On Sunday Clifford wanted to go into the wood. It was a lovely morning, the pear-blossom and plum had suddenly appeared in the world in a wonder of white here and there.
It was cruel for Clifford, while the world bloomed, to have to be helped from chair to bath-chair. But he had forgotten, and even seemed to have a certain conceit of himself in his lameness. Connie still suffered, having to lift his inert legs into place. Mrs Bolton did it now, or Field.

She waited for him at the top of the drive, at the edge of the screen of beeches. His chair came puffing along with a sort of valetudinarian slow importance. As he joined his wife he said:

`Sir Clifford on his roaming steed!'

`Snorting, at least!' she laughed.

He stopped and looked round at the facade of the long, low old brown house.

`Wragby doesn't wink an eyelid!' he said. `But then why should it! I ride upon the achievements of the mind of man, and that beats a horse.'

`I suppose it does. And the souls in Plato riding up to heaven in a two-horse chariot would go in a Ford car now,' she said.

`Or a Rolls-Royce: Plato was an aristocrat!'

`Quite! No more black horse to thrash and maltreat. Plato never thought we'd go one better than his black steed and his white steed, and have no steeds at all, only an engine!'

`Only an engine and gas!' said Clifford.

`I hope I can have some repairs done to the old place next year. I think I shall have about a thousand to spare for that: but work costs so much!' he added.

`Oh, good!' said Connie. `If only there aren't more strikes!'

`What would be the use of their striking again! Merely ruin the industry, what's left of it: and surely the owls are beginning to see it!'

`Perhaps they don't mind ruining the industry,' said Connie.

`Ah, don't talk like a woman! The industry fills their bellies, even if it can't keep their pockets quite so flush,' he said, using turns of speech that oddly had a twang of Mrs Bolton.

`But didn't you say the other day that you were a conservative-anarchist,' she asked innocently.

`And did you understand what I meant?' he retorted. `All I meant is, people can be what they like and feel what they like and do what they like, strictly privately, so long as they keep the form of life intact, and the apparatus.'

Connie walked on in silence a few paces. Then she said, obstinately:

`It sounds like saying an egg may go as addled as it likes, so long as it keeps its shell on whole. But addled eggs do break of themselves.'

`I don't think people are eggs,' he said. `Not even angels' eggs, my dear little evangelist.'

He was in rather high feather this bright morning. The larks were trilling away over the park, the distant pit in the hollow was fuming silent steam. It was almost like old days, before the war. Connie didn't really want to argue. But then she did not really want to go to the wood with Clifford either. So she walked beside his chair in a certain obstinacy of spirit.

`No,' he said. `There will be no more strikes, it. The thing is properly managed.'

`Why not?'

`Because strikes will be made as good as impossible.'

`But will the men let you?' she asked.

`We shan't ask them. We shall do it while they aren't looking: for their own good, to save the industry.'

`For your own good too,' she said.

`Naturally! For the good of everybody. But for their good even more than mine. I can live without the pits. They can't. They'll starve if there are no pits. I've got other provision.'

They looked up the shallow valley at the mine, and beyond it, at the black-lidded houses of Tevershall crawling like some serpent up the hill. From the old brown church the bells were ringing: Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!

`But will the men let you dictate terms?' she said. `My dear, they will have to: if one does it gently.'

`But mightn't there be a mutual understanding?'

`Absolutely: when they realize that the industry comes before the individual.'

`But must you own the industry?' she said.

`I don't. But to the extent I do own it, yes, most decidedly. The ownership of property has now become a religious question: as it has been since Jesus and St Francis. The point is not: take all thou hast and give to the poor, but use all thou hast to encourage the industry and give work to the poor. It's the only way to feed all the mouths and clothe all the bodies. Giving away all we have to the poor spells starvation for the poor just as much as for us. And universal starvation is no high aim. Even general poverty is no lovely thing. Poverty is ugly.'

`But the disparity?'

`That is fate. Why is the star Jupiter bigger than the star Neptune? You can't start altering the make-up of things!'

`But when this envy and jealousy and discontent has once started,' she began.

`Do, your best to stop it. Somebody's got to be boss of the show.'

`But who is boss of the show?' she asked.

`The men who own and run the industries.'

There was a long silence.

`It seems to me they're a bad boss,' she said.

`Then you suggest what they should do.'

`They don't take their boss-ship seriously enough,' she said.

`They take it far more seriously than you take your ladyship,' he said.

`That's thrust upon me. I don't really want it,' she blurted out. He stopped the chair and looked at her.

`Who's shirking their responsibility now!' he said. `Who is trying to get away now from the responsibility of their own boss-ship, as you call it?'

`But I don't want any boss-ship,' she protested.

`Ah! But that is funk. You've got it: fated to it. And you should live up to it. Who has given the colliers all they have that's worth having: all their political liberty, and their education, such as it is, their sanitation, their health-conditions, their books, their music, everything. Who has given it them? Have colliers given it to colliers? No! All the Wragbys and Shipleys in England have given their part, and must go on giving. There's your responsibility.'

Connie listened, and flushed very red.

`I'd like to give something,' she said. `But I'm not allowed. Everything is to be sold and paid for now; and all the things you mention now, Wragby and Shipley sells them to the people, at a good prof it. Everything is sold. You don't give one heart-beat of real sympathy. And besides, who has taken away from the people their natural life and manhood, and given them this industrial horror? Who has done that?'

`And what must I do?' he asked, green. `Ask them to come and pillage me?'

`Why is Tevershall so ugly, so hideous? Why are their lives so hopeless?'

`They built their own Tevershall, that's part of their display of freedom. They built themselves their pretty Tevershall, and they live their own pretty lives. I can't live their lives for them. Every beetle must live its own life.'

`But you make them work for you. They live the life of your coal-mine.'

`Not at all. Every beetle finds its own food. Not one man is forced to work for me.

`Their lives are industrialized and hopeless, and so are ours,' she cried.

`I don't think they are. That's just a romantic figure of speech, a relic of the swooning and die-away romanticism. You don't look at all a hopeless figure standing there, Connie my dear.'

Which was true. For her dark-blue eyes were flashing, her colour was hot in her cheeks, she looked full of a rebellious passion far from the dejection of hopelessness. She noticed, ill the tussocky places of the grass, cottony young cowslips standing up still bleared in their down. And she wondered with rage, why it was she felt Clifford was so wrong, yet she couldn't say it to him, she could not say exactly where he was wrong.

`No wonder the men hate you,' she said.

`They don't!' he replied. `And don't fall into errors: in your sense of the word, they are not men. They are animals you don't understand, and never could. Don't thrust your illusions on other people. The masses were always the same, and will always be the same. Nero's slaves were extremely little different from our colliers or the Ford motor-car workmen. I mean Nero's mine slaves and his field slaves. It is the masses: they are the unchangeable. An individual may emerge from the masses. But the emergence doesn't alter the mass. The masses are unalterable. It is one of the most momentous facts of social science. Panem et circenses! Only today education is one of the bad substitutes for a circus. What is wrong today is that we've made a profound hash of the circuses part of the programme, and poisoned our masses with a little education.'

When Clifford became really roused in his feelings about the common people, Connie was frightened. There was something devastatingly true in what he said. But it was a truth that killed.

Seeing her pale and silent, Clifford started the chair again, and no more was said till he halted again at the wood gate, which she opened.

`And what we need to take up now,' he said, `is whips, not swords. The masses have been ruled since time began, and till time ends, ruled they will have to be. It is sheer hypocrisy and farce to say they can rule themselves.'

`But can you rule them?' she asked.

`I? Oh yes! Neither my mind nor my will is crippled, and I don't rule with my legs. I can do my share of ruling: absolutely, my share; and give me a son, and he will be able to rule his portion after me.'

`But he wouldn't be your own son, of your own ruling class; or perhaps not,' she stammered.

`I don't care who his father may be, so long as he is a healthy man not below normal intelligence. Give me the child of any healthy, normally intelligent man, and I will make a perfectly competent Chatterley of him. It is not who begets us, that matters, but where fate places us. Place any child among the ruling classes, and he will grow up, to his own extent, a ruler. Put kings' and dukes' children among the masses, and they'll be little plebeians, mass products. It is the overwhelming pressure of environment.'

`Then the common people aren't a race, and the aristocrats aren't blood,' she said.

`No, my child! All that is romantic illusion. Aristocracy is a function, a part of fate. And the masses are a functioning of another part of fate. The individual hardly matters. It is a question of which function you are brought up to and adapted to. It is not the individuals that make an aristocracy: it is the functioning of the aristocratic whole. And it is the functioning of the whole mass that makes the common man what he is.'

`Then there is no common humanity between us all!'

`Just as you like. We all need to fill our bellies. But when it comes to expressive or executive functioning, I believe there is a gulf and an absolute one, between the ruling and the serving classes. The two functions are opposed. And the function determines the individual.'

Connie looked at him with dazed eyes.

`Won't you come on?' she said.

And he started his chair. He had said his say. Now he lapsed into his peculiar and rather vacant apathy, that Connie found so trying. In the wood, anyhow, she was determined not to argue.

In front of them ran the open cleft of the riding, between the hazel walls and the gay grey trees. The chair puffed slowly on, slowly surging into the forget-me-nots that rose up in the drive like milk froth, beyond the hazel shadows. Clifford steered the middle course, where feet passing had kept a channel through the flowers. But Connie, walking behind, had watched the wheels jolt over the wood-ruff and the bugle, and squash the little yellow cups of the creeping-jenny. Now they made a wake through the forget-me-nots.

All the flowers were there, the first bluebells in blue pools, like standing water.

`You are quite right about its being beautiful,' said Clifford. `It is so amazingly. What is quite so lovely as an English spring!'

Connie thought it sounded as if even the spring bloomed by act of Parliament. An English spring! Why not an Irish one? or Jewish? The chair moved slowly ahead, past tufts of sturdy bluebells that stood up like wheat and over grey burdock leaves. When they came to the open place where the trees had been felled, the light flooded in rather stark. And the bluebells made sheets of bright blue colour, here and there, sheering off into lilac and purple. And between, the bracken was lifting its brown curled heads, like legions of young snakes with a new secret to whisper to Eve. Clifford kept the chair going till he came to the brow of the hill; Connie followed slowly behind. The oak-buds were opening soft and brown. Everything came tenderly out of the old hardness. Even the snaggy craggy oak-trees put out the softest young leaves, spreading thin, brown little wings like young bat-wings in the light. Why had men never any newness in them, any freshness to come forth with! Stale men!

Clifford stopped the chair at the top of the rise and looked down. The bluebells washed blue like flood-water over the broad riding, and lit up the downhill with a warm blueness.

`It's a very fine colour in itself,' said Clifford, `but useless for making a painting.'

`Quite!' said Connie, completely uninterested.

`Shall I venture as far as the spring?' said Clifford.

`Will the chair get up again?' she said.

`We'll try; nothing venture, nothing win!'

And the chair began to advance slowly, joltingly down the beautiful broad riding washed over with blue encroaching hyacinths. O last of all ships, through the hyacinthian shallows! O pinnace on the last wild waters, sailing in the last voyage of our civilization! Whither, O weird wheeled ship, your slow course steering. Quiet and complacent, Clifford sat at the wheel of adventure: in his old black hat and tweed jacket, motionless and cautious. O Captain, my Captain, our splendid trip is done! Not yet though! Downhill, in the wake, came Constance in her grey dress, watching the chair jolt downwards.

They passed the narrow track to the hut. Thank heaven it was not wide enough for the chair: hardly wide enough for one person. The chair reached the bottom of the slope, and swerved round, to disappear. And Connie heard a low whistle behind her. She glanced sharply round: the keeper was striding downhill towards her, his dog keeping behind him.

`Is Sir Clifford going to the cottage?' he asked, looking into her eyes.

`No, only to the well.'

`Ah! Good! Then I can keep out of sight. But I shall see you tonight. I shall wait for you at the park-gate about ten.'

He looked again direct into her eyes.

`Yes,' she faltered.

They heard the Papp! Papp! of Clifford's horn, tooting for Connie. She `Coo-eed!' in reply. The keeper's face flickered with a little grimace, and with his hand he softly brushed her breast upwards, from underneath. She looked at him, frightened, and started running down the hill, calling Coo-ee! again to Clifford. The man above watched her, then turned, grinning faintly, back into his path.

She found Clifford slowly mounting to the spring, which was halfway up the slope of the dark larch-wood. He was there by the time she caught him up.

`She did that all right,' he said, referring to the chair.

Connie looked at the great grey leaves of burdock that grew out ghostly from the edge of the larch-wood. The people call it Robin Hood's Rhubarb. How silent and gloomy it seemed by the well! Yet the water bubbled so bright, wonderful! And there were bits of eye-bright and strong blue bugle...And there, under the bank, the yellow earth was moving. A mole! It emerged, rowing its pink hands, and waving its blind gimlet of a face, with the tiny pink nose-tip uplifted.

`It seems to see with the end of its nose,' said Connie.

`Better than with its eyes!' he said. `Will you drink?'

`Will you?'

She took an enamel mug from a twig on a tree, and stooped to fill it for him. He drank in sips. Then she stooped again, and drank a little herself.

`So icy!' she said gasping.

`Good, isn't it! Did you wish?'

`Did you?'

`Yes, I wished. But I won't tell.'

She was aware of the rapping of a woodpecker, then of the wind, soft and eerie through the larches. She looked up. White clouds were crossing the blue.

`Clouds!' she said.

`White lambs only,' he replied.

A shadow crossed the little clearing. The mole had swum out on to the soft yellow earth.

`Unpleasant little beast, we ought to kill him,' said Clifford.

`Look! he's like a parson in a pulpit,' she said.

She gathered some sprigs of woodruff and brought them to him.

`New-mown hay!' he said. `Doesn't it smell like the romantic ladies of the last century, who had their heads screwed on the right way after all!'

She was looking at the white clouds.

`I wonder if it will rain,' she said.

`Rain! Why! Do you want it to?'

They started on the return journey, Clifford jolting cautiously downhill. They came to the dark bottom of the hollow, turned to the right, and after a hundred yards swerved up the foot of the long slope, where bluebells stood in the light.

`Now, old girl!' said Clifford, putting the chair to it.

It was a steep and jolty climb. The chair pugged slowly, in a struggling unwilling fashion. Still, she nosed her way up unevenly, till she came to where the hyacinths were all around her, then she balked, struggled, jerked a little way out of the flowers, then stopped

`We'd better sound the horn and see if the keeper will come,' said Connie. `He could push her a bit. For that matter, I will push. It helps.'

`We'll let her breathe,' said Clifford. `Do you mind putting a scotch under the wheel?'

Connie found a stone, and they waited. After a while Clifford started his motor again, then set the chair in motion. It struggled and faltered like a sick thing, with curious noises.

`Let me push!' said Connie, coming up behind.

`No! Don't push!' he said angrily. `What's the good of the damned thing, if it has to be pushed! Put the stone under!'

There was another pause, then another start; but more ineffectual than before.

`You must let me push,' said she. `Or sound the horn for the keeper.'

`Wait!'

She waited; and he had another try, doing more harm than good.

`Sound the horn then, if you won't let me push,' she said. `Hell! Be quiet a moment!'

She was quiet a moment: he made shattering efforts with the little motor.

`You'll only break the thing down altogether, Clifford,' she remonstrated; `besides wasting your nervous energy.'

`If I could only get out and look at the damned thing!' he said, exasperated. And he sounded the horn stridently. `Perhaps Mellors can see what's wrong.'

They waited, among the mashed flowers under a sky softly curdling with cloud. In the silence a wood-pigeon began to coo roo-hoo hoo! roo-hoo hoo! Clifford shut her up with a blast on the horn.

The keeper appeared directly, striding inquiringly round the corner. He saluted.

`Do you know anything about motors?' asked Clifford sharply.

`I am afraid I don't. Has she gone wrong?'

`Apparently!' snapped Clifford.

The man crouched solicitously by the wheel, and peered at the little engine.

`I'm afraid I know nothing at all about these mechanical things, Sir Clifford,' he said calmly. `If she has enough petrol and oil---'

`Just look carefully and see if you can see anything broken,' snapped Clifford.

The man laid his gun against a tree, took oil his coat, and threw it beside it. The brown dog sat guard. Then he sat down on his heels and peered under the chair, poking with his finger at the greasy little engine, and resenting the grease-marks on his clean Sunday shirt.

`Doesn't seem anything broken,' he said. And he stood up, pushing back his hat from his forehead, rubbing his brow and apparently studying.

`Have you looked at the rods underneath?' asked Clifford. `See if they are all right!'

The man lay flat on his stomach on the floor, his neck pressed back, wriggling under the engine and poking with his finger. Connie thought what a pathetic sort of thing a man was, feeble and small-looking, when he was lying on his belly on the big earth.

`Seems all right as far as I can see,' came his muffled voice.

`I don't suppose you can do anything,' said Clifford.

`Seems as if I can't!' And he scrambled up and sat on his heels, collier fashion. `There's certainly nothing obviously broken.'

Clifford started his engine, then put her in gear. She would not move.

`Run her a bit hard, like,' suggested the keeper.

Clifford resented the interference: but he made his engine buzz like a blue-bottle. Then she coughed and snarled and seemed to go better.

`Sounds as if she'd come clear,' said Mellors.

But Clifford had already jerked her into gear. She gave a sick lurch and ebbed weakly forwards.

`If I give her a push, she'll do it,' said the keeper, going behind.

`Keep off!' snapped Clifford. `She'll do it by herself.'

`But Clifford!' put in Connie from the bank, `you know it's too much for her. Why are you so obstinate!'

Clifford was pale with anger. He jabbed at his levers. The chair gave a sort of scurry, reeled on a few more yards, and came to her end amid a particularly promising patch of bluebells.

`She's done!' said the keeper. `Not power enough.'

`She's been up here before,' said Clifford coldly.

`She won't do it this time,' said the keeper.

Clifford did not reply. He began doing things with his engine, running her fast and slow as if to get some sort of tune out of her. The wood re-echoed with weird noises. Then he put her in gear with a jerk, having jerked off his brake.

`You'll rip her inside out,' murmured the keeper.

The chair charged in a sick lurch sideways at the ditch.

`Clifford!' cried Connie, rushing forward.

But the keeper had got the chair by the rail. Clifford, however, putting on all his pressure, managed to steer into the riding, and with a strange noise the chair was fighting the hill. Mellors pushed steadily behind, and up she went, as if to retrieve herself.

`You see, she's doing it!' said Clifford, victorious, glancing over his shoulder. There he saw the keeper's face.

`Are you pushing her?'

`She won't do it without.'

`Leave her alone. I asked you not.

`She won't do it.'

`Let her try!' snarled Clifford, with all his emphasis.

The keeper stood back: then turned to fetch his coat and gun. The chair seemed to strange immediately. She stood inert. Clifford, seated a prisoner, was white with vexation. He jerked at the levers with his hand, his feet were no good. He got queer noises out of her. In savage impatience he moved little handles and got more noises out of her. But she would not budge. No, she would not budge. He stopped the engine and sat rigid with anger.

Constance sat on the bank arid looked at the wretched and trampled bluebells. `Nothing quite so lovely as an English spring.' `I can do my share of ruling.' `What we need to take up now is whips, not swords.' `The ruling classes!'

The keeper strode up with his coat and gun, Flossie cautiously at his heels. Clifford asked the man to do something or other to the engine. Connie, who understood nothing at all of the technicalities of motors, and who had had experience of breakdowns, sat patiently on the bank as if she were a cipher. The keeper lay on his stomach again. The ruling classes and the serving classes!

He got to his feet and said patiently:

`Try her again, then.'

He spoke in a quiet voice, almost as if to a child.

Clifford tried her, and Mellors stepped quickly behind and began to push. She was going, the engine doing about half the work, the man the rest.

Clifford glanced round, yellow with anger.

`Will you get off there!'

The keeper dropped his hold at once, and Clifford added: `How shall I know what she is doing!'

The man put his gun down and began to pull on his coat. He'd done.

The chair began slowly to run backwards.

`Clifford, your brake!' cried Connie.

She, Mellors, and Clifford moved at once, Connie and the keeper jostling lightly. The chair stood. There was a moment of dead silence.

`It's obvious I'm at everybody's mercy!' said Clifford. He was yellow with anger.

No one answered. Mellors was slinging his gun over his shoulder, his face queer and expressionless, save for an abstracted look of patience. The dog Flossie, standing on guard almost between her master's legs, moved uneasily, eyeing the chair with great suspicion and dislike, and very much perplexed between the three human beings. The tableau vivant remained set among the squashed bluebells, nobody proffering a word.

`I expect she'll have to be pushed,' said Clifford at last, with an affectation of sang froid.

No answer. Mellors' abstracted face looked as if he had heard nothing. Connie glanced anxiously at him. Clifford too glanced round.

`Do you mind pushing her home, Mellors!' he said in a cool superior tone. `I hope I have said nothing to offend you,' he added, in a tone of dislike.

`Nothing at all, Sir Clifford! Do you want me to push that chair?'

`If you please.'

The man stepped up to it: but this time it was without effect. The brake was jammed. They poked and pulled, and the keeper took off his gun and his coat once more. And now Clifford said never a word. At last the keeper heaved the back of the chair off the ground and, with an instantaneous push of his foot, tried to loosen the wheels. He failed, the chair sank. Clifford was clutching the sides. The man gasped with the weight.

`Don't do it!' cried Connie to him.

`If you'll pull the wheel that way, so!' he said to her, showing her how.

`No! You mustn't lift it! You'll strain yourself,' she said, flushed now with anger.

But he looked into her eyes and nodded. And she had to go and take hold of the wheel, ready. He heaved and she tugged, and the chair reeled.

`For God's sake!' cried Clifford in terror.

But it was all right, and the brake was off. The keeper put a stone under the wheel, and went to sit on the bank, his heart beat and his face white with the effort, semi-conscious.

Connie looked at him, and almost cried with anger. There was a pause and a dead silence. She saw his hands trembling on his thighs.

`Have you hurt yourself?' she asked, going to him.

`No. No!' He turned away almost angrily.

There was dead silence. The back of Clifford's fair head did not move. Even the dog stood motionless. The sky had clouded over.

At last he sighed, and blew his nose on his red handkerchief.

`That pneumonia took a lot out of me,' he said.

No one answered. Connie calculated the amount of strength it must have taken to heave up that chair and the bulky Clifford: too much, far too much! If it hadn't killed him!

He rose, and again picked up his coat, slinging it through the handle of the chair.

`Are you ready, then, Sir Clifford?'

`When you are!'

He stooped and took out the scotch, then put his weight against the chair. He was paler than Connie had ever seen him: and more absent. Clifford was a heavy man: and the hill was steep. Connie stepped to the keeper's side.

`I'm going to push too!' she said.

And she began to shove with a woman's turbulent energy of anger. The chair went faster. Clifford looked round.

`Is that necessary?' he said.

`Very! Do you want to kill the man! If you'd let the motor work while it would---'

But she did not finish. She was already panting. She slackened off a little, for it was surprisingly hard work.

`Ay! slower!' said the man at her side, with a faint smile of his eyes.

`Are you sure you've not hurt yourself?' she said fiercely.

He shook his head. She looked at his smallish, short, alive hand, browned by the weather. It was the hand that caressed her. She had never even looked at it before. It seemed so still, like him, with a curious inward stillness that made her want to clutch it, as if she could not reach it. All her soul suddenly swept towards him: he was so silent, and out of reach! And he felt his limbs revive. Shoving with his left hand, he laid his right on her round white wrist, softly enfolding her wrist, with a caress. And the flame of strength went down his back and his loins, reviving him. And she bent suddenly and kissed his hand. Meanwhile the back of Clifford's head was held sleek and motionless, just in front of them.

At the top of the hill they rested, and Connie was glad to let go. She had had fugitive dreams of friendship between these two men: one her husband, the other the father of her child. Now she saw the screaming absurdity of her dreams. The two males were as hostile as fire and water. They mutually exterminated one another. And she realized for the first time what a queer subtle thing hate is. For the first time, she had consciously and definitely hated Clifford, with vivid hate: as if he ought to be obliterated from the face of the earth. And it was strange, how free and full of life it made her feel, to hate him and to admit it fully to herself.---`Now I've hated him, I shall never be able to go on living with him,' came the thought into her mind.

On the level the keeper could push the chair alone. Clifford made a little conversation with her, to show his complete composure: about Aunt Eva, who was at Dieppe, and about Sir Malcolm, who had written to ask would Connie drive with him in his small car, to Venice, or would she and Hilda go by train.

`I'd much rather go by train,' said Connie. `I don't like long motor drives, especially when there's dust. But I shall see what Hilda wants.'

`She will want to drive her own car, and take you with her,' he said.

`Probably!---I must help up here. You've no idea how heavy this chair is.'

She went to the back of the chair, and plodded side by side with the keeper, shoving up the pink path. She did not care who saw.

`Why not let me wait, and fetch Field? He is strong enough for the job,' said Clifford.

`It's so near,' she panted.

But both she and Mellors wiped the sweat from their faces when they came to the top. It was curious, but this bit of work together had brought them much closer than they had been before.

`Thanks so much, Mellors,' said Clifford, when they were at the house door. `I must get a different sort of motor, that's all. Won't you go to the kitchen and have a meal? It must be about time.'

`Thank you, Sir Clifford. I was going to my mother for dinner today, Sunday.'

`As you like.'

Mellors slung into his coat, looked at Connie, saluted, and was gone. Connie, furious, went upstairs.

At lunch she could not contain her feeling.

`Why are you so abominably inconsiderate, Clifford?' she said to him.

`Of whom?'

`Of the keeper! If that is what you call ruling classes, I'm sorry for you.'

`Why?'

`A man who's been ill, and isn't strong! My word, if I were the serving classes, I'd let you wait for service. I'd let you whistle.'

`I quite believe it.'

`If he'd been sitting in a chair with paralysed legs, and behaved as you behaved, what would you have done for him?'

`My dear evangelist, this confusing of persons and personalities is in bad taste.'

`And your nasty, sterile want of common sympathy is in the worst taste imaginable. Noblesse oblige! You and your ruling class!'

`And to what should it oblige me? To have a lot of unnecessary emotions about my game-keeper? I refuse. I leave it all to my evangelist.'

`As if he weren't a man as much as you are, my word!'

`My game-keeper to boot, and I pay him two pounds a week and give him a house.'

`Pay him! What do you think you pay for, with two pounds a week and a house?'

`His services.'

`Bah! I would tell you to keep your two pounds a week and your house.'

`Probably he would like to: but can't afford the luxury!'

`You, and rule!' she said. `You don't rule, don't flatter yourself. You have only got more than your share of the money, and make people work for you for two pounds a week, or threaten them with starvation. Rule! What do you give forth of rule? Why, you re dried up! You only bully with your money, like any Jew or any Schieber!'

`You are very elegant in your speech, Lady Chatterley!'

`I assure you, you were very elegant altogether out there in the wood. I was utterly ashamed of you. Why, my father is ten times the human being you are: you gentleman!'

He reached and rang the bell for Mrs Bolton. But he was yellow at the gills.

She went up to her room, furious, saying to herself: `Him and buying people! Well, he doesn't buy me, and therefore there's no need for me to stay with him. Dead fish of a gentleman, with his celluloid soul! And how they take one in, with their manners and their mock wistfulness and gentleness. They've got about as much feeling as celluloid has.'

She made her plans for the night, and determined to get Clifford off her mind. She didn't want to hate him. She didn't want to be mixed up very intimately with him in any sort of feeling. She wanted him not to know anything at all about herself: and especially, not to know anything about her feeling for the keeper. This squabble of her attitude to the servants was an old one. He found her too familiar, she found him stupidly insentient, tough and indiarubbery where other people were concerned.

She went downstairs calmly, with her old demure bearing, at dinner-time. He was still yellow at the gills: in for one of his liver bouts, when he was really very queer.---He was reading a French book.

`Have you ever read Proust?' he asked her.

`I've tried, but he bores me.'

`He's really very extraordinary.'

`Possibly! But he bores me: all that sophistication! He doesn't have feelings, he only has streams of words about feelings. I'm tired of self-important mentalities.'

`Would you prefer self-important animalities?'

`Perhaps! But one might possibly get something that wasn't self-important.'

`Well, I like Proust's subtlety and his well-bred anarchy.'

`It makes you very dead, really.'

`There speaks my evangelical little wife.'

They were at it again, at it again! But she couldn't help fighting him. He seemed to sit there like a skeleton, sending out a skeleton's cold grizzly will against her. Almost she could feel the skeleton clutching her and pressing her to its cage of ribs. He too was really up in arms: and she was a little afraid of him.

She went upstairs as soon as possible, and went to bed quite early. But at half past nine she got up, and went outside to listen. There was no sound. She slipped on a dressing-gown and went downstairs. Clifford and Mrs Bolton were playing cards, gambling. They would probably go on until midnight.

Connie returned to her room, threw her pyjamas on the tossed bed, put on a thin tennis-dress and over that a woollen day-dress, put on rubber tennis-shoes, and then a light coat. And she was ready. If she met anybody, she was just going out for a few minutes. And in the morning, when she came in again, she would just have been for a little walk in the dew, as she fairly often did before breakfast. For the rest, the only danger was that someone should go into her room during the night. But that was most unlikely: not one chance in a hundred.

Betts had not locked up. He fastened up the house at ten o'clock, and unfastened it again at seven in the morning. She slipped out silently and unseen. There was a half-moon shining, enough to make a little light in the world, not enough to show her up in her dark-grey coat. She walked quickly across the park, not really in the thrill of the assignation, but with a certain anger and rebellion burning in her heart. It was not the right sort of heart to take to a love-meeting. But à la guerre comme à la guerre!

礼拜天，克利福想到林中去走走，那是个可爱的早晨，梨花李花都突然开了，到处都是奇艳的白色。

那是件残酷的事，当这世界正在千红万紫的时候，克利福还得从一把轮椅里，被人扶掖着，转到一个小车里，但是他却忘怀了，甚至仿佛觉得他的腿是有某种可骄的地方了。康妮看见人把他那死了的两腿抢到适当的地方去时，还是觉得心里难过，现在，这种工作是由波太太或非尔德担任了。

她在马路的上头，那山毛榉树凑成的树墙边等着他。他坐在那卟卟响着的小车里前进着，这车子走得象大病人似的缓慢。当他来到康妮那里时，他说：

“克利福男爵骑在喷唾沫的骏马上！”

“至少是在喷着鼻息的骏马上！”她笑着说。

他停住，了望着那褐色的，长而低的老屋。

“勒格贝的神色没有变呢！”他说，“实在，为什么要变呢？我是骑在人类的精神的功业上，那是胜于骑在一匹马上的。”

“不错，从前拍拉图的灵魂上天去进，是乘着两马的战车去的，现在定要坐福德汽车去了。”她说。

“也许要坐罗斯---莱斯汽车去呢：因为柏拉图是个贵族呵！”

“真的！再也没有黑马受人鞭鞑和虐待了，柏拉图决没有梦想到我们今日会走得比他的两条黑白骏马更快，决没有梦想到骏马根本就没有了，有的只是机器！”

“只是机器和汽油！”克利福说。

“我希望明年能够把这老屋修整一下，为了这个，我想我得省下一千镑左右，但是工程太贵了！”他又加上一句。

“呵，那很好！”康妮说，“只要不再罢工就好了！”

“他们再罢工又有什么好处呢！那只是把工业，把这硕果仅存的一点点工业送上死路罢了，这班家伙应该有觉悟了！”

“也许他们满不在乎工业上死路呢，康妮说。

“呵，不要说这种妇人的话！纵令工业不能使他们的腰包满溢，但是他们的肚子是要靠它温饱的呵。”他说着，语调里奇异地带了些波太太的鼻音。

“但是那天你不是说过你是个保守派无政府主义者吗？”她天真地问道。

“你没有懂我的意思么？”他反驳道，“我的意思只是说，一个人在私生活上，喜欢怎样做怎样想，便可以怎样做怎样丰想，只要保全了生命的形式和机构。”

康妮静默地走了几步，然后固扫计说；

“这仿佛是说，一只蛋喜欢怎样腐败下去，便可以怎样腐

败下去，只要保全了蛋壳，但是蛋腐败了是不由得不破裂的。”

“我不相信人是和蛋一样的。”他说，“甚至这蛋是天使的

蛋，也不能拿来和人相提并论，我亲爱的小传道师。”

在这样清朗的早晨，他的心情是很愉快的，百灵鸟在园里

飞翔嗽卿着，远远地在低凹处的矿场，静悄悄地冒着烟雾。情景差不多同往日，大战前的往日一样，康妮实在不想争论。但是她实在也不想和克利福到林中去。她在他的小车旁走着心里在赌着气。

“不，”他说，如果事情处理得宜，以后不会有罢工的事了”

“为什么不会有了。”

“因为事情会摆布得差不多罢工成功了。”

“但是工人肯么？”她问道。

“我们不问他们肯不肯。为了他们自己的益处，为了救护工业，我们要当他们不留神的时候，把事情摆布好了。”

“也为了你自己的好处。”她说。

“自然啦！为了大家的好处，但是他们的好处却比我的好处多，没有煤矿我也能生活下去，我有其他的生计，他们却不能；没有煤矿他们便要挨饿的。”

他们在那浅谷的上头，遥望着煤矿场和矿场后面那些达娃斯哈的黑顶的屋宇，好象蛇似沿着山坡起着。那褐色的老教堂的钟声响着：礼拜，礼拜，礼拜！

“但是工人们肯让你这样自由摆布么？”她说。

“我亲爱的，假如摆布得聪明，他们便不得不让。”

“难道他们与你之间，不可以有互相的谅解么？”

“绝对可以的：如果他们认清了工业第一，个人次之。”

“但是你一定要自己占有这工业么？”她说。

“我不，但是我既已占有了，我便得占有它。现在产业所有权的问题已成为一个宗教问题了。这是自从耶稣及圣佛兰西斯以来就这样的。问题并不是：将您所有的一切赐予穷人；而是，利用您所有的一切以发展工业，面子穷人以工作，这是所以便靶靶众生饱暖的唯一方法，把我们所有的一切赐予穷人，那便等于使穷人和我们自己一伙儿饿馁。饥饿的世界是要不得的，甚至人人都穷困了，也不见得怎样有趣，贫穷是丑恶的！”

“但是贫富不均又怎样？”

“那是命，为什么木星比海王星大？你不能转变造化的！”

“但是假如猜忌、嫉妒和愤懑的感情一旦粹发起来……”

“但谁是群龙之首呢？”她问道。

“经营和占有工业的人们。”

两人间静默了好一会。

“我觉得这些人都是些坏头目。”她说。

“那么他们要怎样才算好头目呢？

“他们把他们的头目地位不太当你一回事。”她说。

“他们对他们的地位，比你对你的男爵夫人的地位，更当作一回事呢。”他说。

“但是我的地位是人家强给我的。我自己实在不想。”她脱口而出道，他把车停了，望着她：

“现在是谁想摆脱责任？现在是谁想逃避头目地位---如你所称的---责任。”

“但是我并不想处在什么头目地位呢。”她反驳道。

“咳！这是逃避责任。你已有了这种地位：这是命定的。你应该承受下去。矿工们所有的一切起码的好处是谁给的？他们的一切政治自由，他们的教育，他们的卫生环境，他们的书籍，他们的音乐，一切一切，是谁给的？是不是矿工们给矿工们的？不！是英国所有的勒格贝的希勃莱，尽了他们的本分给的，而且他们应该继续地给与。那便是你的责任。”

康妮听，脸气得通红。

“我很想给点什么东西。”她说，但是人们却不允许我。现在，一切东西都是出卖的，或买来的，你所提起的那种种东西，都是勒格贝的希勃莱用高价出卖给矿工们的，你们是不给一分一毫真正的同情的，此外，‘我要问问，是谁把人民的天然的生活与人性夺去了，而给与这种种工业的丑恶？是谁？”

“那么，你要我怎样呢？他气得脸发青说，“难道请他们到我家里来抢劫么？”

“为什么达娃斯哈弄成这么丑恶，这么肮脏？为什么他们的生活是这么绝望？”

“达娃斯喻是他们自己春夏秋冬成的，这是他们自由的一种表现。他们为自己做成了这美妙的达娃斯哈。他们过着他们的美妙的生活。我却不能过他们的那种生活。一条虫有一条虫的活法。”

“但是你使他们为你工作，他们靠你的煤矿生活。”

“一点也不。每条虫子找它自己的食粮，没有一个工人是被迫为我做工的。”

他们的生活是工业化的，失望的，我们自己的也一样。”她叫道。

“我不相信这话，你说的是骑丽的溺藻，只是瞩目待毙了的残余的浪漫主义的话，我亲爱的康妮呵，你此刻一点儿也没有失望的人的样了呢！”

这是真的。她的深的眼睛发着亮，两颊红粉粉的发烧，她充满着反叛的热情，全没有失望着的颓丧样儿，她注意到浓密的草丛中，杂着一些新出的莲馨花，还裹着一层毛茸，她自己愤横地奇怪着，为什么她既然觉得克利福不对，却又不能告诉他，不能明白地说出他在哪里不对。

“无怪工人们都恨你了。”她说。

“他们并不恨我！”他答道。“不要弄错了，他们并不是如你所想象的真正的‘人’。他们是你所不懂的，而且你永不会懂的动物。不要对其他的人作无谓的幻想，过去和将来的群众都是一样的，罗马暴君尼罗的奴录和我们的矿工，或福德汽车厂的工人，是相差得微乎其微的。我说的是在煤场里和田野里工作的奴录。这便是群众，他们是不会变的，在群众中，可以有个露头角的人但是这种特殊的现象并不会使群众改变，群众是不能改变的。这是社会科学中最重要的事实之一。PaneeCicenses！可是不幸地，我们今日却用教育去替你杂要场了。我们今日的错处．就错在把这般群众爱看的杂耍场大大地铲除了。并且用一点点几的教育把这般群众弄坏了。”

当克利福吐露着他对于平民的真正感情时，康妮害怕起来了。他的话里，有点可怖的真理在。但是这是一种杀人的真理。

看见了她苍白的颜色和静默的态度，克利福把小车子再次开动了。一路无言地到了园门边，康妮把园门打开了，他重新把车子停住。

“现在我们所要执在手里的是一条鞭，而不是一把剑，群众是自从人类开始直至人类末日止，都被人统治的，而且不得不这样，说他们能自治，那是骗人的笑话。”

“但是你能统治他的么？”她问道。

“我？当然！我的心和我的志愿意都没有残废，我并不用两条腿去统治，我能尽我的统治者的本分，绝对的尽我的本分，给我个儿子，他便将继承父业。”

“但是他不会是你真正的儿子，不会属于你的统治者的阶级，也许不。”她呐呐地说。

“我不管他的父亲是谁，只要他是个健康的、有普通智慧的人。给我一个无论那个健康的，有普通智慧的男子所生的儿子，我便可以使他成个不愧门媚的查太莱。重要的不是生我们者是谁，而是命运所给与我们的地位是怎样。把无论怎样的一个孩子放在统治者阶级中，他便要成为庶民，群众的产品，那是不可抗拒的环境所迫的缘故。”

“那么庶民并没有庶民的种，贵族也没有贵族的种了？”她说。

“不，我的孩子！这一切都是浪漫的幻想。贵族是一种职责，命运之一部分，而群众是执行职责，命运之其他一部分。个人是无基紧要的。紧要的是你受的哪一种职责的教养，你适全呈哪一种职责，贵族并不是由个人组成的。而是由全贵族职责之执行而成的，庶民之所以为庶民，也是由全民众职责之执行而成的。”

“依你这样说来，我们人与人之间，并没有共同的人性了！”

“随你喜欢，我们谁都有把肚子吃饱的需要，但是计烃职责之表现或扫许，我相信统治阶级也服役阶级之间有个无底的深渊在，这两种职责情形是相反的。职责是所以决定个人的东西。”

康妮惊愕地望着他。

“你不继续散步么？”她说。

他把他的小车子开动了。他要说的话都说了。他现在重新陷入了他所特有的那种空洞的冷淡中，那是使康妮觉得很难堪的。但是无论如何，她决定不在这林中和他争论。

在他们面前开展着那条跑马道，面旁是两排榛子树和斑白色的美丽的树木。小车子缓缓地前进，路上棒树影遮不到的地方，蔓生着牛奶泡沫似的毋忘我花，车子打上面经过，克利，福在路中心欢呼着他的车，在花草满地中，这路中心被脚步践踏成一条小径了。在后面跟着的康妮，望着车轮打小铃兰和喇叭花上而辗过，把爬地藤的带黄色的小花钟儿压个破碎。现在，这车轮在毋忘我花中开着一条路线。

所有的花都象在这儿，绿色水池里那些初生的圆叶风铃草，茂盛得象一潭静止的水。

“你说得真对，这儿可爱极了。”他说，“美极了，什么东西比得上英国的春天可爱”

康妮听了他这话，仿佛春天的花开都是由议院来决定似的，英国的春天！为什么不是爱尔兰的，或犹太的春天？小车儿在劲健得象芥麦似的圆叶风铃草丛中缓缓地前进，压着牛劳草的灰色的叶儿。当他们来到那树木伐光了空旷地时，有点眩眼的光线照耀着他们，满地鲜蓝的圆叶风铃草中，间杂着一些带企或带紫的蓝色，在这花群中。一些蕨草抢着褐色的、卷绢的头儿，象是些小蛇，准备若为夏娃汇漏什么新的秘密，

克利福把车驶到小山顶上，康妮在后面慢馒地跟着。山毛榉的褐色牙儿，温柔地开展着。老去的冬天的粗糙，全变成温柔了。甚至倔强嶙峋的橡树，也发着最柔媚的嫩叶，伸展着纤纤的褐色的小枝翅，好象是些向阳的蝙蝠的翅翼。为什么人类从来就没有什么新鲜的蜕变，使自己返老还童？多么拓燥刻板的人生！

克利福把车子停在小山顶上，眺望着下面。圆叶风铃草象蓝色的潮水似的，在那条宽大的马路上泛滥着，温暖的把山麓铺得通蓝。

“这种颜色本身是很美的。”克利福说，“但是拿来作画便没有用了。”

“的确！”康妮说，一点儿也不感兴趣。

“让我冒险一下把车子驶到泉源那边去好吗？”克利福说。

“我以为车子回来时上得了这个山么？”她说。

“我们试试看。不入虎穴，焉得虎子！”

车子开始慢慢地下着坡，在那条被蓝色的风信子泛滥着的、缚丽的宽道上颠簸着。阿，最后的一条船，在飘过风信子的浅水上！呵，波涛汹涌上的轻舟，在作着我们的文化的末次的航行，到哪儿去，呵，你荒唐的软舟，你蠕蠕地颠缀到那儿去！安泰而又满足，克利福坐在探险的舵前，戴着他的者黑帽，穿着软绒布的短外衣，又镇静又小心。呵，船主哟，我的船主哟，我们壮丽的航行是完结了！可是还没有十分完结呢！康妮穿着灰色的衣裳，在后面跟着轮痕，一边走着，一边望着颠镊着下坡的小车儿。

他们打那条小屋里去的狭径前经过，多谢天，这狭径并容不下那小车子，小得连容一个人都不易，车子到了小山箕后，转个弯不见了，康妮听见后面的一声低低的口哨。她转过头去；守猎人正下着坡向她走来，后面跟着他的狗儿。

“克利福男爵是不是到村舍那边去？”他一边问，一边望着她的眼睛。

“不，只到约翰井那边去。”

“呵，那好！我可以不露面了。但是我今晚再见你。—点钟左右。在我园门边候你。”

他重新向她的眼里直望。

“好。”她犹豫地说。

他们听见克利福响着喇叭声的唤康妮。她呼啸着长声回答着。守猎人的脸上绉了一绉，他用手在康妮的胸前，温柔地从下向上抚摸着。她惊骇地望了望他，忙向山坡上奔去，嘴里呼着“喔——喔”去回答克利福。那人在上面望着她，然后回转身去．微微地苦笑着，向他的小径里隐没。

她看见克利福正慢慢地上着坡，向半山上落叶松林中的泉源处走去，当她赶上他时，他已经到了。

“车子走得很不错。”他说。

康福望着落叶松林边丛生着的牛蒡草，灰色的大叶儿象反影似的。人们叫它做罗宾汉大黄。泉水的阂围．一切都显得十分清静，十分忧郁！而泉水却欢乐地、神妙地腾涌着！那儿还有几朵大戟花和蓝色的大喇叭花。在那池边、黄土在掀动着：一只鼹鼠！它露着头．两只嫩红的手在扒着，钻形在嘴儿在盲目地摇着，嫩红的小鼻尖高举着。

“它好象用它的鼻尖在看似的。”康妮说。

“比用它的眼睛看得更清楚呢！”他说，“你要喝点水吗？”

“你呢？”

她从树枝上拿下接着一个珐琅杯子，弯身去取了一杯水给他。他啜了几口。然后她再弯下身去，她自己也喝了一些。

“多么冷！”她喘着气说。

“很凉，好喝，是不是？你发了愿吗？”

“你呢？”

“是的，我发了个愿，但是我不愿说。”

她听见落叶松林里一只啄木鸟的声音，然后是一阵轻柔的、神秘的风声。她仰着头。一朵朵白云还蓝色的天上浮过。

“有云呢！”她说。

“那只是些白色的绵羊。”他答道。

一朵云影在那小空地上盖了过去。鼹鼠游到那温软的黄土上去了。

“讨厌的小东西。”克利福说：“我们该把它打死。”

“瞧！它象是个圣坛上的牧师呵。”她说。

她采了几朵小铃兰花给他。

“野袜草！”他说，“香得和前世纪的浪漫的贵妇们一般，可不是？毕竟那时的贵妇们并不见得怎么颠狂呢！”

她望着天上的白云。

“不知道会不会下雨呢，”她说。

“下雨！为什么！你想不下寸么？”

他们开始向原路回去。克利福小心地驶着颠簸的车子下坡。到了沉黑的山下，向右转走了几分钟。他们便向那向阳的，圆叶风铃草遍布着的长坡上去。

“现在，好好走罢！老爷车！”克利福一边说，一边开着车。

小车子颠动不稳地上着这险阻的长坡，它好象不太愿意似的挣扎着慢慢走着。好容易他们来到了一处丛生着风情的地方。车子好象给花丛绊着了，它挣扎着，跳了一跳，停住了。

“最好是把号角响一响，看守猎人会不会来。”康妮说。

“他可以推一推。不过我自己也可以推。那可以帮助一点儿。”

“我们让车子憩一憩。”克利福说，“请你在车轮后面放一块枕石吧。”

康妮找了一块石头。他们等待着。过了一会，克利福把机器开了。想把车子开行起来。它挣扎着，象个病人似地摇震着；发着怪声。

“让我推一推罢。”康妮说着跑到车子后边去。

“不要推！”他恼怒地说：“如果要人推的话，还用得着这该死的机器么！把石头放在车轮下。”

重新停住，重新又开行着：但是愈来愈糟了。

“你得让我推一推。”她说，否则响一响号角叫守猎的来。”

“等一等！”

她等候着。他再试了一回，但是越弄越坏。

“你既不要我推，那么把号角响起来罢。”她说。

“不要管！你静一会儿吧！”

她静了一会，他凶暴地摇着那小小的发动机。

“克利福，你这样子只能把机器全弄坏的。还白费你一番气力呢。”她规劝说。

“倘若我能够下来看看这该死的东西就好了！”他激动地说，把号角粗暴地响着。“也许梅乐士会知道毛病在那儿罢。”

他们在压倒的花丛中等待着，天上渐渐地被云凝结着了。静默中，一只野鸽在叫着咕噜咕咕！咕噜咕咕！克利福在号角上一按，把它吓住了嘴。

守猎人立刻在路旁出现了，行了个礼，问是什么事。

“你懂机器吗？”克利福尖锐地问道。

“我怕我不懂呢。车子有什么毛病么？”

“显然地！”克利福喝道。

那人留心地蹲伏在车轮边，探视着那小机器。

“这种机器上的事情，我恐怕全不知道呵！克利福男爵。”他安静地说：“假如汽油和油都够了……”

“细心看看有什么东西破损了没有？”克利福打断他的话说。

那人把他的枪靠在一株树放下，脱了外衣，丢在树边，褐色的狗儿坐着守伺着，然后他蹲伏下去，向画底下细视，手指轻触着油腻的小机器，那油污把他的礼拜日的白衬衣弄脏了，他心里有点恼怒。

“不象有什么东西破损了的样子。”他说，站了起来，把帽子向后一推，在额上擦着，思索着。

“你看了下面的支校没有？”克利福问道，“看看那儿有没有毛病！”

那人俯卧在地上，头向后倾，在车下蠕动着，摸索着。康妮想，一个男子俯卧在庞大的地上的时候，他是多么纤弱微小的可怜的东西。

“据我看来，似乎并没有什么毛病。”他说。

“我想你是没有办法的。”克利福说。

“的确没有办法！”他欠身起来蹲坐在脚跟上，象厂工们的坐法一样，“那儿决没有什么破损的东西。”

克利福把机器开着，然后上了齿轮，可是车子动也不动。

“把发动机大力点儿按一按罢。”守猎人授意说。

这种参与，使克利福恼怒起来，但是他终于把发动机开到大苍蝇似的嗡嗡响起来了。车子咆哮的嚣响起来了，似乎好些了。

“我想行了。”梅乐士说。

车子象病人似的向前跳了一跳又退了回来，然后蠕蠕地前进。

“要是我推一推，便可以好好地走了。”守猎人一边说，一边走到车后边去。

“不要动它！”克利福喝道。“它自己会走！”

“但是克利福！”康妮在旁边插嘴说，“你知道车子自己走不动了，为什么这样固执！”

克利福气得脸色苍白起来，他在发动机上猛推。车子迅疾地、摇摆地走了几步，然后在一丛特别浓密的圆叶风铃草丛中停着了。

“完了！”守猎人说，“马力不够。”

“它曾上过这个山坡来的。”克利福冷醒地说。

“这一次却不行了。”守猎人说。

克利福没有回答。他开始开动着他的发动机，有时紧，有时慢，仿佛他要开出个抑扬婉转的音乐来似的。这种奇异的声音在林中回响着。然后包，他陡然地上了齿轮，一下子把发动机放松了。

“你要把车子弄碎呢。”守猎人哺哺地说。

车子咆哮地跳了起来。向着路旁的壕沟滚去。

“克利福！”康妮喊着向他跑了过去。

但是守猎的已经把车杠握着了。克利福也用尽了力量，卒把车子转向路上来，现在，车子发着古怪的嚣声，拼命向上爬着。梅乐士在后面紧紧地推着；小车儿于是前进无阻，仿佛在戴罪立功了。

“你瞧，走得多好！”克利福得意地说，说了向后面望着，他看见了守猎的人的头。

“你在推着么？”

“不推不行的。”

“不要推！我已经告诉你不要动它！”

“不推不行呢；”

“让它试试看！”克利福怒喝道。

守猎的退开，回身去拿他的枪和外衣。车子仿佛立刻窒息了。它死了似的停着。克利福囚犯似地困在里面，恼怒得脸都自了。他用手推着拔动机，他的脚是没有作的，结果车子响着怪声。在狂暴地领袖躁中，他把小把柄转动着，结果怪声更大，但是车子一点儿也不肯动。他把发动机停住了，在愤怒中硬直地坐着。

康妮生在路旁的土堤上，望着那些可怜的，压坏的圆叶风铃草。“再没有象英国的春天这么可有宾东西了：“我能尽我统治者的本份。”“现在我们所要的是一条鞭，而不是一把剑。”“统治阶级！”

守猎人拿了他的枪和外衣走了上来，佛萝茜小心地跟在他的脚边。克利福叫他看看机器。康妮呢，她对于机器的技术是毫无所知，但是对于汽车在半路坏了时的滋味，却经验得多了，她忍耐地坐在土堤上，仿佛她不存在似的。守猎人重新俯卧在地上，统治阶级也服役阶级！

他站了起来忍耐地说：“现在再试一试罢。”

他的声音是安静的，差不多象是在对一个孩子说话。

克利福把发动机开了，梅乐士迅疾地退到车后边去，开始推着。车子走了，差不多一半是车力，其余是人力。

克利福回转了头，气极了。

“你走开好不好！”

守猎人立刻松了手，克利福继续说：“我怎么能知道它走得怎样！”

那人把枪放下了，穿着他的外衣。车子开始馒馒地往后退。

“克利福，刹车！”康妮喊道。

三个人立刻手忙脚乱起来。康妮和守猎人轻轻地相碰着，车子停住了，大家沉默了一会。

“无疑地我是非听人摆布不可了！”克利福说着，气得脸发黄了。

没有人回答他。梅乐士把枪挂在肩上，他的脸孔怪异而没有什么表情，有的只是那心不在焉的忍耐的神气罢了。狗儿佛萝茜差不多站在主人的两脚之间守望着，不安地动着，在这三个人的中间迷惑不知所措，狐疑地，厌恶地望着那车子。好一幅活画图摆在那些压倒的圆叶风铃草丛中