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 civilised 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 o’ 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 offended, 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 a confusion, not knowing what she thought or felt.
IX
Connie was surprised at her own feeling of aversion from Clifford. What is more, she felt she had always really disliked him. Not hate: there was no passion in it. But a profound physical dislike. Almost it seemed to her, she had married him because she disliked him, in a secret, physical sort of way. But of course, she had married him really because in a mental way he attracted her and excited her. He had seemed, in some way, her master, beyond her.
Now the mental excitement had worn itself out and collapsed, and she was aware only of the physical aversion. It rose up in her from her depths: and she realised how it had been eating her life away.
She felt weak and utterly forlorn. She wished some help would come from outside. But in the whole world there was no help. Society was terrible because it was insane. Civilised society is insane. Money and so-called love are its two great manias; money a long way first. The individual asserts himself in his disconnected insanity in these two modes: money and love. Look at Michaelis! His life and activity were just insanity. His love was a sort of insanity.
And Clifford the same. All that talk! All that writing! All that wild struggling to push himself forward! It was just insanity. And it was getting worse, really maniacal.
Connie felt washed-out with fear. But at least, Clifford was shifting his grip from her on to Mrs. Bolton. He did not know it. Like many insane people, his insanity might be measured by the things he was not aware of; the great desert tracts in his consciousness.
Mrs. Bolton was admirable in many ways. But she had that queer sort of bossiness, endless assertion of her own will, which is one of the signs of insanity in modern woman. She thought she was utterly subservient and living for others. Clifford fascinated her because he always, or so often, frustrated her will, as if by a finer instinct. He had a finer, subtler will of self-assertion than herself. This was his charm for her.
Perhaps that had been his charm, too, for Connie.
“It’s a lovely day, today!” Mrs. Bolton would say in her caressive, persuasive voice. “I should think you’d enjoy a little run in your chair today, the sun’s just lovely.”
“Yes? Will you give me that book—there, that yellow one. And I think I’ll have those hyacinths taken out.”
“Why, they’re so beautiful!” She pronounced it with the “y” sound: be-yutiful! “And the scent is simply gorgeous.”
“The scent is what I object to,” he said. “It’s a little funereal.”
“Do you think so!” she exclaimed in surprise, just a little offended, but impressed. And she carried the hyacinths out of the room, impressed by his higher fastidiousness.
“Shall I shave you this morning, or would you rather do it yourself?” Always the same soft, caressive, subservient, yet managing voice.
“I don’t know. Do you mind waiting a while. I’ll ring when I’m ready.”
“Very good, Sir Clifford!” she replied, so soft and submissive, withdrawing quietly. But every rebuff stored up new energy of will in her.
When he rang, after
