The Lesser Portal

It began to seem that wherever I went, my rival Handscombe was as inevitable as rats in a granary. I had left the chemist's shop and had threaded my way through side-alleys to bustling Sidney Street, when I saw him ahead of me, thrusting his way amiably against a crow-like flock of students "going to lecture with wind in their gowns".

The taste of a beautiful woman still lingered in my mouth, and I was in the mood to see whether a pretence of affability would draw out useful information. But how-d'ye-do's had no sooner been exchanged than an advertising bill caught Handscombe's eye -- we were next to one of those vacant shops with windows covered in layer upon layer of bills -- and he tapped the advertisement with his finger.

"Now here at least," he said, suddenly grave, "is something which we may both condemn."

I looked at the bill curiously. It proclaimed in the usual heavy rows of battered black type, a travelling circus and its attractions, complete with a woodcut of a female ballet dancer standing on the tip of her toe on the back of a galloping steed.

"You object to this form of entertainment?" I asked.

He shook his head and smiled. "I am not one of those dour Christians who will never be satisfied until the mass of people are as gloomy as themselves, Mr Jaspers." He pointed to the name of the proprietor. "No, it is this -- 'gentleman' -- I am referring to." The name was unfamiliar to me, and I said so.[Editor's note: the reference is probably to Pablo Fanque.]

"It is well known that this man," said Handscombe, with pious regret, "is at best a half-breed, the fruit of an unnatural union between a European and one of the Negro race."

I said, "Surely his making a go of his circus is proof that such a union is not a cause for concern."

Handscombe shook his head vehemently. "Success in the field of vulgar entertainment is hardly a high achievement, and in any case must be owing to his European blood." Behind his mask of universal Christian goodwill, I had plainly struck a nerve. He grew heated. "No, the Bible properly interpreted, tells us that the Creator divided the races into superior and inferior sorts marked by the colour of the skin. And that, surely, is the direction that your Mr Darwin leads you also, the dusky skin of the Black showing his affinity with his supposed apish ancestor."

With, I hoped, irritating mildness I replied that if that was Darwin's opinion he had not yet said so. "Besides," I added, "I should have thought that the thinner lips and straighter hair of us Whites were an argument in the opposite direction."

For a moment his mask of urbane superiority was cracked by an angry frown. Urbane superiority is hard to sustain, in any case, when one is being jostled by passers-by and looking up at one's opponent. I am half a head taller than Handscombe. He said stiffly, "I have risked my life in Africa, I remind you. All the proof you need is in my book, which it would be to your great advantage to read." He shook his head. "This is no abstract theory. As you know," (I did not know,) "I lent what support I could to the South in the American war. Slavery -- benevolent slavery -- is the Christian way with the Negro, Jaspers. Take my card and call at my house, and help yourself to a copy of my book." He looked me earnestly in the eye. "Read it, my dear Jaspers, and be convinced."

I took the card with apparent gratitude and was about to go on my way when Handscombe stopped me with a hand on my arm. "By-the-by, it's reached my ears that you might have strayed into some sort of unbecoming conduct -- what it was, I did not stoop to ask, but I thought a friendly warning would be appropriate. I'd advise you to keep your head below the parapet generally from now on. No more drawing attention to yourself with letters to the paper about Evolution, for example. And perhaps you'd best not try to win over any pious young ladyviamatrimony. Do you take my meaning?"

I assured him that I did. He eyed me narrowly, then relapsed into his usual tone of bluff amiability, and we parted with every appearance of friendship. Fortunately I had redistributed the bottles of permanganate between my coat-pockets, lest I chink at every step, or he might have added my being a secret drinker to my catalogue of sins.

This was not, by-the-by, the villainous old coat that Florence had objected to. One of our patents -- it dealt with the treatment of gutta-percha, so invaluable to the electric telegraph -- was bringing in a useful income now.

My next sight of Handscombe was at the Doyle's tea-party the next day. However, I barely spoke to him. My quarry was Florence, my hunt complicated by the fact that she had gained an acknowledged admirer, an owlish yet appealing young man named Peters who was studying for a doctorate in, I think, Philosophy. Peters yearned helplessly at her across his tea-cup in a way that suggested she had not yet initiated him into the Mysteries of the Lesser Portal.

Fortunately, she was in a mood to torment him. When, during a lull in conversation, I had gazed out into the low sunlight and wondered aloud whether the gardener protected the ferns from frost, she put aside her teacup and said, "Old Cummings does indeed do that. It might interest you to see. May I show you?"

The owlish Peters looked as if a dozen Neapolitans had stuck his heart with their infamousstiletti.

She and I soon had on our coats and sallied forth, albeit with complete propriety, as we were visible to all through the French windows.

"Florence," I said, "I am in trouble." And I explained frankly about the tintype.

Florence, as I expected, found the episode hilarious. "And won't you tell me what lucky girl yielded to the onslaught of that magnificent battering-ram of yours?" she asked.

I begged Florence to take the situation seriously.

"Freddy, I do see that things look black for you," she said, more soberly. "I can only say that I will do anything I can to help you, and if you are disgraced, I will remain privately your friend as far as I can."

Better than this she could hardly say, so I turned to a lighter topic. "Talking of photography, I hear that a young lady has lately been enjoying photographs of an exceedingly dubious nature purchased in the Town."

"Freddy, you wily man! Have you been spying on me?"

"Aha. It seems I have trapped you into a damaging admission."

"Yes and no. (By-the-by, your smile is positively wicked at times.) I have no need of photographs when I only have to describe my desires to Mr. Peters. I've no doubt he would satisfy them, I'm only waiting till he reaches the pinnacle of frustration and becomes my willing slave. But Lydia is a different matter."

"So you bought them for Lydia. This is beyond interesting."

We were now among the ferns, and Florence was pointing at the layers of sacking and heaps of bark-mulch that protected the more exotic specimens, while I nodded thoughtfully.

Florence continued, "Any depiction of such pleasures fascinates her, whether the recipient is male or female. Pious, aethereal Lydia -- I have given her my supply of the lubricant compound (I beg you to make up some more for me, by the way) and I believe she practices every night with a good thick candle. And she uses my cleansing apparatus daily, too."

I could not suppress an astonished chuckle.

She added, "I gather that as a Christian she won't touch herself at the front, but by some spiritual contortion thinks that pleasuring herself at the rear is no sin. I believe that in her fantasy meanwhile, some handsome ruffian is taking her by force. But we'd better go back to the house. As a topic of conversation we must have exhausted a few hibernating ferns by now."

As we began to walk back Florence said, "The fact is, Freddy, that in even our enlightened nineteenth century, we women are not allowed free minds. We have lust, you know, just as much as you men."

"In your case, probably more," I said with a smile.

"Even poor Lyddie has carnal urges aplenty, but because we are all supposed to be 'innocent', as they call it, she can't bring herself to acknowledge the fact. So she must attribute all her desire to some imaginary brute of a man who will ignore her chaste protests. Of course, if she was in truth to be raped (let us not hide behind euphemisms), she would be as distressed as any woman. But -- if it was all in play! You take my meaning?"

I responded loudly, "The ferns should make a fine display next year." We were coming within earshot of the tea-guests.

It was a few nights later that I was seated in a "growler" cab with light raindrops pattering the roof, stationed not far from Handscombe's front door. I was dressed in my old coat and armed with four pieces of information, gathered by the worthy Mrs Cargil:

One, that Handscombe was now settled permanently in Cambridge;

Two, that he had engaged only a cook-housekeeper, and a maid-of-all work who heated up a Lancashire hot-pot on the housekeeper's night off;

Three, that tonight was said housekeeper's night off;

And four, that the maid, to escape the drudgery and boredom that is the lot of junior servants, was secretly much addicted to sensational novels -- not yellow-back French novels, which, if discovered, would have meant instant dismissal, but sensational ones nevertheless.

So, I was in the growler. I had already put through Handscombe's letter-box a sealed-up note for Handscombe written in an ignorant hand -- Morwena's own unaffected "fist". I had rung the doorbell, and retreated to the cab before the door was answered. I had seen the maid open the door, look up and down the street, and retire, mystified. And I had seen Handscombe leave the house in a hurry soon after, the note crumpled in his hand, still getting into his overcoat. After my cabby refused him, he passed close to the cab's window, and I heard him -- him! -- mutter indignantly about blackmail. For the note purported to be from the street-girl who had acted for him in the business of the camera, and it demanded a meeting in a public-house in a nearby village.

Once he had turned the corner I mounted his front steps and rang the bell again. There was now only the maid to negotiate. I adjusted my threadbare scarf to cover my mouth, pulled my battered wideawake hat low over my eyes (both scarf and hat supplied courtesy of a scarecrow in the field behind the lab), bowed my shoulders in the way of a much older man, and took Handscombe's card from my inside pocket.

"Yes, sir? The master's out," stated the maid, opening the door narrowly and immediately closing it to put up the chain. The rest of the conversation was conducted through a three-inch crack.

I explained that the Reverend Doctor had offered me a copy of his book,gratis,and when she looked doubtful, I passed her his card through the crack.

She was reluctant still. But like the serpent, I could proffer an apple. "I don't suppose a girl like you enjoys novels, but they're rather a weakness of mine, and I have one or two to dispose of. Have you heard of Constance Caprice d'May?"

I could only see one of the maid's eyes and one-third of her mouth, but I saw them soften. "I haven't gotRavishment Hall," she said.

"That is too touching to part with. But I have," I pulled a tome from my pocket to consult the title, "Elvidia,orThe Secret Lock."

"I haven't heard of that one. Give it here."

I obeyed. There was a pause while she leafed voraciously through the volume.

"Got any more?"

"Young lady, it's really rather undignified passing them through a crack like this."

"Come in, sir, come in. You'll find master's book very easy in his lib'ary. Straight on at the top of the stairs, sir. Thank you, sir. Oh, thank you." I had by now disburdened my coat-pockets of two more volumes.

As I tottered up the stairs in my character of threadbare gentry, I heard her hurrying down to the kitchen with her prizes. I heard also the voices of Mrs. Threlfall and some unknown gentleman, in the back parlor.

Meanwhile, my right hand gripped an unexpected object in my pocket: in pulling out the novels I had discovered a metal tube rather larger than a chemist's test-tube. This was to prove useful, but at that moment I ignored it. I had more pressing matters to deal with.

On the landing was a lit oil lamp on a half-table. I picked up the lamp, and entered the library. Handscombe's book of exploits I saw at once, a stack of copies on a chair. I picked one up, noticed from the cover that the author was named only as "a Reverend of the Church of England" -- and then, having second thoughts, I put it back. With luck the maid would say nothing of my visit, since she was certainly forbidden to admit down-at-heel strangers. In which case, if I laid hands on the tintype its disappearance would be an utter mystery.

The library was a place of empty bookcases stood awry and unopened packing-cases. Easy to see that the tintype would not be in here. There was a door to the right. I opened it, and found a snug little study, well carpeted and Persian-rugged, the bookshelves well filled, provided with a writing-bureau and an upholstered chair on castors. I pushed the chair aside, put the lamp on top of the bureau and began to go through its contents by the soft yellow light.

I had just begun exploring the various pigeon-holes, when I heard a light tread on the stairs.

It was probably only the maid, I thought, but still, best to keep out of sight. I gently closed the bureau and glanced about for a hiding-place. The window-curtains did not quite reach the floor. There was the door -- but it was in a corner of the room, and it opened flat against the side-wall. Nevertheless, I pressed myself against the side-wall and pulled the door as near me as I could. If the maid merely glanced through the three-quarters-open door, I would be safe. Still, I held myself ready for a rapid escape.

The rustle of a dress came from the library. It drew towards the study. Now it came very near the threshold. I looked through the crack of the door.

It was Lydia.

She went over to the bureau. I held my breath.

She took a book from a shelf next to the bureau. And then she turned, and saw a lurking figure behind the door, and flew for the open doorway.

An instant, and I was behind her, my hat flying off my head and the scarf slipping from my face. I seized her by her slender waist. The book fell from her hand. She took a breath to scream. I clapped my hand to her mouth. Her legs buckled, her eyes half-closed and her head lolled. I supported her willow body on my arm as I breathed the words, "Be quiet, my fine lady. Your life will be spared if you do not resist," my mouth almost touching her ear.

I have been told my voice is distinctive. Lydia still wilted, but to my very great relief my voice revived her. To keep her from falling I had lifted her, and though her struggles were feeble, those struggles moved her whole body against mine. Her buttocks were against the fork of my trousers, and her squirming seemed strongest in that area. My animal self grew inflamed. She must have felt my growing excitement, and yet strangely, she struggled her body against me still more fervently, until my hard member was being rolled by the round softness of her rear.

Cautiously I took my hand from her mouth: she could have cried out, but she whispered, "Oh sir, sir, rather take my life than my virtue, I beg you."

"Quiet! And best not struggle, young lady," I snarled in her ear, "or it will only hurt the more."

"Oh, sweet sir," she murmured faintly over and over, struggling still and inflaming me further. She tried to pull away my imprisoning arm, but it seemed she could only move it so that my hand met her breast. I gripped, fiercely. She moaned, "You brute, you wild beast -- " she broke off to draw a few fervid breaths, "spare my feeble body your untamed strength."

The soft cotton of her flowing dress folded around my other hand as it sought the place between her legs. When I found her feminine triangle through the cloth I pressed hard, burying my hand in the cotton, trapping her female parts in the vice made by my hand and the wood-hard manhood which pressed her rump. I dragged my teeth across her neck -- she had called me a beast, and by the Devil, a beast she should have!

She tried to lean her head away -- I took her whole ear in my teeth so that she was pinned -- and thrust my tongue into it too, as a prophecy of what awaited her. She writhed her upper body -- I dug my fingers claw-like into her breast and dragged on it, and used my rower's arms to bind her chest so that she could barely draw breath, still less move.

She again tried to drag my arms away, but only experienced how easily they overpowered her. At the same time she was pivoting her hips between my manhood and my pressing hand, and emitting soft groans the while. Next she kicked her feet against my shins, and through gritted teeth forced the words, "Let me go, you monster! Let me go!"

For answer I forced her down on her back onto the soft rug, then threw my leg across her hips, rode astride her and held her down. She turned her face away from me, but not so far that she hid a fleeting smile on her lips. Writhing as best she could under me, her head turning frantically to left and right, she beat her slender fists against my chest. "None of that!" I sneered, and I seized both of her narrow wrists in the grip of one hand. With my other I dragged the long scarf from around my neck, flung a loop of it round her wrists, then another, and knotted it. From there it was the work of a moment to force her arms above her head. I slid my body along her till my thighs pushed her breasts upwards and tied the scarf to a leg of the bureau. Adopting an expression of callous triumph, I gazed on the face of my prisoner. She had never looked more desirable to me as she lay wholly at my mercy, panting and tugging feebly on her bonds.

I sat upright and unfastened my overcoat. She gave a small gasp as she saw how my trousers, drawn tight against my groin as I had slid up her body, were stretched by a long, stout protuberance.

Seeing where her eyes lingered, with a sneering look I slowly unbuttoned myself. She began to murmur, "No, no...." But she did not shift her gaze. When my drawers were open and my member towered lewdly over her, she pleaded, "Sir, oh sir, please no! I am a maiden."

"Look at it," I growled. "For soon you will be a maid no more, and this will demean and degrade you in a way no innocent maid can imagine."

"No... no... no...," she murmured again. Judging by her tone, the blood should have drained from her face, but far from it: a flush of passion suffused her pretty cheeks.

I slid still further up her body, not caring if I discomfited my sweetheart's beloved breasts, for I knew she would revel in such mistreatment. My drawers were dragged lower and my balls, as they are called, were exposed. Then with my hands I forced my organ down towards her face. She turned her head and the dark bare tip of my organ touched her cheek. I dragged it towards her mouth and she protested, "No, no no...," over and over, now turning her head this way and that as if to evade it, but in truth feeling the tip more thoroughly. Indeed, her protests meant that she never closed her mouth, and more than once her soft, open lips brushed across tip and foreskin.

Soon the urge to sink my length in her was irresistible, I dismounted and pulled up her skirt and winter petticoats at the front and let them lie around her waist. Though she clamped her slender legs together, her worsted drawers were around her ankles in a moment, and thrown on the floor half a moment later.

I knelt below her feet and forced them apart until I could get between her knees. Then I retrieved the metal tube from my pocket. It had been there since my affair with Florence, and contained the necessary lubricant for this moment. I uncorked it with my teeth, and slathered my sturdy organ with the fluid. Some of it might have spattered onto Lydia's petticoats -- I cared not; indeed, when the tube was corked again and back in my pocket I wiped my hands on the flannel. My powerful rower's hands were at the backs of her knees next instant, forcing them up, pushing them towards her breasts so that her hips tilted, then spreading her legs wide. The hair that was revealed in the warm lamp-light was the colour of ripe corn, curled, dense, and with a little peak to the patch pointing to her navel. Hair, in short, redolent of Lydia's buried store of womanly passion.