He closed the door on them, and put the blankets on the floor, folding one for her head. Then he turned to her again, and put his arms round her. He held her close with one hand, and felt for her body. She heard the catch of his intaken breath as he touched her. Beneath her frail petticoat, she was naked.
‘Eh! Tha’rt lovely to touch!’ he said in a dim murmur, as his fingers caressed the delicate, warm, secret skin of her waist and hips.
He kneeled and rubbed his cheek against her thighs and her belly, and when he took her, he seemed to know her already so much better. And still she wondered a little over the sort of rapture it was to him. It made her feel beautiful, and very glad to be so desirable. And for the first time in her life she had felt the animate beauty of her own thighs and belly and hips. Under his touch, she felt a sort of dawn come into her flesh, the dawn of desirableness. And yet still, still she was waiting.
‘I can’t stay long,’ she said gently, when he lay still. ‘You came so late.’
He held her closer, and tried to cover her naked legs with his.
‘Are ter cold?’ he asked. But he did not let her go.
‘I shall have to go, or they’ll wonder,’ she said.
He gave a sudden deep sigh, like a child coming awake. Then he raised himself, and kneeling, kissed her thighs again.
‘Ay!’ he said. ‘Time’s too short this time. Tha mun ta’e a’ thy clothes off one time — shall ter? — on’y it’ll ha’e ter be warmer.’
He drew down her skirts and stood up, buttoning his own clothing unconsciously.
‘I’ll go wi’ thee as far as t’ gate,’ he said. ‘There wunna be nob’dy.’
He took his gun, and looked for his hat, which had fallen off. Then quickly he locked the hut, calling the dog.
‘’Appen as yer’d come ter th’ cottage one time,’ he said. ‘If yer could slive off for a night. If we’ve made up us minds to it, we needn’t be balked.’
She did not answer: it seemed so far away. He seemed near, yet his voice far away. They were walking side by side over the wet grass, but not touching. The night was dark grey, peculiarly obscure. Sometimes she jostled him. And it puzzled her, that queer, persistent wanting of his, when he seemed so far from her. She did not quite know where she herself came in.
‘Dost want ter walk wi’ me?’ he said, still uneasy.
And he put his arm round her waist, and walked half raising her against him, in a peculiar unison, so that his hip moved against her like a pivot. She realized it was the way the colliers walked with their lasses. It was queer. She was not sure whether she liked it.
And when they came to the gate, he suddenly whipped his hands under her skirts again.
‘I could die for the touch of a woman like thee,’ he said to her, adding: ‘an’ if they knowed, they’d just about hang me as it is!—Eh ,dost want ter goo?’
‘Yes! Don’t keep me,’ she pleaded.
‘No!’ he said suddenly, in a changed voice, releasing her, and becoming part of the obscurity.
‘Kiss me,’ she said, lifting her face to him, to the shadow of him.
‘Ay!’ he said. ‘It’s a pity you look to me. You should look to one of your own sort. Yo’ canna mate wi’ me, yo’ know. Yer’ll on’y be sorry, after!’ — and yet he held her warm and tender.
‘I shall come tomorrow, if I can,’ she said, moving away.
‘Ay!’ he replied. And in the darkness he opened the gate.
‘Goodnight!’ she said softly as she passed him.
‘Goodnight your ladyship,’ came his voice.
She stopped suddenly, looking back. She could not even see him, against the darkness of the wood.
‘Why did you say it?’ she asked, into the gulf of darkness.
‘Nay!’ he spoke. ‘When you’ve gone, that’s what you are.’
Strange, his voice in the dark! It frightened her a little. But she had no time to stay.
‘Goodnight,’ she repeated, wanting to get away.
‘Goodnight then,’ came his voice, from the blackness beyond the gate.
And she plunged on, in the dark-grey obscurity.
She found the side door open, and slipped into her room unseen. Though she was late, she would take her bath. She felt a little uneasy: a little afraid of the man she had been with. He too was a risky element.
CHAPTER VIII
The next day, try as she might, she felt she could not go to the hut, to him. What kept her away, she did not know. It was some kind of reluctance, that overmastered her. She was afraid of the intimacy. She winced when she thought of his voice, speaking to her in dialect: ‘Tha mun ta’e a’ thy clothes off one time, shall ter?’ Surely it was not she he was speaking to? Surely it was some other woman, some woman of his own class, whom he had known! Not herself, not Constance Reid, not Lady Chatterley! She felt herself lumped in with all women as just a woman, and she shrank away. — Then his walking with his arm round her waist, and his hip working against her with such male assurance: no, just like a soldier and a nursemaid! Surely it was not herself! He was mistaking her for someone else, some common woman. And she felt herself very special.
Yet when afternoon came, a quiet grey day of spring, she could not keep still. She made a dozen plans. She would go to Uthwaite in the motor-car. She almost rang for Field. And then, no, the thought of going to Uthwaite sickened her. Or she would call on Mrs Linley: she ought to. Yes! She could walk there. —Then again no. It was loathsome to call on Mrs Linley. Clifford even suggested she should go with him to the colliery, to look at some new arrangement he was making in the overhead works. But no! — peevishly she told him she had a headache. And indeed bright spots glowed in her cheeks. So Field and Marshall helped him into the car, and he went alone.
She was miserable and angry with herself, feeling today more paralysed than Clifford. He had gone off actively, and she was there at home like a dog on a chain, chewing the chain. No! at least she must go out. She rushed and got her hat. But she would not go to the wood. No! She would go to Marehay, through the little iron gate of the park, and round Marehay farm.
When she was out, she felt better, but she walked on stupefied, noticing nothing. She had seen nothing and known nothing, when she came to Marehay farm. And even there she was only roused by the commotion the dog made, bellowing round her.
‘Come, Bell, have you forgotten me?’ she said. She was afraid of dogs.
But Bell stood back and bellowed.
Mrs Flint appeared. She was a woman of Constance’s own age, and had been a school teacher.
‘Why Bell! Bell! barking at Lady Chatterley! Bell! Be quiet!’ the woman commanded.
‘He used to know me,’ said Constance.
‘Why of course he did. But it’s so long since he’s seen you. —I do hope you are well again.’
‘Oh yes! I’m all right, thanks.’
‘Shall you come in and look at baby? He’s grown you’d hardly know him.’
Constance was glad to accept at once. Mrs Flint was a rather pretty woman, already beginning to fade. The two women went into the living-room, where the baby, a child of about ten months, was sitting on a rag hearth-rug. Constance played with it — she had given it a shawl when it was born, and a rattle for Christmas. -
Table was laid for tea, though it was only four o’clock.
‘I was just having a cup of tea all by myself. Luke’s gone to market, so I can have it as early as I like. Would you care for a cup, Lady Chatterley?’
She always offered so shyly, Constance would never have been able to refuse, even if she had wanted to. But she didn’t want to. The quiet female atmosphere, just Mrs Flint and the baby, and the servant-girl, was infinitely soothing. Mrs Flint insisted on opening bottled strawberries: but they were good, too. And the two women enjoyed themselves, talking about the baby, and everything that came up.
But at last Constance rose to go.
‘My husband won’t know what’s become of me,’ she said.
‘W
ell, perhaps it’s good for him not always to be certain. Men have to be kept on tenterhooks now and then, don’t they?’ said the woman, hostile to Sir Clifford.
Constance laughed. Mrs Flint insisted on opening the locked and barred front door. In the little front garden, shut in by privet hedge, there were two rows of auriculas all in flower.
‘Oh, how pretty!’ said Constance.
‘The recklesses?’ said Mrs Flint. ‘Yes, aren’t they a show! I tell Luke, it’s my doing. I split them and bedded them. Bu take a few!’
So Constance set off again with velvety, pale-eyed auriculas, and dusty yellow ones that smelled sweet.
‘I think I’ll go across the warren,’ she said.
‘You’ll have to climb, you know.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind climbing! It’s the cows,’ said Constance.
‘Why, they’re not in the warren close. They’re in gin close
Constance walked across the rough pasture to the dense corner of the wood, planted with young fir-trees, that was called the warren. She climbed the wooden fence, and went in the narrow path. between the dense, bristling green fir-trees. She didn’t like that part of the wood. But once out of the warren, she would slant down to the broad riding just near the gate of the park.
She had forgotten Parkin. She never associated him with this part of the wood. And she was thinking so deeply of Mrs Flint’s baby. It was a nice little thing, with hair like red gossamer, and such a delicate skin. She wondered if its legs would be a bit bandy, like its father’s.
As she turned a bend in the dark, lonesome path, her heart suddenly stood still. A man had stepped out in front of her. It was Parkin. She gave a cry of fear. He looked at her in surprise, and did not salute.
‘Why, how’s this?’ he said.
‘How did you come?’ she asked, breathless.
‘Nay, how did you? Was you coming to the hut?’
‘No! No! I was going home—’
He looked down at her in a flare of anger.
‘But you said—’ he began.
‘Yes I know—’
She looked at him mutely. He glanced rapidly over his shoulders, then stepped up to her.
‘You wasn’t sliving past and not meanin’ to see me, was you?’ he said, putting his arm round her, determined.
‘Not now!’ she said, trying to push him away.
‘But you said —‘he replied, rather angrily.
And his arms tightened instinctively, against his will, around her, and his body pressed strangely upon her. Her instinct was to fight him. He held her so hard. — Yet why fight? Why fight anybody. Her will seemed to leave her, and she was limp. He held her in his arms, glancing round again cautiously. Then he half-carried her through the dense trees, to a place where there was a heap of dead boughs. He threw out one or two fir boughs, and folded his coat. She stood by mute and helpless, without volition. Then he took her and laid her down, wasting no time, breaking her underclothing in his urgency. And her will seemed to have left her entirely.
And then, something awoke in her. Strange, thrilling sensation, that she had never known before woke up where he was within her, in wild thrills like wild, wild bells. It was wonderful, wonderful, and she clung to him uttering in complete unconsciousness strange, wild, inarticulate little cries, that he heard within himself with curious satisfaction.
But it was over too soon, too soon! She clung to him in a sort of fear, lest he should draw away from her. She could not bear it if he should draw away from her. It would be too, too soon lost. He, however, lay quite still, and she clung to him with unrelaxing power, pressing herself against him.
Till he came into her again, and the thrills woke up once more, wilder and wilder, like bells ringing pealing faster and faster, to a climax, to an ecstasy, an orgasm, when everything within her turned fluid, and her life seemed to sway like liquid in a bowl, swaying to quiescence.
And he was still too, in the same stillness as herself. It was a perfect stillness, in which she lay, and he lay upon her.
When she woke to herself, she knew life had changed for her. Changed with him. And she was afraid. She was afraid of loving him. She was afraid of letting herself go. It seemed so like throwing away the oars and trusting to the stream: which was a sensation that, above all others, she dreaded. Yet she loved him. When she looked at him, she felt a strange flame fill all her veins. Ah, she adored him! And she longed to abandon herself to the luxury of adoring him. At the same time, she mistrusted yielding to her love, It was not safe to yield to such love for a man — a mere man, after all.
So she searched his face, when he roused, seeing the glisten, the god-glisten, and trying to deny it. And he looked at her, into her eyes, with eyes that seemed still to know the stillness they had brought about together.
‘We came off together, that time,’ he said. She waited a moment before she answered.
‘Did we?’ she said.
‘Ay!’ he said.
She rose and adjusted her clothing. ‘Am I tidy?’ she said.
He dusted the fir-needles from her dress, and took them quietly from her hair, quietly and carefully.
‘There,’ he said. ‘You’ll do!’
She turned and looked up at him.
‘I’m awfully grateful to you,’ she said hesitatingly.
His eyes looked into her, wondering, perplexed, and hurt.
‘How do you mean?’ he said, resenting such words.
‘For this—’
He looked at her in deeper resentment, and a sort of pain.
‘It’s nothing to do with me!’ he said, inconclusive.
In spite of herself she resisted’ the implication.
‘But I want to thank you,’ she said.
He walked with her as far as the big riding, silent, not knowing why he felt trodden on, or humiliated, since she had spoken.
He returned into the trees, whence they had come, and she ran on into the park, running with a kind of frenzy. It was the power that passion had assumed over her. She felt strange, different from herself. Ah yes, it was easy to embark on these adventures, but they carried you away, even beyond yourself. She was aware of a strange woman wakened up inside herself, woman at once fierce and tender, at the same time soft and boundless and infinitely submissive, like a dim sea under the moon, and yet full of fierce, remorseless energy. She had been known all her life for her quiet good sense. She had seemed to be the one reasonable woman on earth.
Now, she knew, this was gone. It had never been real, only a kind of sleep. She had awakened, and come out of the chrysalis of her dream another creature, another beast altogether. Why had no one ever warned her of the possibility of metamorphoses, of metempsychoses, the strange terror and power and incalculability of it all? The danger! She was aware of the danger.
She had thought to take this man in the wood, and appreciate him, and be grateful for his service to her, all in the same range of emotion as she had known all her life. She remembered her intense emotion when she had seen him washing himself that Saturday afternoon. And at the thought, a vivid, consuming desire for him flared up in her. She wanted him, with wild and rapacious desire.
She was like a volcano. At moments she surged with desire, with passion, like a stream of white-hot lava. At other moments she was still and marvellous in a wonderful, incandescent quiescence of passion, an infinite, incandescent submissiveness, submissive and fathomlessly tender because of the very fulness of white fire, like the pool of white-hot lava deep in the volcano. And then queer rumblings and surgings of frenzy filled her. She felt herself full of wild, undirected power, that she wanted to let loose.
Had it all happened merely through that man? She did not know. But if so, he was merely the instrument, the key that had unloosed the torrents. This she decided in herself, imperiously, arrogantly. It was curious. At moments she flamed with desire for him, like a volcano, streaming with lava, and he was the only thing that mattered in the world. Then in a few minutes she had changed to an
infinite tenderness, like the soft ocean full of acquiescent passivity, under the sky which was the male embrace. He was like the sky over-arching above her, like god that was everywhere. And then, having tasted this mood in all its ecstasy, she shook it off, and became herself, free, and surcharged with power like a bacchanal, like an amazon. And he dwindled in her esteem to a mere object, the male object, the instrument. And again, as she felt his curious power over her, Power to release life in her, he became the enemy, the one who was trying ‘to deprive her of her freedom, in the arms of his greedy, obtuse man’s love. In some mysterious way, she felt his domination over her, and against this, even against the very love inside herself, she revolted like one of the Bacchae, madly calling on Iacchos, the bright phallus ‘that had no independent personality behind it, but was pure ecstatic servant to the woman. The man, the mere man, with his independent soul and personality, let him not dare to intrude. He was but a temple servant, the guardian and keeper of the bright phallus, which was hers, her own.
The vivid dream of passion is many dreams in one, and of a terrific glowing iridescence. One aspect of the dream the woman fixes upon. And the destiny of mankind depends upon which aspect it shall be.
But to the man also passion is a multiple dream. And he alone of the two, perhaps, can dimly apprehend the whole of the dream, and be true to the whole. Then he can resist the woman’s fixity upon the part.
The disaster is, however, that mankind can never accept the whole of the dream of passion, which is the dream that underlies and quickens all our life. Always and invariably man insists that one meagre and exclusive aspect of the great dream is all the dream. Thus he casts his own prison within the mould of his own idea, inside his own soul, and tortures himself all his life. Man is a creature of reason, and therefore he gets drunk, says Byron. But the truth is, man thinks he is a creature of reason, and therefore he alone, of all creatures, must needs get drunk. Why? Because he has made for himself a prison of his own reason, and sometimes, in mad irrational frenzy, he must burst out of it, in one form of drunkenness or another. If man could once be reasonable enough to know that he is not a creature of reason, but only a reasoning creature, he might avoid making himself more prisons. Man is a creature, like all other creatures. And all creatures alike are born of complex and intricate passion, which will for ever be antecedent to reason.
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