Connie was sorting out one of the Wragby lumber rooms. There were
several: the house was a warren, and the family never sold anything.
Sir Geoffrey's father had liked pictures and Sir Geoffrey's mother had
liked cinquecento furniture. Sir Geoffrey himself had liked old carved
oak chests, vestry chests. So it went on through the generations.
Clifford collected very modern pictures, at very moderate prices.
So in the lumber room there were bad Sir Edwin Landseers and pathetic
William Henry Hunt birds' nests: and other Academy stuff, enough to
frighten the daughter of an R. A. She determined to look through it one
day, and clear it all. And the grotesque furniture interested her.
Wrapped up carefully to preserve it from damage and dry-rot was the old
family cradle, of rosewood. She had to unwrap it, to look at it. It had
a certain charm: she looked at it a long time.
"It's a thousand pities it won't be called for," sighed Mrs. Bolton,
who was helping. "Though cradles like that are out of date nowadays."
"It might be called for. I might have a child," said Connie casually,
as if saying she might have a new hat.
"You mean if anything happened to Sir Clifford!" stammered Mrs. Bolton.
"No! I mean as things are. It's only muscular paralysis with Sir
Clifford--it doesn't affect _him_," said Connie, lying as naturally as
breathing.
Clifford had put the idea into her head. He had said: "Of course _I_
may have a child yet. I'm not really mutilated at all. The potency
may easily come back, even if the muscles of the hips and legs are
paralysed. And then the seed may be transferred."
He really felt, when he had his periods of energy and worked so hard
at the question of the mines, as if his sexual potency were returning.
Connie had looked at him in terror. But she was quick-witted enough to
use his suggestion for her own preservation. For she would have a child
if she could: but not his.
Mrs. Bolton was for a moment breathless, flabbergasted. Then she didn't
believe it: she saw in it a ruse. Yet doctors could do such things
nowadays. They might sort of graft seed.
"Well my Lady, I only hope and pray you may. It would be lovely for
you: and for everybody. My word, a child in Wragby, what a difference
it would make!"
"Wouldn't it!" said Connie.
And she chose three R. A. pictures of sixty years ago, to send to the
Duchess of Shortlands for the lady's next charitable bazaar. She was
called "The bazaar duchess," and she always asked all the county to
send things for her to sell. She would be delighted with three framed
R. A.'s. She might even call, on the strength of them. How furious
Clifford was when she called!
But oh my dear! Mrs. Bolton was thinking to herself. Is it Oliver
Mellors' child you're preparing us for? Oh my dear, that _would_ be
a Tevershall baby in the Wragby cradle, my word! Wouldn't shame it,
neither!
Among other monstrosities in this lumber room was a largish black
japanned box, excellently and ingeniously made some sixty or seventy
years ago, and fitted with every imaginable object. On top was a
concentrated toilet set: brushes, bottles, mirrors, combs, boxes, even
three beautiful little razors in safety sheaths, shaving bowl and
all. Underneath came a sort of escritoire outfit: blotters, pens, ink
bottles, paper, envelopes, memorandum books: and then a perfect sewing
outfit with three different-sized scissors, thimbles, needles, silks
and cottons, darning egg, all of the very best quality and perfectly
finished. Then there was a little medicine store, with bottles labelled
Laudanum, Tincture of Myrrh, Ess. Cloves and so on: but empty.
Everything was perfectly new, and the whole thing, when shut up, was
as big as a small, but fat weekend bag. And inside, it fitted together
like a puzzle. The bottles could not possibly have spilled: there
wasn't room.
The thing was wonderfully made and contrived, excellent craftsmanship
of the Victorian order. But somehow it was monstrous. Some Chatterley
must even have felt it, for the thing had never been used. It had a
peculiar soullessness.
Yet Mrs. Bolton was thrilled.
"Look what beautiful brushes, so expensive, even the shaving brushes,
three perfect ones! No! and those scissors! They're the best that money
could buy. Oh, I call it lovely!"
"Do you?" said Connie. "Then you have it."
"Oh no, my Lady!"
"Of course! It will only lie here till Doomsday. If you won't have it,
I'll send it to the Duchess as well as the pictures, and she doesn't
deserve so much. Do have it!"
"Oh your Ladyship! Why I shall never be able to thank you."
"You needn't try," laughed Connie.
And Mrs. Bolton sailed down with the huge and very black box in her
arms, flushing bright pink in her excitement.
Mr. Betts drove her in the trap to her house in the village, with
the box. And she _had_ to have a few friends in, to show it: the
schoolmistress, the chemist's wife, Mrs. Weedon the under-cashier's
wife. They thought it marvellous. And then started the whisper of Lady
Chatterley's child.
"Wonders'll never cease!" said Mrs. Weedon.
But Mrs. Bolton was _convinced_, if it did come, it would be Sir
Geoffrey's child. So there!
Not long after, the rector said gently to Clifford:
"And may we really hope for an heir to Wragby? Ah, that would be the
hand of God in mercy, indeed!"
"Well! We may _hope_," said Clifford, with a faint irony, and at the
same time, a certain conviction. He had begun to believe it really
possible it might even be _his_ child.
Then one afternoon came Leslie Winter, Squire Winter, as everybody
called him: lean, immaculate, and seventy: and every inch a gentleman,
as Mrs. Bolton said to Mrs. Betts. Every millimetre indeed! And with
his old-fashioned, rather haw-haw! manner of speaking, he seemed more
out-of-date than bag wigs. Time, in her flight, drops these fine old
feathers.
They discussed the collieries. Clifford's idea was, that his coal, even
the poor sort, could be made into hard concentrated fuel that would
burn at great heat if fed with certain damp, acidulated air at a fairly
strong pressure. It had long been observed that in a particularly
strong, wet wind the pit-bank burned very vivid, gave off hardly any
fumes, and left a fine powder of ash, instead of the slow pink gravel.
"But where will you find the proper engines for burning your fuel?"
asked Winter.
"I'll make them myself. And I'll use my fuel myself. And I'll sell
electric power. I'm certain I could do it."
"If you can do it, then splendid, splendid, my dear boy. Haw! Splendid!
If I can be of any help, I shall be delighted. I'm afraid I am a little
out of date, and my collieries are like me. But who knows, when I'm
gone, there may be men like you. Splendid! It will employ all the men
again, and you won't have to sell your coal, or fail to sell it. A
splendid idea, and I hope it will be a success. If I had sons of my
own, no doubt they would have up-to-date ideas for Shipley: no doubt!
By the way, dear boy, is there any foundation to the rumour that we may
entertain hopes of an heir to Wragby?"
"Is there a rumour?" asked Clifford.
"Well, my dear boy, Marshall from Fillingwood asked _me_, that's all I
can say about a rumour. Of course I wouldn't repeat it for the world,
if there were no foundation."
"Well, Sir," said Clifford uneasily, but with strange bright eyes.
"There is a hope. There is a hope."
Winter came across the room and wrung Clifford's hand.
"My dear boy, my dear lad, can you believe what it means to me, to hear
that! And to hear you are working in the hopes of a son: and that you
may again employ every man at Tevershall. Ah my boy! to keep up the
level of the race, and to have work waiting for any man who cares to
work!--"
The old man was really moved.
Next day Connie was arranging tall yellow tulips in a glass vase.
"Connie," said Clifford, "did you know there was a rumour that you are
going to supply Wragby with a son and heir?"
Connie felt dim with terror, yet she stood quite still, touching the
flowers.
"No!" she said. "Is it a joke? Or malice?"
He paused before he answered:
"Neither, I hope. I hope it may be a prophecy."
Connie went on with her flowers.
"I had a letter from Father this morning," she said. "He wants to know
if I am aware he has accepted Sir Alexander Cooper's invitation for me
for July and August, to the Villa Esmeralda in Venice."
"July _and_ August?" said Clifford.
"Oh, I wouldn't stay all that time. Are you sure you wouldn't come?"
"I won't travel abroad," said Clifford promptly.
She took her flowers to the window.
"Do you mind if I go?" she said. "You know it was promised, for this
summer."
"For how long would you go?"
"Perhaps three weeks."
There was silence for a time.
"Well," said Clifford slowly, and a little gloomily. "I suppose I could
stand it for three weeks: if I were absolutely sure you'd want to come
back."
"I should want to come back," she said, with quiet simplicity, heavy
with conviction. She was thinking of the other man.
Clifford felt her conviction, and somehow he believed her, he believed
it was for him. He felt immensely relieved, joyful at once.
"In that case," he said, "I think it would be all right, don't you?"
"I think so," she said.
"You'd enjoy the change?"
She looked up at him with strange blue eyes.
"I should like to see Venice again," she said, "and to bathe from one
of the shingle islands across the lagoon. But you know I loathe the
Lido! And I don't fancy I shall like Sir Alexander Cooper and Lady
Cooper. But if Hilda is there, and we have a gondola of our own: yes,
it will be rather lovely. I _do_ wish you'd come."
She said it sincerely. She would so love to make him happy, in these
ways.
"Ah, but think of me, though, at the Gare du Nord: at Calais quay!"
"But why not? I see other men carried in litter-chairs, who have been
wounded in the war. Besides, we'd motor all the way."
"We should need to take two men."
"Oh no! We'd manage with Field. There would always be another man
there."
But Clifford shook his head.
"Not this year, dear! Not this year! Next year probably I'll try."
She went away gloomily. Next year! What would next year bring? She
herself did not really want to go to Venice: not now, now there was the
other man. But she was going as a sort of discipline: and also because,
if she had a child, Clifford could think she had a lover in Venice.
It was already May, and in June they were supposed to start. Always
these arrangements! Always one's life arranged for one! Wheels that
worked one and drove one, and over which one had no real control!
It was May, but cold and wet again. A cold wet May, good for corn and
hay! Much the corn and hay matter nowadays! Connie had to go into
Uthwaite, which was their little town, where the Chatterleys were still
_the_ Chatterleys. She went alone, Field driving her.
In spite of May and a new greenness, the country was dismal. It was
rather chilly, and there was smoke on the rain, and a certain sense of
exhaust vapour in the air. One just had to live from one's resistance.
No wonder these people were ugly and tough.
The car ploughed uphill through the long squalid straggle of
Tevershall, the blackened brick dwellings, the black slate roofs
glistening their sharp edges, the mud black with coal-dust, the
pavements wet and black. It was as if dismalness had soaked through and
through everything. The utter negation of natural beauty, the utter
negation of the gladness of life, the utter absence of the instinct
for shapely beauty which every bird and beast has, the utter death
of the human intuitive faculty was appalling. The stacks of soap in
the grocer's shops, the rhubarb and lemons in the greengrocers! The
awful hats in the milliners! all went by ugly, ugly, ugly, followed
by the plaster-and-gilt horror of the cinema with its wet picture
announcements, "A Woman's Love!" and the new big Primitive chapel,
primitive enough in its stark brick and big panes of greenish and
raspberry glass in the windows. The Wesleyan Chapel, higher up, was of
blackened brick and stood behind iron railings and blackened shrubs.
The Congregational chapel, which thought itself superior, was built
of rusticated sandstone and had a steeple, but not a very high one.
Just beyond were the new school buildings, expensive pink brick, and
gravelled playground inside iron railings, all very imposing, and
mixing the suggestion of a chapel and a prison. Standard Five girls
were having a singing lesson, just finishing the la-me-do-la exercises
and beginning a "sweet children's song." Anything more unlike song,
spontaneous song, would be impossible to imagine: a strange bawling
yell that followed the outlines of a tune. It was not like savages:
savages have subtle rhythms. It was not like animals: animals _mean_
something when they yell. It was like nothing on earth, and it was
called singing. Connie sat and listened with her heart in her boots, as
Field was filling petrol. What could possibly become of such a people,
a people in whom the living intuitive faculty was dead as nails, and
only queer mechanical yells and uncanny will power remained?
A coal-cart was coming downhill, clanking in the rain. Field started
upwards, past the big but weary-looking drapers and clothing shops,
the post-office, into the little market-place of forlorn space, where
Sam Black was peering out of the door of the "Sun," that called itself
an inn, not a pub, and where the commercial travellers stayed, and was
bowing to Lady Chatterley's car.
The church was away to the left, among black trees. The car slid on
downhill, past the Miners' Arms. It had already passed the Wellington,
the Nelson, the Three Tunns and the Sun, now it passed the Miners'
Arms, then the Mechanics' Hall, then the new and almost gaudy Miners'
Welfare and so, past a few new "villas," out into the blackened road
between dark hedges and dark green fields, towards Stacks Gate.
Tevershall! That was Tevershall! Merrie England! Shakespeare's England!
No, but the England of today, as Connie had realised since she had come
to live in it. It was producing a new race of mankind, over-conscious
in the money and social and political side, on the spontaneous,
intuitive side dead, but dead. Half-corpses, all of them: but with a
terrible insistent consciousness in the other half. There was something
uncanny and underground about it all. It was an underworld. And quite
incalculable. How shall we understand the reactions in half-corpses?
When Connie saw the great lorries full of steelworkers from Sheffield,
weird, distorted, smallish beings like men, off for an excursion to
Matlock, her bowels fainted and she thought: Ah God, what has man done
to man? What have the leaders of men been doing to their fellow men?
They have reduced them to less than humanness; and now there can be no
fellowship any more! It is just a nightmare.
She felt again in a wave of terror the grey, gritty hopelessness of
it all. With such creatures for the industrial masses, and the upper
classes as she knew them, there was no hope, no hope any more. Yet
she was wanting a baby, and an heir to Wragby! An heir to Wragby! She
shuddered with dread.
Yet Mellors had come out of all this!--Yes, but he was as apart from it
all as she was. Even in him there was no fellowship left. It was dead.
The fellowship was dead. There was only apartness and hopelessness, as
far as all this was concerned. And this was England, the vast bulk of
England: as Connie knew, since she had motored from the centre of it.
The car was rising towards Stacks Gate. The rain was holding off, and
in the air came a queer pellucid gleam of May. The country rolled away
in long undulations, south towards the Peak, east towards Mansfield and
Nottingham. Connie was travelling South.
As she rose onto the high country, she could see on her left, on a
height above the rolling land the shadowy, powerful bulk of Warsop
Castle, dark grey, with below it the reddish plastering of miners'
dwellings, newish, and below those the plumes of dark smoke and white
steam from the great colliery which put so many thousand pounds per
annum into the pockets of the Duke and the other shareholders. The
powerful old castle was a ruin, yet still it hung its bulk on the low
skyline, over the black plumes and the white that waved on the damp air
below.
A turn, and they ran on the high level to Stacks Gate. Stacks Gate, as
seen from the highroad, was just a huge and gorgeous new hotel, the
Coningsby Arms, standing red and white and gilt in barbarous isolation
off the road. But if you looked, you saw on the left rows of handsome
"modern" dwellings, set down like a game of dominoes, with spaces
and gardens, a queer game of dominoes that some weird "masters" were
playing on the surprised earth. And beyond these blocks of dwellings,
at the back, rose all the astonishing and frightening overhead
erections of a really modern mine, chemical works and long galleries,
enormous, and of shapes not before known to man. The head-stocks and
pit-bank of the mine itself were insignificant among the huge new
installations. And in front of this, the game of dominoes stood for
ever in a sort of surprise, waiting to be played.
This was Stacks Gate, new on the face of the earth, since the war.
But as a matter of fact, though even Connie did not know it, downhill
half-a-mile below the "hotel" was old Stacks Gate, with a little old
colliery and blackish old brick dwellings, and a chapel or two and a
shop or two and a little pub or two.
But that didn't count any more. The vast plumes of smoke and vapour
rose from the new works up above, and this was now Stacks Gate: no
chapels, no pubs, even no shops. Only the great "works," which are the
modern Olympia with temples to all the gods; then the model dwellings:
then the hotel. The hotel in actuality was nothing but a miner's pub,
though it looked first-classy.
Even since Connie's arrival at Wragby this new place had arisen on the
face of the earth, and the model dwellings had filled with riff-raff
drifting in from anywhere, to poach Clifford's rabbits among other
occupations.
The car ran on along the uplands, seeing the rolling country spread
out. The country! It had once been a proud and lordly country. In
front, looming again and hanging on the brow of the skyline, was the
huge and splendid bulk of Chadwick Hall, more window than wall, one of
the most famous Elizabethan houses. Noble it stood alone above a great
park, but out of date, passed over. It was still kept up, but as a show
place. "Look how our ancestors lorded it!"
That was the past. The present lay below. God alone knows where the
future lies. The car was already turning, between little old blackened
miners' cottages, to descend to Uthwaite. And Uthwaite, on a damp day,
was sending up a whole array of smoke plumes and steam, to whatever
gods there be. Uthwaite down in the valley, with all the steel threads
of the railways to Sheffield drawn through it, and the coal mines and
the steel works sending up smoke and glare from long tubes, and the
pathetic little corkscrew spire of the church, that is going to tumble
down, still prickling the fumes, always affected Connie strangely. It
was an old market town, centre of the dales. One of the chief inns was
the Chatterley Arms. There, in Uthwaite, Wragby was known as Wragby,
as if it were a whole place, not just a house, as it was to outsiders:
Wragby Hall, near Tevershall: Wragby, a "seat."
The miners' cottages, blackened, stood flush on the pavement, with that
intimacy and smallness of colliers' dwellings over a hundred years old.
They lined all the way. The road had become a street, and as you sank,
you forgot instantly the open, rolling country where the castles and
big houses still dominated, but like ghosts. Now you were just above
the tangle of naked railway lines, and foundries and other "works"
rose about you, so big you were only aware of walls. And iron clanked
with a huge reverberating clank, and huge lorries shook the earth, and
whistles screamed.
Yet again, once you had got right down and into the twisted and crooked
heart of the town, behind the church, you were in the world of two
centuries ago, in the crooked streets where the Chatterley Arms stood,
and the old pharmacy, streets which used to lead out to the wild open
world of the castles and stately couchant houses.
But at the corner a policeman held up his hand as three lorries loaded
with iron rolled past, shaking the poor old church. And not till the
lorries were past could he salute her ladyship.
So it was. Upon the old crooked burgess streets hordes of oldish,
blackened miners' dwellings crowded, lining the roads out. And
immediately after these came the newer, pinker rows of rather larger
houses, plastering the valley: the homes of more modern workmen. And
beyond that again, in the wide rolling regions of the castles, smoke
waved against steam, and patch after patch of raw reddish brick showed
the newer mining settlements, sometimes in the hollows, sometimes
gruesomely ugly along the skyline of the slopes. And between, in
between, were the tattered remnants of the old coaching and cottage
England, even the England of Robin Hood, where the miners prowled with
the dismalness of suppressed sporting instincts, when they were not at
work.
England my England! but which is _my_ England? The stately homes of
England make good photographs, and create the illusion of a connection
with the Elizabethans. The handsome old halls are there, from the days
of Good Queen Anne and Tom Jones. But smuts fall and blacken on the
drab stucco, that has long ceased to be golden. And one by one, like
the stately homes, they are abandoned. Now they are being pulled down.
As for the cottages of England--there they are--great plasterings of
brick dwellings on the hopeless countryside.
Now they are pulling down the stately homes, the Georgian halls are
going. Fritchley, a perfect old Georgian mansion, was even now, as
Connie passed in the car, being demolished. It was in perfect repair:
till the war the Weatherleys had lived in style there. But now it was
too big, too expensive, and the country had become too uncongenial.
The gentry were departing to pleasanter places, where they could spend
their money without having to see how it was made.
This is history. One England blots out another. The mines had made
the halls wealthy. Now they were blotting them out, as they had
already blotted out the cottages. The industrial England blots out the
agricultural England. One meaning blots out another. The new England
blots out the old England. And the continuity is not organic, but
mechanical.
Connie, belonging to the leisured classes, had clung to the remnants of
the old England. It had taken her years to realise that it was really
blotted out by this terrifying new and gruesome England, and that the
blotting out would go on till it was complete. Fritchley was gone,
Eastwood was gone, Shipley was going: Squire Winter's beloved Shipley.
Connie called for a moment at Shipley. The park gates at the back,
opened just near the level crossing of the colliery railway; the
Shipley colliery itself stood just beyond the trees. The gates stood
open, because through the park was a right-of-way that the colliers
used. They hung around the park.
The car passed the ornamental ponds, in which the colliers threw
their newspapers, and took the private drive to the house. It stood
above, aside, a very pleasant stucco building from the middle of the
eighteenth century. It had a beautiful alley of yew trees, that had
approached an older house, and the hall stood serenely spread out,
winking its Georgian panes as if cheerfully. Behind, there were really
beautiful gardens.
Connie liked the interior much better than Wragby. It was much
lighter, more alive, shapen and elegant. The rooms were panelled with
creamy-painted panelling, the ceilings were touched with gilt, and
everything was kept in exquisite order, all the appointments were
perfect, regardless of expense. Even the corridors managed to be ample
and lovely, softly curved and full of life.
But Leslie Winter was alone. He had adored his house. But his park
was bordered by three of his own collieries. He had been a generous
man in his ideas. He had almost welcomed the colliers in his park. Had
the miners not made him rich! So, when he saw the gangs of unshapely
men lunging by his ornamental waters--not on the _private_ part of the
park, no, he drew the line there--he would say: "the miners are perhaps
not so ornamental as deer, but they are far more profitable."
But that was in the golden--monetarily--latter half of Queen Victoria's
reign. Miners were then "good working men."
Winter had made this speech, half apologetic, to his guest, the then
Prince of Wales. And the Prince had replied, in his rather guttural
English:
"You are quite right. If there were coal under Sandringham, I would
open a mine on the lawns, and think it first-rate landscape gardening.
Oh, I am quite willing to exchange roe-deer for colliers, at the price.
Your men are good men too, I hear."
But then, the Prince had perhaps an exaggerated idea of the beauty of
money, and the blessings of industrialism.
However, the Prince had been a King, and the King had died, and now
there was another King, whose chief function seemed to be, to open
soup-kitchens.
And the good working men were somehow hemming Shipley in. New mining
villages crowded on the park, and the squire felt somehow that the
population was alien. He used to feel, in a good-natured but quite
grand way, lord of his own domain and of his own colliers. Now, by a
subtle pervasion of the new spirit, he had somehow been pushed out.
It was he who did not belong any more. There was no mistaking it. The
mines, the industry had a will of its own, and this will was against
the gentleman-owner. All the colliers took part in the will, and it was
hard to live up against it. It either shoved you out of the place, or
out of life altogether.
Squire Winter, a soldier, had stood it out. But he no longer cared to
walk in the park after dinner. He almost hid, indoors. Once he had
walked, bare-headed, and in his patent-leather shoes and purple silk
socks, with Connie down to the gate, talking to her in his well-bred
rather haw-haw fashion. But when it came to passing the little gangs
of colliers who stood and stared without either salute or anything
else, Connie felt how the lean, well-bred old man winced, winced as
an elegant antelope stag in a cage winces from the vulgar stare. The
colliers were not _personally_ hostile: not at all. But their spirit
was cold, and shoving him out. And deep down, there was a profound
grudge. They "worked for him." And in their ugliness, they resented
his elegant, well-groomed, well-bred existence. "Who's he!" It was the
_difference_ they resented.
And somewhere, in his secret English heart, being a good deal of a
soldier, he believed they were right to resent the difference. He
felt himself a little in the wrong, for having all the advantages.
Nevertheless he represented a system, and he would not be shoved out.
Except by death. Which came on him soon after Connie's call, suddenly.
And he remembered Clifford handsomely in his will.
The heirs at once gave out the order for the demolishing of Shipley. It
cost too much to keep up. No one would live there. So it was broken up.
The avenue of yews was cut down. The park was denuded of its timber,
and divided into lots. It was near enough to Uthwaite. In the strange,
bald desert of this still-one-more no-man's-land, new little streets of
semi-detacheds were run up, very desirable! The Shipley Hall Estate!
Within a year of Connie's last call, it had happened. There stood
Shipley Hall Estate, an array of red-brick semi-detached "villas" in
new streets. No one would have dreamed that the stucco hall had stood
there twelve months before.
But this is a later stage of King Edward's landscape gardening, the
sort that has an ornamental coal mine on the lawn.
One England blots out another. The England of the Squire Winters and
the Wragby Halls was gone, dead. The blotting out was only not yet
complete.
What would come after? Connie could not imagine. She could only see
the new brick streets spreading into the fields, the new erections
rising at the collieries, the new girls in their silk stockings, the
new collier lads lounging into the Pally or the Welfare. The younger
generation were utterly unconscious of the old England. There was a gap
in the continuity of consciousness, almost American: but industrial
really. What next?
Connie always felt there was no next. She wanted to hide her head in
the sand: or at least, in the bosom of a living man.
The world was so complicated and weird and gruesome! The common people
were so many, and really, so terrible. So she thought as she was
going home, and saw the colliers trailing from the pits, grey-black,
distorted, one shoulder higher than the other, slurring their heavy
ironshod boots. Underground grey faces, whites of eyes rolling, necks
cringing from the pit roof, shoulders out of shape. Men! Men! Alas, in
some ways patient and good men. In other ways, non-existent. Something
that men _should_ have was bred and killed out of them. Yet they were
men. They begot children. One might bear a child to them. Terrible,
terrible thought! They were good and kindly. But they were only half,
only the grey half of a human being. As yet, they were "good." But
even that was the goodness of their halfness. Supposing the dead in
them ever rose up! But no, it was too terrible to think of. Connie was
absolutely afraid of the industrial masses. They seemed so _weird_ to
her. A life with utterly no beauty in it, no intuition, always "in the
pit."
Children from such men! Oh God, oh God!
Yet Mellors had come from such a father. Not quite. Forty years had
made a difference, an appalling difference in manhood. The iron and the
coal had eaten deep into the bodies and souls of the men.
Incarnate ugliness, and yet alive! What would become of them all?
Perhaps with the passing of the coal they would disappear again, off
the face of the earth. They had appeared out of nowhere in their
thousands, when the coal had called for them. Perhaps they were only
weird fauna of the coalseams. Creatures of another reality, they were
elementals, serving the elements of coal, as the metal workers were
elementals, serving the element of iron. Men not men, but animas of
coal and iron and clay. Fauna of the elements, carbon, iron, silicon:
elementals. They had perhaps some of the weird inhuman beauty of
minerals, the lustre of coal, the weight and blueness and resistance
of iron, the transparency of glass. Elemental creatures, weird and
distorted, of the mineral world! They belonged to the coal, the iron,
the clay, as fish belong to the sea and worms to dead wood. The anima
of mineral disintegration!
Connie was glad to be home, to bury her head in the sand. She was
glad even to babble to Clifford. For her fear of the mining and iron
Midlands affected her with a queer feeling that went all over her, like
influenza.
"Of course I had to have tea in Miss Bentley's shop," she said.
"Really! Winter would have given you tea."
"Oh yes, but I daren't disappoint Miss Bentley."
Miss Bentley was a sallow old maid with a rather large nose and
romantic disposition, who served tea with a careful intensity worthy of
a sacrament.
"Did she ask after me?" said Clifford.
"Of course!--_May_ I ask your Ladyship how Sir Clifford is!--I believe
she ranks you even higher than Nurse Cavell!"
"And I suppose you said I was blooming."
"Yes! And she looked as rapt as if I had said the heavens had opened to
you. I said if she ever came to Tevershall she was to come and see you."
"Me! Whatever for! See me!"
"Why yes, Clifford. You can't be so adored without making some slight
return. Saint George of Cappadocia was nothing to you, in her eyes."
"And do you think she'll come?"
"Oh, she blushed! and looked quite beautiful for a moment, poor thing!
Why don't men marry the women who would really adore them?"
"The women start adoring too late. But did she say she'd come?"
"Oh!" Connie imitated the breathless Miss Bentley, "your Ladyship, if
ever I should dare to presume!"
"Dare to presume! how absurd! But I hope to God she won't turn up. And
how was her tea?"
"Oh, Lipton's and _very_ strong! But Clifford, do you realise you are
the _Roman de la rose_ of Miss Bentley and lots like her?"
"I'm not flattered, even then."
"They treasure up every one of your pictures in the illustrated papers,
and probably pray for you every night. It's rather wonderful."
She went upstairs to change.
That evening he said to her:
"You do think, don't you, that there is something eternal in marriage?"
She looked at him.
"But Clifford, you make eternity sound like a lid or a long, long chain
that trailed after one, no matter how far one went."
He looked at her, annoyed.
"What I mean," he said, "is that if you go to Venice, you won't go in
the hopes of some love affair that you can take _au grand sérieux_,
will you?"
"A love affair in Venice _au grand sérieux_? No, I assure you! No, I'd
never take a love affair in Venice more than _au très petit sérieux_."
She spoke with a queer kind of contempt. He knitted his brows, looking
at her.
Coming downstairs in the morning, she found the keeper's dog Flossie
sitting in the corridor outside Clifford's room, and whimpering very
faintly.
"Why Flossie!" she said softly, "What are you doing here?"
And she quietly opened Clifford's door. Clifford was sitting up in bed,
with the bed-table and typewriter pushed aside, and the keeper was
standing attention at the foot of the bed. Flossie ran in. With a faint
gesture of head and eyes, Mellors ordered her to the door again, and
she slunk out.
"Oh, good morning Clifford!" Connie said. "I didn't know you were
busy." Then she looked at the keeper, saying good morning to him. He
murmured his reply, looking at her as if vaguely. But she felt a whiff
of passion touch her, from his mere presence.
"Did I interrupt you, Clifford? I'm sorry."
"No, it's nothing of any importance."
She slipped out of the room again, and up to the blue boudoir on the
first floor. She sat in the window, and saw him go down the drive, with
his curious, silent motion, effaced. He had a natural sort of quiet
distinction, an aloof pride, and also a certain look of frailty. A
hireling! One of Clifford's hirelings! "The fault, dear Brutus, is not
in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings."
Was he an underling? Was he? What did he think of _her_?
It was a sunny day, and Connie was working in the garden, and Mrs.
Bolton was helping her. For some reason, the two women had drawn
together, in one of the unaccountable flows and ebbs of sympathy that
exist between people. They were pegging down carnations, and putting
in small plants for the summer. It was work they both liked. Connie
especially felt a delight in putting the soft roots of young plants
into a soft black puddle, and cradling them down. On this spring
morning she felt a quiver in her womb too, as if the sunshine had
touched it and made it happy.
"It is many years since you lost your husband?" she said to Mrs.
Bolton, as she took up another little plant and laid it in its hole.
"Twenty-three!" said Mrs. Bolton, as she carefully separated the young
columbines into single plants. "Twenty-three years since they brought
him home."
Connie's heart gave a lurch, at the terrible finality of it. "Brought
him home!"
"Why did he get killed, do you think?" she asked. "He was happy with
you?"
It was a woman's question to a woman. Mrs. Bolton put aside a strand of
hair from her face, with the back of her hand.
"I don't know, my Lady! He sort of wouldn't give in to things: he
wouldn't really go with the rest. And then he hated ducking his head
for anything on earth. A sort of obstinacy, that _gets_ itself killed.
You see he didn't really care. I lay it down to the pit. He ought never
to have been down pit. But his dad made him go down, as a lad; and
then, when you're over twenty, it's not very easy to come out."
"Did he say he hated it?"
"Oh no! Never! He never said he hated anything. He just made a funny
face. He was one of those who wouldn't take care: like some of the
first lads as went off so blithe to the war and got killed right away.
He wasn't really wezzle-brained. But he wouldn't care. I used to say
to him: 'You care for nought nor nobody!' But he did! The way he sat
when my first baby was born, motionless, and the sort of fatal eyes he
looked at me with, when it was over! I had a bad time, but I had to
comfort _him_. 'It's all right, lad, it's all right!' I said to him.
And he gave me a look, and that funny sort of smile. He never said
anything. But I don't believe he had any right pleasure with me at
nights after; he'd never really let himself go. I used to say to him:
'Oh, let thysen go, lad!'--I'd talk broad to him sometimes. And he said
nothing. But he wouldn't let himself go, or he couldn't. He didn't want
me to have any more children. I always blamed his mother, for letting
him in th' room. He'd no right t'ave been there. Men makes so much more
of things than they should, once they start brooding."
"Did he mind so much?" said Connie in wonder.
"Yes, he sort of couldn't take it for natural, all that pain. And it
spoilt his pleasure in his bit of married love. I said to him: If I
don't care, why should you? It's my look-out!--But all he'd ever say
was: It's not right!"
"Perhaps he was too sensitive," said Connie.
"That's it! When you come to know men, that's how they are: too
sensitive in the wrong place. And I believe, unbeknown to himself, he
hated the pit, just hated it. He looked so quiet when he was dead, as
if he'd got free. He was such a nice looking lad. It just broke my
heart to see him, so still and pure looking, as if he'd _wanted_ to
die. Oh, it broke my heart, that did. But it was the pit."
She wept a few bitter tears, and Connie wept more. It was a warm spring
day, with a perfume of earth and of yellow flowers, many things rising
to bud, and the garden still with the very sap of sunshine.
"It must have been terrible for you!" said Connie.
"Oh, my Lady! I never realised at first. I could only say: Oh my lad,
what did you want to leave me for!--That was all my cry. But somehow I
felt he'd come back."
"But he _didn't_ want to leave you," said Connie.
"Oh, no, my Lady! That was only my silly cry. And I kept expecting him
back. Especially at nights. I kept waking up thinking: Why he's not in
bed with me!--It was as if my _feelings_ wouldn't believe he'd gone. I
just felt he'd _have_ to come back and lie against me, so I could feel
him with me. That was all I wanted, to feel him there with me, warm.
And it took me a thousand shocks before I knew he wouldn't come back,
it took me years."
"The touch of him," said Connie.
"That's it, my Lady! the touch of him! I've never got over it to this
day, and never shall. And if there's a heaven above, he'll be there,
and will lie up against me so I can sleep."
Connie glanced at the handsome, brooding face in fear. Another
passionate one out of Tevershall! The touch of him! For the bonds of
love are ill to loose!
"It's terrible, once you've got a man into your blood!" she said.
"Oh, my Lady! And that's what makes you feel so bitter. You feel folks
_wanted_ him killed. You feel the pit fair _wanted_ to kill him. Oh, I
felt, if it hadn't been for the pit, an' them as runs the pit, there'd
have been no leaving me. But they all _want_ to separate a woman and a
man, if they're together."
"If they're physically together," said Connie.
"That's right my Lady! There's a lot of hard-hearted folks in the
world. And every morning when he got up and went to th' pit, I felt it
was wrong, wrong. But what else could he do? What can a man do?"
A queer hate flared in the woman.
"But can a touch last so long?" Connie asked suddenly. "That you could
feel him so long?"
"Oh my Lady, what else is there to last? Children grows away from you.
But the man, well--! But even _that_ they'd like to kill in you, the
very thought of the touch of him. Even your own children! Ah well!
We might have drifted apart, who knows. But the feeling's something
different. It's 'appen better never to care. But there, when I look at
women who's never really been warmed through by a man, well, they seem
to me poor dool-owls after all, no matter how they may dress up and
gad. No, I'll abide by my own. I've not much respect for people."