He saw the light go out. But he did not see Mrs Bolton come to the window and draw back the old dark-blue silk curtains, and stand herself looking out, looking for the longed-for dawn, waiting, waiting for Clifford to be assured that it was really daybreak. When he saw the day breaking, he would be able to go to sleep.
So she stood semi-consciously at the window. And as she stood, she became aware of the figure dim but detached upon the drive. At first she was afraid: a man! She woke up, and watched closer, closer.
She could just make out, in the flushing dawn, his rather baggy jacket, and his gun. Yes, the dog was running round. It would be Parkin, the gamekeeper. And gazing motionless at the house. Motionless! The figure detached itself more and more distinctly, as the light of day, beyond the great guardian beeches before the house; grew rosy and alive. Parkin, standing there small and transfixed!
What did he want? Did he want her ladyship? Was he like a male dog sickly waiting outside the house of the bitch? Should she, Mrs Bolton, go out and speak to him?
But he, as the day grew, felt the futility of his yearning. He would not see her. She would not come out. And he could not go in. And if he could, she would not want him. She would not want to be disturbed, to be sprung upon. She would not want him. She would want to be safely apart from him, now.
This knowledge drove deeper and deeper into his bones. Till at last, with a curious sudden snap, the thread of bleeding desire Which she had carried away with her, and which held him helpless, snapped, even at the moment when his soul finally, deliberately broke it, because it was no good. There was no coming to the end of the desire, to the infinitely yearned-for contact. She did not want it, not now, absolutely. So at last came the break of the thread of the desire, at last he was able to go. And, he turned away, slowly, ponderingly, departing. He had been able to break the spell, this time at least. But his heart was still immeasurably sad, and bleeding in some way. Yet he walked back to the wood with quickening feet. It was broken. A man must not depend on a woman.
And Mrs Bolton, who was just making up her mind to go out and speak to him,’ saw him turn and disappear. Yes, he was gone! And his going made her more certain than ever.
‘Well would you ever now!’ she said to herself, dazed with sleep. ‘And not a young man either!’
CHAPTER IX
Constance was sorting out a lumber room on the top floor, under the roof. The rooms on this floor were all really attics, except the two in the centre, which were over the hall. These were a little higher: and one of them was Constance’s sitting-room, at the top of the second, hidden flight of stairs. She rather liked this lonely top floor of the old, low-pitched house. She always felt she might discover treasures, if she looked long enough.
Now, with Mrs Bolton’s help, she was sorting out the long storeroom, lifting aside the old, usually ugly pieces of furniture, looking through everything. There was a very nice old painted bureau, painted with scenes and inlaid with mother-of-pearl: but it was rather badly disfigured. It would be pleasant to restore it herself, and put back the old landscapes complete. It was a job that appealed to her. Then there was a lacquer screen — but indeed, there were many things, crippled or damaged, which she could have a go at.
And among the rest, carefully wrapped up to preserve it from dry-rot, was a charming cradle of rose-wood, two hundred years old at least. It had such touching proportions, its hood, of old rose-wood, somehow looked so like a cosy, subtle bonnet to shield the child under the coverlet, Constance was moved. How many Chatterley babies had lain in it? Perhaps Clifford himself.
Well, and perhaps her own baby!
‘Isn’t it sweet!’ said Mrs Bolton. ‘But a bit cumbersome, don’t you think, my lady?’
‘No!’ said Constance. ‘I like it very much. It seems almost alive. I suppose it’s been used so much.’
‘You may be sure it has! I expect Sir Clifford’s father and grandfather were rocked in it. And who knows how many before them! Fancy though! In these old houses and old families things linger on, don’t they, no matter how the world changes! It seems a pity there isn’t a little baby to put in it now, don’t you think your ladyship?’ Mrs Bolton said, in her peculiar suggestive way.
‘Yes!’ said Connie vaguely. ‘I suppose it is.’ She hesitated, before she added: ‘But there may be, you know.’ And as she said it, she looked up into the grey, inquisitive eyes of the nurse, her own eyes wide and veiled and innocent. The eyes of the two women met, and there was a moment of silence more arresting than a scream. Then Mrs Bolton adjusted herself, and said quickly:
‘Oh, your ladyship, that would be good news! Oh my word, that would be good news! — But you’re not expecting it, are you?’
‘No,’ said Constance slowly. ‘Not as a certainty. But it may be—’ and she turned away.
‘Oh, I do hope so, I do!’ Mrs Bolton concluded, a little lamely.
And Constance left the subject.
But, the heart of Mrs Bolton exulted wildly and explosively. A pink colour mounted in her cheeks, she could hardly contain herself. A baby! Her ladyship having a baby! And herself confided in! Yes, she needed no more than a hint. Her ladyship had looked at her, as one woman to another, and they had exchanged the secret!
Strange thrills of exultation went through the woman. The cradle fascinated her now. it seemed like the shell of all the mysterious revolt of womanhood, and the subtle revenge of the ages. Oh yes, her ladyship was a real woman, a real woman, afraid of nothing or nobody. A baby! Quite openly and innocently! And nobody knew better than she, Ivy Bolton, that it was none of Sir Clifford’s. Poor Sir Clifford! Even while she pitied him, the bowels of the nurse gave a thrill of triumph.
Was it though, was it Parkin’s child! Oh my dear, just think of it! — in that old cradle! Oh my dear! But no doubt it would be as good a baby as ever a Chatterley produced. She would say that for Oliver Parkin, no man had a fresher, healthier skin, nor a quicker eye. Leave the man’s character alone, his body was fresh and healthy enough! Oh poor Sir Clifford! Poor Sir Clifford, if he ever knew! My word, there were troubles ahead.
‘Look!’ Constance was saying. ‘Shall we send this to the bazaar?’
She was hunting something for a grand bazaar which the charitable Duchess was to open: a bazaar garden-party affair in the grounds of Cotmanhay Hall. And ‘this’ was a largish, black’ japanned work-box, evidently made some fifty or sixty years ago, out of some man’s would-be-ingenious mind. It really was ingenious. It had compartments for everything, probably it was intended for a travelling companion. And what a curse it would be, of that unhandy in-between size! Such a big thing to pack in a trunk: and impossible to carry unpacked. But it contained everything, and in perfect order. On the top was a concentrated toilet set, brushes, bottles, combs, mirrors even small razors with safety sheaths; then small clothes-brushes boot-brushes; then an ink-well, pens; small blotter, and diary: then a perfect sewing outfit, with three different pairs of scissors and everything to fit. It was wonderful. And everything brand-new, the ink-well had never had ink in it, the silks cottons were untouched, the small brushes were immaculate And everything was of the Victorian best: wonderful fine scissors, beautiful bristles in the brushes, everything perfectly made! And the whole thing fitting together like the most intricate puzzle.
It really was a surprise-packet. Connie kept on discovering and discovering, and the very unexpectedness made the women laugh. Another invisible compartment! Lo, sealing-wax, wafers, coloured as gay as life: and at least fifty years old. Never been touched!
‘It must have been a present,’ said Constance. ‘Do you think it will do for the bazaar?’
‘Oh, my word! Why it’s lovely! It perfectly fascinates me!’ said Ivy Bolton, her eyes shining in a kind of ecstasy over this box of innumerable intricate treasures. ‘I think it’s too lovely to give to a bazaar. Why it must have cost pounds and pounds.’
‘I suppose it must, for it must have been specially made, by a quite clever workman. But
whoever would use it?’
‘Oh, your ladyship, but everything is useful! Look at that sweet button-hook! And even three corks, three silver-mounted corks, for if you opened a bottle and wanted a cork. Oh, and a screw-driver, and a perfect little hammer, and pincers! There’s not a thing that doesn’t come in!’
‘Even travelling razors and shaving-brush, not to mention those clumsy tooth-brushes! Do you think anybody would ever use it?’
“Why, your ladyship, if it wasn’t for fear of spoiling it, I should think anybody would just love having it to use!’
‘You have it then!’ said Connie.
‘Oh no! I didn’t mean that, your ladyship.’
‘I know. But do have it. I love people to have a thing if it thrills them. And it rather thrills you, doesn’t it?’
‘Oh, it does thrill me! But—’
The glisten of innocent, or at least childish covetousness gleamed in the nurse’s eyes.
‘Then take it!’ said Connie with finality. ‘That’s yours! and we’ll send these four pictures to the bazaar, shall we?’
The four pictures were by two R.A.’s who were only just a little more old-fashioned than Connie’s father.
Mrs Bolton was ecstasised for days by her box. She had to carry it to the village, to her cottage. And she had to ask a few ‘friends’ in to tea. And it took hours, simply, to examine everything. But in between she had time to say:
‘And would you believe it, Lady Chatterley still has hopes of a son and heir?’
‘Never!’ cried the women. ‘Why it’s impossible!’
‘You’d have thought so, wouldn’t you? And I always thought so myself. But it seems it isn’t so. No! Sir Clifford’s legs are Paralysed, but —’ and a series of suggestive nods. ‘And you know he’s so much better! Wonderful, really! I know she’s hoping, poor thing. She mentioned to me herself. I do hope, for her sake, it is.’
‘Wonders’ll never cease!’ said Mrs Draycott. ‘It seems you can all but kill a man, but he’ll be able to do something that way, with a woman. I would never have believed it!’
‘Oh, but you should see the strong arms and shoulders and chest he’s got: a splendid chest! Only at the hips, you know —’ and she began a few more hints and suggestive nods. The word flew round among the women of the place, and came before long to the doctor who sometimes looked in on Sir Clifford.
‘Well,’ said the local doctor, ‘I should have said it would take a miracle. But women can perform miracles. — And there’s no sign of any baby yet!’
The word went on and on. Mrs Linley, the manager’s wife, said to Constance one day, in the hushed intimacy of tea tête-à-tête under the ‘arbour’ at the manager’s house:
‘And I hear there are hopes of a son and heir at Wragby. Oh, wouldn’t that be wonderful for Sir Clifford and all of us! Oh dear, I do hope it’s a certainty!’
‘No!’ said Constance, flushing. ‘It’s not — not a certainty. — It’s only a hope.’
It was marvellous, with her stammering hesitancy, how she kept her winsome, innocent attractiveness. Even Mrs Linley felt motherly towards her, at the moment: excited and motherly. She nodded her head, up and down, and repeated:
‘Time will show! Time will show!’
Constance agreed that it certainly would.
And as Connie went home, she had something to think about. Mrs Bolton had evidently been preparing the way for the ‘event’, if it should ever come off. Constance had herself no signs that it would actually come off. Yet she believed that it inevitably would. She felt she would have a child by Parkin.
In that case, perhaps, it was just as well for the village to be prepared. Perhaps Ivy Bolton was right, in letting out a hint. But also, perhaps now it made the meetings with Parkin more risky. Wouldn’t everybody be on the watch?
But evidently, the hint had gone further than the village. It had spread into the county. Mr Winter, from Shipley Hall, called one afternoon. He too was a coal-owner, and a friend since Eton of Clifford’s father, Sir Geoffrey. He was a lean, well-bred man of about sixty-five, wealthy, and twenty years ago had been considered very go-ahead, both in politics and in the mining world. But the world has itself gone ahead, or gone astray, with such startling rapidity since the death of Queen Victoria, that Squire Winter, as the colliers still called him, seemed like a gentleman from some old regime which nobody can remember any more.
‘I’m delighted to find you so much improved, Clifford, delighted,’ said the old man: who did not think himself old in the least; and who really was not old in himself; only, in some queer way, out-of-date.
The two had a very keen and interesting talk about coal-mining. Winter was shrewd enough.
‘That’s right, that’s the way, Clifford! We can keep up our heads for a time yet. If coal isn’t what it was, it must become something else, that’s all. Oh, I think, with the new additions, we shall keep the works going and the men employed for my life-time, and for yours too. Men must be employed, and we shall employ them. Oh yes! we shall last my life-time, and we shall last yours; and if we had sons, I hope we should last their life-time too. — By the way, Clifford — forgive me if I’m touching too near, but I feel, in a sense, we are all one family, here in our corner of the country—! There was a rumour that we might have the pleasure of welcoming the birth of an heir to Wragby. No foundation in it, I suppose?’
The man seemed wistful. It was obvious he honestly hoped for it.
There was a silence. Clifford was startled, frightened, infuriated, bewildered, and a little flattered.
‘Well Sir!’ he said, fetching a quick look at this lean man With the white moustache, of whom he had always stood just, a little in awe. ‘Of course nothing is certain. — But we can hope!’
He gave a wan, indefinite smile, under the keen and imperious eyes of his father’s friend. ‘We can always hope, I think, Sir!’ he added.
‘Ah! I see! I see! No definite expectation? — But there is hope?’ said Winter, with an eagle glance at Clifford. ‘There is ground for hope?’
‘Oh, there is every hope, Sir!’ said Clifford, with a boy’s naïveté. And he was amazed at himself.
‘I am glad, Clifford, more glad than I can ever say. For your sake, for Lady Chatterley’s, for our sake here in the county. I hope and pray it may be so! A son and heir at Wragby — and the world will still wag on. My world comes to an end with myself — ! Ah well! You are wise to have married! I shall leave my people employed, that is all I can say. But Shipley, when I am gone—’
He lapsed into silence, and Clifford could feel the touch of death in the room. This man, who had been a friend of King Edward, was almost willing to die. The world was no longer his world.
Clifford had a new thing to brood over. And he brooded over it for some days before he mentioned it to Connie. But one morning, when she was arranging some yellow tulips in his room, he said to her,
‘I say, Connie, have you heard a rumour that you are going to provide Wragby with a son and heir?’
She did not start, she made no movement. Only in perfect unconscious silence she waited for some moments with the tulips in her hands. Then she came to. And she said, with queer quiet:
‘Why, have you heard such a rumour?’
And she went on arranging the flowers, though it cost her a great effort to control her breathing.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘You would hardly expect it, but I have.’
‘From whom?’
He hesitated whether to answer. She always parried his questions by asking others.
‘Well, if it interests you, from Winter — he asked me if the rumour had any foundation in it. Has it?’
‘And what did you say?’ she asked, still one by one placing the silky flowers in their jars.
‘Do you mind turning round?’ he said.
She took her flowers and the vase and turned facing him, but still went on with her arranging, in silence.
‘Do you mind telling me if you know how the rumo
ur started?’ he asked. ‘And whether there is any foundation to it, as John Winter said?’
She looked up at him. How queer he was: so apart from her! He seemed to see things, and know things, but never to be anything quite real. No breath entered him, from any other living being or creature or thing. He knew about life, but he was not life. No breath of life came from him. Only this queer knowing about things.
‘There is no foundation for it, as far as I know,’ she said, looking at him with that queer blank candour. ‘What did you say to Mr Winter?’
He was at once relieved and disappointed. But he answered:
‘What could I say? I said the same: there was no foundation for it.’
‘That there couldn’t be?’ she asked simply.
‘No! I didn’t go so far. I didn’t know quite — when it came on me all in a moment — quite where you stood. — I thought I’d better leave you a loop-hole, considering what I said to you before.’
She pondered for a while.
‘And what did you say, then, to Mr Winter?’ she asked.
He was a little reluctant to tell her.
‘Why —’ he said. ‘It’s a little ridiculous, no doubt. But I was so taken aback. — And when he pressed me to know if there was any hope of such a thing as a son and heir—’ here Clifford tilted his eyebrows with odd irony — ‘I just said there was every hope—’
He looked at her oddly. She was still softly touching the flowers. She looked up at him.
‘Do you think it’s funny?’ she said.
‘Rather, don’t you? — even if we have to laugh on the wrong side of our face! Rather funny, don’t you think?’
‘But if I did have a child, after all?’ she said, annoyed.
‘Whose?’
‘Oh —’ she brushed the question aside like a vexing fly. ‘It Would be my child, wouldn’t it?’ She looked him in the eyes.
‘Quite! But you hardly expect a virgin birth.’
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