Connie was a good deal alone now, fewer people came to Wragby. Clifford no longer wanted them. He had turned against even the cronies. He was queer. He preferred the radio, which he had installed at some expense, with a good deal of success at last. He could sometimes get Madrid or Frankfurt, even there in the uneasy Midlands.
And he would sit alone for hours listening to the loudspeaker bellowing⁴ forth⁵. It amazed and stunned⁶ Connie. But there he would sit, with a blank entranced expression on his face, like a person losing his mind, and listen, or seem to listen, to the unspeakable thing.

Was he really listening? Or was it a sort of soporific he took, whilst something else worked on underneath⁷ in him? Connie did now know. She fled up to her room, or out of doors to the wood. A kind of terror filled her sometimes, a terror of the incipient⁸ insanity⁹ of the whole civilized¹⁰ species.

But now that Clifford was drifting off to this other weirdness¹² of industrial activity, becoming almost a creature, with a hard, efficient shell of an exterior¹³ and a pulpy¹⁵ interior, one of the amazing crabs¹⁶ and lobsters¹⁷ of the modern, industrial and financial world, invertebrates¹⁸ of the crustacean¹⁹ order, with shells of steel, like machines, and inner bodies of soft pulp¹⁴, Connie herself was really completely stranded²⁰.

She was not even free, for Clifford must have her there. He seemed to have a nervous terror that she should leave him. The curious pulpy part of him, the emotional and humanly-individual part, depended on her with terror, like a child, almost like an idiot. She must be there, there at Wragby, a Lady Chatterley, his wife. Otherwise he would be lost like an idiot on a moor²¹.

This amazing dependence²² Connie realized with a sort of horror. She heard him with his pit managers, with the members of his Board, with young scientists, and she was amazed at his shrewd insight into things, his power, his uncanny material power over what is called practical men. He had become a practical man himself and an amazingly astute²⁴ and powerful one, a master. Connie attributed it to Mrs Bolton's influence upon him, just at the crisis in his life.

But this astute and practical man was almost an idiot when left alone to his own emotional life. He worshipped Connie. She was his wife, a higher being, and he worshipped her with a queer, craven idolatry, like a savage²⁶, a worship based on enormous fear, and even hate of the power of the idol²⁵, the dread²⁷ idol. All he wanted was for Connie to swear, to swear not to leave him, not to give him away.

`Clifford,' she said to him---but this was after she had the key to the hut---`Would you really like me to have a child one day?'

He looked at her with a furtive²⁸ apprehension²⁹ in his rather prominent pale eyes.

`I shouldn't mind, if it made no difference between us,' he said.

`No difference to what?' she asked.

`To you and me; to our love for one another. If it's going to affect that, then I'm all against it. Why, I might even one day have a child of my own!'

She looked at him in amazement³⁰.

`I mean, it might come back to me one of these days.'

She still stared in amazement, and he was uncomfortable.

`So you would not like it if I had a child?' she said.

`I tell you,' he replied quickly, like a cornered dog, `I am quite willing, provided it doesn't touch your love for me. If it would touch that, I am dead against it.'

Connie could only be silent in cold fear and contempt. Such talk was really the gabbling of an idiot. He no longer knew what he was talking about.

`Oh, it wouldn't make any difference to my feeling for you,' she said, with a certain sarcasm³¹.

`There!' he said. `That is the point! In that case I don't mind in the least. I mean it would be awfully³² nice to have a child running about the house, and feel one was building up a future for it. I should have something to strive for then, and I should know it was your child, shouldn't I, dear? And it would seem just the same as my own. Because it is you who count in these matters. You know that, don't you, dear? I don't enter, I am a cypher. You are the great I-am! as far as life goes. You know that, don't you? I mean, as far as I am concerned. I mean, but for you I am absolutely nothing. I live for your sake and your future. I am nothing to myself'

Connie heard it all with deepening dismay and repulsion. It was one of the ghastly half-truths that poison human existence. What man in his senses would say such things to a woman! But men aren't in their senses. What man with a spark of honour would put this ghastly burden of life-responsibility upon a woman, and leave her there, in the void?

Moreover, in half an hour's time, Connie heard Clifford talking to Mrs Bolton, in a hot, impulsive³³ voice, revealing himself in a sort of passionless passion to the woman, as if she were half mistress, half foster-mother to him. And Mrs Bolton was carefully dressing³⁵ him in evening clothes, for there were important business guests in the house.

Connie really sometimes felt she would die at this time. She felt she was being crushed to death by weird¹¹ lies, and by the amazing cruelty of idiocy³⁶. Clifford's strange business efficiency in a way over-awed³⁸ her, and his declaration of private worship put her into a panic. There was nothing between them. She never even touched him nowadays, and he never touched her. He never even took her hand and held it kindly³⁹. No, and because they were so utterly⁴⁰ out of touch, he tortured her with his declaration of idolatry. It was the cruelty of utter impotence. And she felt her reason would give way, or she would die.

She fled as much as possible to the wood. One afternoon, as she sat brooding, watching the water bubbling coldly in John's Well, the keeper had strode up to her.

`I got you a key made, my Lady!' he said, saluting⁴¹, and he offered her the key.

`Thank you so much!' she said, startled.

`The hut's not very tidy, if you don't mind,' he said. `I cleared it what I could.'

`But I didn't want you to trouble!' she said.

`Oh, it wasn't any trouble. I am setting the hens in about a week. But they won't be scared of you. I s'll have to see to them morning and night, but I shan't bother you any more than I can help.'

`But you wouldn't bother me,' she pleaded. `I'd rather not go to the hut at all, if I am going to be in the way.'

He looked at her with his keen blue eyes. He seemed kindly, but distant. But at least he was sane⁴², and wholesome⁴³, if even he looked thin and ill. A cough troubled him.

`You have a cough,' she said.

`Nothing---a cold! The last pneumonia⁴⁴ left me with a cough, but it's nothing.'

He kept distant from her, and would not come any nearer.

She went fairly often to the hut, in the morning or in the afternoon, but he was never there. No doubt he avoided her on purpose. He wanted to keep his own privacy.

He had made the hut tidy, put the little table and chair near the fireplace, left a little pile of kindling⁴⁵ and small logs, and put the tools and traps away as far as possible, effacing⁴⁶ himself. Outside, by the clearing, he had built a low little roof of boughs⁴⁷ and straw, a shelter for the birds, and under it stood the live coops. And, one day when she came, she found two brown hens sitting alert and fierce in the coops, sitting on pheasants' eggs, and fluffed out so proud and deep in all the heat of the pondering female blood. This almost broke Connie's heart. She, herself was so forlorn and unused, not a female at all, just a mere⁴⁸ thing of terrors.

Then all the live coops were occupied by hens, three brown and a grey and a black. All alike, they clustered themselves down on the eggs in the soft nestling ponderosity⁴⁹ of the female urge, the female nature, fluffing out their feathers. And with brilliant eyes they watched Connie, as she crouched⁵⁰ before them, and they gave short sharp clucks of anger and alarm, but chiefly of female anger at being approached.

Connie found corn in the corn-bin⁵¹ in the hut. She offered it to the hens in her hand. They would not eat it. Only one hen pecked at her hand with a fierce little jab, so Connie was frightened. But she was pining to give them something, the brooding mothers who neither fed themselves nor drank. She brought water in a little tin, and was delighted when one of the hens drank.

Now she came every day to the hens, they were the only things in the world that warmed her heart. Clifford's protestations made her go cold from head to foot. Mrs Bolton's voice made her go cold, and the sound of the business men who came. An occasional letter from Michaelis affected⁵² her with the same sense of chill. She felt she would surely die if it lasted much longer.

Yet it was spring, and the bluebells⁵³ were coming in the wood, and the leaf-buds on the hazels were opening like the spatter of green rain. How terrible it was that it should be spring, and everything cold-hearted, cold-hearted. Only the hens, fluffed so wonderfully on the eggs, were warm with their hot, brooding female bodies! Connie felt herself living on the brink⁵⁴ of fainting all the time.

Then, one day, a lovely sunny day with great tufts of primroses⁵⁶ under the hazels, and many violets dotting the paths, she came in the afternoon to the coops and there was one tiny, tiny perky chicken tinily prancing⁵⁷ round in front of a coop, and the mother hen clucking in terror. The slim little chick was greyish brown with dark markings, and it was the most alive little spark of a creature in seven kingdoms at that moment. Connie crouched to watch in a sort of ecstasy⁵⁸. Life, life! pure, sparky, fearless new life! New life! So tiny and so utterly without fear! Even when it scampered⁵⁹ a little, scrambling⁶⁰ into the coop again, and disappeared under the hen's feathers in answer to the mother hen's wild alarm-cries, it was not really frightened, it took it as a game, the game of living. For in a moment a tiny sharp head was poking⁶¹ through the gold-brown feathers of the hen, and eyeing the Cosmos⁶².

Connie was fascinated. And at the same time, never had she felt so acutely the agony of her own female forlornness. It was becoming unbearable⁶³.

She had only one desire now, to go to the clearing in the wood. The rest was a kind of painful dream. But sometimes she was kept all day at Wragby, by her duties as hostess. And then she felt as if she too were going blank, just blank and insane.

One evening, guests or no guests, she escaped after tea. It was late, and she fled across the park like one who fears to be called back. The sun was setting rosy⁶⁴ as she entered the wood, but she pressed on among the flowers. The light would last long overhead.

She arrived at the clearing flushed and semi-conscious. The keeper was there, in his shirt-sleeves, just closing up the coops for the night, so the little occupants would be safe. But still one little trio was pattering about on tiny feet, alert drab mites⁶⁶, under the straw shelter, refusing to be called in by the anxious mother.

`I had to come and see the chickens!' she said, panting, glancing shyly at the keeper, almost unaware<sup>67</sup> of him. `Are there any more?'

`Thurty-six so far!' he said. `Not bad!'

He too took a curious pleasure in watching the young things come out.

Connie crouched in front of the last coop. The three chicks had run in. But still their cheeky heads came poking sharply through the yellow feathers, then withdrawing, then only one beady little head eyeing forth from the vast mother-body.

`I'd love to touch them,' she said, putting her lingers gingerly through the bars of the coop. But the mother-hen pecked at her hand fiercely, and Connie drew back startled and frightened.

`How she pecks at me! She hates me!' she said in a wondering voice. `But I wouldn't hurt them!'

The man standing⁶⁸ above her laughed, and crouched down beside her, knees apart, and put his hand with quiet confidence slowly into the coop. The old hen pecked at him, but not so savagely⁶⁹. And slowly, softly, with sure gentle lingers, he felt among the old bird's feathers and drew out a faintly-peeping chick in his closed hand.

`There!' he said, holding out his hand to her. She took the little drab thing between her hands, and there it stood, on its impossible little stalks of legs, its atom of balancing life trembling through its almost weightless feet into Connie's hands. But it lifted its handsome, clean-shaped little head boldly, and looked sharply round, and gave a little `peep'. `So adorable! So cheeky!' she said softly.

The keeper, squatting⁷⁰ beside her, was also watching with an amused face the bold little bird in her hands. Suddenly he saw a tear fall on to her wrist.

And he stood up, and stood away, moving to the other coop. For suddenly he was aware of the old flame shooting and leaping up in his loins, that he had hoped was quiescent⁷³ for ever. He fought against it, turning his back to her. But it leapt, and leapt downwards⁷⁴, circling in his knees.

He turned again to look at her. She was kneeling and holding her two hands slowly forward, blindly, so that the chicken should run in to the mother-hen again. And there was something so mute and forlorn in her, compassion⁷⁵ flamed in his bowels⁷⁶ for her.

Without knowing, he came quickly towards her and crouched beside her again, taking the chick from her hands, because she was afraid of the hen, and putting it back in the coop. At the back of his loins the lire suddenly darted⁷⁷ stronger.

He glanced apprehensively⁷⁸ at her. Her face was averted⁷⁹, and she was crying blindly, in all the anguish⁸⁰ of her generation's forlornness. His heart melted suddenly, like a drop of fire, and he put out his hand and laid his lingers on her knee.

`You shouldn't cry,' he said softly.

But then she put her hands over her face and felt that really her heart was broken and nothing mattered any more.

He laid his hand on her shoulder, and softly, gently, it began to travel down the curve of her back, blindly, with a blind stroking motion, to the curve of her crouching⁸¹ loins. And there his hand softly, softly, stroked the curve of her flank, in the blind instinctive⁸² caress⁸³.

She had found her scrap⁸⁴ of handkerchief and was blindly trying to dry her face.

`Shall you come to the hut?' he said, in a quiet, neutral voice.

And closing his hand softly on her upper arm, he drew her up and led her slowly to the hut, not letting go of her till she was inside. Then he cleared aside the chair and table, and took a brown, soldier's blanket from the tool chest, spreading it slowly. She glanced at his face, as she stood motionless.

His face was pale and without expression, like that of a man submitting to fate.

`You lie there,' he said softly, and he shut the door, so that it was dark, quite dark.

With a queer obedience⁸⁵, she lay down on the blanket. Then she felt the soft, groping, helplessly desirous hand touching⁸⁶ her body, feeling for her face. The hand stroked her face softly, softly, with infinite soothing⁸⁷ and assurance, and at last there was the soft touch of a kiss on her cheek.

She lay quite still, in a sort of sleep, in a sort of dream. Then she quivered as she felt his hand groping softly, yet with queer thwarted⁸⁸ clumsiness, among her `clothing. Yet the hand knew, too, how to unclothe her where it wanted. He drew down the thin silk sheath, slowly, carefully, right down and over her feet. Then with a quiver of exquisite⁸⁹ pleasure he touched the warm soft body, and touched her navel for a moment in a kiss. And he had to come in to her at once, to enter the peace on earth of her soft, quiescent body. It was the moment of pure peace for him, the entry into the body of the woman.

She lay still, in a kind of sleep, always in a kind of sleep. The activity, the orgasm was his, all his; she could strive for herself no more. Even the tightness of his arms round her, even the intense movement of his body, and the springing of his seed in her, was a kind of sleep, from which she did not begin to rouse till he had finished and lay softly panting against her breast.

Then she wondered, just dimly wondered, why? Why was this necessary? Why had it lifted a great cloud from her and given her peace? Was it real? Was it real?

Her tormented⁹⁰ modern-woman's brain still had no rest. Was it real? And she knew, if she gave herself to the man, it was real. But if she kept herself for herself it was nothing. She was old; millions of years old, she felt. And at last, she could bear the burden of herself no more. She was to be had for the taking. To be had for the taking.

The man lay in a mysterious stillness. What was he feeling? What was he thinking? She did not know. He was a strange man to her, she did not know him. She must only wait, for she did not dare to break his mysterious stillness. He lay there with his arms round her, his body on hers, his wet body touching hers, so close. And completely unknown. Yet not unpeaceful. His very stillness was peaceful.

She knew that, when at last he roused and drew away from her. It was like an abandonment. He drew her dress in the darkness down over her knees and stood a few moments, apparently⁹¹ adjusting his own clothing. Then he quietly opened the door and went out.

She saw a very brilliant little moon shining above the afterglow over the oaks. Quickly she got up and arranged herself she was tidy. Then she went to the door of the hut.

All the lower wood was in shadow, almost darkness. Yet the sky overhead was crystal. But it shed hardly any light. He came through the lower shadow towards her, his face lifted like a pale blotch⁹².

`Shall we go then?' he said.

`Where?'

`I'll go with you to the gate.'

He arranged things his own way. He locked the door of the hut and came after her.

`You aren't sorry, are you?' he asked, as he went at her side.

`No! No! Are you?' she said.

`For that! No!' he said. Then after a while he added: `But there's the rest of things.'

`What rest of things?' she said.

`Sir Clifford. Other folks. All the complications.'

`Why complications?' she said, disappointed.

`It's always so. For you as well as for me. There's always complications.' He walked on steadily⁹³ in the dark.

`And are you sorry?' she said.

`In a way!' he replied, looking up at the sky. `I thought I'd done with it all. Now I've begun again.'

`Begun what?'

`Life.'

`Life!' she re-echoed, with a queer thrill.

`It's life,' he said. `There's no keeping clear. And if you do keep clear you might almost as well die. So if I've got to be broken open again, I have.'

She did not quite see it that way, but still `It's just love,' she said cheerfully.

`Whatever that may be,' he replied.

They went on through the darkening wood in silence, till they were almost at the gate.

`But you don't hate me, do you?' she said wistfully.

`Nay<sup>94</sup>, nay,' he replied. And suddenly he held her fast against his breast again, with the old connecting passion. `Nay, for me it was good, it was good. Was it for you?'

`Yes, for me too,' she answered, a little untruthfully, for she had not been conscious of much.

He kissed her softly, softly, with the kisses of warmth.

`If only there weren't so many other people in the world,' he said lugubriously⁹⁵.

She laughed. They were at the gate to the park. He opened it for her.

`I won't come any further,' he said.

`No!' And she held out her hand, as if to shake hands. But he took it in both his.

`Shall I come again?' she asked wistfully.

`Yes! Yes!'

She left him and went across the park.

He stood back and watched her going into the dark, against the pallor of the horizon. Almost with bitterness he watched her go. She had connected him up again, when he had wanted to be alone. She had cost him that bitter privacy of a man who at last wants only to be alone.

He turned into the dark of the wood. All was still, the moon had set. But he was aware of the noises of the night, the engines at Stacks Gate, the traffic on the main road. Slowly he climbed the denuded⁹⁶ knoll⁹⁷. And from the top he could see the country, bright rows of lights at Stacks Gate, smaller lights at Tevershall pit, the yellow lights of Tevershall and lights everywhere, here and there, on the dark country, with the distant blush of furnaces, faint and rosy, since the night was clear, the rosiness⁹⁸ of the outpouring of white-hot metal. Sharp, wicked electric lights at Stacks Gate! An undefinable quick of evil in them! And all the unease, the ever-shifting dread of the industrial night in the Midlands. He could hear the winding-engines at Stacks Gate turning down the seven-o'clock miners. The pit worked three shifts.

He went down again into the darkness and seclusion⁹⁹ of the wood. But he knew that the seclusion of the wood was illusory. The industrial noises broke the solitude¹⁰⁰, the sharp lights, though unseen, mocked it. A man could no longer be private and withdrawn¹⁰¹. The world allows no hermits¹⁰³. And now he had taken the woman, and brought on himself a new cycle of pain and doom¹⁰⁴. For he knew by experience what it meant.

It was not woman's fault, nor even love's fault, nor the fault of sex. The fault lay there, out there, in those evil electric lights and diabolical¹⁰⁵ rattlings of engines. There, in the world of the mechanical greedy, greedy mechanism¹⁰⁶ and mechanized greed, sparkling with lights and gushing¹⁰⁷ hot metal and roaring with traffic, there lay the vast evil thing, ready to destroy whatever did not conform. Soon it would destroy the wood, and the bluebells would spring no more. All vulnerable things must perish under the rolling and running of iron.

He thought with infinite tenderness of the woman. Poor forlorn thing, she was nicer than she knew, and oh! so much too nice for the tough lot she was in contact with. Poor thing, she too had some of the vulnerability of the wild hyacinths, she wasn't all tough rubber-goods and platinum¹⁰⁸, like the modern girl. And they would do her in! As sure as life, they would do her in, as they do in all naturally tender life. Tender! Somewhere she was tender, tender with a tenderness of the growing hyacinths, something that has gone out of the celluloid women of today. But he would protect her with his heart for a little while. For a little while, before the insentient iron world and the Mammon of mechanized greed did them both in, her as well as him.

He went home with his gun and his dog, to the dark cottage, lit the lamp, started the fire, and ate his supper of bread and cheese, young onions and beer. He was alone, in a silence he loved. His room was clean and tidy, but rather stark¹⁰⁹. Yet the fire was bright, the hearth¹¹⁰ white, the petroleum¹¹¹ lamp hung bright over the table, with its white oil-cloth. He tried to read a book about India, but tonight he could not read. He sat by the fire in his shirt-sleeves, not smoking, but with a mug of beer in reach. And he thought about Connie.

To tell the truth, he was sorry for what had happened, perhaps most for her sake. He had a sense of foreboding. No sense of wrong or sin; he was troubled by no conscience in that respect. He knew that conscience was chiefly tear of society, or fear of oneself. He was not afraid of himself. But he was quite consciously afraid of society, which he knew by instinct to be a malevolent¹¹², partly-insane beast.

The woman! If she could be there with him, arid¹¹³ there were nobody else in the world! The desire rose again, his penis began to stir like a live bird. At the same time an oppression, a dread of exposing himself and her to that outside Thing that sparkled viciously in the electric lights, weighed down his shoulders. She, poor young thing, was just a young female creature to him; but a young female creature whom he had gone into and whom he desired again.

Stretching with the curious yawn of desire, for he had been alone and apart from man or woman for four years, he rose and took his coat again, and his gun, lowered the lamp and went out into the starry¹¹⁴ night, with the dog. Driven by desire and by dread of the malevolent Thing outside, he made his round in the wood, slowly, softly. He loved the darkness arid folded himself into it. It fitted the turgidity of his desire which, in spite of all, was like a riches; the stirring restlessness of his penis, the stirring fire in his loins! Oh, if only there were other men to be with, to fight that sparkling electric Thing outside there, to preserve the tenderness of life, the tenderness of women, and the natural riches of desire. If only there were men to fight side by side with! But the men were all outside there, glorying in the Thing, triumphing or being trodden down in the rush of mechanized greed or of greedy mechanism.

Constance, for her part, had hurried across the park, home, almost without thinking. As yet she had no afterthought. She would be in time for dinner.

She was annoyed to find the doors fastened, however, so that she had to ring. Mrs Bolton opened.

`Why there you are, your Ladyship! I was beginning to wonder if you'd gone lost!' she said a little roguishly. `Sir Clifford hasn't asked for you, though; he's got Mr Linley in with him, talking over something. It looks as if he'd stay to dinner, doesn't it, my Lady?'

`It does rather,' said Connie.

`Shall I put dinner back a quarter of an hour? That would give you time to dress in comfort.'

`Perhaps you'd better.'

Mr Linley was the general manager of the collieries, an elderly man from the north, with not quite enough punch to suit Clifford; not up to post-war conditions, nor post-war colliers either, with their `ca' canny²³' creed¹¹⁵. But Connie liked Mr Linley, though she was glad to be spared the toadying¹¹⁶ of his wife.

Linley stayed to dinner, and Connie was the hostess men liked so much, so modest, yet so attentive¹¹⁷ and aware, with big, wide blue eyes arid a soft repose¹¹⁸ that sufficiently¹¹⁹ hid what she was really thinking. Connie had played this woman so much, it was almost second nature to her; but still, decidedly second. Yet it was curious how everything disappeared from her consciousness while she played it.

She waited patiently till she could go upstairs and think her own thoughts. She was always waiting, it seemed to be her forte¹²¹.

Once in her room, however, she felt still vague and confused. She didn't know what to think. What sort of a man was he, really? Did he really like her? Not much, she felt. Yet he was kind. There was something, a sort of warm naive¹²² kindness, curious and sudden, that almost opened her womb to him. But she felt he might be kind like that to any woman. Though even so, it was curiously¹²³ soothing, comforting. And he was a passionate¹²⁴ man, wholesome and passionate. But perhaps he wasn't quite individual enough; he might be the same with any woman as he had been with her. It really wasn't personal. She was only really a female to him.

But perhaps that was better. And after all, he was kind to the female in her, which no man had ever been. Men were very kind to the person she was, but rather cruel to the female, despising her or ignoring her altogether. Men were awfully kind to Constance Reid or to Lady Chatterley; but not to her womb they weren't kind. And he took no notice of Constance or of Lady Chatterley; he just softly stroked her loins or her breasts.

She went to the wood next day. It was a grey, still afternoon, with the dark-green dogs-mercury spreading under the hazel copse, and all the trees making a silent effort to open their buds. Today she could almost feel it in her own body, the huge heave of the sap in the massive trees, upwards¹²⁵, up, up to the bud-a, there to push into little flamey oak-leaves, bronze as blood. It was like a ride running turgid upward, and spreading on the sky.

She came to the clearing, but he was not there. She had only half expected him. The pheasant chicks were running lightly abroad, light as insects, from the coops where the fellow hens clucked anxiously. Connie sat and watched them, and waited. She only waited. Even the chicks she hardly saw. She waited.

The time passed with dream-like slowness, and he did not come. She had only half expected him. He never came in the afternoon. She must go home to tea. But she had to force herself to leave.

As she went home, a fine drizzle¹²⁶ of rain fell.

`Is it raining again?' said Clifford, seeing her shake her hat.

`Just drizzle.'

She poured tea in silence, absorbed in a sort of obstinacy¹²⁷. She did want to see the keeper today, to see if it were really real. If it were really real.

`Shall I read a little to you afterwards?' said Clifford.

She looked at him. Had he sensed something?

`The spring makes me feel queer---I thought I might rest a little,' she said.

`Just as you like. Not feeling really unwell, are you?'

`No! Only rather tired---with the spring. Will you have Mrs Bolton to play something with you?'

`No! I think I'll listen in.'

She heard the curious satisfaction in his voice. She went upstairs to her bedroom. There she heard the loudspeaker begin to bellow³, in an idiotically velveteen-genteel sort of voice, something about a series of street-cries, the very cream of genteel affectation imitating old criers. She pulled on her old violet coloured mackintosh, and slipped out of the house at the side door.

The drizzle of rain was like a veil over the world, mysterious, hushed, not cold. She got very warm as she hurried across the park. She had to open her light waterproof¹²⁹.

The wood was silent, still and secret in the evening drizzle of rain, full of the mystery of eggs and half-open buds, half unsheathed flowers. In the dimness of it all trees glistened¹³⁰ naked and dark as if they had unclothed themselves, and the green things on earth seemed to hum with greenness.

There was still no one at the clearing. The chicks had nearly all gone under the mother-hens, only one or two last adventurous¹³¹ ones still dibbed about in the dryness under the straw roof shelter. And they were doubtful of themselves.

So! He still had not been. He was staying away on purpose. Or perhaps something was wrong. Perhaps she should go to the cottage and see.

But she was born to wait. She opened the hut with her key. It was all tidy, the corn put in the bin, the blankets folded on the shelf, the straw neat in a corner; a new bundle of straw. The hurricane lamp hung on a nail. The table and chair had been put back where she had lain.

She sat down on a stool in the doorway¹³². How still everything was! The fine rain blew very softly, filmily, but the wind made no noise. Nothing made any sound. The trees stood like powerful beings, dim, twilit, silent and alive. How alive everything was!

Night was drawing near again; she would have to go. He was avoiding her.

But suddenly he came striding into the clearing, in his black oilskin jacket like a chauffeur¹³³, shining with wet. He glanced quickly at the hut, half-saluted, then veered¹³⁴ aside and went on to the coops. There he crouched in silence, looking carefully at everything, then carefully shutting the hens and chicks up safe against the night.

At last he came slowly towards her. She still sat on her stool. He stood before her under the porch.

`You come then,' he said, using the intonation¹³⁵ of the dialect.

`Yes,' she said, looking up at him. `You're late!'

`Ay!' he replied, looking away into the wood.

She rose slowly, drawing aside her stool.

`Did you want to come in?' she asked.

He looked down at her shrewdly.

`Won't folks be thinkin' somethink, you comin' here every night?' he said.

`Why?' She looked up at him, at a loss. `I said I'd come. Nobody knows.'

`They soon will, though,' he replied. `An' what then?'

She was at a loss for an answer.

`Why should they know?' she said.

`Folks always does,' he said fatally.

Her lip quivered a little.

`Well I can't help it,' she faltered¹³⁶.

`Nay,' he said. `You can help it by not comin'---if yer want to,' he added, in a lower tone.

`But I don't want to,' she murmured.

He looked away into the wood, and was silent.

`But what when folks finds out?' he asked at last. `Think about it! Think how lowered you'll feel, one of your husband's servants.'

She looked up at his averted face.

`Is it,' she stammered<sup>137</sup>, `is it that you don't want me?'

`Think!' he said. `Think what if folks find out Sir Clifford an' a'---an' everybody talkin'---'

`Well, I can go away.'

`Where to?'

`Anywhere! I've got money of my own. My mother left me twenty thousand pounds in trust, and I know Clifford can't touch it. I can go away.'

`But 'appen you don't want to go away.'

`Yes, yes! I don't care what happens to me.'

`Ay, you think that! But you'll care! You'll have to care, everybody has. You've got to remember your Ladyship is carrying on with a game-keeper. It's not as if I was a gentleman. Yes, you'd care. You'd care.'

`I shouldn't. What do I care about my ladyship! I hate it really. I feel people are jeering¹³⁹ every time they say it. And they are, they are! Even you jeer¹³⁸ when you say it.'

`Me!'

For the first time he looked straight at her, and into her eyes. `I don't jeer at you,' he said.

As he looked into her eyes she saw his own eyes go dark, quite dark, the pupils dilating¹⁴⁰.

`Don't you care about a' the risk?' he asked in a husky voice. `You should care. Don't care when it's too late!'

There was a curious warning pleading in his voice.

`But I've nothing to lose,' she said fretfully. `If you knew what it is, you'd think I'd be glad to lose it. But are you afraid for yourself?'

`Ay!' he said briefly<sup>141</sup>. `I am. I'm afraid. I'm afraid. I'm afraid O' things.'

`What things?' she asked.

He gave a curious backward jerk of his head, indicating the outer world.

`Things! Everybody! The lot of 'em.'

Then he bent¹⁴² down and suddenly kissed her unhappy face.

`Nay, I don't care,' he said. `Let's have it, an' damn the rest. But if you was to feel sorry you'd ever done it---!'

`Don't put me off,' she pleaded.

He put his fingers to her cheek and kissed her again suddenly.

`Let me come in then,' he said softly. `An' take off your mackintosh.'

He hung up his gun, slipped out of his wet leather jacket, and reached for the blankets.

`I brought another blanket,' he said, `so we can put one over us if you like.'

`I can't stay long,' she said. `Dinner is half-past seven.'

He looked at her swiftly, then at his watch.

`All right,' he said.

He shut the door, and lit a tiny light in the hanging hurricane lamp. `One time we'll have a long time,' he said.

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 frail¹⁴³ petticoat she was naked.

`Eh! what it is to touch thee!' he said, as his finger caressed¹⁴⁴ the delicate, warm, secret skin of her waist and hips¹⁴⁵. He put his face down and rubbed his cheek against her belly¹⁴⁶ and against her thighs¹⁴⁷ again and again. And again she wondered a little over the sort of rapture¹⁴⁸ 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 throb¹⁴⁹ 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 glide¹⁵⁰ 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 encompassing¹⁵¹ her somehow. Yet she was waiting, waiting.

And when he came into her, with an intensification¹⁵² 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 condemned¹⁵³ 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 supremely¹⁵⁴ ridiculous. Surely the man was intensely ridiculous in this posture¹⁵⁵ and this act!

But she lay still, without recoil¹⁵⁶. 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 inert¹⁵⁷, 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 slung¹⁵⁸ 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, wan¹ 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, persistent¹⁵⁹ wanting her, when there was nothing between them, when he never really spoke¹⁶⁰ 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<sup>161</sup> 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 plunged¹⁶² on in the dark-grey tangible¹⁶³ 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 beset¹⁶⁴ by collieries. Leslie Winter was attached to Clifford, but personally did not entertain a great respect for him, because of the photographs in illustrated¹⁶⁵ papers and the literature. The old man was a buck¹⁶⁶ of the King Edward school, who thought life was life and the scribbling¹⁶⁷ fellows were something else. Towards Connie the Squire¹⁶⁸ was always rather gallant¹⁶⁹; he thought her an attractive demure¹⁷⁰ maiden¹⁷¹ 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 intercourse¹⁷² with her, and saying to her `tha mun come to th' cottage one time.' He would detest<sup>173</sup> 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 preoccupied¹⁷⁴ with her affair 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 discriminating¹⁷⁵ 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 decided¹²⁰ 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 bellowed¹⁷⁶, 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 slashed¹⁷⁷ 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 tenants¹⁷⁸.

`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 daunted¹⁷⁹. 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 mite⁶⁵ 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 voluptuous¹⁸⁰ 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 bridled¹⁸¹ with excitement, as if Connie were some gallant knight¹⁸². 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 ruffling¹⁸³ its red, wispy¹⁸⁴ 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 velvety¹⁸⁵ and rich.

`Lovely auriculas,' said Connie.

`Recklesses, as Luke calls them,' laughed Mrs Flint. `Have some.'

And eagerly she picked the velvet¹²⁸ and primrose⁵⁵ 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<sup>187</sup>. `They know Luke won't be back till after dark.'

They came to the fence, beyond which the young fir-wood bristled¹⁸⁸ dense¹⁸⁹. 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, bristling¹⁹⁰ 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 flaunted¹⁹¹ her motherhood. And Connie had been just a bit, just a little bit jealous. She couldn't help it.

She started out of her muse⁷¹, and gave a little cry of fear. A man was there.

It was the keeper. He stood in the path like Balaam's ass³⁴, 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<sup>192</sup> 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 rippling¹⁹³ inside her. Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping¹⁹⁴ of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance¹⁹⁵, exquisite, exquisite and melting her all molten inside. It was like bells rippling up and up to a culmination¹⁹⁶. 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 iii 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 rhythmic¹⁹⁷ growing motion, swelling¹⁹⁸ and swelling till it filled all her cleaving¹⁹⁹ consciousness, and then began again the unspeakable motion that was not really motion, but pure deepening whirlpools of sensation swirling²⁰⁰ 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 awe³⁷, as his life sprang out into her. And as it subsided²⁰¹, 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.

But he drew away at last, and kissed her and covered her over, and began to cover himself She lay looking up to the boughs of the tree, unable as yet to move. He stood and fastened up his breeches, looking round. All was dense and silent, save for the awed dog that lay with its paws against its nose. He sat down again on the brushwood and took Connie's hand in silence.

She turned and looked at him. `We came off together that time,' he said.

She did not answer.

`It's good when it's like that. Most folks live their lives through and they never know it,' he said, speaking rather dreamily.

She looked into his brooding face.

`Do they?' she said. `Are you glad?'

He looked back into her eyes. `Glad,' he said, `Ay, but never mind.' He did not want her to talk. And he bent over her and kissed her, and she felt, so he must kiss her for ever.

At last she sat up.

`Don't people often come off together?' she asked with naive curiosity.

`A good many of them never. You can see by the raw look of them.' He spoke unwittingly, regretting he had begun.

`Have you come off like that with other women?'

He looked at her amused.

`I don't know,' he said, `I don't know.'

And she knew he would never tell her anything he didn't want to tell her. She watched his face, and the passion for him moved in her bowels. She resisted it as far as she could, for it was the loss of herself to herself.

He put on his waistcoat and his coat, and pushed a way through to the path again.

The last level rays of the sun touched the wood. `I won't come with you,' he said; `better not.'

She looked at him wistfully before she turned. His dog was waiting so anxiously for him to go, and he seemed to have nothing whatever to say. Nothing left.

Connie went slowly home, realizing the depth of the other thing in her. Another self was alive in her, burning molten and soft in her womb and bowels, and with this self she adored him. She adored him till her knees were weak as she walked. In her womb and bowels she was flowing and alive now and vulnerable, and helpless in adoration²⁰² of him as the most naive woman. It feels like a child, she said to herself it feels like a child in me. And so it did, as if her womb, that had always been shut, had opened and filled with new life, almost a burden, yet lovely.

`If I had a child!' she thought to herself; `if I had him inside me as a child!'---and her limbs turned molten at the thought, and she realized the immense difference between having a child to oneself and having a child to a man whom one's bowels yearned²⁰³ towards. The former seemed in a sense ordinary: but to have a child to a man whom one adored in one's bowels and one's womb, it made her feel she was very different from her old self and as if she was sinking deep, deep to the centre of all womanhood and the sleep of creation.

It was not the passion that was new to her, it was the yearning²⁰⁴ adoration. She knew she had always feared it, for it left her helpless; she feared it still, lest if she adored him too much, then she would lose herself become effaced²⁰⁵, and she did not want to be effaced, a slave, like a savage woman. She must not become a slave. She feared her adoration, yet she would not at once fight against it. She knew she could fight it. She had a devil of self-will in her breast that could have fought the full soft heaving adoration of her womb and crushed it. She could even now do it, or she thought so, and she could then take up her passion with her own will.

Ah yes, to be passionate like a Bacchante, like a Bacchanal fleeing through the woods, to call on Iacchos, the bright phallos that had no independent personality behind it, but was pure god-servant to the woman! The man, the individual, let him not dare intrude²⁰⁶. He was but a temple-servant, the bearer and keeper of the bright phallos, her own.

So, in the flux²⁰⁷ of new awakening²⁰⁸, the old hard passion flamed in her for a time, and the man dwindled²⁰⁹ to a contemptible²¹⁰ object, the mere phallos-bearer, to be torn to pieces when his service was performed. She felt the force of the Bacchae in her limbs and her body, the woman gleaming and rapid, beating down the male; but while she felt this, her heart was heavy. She did not want it, it was known and barren, birthless; the adoration was her treasure.

It was so fathomless²¹¹, so soft, so deep and so unknown. No, no, she would give up her hard bright female power; she was weary of it, stiffened²¹² with it; she would sink in the new bath of life, in the depths of her womb and her bowels that sang the voiceless song of adoration. It was early yet to begin to fear the man.

`I walked over by Marehay, and I had tea with Mrs Flint,' she said to Clifford. `I wanted to see the baby. It's so adorable, with hair like red cobwebs. Such a dear! Mr Flint had gone to market, so she and I and the baby had tea together. Did you wonder where I was?'

`Well, I wondered, but I guessed you had dropped in somewhere to tea,' said Clifford jealously. With a sort of second sight he sensed something new in her, something to him quite incomprehensible, hut he ascribed it to the baby. He thought that all that ailed¹⁸⁶ Connie was that she did not have a baby, automatically bring one forth, so to speak.

`I saw you go across the park to the iron gate, my Lady,' said Mrs Bolton; `so I thought perhaps you'd called at the Rectory.'

`I nearly did, then I turned towards Marehay instead.'

The eyes of the two women met: Mrs Bolton's grey and bright and searching; Connie's blue and veiled and strangely beautiful. Mrs Bolton was almost sure she had a lover, yet how could it be, and who could it be? Where was there a man?

`Oh, it's so good for you, if you go out and see a bit of company sometimes,' said Mrs Bolton. `I was saying to Sir Clifford, it would do her ladyship a world of good if she'd go out among people more.'

`Yes, I'm glad I went, and such a quaint<sup>213</sup> dear cheeky baby, Clifford,' said Connie. `It's got hair just like spider-webs, and bright orange, and the oddest, cheekiest, pale-blue china eyes. Of course it's a girl, or it wouldn't be so bold, bolder than any little Sir Francis Drake.'

`You're right, my Lady---a regular little Flint. They were always a forward sandy-headed family,' said Mrs Bolton.

`Wouldn't you like to see it, Clifford? I've asked them to tea for you to see it.'

`Who?' he asked, looking at Connie in great uneasiness. `Mrs Flint and the baby, next Monday.'

`You can have them to tea up in your room,' he said.

`Why, don't you want to see the baby?' she cried.

`Oh, I'll see it, but I don't want to sit through a tea-time with them.'

`Oh,' cried Connie, looking at him with wide veiled eyes.

She did not really see him, he was somebody else.

`You can have a nice cosy²¹⁴ tea up in your room, my Lady, and Mrs Flint will be more comfortable than if Sir Clifford was there,' said Mrs Bolton.

She was sure Connie had a lover, and something in her soul exulted²¹⁵. But who was he? Who was he? Perhaps Mrs Flint would provide a clue.

Connie would not take her bath this evening. The sense of his flesh touching her, his very stickiness upon her, was dear to her, and in a sense holy.

Clifford was very uneasy. He would not let her go after dinner, and she had wanted so much to be alone. She looked at him, but was curiously submissive.

`Shall we play a game, or shall I read to you, or what shall it be?' he asked uneasily.

`You read to me,' said Connie.

`What shall I read---verse or prose? Or drama?'

`Read Racine,' she said.

It had been one of his stunts²¹⁶ in the past, to read Racine in the real French grand manner, but he was rusty²¹⁷ now, and a little self-conscious; he really preferred the loudspeaker. But Connie was sewing, sewing a little frock silk of primrose silk, cut out of one of her dresses, for Mrs Flint's baby. Between coming home and dinner she had cut it out, and she sat in the soft quiescent rapture of herself sewing, while the noise of the reading went on.

Inside herself she could feel the humming of passion, like the after-humming of deep bells.

Clifford said something to her about the Racine. She caught the sense after the words had gone.

`Yes! Yes!' she said, looking up at him. `It is splendid.'

Again he was frightened at the deep blue blaze of her eyes, and of her soft stillness, sitting there. She had never been so utterly soft and still. She fascinated him helplessly, as if some perfume about her intoxicated²¹⁸ him. So he went on helplessly with his reading, and the throaty sound of the French was like the wind in the chimneys to her. Of the Racine she heard not one syllable²¹⁹.

She was gone in her own soft rapture, like a forest soughing with the dim, glad moan of spring, moving into bud. She could feel in the same world with her the man, the nameless man, moving on beautiful feet, beautiful in the phallic mystery. And in herself in all her veins²²⁰, she felt him and his child. His child was in all her veins, like a twilight²²¹.

`For hands she hath none, nor eyes, nor feet, nor golden Treasure of hair...'

She was like a forest, like the dark interlacing of the oakwood, humming inaudibly with myriad²²² unfolding buds. Meanwhile the birds of desire were asleep in the vast interlaced intricacy of her body.

But Clifford's voice went on, clapping and gurgling with unusual sounds. How extraordinary it was! How extraordinary he was, bent there over the book, queer and rapacious²²³ and civilized, with broad shoulders and no real legs! What a strange creature, with the sharp, cold inflexible²²⁴ will of some bird, and no warmth, no warmth at all! One of those creatures of the afterwards, that have no soul, but an extra-alert will, cold will. She shuddered²²⁵ a little, afraid of him. But then, the soft warm flame of life was stronger than he, and the real things were hidden from him.

The reading finished. She was startled. She looked up, and was more startled still to see Clifford watching her with pale, uncanny eyes, like hate.

`Thank you so much! You do read Racine beautifully!' she said softly.

`Almost as beautifully as you listen to him,' he said cruelly. `What are you making?' he asked.

`I'm making a child's dress, for Mrs Flint's baby.'

He turned away. A child! A child! That was all her obsession²²⁶.

`After all,' he said in a declamatory voice, `one gets all one wants out of Racine. Emotions that are ordered and given shape are more important than disorderly emotions.

She watched him with wide, vague, veiled eyes. `Yes, I'm sure they are,' she said.

`The modern world has only vulgarized emotion by letting it loose. What we need is classic control.'

`Yes,' she said slowly, thinking of him listening with vacant face to the emotional idiocy of the radio. `People pretend to have emotions, and they really feel nothing. I suppose that is being romantic.'

`Exactly!' he said.

As a matter of fact, he was tired. This evening had tired him. He would rather have been with his technical books, or his pit-manager, or listening-in to the radio.

Mrs Bolton came in with two glasses of malted milk: for Clifford, to make him sleep, and for Connie, to fatten²²⁷ her again. It was a regular night-cap she had introduced.

Connie was glad to go, when she had drunk her glass, and thankful she needn't help Clifford to bed. She took his glass and put it on the tray, then took the tray, to leave it outside.

`Goodnight Clifford! Do sleep well! The Racine gets into one like a dream. Goodnight!'

She had drifted to the door. She was going without kissing him goodnight. He watched her with sharp, cold eyes. So! She did not even kiss him goodnight, after he had spent an evening reading to her. Such depths of callousness²²⁹ in her! Even if the kiss was but a formality, it was on such formalities that life depends. She was a Bolshevik, really. Her instincts were Bolshevistic! He gazed coldly and angrily at the door whence she had gone. Anger!

And again the dread of the night came on him. He was a network of nerves, anden he was not braced²³⁰ up to work, and so full of energy: or when he was not listening-in, and so utterly neuter: then he was haunted by anxiety and a sense of dangerous impending²³¹ void. He was afraid. And Connie could keep the fear off him, if she would. But it was obvious she wouldn't, she wouldn't. She was callous²²⁸, cold and callous to all that he did for her. He gave up his life for her, and she was callous to him. She only wanted her own way. `The lady loves her will.'

Now it was a baby she was obsessed²³² by. Just so that it should be her own, all her own, and not his!

Clifford was so healthy, considering. He looked so well and ruddy in the face, his shoulders were broad and strong, his chest deep, he had put on flesh. And yet, at the same time, he was afraid of death. A terrible hollow seemed to menace him somewhere, somehow, a void, and into this void his energy would collapse²³³. Energyless, he felt at times he was dead, really dead.

So his rather prominent pale eyes had a queer look, furtive, and yet a little cruel, so cold: and at the same time, almost impudent²³⁴. It was a very odd look, this look of impudence²³⁵: as if he were triumphing over life in spite of life. `Who knoweth the mysteries of the will---for it can triumph even against the angels---'

But his dread was the nights when he could not sleep. Then it was awful indeed, when annihilation pressed in on him on every side. Then it was ghastly, to exist without having any life: lifeless, in the night, to exist.

But now he could ring for Mrs Bolton. And she would always come. That was a great comfort. She would come in her dressing gown, with her hair in a plait down her back, curiously girlish and dim, though the brown plait was streaked²³⁶ with grey. And she would make him coffee or camomile tea, and she would play chess or piquet with him. She had a woman's queer faculty²³⁷ of playing even chess well enough, when she was three parts asleep, well enough to make her worth beating. So, in the silent intimacy²³⁸ of the night, they sat, or she sat and he lay on the bed, with the reading-lamp shedding its solitary²³⁹ light on them, she almost gone in sleep, he almost gone in a sort of fear, and they played, played together---then they had a cup of coffee and a biscuit together, hardly speaking, in the silence of night, but being a reassurance²⁴⁰ to one another.

And this night she was wondering who Lady Chatterley's lover was. And she was thinking of her own Ted², so long dead, yet for her never quite dead. And when she thought of him, the old, old grudge²⁴¹ against the world rose up, but especially against the masters, that they had killed him. They had not really killed him. Yet, to her, emotionally, they had. And somewhere deep in herself because of it, she was a nihilist, and really anarchic.

In her half-sleep, thoughts of her Ted and thoughts of Lady Chatterley's unknown lover commingled²⁴², and then she felt she shared with the other woman a great grudge against Sir Clifford and all he stood for. At the same time she was playing piquet with him, and they were gambling²⁴³ sixpences. And it was a source of satisfaction to be playing piquet with a baronet, and even losing sixpences to him.

When they played cards, they always gambled. It made him forget himself. And he usually won. Tonight too he was winning. So he would not go to sleep till the first dawn appeared. Luckily it began to appear at half past four or thereabouts.

Connie was in bed, and fast asleep all this time. But the keeper, too, could not rest. He had closed the coops and made his round of the wood, then gone home and eaten supper. But he did not go to bed. Instead he sat by the fire and thought.

He thought of his boyhood in Tevershall, and of his five or six years of married life. He thought of his wife, and always bitterly. She had seemed so brutal²⁴⁴. But he had not seen her now since 1915, in the spring when he joined up. Yet there she was, not three miles away, and more brutal than ever. He hoped never to see her again while he lived.

He thought of his life abroad, as a soldier. India, Egypt, then India again: the blind, thoughtless life with the horses: the colonel who had loved him and whom he had loved: the several years that he had been an officer, a lieutenant²⁴⁵ with a very fair chance of being a captain. Then the death of the colonel from pneumonia, and his own narrow escape from death: his damaged health: his deep restlessness: his leaving the army and coming back to England to be a working man again.

He was temporizing²⁴⁶ with life. He had thought he would be safe, at least for a time, in this wood. There was no shooting as yet: he had to rear the pheasants. He would have no guns to serve. He would be alone, and apart from life, which was all he wanted. He had to have some sort of a background. And this was his native place. There was even his mother, though she had never meant very much to him. And he could go on in life, existing from day to day, without connexion and without hope. For he did not know what to do with himself.

He did not know what to do with himself. Since he had been an officer for some years, and had mixed among the other officers and civil servants, with their wives and families, he had lost all ambition to `get on'. There was a toughness, a curious rubbernecked toughness and unlivingness about the middle and upper classes, as he had known them, which just left him feeling cold and different from them.

So, he had come back to his own class. To find there, what he had forgotten during his absence of years, a pettiness and a vulgarity of manner extremely distasteful. He admitted now at last, how important manner was. He admitted, also, how important it was even to pretend not to care about the halfpence and the small things of life. But among the common people there was no pretence²⁴⁷. A penny more or less on the bacon was worse than a change in the Gospel. He could not stand it.

And again, there was the wage-squabble. Having lived among the owning classes, he knew the utter futility²⁴⁸ of expecting any solution of the wage-squabble. There was no solution, short of death. The only thing was not to care, not to care about the wages.

Yet, if you were poor and wretched you had to care. Anyhow, it was becoming the only thing they did care about. The care about money was like a great cancer, eating away the individuals of all classes. He refused to care about money.

And what then? What did life offer apart from the care of money? Nothing.

Yet he could live alone, in the wan satisfaction of being alone, and raise pheasants to be shot ultimately by fat men after breakfast. It was futility, futility to the nth power.

But why care, why bother? And he had not cared nor bothered till now, when this woman had come into his life. He was nearly ten years older than she. And he was a thousand years older in experience, starting from the bottom. The connexion between them was growing closer. He could see the day when it would clinch²⁴⁹ up and they would have to make a life together. `For the bonds of love are ill to loose!'

And what then? What then? Must he start again, with nothing to start on? Must he entangle²⁵⁰ this woman? Must he have the horrible broil²⁵¹ with her lame⁷² husband? And also some sort of horrible broil with his own brutal wife, who hated him? Misery²⁵²! Lots of misery! And he was no longer young and merely buoyant. Neither was he the insouciant²⁵³ sort. Every bitterness and every ugliness would hurt him: and the woman!

But even if they got clear of Sir Clifford and of his own wife, even if they got clear, what were they going to do? What was he, himself going to do? What was he going to do with his life? For he must do something. He couldn't be a mere hanger-on, on her money and his own very small pension.

It was the insoluble. He could only think of going to America, to try a new air. He disbelieved in the dollar utterly. But perhaps, perhaps there was something else.

He could not rest nor even go to bed. After sitting in a stupor²⁵⁴ of bitter thoughts until midnight, he got suddenly from his chair and reached for his coat and gun.

`Come on, lass,' he said to the dog. `We're best outside.'

It was a starry night, but moonless. He went on a slow, scrupulous²⁵⁵, soft-stepping and stealthy round. The only thing he had to contend with was the colliers setting snares²⁵⁶ for rabbits, particularly the Stacks Gate colliers, on the Marehay side. But it was breeding season, and even colliers respected it a little. Nevertheless the stealthy beating of the round in search of poachers soothed²⁵⁷ his nerves and took his mind off his thoughts.

But when he had done his slow, cautious beating of his bounds---it was nearly a five-mile walk---he was tired. He went to the top of the knoll and looked out. There was no sound save the noise, the faint shuffling²⁵⁸ noise from Stacks Gate colliery, that never ceased working: and there were hardly any lights, save the brilliant electric rows at the works. The world lay darkly and fumily sleeping. It was half past two. But even in its sleep it was an uneasy, cruel world, stirring with the noise of a train or some great lorry on the road, and flashing with some rosy lightning flash from the furnaces. It was a world of iron and coal, the cruelty of iron and the smoke of coal, and the endless, endless greed that drove it all. Only greed, greed stirring in its sleep.

It was cold, and he was coughing. A fine cold draught²⁵⁹ blew over the knoll. He thought of the woman. Now he would have given all he had or ever might have to hold her warm in his arms, both of them wrapped in one blanket, and sleep. All hopes of eternity²⁶⁰ and all gain from the past he would have given to have her there, to be wrapped warm with him in one blanket, and sleep, only sleep. It seemed the sleep with the woman in his arms was the only necessity.

He went to the hut, and wrapped himself in the blanket and lay on the floor to sleep. But he could not, he was cold. And besides, he felt cruelly his own unfinished nature. He felt his own unfinished condition of aloneness cruelly. He wanted her, to touch her, to hold her fast against him in one moment of completeness and sleep.

He got up again and went out, towards the park gates this time: then slowly along the path towards the house. It was nearly four o'clock, still clear and cold, but no sign of dawn. He was used to the dark, he could see well.

Slowly, slowly the great house drew him, as a magnet. He wanted to be near her. It was not desire, not that. It was the cruel sense of unfinished aloneness, that needed a silent woman folded in his arms. Perhaps he could find her. Perhaps he could even call her out to him: or find some way in to her. For the need was imperious.

He slowly, silently climbed the incline to the hall. Then he came round the great trees at the top of the knoll, on to the drive, which made a grand sweep round a lozenge of grass in front of the entrance. He could already see the two magnificent beeches²⁶¹ which stood in this big level lozenge in front of the house, detaching themselves darkly in the dark air.

There was the house, low and long and obscure, with one light burning downstairs, in Sir Clifford's room. But which room she was in, the woman who held the other end of the frail thread which drew him so mercilessly, that he did not know.

He went a little nearer, gun in hand, and stood motionless on the drive, watching the house. Perhaps even now he could find her, come at her in some way. The house was not impregnable: he was as clever as burglars are. Why not come to her?

He stood motionless, waiting, while the dawn faintly and imperceptibly paled behind him. He saw the light in the house go out. But he did not see Mrs Bolton come to the window and draw back the old curtain of dark-blue silk, and stand herself in the dark room, looking out on the half-dark of the approaching day, looking for the longed-for dawn, waiting, waiting for Clifford to be really reassured²⁶² that it was daybreak. For when he was sure of daybreak, he would sleep almost at once.

She stood blind with sleep at the window, waiting. And as she stood, she started, and almost cried out. For there was a man out there on the drive, a black figure in the twilight. She woke up greyly, and watched, but without making a sound to disturb Sir Clifford.

The daylight began to rustle²⁶³ into the world, and the dark figure seemed to go smaller and more defined. She made out the gun and gaiters and baggy²⁶⁴ jacket---it would be Oliver Mellors, the keeper. `Yes, for there was the dog nosing around like a shadow, and waiting for him'!

And what did the man want? Did he want to rouse the house? What was he standing there for, transfixed, looking up at the house like a love-sick male dog outside the house where the bitch is?

Goodness! The knowledge went through Mrs Bolton like a shot. He was Lady Chatterley's lover! He! He!

To think of it! Why, she, Ivy²⁶⁵ Bolton, had once been a tiny bit in love with him herself. When he was a lad of sixteen and she a woman of twenty-six. It was when she was studying, and he had helped her a lot with the anatomy²⁶⁶ and things she had had to learn. He'd been a clever boy, had a scholarship for Sheffield Grammar School, and learned French and things: and then after all had become an overhead blacksmith shoeing horses, because he was fond of horses, he said: but really because he was frightened to go out and face the world, only he'd never admit it.

But he'd been a nice lad, a nice lad, had helped her a lot, so clever at making things clear to you. He was quite as clever as Sir Clifford: and always one for the women. More with women than men, they said.

Till he'd gone and married that Bertha Coutts, as if to spite himself. Some people do marry to spite themselves, because they're disappointed of something. And no wonder it had been a failure.---For years he was gone, all the time of the war: and a lieutenant and all: quite the gentleman, really quite the gentleman!---Then to come back to Tevershall and go as a game-keeper! Really, some people can't take their chances when they've got them! And talking broad Derbyshire again like the worst, when she, Ivy Bolton, knew he spoke like any gentleman, really.

Well, well! So her ladyship had fallen for him! Well her ladyship wasn't the first: there was something about him. But fancy! A Tevershall lad born and bred, and she her ladyship in Wragby Hall! My word, that was a slap back at the high-and-mighty Chatterleys!

But he, the keeper, as the day grew, had realized: it's no good! It's no good trying to get rid of your own aloneness. You've got to stick to it all your life. Only at times, at times, the gap will be filled in. At times! But you have to wait for the times. Accept your own aloneness and stick to it, all your life. And then accept the times when the gap is filled in, when they come. But they've got to come. You can't force them.

With a sudden snap the bleeding desire that had drawn¹⁰² him after her broke. He had broken it, because it must be so. There must be a coming together on both sides. And if she wasn't coming to him, he wouldn't track her down. He mustn't. He must go away, till she came.

He turned slowly, ponderingly, accepting again the isolation²⁶⁷. He knew it was better so. She must come to him: it was no use his trailing after her. No use!

Mrs Bolton saw him disappear, saw his dog run after him.

`Well, well!' she said. `He's the one man I never thought of; and the one man I might have thought of. He was nice to me when he was a lad, after I lost Ted. Well, well! Whatever would he say if he knew!'

And she glanced triumphantly²⁶⁸ at the already sleeping Clifford, as she stepped softly from the room.

康妮现在十分孤独，到勒格贝不的人少了，克利福不再需要这些人。他是奇怪的，甚至一般知友他也索性不要了，他宁愿有一架无线电收音机，所以他发了不少钱安设了一架，花了不少的气力绥把机器弄好了。虽然米德兰的气候不好，但是有时他还可以听着玛德里和法兰克福的。

他可以连续几个钟头坐在那儿听着那扬声器的吼叫。这把康妮的头弄错了。但是他却迷幻地坐在那儿，脸上的表情是空洞的，好象一个失了灵魂扔人，听着，或名胜是呼着那无法说出的东西。

他真正在听？抑或那只是当他心底里有事时所用的催眠剂？康妮可不知道，她逃避到自己房屋或树林里去。有时一种恐怖占据着她，一种对于那蔓延了整个文明人类的初期狂病所生的恐怖。

但是现在克利福正向着这加一个实业活动的不可思仪的世界猛进了。他差不多变成了一只动物，有着一个实用的怪壳为表，一个柔软的闪髓为里，变成了一只近代实业与财政界的奇异的虾蟹，甲壳虫类的无脊动物，有着如机器似的钢甲和软闪的内部，康妮自己都觉得全摸不着头脑了。

她还是不能自由，因为克利福总是需要他。他怪不安宁，好象生怕被她遗弃了的样子。他里面的软浆需要她，这是一个孩子的需要，差不多可以说是一个白痴的需要。查太莱男爵夫人。他的妻子，定要留在他的身边，在勒格贝。否则他便要象白痴似的迷失在一个荒野上。

康妮在一种恐柿的情态中，明白了这种惊人的依赖生活。她听着克利福对他手下的经理们、董事们和青年刻学家们说话，他的聪明锐利的眼光，他的权威，他的对于这些所谓实干家们的奇异的物质的权威，使他惊骇了。他自己也成为一个实于家了，而且是这么一个异乎寻常的、锐利而有权威的实干家，一个太上的主子。康妮觉得在克利福的生命的转变关头，这些都是波太太的影响所致的。

但是这个锐利的实干家，一旦回到了他的个人感情生活时，他又几乎成为一个白痴了，他把康妮象神一般地敬爱，她是他的妻，一个更高的生物，他以、个崇拜偶象的心，奇异时卑贱地崇拜她，好象一个野蛮人，因为深怕甚至嫉恨神的权威而去崇拜神的偶像，一个可怖的偶像。她唯一要求的事，便是要康妮立誓不要离开他，立誓不要遗弃他。

“克利福，”她对他说一但这是她得到了那小屋门的钥匙以后了一“你是不是真的要我哪一天生个孩子？”

他的灰色的有点突出的眼睛，向她望着，表示着几分不安。

“我是无所谓的，只要我们间不生什么变化。”他说。

“变化什么？”她问道。

“不使你我间发生变化，不使我们相互的爱情生变化，要是有什么变化的话，我是决然反对。可是，哪一天我自己也许可以有个孩子的！”

她愕然地望着他。

“我的意思是说，这些日子里，我那个也许可以恢复过来的。”

她者是愕然地望着他，他觉得不安起来。

“那么，要是我有个孩子，你是不愿意的了？”她说。

“我告诉你，”他象是一只人了穷巷的狗，赶快答道，“我十分愿意的，但要那不影响到你财我的爱情，否则我是绝对反对的。”

康妮只好静默无言，惊惧地轻蔑地冷静着。这种谈话是白痴的呓语，她再也不知道他在说着什么了。

“呵！那不会影响到我对你的感情的。”她带点嘲讽的意味说。

“好！”他说，“关键就在这儿，如果那样的话，我是毫不介意的。我想，有个孩子在家里跑来跑去，而且知道他的伟大前程已被确定，这太可爱了。我的努力得有个目的，我得知道那是你生的小孩是不是？亲爱的，我一定也要觉得那是我生的一样，因为，这种事情，全是为了你。你知道的，是不是？亲爱的，我呢，我是毫无重要的，我是一个零，在生命的事件上，唯有你才是重要的。你知道的，是不是？我是说，要是没有你，我是绝对地一个零，我是为你和你的前程活着的。我自己是毫无重要的。”

康妮的着他，心里的反感和厌恶越深下去。他所说的都是些败坏人类生存的可怖的半真理。一个有理智健全的男子，怎么能对一个妇人说这种话？不过男子们的理智是不健全的。一个稍为高尚的男子，怎么能把可饰的生命责任诿在一个女人身上，而让她孤零零地在空虚之中？

但是，半点钟后，康妮听着克利福对波太太用兴奋起劲的声音谈话，露着他自己对地这个妇人的无热情的热情。仿佛她是他的半情妇、半乳母似的。太太小心地替他穿晚服，因为家里来了些重要的企业界的客人。

在这时期，康妮有时真觉得她侠要死了。她觉得自已是给妖魔的的谎言，给可怖的白痴的残暴压得要死了，克利福在企业上的奇异的能干使她惧怕，他自称的对他的崇拜使她慷怖，他们之间已经什么都没有了。她现在再也不模独他，而他也再不摸独她了，他甚至再也不友好地捏着她的手了，不，因为他们已完全分离了，他只用着崇拜偶像者的宣言去挖苦她，那是失尽了势能的人的残暴，她觉得她定要发狂了，或要死了。’

她尽可能地常常逃到树林里去，一天下午，当她坐在约翰井旁边，思索着，望着泉水冷清地沸涌的时候，守猎人突然出现在她的旁边。

“我替你另做了一把钥匙，夫人！”他一边说，一边行礼把钥匙交给了她。

“呀，太感谢你了！”她慌忙地说。

“小屋里是不太整洁的。”他说，“请你不要怪我。我只能尽我可能地收拾了一下。”

“但是我是不要麻烦的，在一个星期的光景，我便要把母鸡安置起来，但是这些母鸡不会怕你的，我早晚都得看管他们，但是我会尽我的能力少搅扰你的。”

“但是你并不搅扰我呢。”她坚持着说，“如果是我搅扰你的话，我宁可不到那小屋里去的。”

他用他的灵活的蓝眼睛望着她。他好象很慈蔼而又冷淡。虽然他的样子看起来瘦弱有病，但是他的肉体与精神是健全的，他有点咳嗽起来。

“你咳嗽吗？”她说。

“这没什么……受了点凉罢了，前些时患了肺炎，给我留下了这咳嗽，但是没有什么关系。”

他疏远地站着，不愿接近她。

早晨或午后，她经常地到小屋里去，但是他总不在那里，无疑地他是故意躲避她。他要保持着他的孤独与自由。

他把小屋收拾得很整洁，把小桌子和小椅子摆在火炉旁边，放了一堆起火的柴和小木头，把工具和捕兽机推到很无宾角落里去，好象为了要消灭他自己的形迹似的，屋外边，在那靠近树林的空地上，他用树枝和稻草搭了个矮小的棚，是给小雄鸡避风雨的，在这棚下有五只木笼子。有一天，当她到那里时，她看见笼子里有了两只棕色的母鸡，凶悍地警备着，正在孵着雉鸡的蛋，很骄傲地箍松着毛羽，在它们的性的热血里，深深地沉味着。康妮看了，差不多心都碎了．她觉得自己是这样的失落无依，毫无用处，全不象个女性，只有一个恐怖的可怜虫罢了。

不久，五个笼子都有了母鸡，三只是棕色的，一只是灰色的，还有一只是黑色的，五只母鸡都同样是在它们母性的重大而温柔的抚养职务中，在母性的天性中，筵松着毛羽，紧伏在卵上。当康妮在它们面前蹲伏下去时，它们的光耀的眼睛守视着她，它们忿怒地惊惶地发着尖锐的咯咯声，但是这种忿怒大概是每当被人迫近时的女性的忿怒。

康妮在小屋里找到了些谷粒。她用手拿着去饲它们，它们并不吃，只有一只母鸡在她手上猛啄了一下，把康妮吃了一惊，但是她却焦苦着想把些什么东西给它们吃，给这些不思饮食的孵卵的母鸡，她拿了一罐子水给它们，其中—只喝了一口，她喜欢极了。

现在，她每天都来看这些母鸡。它们是世界上唯一可以使她的心温暖起来的东西了。克利福的主张使她全身发冷，波太太的声音和那些到家里来的企业界的人们的声音，使她发冷。蔑克里斯偶尔地写给她的信，也使她觉得同样的冷颤。她觉得如果没有什么新的事情来到，她定要死了。

虽然，这是春天了，吊钟花在树林里开花了，擦子树正在发芽，好象一些青色的雨滴似的。多么可怕哟，已是春天了，一切都是这样的冷，这样的无情，只有那些母鸡，这样奇异地筵松着毛羽伏在卵上，是在他们母性的孵化的热力中温暖着！康妮不住地觉得自己就要晕顾了。

有一天，那是阳光华丽的可爱的一天，莲馨花在擦树下一簇一簇地开着，小径上缀满着许多紫罗兰花，她在午后来到鸡笼边。在一个鸡笼前面，一只很小很小的小鸡在傲然自得地瞒跚着，母鸡在惊骇地叫喊。这只纤小的小鸡是棕灰色的，带了些黑点，在这时候，这整个大地上最有生气的东西，就是这只小对外开放了。康妮蹲了下去，在一种出神人化的状态中注视着它。这是生命！这是生命！这是纯洁的，闪光的，无恐惧的新生命！这样的纤小，而这样的毫无畏惧！甚至它听着了母鸡的惊叫而蹒跚地走进笼子里去藏在母鸡的毛羽下面，它也不是真正惧怕什么，它只当作那是一种游戏，一种生活的游戏，瞧！一会儿过后，一只小小的尖头儿，从母鸡的金棕色的毛羽里铭丁出来，探视着这花花的大干世界。

康妮给这一幅美丽的画图迷住了。而同时，她的被遗弃的妇人的失望的感觉浓厚到他一向所没有过的程度，那使她忍受不了。

她现在只有一个欲望，便是到林中这块空地上去，其他的一切都不过是苦痛的梦。但是为了尽她的主妇的职务，她有时是整天留在家里的。那时，她觉得自己也仿佛空虚上去，成为空虚而疯狂了。

有一天黄昏的时候，用过茶点以后，她不管家里有客没有，她便逃了出来，天已晚了，她飞跑着穿过了花园，好象她怕被人叫回去似的，当她进树林里去时，攻瑰色的太阳，正向西方沉没，但是她在花丛中赶紧走着，大地上的光明还可以继续多时的。

她脸色徘红，神情恍馏地走到林中的空地上。那守猎的人，只穿着衬衣，正在关闭鸡笼的门，这样小鸡才可以安全度夜，但是还有三只褐色的活泼的小鸡，在那稻草棚下乱窜着，而不听从的焦急的呼唤

“我忍不住要赶来看看这些小鸡！”她一边气喘着说，一边羞赧地望了望了那守猎人，好象不太留意他似的，添了些新生的么？”

“到现在已经有三十六只了。”她说，“还不坏？”

他也一样感觉着一种奇异的快乐，去等候着这些小生命的出世。

康妮蹲在最后的一个笼子面前，那三只小鸡已经进去了。但是她们的毫无忌畏挑战头儿，从那黄色毛羽中钻了出来，一会儿又藏了进去，只有一只小头儿，还在那广大的母体的上向外窥视着。

“我真喜欢摸摸它们，”她说着，把她的手指胆怯的从笼格里伸了进去，但是那只母鸡凶悍地把她的手啄丁一下，康妮吓得向后惊退。

“你看它怎么啄我！它恨我呢！”她用一种惊异的声音说，“但是我并不伤害它们呀！”站在她旁边的他，笑了起来，然后在她旁边蹲了下去，两膝开着，自信地把手慢慢地伸进笼里，老母鸡虽然也啄了他一下，但是没有那样凶悍。缓缓地，轻轻地，他用他那稳当而温和的手指，在老母鸡和毛羽中探索着，然后把一只微弱地嗽卿的小鸡握在手中，拿了出来。

“喏！”他说着，伸手把小鸡交给她，她把那小东西接在手里，它用那两条小得象火柴杆似的腿儿站着，它的微小的、飘摇不定的生命颤战着，从它那轻巧的两脚传到康妮的手上。但是它勇敢地抬起它的清秀美丽的小头儿，向四周观望着，嗽的叫了一声。

“多么可爱！多么无忌惮”她温柔地说。”

那守猎人，蹲在她的旁边，也在欣赏着她手里的那只无畏惧的小鸡、忽然地，他看见一滴眼泪落在她腕上。

他站了起来，走到另一个笼前去，因为他突然觉得往昔的火焰正在他的腰边发射着，飞腾着，这火焰是他一向以为永久地熄灭了的。他和这火焰狰扎着，他背着康妮翻转身去，但是这火焰蔓延着，，向下蔓延着，把他的两膝包围了。

他重新回转身去望着她。她正跪在地上，盲目地，慢慢地伸着两手，让那小鸡回到母鸡那里去，她的神情是这样的缄默这样的颠沛，他的脏腑里，不禁燃烧着对她哀怜的情绪。

他自己也不知道在做着什么，他迅速地向她走过去，在她旁边重新蹲下去，他她手里接过了小鸡。因为她正在害怕那母．鸡，正要把它放回笼里去，在他的两腰背后，火焰骤然激发起来，比以前更为；虽烈了。他惶恐地望着她，她的脸孔躲了过去，在她孤独凄凉的无限苦楚中盲目地哭泣着。他的心突然熔化了，象一点火花，他的手伸了出来，把手指放在她的膝上。

“不要哭。”他温柔地说。

她听了，把两手掩着脸，觉得她的心真是碎了，一切都无关重要了。

他把手放在她的肩上，温柔地，轻轻地，他的手沿着她的背后滑了下去，不能自主地用着一种盲目的抚慰的动作，直到了她的弯曲着腰际。在那儿，温柔地，温柔地，用着一种盲目的本能的抚慰，他爱抚着她的腰窝。

她找到了她的小手绢，盲目地揩着眼泪。

“到小屋里去罢。”他用镇静的声音说。

说了，他温柔地用手扶着他的上臀，使她站了起来，慢慢地带她向小屋走去，直至她进了里面。然后他把桌椅推在一边，从一只用具箱里取出了一张褐色的军毡，慢慢地铺在地上。她呆本地站着，向他脸上望阂。

他的脸孔是苍白，没有表情的，好象一个屈服于命运之前的人的脸孔似的。

“躺在这儿罢。”他温柔地说，然后把门关上了。这一来，小屋里黑暗了，完全黑暗了。

奇异地，驯服地，在毡子上躺了下去，然后她觉着一只温柔的，不定的无限贪婪的手，触摸着她的身体，探索着她的脸，那只手温柔地，温柔地爱抚着她的脸，无限的温慰，无限的镇静，最后，她的颊上来了温柔的吻触。

在一种沉睡的状态中，一种梦幻的状态中，她静默地躺着。然后，她颤战起来，她觉着在她的衣裳中，那只手在温柔地，却又笨拙地摸索着，但是这只手，却知道怎样在它所欲的地方，把她的衣裳解开了。他慢慢地，小心地，把那薄薄的绸裤向下拉脱。直脱到她的脚上，然后在一种极乐的颤战中，他摸触着她温暖而柔软的肉体，在她的肚脐上吻了一会。他便马上向她进去，全然进到她柔软而安静的肉体里的和平之域去。

在一种沉睡的状态中，老是在一种沉睡的状态中，她静默地躺着。所有的动作，所有的性兴奋，都是他的，她再也无能为力了，甚至他的两臂楼着她那么紧，甚至他身体的激烈的动作，以及他的精液在她里面的播射，这一切都在一种沉睡的状态中过去，直至他完毕后，在他的胸膛上轻轻地喘息着时，她才开始醒转过来。

这时她惊愕了，朦胧地问着自己，为什么？为什么需要这个？为什么这个竟把她的重负减轻而给她以和平的感觉？这是真的么？这是真的么？

她的近代妇女的烦恼的心还是不能安息下来，这是真的么？她知道，假如她自己献身与这个人，那么这便是真的；但是假如她固守着自己时，这便是不真了。她老了，她觉得自己是一百万岁似的老了。总之，她再也不能支持自己的重量了。她是整个放在那里，任人拿去，任人拿去。

那人在神秘的静息中躺着。他感觉着什么？他想着什么？她不知道，她觉得他是一个陌生人，她是不认识他的。她只好等待，因为她不敢扰乱他的神秘的静息。他躺在那儿，他的两臂环抱着她，他的身体在上面，他的潮湿的身体触着她，这样的近．完全一个陌生人，却又吵令人感觉不安，他的静息的本身是令人宁泰的。

这一点，当他最后激醒转来而从她的身上抽退时，她是觉得的，那好象他把她遗弃了似的，他在黑暗中，把她的衣裳托了下来，盖在她的膝上。他站了一会，显然地在整理着他自己的衣服，然后他安静地把门打开了，走了出去。

她看见在那橡树的梢头，落日残辉的上面，悬着一轮明亮的小小月亮，她赶快站了起来，把衣裳整理好，然后她向那小屋的门边走去。

树林下面是昏暗了，差不多黑了。可是树林的上面，天还带着水晶似的幽明，不过没有那种睛朗的白光了。那从林下的昏暗中向好了过来，他的脸孔昂举着，象是一个灰点。

“我们走罢！”他说。

“到哪儿去？”

“我陪你到园门口去。”

他有他的料理事情的状态，他把小屋的门锁上了，然后跟着她出去。

“你不懊悔吗？”当他在她旁边走着时问她道。

“不！不！你呢？”她说。

“为那事！不！”他说，过了一会，他加了一句：“不过还有别的事情罢了。”

“什么别的事情？”她说。

“克利福男爵，其他的人，和一切的纠纷。”

“什么纠纷？”她沮丧地问道。

“事情常常是这样的，于你于我都是一样，总有些什么纠纷的。”他在昏暗中，稳定地走着。

“你懊悔么？”她说。

“在某一方面是有点儿的！”他一边回答，一边仰望着天空。“我自以为和这些事情是断绝了，现在我却又开始起来了”

“开始什么？”

“生活，”

“生活！”她应声说道。感觉着一种奇怪的兴奋。

“那是生活。”他说，“没有法子避免的。如果你避免它。你便等于死。所以我只好重新开始，我只好这样。”

她却不把事情看成这样。但是……

“那是爱情。”她欢快地说。

“无论那是什么，反正一样。”他回答道。

他们在静默中，在渐见昏黑下去的林中前进着，直至他们将到园门口的时候。

“但是你不憎恨我罢？”她有点不安地说。

“不，不。他答道。突然地，他用着那种古代的结合人类的热情，把她紧紧地抱在杯里。“不，我觉得那个太好了，太好了，你也觉得吗？”

“是的，我也觉得。”她有点不诚实地答道。因为她实在并没有觉得怎样。

他温柔地，温柔地，热吻着她。

“假如世界上没有这许多人，那就好了。”他悲伤地说。

她笑着，他们到了园门口了，他替她把门打开。

“我不再送了。”他说。

“不！”她把手伸了出去和他握别，但是他却用双手接着；

“你要我再来么？”她热切地问道。

“是的！是的！”

她离开了他，向园中过去，他在后边望着向灰暗的园中进去，心里差不多感着痛苦地望着她定了。

他原本是要守着他的孤独的，现在他使他再想起人间的关系来了。好恰牺性了自由，一个孤独者的示的自由。

他向黑暗的林中回去，一切都静寂着，月亮也沉了，但是他听得见夜之声响，他听得见史德门的机器和大路上来往的车辆。他慢慢地攀登那赤裸的山坡。在山上，他可以看见整个乡村，史德门的一排一排的火光，达娃斯哈煤小灯光和达娃斯哈村里的黄光。昏暗的乡村里，随处都是光，远过地，他可以看见，高炉在发着轻淡的粉红色，因为夜色清明，白热的金属发着玫瑰的颜色，史德门的电灯光，又尖锐又刺眼！多么令人难解的含着恶意的光辉！这一切米德兰工业区的夜的不安和永久的恐怖。他听得见史德门的车盘响着，载着七点钟的工人到煤坑里去，矿场是分三班轮流工作的。

他向幽暗的僻静的树林里下去。但是他知道树林的僻静是欺人的了。工业的嘈声把寂静破坏了。那尖锐的灯光，虽不能见，也把寂静嘲弄着。再也没有谁可以孤独，再也没有僻静的地方，世界再也不容有隐遁者了，现在，他已经得到了这个妇人，并且加了自己一个新的痛苦与罪罚的枷锁了，因为他从经验得知这是怎么一回事的。

这并不是妇人的过失，甚至不是爱情过失，也不是性欲的过失，过失是从那边来的，从那邪恶的电灯光和恶魔似的机器之嚣声里来的，那边，那贪婪的机械化验的贪婪世界，闪着灯光，吐炽热的金属，激着熙来攘往的喧声，那儿便是罪恶所在的地方，准备着把不能同流台污的东西一概毁灭，不那世界全果把这树林毁灭了，吊钟花将不再开花了，一切可以受作用的东西，定要在铁的跟随瞒之下消灭。

他用无限的温情想着那妇人，可怜的无依无靠的人，她不知道也自己是这样可爱。呵！太可爱了！她所接触的庸欲之流太不配她了！可怜的人儿，她也有点象野玉簪似的易伤地嫩弱，她并不象近代女子似的，全是树胶品和白金。他们要压刀的！那是毫无疑义了，他们要压倒她，如同他们压倒一切自然的温柔的生活一样，温柔！她有点什么温柔的东西，象滋长着的温柔的玉簪花似的温柔的东西，这东西是今日化学晶的妇女们所没有的了，但是他定要诚恳地把她保护一些时日，只一些时日，直至无情的铁世界和机械化的贪婪世界把她和他自己同时压倒。

他带着他的狗和枪归，到了他阴暗的村舍里，把灯点了，把火炉里的火生了，然后吃晚餐：一些面包和奶酷一些小葱头和酒。他在他所深爱的静默中孤独着。他的房子是清洁的。整齐的，但是有些冷清，可炉火是光耀的，炉床是白，白漆布铺着椅子上面悬着的一盏煤油灯也是光亮亮的，他想拿一本关于印度的书来看，但是今晚他却不能看书了，他穿一件衬，坐在火旁边，并不吸烟，但是有一杯啤酒在手旁边，他思念着康妮。

实在说来，他是懊悔发生了那种事情的，那懊悔也许大部分是为了她的缘故，他感觉到一个预兆，那并不是过失或罪恶的预兆，这一点他的意识是不会扰乱的，他知道一个人的意识所最怕惧的，是社会，或是自己，他并不惧怕自己。但是他很显然地惧怕社会，他本能地知道这社会是恶毒的、半疯狂的野兽。

那妇人！要是她能够在城和他在一起，而除了他俩以外，世界绝无第三者了，那么多情欲重新涌了起来，他的阴茎象一只活的小鸟似地兴奋着，同时他又觉得被一种恐惧压制着，他恐惧着自己和她要被外面那些电灯光里含恶意地闪耀着的“东西”所吞食，她，这可怜的年轻的人儿，在他看来，她只是一个年轻的女性的生物罢了，但是这却是一个你曾深进过，并且他还在欲望着进去的一个年轻的生物。

在欲望中，他奇异地打着哈尔，伸着懒腰，因为他远离男女们孤独地生活着已经四年了，他站了起来，把灯火弄小了，拿了外衣和枪，带着狗儿出去。那是一个繁星之夜，欲望，以及对于外界的恶意的“东西”的恐惧情绪推着他，他缓缓地，幽幽地，在树林中巡逻，他爱黑暗，他把自己投在黑暗的怀里，夜色正适合于他的膨胀的欲望。这欲望，无论如何象是一种财富，不巡地兴奋着的他的阴茎，火焚着他的两腰！呵！要是可以和一些人联合起来，去和那外界的、闪光的、电的“东西”抗战，去把生命的温柔，女人的温柔，和自然的欲望的财富保存起来，那就好了！但是所有的人都是在那边，迷醉着那些“东西”，胜利着，或惨败于那机械化的念婪或念婪的机械主义铁蹄之下。

康妮，在她这方面，差不多并不思索什么，她赶快穿过了花园回家去，她还来得及吃晚饭的。

可是，当她到了门口时，门是关着了，这一来她得去按铃了，这却使她烦恼起来，来开门的是波尔敦太太。

“呀！你回来了，夫人！我正开始奇怪着你是不是迷失了呢！”她有点笑谈地说，“但是克利福男爵却没有问起你；他同林先生谈着话，我看他是在这儿晚餐吧，是不是，夫人？”

“大概是罢。”康妮说。

“要不是迟一刻钟开饭？这一来你全阅以从容地换拾裳了。”一“也许那样好些。”

林先生是矿场的总经理，是一个上了年纪的北方人，他有点软弱不振，这是克利福不满意他的地方，他不能迎合战后的新环境，和那些战后的矿工们一样，只守着他们的老成持重的成规。但是康妮却喜欢林来先生，虽然她讨厌他的太太的诌媚样子，心里高兴着他的太太并没有来。

林来留在那儿吃饭，康妮显得是个男子们所极喜欢的主妇，她是这样的谦逊，而又这样的殷勤体贴，他的很大的蓝眼睛和她的幽娴的神态，是尽把她的心事掩藏起来的。这把戏康妮做得多了，已经差不多成了她的第二天性了，奇怪的就是当她做着这把戏时，虽然这是她的第二天性，而她却把一切都从心里忘掉。

她忍耐着等待着，直至她能上楼去，去思索自己的事情。她老是等着，等待好象是她拿手的事情了。

但是，当她回到房里示时，她依旧觉得模糊而昏乱，不知道打城想起。他究竟是怎样的一种人呢？他真喜欢她么？她不太相信，不过他是和蔼的。有着一种什么温暖的、天真的、和蔼的东西，又奇特而骤然，这东西差不多使她的子宫不得不为他展开，但是她觉得他也许对于任何妇女都是这么和蔼的，虽然是这样，他的和蔼却是奇异地使人觉得温慰的。他是一个热情的人，健全而热情的人。但是他也许并不是很专一的，他对她这样，而对任何妇女也许一样，那真是泛然不专的态度，她之于他，实在只是一个女性罢了。

但是，也许这样还要好些，毕竟他所爱她的地方就是她的女性，这是从来没有男人做过的，男人们只爱她的外表，而不爱她的女性。他们残酷地轻蔑这女性，或茫然地不知有这女性。男人们对于康妮小姐或查太莱男爵夫人都是十分主蔼的，但是对于她的性却不然了。他呢，他是全不管什么康妮小姐或查太莱男爵夫人的，他只温柔地爱抚着她的两腰或她的乳房。

第二天，她到树林里去，那是一个灰色的静的午后，沉绿的水银菜，在擦子树林下蔓生着，所有的树都在静默中努力着发芽了。她今天几乎可以感觉着她自己的身体里面，潮涌着那些大树的精液，向上涌着，直至树芽顶上，最后发为橡树的发光的小时儿，红得象血一样。那象是涨着的潮水，向天上奔腾。

她，来到林中的空旷地，但是他并不在那儿，她原来也不地抱着一半的心到这儿一会他的，小雄鸡儿轻捷得象昆虫似的，远在笼外奔窜着，黄母鸡在栏干里挂虎地咯咯着，康妮坐了下来，一边望着它们，一边等待着，她只是等待着，她差不多看不见什么小鸡，她等待着。

时间梦一般的悠悠地过去，而他却不来，她只好怀着一半希望等着他，他是从不在下午到这儿来的，茶点的时间到了，她得回家去，但是她得很勉强地迫着自己，然后才站了起来走开。

当她回家时，霏霏的细雨开始下起来。

“又下雨了么？”克利福看见了她摇着帽子上的雨滴，这样说：“只一点儿细雨。”

她默默地她静默地斟着茶，出神地深思着她的心事，她今天实在想会会那守猎人，看看那究竟是不是真的，那究间是不是真的。

“回头你要不要我给你念念书？”克利福问道。

她望着他，难道他猜疑什么了？

“春天使我觉得点有头晕……我想去休息一会儿。”她说。

“随你便罢，你真觉得不舒服吗？”

“是的，有点儿疲倦……这是春天到了的缘故，你要不要波太太来和你玩玩脾？”

“不！我听听收音机好了。”

她听见了他的声音里，含着一种满足的异的音调，她到楼上寝室里去，在那儿，她听见放音矾在呼号着一种矫揉造作的娇媚蠢笨的声音，这象是一种布廛的嚣喧，象是一个人摹舍己为人一个老贩的令人呕吐的声音，她穿上了她的紫色的旧雨衣，从一个旁门闪了出去。

蒙蒙的细雨好象是遮盖着世界的帐幕，神秘，寂静而不冷。当她急促地穿过花园时，她觉得热起来了，她得把她的轻雨衣解开了。

在细雨中，树林是静息而比几的，半开着的叶芽，半开着花，和孵估万千的卵子，充满着神秘，在这一切朦胧暗昧中，赤条条的幽暗的树木，发着冷光，好象反怕衣裳解除了似的，地上一切青苍的东西，好象在青苍地低哦着。

在那空旷处，依然一个人也没有，小雄鸡差不多都藏到母鸡的毛以下去了，只有一两中较冒失的，还在那草棚下的干地上啄食着。它们都是犹豫不安的。

好！他还没有来，他是故意不来的，也许，什么事情不好了罢，或者她最好是到村舍里去看看。

但是她是生成要等待的。她用她的钥匙，把小屋门打开丁，一切都很整齐，谷粒盛在一只箱里，几张毡子摺垒在架上，稻草整洁地堆在一个角落里，这是新添的一堆稻草，一盏风灯在钉子上悬着，在她躺过的地上，桌子和椅子也都放回原处了。

她走开着门口，坐在一张小凳子上，一切都非常静寂！细，雨轻柔地被风史着，但是风并没有声音，一切都没有声息。树木站立着，象是些有权威的生物，朦胧，幽明，静温而有生气，一切都多么地有生气！

夜色又近了，她得回去。他是在躲避着她。

但是突然地，他大踏步地来到了空旷处，他穿着车夫似的油布的短外衣，湿得发亮，他向小屋迅疾地望了一眼，微微地行了个礼然后转身走到鸡笼边去，他静静地蹲了下去，小心地注视着一切，然后小心地把笼门关好了。

最后，他慢慢地向她走了过来，她还是坐在小凳上。他在门廓下站在她的面前。

“你来了。”他用着土话的腔调说。

“是的！”她望着他说，“你来晚了。”

“是的！”他一边回答，一边向林中望着。

她缓缓地站了起来，把小凳子拉在旁边

“你要进来吗？”她问道。

他向她尖锐地望着。

“要是你天天晚上到这儿来，人们不会说什么吗？”他说。

“为什么？”她不明白地望着他，“我说过我要来的，没有人会晓得的。”

“但是他们不久终要晓得的，”他答道，“那时怎么办好？”

她不知道怎样回答的好。

“为什么他们要晓得呢？”她说。

“人们总会知道的。”他凄然地说。

她的嘴唇有点颤战起来，她油油地说；

“那我可没有法子。”

“不。”他说，“你不来是可以的，要是你愿意。”他低声地添了一句。

“但是我不愿意不来。”她用怨声说。

他无言了，回转眼睛向树林里望着；

“但是假如人晓得了，你将怎样？”他终于问道，“想想看！你要觉得多么屈辱，一个你的丈夫的仆人！”

她望着他的侧着的脸。

“你是不是，”她支吾地说，“你是不是不要我了？”

“想想看！”他说，“要是人们知道了，你将怎样！要是克利福男爵和……大家都……”

“那么，我可以走。”

“走到那儿去呢？”

“无论那儿！我有我自己的钱，我的母亲绘了我两万镑保管着，我知道这笔钱克利福是不能动的，我可以走。”

“但是假如你不想走呢？”

“哪里话！我将来怎样，我才不管呢。”

“呀，你这样想吗？但是你是要考虑的，你不得不考虑，人人都是这样的，你要记着你是查太莱男爵夫人，而我是个守猎人，假如我是一位贵绅的那么事情自然又不同了，是的，你不能不顾虑的。”

“我不，我的男爵夫人又怎么样！我实在恨这个名称，人们笨次这样叫我的时候，我总觉得他们嘲弄我。他们实在是在嘲弄我！甚至你这样叫我的时候，你也在嘲弄我的。”

“我！”

这是第一次他向她直望着，向她的眼里直望着。

“我并不嘲弄你。”他说。

当他这样望着她时，她看见他的眼睛阴郁起来，完全阴郁起来，两只瞳孔张大着。

“你不顾一切地冒险么？”他用着一种沉哑的声音说，“你应该考虑考虑的，不要等以太迟了”

他的声音里，含着一种奇民蝗警告的恳求。

“但是我没有什么可以失掉的东西。”她烦恼地说，“假如你知道实在的情形是怎样，你便要明自我是很喜欢失旧它的，但是你是不是为你自己有所惧怕呢？”

“是的？”他简单地说，“我怕，我怕！我怕那些东西。”

“什么东西？”她问道。

他奇异地把头向后来歪，指示着外面的世界。

“所有的东西！所有的人！所有他们。”

说完，他弯下身去，突然在她愁苦的脸上吻着。

“但是，”他说，“我并不顾虑那些！让我们受用罢，其他一切管它的！不过，要是那一天你懊悔起来·……”

“不要把我抛弃了。”她恳求道。

他的手指抚触着她的脸，突然地又吻了她一下。

“那么让我进去罢。”他温柔地说，“把你的雨衣脱了。”

他把枪挂了起来，台湾省了他自它的湿外衣，然后把毡子拿了下来。

“我多带了一张毡子来。”他说，“这样，要是我们喜欢的话，我们可以拿一张来盏的。”

“我不能久留呢，”她说，晚餐是七点半开的。”

他向她迅速地顾盼了一下，然后望着他的表。

“好的。”他说

他把门关了，在悬着的风灯里点了一个小小的火。

“哪一天我们要多玩一会儿。”他说。

他细心地铺着毡子，把一张招叠起来做她的枕头，然后他坐在一张小凳子上，把她拉到他的身边，一只手紧紧地抱着她，另一只手探摸关她的身体。当他摸着了好怕时候，她听见他的呼吸紧促进来，在她的轻薄的裙下，她是赤裸裸的。

“呵！摸触您是多么美妙的事！”他一边说，一边爱抚着她的臀部和腰部的细嫩、温暖而隐秘的皮肤。他俯着头，用他的脸颊，频频地摩擦着她的小腹和她的大腿。他的迷醉的状态，使她再次觉得有点惊讶起来。他在摸触着她生动而赤裸的肉地所感得的美，这种美的沉醉的欣欢，她是不了解的。这只有热情才可以了解，当热情没有了或死了的时候，那么，美所引起的美妙的惊心动魄是不可了解的，甚至有点被物的，温暖的生动的接触之美，比之眼见的美要深厚得多，她觉着他的脸在她的大腿上，在好怕小腹上，和她的后臀上，温柔地摩着。他的髭须和他的柔软而通密的头发，紧紧地擦着她；她的两膝开始颤战起来了，在她的灵魂里面，狠遥远地。她觉着什么新的东西在那里跳动着，她觉着一种新的裸体在那里浮露了出来，她有在这害怕起来，她差不多希望他不要这样爱抚她了，她只觉得被他环抱着，紧束着然而，她却等待着，等待着。

当他强烈地感到安慰与满足，面向他的和平之域的她的里面进去时，她还是等待着，她觉得自己有点被遗忘了j但是她知道，那是一部分她自它的过失，她想这样便可以固守着她与他的距离，现在也许她是命定了要这么固守着了。她一动不动地躺着；她觉着他在她坦克面的动作，她觉着他深深地沉伏着的专心，她觉着当他插射精液时的骤然的战栗，然后他的冲压的动作缓慢了下来，返种臀尖的冲压，确是有些可笑的。假如你是一个妇人，而又处在当事人之外，一个男子的臀尖的那种冲压，必定是太可笑的，在这种姿态这种动作中，男人确是十分可笑的！

但是她仍然一动不动地躺着，也不退缩，甚至当他完了时，她也不兴奋起来，以求她自己的满足，好象她和蔑免里斯的时候一样，她静静地躺着，眼泪慢慢地在她的眼里满溢了出来。

他也是一动不动，但是他紧紧地搂着她，他的两腿压在她的可怜的两条赤裸的腿上，想使她温暖着，他躺在她的上面，用一种紧密的无疑的热力温暖着她。

“您冷吗”他温柔地细声问道，好象她很近很近的。其实她却觉得远隔着，被遗忘着。

“不！但是我得走了。”她和蔼地说。

他叹息着，更紧地楼抱着她，然后放松了，重新静息下来。

他还没看出流泪，他只以为她是和他一样舒畅。

“我得走了。”她重新说道。

他人她那儿抽退了，在她旁边跪了一会，吻着她的两腿的里面，把她的裙拉了下来，然后在微微的激光里，毫无思索地把他自己的衣服扣好，甚至连身也没有转过去。

“哪一天您得到村舍里来。”他一边说着，一边热切地安闲在望着她。

但是她还是毫无生气地躺在那儿，沉思着，望闻他，陌生人！陌生人！她甚至觉得有点怒恨他。

他把他的外衣穿上，找着他的摔在地上的帽，然后把枪挂在肩上。

“来罢！”他用他的热烈，温和的眼睛望着她说。

她缓缓地站了起来，她不想走；却又不想留。他帮助她穿上了她的薄薄的雨衣，望着她是不是衣裳都整理好了。

然后他把门打开了，外面是很黑了。在门廊下坐着的狗儿，看见了他，愉快地站了起来，细雨在黑暗中灰灰地降着。天是很黑了。

“我得把灯笼带去。”他说，“不会有人的。”，在狭径中，他在她面前走着，低低地把风灯摇摆着，照着地上的湿草和蛇似的光亮的树根，苍暗的花，此外一切都是炙灰的雨雾和黝黑。

“哪一天您得到村舍里来。”他说，“您来不来？反正山羊或羔羊都是一样一吊的了。”

他对于她的返种奇特固扫诉欲望，使她惊讶着，而他们之间却没有什么东西，他也从来没有对她真正地说过话，则且她不自禁地憎恶他的土话，他的“您得来”的粗俗的土好象不是对她说的，而是对任何普通人的说的，她看见了马路上的指形花的叶儿，她知道他们大约是走到什么地方了。

“现在是七点一刻，”他说，“你赶得及回去吃晚饭的。”他的声调变了，好象他觉察着了她的疏远的态度。当他们在马路上转过了最后一个弯，正向着榛树的篱墙和园门去的时候，他把灯火吹熄了。他温和地握着她的手臂说：“好了，这里我们可以看得见了。”

但是，话虽这样说，实在不容易啊。他们脚下踏着的大地是神秘的。不过他是习惯了，他可以摸得着他的道路。到了园门时，他把他的手电筒交给她，说：“园里是光亮点；但是把这个拿去罢，恐怕你走错路。”

真的，在空旷的园中，有着一种幽灵似的灰星的徽光，突然地，他把她拉了过去，重新在她的衣裳下面摸抚着，他的湿而冷的手，触着她的温暖的肉体。

“摸触着一个象您这样的女人，我死也甘心了！”了沉哑的声音说，要是您可以多停一会的话……”

她觉着他的重新对她欲望起来的骤然的热力。

“不！我得赶快回去了！她有点狂乱地说。

“好罢。”他说着，态度突然变了，让她走开了。

她正要走开，却立即回转身来对他说：“吻一吻我罢。”

在黑暗中，他弯着身在她的左眼上吻着。她向他举着嘴唇，他轻轻地在上面吻了一吻，立即便缩回去了，他是不喜欢在嘴上亲吻的。

“我明天再来。”他一边走开一边说，“要是我能够的话。”她加了这一句。

“是的，但是不要来得这么晚了。”他在黑暗里回答道。她已经完全看不见他。

“晚安。”她说。

“晚安，男爵夫人。”他的声音回答着。

她停着了，回过头来向潮湿的黑暗里望着。在这夜色里，她只能看见他的形影。

“你为什么这样叫我？”她说道。

“好，不这样叫了。”他回答道，“那么，晚安，快走罢！”

她在朦胧的夜里隐没了，她看见那旁门正开着，她溜了进去，直至她的房里，并没有被人看见，娄她的房门磁起来时，晚餐的锣声正在响着，虽然这样，她还是决意要洗个澡一她得洗个澡。“但是我以后不要再迟归了。”她对自己说，“这未免太讨厌了。”

第二天，她并不到树林里去。她陪着克利福到阿斯魏去了。他现在有时可以乘汽车出去了，他雇了一个年青而强壮的车夫，在需要的时候。这车夫可以帮助他从车里下来。他是特地去看他的教父来斯里一，文达的。文达佳在阿斯魏附近的希勃来大厦里，这是一位富有资产的老绅士，是爱德华王时代繁荣过的许多富有的煤矿主人之一，爱德华王为了打猎，曾来希勃来佐过几次，这是一个墙的美丽的古老大厦，里面家具的布置是很都丽的，因为文达是个独身者，所以他对于他家里的修洁雅致的布置是很骄傲的，但是，这所大厦却给许多煤矿场环绕着了。文达对于克利福是关心的，但是因为他的文学作品和画报上刊登的他的像片，他个人对他是没有什么大尊重的。这老绅士是一个爱德华王一派的花花公子，他认为生活就是生活，而粗制滥造的作家是另一事，对于康妮，这者乡绅总是表示搜勤温雅。他觉得她是纯洁如处女的、端正的、动人的人，她对于克利福未免劳而无功了，并且她的命运不能给勒格贝生个继承人，是千可惜万可惜的，不过他自己也没有继承人。

康妮自己间着，假如他知道了克利宝的守猎人和她发生了关系，假如他知道了这守猎人用土话对她说“那一天您得到村舍里来”，他将怎样想呢？他定要憎恶她，轻鄙她，因为他差不多是疾恨劳工阶级的向前迈进的，假如她的情人是和她同样阶级的人，那么他不会介意的，因为康妮吴然地有着端庄的、驯服的、处女的风采，也许她生成是为了恋爱的。文达叫她“亲爱的孩子”，给了她一幅十八世纪的贵妇人的很可爱的小画像，她实在不想要，不过只好收下。

但是康妮一心只想着她和守猎人的事情。毕竟，文达先生确是个上等人，是个上流社会的一分子，他当她是个人物，是个高尚的人看待，他不把她和其他的妇女看成一样，而用着“您”、“您的”这种字眼。

那天她没有到树林里，再隔一天她也没有去，第三天还是没有去，只要她觉得，或者自以为觉得那人在等着她，想着她，她便不到那儿去，但是第四天，她可怕的烦躁不安起来了。不过她还是不愿到林中去，不愿再去为那个男子展开她的两腿。她心里想着她可以做的事情一到雪非尔德去，访访朋友去，可是想到了这些事情就使她觉得憎恶。最后，她决定出去散散步，并不是到树林，而是向相反的方向去，她可以从大花园的其他一面的小铁门里出去，到马尔海去，那是一个宁静而灰色的春日，天气差不多可说是温暖的，她一边走着，一边沉味在飘渺的思想里，什么都没有看见。直到马尔海的农庄里时，她才被狗的狂吠声，从梦幻里惊醒了，马尔海农庄！这狐牧场，宽展到勒格贝的花园围墙边，这样他们是亲邻呢；但是康妮好久没有到这儿来了。

“陪儿！”她向那条白色的大叭儿狗说。“陪儿！”你忘记了我了？你不认识我了么？”一她是怕狗的，陪儿一边吠着，一边向后退着，她想穿过那农家大院，到畜牧场那条路上去。

弗林太太走了出来。这是和康妮一样年纪的人，她曾当过学校教员；但是康妮疑心她是个虚伪的小人物。

“怎么，是查太莱男爵夫人！”弗林太太的眼睛光耀着，她的脸孔红得象个女孩似的。“陪儿！陪儿！怎么了！你向着查太莱夫人吠！陪儿！赶快停嘴！”她跑了过去，用手里拿着的白手巾打着狗，然后向康妮走来。

“它一向是认识我的。”康妮说着，和她握了握手，弗林一家是查太莱的佃户。

“怎么会不认识夫人呢！它只想卖弄卖弄罢了。”弗林太太说，她脸红着，很羞难过地望着康妮，”不过它好久没有看见您了，我很希望你的身体好些了罢？”

“谢谢你，我很好了。”

我们差不多整个冬天都没有看见夫人呢。请进来看看我的小孩吗？”

“晤！”康犹豫着，“好不过只一会儿。”

弗林太太赶快跑进去收拾屋子，康妮缓缓地跟了进去，在那幽暗的厨房里，水壶正在炉火边沸着，康妮在那里踌躇了一’会，弗林太大走了回来。

“对不起得很。”她说，“请你进这边来罢。”

他们进了起坐室里，那儿，在炉火旁的地毯上坐着一个婴孩桌子上草率地摆着茶点用的东西。一个年轻的女仆，害羞地、笨拙地向走廊里退了出去。

那婴孩约莫有一岁了，是个檄难得脾小东西，头发是红的，象她的父亲，两只傲慢的眼睛是淡蓝色的，这是一个女孩怪不怕人的，她坐在一些垫枕中间，四同摆着许多布做的洋固固和其他玩具，这是时下的风尚。

“呵。真是个宝贝！”康妮说，“她长得多快！一个大女孩了，一个大女孩了！”

女孩出世的时候，她给过十条围巾给她。圣诞节的时候，又曾给了她一些赛璐璐鸭子。

“佐士芬！你知道谁来看你吗？这是谁，佐士芬？查太莱男爵夫人……你认得查太莱男爵夫人吗？”

这奇的不怕人的小东西，镇静地望着康妮，“男爵夫人”于她还是毫无所谓的。

“来！到我这儿来好不好？”康妮对孩子说。

孩子表示着无可不无可的样子，良把她气象上膝上。抱着一个孩子在膝上是多么温暖，多么可爱的！两个手臂是这样的柔软，两条小腿是样的无知而无羁！

“我正要随便喝点茶，孤孤单单的，陆克上市场去了，因此我什么时候用点茶都随我的便，请喝杯茶好不好，查太莱夫人？这种坏茶点自然不是夫人惯用的，但是如果你不介意的话……”

康妮并不介意，虽然她不喜欢人家提到她惯用佬。桌子上很铺张地摆了些最漂亮的茶本少茶壶。

“只要不麻烦你就好了。”康妮说。

但是假如弗林太太不麻烦，那儿还有什么乐趣！康妮和小孩玩着，她的小女性的无惧惮她的温柔的年轻的温暖，使康妮觉得有趣而得到一种浓厚的快乐，这年轻的生命！这样的无畏！这样的无畏，那是因为毫无抵抗的缘故。所有的成人们都是给恐惧压得这样的狭小！

康妮喝了一杯有点太浓的茶，吃了些美味的奶油面包和罐头李子。弗林太太脸红着，非常地兴奋，仿佛康妮是一个多情的武士似的，她们谈着些真正妇人间说的话，两个人都觉得写意。

“不过这茶点太坏了。”弗林太大说。

“比我家里用的还要好呢。”康妮诚实地说。

“呵！……”弗林太太说，她自然是不相信的。

但是最后康妮站了起来。

“我得走了！”她说，“我的先生并不知道我到哪里去了，他要疑心各种各样的事情呢。”

“李决不会想到你在此地的。”弗林太太高兴地笑道，“他要派人满村叫着找呢。”

“再会，佐士芬。”康妮一边说，一边吻着孩子，揉着她的红色的卷发。

大门是锁着而且上了门闷的，弗林太太紧持着去替刃康要开了，康妮出到了农庄门前的小花园里，这小花园是用冬青树的篱芭围绕着的，沿着等候径的两旁，植着洗我报春花，柔软而华丽。

“多可有宾报春花！”康妮说。

“陆克把它们叫作野草闹花。”弗林太太笑着说，“带点回去吧。”

弗林太太热心地采着。

“够了！够了！”康妮说。

她们来到了小花园的门边。

“你打哪条来呢？”弗林太太问道。

“打畜牧场那条路去。”

“让我看……呵，是的，母牛都在栅栏里，但是它们还没有起来。不过那门是锁着的，你得爬过去呢。”

“我会爬的。”康妮说。

“也许我可以陪你到栅栏那边去罢。”

她走过了那兔子蹂躏得难看的草场。在树林中，鸟雀在啾呶着胜利揭歌最后的牛群，慢慢地在被残踏得象人们行路似的草场上曳着笨重的步伐，一个人在呼喝着它们。

“今晚他们捋乳捋得晚了。”弗林太太严厉地说，“因为他们知道陆克在天黑以前是不会回来的。”

她们来栅栏边，栅栏的后面蔓生着小衫树的丛林。那里有一个小门，但是锁着。在里面的草地上放着一个空瓶子。

“这是守猎人盛牛奶的空瓶子。”弗林太太解说着，“我们装满了牛奶便带来话此地，他自己会来取的。”

“什么时候？”康妮问。

“呵，他什么时候经过此地便什么时候取的。多数是早晨。好了，再会罢，查太莱夫人！请你常来，你到我家里来真是难得的。”

康妮跨过栅栏，进到了一条狭隘的小径上，两旁都是些丛密的小杉树。弗林太太戴着一顶教员戴的遮日帽，在牧场上跑着回去。康妮不喜欢这丛密的新植的树林，这种地方令人觉得可怖和闷塞。她低着头赶路，心里想着弗林太大的孩子，那是个可这的小东西，不过她的两腿将来要象她父亲似的，有点弯曲罢了。现在已经可以看出来了，但是也许长大了会变得好的。有个孩子是我么温暖，多么称心，弗林太太显得多么得意！她至少是一样东西是康妮没有，而且是显然地不能有的。是的，弗林太大熔耀她的为母的尊荣，康妮有点儿，微微地有点儿嫉妨。这是她无可如何的。

突然地，她从沉思中吓了一跳，微地惊叫了一声，一个人在那里！

那是守猎人，他站在狭径中好象巴蓝的驴子，截着眼也的去路。

“怎么，你？”她惊愕地说。

“你怎么来的？”她喘着气追问道。

“但是你怎么一煌？你到小屋里去过么？”

“不：不：我刚从玛尔海来。”

他奇异地探究地望着她；氏着头，觉得是点罪过。

”你现在是到小屋里去么？”他用着有点严厉的声调问道。

“不，我不能去，我在玛尔海已离好一会，家里人都不知道我到哪里去了。我回去要晚了，我得赶快跑。”

“似乎把我丢弃了？”他微微地冷笑着说。

“不！不，不是这样，只是……”

“不是这样还有什么？”他说了，向她走了过去，两上她，她觉得他的全身是可怕地紧贴着她。这样的兴奋。

“呵，不要现在、不要现在。”她一边喊着，一边想把他推开。

“为什么不？现在只是六点钟，你还有半点钟。不，不！我要你，”

他紧紧地抱着她，她觉得他的着急。她的古代人的本能使她为自由而挣扎，但是她的里面有着一种什么又迟钝又沉重珠怪东西，他的身以迫在假压着她，她再也没有心去挣扎了。

他向四下望了一望。

“来……这儿来！打这边来。”他一边说，一边尖锐地望着浓密的小杉树丛中，这些小松树还没他们一半高。

他加望着她。她看见他的眼睛是强烈的，光亮的，凶悍的，而没有湿情，但是她已不能自主了，她觉得她的四肢奇异地沉重起来，她退让了，她驯服了。

他引着她在不易穿过的刺人的树丛中穿了进去，直到二块稍为空旷而有着一丛拓死的树枝的地方，他把些干拓的树校铺在地上，再把他的钙套和上衣盖在上面，她只好象一只野兽似地，在树下躺下去；同时，只穿着衬衣和短裤的他，站在旁边等待着，牢牢地望着她，但是他还有体贴阂到的，他使她舒舒服服地躺着，不过，他却他她的内衣的带子扯断了，因为她只管懒慵地躺着，而不帮助他。

他也是把前身裸露着，当他进她里面的时候，她觉得他裸着的皮肉紧贴着她，他在她里面静止了一会，在那儿彭胀着，颤动着，当他开始抽动的时候，在骤然而不可抑止的征欲里，她里面一种新奇的、惊心动魄的东西，在波动着醒了转来，波动着，波动着，波动着，好象轻柔的火焰的轻扑，轻柔得象毛羽样，向着光辉的顶点直奔，美妙地，美妙地，把她溶解，把她整个内部溶解了。那好象是是钟声一样，一波一波地登峰造极。她躺着，不自觉地发着狂野的，细微的呻吟，呻吟到最后。但是他结束得太快了，太快了；而她再也不能用自己的力量迫使自己完结，这一次是不同了，不同了，她毫无能力了，好也不能竖挺起来缠着他，去博得她自己的满足了。当她觉得他在引退着，可退着，收缩着，就要从她那里滑脱出去的可怕的片刻，她的心里暗暗地呻吟着，她只好等待，等待。她的整个肉体在温柔地开展着，温柔地哀恳着，好象一根洁水下的海芜草，衰恳着他再进去，而使她满足，她在火炽的热情中昏迷着，紧贴着他，他并没有完全滑脱了她，她觉得他的温软的肉蕾，在她里面耸动起来，用着奇异的有节奏的动作，一种奇异的节奏在她里面泛滥起来，彭胀着，彭胀着，直至把她空洞的意识充满了。于是，难以言语形容的动作重新开始一其实这并不是一种动作，而是纯粹的深转着的肉感之旋涡，在她的肉里，在她的意识里，愈转愈深，直至她成了一个感觉的波涛之集中点。她躺在那儿呻吟着，无意识地声音含混地呻吟着，这声音从黝黑无边的夜里发了出来，这是生命！男子在一种敬惧中听着他下面的这种声音，同时把他的生命的泉源插射在她的里面，当这声音低抑着时，他也静止下来，懵懵地，一动不动地卧着；同时她也慢慢地放松了她的拥抱，软慵地横陈着。他们躺着，忘了一切，甚至互相忘着，两个人都茫然若失了。直至最后，他开始振醒过来，觉察了自己无遮地裸露着，而她也觉察了他的身体的重压放松了，他正要离开她了，但是她心里觉得她不能容忍他让她无所麻盖，他现在得永久地庇盖着她。

但是他终于引退了，他吻着她，把她遮掩起来，然后开始遮掩着他自己，她躺着，仰望着上面的树枝，还是没有力量移动，他站着，把他的短裤扣好了，向四周望着，一切都在死寂中，只有那受惊的小狗儿，鼻子挟在两脚中间，俯伏着。他在树枝堆上重新坐了下去，静默地握着康妮的手。

“这一次我们是同时完毕的。”他说。

她回转头来望着他，没有回答。

“象这个样子是很好的，大部分化，过了一生还不知道这个呢。”他象是做梦似地说着。

她望着他的沉思的股。

“真的么？”她说，“你快乐吗？”

他回转头来向她眼里望着，”快乐，”他说，“是的，但是不要谈这个，他不要她谈这个。”他俯着身去吻她，她觉得他应该这样永久地吻着她。

最后，她坐了起来。

“人们很少有同时完毕的么？”她用一种天真的好奇心问道。

“很少。你只要看他们的呆板的样子便看得出来。”他无可奈何地说着，心里懊悔着为什么开始了这种谈话。

“你和基耸女人这样完毕过么”

他觉得好笑地望着她。

“我不知道。”他说，“我不知道。”

她明白了，他决不会对她说他所不愿说的事情的，她望着他的脸，她对他的热情，在她脏腑在颤动着，她尽力抑制着，因为她觉得自己迷失着了。

他穿好了上衣和外套；在小杉树丛中避开了一条路直至小径上。落日的最后光辉，沉在树林梢头了，“我不送你了。”他说，“还是不送的好。”

在他离开之前，她热情地望着他，他的狗儿不耐烦恼地等着他。她好象没有什么话好说了，再也没有什么了。

康妮缓缓地归去，明白了在她的坦克面，另有一件深藏着的东西了。唱一个自我在她的里面活着，在她的子宫里，脏腑里，温柔地溶化着，燃烧着，她以这个眶我的全部，去崇拜她的情人，她崇拜到觉得走路时，两膝都柔软无力起来，在她的子宫里，脏腑里，她满足地，生气蓬勃地，脆弱地，不能自己地崇拜着他，好象一个最天真的妇人。她对自己说：“那好象是个孩子，那好象有个孩子在我的里面。”……那是真的，她的子宫，好象一向是关闭着的，现在是展开了。给一个新的生命充实了，这新的生命虽然近于一种重负，但是却是可爱的。

“要是我有了孩子！”她心里想着，“要是我有了他的孩子在我的里面！”……想到了这个，她的四脚软怠了，她明白了有个自我的孩子，和有个全身全心欲爱着的男人的孩子，这其间是有天壤之别的，前者似乎是平凡的，但是从一个整个心欲崇拜着的男子得到孩子，那使她觉得和旧日的大不相同了。那使她深深地，深深地沉醉在一切女性的中心里，沉醉在开化以前的睡眠里。

她所觉得新奇的并不是热情，而是那渴望的崇拜。这是她一向所惧怕的，因为这种崇拜的情感要使她失掉力量；她现在还在惧怕，唯恐她崇拜得过深时她要把自己迷失了，把自己抹杀了，她不愿象一个未开花的女子似地被抹煞而成为一个奴隶。她决不要成为一个奴隶，她惧怕她的崇拜的心情，但是她了愿立刻反抗起来，她胸中有个固执的意志，那是很可以对她子宫里的日见增大的崇拜的温情宣战而把它歼灭的。甚至现在，她可以这样做，至少她心里这样想，她可以忽意地驾驭她的热情。

唉，是的，热情得象一个古罗马时代狂饮烂醉的酒神的女祭司，在树林中奔窜着找寻伊亚科斯，找寻这个无人性的，纯粹是的神仆赫阳物！男子，这个人，得不要让他僭越。他只是个库堂的司阉者，他只是那赫赫阳物的持有者与守护者，这阳物是属于女子的。

这样，在这新的醒觉中，古代的坚固的热情，在她心里燃了些时，把男子缩小成一个可陪鄙的东西，仅仅是一个阳物的持有者，当他尽他的职务是，全果被撕成碎片的，她觉得她的四肢和身体里面，有着那种古代狂欢节的族纵的女祭司的力量，有着那种蹂躏男性的热情而迅速的女人的力量。但是，当她觉着这个的时候，她的心是沉重的，她不要这一切，这一切都是不神秘的，光赤的，不育的，只有崇拜的温情才是她的宝藏，这写藏是这样的深奥而温柔，这样的神秘而不可思仪！不，不，不，她要放弃她的坚固的、光辉的、妇人权威，这东西使她觉得疲乏而僵硬；她要沉没在生命的新的洗浴里，沉没在无声地歌唱着崇拜之歌的她的子宫脏腑的深处，那未免太早去开始惧怕男子了。

“我到玛尔海去散步来，并且和弗林太太喝了杯茶。”她对克利福说，“我是想去看她的孩子的，她的头发好象是好的蛛丝，这孩子真可爱，真是个宝贝！弗林上市场去了，所以她和我和孩子大家一起一吃了些茶点，你没有纳闷我到那儿去了吗？”

“是的，我纳闷不知你到那儿支他，但是我猜着你定是在什么地方喝茶去了，。克利福嫉妨地说，他的心眼里，觉察了她有着什么新的地方，有着什么她不太了解的地方，但是他把这个归因于孩子。他相信康妮之所苦脑，都是因为没有孩子，换句话，都是因为她不能机械地生个孩子。

“夫人，我看见你穿过了花园打那铁门出去，。波太太说，“所以我想你恐怕是到牧师家里去了。”

这两今妇人的眼睛交视着，波太太的是灰色的，光耀的，探究的；康妮的是蓝色的，朦胧的，奇异地美丽的，波太太差不多断定康妮有了个情人了。但是这怎么可能呢？那里来个男子呢？

“呵，不时出去走走，访访人家，于你是很有益处的。”波太太说，“我刚对克利福男爵说，如果夫人肯多出访访人，于她是有无限益处的。”

“是的，我觉得很高兴出去走一趟，克利福，那真是个可爱的孩子，这样玲珑而毫无忌惮”康妮说，“她的头发简直象蜘蛛网，有着光耀的橙红色，两只眼睛淡蓝得象磁做的一样，那奇妙而毫无忌惮自然呵，因为那是个女孩，否则不会这么大胆的。”

“夫人说得一点不错……那简直是个小弗林。他们一家都是多头发。都是毫无忌惮的。”波太太说。

“你喜欢看看她吗．克利福：我已经约了她们来虽茶，这样你就可以看看她了。”

“谁？”他一边说，一边怪不安地望着康妮。“弗林太太和她的女孩下星期一。”

“你可以请他们到楼上你房里去。”他说。

“怎么，你不想看看那孩子么？”她喊道。

“呵，看看倒无所谓但是我不想整个钟头和她们坐在一块几喝茶。”

“呵！”康妮说着，两只朦胧的大眼睛望着他。

其实她并没有看贝，他、他是另一个什么人。

“你们可以舒舒服服地在你楼上房里用茶呢，夫人，克利福男爵不在一块儿。弗林太太要觉得自在得多的。”波太太说。

她确定康妮已有了情人了，她的灵魂里有什么东西在欢欣着，但是他是谁呢？他是谁呢’也许弗林太太替她牵线的罢。

那晚上，康妮不愿意洗澡。她觉得他触过她的肉，她觉得他的肉紧贴过她，这感觉于她走可贵的。是一神圣的感觉。

克利福觉得非常烦躁。晚饭后，他不愿让她走开，而她却渴望着快点到房是城去孤独地待着，她的眼睛望着他但是奇异地顺从他。

“我们玩玩牌呢。还是让我念书给你听？”他不安地问道。

“念书给我听罢。”康妮说。

“念什么……诗呢。散文呢，还是戏剧呢？”

“念点拉车的诗罢。”她说。

从前，他法式的抑扬婉转地念拉车的诗是他的拿手好戏，但是现在呢，他再也没有那种气派，而且有点局促了，其实，与其念书，她是宁愿听收音机，但是康却替弗林太大的婴孩缝着一件黄绸的小衣裳；那衣料是她散步回一晚餐以前，从她的一件衣裳剪裁下来的，她静航海地坐着，在温柔地情绪中沉醉着，疑缝缀着，与此同时，他在继续在念着拉辛的诗。

在她的心晨，她可以感觉到热情在嗡嗡发声，好象沉钟的尾声。

克利福对她说了些关于拉辛的话，他说过了好一会，她才明白他说什么。

“是的！是的！”她抬头望着他说，“做得真好。”

她的眼睛的深妙的蓝光，和她的温柔的静坐着的神情、重新使他惊骇起来，她来没有那么温柔，那么静航海的，她使他不能自己地迷惑着，好象她在发着什么香味使他沉醉似的。这样，他无力地继续着念诗；他的法文发音的喉音，她觉是烟囱里的风似的，他念的拉辛的诗句，她一宇也都没有听到。

她已经沉醉在她的温柔的美梦里了，好象一个发着芽的春天的森林，梦昧地，欢快地，在呜咽着，她可以感觉着在同一曲世界里，他和她是在一起的，他，那无名的男子，用着美丽的两脚，神妙地美丽的两脚，向前移支，在她的心里，在她的血脉里，她感觉着他和他的孩子，他的孩子是在她所有血脉里，象曙光一样。

“因为她没有手，没有眼，没有脚，也没有金发的宝藏

她象一个森林似的，象一个阴暗的、橡树交错的树林似的，千千万万地蓓苗在开发着，在无声地低语着。同时，那些欲望的鸟儿，在她错缩浓密的身体里睡着。

但是克利福的声音不停地、异乎寻常地轨轹着，咕噜着。多么异样的声音！多么异样的他，倾着身在他的书本上，样子是奇怪的，贪婪的，文明的，他有宽阔的肩膊，却没有两条真腿！多么怪异的生物，天赋着尖锐的！冷酷无情的、某种鸟类的意志，没有热力，一点都没有！这是未一煌生物之一，没有灵魂，只有一个极活支斩冷酷的意志。她怕他，微微地颤战起来，不过，温柔的热烈的生命之火焰，是比他更强的，并且真实的事情却瞒着他呢。

诗念宛了。她吃了一惊，她抬头看见克利福的灰白而乖恶的眼睛，好象含恨地在望着她，这更使她惊愕起来。

“非常感谢！你念拉辛念得真好！”她温柔地说。’

“差不多念和昨你听着一样的好。”他残酷地说。“你在什么着什么？”他问。

“我替弗林太太的孩子做件衣裳。”

他的头转了过去，孩子！孩子！她只想着这个。

“毕竟呢，”他用一种浮夸的口气说，“我们所需要的，都可以从拉辛的诗里得到，有条理有法则的情绪。是比紊乱的情绪更重要的。”

她的两只朦胧的大眼睛注视着他。

“是的，的确！”她说。

“近代人让情绪放荡无羁，这只有使情绪平庸化罢了，我们所需要的，便是有古典的约束。”

“是的。”她缓缓地说看见他的脸孔毫无表情，正在听着收套机的激动人心的痴话，“人们假装着有情绪、其买他们是毫无所感的，我想这便是所谓浪温罢。”

“一点不错！”他说。

实在说，他是疲惫了。这种晚上使他疲惫了，与其过着这样的晚上，他是宁愿读点技术上的书，或和矿场的经理谈话，或是听收半日机的。

被太太带了两杯麦芽牛奶走了进来，一杯是给克利福喝了好安睡的，一杯是给康妮喝了好长胖的，这是她介绍勒格贝来的一种经常的的夜点。

康妮喝完了后，心里高兴，她可以走开，并且心里感激着不必去帮助克利福就寝的事了。

“晚安。克利福，祝你安睡？拉车的涛好象一个梦似的深人人心，晚安！”

她向门边走去她没有吻他晚安便走了，他的尖锐而冷酷的眼瞄望看她，好！他为她念下整晚的诗她却连一个晚安的吻都不给他这样的铁石心肠！即令说这种亲吻只是一种形式罢，但生命是筑在这种形工上的、她实在是个波尔雪维克主义者！她的本能鄙是波尔雪维克主义者的！他冷酷地、愤怒地望着她从那里出支泊那个门。愤怒！”

他给夜之恐怖所侵袭了．他只是一团神经同甘共网结着的东西，当他不用全力兴奋地工作的时候，或当他不空泛迷离地听着收音机的时候，他便给焦虑的情绪纠缠着，而感觉着一种大祸临头的空洞，他恐怖着，假如康妮愿意的话，她是可以保护他的。但是显然她并不愿意，她并不愿意，她是冷酷无情的，他为好汽做的一切，她都漠然无睹，他把他的生命捐弃绘她，她还是漠然元睹。她只想我先系，任性您情地让她自己的道路。

现在她所醉心的便是孩子，她要这个孩子是她自己的。全是她自己的，而不是他的！

虽然，克利福的身体是很壮健的，他的脸色是这样的红润‘他的肩膊宽阔而有力，他的胸膛是这样大的，他发胖了。但是，同时他却怕死。什么地方好象有个可的空洞在恐吓着他，好象一个深渊似的；他的精力要崩倒在这深里，有时他软弱无力地觉得自己要死了，真的死了。

因此他的有点突出的两只灰色的眼睛，显怪异的，诡秘，却有点残暴，冷酷而同时差不多又是无忌惮的，这种无忌惮的神气是奇特的，好象他不怕生命如休强悍，而他却战胜着生命似的。“谁能认识意志之神秘一因为意志竟能胜天使……”

但是他所最恐怖的，便是当他不能人睡的夜里那时真是可怖，四方作斋的空虚压抑着他毫无生命而生存着，多么可怕！在深夜里毫天生命、却生存着！

但是现在，他可以按铃叫波太太，这是个大大的安慰。她穿着室内便友走了过来、头发辫结着垂在背后、虽然她的棕色的头发里杂着自发地却奇异地有少女的暗淡的神气。她替他煮咖啡或煮凉茶或和他玩象棋或“毕克”纸牌戏。她有着那种对于游戏的奇民蝗女性的才能甚至在睡眼朦胧中还能下一手好象棋，而使他觉得胜之无愧。这样，在深夜的，静寂的亲密里，他们坐着。或是她坐着，而他卧在床上，桌上了灯光孤寂地照着他们。她失去了睡眠，他失去了恐怖。他们玩着，一起玩着一然后一起喝杯咖啡，吃块饼干，在万籁俱寂的深夜里，两人都不太说什么话、但是两人的心里都觉得安泰了。

这晚上，她奇怪着究竟谁是查太莱男爵夫人的情人。她又想起他的德底，他虽早已死了，但旦她总是没有十分死的。当她想起他时，她对于人世的，尤其对于那些残害他的生命的主子们的心底旧恨，便苏醒了转来，那些主于们并没有真的残害他的生命。但是，在她的情感上，都是真的。因为这个，在她心的深处，她是个虚无主义者，而且真的是无政府主义者。

在她的朦胧半睡中，她杂乱地想着她的德底和术太莱男爵夫人的不知名的情人。这一来，她觉得和那另一个妇人共有着对于克利福男爵，以及他所代表的一切事物的大怨恨。同时，她却和他玩着“毕克”，赌着六便士的胜负。和一个有爵位的人玩“毕克”，甚至输了六便士，毕竟是可引为荣誉的事呢。

他们玩纸牌戏时，是常常赌钱的，那可以使他忘掉自己。他是常常赢的。这晚上还是他赢，这一来，不到天亮，他不愿去就寝了。侥幸地，在四点半钟左右，睡光开始显现了。在这一段的时间里，康妮上在床酣睡着，但，是那守猎人，他也不能安息，他把鸡笼关闭了，在树林里巡逻一同，然后回家去吃夜餐。他并不上床去，他坐在火旁边思索着。

他想着他在达娃斯哈过支泊童年，和他的五、六年的结婚生活，他照例苦味地想着他的妻。她是那样粗暴的！但是他自从一九一五年的春天入伍之后，便至今没有见过她。然而她还在不到三英里路之遥生活着，而且比一向更其粗暴。他希望这一生永不再见她了。

他想着他在国外的士兵的生涯由印度到埃及，又回到印度，那盲目的、无忧虎的、与马群在一起的生涯；那爱他的，也是他所爱的上校；那几年的军官生涯大可以升为上尉的中尉生涯然后上校的死于肺炎，和他自己的死里逃生；他的残的健康的，他的深大的不安，他的离开军职而回到英国来再成为一个用人。

他只是把生命托延着。在这树林中，至秒在短期内，他相信定可安全，在那里，并没有人来打猎，他的唯一的事便是养育雉鸡，他可以孤独而与生命隔绝，这便是他唯一希望的事，他得有一块立足的地方，俺这儿是他的出世的故乡。甚至他的老母还住在这儿，虽则他对于他的母亲一向并没有什么了不起的感情。他可以一天一天地继续着生活，与人无术怨，于心无奢望。因为他是茫然不知所措的。

他是茫然不知所措的。自从他当过几年军官，并且和其他的军官和公务员以及他们的家庭交往以来，他的一切雄心都死了，他认识了中上阶级是坚韧的，象橡胶一样奇异的坚韧，却缺乏生命，这使他觉得冰冷，而且觉得自己和他们是多么相异。

这样，他重新回到他自己的阶级里去，在那里去找回几年外出之中所忘记了的东西，那些下分令人重大不的卑贱的心情和庸俗的仪态。他现在终于承认仪态是多么重要的了，而且他承认，假装对于一两个铜板和其它生命中的琐事满不在乎的样子是多么重要的了，但是在平民之中是没有什么假装的，猪油的价钱多一枚或少一枚铜板，是比删改《圣经》更重要的。这使他真忍受不了！

况且，那儿还有工资的问题呵。他已经在占有阶级中生活过，他知道希图解决工资问题是多么徒劳梦想的事，除了死之外，是没有解决的可能的。中有不要管，不要管什么工资问题。

然而，要是没有钱而且不幸，你便不得不管，无论怎样，这渐渐成为他们所担心的唯一的事情了。钱的担心，好象一种庞大的痈病，咀食着一切阶级中的个人，他不愿为钱担心。

那么又怎样呢：生命除了为钱担心以外，还有什么？什么都没有。

可是他可以孤独地生活着，心里淡淡地满足着自己能够孤独，养雉鸡，这些雉鸡是终要给那些饱餐以后的肥胖先生们射乐的，多么空泛！多么徒然！

但是为什么担心，为什么烦脑呢？他没有担心，也没有烦脑过，直至现在这个女人来到了他的生命里，他差不多大她十岁，他的经验比她多一千年，他俩间的关系日见密切，他已可以预见那一天，他们再也不能脱这关系，而他们便不得不创造一个共同的生活了。“因为爱之束缚不易解开！”

那么怎样呢？怎样呢？他是不是必须赤手空拳地从新开始？他走不是定要牵累这个女人？他是不是定和要她的残废的丈夫作可怖掐吵？还要和他自己的粒暴而含恨的妻作些可怖的争吵？多么不幸！多么不幸！并且他已经不年轻了，他再也不轻快活泼了，他又不是无忧无虑的那种人，所有的苦楚和所有的丑恶都能使他受伤，还有这个妇人。

但是纵令他们把克利福男爵和他自己的妻的障碍除去了，纵令他们得到了自由，他们又将怎样呢？他自己己又将怎样呢？他将怎样摆布他的生活呢？因为他总得做点什么事他不能让自己做寄生虫，依靠她的金钱和他自己的很小的恤金度日的！

这是一个不能解决的问题。他只能幻想着到美国去，到美国去尝口新鲜的空气，他是毫不相信金元万元的，但是也许那儿会有旁的什么东西。

他不能安息，甚至不愿上床去，他呆呆的在苦味地思索中坐到了半夜，他突然地站了起来，取了他的外套和枪。

“来罢，女孩儿。”他对狗儿说，“我们还是到外头去的好。”

这是个无月亮的繁垦之夜，他举着轻轻的步伐，缓缓地，小心地巡逻着，他唯一所要留神的东西，便是矿工们尤其是史德门的矿工们在玛尔附近所放的舞免机，但是现在是生育的季节，甚至矿工们对这点都有点新生而不过分放肆的，虽然，这样偷偷地巡逻着，去搜索偷掳野兽的人，却使他的神经安静了下来，而使他忘记了思虑。

但是，当他缓缓地，谨慎地巡逻完了的时候——那差不多要走五英里路一他觉得疲乏了，他走上山顶上去，向四周眺望。除了永不这地工的，史德门矿场的隐约而断续的声音外，没有什么其他的息；除了工厂里一排一排的闪炼的电灯光外，差不多没有什么其他的光，世界在烟雾中阴森地沉睡着，那是两点半了，但是这世界虽然是在沉睡中，还是不安，残的绘火车声和大路上经过的大货车的声音搅扰着，给高炉的玫瑰色的光照耀着。这是一个铁与煤的世界。铁的残忍。煤的乌姻和无穷无尽的念婪，驱驶着这世上的一切，在它的睡眠里，只有贪婪骚扰着。

夜是冷的，他咳嗽起来，一阵冷风在小山上吹着，他想着那妇人，现在他愿放弃他所有一切或他会有的一切、去换取这个妇人，把她抱在两臂里、两个人暖暖地拥在一张毡子里酣睡，一切未来的希望和一切过去的获得，他都愿放弃了去换取她，和她温暖地拥有一蹬毡子丑酣睡，只管酣睡。他觉得把这个妇人抱在他臂里睡觉”是他唯一的需要的事情。

他到小屋里去．盖着毡子、躺在地上预备睡觉，但是他不能人睡，他觉得冷，此外。他残酷地觉得他自己的天性的缺憾。他残酷地觉得他的孤独条件的不全，他需要她，他想摸触她，想把她紧紧地抱在怀里，共享那圆满而酣睡的片荆。

他重新站了起来，走出门去，这一次他是向着花园的门走去，然后慢慢地沿着小径向着大厦走去，那时差不多是四点钟了，夜是透明的，寒冷的，但是曙光还没有出现，他是习惯于黑夜的人，他能清楚地辨别一切。

慢慢地，慢慢地，那大厦好象磁石似地吸引他。他需要去亲近她，那并不是为了情欲，不，那是为了那残酷的缺憾的孤独的感觉，这种感觉是需要一个静寂的妇人抱在他的两臂里，才能使它消逝的，也许他能找到她罢，也许他甚至可以唤她出来，或者寻个方法到她那里去罢。因为这种需要是不可拒抗的。

缓慢地，静默的，他攀登那小山坡向着大厦走去，他走到了山摄，绕过那结大树，踏上了绕着大厦门前那块菱形的草地，而直达门口的那条大路。门前那大草坪上矗立着的两株大山毛梯树，在夜色中阴暗地浮出，他都看得清楚了。

这便是那大厦，低低的，长长的，暖味的，楼下点着一盏灯，那是克利福男爵的卧室，但是那牵着柔丝的极端残酷地引诱着他的妇人，竟在那一间房子呢？他可不知道。

他再前进了几步，手里拿着枪，在那大路上呆站着，注视着那大屋，也许他现在还可以用个什么方法找到她，面到她那儿去罢，这屋并不是难进的；他又有夜盗一样的聪明，为什么不到那儿去呢？他呆呆地站着，等着。这时，曙光在他的背后微微的破露了。他看见屋里的灯光熄灭了，但是他却没有看见被太太走近窗前，把深蓝色的绸窗幕拉开，望着外面黎明的半暗的天，希冀着曙光的早临，等待着，等待着克利福知道真的天亮了。因为当他知道的确天亮了时，他差不多便可以即刻入睡的。

她站在窗边，睡眼惺松地等待着，突然地，她吃了一惊，差不多叫出来了，因为那大路上，在黎明中，有个黑暗的人影。她完全清醒了，留神地审视着，但是不露声色，免得打扰克利福男爵的清睡。

自日的光明开始疯疯地侵浸在大地上了；那黑暗的人影好象变小了，更清楚了，她分辨了枪和脚绊和宽大的短衣外一这不是奥利华·梅乐士那守猎人吗？是的，因她的狗儿在那里，好象一个影子似地东闻西嗅着，等着它的主人呢！

但是这人要什么呢？他是不是想把大家叫醒了？为什么他钉着似地站在那儿，仰望着这大厦，好象一条患着相思病的公狗，站在母狗的门前？

老天爷哟！波太太陡然地醒悟了，查太莱男的夫人的情人便是他！便是他！

多么令人惊讶！但是她自己一爱微·波东敦，也曾有点钟爱过他的。那时，他是十六岁的孩子，面她是个二十六岁的妇人。她还在研究着护学，他曾大大地帮助过她研究关于解副学和其他应学的东西，那是个聪慧的孩子，他得过雪非尔德公学的奖学拿，学过法文和其他的东西，以后终竟成了个蹄铁匠，他说那是因炮喜欢马的缘故，其实那是因为他不敢与世触，不过他永不承认罢了。

但是他是个可爱的孩子，很可爱的孩子，他曾大大地帮助过她，他有很巧妙的法使你明白事情，他的聪明全不下于克利福男爵，并且他和妇女们是秀合得来的，人都说，他和妇人们是比和男子们更合得来的。

直至他蠢笨地和那白黛·古蒂斯结了婚，这种婚姻仿佛是为了泄愤似的，有许多人是这样的，他们是为了汇愤而结婚的，因为他们有过什么失意的事情，无疑地这是个失败的婚姻……在大战期中，他出外去了几年，他成了一个中尉，做了个十足的上流人！然后回到达娃斯哈来当一个守猎人！真的，有些人是不知道攫着机会上升的！他重新说起一回下注阶级所说的土话，而她一爱微·波尔敦，却知道他愿意时，是可以说在任何贵绅所说的英语。

呵呵！原来男爵夫人给他迷住了！晤，他并不是第一个……他有着一种什么迷人的东西，不过，想想看！一个达娃斯哈村里生长教养出来的孩子！而是勒格贝大厦里的男爵夫人的情人！老实说，这是绘查太莱大富大贵之家的一个耳光哟！

但是他，那守猎人，看见白日渐渐显现，他明白了，那是徒劳的，想把你自己从孤独中解脱出来，边种尝试是徒劳的，你得一生依附着这孤独，空罅的弥补只是间或的事，只是间或的！但是你得等待这时机来到，接受你的孤独而一生依着它。然后接受弥补空田的时机，但是这时机是自已来的，你不能用力勉强的。

骤然地。引诱他么追臆她的狂欲毁碎了。这是他毁碎的，因为他觉得那应该这样，双方都应该互相对着趋近，假如她不向他前来，他便不应去追逐她。他不应这样，他得走开，直至她向他前来的时候。

他缓缓地，沉思地、转身走开，重新接受着他的孤立，他知道这样是好些的，她应该向他前来，追逐她是没有用的，没有用的。

波太太看着他婚姻没了，看着他的狗儿跑着跟在他的后面。

“呵呵，原来这样！”对延迟产，“我一向就没有想以他，而他恰恰便我所应该想到的！我没有了德底以后(那时他还年轻)他曾对象很好过，呵，呵！假如他知道了的话，他将怎么说呢！”

她向着自已经入睡了的克利福得意地望了一眼，轻轻地走出了房门。

上一篇：查太莱夫人的情人（LADY CHATTERLEY'S LOVER）第九章 下一篇：查太莱夫人的情人（LADY CHATTERLEY'S LOVER）第十一章