“You helpless bastard,” cried Martin to himself.... “Let’s break it, Deane,” he whispered to her once more. “Let’s break it completely,” and he pulled the loosened gown from her white shoulders. “And here’s mine,” he went on, continuing the motion until his opened shirt and singlet were flat against her breast. “We’ll call it the wild black clogs of Belgium, dearest,” and he clenched his hard brown arms around her waist. Without speaking further he took her hand and led her into the adjoining room. He sat down on the gray paneled bed, pulling her surely beside him. Deane saw the slight trembling of his lips and the heavy expression of his eyes which stirred her with an intoxication that was close to fear. She was drawn by the swift pace of his emotion, yet held back by the certainty of his demand. Even as she was thinking, the rapid heartbeats against her became more rapid and the pressure of Martin’s hands brought so definite a response that all vaporous abstractions were forgotten and she knew herself in an immediate physical presence. Wanting Martin as she did, the knowledge of his action brought no idle gestures; and she was quiet, with eyes half closed as she felt herself lifted, then rested, with Martin’s arm for a pillow. Infinitesimal beads of moisture formed on Martin’s temples as his hand caught the rim of her stocking, but the warm, soft flesh above it made him cry out softly. The very lights seemed tenderer and the very shadows kinder as these two lovers held each other. The night was penetrated by a question, by a sob; and all the cruelties and perversions of humanity were justified by this union—natural, unashamed and magnificent in simplicity and passion.
CHAPTER VII
Roberts waited near the printing plant the following afternoon. When Martin came out he went swiftly to him, holding out his hand. There was haggardness and strain—a formation of new lines in Roberts’ face.
“I could hardly wait till you were through work to-day, Martin,” he said anxiously. “I have been terribly distressed over last night. I feel that it was my mistake—entirely my mistake. I was overminded by my zealousness—or,” he hesitated, “by my jealousy. You know how I feel about you. You do know, don’t you?”
Martin, following his emotion, rather than the outposts of his mind which usually warned him, was drawn to Roberts by this speech, so painful and revealing.
“For God’s sake, Roberts,” he said, “there wasn’t any mistake. But if there is anything deserving such a name, we’ll forget my fault, and yours.”
Roberts sighed with relief.
“Then you will forgive your old mother?” he asked contentedly.