He put the blankets down carefully, one folded for her head. Then he sat down a moment on the stool, and drew her to him, holding her close with one arm, feeling for her body with his free hand. She heard the catch of his intaken breath as he found her. Under her frail petticoat she was naked.
‘Eh! what it is to touch thee!’ he said, as his finger caressed the delicate, warm, secret skin of her waist and hips. He put his face down and rubbed his cheek against her belly and against her thighs again and again. And again she wondered a little over the sort of rapture it was to him. She did not understand the beauty he found in her, through touch upon her living secret body, almost the ecstasy of beauty. For passion alone is awake to it. And when passion is dead, or absent, then the magnificent throb of beauty is incomprehensible and even a little despicable; warm, live beauty of contact, so much deeper than the beauty of vision. She felt the glide of his cheek on her thighs and belly and buttocks, and the close brushing of his moustache and his soft thick hair, and her knees began to quiver. Far down in her she felt a new stirring, a new nakedness emerging. And she was half afraid. Half she wished he would not caress her so. He was encompassing her somehow. Yet she was waiting, waiting.
And when he came into her, with an intensification of relief and consummation that was pure peace to him, still she was waiting. She felt herself a little left out. And she knew, partly it was her own fault. She willed herself into this separateness. Now perhaps she was condemned to it. She lay still, feeling his motion within her, his deep-sunk intentness, the sudden quiver of him at the springing of his seed, then the slow-subsiding thrust. That thrust of the buttocks, surely it was a little ridiculous. If you were a woman, and a part in all the business, surely that thrusting of the man’s buttocks was supremely ridiculous. Surely the man was intensely ridiculous in this posture and this act!
But she lay still, without recoil. Even when he had finished, she did not rouse herself to get a grip on her own satisfaction, as she had done with Michaelis; she lay still, and the tears slowly filled and ran from her eyes.
He lay still, too. But he held her close and tried to cover her poor naked legs with his legs, to keep them warm. He lay on her with a close, undoubting warmth.
‘Are yer cold?’ he asked, in a soft, small voice, as if she were close, so close. Whereas she was left out, distant.
‘No! But I must go,’ she said gently.
He sighed, held her closer, then relaxed to rest again.
He had not guessed her tears. He thought she was there with him.
‘I must go,’ she repeated.
He lifted himself kneeled beside her a moment, kissed the inner side of her thighs, then drew down her skirts, buttoning his own clothes unthinking, not even turning aside, in the faint, faint light from the lantern.
‘Tha mun come ter th’ cottage one time,’ he said, looking down at her with a warm, sure, easy face.
But she lay there inert, and was gazing up at him thinking: Stranger! Stranger! She even resented him a little.
He put on his coat and looked for his hat, which had fallen, then he slung on his gun.
‘Come then!’ he said, looking down at her with those warm, peaceful sort of eyes.
She rose slowly. She didn’t want to go. She also rather resented staying. He helped her with her thin waterproof and saw she was tidy.
Then he opened the door. The outside was quite dark. The faithful dog under the porch stood up with pleasure seeing him. The drizzle of rain drifted greyly past upon the darkness. It was quite dark.
‘Ah mun ta’e th’ lantern,’ he said. ‘The’ll be nob’dy.’
He walked just before her in the narrow path, swinging the hurricane lamp low, revealing the wet grass, the black shiny tree-roots like snakes, wan flowers. For the rest, all was grey rain-mist and complete darkness.
‘Tha mun come to the cottage one time,’ he said, ‘shall ta? We might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.’
It puzzled her, his queer, persistent wanting her, when there was nothing between them, when he never really spoke to her, and in spite of herself she resented the dialect. His ‘tha mun come’ seemed not addressed to her, but some common woman. She recognized the foxglove leaves of the riding and knew, more or less, where they were.
‘It’s quarter past seven,’ he said, ‘you’ll do it.’ He had changed his voice, seemed to feel her distance. As they turned the last bend in the riding towards the hazel wall and the gate, he blew out the light. ‘We’ll see from here,’ be said, taking her gently by the arm.
But it was difficult, the earth under their feet was a mystery, but he felt his way by tread: he was used to it. At the gate he gave her his electric torch. ‘It’s a bit lighter in the park,’ he said; ‘but take it for fear you get off th’ path.’
It was true, there seemed a ghost-glimmer of greyness in the open space of the park. He suddenly drew her to him and whipped his hand under her dress again, feeling her warm body with his wet, chill hand.
‘I could die for the touch of a woman like thee,’ he said in his throat. ‘If tha’ would stop another minute.’
She felt the sudden force of his wanting her again.
‘No, I must run,’ she said, a little wildly.
‘Ay,’ he replied, suddenly changed, letting her go.
She turned away, and on the instant she turned back to him saying: ‘Kiss me.’
He bent over her indistinguishable and kissed her on the left eye. She held her mouth and he softly kissed it, but at once drew away. He hated mouth kisses.
‘I’ll come tomorrow,’ she said, drawing away; ‘if I can,’ she added.
‘Ay! not so late,’ he replied out of the darkness. Already she could not see him at all.
‘Goodnight,’ she said.
‘Goodnight, your Ladyship,’ his voice.
She stopped and looked back into the wet dark. She could just see the bulk of him. ‘Why did you say that?’ she said.
‘Nay,’ he replied. ‘Goodnight then, run!’
She plunged on in the dark-grey tangible night. She found the side-door open, and slipped into her room unseen. As she closed the door the gong sounded, but she would take her bath all the same — she must take her bath. ‘But I won’t be late any more,’ she said to herself; ‘it’s too annoying.’
The next day she did not go to the wood. She went instead with Clifford to Uthwaite. He could occasionally go out now in the car, and had got a strong young man as chauffeur, who could help him out of the car if need be. He particularly wanted to see his godfather, Leslie Winter, who lived at Shipley Hall, not far from Uthwaite. Winter was an elderly gentleman now, wealthy, one of the wealthy coal-owners who had had their hey-day in King Edward’s time. King Edward had stayed more than once at Shipley, for the shooting. It was a handsome old stucco hall, very elegantly appointed, for Winter was a bachelor and prided himself on his style; but the place was beset by collieries. Leslie Winter was attached to Clifford, but personally did not entertain a great respect for him, because of the photographs in illustrated papers and the literature. The old man was a buck of the King Edward school, who thought life was life and the scribbling fellows were something else. Towards Connie the Squire was always rather gallant; he thought her an attractive demure maiden and rather wasted on Clifford, and it was a thousand pities she stood no chance of bringing forth an heir to Wragby. He himself had no heir.
Connie wondered what he would say if he knew that Clifford’s game-keeper had been having intercourse with her, and saying to her ‘tha mun come to th’ cottage one time.’ He would detest and despise her, for he had come almost to hate the shoving forward of the working classes. A man of her own class he would not mind, for Connie was gifted from nature with this appearance of demure, submissive maidenliness, and perhaps it was part of her nature. Winter called her ‘dear child’ and gave her a rather lovely miniature of an eighteenth-century lady, rather against her will.
But Connie was preoccupied with her affai
r with the keeper. After all, Mr Winter, who was really a gentleman and a man of the world, treated her as a person and a discriminating individual; he did not lump her together with all the rest of his female womanhood in his ‘thee’ and ‘tha’.
She did not go to the wood that day nor the next, nor the day following. She did not go so long as she felt, or imagined she felt, the man waiting for her, wanting her. But the fourth day she was terribly unsettled and uneasy. She still refused to go to the wood and open her thighs once more to the man. She thought of all the things she might do — drive to Sheffield, pay visits, and the thought of all these things was repellent. At last she decided to take a walk, not towards the wood, but in the opposite direction; she would go to Marehay, through the little iron gate in the other side of the park fence. It was a quiet grey day of spring, almost warm. She walked on unheeding, absorbed in thoughts she was not even conscious of She was not really aware of anything outside her, till she was startled by the loud barking of the dog at Marehay Farm. Marehay Farm! Its pastures ran up to Wragby park fence, so they were neighbours, but it was some time since Connie had called.
‘Bell!’ she said to the big white bull-terrier. ‘Bell! have you forgotten me? Don’t you know me?’ She was afraid of dogs, and Bell stood back and bellowed, and she wanted to pass through the farmyard on to the warren path.
Mrs Flint appeared. She was a woman of Constance’s own age, had been a school-teacher, but Connie suspected her of being rather a false little thing.
‘Why, it’s Lady Chatterley! Why!’ And Mrs Flint’s eyes glowed again, and she flushed like a young girl. ‘Bell, Bell. Why! barking at Lady Chatterley! Bell! Be quiet!’ She darted forward and slashed at the dog with a white cloth she held in her hand, then came forward to Connie.
‘She used to know me,’ said Connie, shaking hands. The Flints were Chatterley tenants.
‘Of course she knows your Ladyship! She’s just showing off,’ said Mrs Flint, glowing and looking up with a sort of flushed confusion, ‘but it’s so long since she’s seen you. I do hope you are better.’
‘Yes thanks, I’m all right.’
‘We’ve hardly seen you all winter. Will you come in and look at the baby?’
‘Well!’ Connie hesitated. ‘Just for a minute.’
Mrs Flint flew wildly in to tidy up, and Connie came slowly after her, hesitating in the rather dark kitchen where the kettle was boiling by the fire. Back came Mrs Flint.
‘I do hope you’ll excuse me,’ she said. ‘Will you come in here?’
They went into the living-room, where a baby was sitting on the rag hearth rug, and the table was roughly set for tea. A young servant-girl backed down the passage, shy and awkward.
The baby was a perky little thing of about a year, with red hair like its father, and cheeky pale-blue eyes. It was a girl, and not to be daunted. It sat among cushions and was surrounded with rag dolls and other toys in modern excess.
‘Why, what a dear she is!’ said Connie, ‘and how she’s grown! A big girl! A big girl!’
She had given it a shawl when it was born, and celluloid ducks for Christmas.
‘There, Josephine! Who’s that come to see you? Who’s this, Josephine? Lady Chatterley — you know Lady Chatterley, don’t you?’
The queer pert little mite gazed cheekily at Connie. Ladyships were still all the same to her.
‘Come! Will you come to me?’ said Connie to the baby.
The baby didn’t care one way or another, so Connie picked her up and held her in her lap. How warm and lovely it was to hold a child in one’s lap, and the soft little arms, the unconscious cheeky little legs.
‘I was just having a rough cup of tea all by myself. Luke’s gone to market, so I can have it when I like. Would you care for a cup, Lady Chatterley? I don’t suppose it’s what you’re used to, but if you would...’
Connie would, though she didn’t want to be reminded of what she was used to. There was a great relaying of the table, and the best cups brought and the best tea-pot.
‘If only you wouldn’t take any trouble,’ said Connie.
But if Mrs Flint took no trouble, where was the fun! So Connie played with the child and was amused by its little female dauntlessness, and got a deep voluptuous pleasure out of its soft young warmth. Young life! And so fearless! So fearless, because so defenceless. All the other people, so narrow with fear!
She had a cup of tea, which was rather strong, and very good bread and butter, and bottled damsons. Mrs Flint flushed and glowed and bridled with excitement, as if Connie were some gallant knight. And they had a real female chat, and both of them enjoyed it.
‘It’s a poor little tea, though,’ said Mrs Flint.
‘It’s much nicer than at home,’ said Connie truthfully.
‘Oh-h!’ said Mrs Flint, not believing, of course.
But at last Connie rose.
‘I must go,’ she said. ‘My husband has no idea where I am. He’ll be wondering all kinds of things.’
‘He’ll never think you’re here,’ laughed Mrs Flint excitedly. ‘He’ll be sending the crier round.’
‘Goodbye, Josephine,’ said Connie, kissing the baby and ruffling its red, wispy hair.
Mrs Flint insisted on opening the locked and barred front door. Connie emerged in the farm’s little front garden, shut in by a privet hedge. There were two rows of auriculas by the path, very velvety and rich.
‘Lovely auriculas,’ said Connie.
‘Recklesses, as Luke calls them,’ laughed Mrs Flint. ‘Have some.’
And eagerly she picked the velvet and primrose flowers.
‘Enough! Enough!’ said Connie.
They came to the little garden gate.
‘Which way were you going?’ asked Mrs Flint.
‘By the Warren.’
‘Let me see! Oh yes, the cows are in the gin close. But they’re not up yet. But the gate’s locked, you’ll have to climb.’
‘I can climb,’ said Connie.
‘Perhaps I can just go down the close with you.’
They went down the poor, rabbit-bitten pasture. Birds were whistling in wild evening triumph in the wood. A man was calling up the last cows, which trailed slowly over the path-worn pasture.
‘They’re late, milking, tonight,’ said Mrs Flint severely. ‘They know Luke won’t be back till after dark.’
They came to the fence, beyond which the young fir-wood bristled dense. There was a little gate, but it was locked. In the grass on the inside stood a bottle, empty.
‘There’s the keeper’s empty bottle for his milk,’ explained Mrs Flint. ‘We bring it as far as here for him, and then he fetches it himself’
‘When?’ said Connie.
‘Oh, any time he’s around. Often in the morning. Well, goodbye Lady Chatterley! And do come again. It was so lovely having you.’
Connie climbed the fence into the narrow path between the dense, bristling young firs. Mrs Flint went running back across the pasture, in a sun-bonnet, because she was really a schoolteacher. Constance didn’t like this dense new part of the wood; it seemed gruesome and choking. She hurried on with her head down, thinking of the Flints’ baby. It was a dear little thing, but it would be a bit bow-legged like its father. It showed already, but perhaps it would grow out of it. How warm and fulfilling somehow to have a baby, and how Mrs Flint had showed it off! She had something anyhow that Connie hadn’t got, and apparently couldn’t have. Yes, Mrs Flint had flaunted her motherhood. And Connie had been just a bit, just a little bit jealous. She couldn’t help it.
She started out of her muse, and gave a little cry of fear. A man was there.
It was the keeper. He stood in the path like Balaam’s ass, barring her way.
‘How’s this?’ he said in surprise.
‘How did you come?’ she panted.
‘How did you? Have you been to the hut?’
‘No! No! I went to Marehay.’
He looked at her curiously, searchingly, and she hung her
head a little guiltily.
‘And were you going to the hut now?’ he asked rather sternly. ‘No! I mustn’t. I stayed at Marehay. No one knows where I am. I’m late. I’ve got to run.’
‘Giving me the slip, like?’ he said, with a faint ironic smile. ‘No! No. Not that. Only — ’
‘Why, what else?’ he said. And he stepped up to her and put his arms around her. She felt the front of his body terribly near to her, and alive.
‘Oh, not now, not now,’ she cried, trying to push him away.
‘Why not? It’s only six o’clock. You’ve got half an hour. Nay! Nay! I want you.’
He held her fast and she felt his urgency. Her old instinct was to fight for her freedom. But something else in her was strange and inert and heavy. His body was urgent against her, and she hadn’t the heart any more to fight.
He looked around.
‘Come — come here! Through here,’ he said, looking penetratingly into the dense fir-trees, that were young and not more than half-grown.
He looked back at her. She saw his eyes, tense and brilliant, fierce, not loving. But her will had left her. A strange weight was on her limbs. She was giving way. She was giving up.
He led her through the wall of prickly trees, that were difficult to come through, to a place where was a little space and a pile of dead boughs. He threw one or two dry ones down, put his coat and waistcoat over them, and she had to lie down there under the boughs of the tree, like an animal, while he waited, standing there in his shirt and breeches, watching her with haunted eyes. But still he was provident — he made her lie properly, properly. Yet he broke the band of her underclothes, for she did not help him, only lay inert.
He too had bared the front part of his body and she felt his naked flesh against her as he came into her. For a moment he was still inside her, turgid there and quivering. Then as he began to move, in the sudden helpless orgasm, there awoke in her new strange thrills rippling inside her. Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite, exquisite and melting her all molten inside. It was like bells rippling up and up to a culmination. She lay unconscious of the wild little cries she uttered at the last. But it was over too soon, too soon, and she could no longer force her own conclusion with her own activity. This was different, different. She could do nothing. She could no longer harden and grip for her own satisfaction upon him. She could only wait, wait and moan in spirit as she felt him withdrawing, withdrawing and contracting, coming to the terrible moment when he would slip out of her and be gone. Whilst all her womb was open and soft, and softly clamouring, like a sea-anemone under the tide, clamouring for him to come in again and make a fulfilment for her. She clung to him unconscious in passion, and he never quite slipped from her, and she felt the soft bud of him within her stirring, and strange rhythms flushing up into her with a strange rhythmic growing motion, swelling and swelling till it filled all her cleaving consciousness, and then began again the unspeakable motion that was not really motion, but pure deepening whirlpools of sensation swirling deeper and deeper through all her tissue and consciousness, till she was one perfect concentric fluid of feeling, and she lay there crying in unconscious inarticulate cries. The voice out of the uttermost night, the life! The man heard it beneath him with a kind of awe, as his life sprang out into her. And as it subsided, he subsided too and lay utterly still, unknowing, while her grip on him slowly relaxed, and she lay inert. And they lay and knew nothing, not even of each other, both lost. Till at last he began to rouse and become aware of his defenceless nakedness, and she was aware that his body was loosening its clasp on her. He was coming apart; but in her breast she felt she could not bear him to leave her uncovered. He must cover her now for ever.
Complete Works of D.H. Lawrence (Illustrated) Page 491