After all, what was the harm? Louise set certain strings in his nature
ringing in response to her obvious lure, strings that Jane's finer
person did not touch. Why should he cripple himself by denying a rounded
development, a full self-expression to his nature?
The fresh majesty of these thoughts quite persuaded him; how could they
have escaped mankind so long? He had never been taught that desire is
the parthenogenetic parent of logic, the shaper of all intellectual
decisions.
They swung aimlessly into the country club grounds, almost deserted this
early in the afternoon. Up to the big billiard garret, the rough beams
above, the window-seats in the gables, he took her.
"With a few more cushions----"
He lugged over an armful, and bent to nest them around her. The
intangible sheath of the _lilas_ surrounding her enwrapped him, mingled
with the delicately acrid breath of her body, that unmistakable
exhalation of feminine pores which summons the man as the drowsy odor of
sweet clover draws the boisterous flight of the bee.
His throat choked, a tingling warmness washed throughout him.
"Don't ... you're----" Provocative fingers pushed him back.
The conventional protest died away. He kissed her fiercely, with a
passionate brutality strange to his experience. Her fervor matched his;
she gave herself enough to increase his desire, yet withheld wilfully
with that simulation of the chase which blows up the flame to its
maddest height. At length, the racking storm quiescent for a moment, he
knelt weakly beside her, spin-drift battered by the inner surge of the
tempest.
"I'm married," he parroted his earlier statement.
"I know----"
The stored-up frenzy shook him in restless helplessness, overcoming all
restraints. "I'll leave Jane to-morrow, if you say.... Anything you
want--There's nothing you can't have from me. Just say it--now--Hurt me
some way----"
"I don't want to hurt you, you dear big silly boy. I love you."
He brought her head down until he could feel her parted teeth lightly
touching his neck. "Hurt me ... kill me...."
An icy shiver of rapture gripped him as the tiny teeth tightened; as if
the fangs of the serpent of forbidden love tentatively touched him,
gloating in their power ... saving him for further sacrifice.
"There.... Are you satisfied, Mr. Lover?"
Curbing the tumult in his blood, he drew up a chair and faced her.
"I ... we mustn't let this happen again, Louise _ma cherie_. Kisses ...
and all ... I once said--do you remember?--are only the preludes to the
finale of love. I am married; it won't hurt me; but you're--you're not."
Her hand rested lightly on his. "You aren't the first man who has ...
loved me. You needn't worry about ... me."
Uncertainly his eyes searched the liquid deeps of hers. "Not the
first?..."
She flushed unconsciously, returning his level look. Her words came
slowly. "Why, no, inquisitive Mr. Lover. There was another man ... we
intended to marry.... I'm glad, anyhow." The last three sentences came
in soft haste; such frankness embarrassed her. She covered it, changing
the theme. "It isn't fair to Jane----"
"Life isn't fair to any of us." His compelling gaze was put on to hide
the fleeting emotion of inner timidity. "Where shall we...."
"Lydia Hasson isn't nearly as ... careful as the Tollivers. They're away
a lot...."
She readjusted the pillows swiftly, as steps and scraps of conversation
floated up the hollow shaft of the circular stairway. "Hadn't we better
go?"
The Hassons were not at home, when he called two nights later; but their
car might roll up any minute. "This is tantalizing, heart-love," he
complained.
"It's something to have you here, anyway," as she cuddled deeper into
the wide couch-swing behind the ferns on the wide railing. "We must be
careful. If Lydia suspected----" Expressive eyes capped the meaning.
Jane had the Cades in for dinner, the next night; when Pelham arrived
from the office, Harvey was entertaining the women with a nasal
rendition of Judge Roscoe Little's mannerisms while enunciating a
decision for both sides at once. The lawyer's welcome contrasted with
some hidden constraint beneath Jane's tempered greeting. Throughout the
meal and the talk afterwards he sensed that something was wrong. He
could not quite make out what it was; perhaps it lay in his imagination.
His wife swished quickly inside, as the guests chugged away, leaving him
to rearrange the porch chairs and follow more slowly. Something was up,
that was clear.
She sat at her living-room desk, a litter of letters hurriedly pulled
out before her. At his entrance, she raised frosty eyes to his. Without
words she observed him. Disquieted by the confident, almost hostile
stare, he sat heavily, clutching a handy magazine from the fresh pile
beneath the reading lamp.
She did not speak. He exhaled noisily, and turned to the opening story.
"I met Lane Cullom this afternoon," she began in a moment, her voice
leveled and restrained.
"What did he have to say?"
"He told me about ... about your driving with that Richard woman
yesterday afternoon."
"Mmm.... Yes, she is a friend of Lane's. He introduced me, I believe."