He lifted his head with a jerk, peering into her face, slow to realize the incredible mistake he had made. He was still under the spell of the riotous passion that her lustful response had aroused. It had rushed over him like a great, resistless wave,—hot, delicious, tingling. He had been amazed, bewildered by the unbelievable craving,—furious and uncontrolled,—which she revealed in her momentary surrender to the elemental. The truth began to dawn upon him even before she spoke. Could this be Ruth,—could this unbridled, voluptuous wanton who clung to him and smothered him with kisses be the pure, high-minded girl he had grown to love and revere? She spoke, and then he knew that the consuming fire in his blood was unholy,—as unholy as the spark that set it ablaze.
“Damn you!” he whispered hoarsely,—but he did not put her away from him. The lure of the flesh was upon him. It was stronger than his will, stronger than his love.
For months this woman had beguiled him. There had been times when he was compelled to fight himself,—times when he asked: “Why not?”
She was alluring, she was frankly a sensualist; but she was patient, she was crafty. She knew that he was honourably in love with another, but she was not deterred by that nor by the conviction that her conquest, if she prevailed, would be transitory. She had a code of her own. It included an uncertain element of honour, fixed rather rigidly upon what she would have called constancy. Singleness of purpose was her notion of morality. She would not have believed herself to be a bad woman any more than she would have looked upon her lover as a bad man. To her, morality in its accepted sense signified no more than the suppression of human emotions and human sensations. As a matter of fact, she considered herself a good woman if for no other reason than that she steadfastly had repelled the munificent appeals of countless infatuated men. Treasure had been laid at her feet, only to be kicked aside. She calmly spoke of herself as a pearl without price. She was content to possess, but not to be possessed. That was what she called self-respect. She was a pagan, but she was her own idol. She worshipped herself. She would never permit her idol to be desecrated.
All this Percival knew,—or rather sensed. He was not above feeling a queer sort of respect and admiration for her. She was not without integrity.
He had reached the pinnacle of happiness in believing that the girl he loved was in his arms. He was blind and deaf with ecstasy. The awakening was a shock. His senses reeled for an instant,—and then Ruth Clinton went out of his thoughts entirely!
“Damn you!” he cried again, and drew her close. “She hates me,—she will always hate me,” he was mumbling. “Why should I care? Why should I refuse to take—” Her lips were on his again, warm, firm, voluptuous, drawing his heart's blood with the resistless power of a magnet.
They did not hear the rapid approach of footsteps—heavy, swift as of one running. A dark, panting figure raced past them, and then another but a few paces behind.
Percival's senses were released. They cast off the bewitching bonds. His head went up again. In a flash his brain was clear. His arms were still about her, she was still lying close against him,—but the current of passion that consumed both of them was checked.
“What was that?” she gasped, as if coming out of a dream.