Hal’s gone out. I suppose you’ve been----”
“Yes, quarreling. My fault, as usual.”
The older woman’s tones became earnest “My dear, you’re not good to my
boy. How much longer is it going to last? You’re not--not a safe woman
for a man like Hal. He needs some one more loving; you could never make
him a good wife. Your profession--I wish you’d give him up.” Then, after
a pause, “Won’t you?”
The little boy listened as eagerly as Hal’s mother for the reply. At
last it came, “I wish I could.”
He sat up. She saw the reproach in his eyes, but she gave no sign.
“Hulloa! Wakened? Time you were in bed, old fellow.”
He was conscious that she was using him as a barrier between herself
and further conversation. Rising, she carried him over to the high
four-poster bed. While she tucked him in, he could hear the clinking of
a glass, and knew that his tribulations had recommenced. Mrs. Sheerug
crossed from the fireplace: “Here’s another drink of the nice medicine.”
He buried his face in the pillow. He didn’t want to get better. He
wanted to die and to make people sorry.
“Teddy,” it was her voice, “Teddy, if you take it, I’ll sing to you. Do
it for my sake.”
She turned to Mrs. Sheerug. “He will if I sing to him. You accompany me.
He says it’s a promise.”
She stood beside the pillow holding his hand. Over by the window
the faery-godmother was taking her seat; stars peeped through the
harp-strings curiously. What happened next was like arms spread under
him, carrying him away and away. “Oh, rest in the Lord, wait patiently
for Him.” Her voice sprang up like a strong white bird; at every beat of
its wings the harp-strings hummed like the weak wings of smaller birds
following. “Oh, rest in the Lord”--the white bird rose higher with a
braver confidence and the little birds took courage, plunging deeper
into the grave and gentle stillness. “Oh, rest in the Lord”--it was like
a sigh of contentment traveling back from prepared places out of sight.
The room grew silent.
It was Vashti who had moved. She bent over him, “I’m going.” He
stretched out his arms, but they failed to reach her. At the door Mrs.
Sheerug stood and stayed her. Vashti halted, very proud and sweet.
“What is it? You said I wasn’t safe. You can tell Hal he’s free--I won’t
trouble him.”
Mrs. Sheerug caught her by the hands and tried to draw her to her. “I
was mistaken, Vashti; you’re good. You can always make me forgive you:
you could make any one love you when you’re singing.”
Vashti shook her head. “I’m not good. I’m wicked.” The older woman tried
to reach up to kiss her. Again Vashti shook her head, “Not to-night.”
The medicine had been taken. By the easel a shaded lamp had been
lighted--lighted for hours. It must be very late; the faery-godmother
still worked, sorting her wools and pushing her needle back and forth,
clothing Joseph in the presence of Potiphar’s wife. Every now and then
she sighed. Sometimes she turned and listened to catch the regular
breathing of the little boy whom she supposed to be sleeping. Presently
she rose and undressed. The lamp went out In the darkness Teddy could
hear her tossing; then she seemed to forget her troubles.
But he lay and remembered. Vashti had asked him to marry her. Perhaps
she had not meant it. How long would it take to become a man? Did little
boys ever marry grown ladies?