“This is John Thomas marryin’ Lady Jane,” he said. “An’ we mun let Constance an’ Oliver go their ways. Maybe—”
He spread out his hand with a gesture, and then he sneezed, sneezing away the flowers from his nose and his navel. He sneezed again.
“Maybe what?” she said, waiting for him to go on.
He looked at her a little bewildered.
“Eh?” he said.
“Maybe what? Go on with what you were going to say,” she insisted.
“Ay, what was I going to say?”
He had forgotten. And it was one of the disappointments of her life, that he never finished.
A yellow ray of sun shone over the trees.
“Sun!” he said. “And time you went. Time, my lady, time! What’s that as flies without wings, your ladyship? Time! Time!”
He reached for his shirt.
“Say good night! to John Thomas,” he said, looking down at his penis. “He’s safe in the arms of creeping-jenny! Not much burning pestle about him just now.”
And he put his flannel shirt over his head.
“A man’s most dangerous moment,” he said, when his head had emerged, “is when he’s getting into his shirt. Then he puts his head in a bag. That’s why I prefer those American shirts, that you put on like a jacket.” She still stood watching him. He stepped into his short drawers, and buttoned them round the waist.
“Look at Jane!” he said. “In all her blossoms! Who’ll put blossoms on you next year, Jinny? Me, or somebody else? ‘Goodbye my bluebell, farewell to you!’ I hate that song, it’s early war days.” He had sat down, and was pulling on his stockings. She still stood unmoving. He laid his hand on the slope of her buttocks. “Pretty little Lady Jane!” he said. “Perhaps in Venice you’ll find a man who’ll put jasmine in your maidenhair, and a pomegranate flower in your navel. Poor little Lady Jane!”
“Don’t say those things!” she said. “You only say them to hurt me.”
He dropped his head. Then he said, in dialect:
“Ay, maybe I do, maybe I do! Well then, I’ll say nowt, an’ ha’ done wi’t. But tha mun dress thysen, an’ go back to thy stately homes of England, how beautiful they stand. Time’s up! Time’s up for Sir John, an’ for little Lady Jane! Put thy shimmy on, Lady Chatterley! Tha might be anybody, standin’ there be-out even a shimmy, an’ a few rags o’ flowers. There then, there then, I’ll undress thee, tha bobtailed young throstle.” And he took the leaves from her hair, kissing her damp hair, and the flowers from her breasts, and kissed her breasts, and kissed her navel, and kissed her maidenhair, where he left the flowers threaded. “They mun stop while they will,” he said. “So! There tha’rt bare again, nowt but a bare-arsed lass an’ a bit of a Lady Jane! Now put thy shimmy on, for tha mun go, or else Lady Chatterley’s going to be late for dinner, an’ where ’ave yer been to my pretty maid!”
She never knew how to answer him when he was in this condition of the vernacular. So she dressed herself and prepared to go a little ignominiously home to Wragby. Or so she felt it: a little ignominiously home.
He would accompany her to the broad riding. His young pheasants were all right under the shelter.
When he and she came out on to the riding, there was Mrs. Bolton faltering palely towards them.
“Oh, my Lady, we wondered if anything had happened!”
“No! Nothing has happened.”
Mrs. Bolton looked into the man’s face, that was smooth and new-looking with love. She met his half-laughing, half-mocking eyes. He always laughed at mischance. But he looked at her kindly.
“Evening, Mrs. Bolton! Your Ladyship will be all right now, so I can leave you. Good night to your ladyship! Good night, Mrs. Bolton!”
He saluted and turned away.
XVI
Connie arrived home to an ordeal of cross-questioning. Clifford had been out at teatime, had come in just before the storm, and where was her ladyship? Nobody knew, only Mrs. Bolton suggested she had gone for a walk into the wood. Into the wood, in such a storm! Clifford for once let himself get into a state of nervous frenzy. He started at every flash of lightning, and blenched at every roll of thunder. He looked at the icy thunder-rain as if it were the end of the world. He got more and more worked up.
Mrs. Bolton tried to soothe him.
“She’ll be sheltering in the hut, till it’s over. Don’t worry, her ladyship is all right.”
“I don’t like her being in the wood in a storm like this! I don’t like her being in the wood at all! She’s been gone now more than two hours. When did she go out?”
“A little while before you came in.”
“I didn’t see her in the park. God knows where she is and what has happened to her.”
“Oh, nothing’s happened to her. You’ll see, she’ll be home directly after the rain stops. It’s just the rain that’s keeping her.”
But her ladyship did not come home directly the rain stopped. In fact time went by, the sun came out for his last yellow glimpse, and there still was no sign of her. The sun was set, it was growing dark, and the first dinner-gong had rung.
“It’s no good!” said Clifford in a frenzy. “I’m going to send out Field and Betts to find her.”
“Oh, don’t do that!” cried Mrs. Bolton. “They’ll think there’s suicide or something. Oh, don’t start a lot of talk going—Let me slip over to the hut and see if she’s not there. I’ll find her all right.”
So, after some persuasion, Clifford allowed her to go.
And so Connie had come upon her in the drive, alone and palely loitering.
“You mustn’t
