The Lady and the Pirate

I looked at Helena Emory, glad that she did not at first sight

recognize the intruder who had elicited her wrath,--for she seemed

almost more angry than perturbed, such being her nature. I thought she

had never been half so beautiful as now, never more alive, more

vibrantly and dynamically feminine than now. She had not even a scarf

about her head, so that all its Greek clarity of line, all its

tight-curling dark hair--almost breaking into four ringlets, two at

each white temple--were distinct to me as I looked at her, even in the

half light. Her face, with its wondrous dark eyes, was full toward me,

meeting this danger for such as it might be; so that, again, I saw the

sweet full oval of her brow and cheek and chin, with just these two

dark incipient curls above. I could not see the twin dark tendrils at

the white nape of her neck, but I knew they were there, as beautiful

as ever. Her mouth was always the sweetest God ever gave any

woman--and I repeat, I have seen and studied all the great portraits,

and found none so wholly good as that of Helena, done by Sargent in

his happiest vein. Now the red bow of her lips parted, as she stood,

one slender hand across her bosom, panting, but not in the least

afraid, or, at least, meeting her fear boldly, as one high-born

should.

She was all in white, with not the slightest jewel or ornament of any

kind. I saw that even the buckle at her waist was covered in white.

Her boots and her hair were dark; for Helena knew the real art of

dressing. She stood fairly between me and the deck light, so that all

her white figure was frank in its gentle curves; erect now, and

bravely drawn to all her five feet five, so that she might meet my

gaze--albeit through a mask--as fully as a lady should when she has

met affront.

I always loved Helena, always, from the first time I met her. I had

bidden adieu to life when, after many efforts to have her see me as I

saw her, I turned away to the long hard endeavor to forget her. But

now I saw my attempts had all been in vain. If absence had made my

heart more fond, the presence of her made it more poignantly, more

imperiously, fonder than before. My whole body, my whole soul,

unified, arose. I stretched out my arms, craving, demanding. "Helena!"

I cried.

My voice was hoarse. Perhaps she did not know me, even yet. Her answer

was a long clear call for help.

"Ahoy!" she sang. "On shore, there--Help!"

Her call was a signal for present trouble. Partial, my dog, abandoned

in the long boat, began barking furiously. There came an answering

hail which assured me that yon varlet, Davidson, had heard. I was

conscious of the sound of a scuffle somewhere forward. Below, at my

side, Aunt Lucinda gave voice to a long shrill wail of terror. John,

my Chinaman, his cue still held fast in the jammed edges of the door,

chimed in dismally. Midships I heard a muffled knocking at Williams',

the engineer's, hatch.