Now that she was assured of Richard’s entire devotion, Harriet might have been tempted to relax her vigilance and determination. But she realised that her greatest trial still lay before her. His love must be transformed into an active desire for her body; and at the same time she must not yield to him, – for any premature liberty she allowed him would be fatal to all her plans.
It was the prospect of residence at Christchurch that disturbed her most of all. There, in the surroundings where she had first learned to love her pupil, she knew she was particularly vulnerable to his charm and to her own feelings. Even now, seeing him every day, observing the increase in his beauty, she was tormented by the wish to enjoy his body to the utmost, to feel that exquisite member she had so often caressed penetrating her womb; and her baffled sensuality found its only outlet in subjecting him to repeated acts of severity and humiliation.
When they arrived in Christchurch that summer her nerves were in a state of exacerbation. She was in fact in that condition, so dangerous to women, of wishing at once to tantalise and reject the man of her choice; and while well knowing the danger, she could not resist deliberately inciting him to the kind of behaviour which she both craved and feared.
The summer went by before she was impelled to bring matters to a head. For not until then had she felt sufficiently mistress of herself to hazard the experiment of directing her pupil’s desires into the wished–for channel, an experiment which she prefaced by refusing him all gratification for a week.
For Richard, the whole sequence of events was an enigma from beginning to end.
That evening at dinner he had been conscious of an air of tension between them. Harriet said little, but he felt her fine eyes resting on him from time to time, and it seemed her glance held some special message, some obscure promise which he did not dare to formulate to himself. He was nervous and lacking in appetite, and when dinner was finished he found himself still more ill at ease; he was suddenly aware that his feelings for the past hour had reproduced the trepidation so often experienced in this house in past years, when it had been a question of his submitting to some punishment of especial sharpness during the hours preceding his bedtime.
“It is a fine evening,” said Harriet. “Come, let us take a turn or two in the garden.”
As he stood behind her to place the long cloak over her shoulders, he felt her incline against him, and saw her face turned back to him for an instant over her shoulder; overcome by the contact, he put his arms around her and pressed her to him tenderly. She made no resistance for a moment or two, suffering his embrace with a passive tranquillity, then she drew away without a word and put her arm in his. As they passed into the garden she said in a low voice, “Be careful, Richard.”
His only reply was to clasp her arm a little more closely. She did not relax or withdraw, merely saying, “I have told you to be careful. You will please do as I say.”
His senses in a turmoil, his brain utterly confused, he walked on beside her, feeling the soft pressure of her arm and the occasional contact of her hip; without knowing what he should do or say, conscious of nothing but the current of emotion running through him.
It was a dark, moonless night; the air was already soft with the fullness of summer and the odour of the mown fields; in the distance crickets were singing They reached the deeper shadow thrown by the woods, and Harriet suddenly paused and turned to confront him. He saw her face, no more than a white blur in the darkness, level with his own, and had the impression she was smiling. Then he felt her hands on his shoulders; his arms went around her, and their lips met.
A moment later he realised with a shock of shame and dismay the intrusion of the sexual factor in the pressure of his body against hers, and felt her drawing away. All at once the weight of her hands on his shoulders became more insistent, and in obedience to their pressure he sank on his knees before her, his arms still enlacing her, his head seeking the cleft of her knees. “Miss,” he whispered, “forgive me ...”
She made no reply, her pose remained rigid. When he felt her hands leave his shoulders he raised his head fearfully to gaze at her. What he saw affected him like an electric shock, – for her hands were raising the hood of her cloak, with the same gesture which had so often filled him with terror during his boyhood. Involuntarily he gave a little moan of fear and relaxed his grasp.
“Why, what is the matter, Richard?”
He stammered an inaudible reply, then buried his face once more in the folds of her cloak, trying to conceal his agitation. He heard her laughing softly.
“Ah yes,” she said, “I understand ... What a memory you have for little things, my dear! But there is no cause for alarm this time. I am only hooding myself against the night air, you know.” But, unseen to him, her lips were curving in a triumphant smile.
“Come,” she said at last, “we will go to bed. It is early yet, but I am tired. You will read to me for a while when I am in bed, – just as you used to do in the old days. Do you remember?”
Indeed, he remembered only too well those troubling occasions!
The bedroom was dim, lit only by a heavily shaded lamp which extended the shadows of this luxurious room and caught up points of light from polished woods and ornaments of brass; the air was warm and humid.
Harriet waved him to the divan. “Sit, there, Richard,” she said. Then, deliberately, she began to undress.
The old familiar ritual, re-enacted before him now after so many months, affected him still more powerfully than it had when he was a boy. His throat dry, his face burning, he followed the leisurely and graceful movements of the young woman in a fever of anticipation; once more he watched the methodical removal of gown, stays and linen, he heard the rustling of silks and taffetas, he smelled the warm odours being released in the room, each more intimate than the last. At last Harriet was clad in nothing but her shift; his eyes wavered and dropped.
“Richard,” came the clear, cool voice. “Bring me my nightdress from the press, if you please.”
He rose, opened the press, and saw the long silk garment hanging before him. With trembling hands he took it out and turned back to her; then he stopped, transfixed.
Harriet was standing absolutely nude before him, a faint smile on her lips. He gasped and lowered his eyes; he was unable to move.
“Well, my dear,” she said, “what are you waiting for? One would think you had never seen me before.”
He summoned up his courage, and looked full at her. Once he had done so he could not take his eyes away. His gaze devoured the magnificent contours of her neck, her breasts, her thighs, and he felt his breath almost stifling him. He moved blindly forward and took her in his arms. For a moment her mouth was turned to his, and he felt her whole body responding to the contact of his own; but when she drew away his arms dropped helplessly. He saw her smiling at him indulgently.
“Why, Richard,” she said, “it is not yet time for you to kiss me tonight. We are not going to bed right away. And I have not yet done my hair ... Wait where you are for a minute.” And turning from him she sat down before the low mirrored dressing–table and began unfastening the masses of her hair.
Spellbound, he watched the movements of her beautiful arms as Harriet plied the long ebony–backed brush over her tresses; he saw the serpentine undulation of the splendid back, and in the mirror caught glimpses of the large projecting breasts, centred by their tips of dark rose, which swam and quivered with the movements of her arm. A sob of desire rose in his throat, and he stepped forward and knelt behind her, his arms embracing her waist, his hands closing upon those treasures of her bosom, his mouth buried in the soft nape of her neck.
“Richard, this is too much!”
She had broken from him and risen, gazing at him angrily. “This behaviour is disgraceful!”
“It–it’s only that I love you–so much ...”
Her brows drew together over her shining eyes. “You are impertinent, Richard.” She paused, looking at him fixedly for a few moments; when she spoke again her voice was calm and level. “Come here and kneel down, sir.”
She sat down herself and crossed her beautiful naked legs; then, with one hand supporting her bare breast, she went on gravely. “Your conduct lately has led me to consider your condition very carefully. And I see that your temperament is altogether too passionate, too ardent ... Until lately I have been able to hold your passions in check by certain indulgences. But that must not continue. You will soon be eighteen, and that is too old for a boy to receive that form of relief. No, my dear, there is only one course of action to be taken with you. You must be married.”
He stared at her in astonishment. “Married?” he repeated stupidly.
“Yes, Richard, you must be married–to some woman who will keep you in proper order.”
“But–but I don’t wish to be married. I–”
Harriet’s brows drew together sharply. “Then you must control yourself. Do you understand?”
He noted the sudden lift and quiver of her breasts, and dropped his eyes. “Yes–but really, I don’t wish to marry. I just want to live this way with you forever ...”
She looked at him quizzically. “You may feel more inclined for marriage after you have a few more months of chastity,” she said as she caressed her breast idly. “Perhaps that will make you more receptive to some nice girl.”
“Oh, but I don’t want a girl!” His dismay was almost comic. “I only want you ...”
Harriet’s heart leapt up; she felt her cheeks flushing. But when she spoke she made her voice suddenly harsh.
“What do you mean!” she said. “How dare you address me in that way? Richard, if you ever do so again, if you ever suggest that I become your mistress I shall whip you till the blood comes. Do you understand?”
He reached blindly for her hand. “Miss, miss!” he cried in utter dismay, “I did not mean to suggest, –anything like that–oh, believe me ... I would not dare–I had never thought–”
“Then you must be careful how you choose your words. Get up now, hand me my nightdress, and turn down my bed.”
He obeyed, watching her tremulously as she slipped on the long white garment, drew its silk sash around her waist, and then got into bed. When she spoke again her voice was once more cool and pleasant.
“Before you begin reading to me, there is something I should like you to see.” She smiled, and adjusted the pillow behind her beautiful head. “Last winter in London I made a purchase especially for you. You will find it on the cabinet. Bring it to me, please.”
As his eyes fell on the instrument on the cabinet his heart gave a sudden leap; he drew a short, deep breath. It was a thin, curling whip of black Russian leather.
“Yes,” Harriet murmured, “you see, I had not ceased thinking of you even then ... Well, what do you think of your new whip, Richard? Do you think it will help you to behave yourself a little better? Bring it here to me, I said.”
Trembling with a peculiar emotion, he picked up the whip, noting its lightness and balance: little more than two feet in length, with a stiff handle that gradually became supple and tapered off to a fine threaded lash, it combined the features of a dog–whip and a lady’s ridingwhip; the sheen of the leather and the silver mounting gave to its cruel lines an air of distinction and elegance. He handed it to her silently.
“Thank you. I see you have nothing to say about it. Possibly your opinion on its merits has yet to be formed.” She looked at him shrewdly, taking in the glance with which he devoured the whip before handing it to her.
He had been immediately fascinated by it: more than the strap or the cane, more even than her shoes, it seemed to sum up and symbolise his thraldom to Harriet more cogently than anything else, and now, as he watched her slowly drawing the supple black lash through her fingers, he was seized once more by the opposed but complementary emotions of fear and longing, as if he already realized that to be beaten by this superbly cruel instrument would be a crowning experience in which pain and pleasure might be combined as never before.
Harriet laid it softly on her bedside table. “You would like to have a taste of it some time, would you not?” she said suddenly.
Shaken by an overmastering excitement, he met her piercing, clairvoyant gaze for an instant. “Yes, miss,” he whispered breathlessly. “Oh, yes ...”
Harriet’s eyes flickered strangely, and her face flushed. Then she lay back in bed, still looking at him intently, concealing her triumph under a sudden change of demeanour.
“I am glad of that,” she said. “It shows you are sensible of your needs–and of mine too. And in return for your admission I will allow you a privilege I have had in mind for you for some time, and to which your age really entitles you.” She paused. “From now on, when we are alone together, you may address me by my first name, Richard. In public, of course, you will continue to call me Miss,—but in private, as we are now, I shall be–Harriet. Do you understand?”
“Oh, yes,” he breathed. “Yes–Harriet.” Never, he thought, had a sweeter sound passed his lips.
She gazed at him for a few moments, dissembling her own emotion at hearing for the first time the syllables of her name on the lips of the youth she loved.
“And now,” she said, “take up that book and read to me, please.”
He opened the book and began. Unaware of what he was reading, with his lips automatically framing the words before him, he was occupied simply with his own emotions, with his remembrance of the look she had just given him and in which he had seen the promise of a consummation.
Harriet’s eyes gradually closed. Each time Richard turned a page he stole a glimpse at the beloved face which had never seemed so beautiful as now, in these moments when he could watch it unobserved. His voice began to falter, his throat becoming dry as he grew sick with desire for this magnificent creature lying before him; he ceased reading, and devoured with burning glances her face, her breasts, the outline of her hips beneath the thin coverlet. He dropped the book and stretched out his hands towards her.
“Richard, it is time you were in bed.” Harriet’s voice came softly, arresting him. She had opened her eyes and was gazing at him as if through a film of slumber.
“Yes, Harriet. Shall I kiss you goodnight?”
“No, you have done so already. Goodnight, dear boy.”
“Harriet,” he murmured, not rising.
“Yes, I know, Richard. It will not be long ... Listen, my dear: leave the door of your room open. Do you understand?”
“Yes,–oh yes.”
“And go now.”
He rose and left the room, gaining his own in a fever of desire, anticipation and uncertainty. He undressed, and slipped nude between the sheets, his heart beating violently.
It was only towards dawn that he fell asleep while waiting for her. For she did not come.