'I shall if I possibly can.I should be fearfully proud if I had a child by him.'
It was no use talking to her.Hilda pondered.
'And doesn't Clifford suspect?'she said.
'Oh no!Why should he?'
'I've no doubt you've given him plenty of occasion for suspicion,'said Hilda.
'Not it all.'
'And tonight's business seems quite gratuitous folly.Where does the man live?'
'In the cottage at the other end of the wood.'
'Is he a bachelor?'
'No!His wife left him.'
'How old?'
'I don't know.Older than me.'
Hilda became more angry at every reply,angry as her mother used to be,in a kind of paroxysm.But still she hid it.
'I would give up tonight's escapade if I were you,'she advised calmly.
'I can't!I must stay with him tonight,or I can't go to Venice at all.I just can't.'
Hilda heard her father over again,and she gave way,out of mere diplomacy.
And she consented to drive to Mansfield,both of them,to dinner,to bring Connie back to the lane-end after dark,and to fetch her from the lane-end the next morning,herself sleeping in Mansfield,only half an hour away,good going.
But she was furious.She stored it up against her sister,this balk in her plans.
Connie flung an emerald-green shawl over her window-sill.
On the strength of her anger,Hilda warmed toward Clifford.
After all,he had a mind.And if he had no sex,functionally,all the better:so much the less to quarrel about!Hilda wanted no more of that sex business,where men became nasty,selfish little horrors.Connie really had less to put up with than many women if she did but know it.
And Clifford decided that Hilda,after all,was a decidedly intelligent woman,and would make a man a first-rate helpmate,if he were going in for politics for example.Yes,she had none of Connie's silliness,Connie was more a child:you had to make excuses for her,because she was not altogether dependable.
There was an early cup of tea in the hall,where doors were open to let in the sun.Everybody seemed to be panting a little.
'Good-bye,Connie girl!Come back to me safely.'
'Good-bye,Clifford!Yes,I shan't be long.'Connie was almost tender.
'Good-bye,Hilda!You will keep an eye on her,won't you?'
'I'll even keep two!'said Hilda.'She shan't go very far astray.'
'It's a promise!'
'Good-bye,Mrs Bolton!I know you'll look after Sir Clifford nobly.'
'I'll do what I can,your Ladyship.'
'And write to me if there is any news,and tell me about Sir Clifford,how he is.'
'Very good,your Ladyship,I will.And have a good time,and come back and cheer us up.'
Everybody waved.The car went off Connie looked back and saw Clifford,sitting at the top of the steps in his house-chair.After all,he was her husband:Wragby was her home:circumstance had done it.
Mrs Chambers held the gate and wished her ladyship a happy holiday.
The car slipped out of the dark spinney that masked the park,on to the highroad where the colliers were trailing home.Hilda turned to the Crosshill Road,that was not a main road,but ran to Mansfield.Connie put on goggles.
They ran beside the railway,which was in a cutting below them.Then they crossed the cutting on a bridge.
'That's the lane to the cottage!'said Connie.
Hilda glanced at it impatiently.
'It's a frightful pity we can't go straight off!'she said.We could have been in Pall Mall by nine o'clock.'
'I'm sorry for your sake,'said Connie,from behind her goggles.
They were soon at Mansfield,that once-romantic,now utterly disheartening colliery town.Hilda stopped at the hotel named in the motor-car book,and took a room.The whole thing was utterly uninteresting,and she was almost too angry to talk.However,Connie had to tell her something of the man's history.
'He !He !What name do you call him by?You only say he ,'
said Hilda.
'I've never called him by any name:nor he me:which is curious,when you come to think of it.Unless we say Lady Jane and John Thomas.But his name is Oliver Mellors.'
'And how would you like to be Mrs Oliver Mellors,instead of Lady Chatterley?'
'I'd love it.'
There was nothing to be done with Connie.And anyhow,if the man had been a lieutenant in the army in India for four or five years,he must be more or less presentable.Apparently he had character.Hilda began to relent a little.
'But you'll be through with him in awhile,'she said,'and then you'll be ashamed of having been connected with him.One can't mix up with the working people.'
'But you are such a socialist!you're always on the side of the working classes.'
'I may be on their side in a political crisis,but being on their side makes me know how impossible it is to mix one's life with theirs.Not out of snobbery,but just because the whole rhythm is different.'
Hilda had lived among the real political intellectuals,so she was disastrously unanswerable.
The nonde evening in the hotel dragged out,and at last they had a nonde dinner.Then Connie slipped a few things into a little silk bag,and combed her hair once more.
'After all,Hilda,'she said,'love can be wonderful:when you feel you live ,and are in the very middle of creation.'It was almost like bragging on her part.
'I suppose every mosquito feels the same,'said Hilda.'Do you think it does?How nice for it!'
The evening was wonderfully clear and long-lingering,even in the small town.It would be half-light all night.With a face like a mask,from resentment,Hilda started her car again,and the two sped back on their traces,taking the other road,through Bolsover.
Connie wore her goggles and disguising cap,and she sat in silence.
Because of Hilda's Opposition,she was fiercely on the sidle of the man,she would stand by him through thick and thin.
They had their head-lights on,by the time they passed Crosshill,and the small lit-up train that chuffed past in the cutting made it seem like real night.Hilda had calculated the turn into the lane at the bridge-end.
She slowed up rather suddenly and swerved off the road,the lights glaring white into the grassy,overgrown lane.Connie looked out.She saw a shadowy figure,and she opened the door.