Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D. H. Lawrence

Author:D. H. Lawrence [Lawrence, D. H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Tags: Adultery -- Fiction, England -- Fiction, Love stories, Married women -- Fiction, Man-woman relationships -- Fiction, Erotic stories, Gamekeepers -- Fiction, Disabled veterans -- Fiction
Publisher: Standard Ebooks
Published: 2024-12-10T17:22:53+00:00

XII

Connie went to the wood directly after lunch. It was really a lovely day, the first dandelions making suns, the first daisies so white. The hazel thicket was a lacework of half-open leaves, and the last dusty perpendicular of the catkins. Yellow celandines now were in crowds, flat open, pressed back in urgency, and the yellow glitter of themselves. It was the yellow, the powerful yellow of early summer. And primroses were broad, and full of pale abandon, thick-clustered primroses no longer shy. The lush, dark green of hyacinths was a sea, with buds rising like pale corn, while in the riding the forget-me-nots were fluffing up, and columbines were unfolding their ink-purple riches, and there were bits of bluebird’s eggshell under a bush. Everywhere the bud-knots and the leap of life!

The keeper was not at the hut. Everything was serene, brown chickens running lustily. Connie walked on towards the cottage, because she wanted to find him.

The cottage stood in the sun, off the wood’s edge. In the little garden the double daffodils rose in tufts, near the wide-open door, and red double daisies made a border to the path. There was the bark of a dog, and Flossie came running.

The wide-open door! so he was at home. And the sunlight falling on the redbrick floor! As she went up the path, she saw him through the window, sitting at the table in his shirtsleeves, eating. The dog wuffed softly, slowly wagging her tail.

He rose, and came to the door, wiping his mouth with a red handkerchief, still chewing.

“May I come in?” she said.

“Come in!”

The sun shone into the bare room, which still smelled of a mutton chop, done in a dutch oven before the fire, because the dutch oven still stood on the fender, with the black potato-saucepan on a piece of paper beside it on the white hearth. The fire was red, rather low, the bar dropped, the kettle singing.

On the table was his plate, with potatoes and the remains of the chop; also bread in a basket, salt, and a blue mug with beer. The tablecloth was white oilcloth. He stood in the shade.

“You are very late,” she said. “Do go on eating!”

She sat down on a wooden chair, in the sunlight by the door.

“I had to go to Uthwaite,” he said, sitting down at table but not eating.

“Do eat,” she said.

But he did not touch the food.

“Shall y’ave something?” he asked her. “Shall y’ave a cup of tea? t’ kettle’s on t’ boil.” He half rose again from his chair.

“If you’ll let me make it myself,” she said rising. He seemed sad, and she felt she was bothering him.

“Well, teapot’s in there,”—he pointed to a little, drab corner cupboard; “an’ cups. An’ tea’s on t’ mantel ower yer ’ead.”

She got the black teapot, and the tin of tea from the mantelshelf. She rinsed the teapot with hot water, and stood a moment wondering where to empty it.

“Thrown it out,” he said, aware of her. “It’s clean.”

She went to the door and threw the drop of water down the path.

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