_Chapter 4_
The gold march of sunset passed quickly, the ragged curtains of mist
closed to. Soon Siegmund and Helena were shut alone within the dense
wide fog. She shivered with the cold and the damp. Startled, he took her
in his arms, where she lay and clung to him. Holding her closely, he
bent forward, straight to her lips. His moustache was drenched cold with
fog, so that she shuddered slightly after his kiss, and shuddered again.
He did not know why the strong tremor passed through her. Thinking it
was with fear and with cold, he undid his overcoat, put her close on his
breast, and covered her as best he could. That she feared him at that
moment was half pleasure, half shame to him. Pleadingly he hid his face
on her shoulder, held her very tightly, till his face grew hot, buried
against her soft strong throat.
'You are so big I can't hold you,' she whispered plaintively, catching
her breath with fear. Her small hands grasped at the breadth of his
shoulders ineffectually.
'You will be cold. Put your hands under my coat,' he whispered.
He put her inside his overcoat and his coat. She came to his warm breast
with a sharp intaking of delight and fear; she tried to make her hands
meet in the warmth of his shoulders, tried to clasp him.
'See! I can't,' she whispered.
He laughed short, and pressed her closer.
Then, tucking her head in his breast, hiding her face, she timidly slid
her hands along his sides, pressing softly, to find the contours of his
figure. Softly her hands crept over the silky back of his waistcoat,
under his coats, and as they stirred, his blood flushed up, and up
again, with fire, till all Siegmund was hot blood, and his breast was
one great ache.
He crushed her to him--crushed her in upon the ache of his chest. His
muscles set hard and unyielding; at that moment he was a tense, vivid
body of flesh, without a mind; his blood, alive and conscious, running
towards her. He remained perfectly still, locked about Helena, conscious
of nothing.
She was hurt and crushed, but it was pain delicious to her. It was
marvellous to her how strong he was, to keep up that grip of her like
steel. She swooned in a kind of intense bliss. At length she found
herself released, taking a great breath, while Siegmund was moving his
mouth over her throat, something like a dog snuffing her, but with his
lips. Her heart leaped away in revulsion. His moustache thrilled her
strangely. His lips, brushing and pressing her throat beneath the ear,
and his warm breath flying rhythmically upon her, made her vibrate
through all her body. Like a violin under the bow, she thrilled beneath
his mouth, and shuddered from his moustache. Her heart was like fire in
her breast.
Suddenly she strained madly to him, and, drawing back her head, placed
her lips on his, close, till at the mouth they seemed to melt and fuse
together. It was the long, supreme kiss, in which man and woman have one
being, Two-in-one, the only Hermaphrodite.
When Helena drew away her lips, she was exhausted. She belonged to that
class of 'dreaming women' with whom passion exhausts itself at the
mouth. Her desire was accomplished in a real kiss. The fire, in heavy
flames, had poured through her to Siegmund, from Siegmund to her. It
sank, and she felt herself flagging. She had not the man's brightness
and vividness of blood. She lay upon his breast, dreaming how beautiful
it would be to go to sleep, to swoon unconscious there, on that rare
bed. She lay still on Siegmund's breast, listening to his heavily
beating heart.
With her the dream was always more than the actuality. Her dream of
Siegmund was more to her than Siegmund himself. He might be less than
her dream, which is as it may be. However, to the real man she was
very cruel.
He held her close. His dream was melted in his blood, and his blood ran
bright for her. His dreams were the flowers of his blood. Hers were more
detached and inhuman. For centuries a certain type of woman has been
rejecting the 'animal' in humanity, till now her dreams are abstract,
and full of fantasy, and her blood runs in bondage, and her kindness is
full of cruelty.
Helena lay flagging upon the breast of Siegmund. He folded her closely,
and his mouth and his breath were warm on her neck. She sank away from
his caresses, passively, subtly drew back from him. He was far too
sensitive not to be aware of this, and far too much of a man not to
yield to the woman. His heart sank, his blood grew sullen at her
withdrawal. Still he held her; the two were motionless and silent for
some time.
She became distressedly conscious that her feet, which lay on the wet
grass, were aching with cold. She said softly, gently, as if he was her
child whom she must correct and lead:
'I think we ought to go home, Siegmund.' He made a small sound, that
might mean anything, but did not stir or release her. His mouth,
however, remained motionless on her throat, and the caress went out
of it.
'It is cold and wet, dear; we ought to go,' she coaxed determinedly.
'Soon,' he said thickly.
She sighed, waited a moment, then said very gently, as if she were loath
to take him from his pleasure:
'Siegmund, I am cold.'
There was a reproach in this which angered him.
'Cold!' he exclaimed. 'But you are warm with me--'
'But my feet are out on the grass, dear, and they are like wet pebbles.'
'Oh dear!' he said. 'Why didn't you give them me to warm?' He leaned
forward, and put his hand on her shoes.
'They are very cold,' he said. 'We must hurry and make them warm.'
When they rose, her feet were so numbed she could hardly stand. She
clung to Siegmund, laughing.
'I wish you had told me before,' he said. 'I ought to have known....'
Vexed with himself, he put his arm round her, and they set off home.
