Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  It was not May’s fault, poor dear. If, now and then, during their travels, they had fallen slightly out of step, harmony had been restored by their return to the conditions she was used to. He had always foreseen that she would not disappoint him; and he had been right. He had married (as most young men did) because he had met a perfectly charming girl at the moment when a series of rather aimless sentimental adventures were ending in premature disgust; and she had represented peace, stability, comradeship, and the steadying sense of an unescapable duty.

  He could not say that he had been mistaken in his choice, for she had fulfilled all that he had expected. It was undoubtedly gratifying to be the husband of one of the handsomest and most popular young married women in New York, especially when she was also one of the sweetest-tempered and most reasonable of wives; and Archer had never been insensible to such advantages. As for the momentary madness which had fallen upon him on the eve of his marriage, he had trained himself to regard it as the last of his discarded experiments. The idea that he could ever, in his senses, have dreamed of marrying the Countess Olenska had become almost unthinkable, and she remained in his memory simply as the most plaintive and poignant of a line of ghosts.

  But all these abstractions and eliminations made of his mind a rather empty and echoing place, and he supposed that was one of the reasons why the busy animated people on the Beaufort lawn shocked him as if they had been children playing in a graveyard.

  He heard a murmur of skirts beside him, and the Marchioness Manson fluttered out of the drawing-room window. As usual, she was extraordinarily festooned and bedizened, with a limp Leghorn hat anchored to her head by many windings of faded gauze, and a little black velvet parasol on a carved ivory handle absurdly balanced over her much larger hatbrim.

  “My dear Newland, I had no idea that you and May had arrived! You yourself came only yesterday, you say? Ah, business—business—professional duties … I understand. Many husbands, I know, find it impossible to join their wives here except for the week-end.” She cocked her head on one side and languished at him through screwed-up eyes. “But marriage is one long sacrifice, as I used often to remind my Ellen—”

  Archer’s heart stopped with the queer jerk which it had given once before, and which seemed suddenly to slam a door between himself and the outer world; but this break of continuity must have been of the briefest, for he presently heard Medora answering a question he had apparently found voice to put.

  “No, I am not staying here, but with the Blenkers, in their delicious solitude at Portsmouth. Beaufort was kind enough to send his famous trotters for me this morning, so that I might have at least a glimpse of one of Regina’s garden-parties; but this evening I go back to rural life. The Blenkers, dear original beings, have hired a primitive old farmhouse at Portsmouth where they gather about them representative people …” She drooped slightly beneath her protecting brim, and added with a faint blush: “This week Dr. Agathon Carver is holding a series of Inner Thought meetings there. A contrast indeed to this gay scene of worldly pleasure—but then I have always lived on contrasts! To me the only death is monotony. I always say to Ellen: Beware of monotony; it’s the mother of all the deadly sins. But my poor child is going through a phase of exaltation, of abhorrence of the world. You know, I suppose, that she has declined all invitations to stay at Newport, even with her grandmother Mingott? I could hardly persuade her to come with me to the Blenkers’, if you will believe it! The life she leads is morbid, unnatural. Ah, if she had only listened to me when it was still possible … When the door was still open … But shall we go down and watch this absorbing match? I hear your May is one of the competitors.”

  Strolling toward them from the tent Beaufort advanced over the lawn, tall, heavy, too tightly buttoned into a London frock-coat, with one of his own orchids in its buttonhole. Archer, who had not seen him for two or three months, was struck by the change in his appearance. In the hot summer light his floridness seemed heavy and bloated, and but for his erect square-shouldered walk he would have looked like an overfed and over-dressed old man.

  There were all sorts of rumours afloat about Beaufort. In the spring he had gone off on a long cruise to the West Indies in his new steam-yacht, and it was reported that, at various points where he had touched, a lady resembling Miss Fanny Ring had been seen in his company. The steam-yacht, built in the Clyde, and fitted with tiled bathrooms and other unheard-of luxuries, was said to have cost him half a million; and the pearl necklace which he had presented to his wife on his return was as magnificent as such expiatory offerings are apt to be. Beaufort’s fortune was substantial enough to stand the strain; and yet the disquieting rumours persisted, not only in Fifth Avenue but in Wall Street. Some people said he had speculated unfortunately in railways, others that he was being bled by one of the most insatiable members of her profession; and to every report of threatened insolvency Beaufort replied by a fresh extravagance: the building of a new row of orchid-houses, the purchase of a new string of race-horses, or the addition of a new Meissonnier or Cabanel to his picture-gallery.

  He advanced toward the Marchioness and Newland with his usual half-sneering smile. “Hullo, Medora! Did the trotters do their business? Forty minutes, eh? … Well, that’s not so bad, considering your nerves had to be spared.” He shook hands with Archer, and then, turning back with them, placed himself on Mrs. Manson’s other side, and said, in a low voice, a few words which their companion did not catch.

  The Marchioness replied by one of her queer foreign jerks, and a “Que voulez-vous?” which deepened Beaufort’s frown; but he produced a good semblance of a congratulatory smile as he glanced at Archer to say: “You know May’s going to carry off the first prize.”

  “Ah, then it remains in the family,” Medora rippled; and at that moment they reached the tent and Mrs. Beaufort met them in a girlish cloud of mauve muslin and floating veils.

  May Welland was just coming out of the tent. In her white dress, with a pale green ribbon about the waist and a wreath of ivy on her hat, she had the same Diana-like aloofness as when she had entered the Beaufort ballroom on the night of her engagement. In the interval not a thought seemed to have passed behind her eyes or a feeling through her heart; and though her husband knew that she had the capacity for both he marvelled afresh at the way in which experience dropped away from her.

  She had her bow and arrow in her hand, and placing herself on the chalk-mark traced on the turf she lifted the bow to her shoulder and took aim. The attitude was so full of a classic grace that a murmur of appreciation followed her appearance, and Archer felt the glow of proprietorship that so often cheated him into momentary wellbeing. Her rivals—Mrs. Reggie Chivers, the Merry girls, and divers rosy Thorleys, Dagonets and Mingotts, stood behind her in a lovely anxious group, brown heads and golden bent above the scores, and pale muslins and flower-wreathed hats mingled in a tender rainbow. All were young and pretty, and bathed in summer bloom; but not one had the nymph-like ease of his wife, when, with tense muscles and happy frown, she bent her soul upon some feat of strength.

  “Gad,” Archer heard Lawrence Lefferts say, “not one of the lot holds the bow as she does”; and Beaufort retorted: “Yes; but that’s the only kind of target she’ll ever hit.”

  Archer felt irrationally angry. His host’s contemptuous tribute to May’s “niceness” was just what a husband should have wished to hear said of his wife. The fact that a coarseminded man found her lacking in attraction was simply another proof of her quality; yet the words sent a faint shiver through his heart. What if “niceness” carried to that supreme degree were only a negation, the curtain dropped before an emptiness? As he looked at May, returning flushed and calm from her final bull’s-eye, he had the feeling that he had never yet lifted that curtain.

  She took the congratulations of her rivals and of the rest of the company with the simplicity that was her crowning grace. No one could ever be jealous of her triumphs because she managed to give the feeling that she
would have been just as serene if she had missed them. But when her eyes met her husband’s her face glowed with the pleasure she saw in his.

  Mrs. Welland’s basket-work pony-carriage was waiting for them, and they drove off among the dispersing carriages, May handling the reins and Archer sitting at her side. When their carriage separated from the rest, May gazed into a nearby field shaded with a grove of trees, and drove them toward a dirt road that seemed to lead everywhere and nowhere. She pulled on the reins to slow the horse.

  “Newland, I feel so at ease with nature today,” she said, smiling.

  “Yes, you are quite a natural, my dear.”

  “I have often wondered why we don’t picnic. You and I alone. Why, just look at the beauty of the countryside. I wonder if you’d mind if we took a slight detour before heading back.” She smiled again, only this time her eyes narrowed suggestively.

  “My dearest May,” he said, surprised by her sudden sense of adventure.

  She glanced behind them. “We have all we need—a quilt and a bottle of champagne, the one Beaufort asked that I bring to Granny. I dare say, she will never miss it. She has plenty in her cellar.”

  When he smiled, May turned the carriage, and they ventured down the dirt path. Once they reached the grove of trees, she turned the carriage into the forest. They ducked down to avoid the limbs and brush, and it was not terribly long before they reached an opening to a meadow, where the trees parted and the sun rained down from above them.

  “How splendid,” she cried as she parked the carriage.

  When they were laid out quite comfortably upon the quilt, Newland popped the cork on the bottle of champagne and bubbles began to spill from the bottleneck.

  “Quickly,” she said, reaching reached for the bottle. Then she leaned into it to catch the overflowing liquid. She swallowed, grimacing, and offered the bottle to Newland. He captured what drops he could, but the bulk of it spilled upon him. May began to laugh excitedly.

  “We opened it too soon,” he said.

  “Champagne is so delightful,” she said still giggling. “But it does tickle one’s palate.”

  He smiled at her, agreeing.

  “Is there much left?” she asked.

  Newland licked the bubbles still spilling over the neck of the bottle. “Plenty left. Now tilt your head back,” he said, smiling at his frisky young wife. This jaunt had been a huge surprise and he could hardly wait to see what was in store.

  She giggled again and did as he asked. After he poured her a taste, letting the liquid flow from the bottle, she swallowed happily, and threw her arms behind her and lay back on the quilt. “Kiss me,” she said, her eyes filled with delight, and he did exactly that.

  Her lips were soft, and her essence was like a fresh bouquet of flowers. Newland found himself aroused by her newfound sense of freedom, one he never expected to know. He slid his tongue to hers and together they kissed, slowly at first, but as soon as she placed her arms around his neck, the kiss exploded with passion.

  When the kiss broke, she stared lovingly into his eyes. “Oh, Newland, how I do love you,” she said, her eyes dancing and inviting more of his affection.

  “And I you, my dearest wife.”

  “Make love to me, husband.”

  He quickly began undressing her. He unbuttoned the front of her dress so that her pert bosoms taunted him through the cloth of her brassiere. He slid his fingers underneath the garment and quickly found the firm tips of her breasts. He caressed them lovingly, causing her to sigh, and then he lowered the garment to expose her creamy flesh to the sunlight. Her skin glimmered in the light, and he studied the delicate fullness of her bosom before he lowered his head to frolic among the lovely enchantment of her flesh. He licked one of her nipple’s tips and then moved to the other, becoming more and more aroused as he played. He grasped both breasts and held them together so that he could slide his tongue from one to the other in a single stroke. Then he took the erect tip of one the nipples between his teeth and gently nipped before beginning to suck.

  She sighed pleasantly and began undulating her hips. “Oh, Newland,” she said as she reached below to pull up her skirts, bringing them above her waist.

  Excited, he released one of her breasts from his grasp, and slid his hand down to her stomach, circling her navel before dipping his fingertips inside the top edge of her silky undergarment.

  “Lower,” she said.

  And so, he slipped his fingers inside the silky garment and slowly began tunneling his fingers through her feminine curls.

  “Lower,” she said, her voice now breathy and taut. She rolled her head languorously, as she transitioned into the greater depths of passion. “Go lower, Newland.”

  He gazed into her rose-colored face. She was the vision of an angel; her eyes closed, her lips pouting. She took deep, slow breaths, and he could see by her expression that she was lost in pure heavenly bliss. He had never before seen a more beautiful expression than his wife’s. She reflected everything pleasing and exquisite. He lowered his gaze and began studying the lines of her body while watching her move with a subtle eroticism. The way she moved her hips, a slow grind, was seductively intoxicating. Moving his gaze lower, he was drawn to study her feminine flower and without thinking further, he moved his fingers to touch her pearl.

  “Oh yes. Yes,” she whispered as he began caressing her jewel. Her hips ground slowly at first, but began moving more intensely the more he pleasured her.

  “Lower,” she said, her voice arching with desire.

  And so, he moved his fingers lower and found her well overflowing with passionate cream. He withdrew his hand, held his fingers to his tongue, and tasted her divine dessert. Then he returned to her rich fountain of cream and began to swirl his fingers.

  “Yes,” she hissed, and began thrusting her hips forward, inviting him to dip inside her sheath.

  He slipped a finger inside, then two, and when she moved more urgently, he hastened the pace, and began sliding almost recklessly through her velvety slit.

  “Make love to me, Newland. I want you inside of me.”

  He eased down her undergarment and then removed his trousers, so that he could comfortably position himself in a seated position above her. He pulled her hips forward to his lap, and left her upper body lying on the quilt. He grasped her hips and glided his staff between her intimate folds, stopping at the entrance to her sheath. She moved her hips encouragingly, and so without delay, he entered her, sliding his member slowly to the end of her feminine purse. He found her pearl again and began to massage, and when she ground her hips more desirously, he began stroking in and out of her with a more impassioned heat.

  She moaned languidly, grasped her own breasts, and began massaging the tips. Her body writhed in rhythm with his strokes, and Newland soon found himself lost in the same abyss of heavenly pleasure. They made sweet divine love until their bodies converged to one focal point. Her body tensed, his chest tightened, and in the following strokes, they climaxed in perfect harmony.

  When they came to a rest, she said, “Let’s stay here forever.” For the longest time, they stared deeply into one another’s eyes.

  “Yes, let’s,” he finally said. He reached for her arms and pulled her up and into a tight embrace. As he held her, he stroked her head lovingly, tunneling his fingers through her fallen locks. She was pure and innocent, yet loving and passionate. And at that moment, Newland had never admired his young wife and her sense of adventure more.

  But all dreams must end, and they soon found themselves in the carriage heading along the main road toward Granny’s place again—short one bottle of champagne.

  The afternoon sunlight still lingered upon the bright lawns and shrubberies, and up and down Bellevue Avenue rolled a double line of victorias, dog-carts, landaus and “vis-a-vis,” carrying well-dressed ladies and gentlemen away from the Beaufort garden-party, or homeward from their daily afternoon turn along the Ocean Drive.

  “Shall we go to see Grann
y?” May suddenly proposed. “I should like to tell her myself that I’ve won the prize. There’s lots of time before dinner.”

  Archer acquiesced, and she turned the ponies down Narragansett Avenue, crossed Spring Street and drove out toward the rocky moorland beyond. In this unfashionable region Catherine the Great, always indifferent to precedent and thrifty of purse, had built herself in her youth a many-peaked and cross-beamed cottage-orne on a bit of cheap land overlooking the bay. Here, in a thicket of stunted oaks, her verandahs spread themselves above the island-dotted waters. A winding drive led up between iron stags and blue glass balls embedded in mounds of geraniums to a front door of highly-varnished walnut under a striped verandah-roof; and behind it ran a narrow hall with a black and yellow star-patterned parquet floor, upon which opened four small square rooms with heavy flock-papers under ceilings on which an Italian house-painter had lavished all the divinities of Olympus. One of these rooms had been turned into a bedroom by Mrs. Mingott when the burden of flesh descended on her, and in the adjoining one she spent her days, enthroned in a large armchair between the open door and window, and perpetually waving a palm-leaf fan which the prodigious projection of her bosom kept so far from the rest of her person that the air it set in motion stirred only the fringe of the anti-macassars on the chair-arms.

  Since she had been the means of hastening his marriage old Catherine had shown to Archer the cordiality which a service rendered excites toward the person served. She was persuaded that irrepressible passion was the cause of his impatience; and being an ardent admirer of impulsiveness (when it did not lead to the spending of money) she always received him with a genial twinkle of complicity and a play of allusion to which May seemed fortunately impervious.

  She examined and appraised with much interest the diamond-tipped arrow which had been pinned on May’s bosom at the conclusion of the match, remarking that in her day a filigree brooch would have been thought enough, but that there was no denying that Beaufort did things handsomely.