Instant download Angular 2 Cookbook Frisbie pdf all chapter
- 1. Full download text book at textbookfull.com Angular 2 Cookbook Frisbie DOWLOAD HERE https://textbookfull.com/product/angular-2- cookbook-frisbie/ DOWLOAD NOW Download more textbook from textbookfull.com
- 2. More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant download maybe you interests ... Angular 2 ui development Kasagoni https://textbookfull.com/product/angular-2-ui-development- kasagoni/ Ang-book 2: The Complete Book on Angular 2 1st Edition Nate Murray https://textbookfull.com/product/ang-book-2-the-complete-book-on- angular-2-1st-edition-nate-murray/ Ionic 2 Cookbook Phan https://textbookfull.com/product/ionic-2-cookbook-phan/ Angular Up and Running Learning Angular Step by Step Shyam Seshadri https://textbookfull.com/product/angular-up-and-running-learning- angular-step-by-step-shyam-seshadri/
- 3. Learn With Angular 4 Collected Essays Angular CLI Unit Testing Debugging TypeScript and Angular Build Processes 2nd Edition Jeffry Houser https://textbookfull.com/product/learn-with-angular-4-collected- essays-angular-cli-unit-testing-debugging-typescript-and-angular- build-processes-2nd-edition-jeffry-houser/ OAuth 2 0 Cookbook Protect Your Web Applications Using Spring Security Nascimento https://textbookfull.com/product/oauth-2-0-cookbook-protect-your- web-applications-using-spring-security-nascimento/ Pro Angular 6 3rd Edition Adam Freeman https://textbookfull.com/product/pro-angular-6-3rd-edition-adam- freeman/ Pro Angular 16 6th Edition Adam Freeman https://textbookfull.com/product/pro-angular-16-6th-edition-adam- freeman/ Angular Development with Typescript Second Edition Yakov Fain https://textbookfull.com/product/angular-development-with- typescript-second-edition-yakov-fain/
- 6. Table of Contents Angular 2 Cookbook Credits About the Author About the Reviewer www.PacktPub.com Why subscribe? Customer Feedback Dedication Preface What this book covers What you need for this book Who this book is for Conventions Reader feedback Customer support Downloading the example code Errata Piracy Questions 1. Strategies for Upgrading to Angular 2 Introduction Componentizing directives using controllerAs encapsulation Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more... See also Migrating an application to component directives Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more...
- 7. See also Implementing a basic component in AngularJS 1.5 Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more... See also Normalizing service types Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more... See also Connecting Angular 1 and Angular 2 with UpgradeModule Getting ready How to do it... Connecting Angular 1 to Angular 2 How it works... There's more... See also Downgrading Angular 2 components to Angular 1 directives with downgradeComponent Getting ready How to do it... How it works... See also Downgrade Angular 2 providers to Angular 1 services with downgradeInjectable Getting ready How to do it... See also 2. Conquering Components and Directives Introduction Using decorators to build and style a simple component Getting ready How to do it...
- 8. Writing the class definition Writing the component class decorator How it works... There's more... See also Passing members from a parent component into a child component Getting ready How to do it... Connecting the components Declaring inputs How it works... There's more... Angular expressions Unidirectional data binding Member methods See also Binding to native element attributes How to do it... How it works... See also Registering handlers on native browser events Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more... See also Generating and capturing custom events using EventEmitter Getting ready How to do it... Capturing the event data Emitting a custom event Listening for custom events How it works... There's more... See also
- 9. Attaching behavior to DOM elements with directives Getting ready How to do it... Attaching to events with HostListeners How it works... There's more... See also Projecting nested content using ngContent Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more... See also Using ngFor and ngIf structural directives for model-based DOM control Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more... See also Referencing elements using template variables Getting ready How to do it... There's more... See also Attribute property binding Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more... See also Utilizing component lifecycle hooks Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more...
- 10. See also Referencing a parent component from a child component Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more... See also Configuring mutual parent-child awareness with ViewChild and forwardRef Getting ready How to do it... Configuring a ViewChild reference Correcting the dependency cycle with forwardRef Adding the disable behavior How it works... There's more... ViewChildren See also Configuring mutual parent-child awareness with ContentChild and forwardRef Getting ready How to do it... Converting to ContentChild Correcting data binding How it works... There's more... ContentChildren See also 3. Building Template-Driven and Reactive Forms Introduction Implementing simple two-way data binding with ngModel How to do it... How it works... There's more... See also Implementing basic field validation with a FormControl
- 11. Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more... Validators and attribute duality Tagless controls See also Bundling controls with a FormGroup Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more... FormGroup validators Error propagation See also Bundling FormControls with a FormArray Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more... See also Implementing basic forms with NgForm Getting ready How to do it... Declaring form fields with ngModel How it works... There's more... See also Implementing basic forms with FormBuilder and formControlName Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more... See also Creating and using a custom validator Getting ready
- 12. How to do it... How it works... There's more... Refactoring into validator attributes See also Creating and using a custom asynchronous validator with Promises Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more... Validator execution See also 4. Mastering Promises Introduction Understanding and implementing basic Promises Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more... Decoupled and duplicated Promise control Resolving a Promise to a value Delayed handler definition Multiple handler definition Private Promise members See also Chaining Promises and Promise handlers How to do it... Chained handlers' data handoff Rejecting a chained handler How it works... There's more... Promise handler trees catch() See also
- 13. Creating Promise wrappers with Promise.resolve() and Promise.reject() How to do it... Promise normalization How it works... There's more... See also Implementing Promise barriers with Promise.all() How to do it... How it works... There's more... See also Canceling asynchronous actions with Promise.race() Getting ready How to do it... How it works... See also Converting a Promise into an Observable How to do it... How it works... There's more... See also Converting an HTTP service Observable into a ZoneAwarePromise Getting ready How to do it... How it works... See also 5. ReactiveX Observables Introduction The Observer Pattern ReactiveX and RxJS Observables in Angular 2 Observables and Promises Basic utilization of Observables with HTTP Getting ready How to do it...
- 14. How it works... Observable<Response> The RxJS map() operator Subscribe There's more... Hot and cold Observables See also Implementing a Publish-Subscribe model using Subjects Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more... Native RxJS implementation See also Creating an Observable authentication service using BehaviorSubjects Getting ready How to do it... Injecting the authentication service Adding BehaviorSubject to the authentication service Adding API methods to the authentication service Wiring the service methods into the component How it works... There's more... See also Building a generalized Publish-Subscribe service to replace $broadcast, $emit, and $on Getting ready How to do it... Introducing channel abstraction Hooking components into the service Unsubscribing from channels How it works... There's more... Considerations of an Observable's composition and manipulation
- 15. See also Using QueryLists and Observables to follow changes in ViewChildren Getting ready How to do it... Dealing with QueryLists Correcting the expression changed error How it works... Hate the player, not the game See also Building a fully featured AutoComplete with Observables Getting ready How to do it... Using the FormControl valueChanges Observable Debouncing the input Ignoring serial duplicates Flattening Observables Handling unordered responses How it works... See also 6. The Component Router Introduction Setting up an application to support simple routes Getting ready How to do it... Setting the base URL Defining routes Providing routes to the application Rendering route components with RouterOutlet How it works... There's more... Initial page load See also Navigating with routerLinks Getting ready How to do it...
- 16. How it works... There's more... Route order considerations See also Navigating with the Router service Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more... See also Selecting a LocationStrategy for path construction How to do it... There's more... Configuring your application server for PathLocationStrategy Building stateful route behavior with RouterLinkActive Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more... See also Implementing nested views with route parameters and child routes Getting ready How to do it... Adding a routing target to the parent component Defining nested child views Defining the child routes Defining child view links Extracting route parameters How it works... There's more... Refactoring with async pipes See also Working with matrix URL parameters and routing arrays Getting ready How to do it...
- 17. How it works... There's more... See also Adding route authentication controls with route guards Getting ready How to do it... Implementing the Auth service Wiring up the profile view Restricting route access with route guards Adding login behavior Adding the logout behavior How it works... There's more... The actual authentication Secure data and views See also 7. Services, Dependency Injection, and NgModule Introduction Injecting a simple service into a component Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more... See also Controlling service instance creation and injection with NgModule Getting ready How to do it... Splitting up the root module How it works... There's more... Injecting different service instances into different components Service instantiation See also Service injection aliasing with useClass and useExisting Getting ready
- 18. Dual services A unified component How to do it... How it works... There's more... Refactoring with directive providers See also Injecting a value as a service with useValue and OpaqueTokens Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more... See also Building a provider-configured service with useFactory Getting ready How to do it... Defining the factory Injecting OpaqueToken Creating provider directives with useFactory How it works... There's more... See also 8. Application Organization and Management Introduction Composing package.json for a minimum viable Angular 2 application Getting ready How to do it... package.json dependencies package.json devDependencies package.json scripts See also Configuring TypeScript for a minimum viable Angular 2 application Getting ready How to do it... Declaration files
- 19. tsconfig.json How it works... Compilation There's more... Source map generation Single file compilation See also Performing in-browser transpilation with SystemJS Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more... See also Composing application files for a minimum viable Angular 2 application Getting ready How to do it... app.component.ts app.module.ts main.ts index.html Configuring SystemJS See also Migrating the minimum viable application to Webpack bundling Getting ready How to do it... webpack.config.js See also Incorporating shims and polyfills into Webpack Getting ready How to do it... How it works... See also HTML generation with html-webpack-plugin Getting ready How to do it...
- 20. How it works... See also Setting up an application with Angular CLI Getting ready How to do it... Running the application locally Testing the application How it works... Project configuration files TypeScript configuration files Test configuration files Core application files Environment files AppComponent files AppComponent test files There's more... See also 9. Angular 2 Testing Introduction Creating a minimum viable unit test suite with Karma, Jasmine, and TypeScript Getting ready How to do it... Writing a unit test Configuring Karma and Jasmine Configuring PhantomJS Compiling files and tests with TypeScript Incorporating Webpack into Karma Writing the test script How it works... There's more... See also Writing a minimum viable unit test suite for a simple component Getting ready How to do it... Using TestBed and async
- 21. Creating a ComponentFixture How it works... See also Writing a minimum viable end-to-end test suite for a simple application Getting ready How to do it... Getting Protractor up and running Making Protractor compatible with Jasmine and TypeScript Building a page object Writing the e2e test Scripting the e2e tests How it works... There's more... See also Unit testing a synchronous service Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more... Testing without injection See also Unit testing a component with a service dependency using stubs Getting ready How to do it... Stubbing a service dependency Triggering events inside the component fixture How it works... See also Unit testing a component with a service dependency using spies Getting ready How to do it... Setting a spy on the injected service How it works... There's more... See also
- 22. 10. Performance and Advanced Concepts Introduction Understanding and properly utilizing enableProdMode with pure and impure pipes Getting ready How to do it... Generating a consistency error Introducing change detection compliance Switching on enableProdMode How it works... There's more... See also Working with zones outside Angular Getting ready How to do it... Forking a zone Overriding zone events with ZoneSpec How it works... There's more... Understanding zone.run() Microtasks and macrotasks See also Listening for NgZone events zone.js NgZone Getting ready How to do it... Demonstrating the zone life cycle How it works... The utility of zone.js See also Execution outside the Angular zone How to do it... How it works... There's more... See also
- 23. Configuring components to use explicit change detection with OnPush Getting ready How to do it... Configuring the ChangeDetectionStrategy Requesting explicit change detection How it works... There's more... See also Configuring ViewEncapsulation for maximum efficiency Getting ready How to do it... Emulated styling encapsulation No styling encapsulation Native styling encapsulation How it works... There's more... See also Configuring the Angular 2 Renderer to use web workers Getting ready How to do it... How it works... There's more... Optimizing for performance gains Compatibility considerations See also Configuring applications to use ahead-of-time compilation Getting ready How to do it... Installing AOT dependencies Configuring ngc Aligning component definitions with AOT requirements Compiling with ngc Bootstrapping with AOT How it works... There's more...
- 24. Another random document with no related content on Scribd:
- 25. "What things?" she asked. He gave a curious backward jerk of his head, indicating the outer world. "Things! Everybody! The lot of 'em." Then he bent down and suddenly kissed her unhappy face. "Nay, I don't care," he said. "Let's have it, an' damn the rest. But if you was to feel sorry you'd ever done it!" "Don't put me off," she pleaded. He put his fingers to her cheek and kissed her again suddenly. "Let me come in then," he said softly. "An' take off your mackintosh." He hung up his gun, slipped out of his wet leather jacket, and reached for the blankets. "I brought another blanket," he said, "so we can put one over us if we like." "I can't stay long," she said. "Dinner is half-past seven." He looked at her swiftly, then at his watch. "All right," he said. He shut the door, and lit a tiny light in the hanging hurricane lamp. "One time we'll have a long time," he said. He put the blankets down carefully, one folded for her head. Then he sat down a moment on the stool, and drew her to him, holding her close with one arm, feeling for her body with his free hand. She heard the catch of his intaken breath as he found her. Under her frail petticoat she was naked. "Eh! what it is to touch thee!" he said, as his finger caressed the delicate, warm, secret skin of her waist and hips. He put his face down and rubbed his cheek against her belly and against her thighs again and again. And again she wondered a little over the sort of
- 26. rapture it was to him. She did not understand the beauty he found in her, through touch upon her living secret body, almost the ecstasy of beauty. For passion alone is awake to it. And when passion is dead, or absent, then the magnificent throb of beauty is incomprehensible and even a little despicable; warm, live beauty of contact, so much deeper than the beauty of wisdom. She felt the glide of his cheek on her thighs and belly and buttocks, and the close brushing of his moustache and his soft thick hair, and her knees began to quiver. Far down in her she felt a new stirring, a new nakedness emerging. And she was half afraid. Half she wished he would not caress her so. He was encompassing her somehow. Yet she was waiting, waiting. And when he came into her, with an intensification of relief and consummation, that was pure peace to him, still she was waiting. She felt herself a little left out. And she knew, partly it was her own fault. She willed herself into this separateness. Now perhaps she was condemned to it. She lay still, feeling his motion within her, his deep- sunk intentness, the sudden quiver of him at the springing of his seed, then the slow-subsiding thrust. That thrust of the buttocks, surely it was a little ridiculous. If you were a woman, and apart in all the business, surely that thrusting of the man's buttocks was supremely ridiculous. Surely the man was intensely ridiculous in this posture and this act! But she lay still, without recoil. Even, when he had finished, she did not rouse herself to get a grip on her own satisfaction, as she had done with Michaelis; she lay still, and the tears slowly filled and ran from her eyes. He lay still, too. But he held her close and tried to cover her poor naked legs with his legs, to keep them warm. He lay on her with a close, undoubting warmth. "Are ter cold?" he asked, in a soft, small voice, as if she were close, so close. Whereas she was left out, distant. "No! But I must go," she said gently. He sighed, held her closer, then relaxed to rest again.
- 27. He had not guessed her tears. He thought she was there with him. "I must go," she repeated. He lifted himself, kneeled beside her a moment, kissed the inner side of her thighs, then drew down her skirts, buttoning his own clothes unthinking, not even turning aside, in the faint, faint light from the lantern. "Tha mun come ter th' cottage one time," he said, looking down at her with a warm, sure, easy face. But she lay there inert, and was gazing up at him thinking. Stranger! Stranger! She even resented him a little. He put on his coat and looked for his hat, which had fallen, then he slung on his gun. "Come then!" he said, looking down at her with those warm, peaceful sort of eyes. She rose slowly. She didn't want to go. She also rather resented staying. He helped her with her thin waterproof, and saw she was tidy. Then he opened the door. The outside was quite dark. The faithful dog under the porch stood up with pleasure seeing him. The drizzle of rain drifted greyly past under the darkness. It was quite dark. "Ah mun ta'e th' lantern," he said. "The'll be nob'dy." He walked just before her in the narrow path, swinging the hurricane lamp low, revealing the wet grass, the black shiny tree roots like snakes, wan flowers. For the rest, all was grey rain-mist and complete darkness. "Tha mun come to the cottage one time," he said, "shall ta? We might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb." It puzzled her, his queer, persistent wanting her, when there was nothing between them, when he never really spoke to her, and in spite of herself she resented the dialect. His "tha mun come"
- 28. seemed not addressed to her, but some common woman. She recognized the foxglove leaves of the riding and knew, more or less, where they were. "It's quarter past seven," he said, "you'll do it." He had changed his voice, seemed to feel her distance. As they turned the last bend in the riding towards the hazel wall and the gate, he blew out the light. "We'll see from here," he said, taking her gently by the arm. But it was difficult, the earth under their feet was a mystery, but he felt his way by tread: he was used to it. At the gate he gave her his electric torch. "It's a bit lighter in the park," he said; "but take it for fear you get off th' path." It was true, there seemed a ghost-glimmer of greyness in the open space of the park. He suddenly drew her to him and whipped his hand under her dress again, feeling her warm body with his wet, chill hand. "I could die for the touch of a woman like thee," he said in his throat. "If tha would stop another minute." She felt the sudden force of his wanting her again. "No, I must run," she said, a little wildly. "Ay," he replied, suddenly changed, letting her go. She turned away, and on the instant she turned back to him saying: "Kiss me." He bent over her indistinguishable and kissed her on the left eye. She held her mouth and he softly kissed it, but at once drew away. He hated mouth kisses. "I'll come tomorrow," she said, drawing away; "if I can," she added. "Ay! not so late," he replied out of the darkness. Already she could not see him at all. "Good night," she said. "Good night, your Ladyship," his voice.
- 29. She stopped and looked back into the wet dark. She could just see the bulk of him. "Why did you say that?" she said. "Nay," he replied. "Good night then, run!" She plunged on in the dark-grey tangible night. She found the side door open, and slipped into her room unseen. As she closed the door the gong sounded, but she would take her bath all the same— she must take her bath. "But I won't be late any more," she said to herself; "it's too annoying." The next day she did not go to the wood. She went instead with Clifford to Uthwaite. He could occasionally go out now in the car, and had a strong young man as chauffeur, who could help him out of the car if need be. He particularly wanted to see his godfather, Leslie Winter, who lived at Shipley Hall, not far from Uthwaite. Winter was an elderly gentleman now, wealthy, one of the wealthy coal-owners who had had their heyday in King Edward's time. King Edward had stayed more than once at Shipley, for the shooting. It was a handsome old stucco hall, very elegantly appointed, for Winter was a bachelor and prided himself on his style; but the place was beset by collieries. Leslie Winter was attached to Clifford, but personally did not entertain a great respect for him, because of the photographs in illustrated papers and the literature. The old man was a buck of the King Edward school, who thought life was life and the scribbling fellows were something else. Towards Connie the Squire was always rather gallant; he thought her an attractive demure maiden and rather wasted on Clifford, and it was a thousand pities she stood no chance of bringing forth an heir to Wragby. He himself had no heir. Connie wondered what he would say if he knew that Clifford's gamekeeper had been having intercourse with her, and saying to her "tha mun come to th' cottage one time." He would detest and despise her, for he had come almost to hate the shoving forward of the working classes. A man of her own class he would not mind, for Connie was gifted from nature with this appearance of demure, submissive maidenliness, and perhaps it was part of her nature.
- 30. Winter called her "dear child" and gave her a rather lovely miniature of an eighteenth-century lady, rather against her will. But Connie was preoccupied with her affair with the keeper. After all Mr. Winter, who was really a gentleman and a man of the world, treated her as a person and a discriminating individual; he did not lump her together with all the rest of his female womanhood in his "thee" and "tha." She did not go to the wood that day nor the next, nor the day following. She did not go so long as she felt, or imagined she felt, the man waiting for her, wanting her. But the fourth day she was terribly unsettled and uneasy. She still refused to go to the wood and open her thighs once more to the man. She thought of all the things she might do—drive to Sheffield, pay visits, and the thought of all these things was repellent. At last she decided to take a walk, not towards the wood, but in the opposite direction; she would go to Marehay, through the little iron gate in the other side of the park fence. It was a quiet grey day of spring, almost warm. She walked on unheeding, absorbed in thoughts she was not even conscious of. She was not really aware of anything outside her, till she was startled by the loud barking of the dog at Marehay Farm. Marehay Farm! Its pastures ran up to Wragby park fence, so they were neighbours, but it was some time since Connie had called. "Bell!" she said to the big white bull-terrier. "Bell! have you forgotten me? Don't you know me?"—She was afraid of dogs, and Bell stood back and bellowed, and she wanted to pass through the farmyard on to the warren path. Mrs. Flint appeared. She was a woman of Constance's own age, had been a school-teacher, but Connie suspected her of being rather a false little thing. "Why, it's Lady Chatterley! Why?" And Mrs. Flint's eyes glowed again, and she flushed like a young girl. "Bell, Bell. Why! barking at Lady Chatterley! Bell! Be quiet!" She darted forward and slashed at
- 31. the dog with a white cloth she held in her hand, then came forward to Connie. "She used to know me," said Connie, shaking hands. The Flints were Chatterley tenants. "Of course she knows your Ladyship! She's just showing off," said Mrs. Flint, glowing and looking up with a sort of flushed confusion, "but it's so long since she's seen you. I do hope you are better." "Yes thanks, I'm all right." "We've hardly seen you all winter. Will you come in and look at the baby?" "Well!" Connie hesitated. "Just for a minute." Mrs. Flint flew wildly in to tidy up, and Connie came slowly after her, hesitating in the rather dark kitchen where the kettle was boiling by the fire. Back came Mrs. Flint. "I do hope you'll excuse me," she said. "Will you come in here." They went into the living-room, where a baby was sitting on the rag hearthrug, and the table was roughly set for tea. A young servant- girl backed down the passage, shy and awkward. 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.
- 32. "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."
- 33. "Good-bye, 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.
- 34. "Oh, any time he's around. Often in the morning. Well, good-bye 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 school-teacher. 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 bow-legged 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—"
- 35. "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 body was urgent against her, and she hadn't the heart any more to fight. He looked round. "Come—come here! Through here," he said, looking penetratingly into the dense fir trees, that were young and not more than half- grown. He looked back at her. She saw his eyes, tense and brilliant, fierce, not loving. But her will had left her. A strange weight was on her limbs. She was giving way. She was giving up. He led her through the wall of prickly trees, that were difficult to come through, to a place where there was a little space and a pile of dead boughs. He threw one or two dry ones down, put his coat and waistcoat over them, and she had to lie down there under the boughs of the tree, like an animal, while he waited, standing there in his shirt and breeches, watching her with haunted eyes. But still he was provident—he made her lie properly, properly. Yet he broke the band of her underclothes, for she did not help him, only lay inert. He too had bared the front part of his body and she felt his naked flesh against her as he came in to her. For a moment he was still inside her, turgid there and quivering. Then as he began to move, in the sudden helpless orgasm, there awoke in her new strange thrills rippling inside her. Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite, exquisite and melting her all molten inside. It
- 36. was like bells rippling up and up to a culmination. She lay unconscious of the wild little cries she uttered at the last. But it was over too soon, too soon, and she could no longer force her own conclusion with her own activity. This was different, different. She could do nothing. She could no longer harden and grip for her own satisfaction upon him. She could only wait, wait and moan in spirit as she felt him withdrawing, withdrawing and contracting, coming to the terrible moment when he would slip out of her and be gone. Whilst all her womb was open and soft, and softly clamouring, like a sea-anemone under the tide, clamouring for him to come in again and make a fulfilment for her. She clung to him unconscious in passion, and he never quite slipped from her, and she felt the soft bud of him within her stirring, and strange rhythms flushing up into her with a strange rhythmic growing motion, swelling and swelling till it filled her all cleaving consciousness, and then began again the unspeakable motion that was not really motion, but pure deepening whirlpools of sensation swirling deeper and deeper through all her tissue and consciousness, till she was one perfect concentric fluid of feeling, and she lay there crying in unconscious inarticulate cries. The voice out of the uttermost night, the life! The man heard it beneath him with a kind of awe, as his life sprang out into her. And as it subsided, he subsided too and lay utterly still, unknowing, while her grip on him slowly relaxed, and she lay inert. And they lay and knew nothing, not even of each other, both lost. Till at last he began to rouse and become aware of his defenceless nakedness, and she was aware that his body was loosening its clasp on her. He was coming apart; but in her breast she felt she could not bear him to leave her uncovered. He must cover her now for ever. But he drew away at last, and kissed her and covered her over, and began to cover himself. She lay looking up to the boughs of the tree, unable as yet to move. He stood and fastened up his breeches, looking round. All was dense and silent, save for the awed dog that lay with its paws against its nose. He sat down again on the brushwood and took Connie's hand in silence.
- 37. She turned and looked at him. "We came off together that time," he said. She did not answer. "It's good when it's like that. Most folks lives their lives through and they never know it," he said, speaking rather dreamily. She looked into his brooding face. "Do they?" she said. "Are you glad?" He looked back into her eyes. "Glad," he said. "Ay, but never mind." He did not want her to talk. And he bent over her and kissed her, and she felt, so he must kiss her for ever. At last she sat up. "Don't people often come off together?" she asked with naive curiosity. "A good many of them never. You can see by the raw look of them." He spoke unwittingly, regretting he had begun. "Have you come off like that with other women?" He looked at her amused. "I don't know," he said, "I don't know." And she knew he would never tell her anything he didn't want to tell her. She watched his face, and the passion for him moved in her bowels. She resisted it as far as she could, for it was the loss of herself to herself. He put on his waistcoat and his coat, and pushed a way through to the path again. The last level rays of the sun touched the wood. "I won't come with you," he said; "better not." She looked at him wistfully before she turned. His dog was waiting so anxiously for him to go, and he seemed to have nothing whatever to say. Nothing left.
- 38. Connie went slowly home, realising the depth of the other thing in her. Another self was alive in her, burning molten and soft in her womb and bowels, and with this self she adored him. She adored him till her knees were weak as she walked. In her womb and bowels she was flowing and alive now and vulnerable, and helpless in adoration of him as the most naive woman.—It feels like a child, she said to herself; it feels like a child in me.—And so it did, as if her womb, that had always been shut, had opened and filled with new life, almost a burden, yet lovely. "If I had a child!" she thought to herself; "if I had him inside me as a child!"—and her limbs turned molten at the thought, and she realised the immense difference between having a child to oneself, and having a child to a man whom one's bowels yearned towards. The former seemed in a sense ordinary: but to have a child to a man whom one adored in one's bowels and one's womb, it made her feel she was very different from her old self, and as if she was sinking deep, deep to the centre of all womanhood and the sleep of creation. It was not the passion that was new to her, it was the yearning adoration. She knew she had always feared it, for it left her helpless; she feared it still, lest if she adored him too much, then she would lose herself, become effaced, and she did not want to be effaced, a slave, like a savage woman. She must not become a slave. She feared her adoration, yet she would not at once fight against it. She knew she could fight it. She had a devil of self-will in her breast that could have fought the full soft heaving adoration of her womb and crushed it. She could even now do it, or she thought so, and she could then take up her passion with her own will. Ah yes, to be passionate like a Bacchante, like a Bacchanal fleeing through the woods, to call on Iacchos, the bright phallus that had no independent personality behind it, but was pure god-servant to the woman! The man, the individual, let him not dare intrude. He was but a temple-servant, the bearer and keeper of the bright phallus, her own.
- 39. So, in the flux of new awakening, the old hard passion flamed in her for a time, and the man dwindled to a contemptible object, the mere phallus-bearer, to be torn to pieces when his service was performed. She felt the force of the Bacchae in her limbs and her body, the woman gleaming and rapid, beating down the male; but while she felt this, her heart was heavy. She did not want it, it was known and barren, birthless; the adoration was her treasure. It was so fathomless, so soft, so deep and so unknown. No, no, she would give up her hard bright female power; she was weary of it, stiffened with it; she would sink in the new bath of life, in the depths of her womb and her bowels that sang the voiceless song of adoration. It was early yet to begin to fear the man. "I walked over by Marehay, and I had tea with Mrs. Flint," she said to Clifford. "I wanted to see the baby. It's so adorable, with hair like red cobwebs. Such a dear! Mr. Flint had gone to market, so she and I and the baby had tea together. Did you wonder where I was?" "Well, I wondered, but I guessed you had dropped in somewhere to tea," said Clifford jealously. With a sort of second sight he sensed something new in her, something to him quite incomprehensible, but he ascribed it to the baby. He thought that all that ailed Connie was that she did not have a baby, automatically bring one forth, so to speak. "I saw you go across the park to the iron gate, my Lady," said Mrs. Bolton; "so I thought perhaps you'd called at the Rectory." "I nearly did, then I turned towards Marehay instead." The eyes of the two women met: Mrs. Bolton's grey and bright and searching; Connie's blue and veiled and strangely beautiful. Mrs. Bolton was almost sure she had a lover, yet how could it be, and who could it be? Where was there a man? "Oh, it's so good for you, if you go out and see a bit of company sometimes," said Mrs. Bolton. "I was saying to Sir Clifford, it would do her ladyship a world of good if she'd go out among people more."
- 40. "Yes, I'm glad I went, and such a quaint dear cheeky baby, Clifford," said Connie. "It's got hair just like spider webs, and bright orange, and the oddest, cheekiest, pale-blue china eyes. Of course it's a girl, or it wouldn't be so bold, bolder than any little Sir Francis Drake." "You're right, my Lady—a regular little Flint. They were always a forward sandy-headed family," said Mrs. Bolton. "Wouldn't you like to see it, Clifford? I've asked them to tea for you to see it." "Who?" he asked, looking at Connie in great uneasiness. "Mrs. Flint and the baby, next Monday." "You can have them to tea up in your room," he said. "Why, don't you want to see the baby?" she cried. "Oh, I'll see it, but I don't want to sit through a teatime with them." "Oh," said Connie, looking at him with wide veiled eyes. She did not really see him, he was somebody else. "You can have a nice cosy tea up in your room, my Lady, and Mrs. Flint will be more comfortable than if Sir Clifford was there," said Mrs. Bolton. She was sure Connie had a lover, and something in her soul exulted. But who was he? Who was he? Perhaps Mrs. Flint would provide a clue. Connie would not take her bath this evening. The sense of his flesh touching her, his very stickiness upon her, was dear to her, and in a sense holy. Clifford was very uneasy. He would not let her go after dinner, and she had wanted so much to be alone. She looked at him, but was curiously submissive. "Shall we play a game, or shall I read to you, or what shall it be?" he asked uneasily.
- 41. "You read to me," said Connie. "What shall I read—verse or prose? Or drama?" "Read Racine," she said. It had been one of his stunts in the past, to read Racine in the real French grand manner, but he was rusty now, and a little self- conscious; he really preferred the loud-speaker. But Connie was sewing, sewing a little silk frock of primrose silk, cut out of one of her dresses, for Mrs. Flint's baby. Between coming home and dinner she had cut it out, and she sat in the soft quiescent rapture of herself, sewing, while the noise of the reading went on. Inside herself she could feel the humming of passion, like the after- humming of deep bells. Clifford said something to her about the Racine. She caught the sense after the words had gone. "Yes! Yes!" she said, looking up at him. "It is splendid." Again he was frightened at the deep blue blaze of her eyes, and of her soft stillness, sitting there. She had never been so utterly soft and still. She fascinated him helplessly, as if some perfume about her intoxicated him. So he went on helplessly with his reading, and the throaty sound of the French was like the wind in the chimneys to her. Of the Racine she heard not one syllable. She was gone in her own soft rapture, like a forest soughing with the dim, glad moan of spring, moving into bud. She could feel in the same world with her the man, the nameless man, moving on beautiful feet, beautiful in the phallic mystery. And in herself, in all her veins, she felt him and his child. His child was in all her veins, like a twilight. "For hands she hath none, nor eyes, nor feet, nor golden Treasure of hair...." She was like a forest, like the dark interlacing of the oak-wood, humming inaudibly with myriad unfolding buds. Meanwhile the birds
- 42. of desire were asleep in the vast interlaced intricacy of her body. But Clifford's voice went on, clapping and gurgling with unusual sounds. How extraordinary it was! How extraordinary he was, bent there over the book, queer and rapacious and civilised, with broad shoulders and no real legs! What a strange creature, with the sharp, cold inflexible will of some bird, and no warmth, no warmth at all! One of those creatures of the afterwards, that have no soul, but an extra-alert will, cold will. She shuddered a little, afraid of him. But then, the soft warm flame of life was stronger than he, and the real things were hidden from him. The reading finished. She was startled. She looked up, and was more startled still to see Clifford watching her with pale, uncanny eyes, like hate. "Thank you so much! You do read Racine beautifully!" she said softly. "Almost as beautifully as you listen to him," he said cruelly. "What are you making?" he asked. "I'm making a child's dress, for Mrs. Flint's baby." He turned away. A child! A child! That was all her obsession. "After all," he said, in a declamatory voice, "one gets all one wants out of Racine. Emotions that are ordered and given shape are more important than disorderly emotions." She watched him with wide, vague, veiled eyes. "Yes, I'm sure they are," she said. "The modern world has only vulgarised emotion by letting it loose. What we need is classic control." "Yes," she said slowly, thinking of himself listening with vacant face to the emotional idiocy of the radio. "People pretend to have emotions, and they really feel nothing. I suppose that is being romantic."
- 43. "Exactly!" he said. As a matter of fact, he was tired. This evening had tired him. He would rather have been with his technical books, or his pit manager, or listening-in to the radio. Mrs. Bolton came in with two glasses of malted milk: for Clifford, to make him sleep, and for Connie to fatten her again. It was a regular night-cap she had introduced. Connie was glad to go, when she had drunk her glass, and thankful she needn't help Clifford to bed. She took his glass and put it on the tray, then took the tray, to leave it outside. "Good night Clifford! Do sleep well! The Racine gets into one like a dream. Good night!" She had drifted to the door. She was going without kissing him good night. He watched her with sharp, cold eyes. So! She did not even kiss him good night, after he had spent an evening reading to her. Such depths of callousness in her! Even if the kiss was but a formality, it was on such formalities that life depends. She was a bolshevik, really. Her instincts were bolshevistic! He gazed coldly and angrily at the door whence she had gone. Anger! And again the dread of the night came on him. He was a network of nerves, and when he was not braced up to work, and so full of energy: or when he was not listening-in, and so utterly neuter: then he was haunted by anxiety and a sense of dangerous impending void. He was afraid. And Connie could keep the fear off him, if she would. But it was obvious she wouldn't, she wouldn't. She was callous, cold and callous to all that he did for her. He gave up his life for her, and she was callous to him. She only wanted her own way. "The lady loves her will." Now it was a baby she was obsessed by. Just so that it should be her own, all her own, and not his! Clifford was so healthy, considering. He looked so well and ruddy, in the face, his shoulders were broad and strong, his chest deep, he
- 44. had put on flesh. And yet, at the same time, he was afraid of death. A terrible hollow seemed to menace him somewhere, somehow, a void, and into this void his energy would collapse. Energyless, he felt at times he was dead, really dead. So his rather prominent pale eyes had a queer look, furtive, and yet a little cruel, so cold: and at the same time, almost impudent. It was a very odd look, this look of impudence: as if he were triumphing over life in spite of life. "Who knoweth the mysteries of the will—for it can triumph even against the angels—" But his dread was the nights when he could not sleep. Then it was awful indeed, when annihilation pressed in on him on every side. Then it was ghastly, to exist without having any life: lifeless, in the night, to exist. But now he could ring for Mrs. Bolton. And she would always come. That was a great comfort. She would come in her dressing-gown, with her hair in a plait down her back, curiously girlish and dim, though the brown plait was streaked with grey. And she would make him coffee or camomile tea, and she would play chess or piquet with him. She had a woman's queer faculty of playing even chess well enough, when she was three parts asleep, well enough to make her worth beating. So, in the silent intimacy of the night, they sat, or she sat and he lay on the bed, with the reading-lamp shedding its solitary light on them, she almost gone in sleep, he almost gone in a sort of fear, and they played, played together—then they had a cup of coffee and a biscuit together, hardly speaking, in the silence of night, but being a reassurance to one another. And this night she was wondering who Lady Chatterley's lover was. And she was thinking of her own Ted, so long dead, yet for her never quite dead. And when she thought of him, the old, old grudge against the world rose up, but especially against the masters, that they had killed him. They had not really killed him. Yet, to her, emotionally, they had. And somewhere deep in herself, because of it, she was a nihilist, and really anarchic.
- 45. In her half-sleep, thoughts of her Ted and thoughts of Lady Chatterley's unknown lover commingled, and then she felt she shared with the other woman a great grudge against Sir Clifford and all he stood for. At the same time she was playing piquet with him, and they were gambling sixpences. And it was a source of satisfaction to be playing piquet with a baronet, and even losing sixpences to him. When they played cards, they always gambled. It made him forget himself. And he usually won. Tonight too he was winning. So he would not go to sleep till the first dawn appeared. Luckily it began to appear at half-past four or thereabouts. Connie was in bed, and fast asleep all this time. But the keeper, too, could not rest. He had closed the coops and made his round of the wood, then gone home and eaten supper. But he did not go to bed. Instead he sat by the fire and thought. He thought of his boyhood in Tevershall, and of his five or six years of married life. He thought of his wife, and always bitterly. She had seemed so brutal. But he had not seen her now since 1915, in the spring when he joined up. Yet there she was, not three miles away, and more brutal than ever. He hoped never to see her again while he lived. He thought of his life abroad, as a soldier. India, Egypt, then India again: the blind, thoughtless life with the horses: the Colonel who had loved him and whom he had loved: the several years that he had been an officer, a lieutenant with a very fair chance of being a captain. Then the death of the Colonel from pneumonia, and his own narrow escape from death: his damaged health: his deep restlessness: his leaving the army and coming back to England to be a working-man again. He was temporising with life. He had thought he would be safe, at least for a time, in this wood. There was no shooting as yet: he had to rear the pheasants. He would have no guns to serve. He would be alone, and apart from life, which was all he wanted. He had to have
- 46. some sort of a background. And this was his native place. There was even his mother, though she had never meant very much to him. And he could go on in life, existing from day to day, without connection and without hope. For he did not know what to do with himself. He did not know what to do with himself. Since he had been an officer for some years, and had mixed among the other officers and civil servants, with their wives and families, he had lost all ambition to "get on." There was a toughness, a curious rubber-necked toughness and unlivingness about the middle and upper classes, as he had known them, which just left him feeling cold and different from them. So, he had come back to his own class. To find there, what he had forgotten during his absence of years, a pettiness and a vulgarity of manner extremely distasteful. He admitted now at last, how important manner was. He admitted, also, how important it was even to pretend not to care about the halfpence and the small things of life. But among the common people there was no pretence. A penny more or less on the bacon was worse than a change in the Gospel. He could not stand it. And again, there was the wage-squabble. Having lived among the owning classes, he knew the utter futility of expecting any solution of the wage-squabble. There was no solution, short of death. The only thing was not to care, not to care about the wages. Yet, if you were poor and wretched you had to care. Anyhow, it was becoming the only thing they did care about. The care about money was like a great cancer, eating away the individuals of all classes. He refused to care about money. And what then? What did life offer apart from the care of money. Nothing. Yet he could live alone, in the wan satisfaction of being alone, and raise pheasants to be shot ultimately by fat men after breakfast. It was futility, futility to the nth power.
- 47. But why care, why bother? And he had not cared nor bothered till now, when this woman had come into his life. He was nearly ten years older than she. And he was a thousand years older in experience, starting from the bottom. The connection between them was growing closer. He could see the day when it would clinch up and they would have to make a life together. "For the bonds of love are ill to loose!" And what then? What then? Must he start again with nothing to start on? Must he entangle this woman? Must he have the horrible broil with her lame husband? And also some sort of horrible broil with his own brutal wife, who hated him? Misery! Lots of misery! And he was no longer young and merely buoyant. Neither was he the insouciant sort. Every bitterness and every ugliness would hurt him: and the woman! But even if they got clear of Sir Clifford and of his own wife, even if they got clear, what were they going to do? What was he, himself, going to do? What was he going to do with his life? For he must do something. He couldn't be a mere hanger-on, on her money and his own very small pension. It was the insoluble. He could only think of going to America, to try a new air. He disbelieved in the dollar utterly. But perhaps, perhaps there was something else. He could not rest nor even go to bed. After sitting in a stupor of bitter thoughts until midnight, he got suddenly from his chair and reached for his coat and gun. "Come on, lass," he said to the dog. "We're best outside." It was a starry night, but moonless. He went on a slow, scrupulous, soft-stepping and stealthy round. The only thing he had to contend with was the colliers setting snares for rabbits, particularly the Stacks Gate colliers, on the Marehay side. But it was breeding season, and even colliers respected it a little. Nevertheless the stealthy beating of the round in search of poachers soothed his nerves and took his mind off his thoughts.
- 48. But when he had done his slow, cautious beating of his bounds—it was nearly a five-mile walk—he was tired. He went to the top of the knoll and looked out. There was no sound save the noise, the faint shuffling noise from Stacks Gate colliery, that never ceased working: and there were hardly any lights, save the brilliant electric rows at the works. The world lay darkly and fumily sleeping. It was half-past two. But even in its sleep it was an uneasy, cruel world, stirring with the noise of a train or some great lorry on the road, and flashing with some rosy lightning-flash from the furnaces. It was a world of iron and coal, the cruelty of iron and the smoke of coal, and the endless, endless greed that drove it all. Only greed, greed stirring in its sleep. It was cold, and he was coughing. A fine cold draught blew over the knoll. He thought of the woman. Now he would have given all he had or ever might have to hold her warm in his arms, both of them wrapped in one blanket, and sleep. All hopes of eternity and all gain from the past he would have given to have her there, to be wrapped warm with him in one blanket, and sleep, only sleep. It seemed the sleep with the woman in his arms was the only necessity. He went to the hut, and wrapped himself in the blanket and lay on the floor to sleep. But he could not, he was cold. And besides, he felt cruelly his own unfinished nature. He felt his own unfinished condition of aloneness cruelly. He wanted her, to touch her, to hold her fast against him in one moment of completeness and sleep. He got up again and went out, towards the park gates this time: then slowly along the path towards the house. It was nearly four o'clock, still clear and cold, but no sign of dawn. He was so used to the dark, he could see well. Slowly, slowly the great house drew him, as a magnet. He wanted to be near her. It was not desire, not that. It was the cruel sense of unfinished aloneness, that needed a silent woman folded in his arms. Perhaps he could find her. Perhaps he could even call her out to him: or find some way in to her. For the need was imperious.
- 49. He slowly, silently climbed the incline to the hall. Then he came round the great trees at the top of the knoll, on to the drive, which made a grand sweep round a lozenge of grass in front of the entrance. He could already see the two magnificent beeches which stood in this big level lozenge in front of the house, detaching themselves darkly in the dark air. There was the house, low and long and obscure, with one light burning downstairs, in Sir Clifford's room. But which room she was in, the woman who held the other end of the frail thread which drew him so mercilessly, that he did not know. He went a little nearer, gun in hand, and stood motionless on the drive, watching the house. Perhaps even now he could find her, come at her in some way. The house was not impregnable: he was as clever as burglars are. Why not come to her? He stood motionless, waiting, while the dawn faintly and imperceptibly paled behind him. He saw the light in the house go out. But he did not see Mrs. Bolton come to the window and draw back the old curtain of dark-blue silk, and stand herself in the dark room, looking out on the half-dark of the approaching day, looking for the longed-for dawn, waiting, waiting for Clifford to be really re- assured that it was daybreak. For when he was sure of daybreak, he would sleep almost at once. She stood blind with sleep at the window, waiting. And as she stood, she started, and almost cried out. For there was a man out there on the drive, a black figure in the twilight. She woke up greyly, and watched, but without making a sound to disturb Sir Clifford. The daylight began to rustle into the world, and the dark figure seemed to go smaller and more defined. She made out the gun and gaiters and baggy jacket—it would be Oliver Mellors, the keeper. Yes, for there was the dog nosing around like a shadow, and waiting for him! And what did the man want? Did he want to rouse the house? What was he standing there for, transfixed, looking up at the house like a
- 50. love-sick male dog outside the house where the bitch is! Goodness! The knowledge went through Mrs. Bolton like a shot. He was Lady Chatterley's lover! He! He! To think of it! Why, she, Ivy Bolton, had once been a tiny bit in love with him herself! When he was a lad of sixteen and she a woman of twenty-six. It was when she was studying, and he had helped her a lot with the anatomy and things she had had to learn. He'd been a clever boy, had a scholarship from Sheffield Grammar School, and learned French and things: and then after all had become an overhead blacksmith shoeing horses, because he was fond of horses, he said: but really because he was frightened to go out and face the world, only he'd never admit it. But he'd been a nice lad, a nice lad, had helped her a lot, so clever at making things clear to you. He was quite as clever as Sir Clifford: and always one for the women. More with women than men, they said. Till he'd gone and married that Bertha Coutts, as if to spite himself. Some people do marry to spite themselves, because they're disappointed of something. And no wonder it had been a failure.— For years he was gone, all the time of the war: and a lieutenant and all: quite the gentleman, really quite the gentleman!—Then to come back to Tevershall and go as a gamekeeper! Really, some people can't take their chances when they've got them! And talking broad Derbyshire again like the worst, when she, Ivy Bolton, knew he spoke like any gentleman, really. Well well! So her ladyship had fallen for him! Well,—her ladyship wasn't the first: there was something about him. But fancy! A Tevershall lad born and bred, and she her ladyship in Wragby Hall! My word, that was a slap back at the high-and-mighty Chatterleys! But he, the keeper, as the day grew, had realised: it's no good! It's no good trying to get rid of your own aloneness. You've got to stick to it all your life. Only at times, at times, the gap will be filled in. At times! But you have to wait for the times. Accept your own
- 51. aloneness and stick to it, all your life. And then accept the times when the gap is filled in, when they come. But they've got to come. You can't force them. With a sudden snap the bleeding desire that had drawn him after her broke. He had broken it, because it must be so. There must be a coming together on both sides. And if she wasn't coming to him, he wouldn't track her down. He mustn't. He must go away, till she came. He turned slowly, ponderingly, accepting again the isolation. He knew it was better so. She must come to him: it was no use his trailing after her. No use! Mrs. Bolton saw him disappear, saw his dog run after him. "Well well," she said. "He's the one man I never thought of; and the one man I might have thought of. He was nice to me when he was a lad, after I lost Ted. Well well! Whatever would he say if he knew!" And she glanced triumphantly at the already sleeping Clifford, as she stepped softly from the room. CHAPTER XI Connie was sorting out one of the Wragby lumber rooms. There were several: the house was a warren, and the family never sold anything. Sir Geoffrey's father had liked pictures and Sir Geoffrey's mother had liked cinquecento furniture. Sir Geoffrey himself had liked old carved oak chests, vestry chests. So it went on through the generations. Clifford collected very modern pictures, at very moderate prices. So in the lumber room there were bad Sir Edwin Landseers and pathetic William Henry Hunt birds' nests: and other Academy stuff, enough to frighten the daughter of an R. A. She determined to look
- 52. through it one day, and clear it all. And the grotesque furniture interested her. Wrapped up carefully to preserve it from damage and dry-rot was the old family cradle, of rosewood. She had to unwrap it, to look at it. It had a certain charm: she looked at it a long time. "It's a thousand pities it won't be called for," sighed Mrs. Bolton, who was helping. "Though cradles like that are out of date nowadays." "It might be called for. I might have a child," said Connie casually, as if saying she might have a new hat. "You mean if anything happened to Sir Clifford!" stammered Mrs. Bolton. "No! I mean as things are. It's only muscular paralysis with Sir Clifford—it doesn't affect him," said Connie, lying as naturally as breathing. Clifford had put the idea into her head. He had said: "Of course I may have a child yet. I'm not really mutilated at all. The potency may easily come back, even if the muscles of the hips and legs are paralysed. And then the seed may be transferred." He really felt, when he had his periods of energy and worked so hard at the question of the mines, as if his sexual potency were returning. Connie had looked at him in terror. But she was quick- witted enough to use his suggestion for her own preservation. For she would have a child if she could: but not his. Mrs. Bolton was for a moment breathless, flabbergasted. Then she didn't believe it: she saw in it a ruse. Yet doctors could do such things nowadays. They might sort of graft seed. "Well my Lady, I only hope and pray you may. It would be lovely for you: and for everybody. My word, a child in Wragby, what a difference it would make!" "Wouldn't it!" said Connie.
- 53. And she chose three R. A. pictures of sixty years ago, to send to the Duchess of Shortlands for the lady's next charitable bazaar. She was called "The bazaar duchess," and she always asked all the county to send things for her to sell. She would be delighted with three framed R. A.'s. She might even call, on the strength of them. How furious Clifford was when she called! But oh my dear! Mrs. Bolton was thinking to herself. Is it Oliver Mellors' child you're preparing us for? Oh my dear, that would be a Tevershall baby in the Wragby cradle, my word! Wouldn't shame it, neither! Among other monstrosities in this lumber room was a largish black japanned box, excellently and ingeniously made some sixty or seventy years ago, and fitted with every imaginable object. On top was a concentrated toilet set: brushes, bottles, mirrors, combs, boxes, even three beautiful little razors in safety sheaths, shaving bowl and all. Underneath came a sort of escritoire outfit: blotters, pens, ink bottles, paper, envelopes, memorandum books: and then a perfect sewing outfit with three different-sized scissors, thimbles, needles, silks and cottons, darning egg, all of the very best quality and perfectly finished. Then there was a little medicine store, with bottles labelled Laudanum, Tincture of Myrrh, Ess. Cloves and so on: but empty. Everything was perfectly new, and the whole thing, when shut up, was as big as a small, but fat weekend bag. And inside, it fitted together like a puzzle. The bottles could not possibly have spilled: there wasn't room. The thing was wonderfully made and contrived, excellent craftsmanship of the Victorian order. But somehow it was monstrous. Some Chatterley must even have felt it, for the thing had never been used. It had a peculiar soullessness. Yet Mrs. Bolton was thrilled. "Look what beautiful brushes, so expensive, even the shaving brushes, three perfect ones! No! and those scissors! They're the best that money could buy. Oh, I call it lovely!"
- 54. "Do you?" said Connie. "Then you have it." "Oh no, my Lady!" "Of course! It will only lie here till Doomsday. If you won't have it, I'll send it to the Duchess as well as the pictures, and she doesn't deserve so much. Do have it!" "Oh your Ladyship! Why I shall never be able to thank you." "You needn't try," laughed Connie. And Mrs. Bolton sailed down with the huge and very black box in her arms, flushing bright pink in her excitement. Mr. Betts drove her in the trap to her house in the village, with the box. And she had to have a few friends in, to show it: the schoolmistress, the chemist's wife, Mrs. Weedon the under-cashier's wife. They thought it marvellous. And then started the whisper of Lady Chatterley's child. "Wonders'll never cease!" said Mrs. Weedon. But Mrs. Bolton was convinced, if it did come, it would be Sir Geoffrey's child. So there! Not long after, the rector said gently to Clifford: "And may we really hope for an heir to Wragby? Ah, that would be the hand of God in mercy, indeed!" "Well! We may hope," said Clifford, with a faint irony, and at the same time, a certain conviction. He had begun to believe it really possible it might even be his child. Then one afternoon came Leslie Winter, Squire Winter, as everybody called him: lean, immaculate, and seventy: and every inch a gentleman, as Mrs. Bolton said to Mrs. Betts. Every millimetre indeed! And with his old-fashioned, rather haw-haw! manner of speaking, he seemed more out-of-date than bag wigs. Time, in her flight, drops these fine old feathers.