LITMIR.BIZ

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But I keep him. And I’m going to marry. Oh, yes, I must marry.”

      “It sounds like going to have your tonsils cut,” laughed Connie. “Will it be an effort?”

      He looked at her admiringly. “Well, Lady Chatterley, somehow it will! I find… excuse me… I find I can’t marry an Englishwoman, not even an Irishwoman…”

      “Try an American,” said Clifford.

      “Oh, American!” He laughed a hollow laugh. “No, I’ve asked my man if he will find me a Turk or something… something nearer to the Oriental.”

      Connie really wondered at this queer, melancholy specimen of extraordinary success; it was said he had an income of fifty thousand dollars from America alone. Sometimes he was handsome: sometimes as he looked sideways, downwards, and the light fell on him, he had the silent, enduring beauty of a carved ivory Negro[31] mask, with his rather full eyes, and the strong queerly-arched brows, the immobile, compressed mouth; that momentary but revealed immobility, an immobility, a timelessness which the Buddha aims at, and which Negroes express sometimes without ever aiming at it; something old, old, and acquiescent in the race! Aeons of acquiescence in race destiny, instead of our individual resistance. And then a swimming through, like rats in a dark river. Connie felt a sudden, strange leap of sympathy for him, a leap mingled with compassion, and tinged with repulsion, amounting almost to love. The outsider! The outsider! And they called him a bounder! How much more bounderish and assertive Clifford looked! How much stupider!

      Michaelis knew at once he had made an impression on her. He turned his full, hazel, slightly prominent eyes on her in a look of pure detachment. He was estimating her, and the extent of the impression he had made. With the English nothing could save him from being the eternal outsider, not even love. Yet women sometimes fell for him… Englishwomen too.

      He knew just where he was with Clifford. They were two alien dogs which would have liked to snarl at one another, but which smiled instead, perforce. But with the woman he was not quite so sure.

      Breakfast was served in the bedrooms; Clifford never appeared before lunch, and the dining-room was a little dreary. After coffee Michaelis, restless and ill-sitting soul, wondered what he should do. It was a fine November day… fine for Wragby. He looked over the melancholy park. My God! What a place!

      He sent a servant to ask, could he be of any service to Lady Chatterley: he thought of driving into Sheffield. The answer came, would he care to go up to Lady Chatterley’s sitting-room.

      Connie had a sitting-room on the third floor, the top floor of the central portion of the house. Clifford’s rooms were on the ground floor, of course. Michaelis was flattered by being asked up to Lady Chatterley’s own parlour. He followed blindly after the servant… He never noticed things, or had contact with his surroundings. In her room he did glance vaguely round at the fine German reproductions of Renoir and Cezanne.

      “It’s very pleasant up here,” he said, with his queer smile, as if it hurt him to smile, showing his teeth. “You are wise to get up to the top.”

      “Yes, I think so,” she said.

      Her room was the only gay, modern one in the house, the only spot in Wragby where her personality was at all revealed. Clifford had never seen it, and she asked very few people up.

      Now she and Michaelis sit on opposite sides of the fire and talked. She asked him about himself, his mother and father, his brothers… other people were always something of a wonder to her, and when her sympathy was awakened she was quite devoid of class feeling. Michaelis talked frankly about himself, quite frankly, without affectation, simply revealing his bitter, indifferent, stray-dog’s soul, then showing a gleam of revengeful pride in his success.

      “But why are you such a lonely bird?” Connie asked him; and again he looked at her, with his full, searching, hazel look.

      “Some birds are that way,” he replied. Then, with a touch of familiar irony: “but, look here, what about yourself? Aren’t you by way of being a lonely bird yourself?” Connie, a little startled, thought about it for a few moments, and then she said: “Only in a way! Not altogether, like you!”

      “Am I altogether a lonely bird?” he asked, with his queer grin of a smile, as if he had toothache; it was so wry, and his eyes were so perfectly unchangingly melancholy, or stoical, or disillusioned or afraid.

      “Why?” she said, a little breathless, as she looked at him. “You are, aren’t you?”

      She felt a terrible appeal coming to her from him, that made her almost lose her balance.

      “Oh, you’re quite right!” he said, turning his head away, and looking sideways, downwards, with that strange immobility of an old race that is hardly here in our present day. It was that that really made Connie lose her power to see him detached from herself.

      He looked up at her with the full glance that saw everything, registered everything. At the same time, the infant crying in the night was crying out of his breast to her, in a way that affected her very womb.

      “It’s awfully nice of you to think of me,” he said laconically.

      “Why shouldn’t I think of you?” she exclaimed, with hardly breath to utter it.

      He gave the wry, quick hiss of a laugh.

      “Oh, in that way!.. May I hold your hand for a minute?” he asked suddenly, fixing his eyes on her with almost hypnotic power, and sending out an appeal that affected her direct in the womb.

      She stared at him, dazed and transfixed, and he went over and kneeled beside her, and took her two feet close in his two hands, and buried his face in her lap, remaining motionless. She was perfectly dim and dazed, looking down in a sort of amazement at the rather tender nape of his neck, feeling his face pressing her thighs. In all her burning dismay, she could not help putting her hand, with tenderness and compassion, on the defenceless nape of his neck, and he trembled, with a deep shudder.

      Then he looked up at her with that awful appeal in his full, glowing eyes. She was utterly incapable of resisting it. From her breast flowed the answering, immense yearning over him; she must give him anything, anything.

      He was a curious and very gentle lover, very gentle with the woman, trembling uncontrollably, and yet at the same time detached, aware, aware of every sound outside.

      To her it meant nothing except that she gave herself to him. And at length he ceased to quiver any more, and lay quite still, quite still. Then, with dim, compassionate fingers, she stroked his head, that lay on her breast.

      When he rose, he kissed both her hands, then both her feet, in their suede slippers, and in silence went away to the end of the room, where he stood with his back to her. There was silence for some minutes. Then he turned and came to her again as she sat in her old place by the fire.

      “And now, I suppose you’ll hate me!” he said in a quiet, inevitable way. She looked up at him quickly.

      “Why should I?” she asked.

      “They mostly do,” he said; then he caught himself up. “I mean… a woman is supposed to.”

      “This is the last moment when I ought to hate you,” she said resentfully.

      “I know! I know! It should be so! You’re frightfully good to me…” he cried miserably.

      She wondered why he should be miserable. “Won’t you sit down again?” she said. He glanced at the door.

      “Sir Clifford!” he said, “won’t he… won’t he be…?” She paused a moment to consider. “Perhaps!” she said. And she looked up at him. “I don’t want Clifford to know not even to suspect. It would hurt him so much. But I don’t think it’s wrong, do you?”

      “Wrong! Good God, no! You’re only too infinitely good to me… I can hardly bear it.”

      He turned aside, and she saw that in another moment he would be sobbing.

      “But we needn’t let Clifford know, need we?” she pleaded. “It would

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