`Sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,' he quoted.

`I don't see a bit of connexion with the actual violets,' she said.

`The Elizabethans are rather upholstered.'

She poured him his tea.

`Do you think there is a second key to that little hut not far from

John's Well, where the pheasants are reared?' she said.

`There may be. Why?'

`I happened to find it today---and I'd never seen it before. I think

it's a darling place. I could sit there sometimes, couldn't I?'

`Was Mellors there?'

`Yes! That's how I found it: his hammering. He didn't seem to like

my intruding at all. In fact he was almost rude when I asked about a

second key.'

`What did he say?'

`Oh, nothing: just his manner; and he said he knew nothing about keys.'

`There may be one in Father's study. Betts knows them all, they're

all there. I'll get him to look.'

`Oh do!' she said.

`So Mellors was almost rude?'

`Oh, nothing, really! But I don't think he wanted me to have the freedom

of the castle, quite.'

`I don't suppose he did.'

`Still, I don't see why he should mind. It's not his home, after all!

It's not his private abode. I don't see why I shouldn't sit there if

I want to.'

`Quite!' said Clifford. `He thinks too much of himself, that man.'

`Do you think he does?'

`Oh, decidedly! He thinks he's something exceptional. You know he had

a wife he didn't get on with, so he joined up in 1915 and was sent to

India, I believe. Anyhow he was blacksmith to the cavalry in Egypt for

a time; always was connected with horses, a clever fellow that way.

Then some Indian colonel took a fancy to him, and he was made a lieutenant.

Yes, they gave him a commission. I believe he went back to India with

his colonel, and up to the north-west frontier. He was ill; he was a

pension. He didn't come out of the army till last year, I believe, and

then, naturally, it isn't easy for a man like that to get back to his

own level. He's bound to flounder. But he does his duty all right, as

far as I'm concerned. Only I'm not having any of the Lieutenant Mellors

touch.'

`How could they make him an officer when he speaks broad Derbyshire?'

`He doesn't...except by fits and starts. He can speak perfectly well,

for him. I suppose he has an idea if he's come down to the ranks again,

he'd better speak as the ranks speak.'

`Why didn't you tell me about him before?'

`Oh, I've no patience with these romances. They're the ruin of all

order. It's a thousand pities they ever happened.'

Connie was inclined to agree. What was the good of discontented" title="a.不平的；不满的">discontented people

who fitted in nowhere?

In the spell of fine weather Clifford, too, decided to go to the wood.

The wind was cold, but not so tiresome, and the sunshine was like life

itself, warm and full.

`It's amazing,' said Connie, `how different one feels when there's

a really fresh fine day. Usually one feels the very air is half dead.

People are killing the very air.'

`Do you think people are doing it?' he asked.

`I do. The steam of so much boredom, and discontent and anger out of

all the people, just kills the vitality in the air. I'm sure of it.'

`Perhaps some condition of the atmosphere lowers the vitality of the

people?' he said.

`No, it's man that poisons the universe,' she asserted.

`Fouls his own nest,' remarked Clifford.

The chair puffed on. In the hazel copse catkins were hanging pale gold,

and in sunny places the wood-anemones were wide open, as if exclaiming

with the joy of life, just as good as in past days, when people could

exclaim along with them. They had a faint scent of apple-blossom. Connie

gathered a few for Clifford.

He took them and looked at them curiously.

`Thou still unravished bride of quietness,' he quoted. `It seems to

fit flowers so much better than Greek vases.'

`Ravished is such a horrid word!' she said. `It's only people who ravish

things.'

`Oh, I don't know...snails and things,' he said.

`Even snails only eat them, and bees don't ravish.'

She was angry with him, turning everything into words. Violets were

Juno's eyelids, and windflowers were on ravished brides. How she hated

words, always coming between her and life: they did the ravishing, if

anything did: ready-made words and phrases, sucking all the life-sap

out of living things.

The walk with Clifford was not quite a success. Between him and Connie

there was a tension that each pretended not to notice, but there it

was. Suddenly, with all the force of her female instinct, she was shoving

him off. She wanted to be clear of him, and especially of his consciousness,

his words, his obsession with himself, his endless treadmill obsession

with himself, and his own words.

The weather came rainy again. But after a day or two she went out in

the rain, and she went to the wood. And once there, she went towards

the hut. It was raining, but not so cold, and the wood felt so silent

and remote, inaccessible in the dusk of rain.

She came to the clearing. No one there! The hut was locked. But she

sat on the log doorstep, under the rustic porch, and snuggled into her

own warmth. So she sat, looking at the rain, listening to the many noiseless

noises of it, and to the strange soughings of wind in upper branches,

when there seemed to be no wind. Old oak-trees stood around, grey, powerful

trunks, rain-blackened, round and vital, throwing off reckless limbs.

The ground was fairly free of undergrowth, the anemones sprinkled, there

was a bush or two, elder, or guelder-rose, and a purplish tangle of

bramble: the old russet of bracken almost vanished under green anemone

ruffs. Perhaps this was one of the unravished places. Unravished! The

whole world was ravished.

Some things can't be ravished. You can't ravish a tin of sardines.

And so many women are like that; and men. But the earth...!

The rain was abating. It was hardly making darkness among the oaks

any more. Connie wanted to go; yet she sat on. But she was getting cold;

yet the overwhelming inertia of her inner resentment kept her there

as if paralysed.

Ravished! How ravished one could be without ever being touched. Ravished

by dead words become obscene, and dead ideas become obsessions.

A wet brown dog came running and did not bark, lifting a wet feather

of a tail. The man followed in a wet black oilskin jacket, like a chauffeur,

and face flushed a little. She felt him recoil in his quick walk, when

he saw her. She stood up in the handbreadth of dryness under the rustic

porch. He saluted without speaking, coming slowly near. She began to

withdraw.

`I'm just going,' she said.

`Was yer waitin' to get in?' he asked, looking at the hut, not at her.

`No, I only sat a few minutes in the shelter,' she said, with quiet

dignity.

He looked at her. She looked cold.

`Sir Clifford 'adn't got no other key then?' he asked.

`No, but it doesn't matter. I can sit perfectly dry under this porch.

Good afternoon!' She hated the excess of vernacular in his speech.

He watched her closely, as she was moving away. Then he hitched up

his jacket, and put his hand in his breeches pocket, taking out the

key of the hut.

`'Appen yer'd better 'ave this key, an' Ah min fend for t' bods some

other road.'

She looked at him.

`What do you mean?' she asked.

`I mean as 'appen Ah can find anuther pleece as'll du for rearin' th'

pheasants. If yer want ter be 'ere, yo'll non want me messin' abaht

a' th' time.'

She looked at him, getting his meaning through the fog of the dialect.

`Why don't you speak ordinary English?' she said coldly.

`Me! Ah thowt it wor ordinary.'

She was silent for a few moments in anger.

`So if yer want t' key, yer'd better tacit. Or 'appen Ah'd better gi'e

't yer termorrer, an' clear all t' stuff aht fust. Would that du for

yer?'

She became more angry.

`I didn't want your key,' she said. `I don't want you to clear anything

out at all. I don't in the least want to turn you out of your hut, thank

you! I only wanted to be able to sit here sometimes, like today. But

I can sit perfectly well under the porch, so please say no more about

it.'

He looked at her again, with his wicked blue eyes.

`Why,' he began, in the broad slow dialect. `Your Ladyship's as welcome

as Christmas ter th' hut an' th' key an' iverythink as is. On'y this

time O' th' year ther's bods ter set, an' Ah've got ter be potterin'

abaht a good bit, seein' after 'em, an' a'. Winter time Ah ned 'ardly

come nigh th' pleece. But what wi' spring, an' Sir Clifford wantin'

ter start th' pheasants...An' your Ladyship'd non want me tinkerin'

around an' about when she was 'ere, all the time.'

She listened with a dim kind of amazement.

`Why should I mind your being here?' she asked.

He looked at her curiously.

`T'nuisance on me!' he said briefly, but significantly. She flushed.

`Very well!' she said finally. `I won't trouble you. But I don't think

I should have minded at all sitting and seeing you look after the birds.

I should have liked it. But since you think it interferes with you,

I won't disturb you, don't be afraid. You are Sir Clifford's keeper,

not mine.'

The phrase sounded queer, she didn't know why. But she let it pass.

`Nay, your Ladyship. It's your Ladyship's own 'ut. It's as your Ladyship

likes an' pleases, every time. Yer can turn me off at a wik's notice.

It wor only...'

`Only what?' she asked, baffled.

He pushed back his hat in an odd comic way.

`On'y as 'appen yo'd like the place ter yersen, when yer did come,

an' not me messin' abaht.'

`But why?' she said, angry. `Aren't you a civilized human being? Do

you think I ought to be afraid of you? Why should I take any notice

of you and your being here or not? Why is it important?'

He looked at her, all his face glimmering with wicked laughter.

`It's not, your Ladyship. Not in the very least,' he said.

`Well, why then?' she asked.

`Shall I get your Ladyship another key then?'

`No thank you! I don't want it.'

`Ah'll get it anyhow. We'd best 'ave two keys ter th' place.'

`And I consider you are insolent,' said Connie, with her colour up,

panting a little.

`Nay, nay!' he said quickly. `Dunna yer say that! Nay, nay! I niver

meant nuthink. Ah on'y thought as if yo' come 'ere, Ah s'd ave ter clear

out, an' it'd mean a lot of work, settin' up somewheres else. But if

your Ladyship isn't going ter take no notice O' me, then...it's Sir

Clifford's 'ut, an' everythink is as your Ladyship likes, everythink

is as your Ladyship likes an' pleases, barrin' yer take no notice O'

me, doin' th' bits of jobs as Ah've got ter do.'

Connie went away completely bewildered. She was not sure whether she

had been insulted and mortally of fended, or not. Perhaps the man really

only meant what he said; that he thought she would expect him to keep

away. As if she would dream of it! And as if he could possibly be so

important, he and his stupid presence.

She went home in confusion, not knowing what she thought or felt.