The baby was a perky little thing of about a year, with red hair like its father, and cheeky pale-blue eyes. It was a girl, and not to be daunted. It sat among cushions and was surrounded with rag dolls and other toys in modern excess.
“Why, what a dear she is!” said Connie, “and how she’s grown! A big girl! A big girl!”
She had given it a shawl when it was born, and celluloid ducks for Christmas.
“There, Josephine! Who’s that come to see you? Who’s this, Josephine? Lady Chatterley—you know Lady Chatterley, don’t you?”
The queer pert little mite gazed cheekily at Connie. Ladyships were still all the same to her.
“Come! Will you come to me?” said Connie to the baby.
The baby didn’t care one way or another, so Connie picked her up and held her in her lap. How warm and lovely it was to hold a child in one’s lap, and the soft little arms, the unconscious cheeky little legs.
“I was just having a rough cup of tea all by myself. Luke’s gone to market, so I can have it when I like. Would you care for a cup, Lady Chatterley? I don’t suppose it’s what you’re used to, but if you would.”
Connie would, though she didn’t want to be reminded of what she was used to. There was a great relaying of the table, and the best cups brought and the best teapot.
“If only you wouldn’t take any trouble,” said Connie.
But if Mrs. Flint took no trouble, where was the fun! So Connie played with the child and was amused by its little female dauntlessness, and got a deep voluptuous pleasure out of its soft young warmth. Young life! And so fearless! So fearless, because so defenceless. All the older people, so narrow with fear!
She had a cup of tea, which was rather strong, and very good bread and butter, and bottled damsons. Mrs. Flint flushed and glowed and bridled with excitement, as if Connie were some gallant knight. And they had a real female chat, and both of them enjoyed it.
“It’s a poor little tea, though,” said Mrs. Flint.
“It’s much nicer than at home,” said Connie truthfully.
“Oh-h!” said Mrs. Flint, not believing, of course.
But at last Connie rose.
“I must go,” she said. “My husband has no idea where I am. He’ll be wondering all kinds of things.”
“He’ll never think you’re here,” laughed Mrs. Flint excitedly. “He’ll be sending the crier round.”
“Goodbye, Josephine,” said Connie, kissing the baby and ruffling its red, wispy hair.
Mrs. Flint insisted on opening the locked and barred front door. Connie emerged in the farm’s little front garden, shut in by a privet hedge. There were two rows of auriculas by the path, very velvety and rich.
“Lovely auriculas,” said Connie.
“Recklesses, as Luke calls them,” laughed Mrs. Flint. “Have some.”
And eagerly she picked the velvet and primrose flowers.
“Enough! Enough!” said Connie.
They came to the little garden gate.
“Which way were you going?” asked Mrs. Flint.
“By the warren.”
“Let me see! Oh yes, the cows are in the gin close. But they’re not up yet. But the gate’s locked, you’ll have to climb.”
“I can climb,” said Connie.
“Perhaps I can just go down the close with you.”
They went down the poor, rabbit-bitten pasture. Birds were whistling in wild evening triumph in the wood. A man was calling up the last cows, which trailed slowly over the path-worn pasture.
“They’re late, milking, tonight,” said Mrs. Flint severely. “They know Luke won’t be back till after dark.”
They came to the fence, beyond which the young fir wood bristled dense. There was a little gate, but it was locked. In the grass on the inside stood a bottle, empty.
“There’s the keeper’s empty bottle for his milk,” explained Mrs. Flint. “We bring it as far as here for him, and then he fetches it himself.”
“When?” said Connie.
“Oh, any time he’s around. Often in the morning. Well, goodbye Lady Chatterley! And do come again. It was so lovely having you.”
Connie climbed the fence into the narrow path between the dense, bristling young firs. Mrs. Flint went running back across the pasture, in a sunbonnet, because she was really a schoolteacher. Constance didn’t like this dense new part of the wood; it seemed gruesome and choking. She hurried on with her head down, thinking of the Flints’ baby. It was a dear little thing, but it would be a bit bowlegged like its father. It showed already, but perhaps it would grow out of it. How warm and fulfilling somehow to have a baby, and how Mrs. Flint had showed it off! She had something anyhow that Connie hadn’t got, and apparently couldn’t have. Yes, Mrs. Flint had flaunted her motherhood. And Connie had been just a bit, just a little bit jealous. She couldn’t help it.
She started out of her muse, and gave a little cry of fear. A man was there.
It was the keeper, he stood in the path like Balaam’s ass, barring her way.
“How’s this?” he said in surprise.
“How did you come?” she panted.
“How did you? Have you been to the hut?”
“No! No! I went to Marehay.”
He looked at her curiously, searchingly, and she hung her head a little guiltily.
“And were you going to the hut now?” he asked rather sternly.
“No! I mustn’t. I stayed at Marehay. No one knows where I am. I’m late. I’ve got to run.”
“Giving me the slip, like?” he said, with a faint ironic smile.
“No! No. Not that. Only—”
“Why, what else?” he said. And he stepped up to her, and put his arm around her. She felt the front of his body terribly near to her, and alive.
“Oh, not now, not now,” she cried, trying to push him away.
“Why not? It’s only six o’clock. You’ve got half an hour. Nay! Nay! I want you.”
He held her fast and she felt his urgency. Her old instinct was to fight for her freedom. But something else in her was strange and inert and heavy. His
