The cottage below her was closed and silent. There came a faint waft of smoke from the chimney. But there was no movement about the place. It was a little stone house with a grey slate roof, at the foot of the slope where the daffodils grew. Constance liked to look at it. But she had no desire to go indoors and be intimate with it. The house where the keeper’s wife had lived, she who had run away with a collier because she hated the loneliness and the taciturnity of her husband! The cottage with the kettle and the teapot always on the hob! No, Constance had no desire at all to feel its homeliness and its tight intimacy. She wanted to stay outside.
She turned away, to go home. The afternoon was fading. It must be past four o’clock, and it would be mean of her not to be there at tea-time, to drink a cup of tea with Clifford.
She went across to the spring riding, the broad green way that passed by the little icy spring where Robin Hood used to drink. Forget-me-nots and new-mown hay were going to make a foam in that riding in May. But they were not here yet. Only a few primroses, and dead leaves still, and a wind roaring in the oak twigs overhead.
She heard a light tapping on the right, and wondered if it were the woodpecker. No, it was a hammer. She remembered the little hut and the small clearing where the keeper had built a straw shelter for the pheasants. It was here he gave the birds their corn in the bad weather. A cock pheasant ran across in front of her with a squawk, the hammering ceased. The keeper was listening.
She went off down the narrow path to the hidden place where the hut was. The yellow dog came running towards her. She saw the keeper rise suspiciously, looking cautiously and suspiciously through the trees. He was always on the watch, on the alert for poachers, trespassers, enemies. His life one silent conflict with the encroaching colliery population: and himself always alone.
He was in his shirt-sleeves, having been hammering at a chicken coop. He was preparing for the setting of the pheasants’ eggs. He touched his cap and waited for her to come near.
‘I wondered what the hammering was!’ she said. ‘Will you set eggs under hens this year?’
‘Yes my lady! We did well wi’ pheasants last year, so we maun do better this year if we can.’
Clifford sold his pheasants to the market, and made a decent sum by it.
Constance went into the small hut. It had a work bench and tools, traps of various sorts, a corn-bin, tar and tar-brushes, and a few skins pegged out. The man had knelt down to his work again, as if oblivious of her. She looked at him as he knelt there hammering.
He was as aloof as ever, with that guarded, hostile look in all his bearing. His face was not bad looking, if it had not been so hostile in expression. The moustache stuck out fiercely from under a rather short nose. He was a man nearing forty. And had nothing to do with anybody, except fiercely and vengefully to watch for poachers.
He had been beaten up twice, very severely handled by poaching colliers, forced to remain in bed with his injuries. But he had had his revenge and got three men into prison. He was feared and disliked in the district, a sort of black man of the woods to the children. When they ventured in a few yards into the hazel copse for primroses or nuts, their hearts beat fast. And never did they go far enough to let Parkin get between them and the hedge. For if he cornered them and seized them, he frightened them unspeakably, taking their names and their fathers’ names, so that for weeks whenever they saw the policeman in their street they turned pale, thinking he was coming with a summons.
Constance knew him for what he was, the terror of children, the object of hatred of the poaching colliers, whose whippet dogs he shot and buried in gloating secret if he caught them in the wood; and to the wife who had left him a perpetual source of rage. And yet she, Constance, liked him. She liked him physically, she liked the way he bent over his hammering, she liked his silent, even his vengeful isolation in himself. She liked him because he was at war with everybody.
He was at war, really, with Clifford and herself, as much as with the poaching world. It was with difficulty he was courteous. And he spoke, both to her and Clifford, with the broadest accent. He did it deliberately, as many of the local people did nowadays, as an intangible kind of insult to the mincing-mouthed gentry: a defiance, a sort of contempt. He was an excellent keeper because he looked on the wood as his domain, and because he was practically never interfered with. But he resented even Constance’s walking about the woods when the birds were sitting, and he hated Clifford’s motor chair. Fortunately that could only come down the big drive.
Now, as she sat on a block at the door of the hut and watched him putting the coop together, she could tell he wanted her to go. He wanted to be alone. He could only live with a certain space round him, and the trees. The presence of any other human being was a clog on him, made him irritable, nasty.
But Constance did not want to go away. For some unexplained reason his mere physical presence was grateful to her. She had no desire to talk to him: in fact, she knew quite well she did not want to hear the things he would have to say. If he had anything to say, which was doubtful! But she liked to be there. She liked to see him stooping, doing the rough carpentry. It made her feel she was working too.
He looked round at her at last, stealthily, quickly: then looked away again. She took no notice. She did not even speak. Only she still sat there on the block of wood, leaning her arms on her knees, her face in a muse. And he went on with his work till it was finished.
Then he placed the coop beside the others, returned, picked up the tools. He hesitated. He had never really faced her since she had sat down, always had moved with averted cheek. But now he came towards the hut, still not looking at her. He passed her and went through the door. He had not looked at her.
She rose and stood in the doorway of the hut, facing him.
‘It’s very pleasant here,’ she said.
He looked up at her quickly, suspiciously.
‘D’yer think so?’
‘I do! When will you set the hens?’
‘When I’ve got the eggs.’
He turned and took his coat. She watched him button it over his breast. But he never looked at her, only he resented her watching him, with her blue, vague, wondering eyes.
‘I shall come and sit here sometimes,’ she said. ‘I like this place, and I want the hens to be used to me.’
‘Ay!’ he said. And he set his cap and picked up a couple of mole-traps, to depart. She stood a little aside as he came out of the door, and he brushed against her. But he said nothing. She stood while he locked the door of the hut.
‘I suppose you’re going to your tea now?’ she said.
‘Ay! Just about! When I’ve set these traps.’
He spoke to her coldly, almost contemptuously, as if to a pestering child whom he wanted to be rid of. She was rather amused. She still stood by the closed door of the hut without moving to depart. He hesitated. Then very swiftly he touched his cap and muttered:
‘Well, I’ll be off!’
He ducked forward, and was striding to the path.
‘Good evening!’ she said. ‘I’m going too.’
She started after him towards the path. He turned swiftly and touched his cap again as she went by. Then, at a distance, he followed her down the narrow path and on to the spring riding where he turned away in the opposite direction.
But as he was turning again, into another side-path, he looked back after her. She, glancing back after him, saw him do so. He disappeared in the trees, and she slowly plodded her way home, smiling to herself.
‘After all!’ she said to herself. ‘He’s amusing!’
She was late for tea.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘It was so lovely in the wood. I watched Parkin getting the chicken coops ready. It’s really spring.’
She laid down her little bunch of wild daffodils, a few primroses and violets, and a few silvery specks of willow catkins.
‘I must go out there tomorrow. The ground will be dry enough for the chair,’ he said.
/>
‘Do!’ she cried. ‘You will love it.’
The following afternoon they went together into the woods, and she was quite happy, apparently, bringing him different flowers and leaf buds.
‘“Thou still unravished bride of quietness,” ‘he said, looking with emotion at the wind-flowers and violets in his hand. ‘Spring flowers always make me think of that,’ he said, ‘far more than a Grecian urn. Don’t they you?’
‘Yes!’ she said, vaguely. Then she added, ‘But why ravished? It’s such a violent word! If bees come, or little insects, I don’t think they feel ravished, do you? I mean the flowers.’
‘Maybe not,’ he said. ‘They’re quaint, aren’t they? — The nodding violet! — Do you know, I don’t think we should care half so much for flowers if it weren’t for the lovely things poets have said about them.’
She stopped suddenly. Was it true? It was only half true. The things the poets said had indeed opened doors, strange little doors to the flowers, through which one could go. But once passed through the poet’s gate, the flowers were more flowerily unspoken than ever.
She was not in a mood for literary allusions, and Clifford’s way of making abstract love to her in words and suggestions, she found today irksome. ‘Not that! Not that!’ she said to herself almost without knowing she said it.
They stayed their hour among the trees. The sky was grey and chilly. It seemed a little uncomfortable, and the time dragged. They were both glad to go home and be apart for a time. She felt she must be alone sometimes.
The next day it rained in showers, so she could go alone to the woods. She wandered very silently, watching for the pheasants. And at last, as it began to rain again, she drifted to the hut. All was locked and deserted. She sat on the block under the little porch and watched the rain and listened to the soughing of the wind. It was so lovely to be quite alone, and quite still in the wood, watching the rain, listening to the noises of the wind and trees, inhabiting the eternal shadow of the forest.
As the rain slacked off, the brown dog came running silently to her, putting its paw on her knees. The keeper came after, touching his cap.
‘It’s so lovely to be out of doors and alone in the wood,’ she said to him as she rose and made way for him to unlock the hut.
‘Ay!’ he said, as if she had spoken unintelligibly. She seated herself in silence again, rather sorry he had come to disturb her. Today she did not want him. She had been so happy watching the rain making ghosts among the oak trees in the fullness of solitude.
Still, she did not mind him. He busied himself quietly in the shed. At least he would not talk to her, nor make literary allusions.
‘Are there two keys to this hut?’ she asked. ‘Could I have one? I should like to be able to come here if it rained, and sit and watch the rain.’
The man looked at her curiously in the eyes, to find out what she was after. He had reddish brown eyes with a small, hard bead of a pupil.
‘There’s only one key,’ he said.
‘Couldn’t you have another made?’ she said.
He would not answer, but bent stooping among some pieces of wood, sorting out one that would fit. And still he did not answer. This was direct opposition. But Constance was not going to be frustrated.
‘Couldn’t you have another one made?’ she repeated, and there was danger in her voice now. She would not be affronted.
The man turned to her, and heaved a sigh of anger as he said:
‘Yi, we could!’ Then he looked her in the eye again, as he added:
‘’Appen Sir Clifford ’ud build you another little hut like, sort of summer house for yer. There used to be one, I believe, down against the spring.’
‘No!’ she said shortly. ‘I want to be able to come and sit here and watch the little pheasants when they hatch out.’
He was assiduously measuring a bit of wood and did not answer, did not even seem to hear. This annoyed her.
‘So you’ll get another key made, will you?’ she said.
He turned away, bent down over the wood again, and said with his back to her: ‘I have to be here me-sen, a good bit, now t’bods is startin’ layin’.’
‘What of that?’ she said sharply. ‘I shan’t interfere with you.’
He still kept averted from her.
‘’Appen as t’bods won’t want strangers round,’ he said.
‘I don’t consider myself a stranger,’ she said. ‘Don’t say any more. But I want a key so that I can come and sit here when I wish. When can I have it?’
He kept his face averted and answered not a syllable. But she could see he was blenched with anger. He must have his own way, or he went into a devastating temper.
‘When do you think you can give me a key?’ she insisted quietly.
He turned to her slowly and said in a voice of hate: ‘How many bosses am I reckoned to have here?’
‘Good gracious!’ she exclaimed. ‘This is ridiculous!’ Then she mastered her own hasty rage. ‘But don’t be angry,’ she said. ‘Nurse says I must be out of doors and away from the house because I fret when I’m indoors. — And when I’m here, and I feel you’re somewhere about I feel safe. That’s all! You see, everything isn’t easy for me either.’
Which was perfectly true. The tears rose to her eyes, and she turned hastily away and walked from the hut and down the path, suddenly sobbing bitterly into her scarf because of the strain on her heart. She walked hurriedly away, out of the wood and into the park.
And it was several days before she went into the wood again. She felt queer and still and wanted to avoid any contact. To Clifford she was very kind, but she did not really feel him, was not really aware of him.
She went to the wood one evening after tea when the blackbirds were whistling in the yellow light. Still she did not go to the hut. She went down to the spring, which bubbled in a little well, clear as crystal and very cold. It was true, there had once been a hut or a shed on the bank above. She sat down in the stillness; and heard the pheasants calling as they flew for the keeper’s corn before going to roost.
But this place by the spring seemed chill and sad, as if there were ghosts. A thicket of larch stretched away uphill, and that too was gloomy. And on the grassy banks was that silence and woe of places which had lived long ago and lost their life. So many men in the free past of the forest must have camped and drunk here, for the well was famous. — No, it was sad.
She rose and turned sadly home while the blackbirds whistled their last wild cries. There was a great rustling of birds in the evening. How lovely and how sad it was! She went slowly in the ebb of life.
The brown dog came running after her. She turned. Parkin was following her, saluting.
‘I browt yer that there key, my lady!’ he said.
‘Oh thank you!’ she said dimly. Then, as she took it: ‘Was it a lot of trouble?’
‘How, trouble! It worna no trouble.’
In a queer, explosive way, the words burst out of him. He wanted now to reassure her. But he was like an explosion.
‘Thank you then!’ she said.
After this she would go often after tea, as the evenings lengthened, and walk in the wood and sometimes sit in the hut. In the little clearing by the hut the coops were put out in a circle, and hens were sitting on the pheasants’ eggs. Towards sundown the pheasants would come running furtively for the bit of corn the keeper had scattered, the cocks steering horizontal in all their brave plumage.
And Constance would sit very still, watching. And the keeper would come and go quietly, almost benevolently. He had accepted her presence and accepted himself as her male guardian angel of the woods. He never interfered with her and rarely spoke to her. But when she did not come for almost a week, he watched her when she returned. And it was a long time before he brought himself to say:
‘You wasn’t poorly, was you?’
‘No! Nurse has been away for a week, so I stayed with Sir Clifford.’
‘Ah see!’
Sh
e was delighted when the pheasant chicks began to run out on to the grass. They were so tiny and odd. She had to help to feed them. They would stand, with their tiny tremble of life, in her hand and peck from her palm.
She looked up at the keeper, and her blue eyes were bright and moist and wonderful.
‘Aren’t young things lovely!’ she said, breathless. ‘New young things!’
‘Ay! T’ little baby bods!’
He spoke almost condescendingly but understandingly. And his red-brown eyes had widened and looked strangely into hers.
She remained crouched among the busy, tiny little birds, and she was crying. She felt a great abandon upon her. And he, trying to go away from her, was spellbound. He could not go away from that soft, crouching female figure. In spite of himself, he went and stood by her, looking down at her.
‘Y’ aren’t cryin’ are yer?’ he asked in a bewildered voice.
She nodded blindly, still crouched down upon herself, her hair falling. He looked down upon her folded figure, and almost without knowing what he did, crouched down beside her, knees wide apart, and laid his hand softly on her back. She continued to cry, breathing heavily. And the touch of her soft, bowed back, breathing heavily with abandoned weeping, filled him with such boundless desire for her that he rose and bent over her, lifting her in his arms. All that could ever be that was desirable, she was to him then. And she, lifted up, for one moment saw the brilliant, unseeing dilation of his eyes. Then he was clasping her body against his. And she was thinking to herself: ‘Yes! I will yield to him! Yes! I will yield to him.’
The First Lady Chatterley's Lover Page 4