When Connie went up to her bedroom she did what she had not done for a long time: took off all her clothes, and looked at herself naked in the huge mirror. She did not know what she was looking for, or at, very definitely, yet she moved the lamp till it shone full on her.
And she thought, as she had thought so often, what a frail, easily hurt, rather pathetic thing a human body is, naked; somehow a little unfinished, incomplete!

She had been supposed to have rather a good figure, but now she was out of fashion: a little too female, not enough like an adolescent boy. She was not very tall, a bit Scottish and short; but she had a certain fluent, down-slipping grace that might have been beauty. Her skin was faintly tawny, her limbs had a certain stillness, her body should have had a full, down-slipping richness; but it lacked something.

Instead of ripening its firm, down-running curves, her body was flattening and going a little harsh. It was as if it had not had enough sun and warmth; it was a little greyish and sapless.

Disappointed of its real womanhood, it had not succeeded in becoming boyish, and unsubstantial, and transparent; instead it had gone opaque.

Her breasts were rather small, and dropping pear-shaped. But they were unripe, a little bitter, without meaning hanging there. And her belly had lost the fresh, round gleam it had had when she was young, in the days of her German boy, who really loved her physically. Then it was young and expectant, with a real look of its own. Now it was going slack, and a little flat, thinner, but with a slack thinness. Her thighs, too, they used to look so quick and glimpsy in their female roundness, somehow they too were going flat, slack, meaningless.

Her body was going meaningless, going dull and opaque, so much insignificant substance. It made her feel immensely depressed and hopeless. What hope was there? She was old, old at twenty-seven, with no gleam and sparkle in the flesh. Old through neglect and denial, yes, denial. Fashionable women kept their bodies bright like delicate porcelain, by external attention. There was nothing inside the porcelain; but she was not even as bright as that. The mental life! Suddenly she hated it with a rushing fury, the swindle!

She looked in the other mirror's reflection at her back, her waist, her loins. She was getting thinner, but to her it was not becoming. The crumple of her waist at the back, as she bent back to look, was a little weary; and it used to be so gay-looking. And the longish slope of her haunches and her buttocks had lost its gleam and its sense of richness. Gone! Only the German boy had loved it, and he was ten years dead, very nearly. How time went by! Ten years dead, and she was only twenty-seven. The healthy boy with his fresh, clumsy sensuality that she had then been so scornful of! Where would she find it now? It was gone out of men. They had their pathetic, two-seconds spasms like Michaelis; but no healthy human sensuality, that warms the blood and freshens the whole being.

Still she thought the most beautiful part of her was the long-sloping fall of the haunches from the socket of the back, and the slumberous, round stillness of the buttocks. Like hillocks of sand, the Arabs say, soft and downward-slipping with a long slope. Here the life still lingered hoping. But here too she was thinner, and going unripe, astringent.

But the front of her body made her miserable. It was already beginning to slacken, with a slack sort of thinness, almost withered, going old before it had ever really lived. She thought of the child she might somehow bear. Was she fit, anyhow?

She slipped into her nightdress, and went to bed, where she sobbed bitterly. And in her bitterness burned a cold indignation against Clifford, and his writings and his talk: against all the men of his sort who defrauded a woman even of her own body.

Unjust! Unjust! The sense of deep physical injustice burned to her very soul.

But in the morning, all the same, she was up at seven, and going downstairs to Clifford. She had to help him in all the intimate things, for he had no man, and refused a woman-servant. The housekeeper's husband, who had known him as a boy, helped him, and did any heavy lifting; but Connie did the personal things, and she did them willingly. It was a demand on her, but she had wanted to do what she could.

So she hardly ever went away from Wragby, and never for more than a day or two; when Mrs Betts, the housekeeper, attended to Clifford. He, as was inevitable in the course of time, took all the service for granted. It was natural he should.

And yet, deep inside herself, a sense of injustice, of being defrauded, had begun to burn in Connie. The physical sense of injustice is a dangerous feeling, once it is awakened. It must have outlet, or it eats away the one in whom it is aroused. Poor Clifford, he was not to blame. His was the greater misfortune. It was all part of the general catastrophe.

And yet was he not in a way to blame? This lack of warmth, this lack of the simple, warm, physical contact, was he not to blame for that? He was never really warm, nor even kind, only thoughtful, considerate, in a well-bred, cold sort of way! But never warm as a man can be warm to a woman, as even Connie's father could be warm to her, with the warmth of a man who did himself well, and intended to, but who still could comfort it woman with a bit of his masculine glow.

But Clifford was not like that. His whole race was not like that. They were all inwardly hard and separate, and warmth to them was just bad taste. You had to get on without it, and hold your own; which was all very well if you were of the same class and race. Then you could keep yourself cold and be very estimable, and hold your own, and enjoy the satisfaction of holding it. But if you were of another class and another race it wouldn't do; there was no fun merely holding your own, and feeling you belonged to the ruling class. What was the point, when even the smartest aristocrats had really nothing positive of their own to hold, and their rule was really a farce, not rule at all? What was the point? It was all cold nonsense.

A sense of rebellion smouldered in Connie. What was the good of it all? What was the good of her sacrifice, her devoting her life to Clifford? What was she serving, after all? A cold spirit of vanity, that had no warm human contacts, and that was as corrupt as any low-born Jew, in craving for prostitution to the bitch-goddess, Success. Even Clifford's cool and contactless assurance that he belonged to the ruling class didn't prevent his tongue lolling out of his mouth, as he panted after the bitch-goddess. After all, Michaelis was really more dignified in the matter, and far, far more successful. Really, if you looked closely at Clifford, he was a buffoon, and a buffoon is more humiliating than a bounder.

As between the two men, Michaelis really had far more use for her than Clifford had. He had even more need of her. Any good nurse can attend to crippled legs! And as for the heroic effort, Michaelis was a heroic rat, and Clifford was very much of a poodle showing off.

There were people staying in the house, among them Clifford's Aunt Eva, Lady Bennerley. She was a thin woman of sixty, with a red nose, a widow, and still something of a grande dame. She belonged to one of the best families, and had the character to carry it off. Connie liked her, she was so perfectly simple and [rank, as far as she intended to be frank, and superficially kind. Inside herself she was a past-mistress in holding her own, and holding other people a little lower. She was not at all a snob: far too sure of herself. She was perfect at the social sport of coolly holding her own, and making other people defer to her.

She was kind to Connie, and tried to worm into her woman's soul with the sharp gimlet of her well-born observations.

`You're quite wonderful, in my opinion,' she said to Connie. `You've done wonders for Clifford. I never saw any budding genius myself, and there he is, all the rage.' Aunt Eva was quite complacently proud of Clifford's success. Another feather in the family cap! She didn't care a straw about his books, but why should she?

`Oh, I don't think it's my doing,' said Connie.

`It must be! Can't be anybody else's. And it seems to me you don't get enough out of it.'

`How?'

`Look at the way you are shut up here. I said to Clifford: If that child rebels one day you'll have yourself to thank!'

`But Clifford never denies me anything,' said Connie.

`Look here, my dear child'---and Lady Bennerley laid her thin hand on Connie's arm. `A woman has to live her life, or live to repent not having lived it. Believe me!' And she took another sip of brandy, which maybe was her form of repentance.

`But I do live my life, don't I?'

`Not in my idea! Clifford should bring you to London, and let you go about. His sort of friends are all right for him, but what are they for you? If I were you I should think it wasn't good enough. You'll let your youth slip by, and you'll spend your old age, and your middle age too, repenting it.'

Her ladyship lapsed into contemplative silence, soothed by the brandy.

But Connie was not keen on going to London, and being steered into the smart world by Lady Bennerley. She didn't feel really smart, it wasn't interesting. And she did feel the peculiar, withering coldness under it all; like the soil of Labrador, which his gay little flowers on its surface, and a foot down is frozen.

Tommy Dukes was at Wragby, and another man, Harry Winterslow, and Jack Strangeways with his wife Olive. The talk was much more desultory than when only the cronies were there, and everybody was a bit bored, for the weather was bad, and there was only billiards, and the pianola to dance to.

Olive was reading a book about the future, when babies would be bred in bottles, and women would be `immunized'.

`Jolly good thing too!' she said. `Then a woman can live her own life.' Strangeways wanted children, and she didn't.

`How'd you like to be immunized?' Winterslow asked her, with an ugly smile.

`I hope I am; naturally,' she said. `Anyhow the future's going to have more sense, and a woman needn't be dragged down by her functions.'

`Perhaps she'll float off into space altogether,' said Dukes.

`I do think sufficient civilization ought to eliminate a lot of the physical disabilities,' said Clifford. `All the love-business for example, it might just as well go. I suppose it would if we could breed babies in bottles.'

`No!' cried Olive. `That might leave all the more room for fun.'

`I suppose,' said Lady Bennerley, contemplatively, `if the love-business went, something else would take its place. Morphia, perhaps. A little morphine in all the air. It would be wonderfully refreshing for everybody.'

`The government releasing ether into the air on Saturdays, for a cheerful weekend!' said Jack. `Sounds all right, but where should we be by Wednesday?'

`So long as you can forget your body you are happy,' said Lady Bennerley. `And the moment you begin to be aware of your body, you are wretched. So, if civilization is any good, it has to help us to forget our bodies, and then time passes happily without our knowing it.'

`Help us to get rid of our bodies altogether,' said Winterslow. `It's quite time man began to improve on his own nature, especially the physical side of it.'

`Imagine if we floated like tobacco smoke,' said Connie.

`It won't happen,' said Dukes. `Our old show will come flop; our civilization is going to fall. It's going down the bottomless pit, down the chasm. And believe me, the only bridge across the chasm will be the phallus!'

`Oh do! do be impossible, General!' cried Olive.

`I believe our civilization is going to collapse,' said Aunt Eva.

`And what will come after it?' asked Clifford.

`I haven't the faintest idea, but something, I suppose,' said the elderly lady.

`Connie says people like wisps of smoke, and Olive says immunized women, and babies in bottles, and Dukes says the phallus is the bridge to what comes next. I wonder what it will really be?' said Clifford.

`Oh, don't bother! let's get on with today,' said Olive. `Only hurry up with the breeding bottle, and let us poor women off.'

`There might even be real men, in the next phase,' said Tommy. `Real, intelligent, wholesome men, and wholesome nice women! Wouldn't that be a change, an enormous change from us? We're not men, and the women aren't women. We're only cerebrating make-shifts, mechanical and intellectual experiments. There may even come a civilization of genuine men and women, instead of our little lot of clever-jacks, all at the intelligence-age of seven. It would be even more amazing than men of smoke or babies in bottles.'

`Oh, when people begin to talk about real women, I give up,' said Olive.

`Certainly nothing but the spirit in us is worth having,' said Winterslow.

`Spirits!' said Jack, drinking his whisky and soda.

`Think so? Give me the resurrection of the body!' said Dukes.

`But it'll come, in time, when we've shoved the cerebral stone away a bit, the money and the rest. Then we'll get a democracy of touch, instead of a democracy of pocket.'

Something echoed inside Connie: `Give me the democracy of touch, the resurrection of the body!' She didn't at all know what it meant, but it comforted her, as meaningless things may do.

Anyhow everything was terribly silly, and she was exasperatedly bored by it all, by Clifford, by Aunt Eva, by Olive and Jack, and Winterslow, and even by Dukes. Talk, talk, talk! What hell it was, the continual rattle of it!

Then, when all the people went, it was no better. She continued plodding on, but exasperation and irritation had got hold of her lower body, she couldn't escape. The days seemed to grind by, with curious painfulness, yet nothing happened. Only she was getting thinner; even the housekeeper noticed it, and asked her about herself Even Tommy Dukes insisted she was not well, though she said she was all right. Only she began to be afraid of the ghastly white tombstones, that peculiar loathsome whiteness of Carrara marble, detestable as false teeth, which stuck up on the hillside, under Tevershall church, and which she saw with such grim painfulness from the park. The bristling of the hideous false teeth of tombstones on the hill affected her with a grisly kind of horror. She felt the time not far off when she would be buried there, added to the ghastly host under the tombstones and the monuments, in these filthy Midlands.

She needed help, and she knew it: so she wrote a little cri du coeur to her sister, Hilda. `I'm not well lately, and I don't know what's the matter with me.'

Down posted Hilda from Scotland, where she had taken up her abode. She came in March, alone, driving herself in a nimble two-seater. Up the drive she came, tooting up the incline, then sweeping round the oval of grass, where the two great wild beech-trees stood, on the flat in front of the house.

Connie had run out to the steps. Hilda pulled up her car, got out, and kissed her sister.

`But Connie!' she cried. `Whatever is the matter?'

`Nothing!' said Connie, rather shamefacedly; but she knew how she had suffered in contrast to Hilda. Both sisters had the same rather golden, glowing skin, and soft brown hair, and naturally strong, warm physique. But now Connie was thin and earthy-looking, with a scraggy, yellowish neck, that stuck out of her jumper.

`But you're ill, child!' said Hilda, in the soft, rather breathless voice that both sisters had alike. Hilda was nearly, but not quite, two years older than Connie.

`No, not ill. Perhaps I'm bored,' said Connie a little pathetically.

The light of battle glowed in Hilda's face; she was a woman, soft and still as she seemed, of the old amazon sort, not made to fit with men.

`This wretched place!' she said softly, looking at poor, old, lumbering Wragby with real hate. She looked soft and warm herself, as a ripe pear, and she was an amazon of the real old breed.

She went quietly in to Clifford. He thought how handsome she looked, but also he shrank from her. His wife's family did not have his sort of manners, or his sort of etiquette. He considered them rather outsiders, but once they got inside they made him jump through the hoop.

He sat square and well-groomed in his chair, his hair sleek and blond, and his face fresh, his blue eyes pale, and a little prominent, his expression inscrutable, but well-bred. Hilda thought it sulky and stupid, and he waited. He had an air of aplomb, but Hilda didn't care what he had an air of; she was up in arms, and if he'd been Pope or Emperor it would have been just the same.

`Connie's looking awfully unwell,' she said in her soft voice, fixing him with her beautiful, glowering grey eyes. She looked so maidenly, so did Connie; but he well knew the tone of Scottish obstinacy underneath.

`She's a little thinner,' he said.

`Haven't you done anything about it?'

`Do you think it necessary?' he asked, with his suavest English stiffness, for the two things often go together.

Hilda only glowered at him without replying; repartee was not her forte, nor Connie's; so she glowered, and he was much more uncomfortable than if she had said things.

`I'll take her to a doctor,' said Hilda at length. `Can you suggest a good one round here?'

`I'm afraid I can't.'

`Then I'll take her to London, where we have a doctor we trust.'

Though boiling with rage, Clifford said nothing.

`I suppose I may as well stay the night,' said Hilda, pulling off her gloves, `and I'll drive her to town tomorrow.'

Clifford was yellow at the gills with anger, and at evening the whites of his eyes were a little yellow too. He ran to liver. But Hilda was consistently modest and maidenly.

`You must have a nurse or somebody, to look after you personally. You should really have a manservant,' said Hilda as they sat, with apparent calmness, at coffee after dinner. She spoke in her soft, seemingly gentle way, but Clifford felt she was hitting him on the head with a bludgeon.

`You think so?' he said coldly.

`I'm sure! It's necessary. Either that, or Father and I must take Connie away for some months. This can't go on.'

`What can't go on?'

`Haven't you looked at the child!' asked Hilda, gazing at him full stare. He looked rather like a huge, boiled crayfish at the moment; or so she thought.

`Connie and I will discuss it,' he said.

`I've already discussed it with her,' said Hilda.

Clifford had been long enough in the hands of nurses; he hated them, because they left him no real privacy. And a manservant!...he couldn't stand a man hanging round him. Almost better any woman. But why not Connie?

The two sisters drove off in the morning, Connie looking rather like an Easter lamb, rather small beside Hilda, who held the wheel. Sir Malcolm was away, but the Kensington house was open.

The doctor examined Connie carefully, and asked her all about her life. `I see your photograph, and Sir Clifford's, in the illustrated papers sometimes. Almost notorieties, aren't you? That's how the quiet little girls grow up, though you're only a quiet little girl even now, in spite of the illustrated papers. No, no! There's nothing organically wrong, but it won't do! It won't do! Tell Sir Clifford he's got to bring you to town, or take you abroad, and amuse you. You've got to be amused, got to! Your vitality is much too low; no reserves, no reserves. The nerves of the heart a bit queer already: oh, yes! Nothing but nerves; I'd put you right in a month at Cannes or Biarritz. But it mustn't go on, mustn't, I tell you, or I won't be answerable for consequences. You're spending your life without renewing it. You've got to be amused, properly, healthily amused. You're spending your vitality without making any. Can't go on, you know. Depression! Avoid depression!'

Hilda set her jaw, and that meant something.

Michaelis heard they were in town, and came running with roses. `Why, whatever's wrong?' he cried. `You're a shadow of yourself. Why, I never saw such a change! Why ever didn't you let me know? Come to Nice with me! Come down to Sicily! Go on, come to Sicily with me. It's lovely there just now. You want sun! You want life! Why, you're wasting away! Come away with me! Come to Africa! Oh, hang Sir Clifford! Chuck him, and come along with me. I'll marry you the minute he divorces you. Come along and try a life! God's love! That place Wragby would kill anybody. Beastly place! Foul place! Kill anybody! Come away with me into the sun! It's the sun you want, of course, and a bit of normal life.'

But Connie's heart simply stood still at the thought of abandoning Clifford there and then. She couldn't do it. No...no! She just couldn't. She had to go back to Wragby.

Michaelis was disgusted. Hilda didn't like Michaelis, but she almost preferred him to Clifford. Back went the sisters to the Midlands.

Hilda talked to Clifford, who still had yellow eyeballs when they got back. He, too, in his way, was overwrought; but he had to listen to all Hilda said, to all the doctor had said, not what Michaelis had said, of course, and he sat mum through the ultimatum.

`Here is the address of a good manservant, who was with an invalid patient of the doctor's till he died last month. He is really a good man, and fairly sure to come.'

`But I'm not an invalid, and I will not have a manservant,' said Clifford, poor devil.

`And here are the addresses of two women; I saw one of them, she would do very well; a woman of about fifty, quiet, strong, kind, and in her way cultured...'

Clifford only sulked, and would not answer.

`Very well, Clifford. If we don't settle something by to-morrow, I shall telegraph to Father, and we shall take Connie away.'

`Will Connie go?' asked Clifford.

`She doesn't want to, but she knows she must. Mother died of cancer, brought on by fretting. We're not running any risks.'

So next day Clifford suggested Mrs Bolton, Tevershall parish nurse. Apparently Mrs Betts had thought of her. Mrs Bolton was just retiring from her parish duties to take up private nursing jobs. Clifford had a queer dread of delivering himself into the hands of a stranger, but this Mrs Bolton had once nursed him through scarlet fever, and he knew her.

The two sisters at once called on Mrs Bolton, in a newish house in a row, quite select for Tevershall. They found a rather good-looking woman of forty-odd, in a nurse's uniform, with a white collar and apron, just making herself tea in a small crowded sitting-room.

Mrs Bolton was most attentive and polite, seemed quite nice, spoke with a bit of a broad slur, but in heavily correct English, and from having bossed the sick colliers for a good many years, had a very good opinion of herself, and a fair amount of assurance. In short, in her tiny way, one of the governing class in the village, very much respected.

`Yes, Lady Chatterley's not looking at all well! Why, she used to be that bonny, didn't she now? But she's been failing all winter! Oh, it's hard, it is. Poor Sir Clifford! Eh, that war, it's a lot to answer for.'

And Mrs Bolton would come to Wragby at once, if Dr Shardlow would let her off. She had another fortnight's parish nursing to do, by rights, but they might get a substitute, you know.

Hilda posted off to Dr Shardlow, and on the following Sunday Mrs Bolton drove up in Leiver's cab to Wragby with two trunks. Hilda had talks with her; Mrs Bolton was ready at any moment to talk. And she seemed so young! The way the passion would flush in her rather pale cheek. She was forty-seven.

Her husband, Ted Bolton, had been killed in the pit, twenty-two years ago, twenty-two years last Christmas, just at Christmas time, leaving her with two children, one a baby in arms. Oh, the baby was married now, Edith, to a young man in Boots Cash Chemists in Sheffield. The other one was a schoolteacher in Chesterfield; she came home weekends, when she wasn't asked out somewhere. Young folks enjoyed themselves nowadays, not like when she, Ivy Bolton, was young.

Ted Bolton was twenty-eight when lie was killed in an explosion down th' pit. The butty in front shouted to them all to lie down quick, there were four of them. And they all lay down in time, only Ted, and it killed him. Then at the inquiry, on the masters' side they said Ted had been frightened, and trying to run away, and not obeying orders, so it was like his fault really. So the compensation was only three hundred pounds, and they made out as if it was more of a gift than legal compensation, because it was really the man's own fault. And they wouldn't let her have the money down; she wanted to have a little shop. But they said she'd no doubt squander it, perhaps in drink! So she had to draw it thirty shillings a week. Yes, she had to go every Monday morning down to the offices, and stand there a couple of hours waiting her turn; yes, for almost four years she went every Monday. And what could she do with two little children on her hands? But Ted's mother was very good to her. When the baby could toddle she'd keep both the children for the day, while she, Ivy Bolton, went to Sheffield, and attended classes in ambulance, and then the fourth year she even took a nursing course and got qualified. She was determined to be independent and keep her children. So she was assistant at Uthwaite hospital, just a little place, for a while. But when the Company, the Tevershall Colliery Company, really Sir Geoffrey, saw that she could get on by herself, they were very good to her, gave her the parish nursing, and stood by her, she would say that for them. And she'd done it ever since, till now it was getting a bit much for her; she needed something a bit lighter, there was such a lot of traipsing around if you were a district nurse.

`Yes, the Company's been very good to me, I always say it. But I should never forget what they said about Ted, for he was as steady and fearless a chap as ever set foot on the cage, and it was as good as branding him a coward. But there, he was dead, and could say nothing to none of 'em.'

It was a queer mixture of feelings the woman showed as she talked. She liked the colliers, whom she had nursed for so long; but she felt very superior to them. She felt almost upper class; and at the same time a resentment against the ruling class smouldered in her. The masters! In a dispute between masters and men, she was always for the men. But when there was no question of contest, she was pining to be superior, to be one of the upper class. The upper classes fascinated her, appealing to her peculiar English passion for superiority. She was thrilled to come to Wragby; thrilled to talk to Lady Chatterley, my word, different from the common colliers' wives! She said so in so many words. Yet one could see a grudge against the Chatterleys peep out in her; the grudge against the masters.

`Why, yes, of course, it would wear Lady Chatterley out! It's a mercy she had a sister to come and help her. Men don't think, high and low-alike, they take what a woman does for them for granted. Oh, I've told the colliers off about it many a time. But it's very hard for Sir Clifford, you know, crippled like that. They were always a haughty family, standoffish in a way, as they've a right to be. But then to be brought down like that! And it's very hard on Lady Chatterley, perhaps harder on her. What she misses! I only had Ted three years, but my word, while I had him I had a husband I could never forget. He was one in a thousand, and jolly as the day. Who'd ever have thought he'd get killed? I don't believe it to this day somehow, I've never believed it, though I washed him with my own hands. But he was never dead for me, he never was. I never took it in.'

This was a new voice in Wragby, very new for Connie to hear; it roused a new ear in her.

For the first week or so, Mrs Bolton, however, was very quiet at Wragby, her assured, bossy manner left her, and she was nervous. With Clifford she was shy, almost frightened, and silent. He liked that, and soon recovered his self-possession, letting her do things for him without even noticing her.

`She's a useful nonentity!' he said. Connie opened her eyes in wonder, but she did not contradict him. So different are impressions on two different people!

And he soon became rather superb, somewhat lordly with the nurse. She had rather expected it, and he played up without knowing. So susceptible we are to what is expected of us! The colliers had been so like children, talking to her, and telling her what hurt them, while she bandaged them, or nursed them. They had always made her feel so grand, almost super-human in her administrations. Now Clifford made her feel small, and like a servant, and she accepted it without a word, adjusting herself to the upper classes.

She came very mute, with her long, handsome face, and downcast eyes, to administer to him. And she said very humbly: `Shall I do this now, Sir Clifford? Shall I do that?'

`No, leave it for a time. I'll have it done later.'

`Very well, Sir Clifford.'

`Come in again in half an hour.'

`Very well, Sir Clifford.'

`And just take those old papers out, will you?'

`Very well, Sir Clifford.'

She went softly, and in half an hour she came softly again. She was bullied, but she didn't mind. She was experiencing the upper classes. She neither resented nor disliked Clifford; he was just part of a phenomenon, the phenomenon of the high-class folks, so far unknown to her, but now to be known. She felt more at home with Lady Chatterley, and after all it's the mistress of the house matters most.

Mrs Bolton helped Clifford to bed at night, and slept across the passage from his room, and came if he rang for her in the night. She also helped him in the morning, and soon valeted him completely, even shaving him, in her soft, tentative woman's way. She was very good and competent, and she soon knew how to have him in her power. He wasn't so very different from the colliers after all, when you lathered his chin, and softly rubbed the bristles. The stand-offishness and the lack of frankness didn't bother her; she was having a new experience.

Clifford, however, inside himself, never quite forgave Connie for giving up her personal care of him to a strange hired woman. It killed, he said to himself, the real flower of the intimacy between him and her. But Connie didn't mind that. The fine flower of their intimacy was to her rather like an orchid, a bulb stuck parasitic on her tree of life, and producing, to her eyes, a rather shabby flower.

Now she had more time to herself she could softly play the piano, up in her room, and sing: `Touch not the nettle, for the bonds of love are ill to loose.' She had not realized till lately how ill to loose they were, these bonds of love. But thank Heaven she had loosened them! She was so glad to be alone, not always to have to talk to him. When he was alone he tapped-tapped-tapped on a typewriter, to infinity. But when he was not `working', and she was there, he talked, always talked; infinite small analysis of people and motives, and results, characters and personalities, till now she had had enough. For years she had loved it, until she had enough, and then suddenly it was too much. She was thankful to be alone.

It was as if thousands and thousands of little roots and threads of consciousness in him and her had grown together into a tangled mass, till they could crowd no more, and the plant was dying. Now quietly, subtly, she was unravelling the tangle of his consciousness and hers, breaking the threads gently, one by one, with patience and impatience to get clear. But the bonds of such love are more ill to loose even than most bonds; though Mrs Bolton's coming had been a great help.

But he still wanted the old intimate evenings of talk with Connie: talk or reading aloud. But now she could arrange that Mrs Bolton should come at ten to disturb them. At ten o'clock Connie could go upstairs and be alone. Clifford was in good hands with Mrs Bolton.

Mrs Bolton ate with Mrs Betts in the housekeeper's room, since they were all agreeable. And it was curious how much closer the servants' quarters seemed to have come; right up to the doors of Clifford's study, when before they were so remote. For Mrs Betts would sometimes sit in Mrs Bolton's room, and Connie heard their lowered voices, and felt somehow the strong, other vibration of the working people almost invading the sitting-room, when she and Clifford were alone. So changed was Wragby merely by Mrs Bolton's coming.

And Connie felt herself released, in another world, she felt she breathed differently. But still she was afraid of how many of her roots, perhaps mortal ones, were tangled with Clifford's. Yet still, she breathed freer, a new phase was going to begin in her life.

当康妮回到楼上她寝室里去时，做了一件很久以来没有做的事：她把衣服都脱光了，在一面很大的镜子面前，照着自己的裸体。她不太知道究竟她看什么，找什么，但是她把粉光移转到使光线满照在她的身上。

她想到她常常想着的事：一个赤裸着的人体，是多么地脆弱，易伤而有点可怜！那是多么地欠缺而这完备的东西！

往昔，她的容貌是被人认为美好的，但是现在她是过时了，有点太女性而不太有单男的样式了。她不很高大，这种风韵也许可以说便是美。她的皮肤微微地带点褐色，她的四肢充满着某种安胸的风致，她是身躯应有饱满的流畅下附的华丽，不过现在却欠缺着什么东西。

她的肉体的坚定而下奔的曲线，本应成熟下去的，现在它却平板起来，而且变成有点粗糙了，仿佛这身体是欠缺着阳光和热力，它有点苍白面无生气了。

在完成一个真正的女性上，这身体是挫败了，它没有成就一个童男似的透明无理的身体；反之，它显得暗晦不清了。

她的乳房有点瘦小，象梨予似的垂着。它们是没有成熟的，带点苦味，而没有意义地吊在那儿。她在青春时期所有的一一当她年轻的德国情人真正爱她的肉体的时候所有的，那小腹的圆滑鲜明的光辉，已经失掉了。那时候，她的小腹是幼嫩的，含着希望的、有着它所特有的真面目。现在呢，它成为驰松的了，有点平板而比以前消瘦了，那是一种驰松的瘦态。她的大腿也是一样，从前富着女性的圆满的时候，是那样的灵活而光辉，现在却是平板、驰松而无意义了。

她的身体日见失掉意义，成为沉闷而赠晦，现在只是一个无意义的物质了。这使她觉得无限的颓丧的失望。还人什么希望呢？她老了，二十七岁便老了。是啊，为着牺牲而老了。时髦的妇从们，用外表的摄养法，把肉体保持得象一个脆嫩的瓷器似的放着光辉。瓷器的内面自然是什么都没有的。但是，康妮却连这种假借的光彩都没有。啊，精神生活！她突然觉得狂愤地憎恨这精神生活！这欺骗的精神生活！

他向后边那面镜子照着，望着她的腰身。她是日见纤瘦了，而这种纤瘦的样子于她是不台适的。当她扭转身去时，她看见她腰部的皱折是疲乏的，但是从前却是很轻盈愉快的！臀部两旁和臀尖的下倾，已失掉了它的光辉和富丽的神态了。失掉了！只有她那年轻的德国情人曾爱过这一切。而他却已经死去近十年了。时间过得多快！他死去已经十年了，而她现在只有二十岁！她曾貌视过的，那壮健青年的新鲜的印拙的性欲！现在她何处可以找到呢？男子们再也不会有了。他们只有那可怜的两秒钟的一阵抽搐，如蔑克里斯……再也没有真正的人性的性欲，再也没有那使人的血液沸腾，使人的全身全心清爽的性欲了。

虽然，她觉得她身体归美的部分，是从她背窝处开始的那臀部的悠长的下坠，和那两靡臀面的幽静思睡的圆满。如阿胶伯人说的，那象是些沙丘，柔和地、成长坡地下降。生命在这儿还带着一些希望，但是这儿也一样，她是比以前消瘦了，不成熟了，而且有点涩苦了。

但是她的前身却使她悲伤起来。这部分已经开始驰松了，现着一种差不多衰萎的松懈的消瘦，没有真正生活就已经老了。她想到她将来也许要有的孩子，她究竟配不配呢？

她穿上了睡衣，倒在床上苦痛地哭淬。在她的苦痛里，她对克利福，他的写作，和他的谈话，对所有期罔妇人和欺罔她们的肉体的男子们，燃烧着一种冷酷的愤懑！

这是不公平的，不平的！那肉体的深深不平的感觉，燃烧到了她灵魂的深处。但是，虽然如此，翌日早晨的七点钟。她还是照样起来，到楼下克利福那里去。她得帮助他梳洗更衣的一切私事，因为他已没有用男仆。而他又本愿意一个女仆人来帮助他。女管家的丈夫——他是当克利福还是孩童的时候便认识他的。帮助着他做些粗笨的事情。但是康妮却管理着一切私事，而且出于心愿。那是无可标何的，但是愿意尽她所能地傲去。

所以她几乎从不离开勒格贝，就是离开也不过一二天，那时是女管家白蒂斯太太照料着克利福，他呢，日子久了自然而然地觉得康妮替他所做的事情是当然的，而他这种感觉毕竟也是自然的呵。

虽然，在康妮的深心里，、却开始燃烧着一种不平的和彼人欺圈的感觉，肉体一旦感觉到了不平，这种感觉是危险的。这种感觉要发泄出来，否则它便要把怀着这感觉的人吞食的。可怜的克利福！那并不是他的过错。他比康妮更是不幸呢。这一切都是人间整个灾祸的一部分啊。

然而，他真是没有一点儿可以责备的地方么？那热力的欠缺，那温暖的肉体的简单接触的欠缺，不是他地过错么？他从来不温热，甚至也不慈和，他只有一种冷淡、受过高等教养的人对人的恳切与尊重。但是他从来没有过一个男子对于妇人所有的那种温热。甚至如康妮的父亲对她所有的那种温热他都没有。那种男子的温热，虽只为着男子自己，而男子也只这样作想，无论怎样，一点男性的热烈是可以把一个妇人温暖起来的。

但是克利福并不这样，他那一灯的人并不这样，他们的内心都是坚钝无情，他们以为热情是卑劣的东西。你得冷酷下去，守着你便可以守着的地位。但是，如果你不是那一阶级那和囊类的人，这便不行了死守着你的地位，觉着你自己是属于统治阶级的人，那不是好玩的事，那有什么意义？因为甚至最高贵的贵族，事实上已没有什么地佼可守，而他们的所谓统治，实际只是滑稽把戏，全不能说是统治了，那有什么意交？这一切只是无聊的胡闹罢了。

康妮的反抗的感觉，潜然地滋生了。那一切究竟有什么用处？她的牺牲，以她的生命牺牲于克利福，究竟有什么用处？毕竟，她有什么于人有用的地方？那儿只有那种冷酷的虚荣心，没有温热的人道的接触，正如任何最下流的犹太人般的缺德，欲望着卖身与成功的财神。甚至克利福，那样的冷淡，那样的远引，那样的相信自已是属于统治的阶级，尚且不禁垂着舌头，喘着气息，追逐于财神之后，实在，在这种事中。蔑克里斯是尊严些的，他的成功是大得多的，真的，细看起来，克利福只是个丑角；而一个丑角是比一个光棍更卑下的。

在这两个男人中间，她对于蔑克里斯是较有用处的。而他比克利福也更需要她，因为任何一个好看护都能看护一个两腿风瘫的人！如果拿他们所做的英雄事业来说。蔑克里斯是个英雄的老鼠，而克利福只是个玩把戏的小狗。

家里现在来了些客人，其中一个是克利福的站母爱娃本纳利爵士夫人。这是一位六十岁的、有个红鼻子的瘦小的妇人，她是一个寡妇，依旧还有点贵妇的派判断，她出身名门，并且有名门的气性。康妮很喜欢她。当她愿意的时候，她是这样的简单率直，而且外表上是这样慈蔼。其实她对于守着她的地位，而且守到比他人高一点的它术上，她是个能手。她一点也不是个热利的人，她太相信自己了。在社交上，她是这样地善于冷静地守着自己的地位，而使他人向她让步。

她对康妮很是亲切，用着她的出身高门的人的观察，象尖锐的钻予一样，努力地把也的妇人的灵魂的秘密刺穿。

“我觉得你真可钦佩。”她对康妮说。“你替克利福真是出了惊人的力。他的天才的焕发，我是从不怀疑的。现在他是惊天动地了。”一……爱娃妨母对于克利福的成功，是十分得意的骄傲的。因为那是有光门据的！至于他的著作嘛，她倒是毫不关心的，关心干什么呢？

“啊，我不相信我出了。什么力。”康妮说。

“那一定是你的力。除了你以外，还有谁能出力呢？我觉得你得出报酬实在不够呢。”

“怎么说的？”

“你扯你怎样的关闭在这里！我对克利福说过：要是这孩子那天反叛起来，你是活该哟。”

“但是克利福从来没有拒绝我什么的。”康妮说。

“你听我说吧，我亲爱的孩子，”本纳利夫人说着；把她的瘦小的手放在康妮的臂上，“一个女子得过她的生活，否则，，她使要后悔没有生活过，相信我吧！”她再啜了一日白兰地，那她也许就是后悔的形式吧。

“但是，我不是正在过我的生活么？”

“不，我不这样想。克利福应该把你带到伦敦去。让你走动走动。他所有的那一类的朋友们，对于他自己是很好的，但是对于你呢，假如我是你的话，我却不能满意。将空度了你的青春；你将在后悔中度你的老年生活。甚至中年生活。”

这贵妇人给白兰地的力量镇静着，渐渐地陷在沉思的静默中了。

便是康妮并不很想到伦敦而给本纳利夫人引导到那时髦的社会里去。她觉得她和那种社会是不合不来的。并且那种社会是不能使她发生兴趣的。她很觉得那种社会的下去，有一种怪异的令人畏缩的冷酷；象拉布拉多地土壤一般，地面上生长着一些愉快的小花朵，可是一尺以下却是冰冻的。

唐米·督克斯也在勒格贝，此外还有哈里·文达斯罗；贾。克·司登治魏和他的妻奥莉芜。他们间的谈话是不连贯的，不象知友们在一块时那们地一泻千里，大家都有点发闷，因为天气既不好，而消遣的东西又只不过打打牌子和开着留声机跳跳舞罢了。

奥莉芜正在念着一本描写将来世界的书，说将来孩子们是要在瓶子里用人工培养出来的，妇于们是可以“超脱”的。

“那是件美妙的事哟。”她说，“那时妇女们便可以享受她们的生活了。”原来她的丈夫同登治魏是希望生个孩子的；她呢，却不。

“你喜欢怎样的超脱呢？”文达斯罗狞笑着问她。

“我希望我自然地超脱出来。”她说，无论如何，将来是要比现在更台理的，而妇女们不会再给她们的‘天职’累坏了”

“也许她们都要飘飘欲仙了。”督克斯说。

“我实在觉得如果文明是名副其实的话，便应该把肉体的弱点大加排除。”克利福说，拿性爱不说，这便是很可以不必有的东西。我想，假如我们可以用人工在孩子里培养孩子，这种东西是要消灭的。”

“不！”奥莉芙叫道：“那也许要给我们更多好玩的东西呢。”

“我想，”本纳利夫人带着一种沉思的样子说：“假如性爱这东西消灭了，定会有旁的什么东西来代替的。吗啡，也许。整个空气中浮散着一点吗啡，那时人人定要觉得了不得的爽快呢。”

“每到星期六，政府便在社会散布些以太，这一来星期天全国人民准快活！”贾克说：“那似乎好得很；但是星期三，我们又怎样呢？”

“只要你给忘却你的肉体，你便快活。”本纳利夫人说，“你一想起了你的肉体，你使苦痛。所以，假如文明有点什么用处的话，它便要帮助我们忘掉肉体，那时候时间便可以优哉游哉地过去了。”

还要帮助我们把肉体完全除掉呢。”文达斯罗说，“现在正是时候了，人类得开始把分的本性改良了，尤其是肉体方面人本性。”

“想想看，假如，我们象香烟的烟似地漂浮着，那就妙了！”康妮说。

“那是不会有的事。”督克斯说，“我们的老把戏就要完了；我们的文明就要崩毁了！我们文明正向着无底的井中、深渊中崩毁下去。相信我，将来深渊上唯一的桥梁便是一条‘法乐士’”

“唉呀，将军，请你不要胡说乱道了！”奥莉英叫道。

“是的，我相信我们的文明是要倒塌了。”爱娃姑母说。

“倒塌了以后要来些什么呢？”克利福问道。

“我一点儿也不知道，但是我想总会来些东西的。”老夫人道。

“康妮说，来些象是烟波似的人，奥莉英说，来些超脱的妇女，和瓶子里养的孩子。达克斯说，‘法乐士’便是渡到将来去的桥梁。我奇怪究竟要来些什么东西？”克利福说。

“呵，不要担心这个！”奥莉芜说，“但请赶快制造些养孩子的瓶子，而社我们这些可怜的妇女们清静好了。”

“在将来的时代，也许要来些真正的人。”唐米说：“真正的，有智慧的，健全的男人，和一些健全的可爱的女人！这可不是一个转变，一个大转变么？我信今日的男子并不是真男子，而妇人们并不是妇人。我们只演着权宜之计的把戏，做着机械的智慧和实验罢了。将来也许要来一个真男真女的文明。这些真男真女将代替我们这一小群聪明的小丑——只有七岁孩童的智慧的我们。那一定要比虚无缥缈的人和瓶子里养的孩子更其奇观。”

“呵，男人们如果开始讲什么真正的妇人的话，我不谈了。”奥独笑说。

“当然啊，我们所有的唯一可贵的东西，便是精神。”文达斯罗说。

“精神！”。贾克一边说，一边饮着他的威士忌苏打。

“你以为那样么？我呢，我以为最可贵的是肉体的复活！达克斯说，“但是肉体的复活总会到来的，假如我们能把精神上的重载；金钱及其他，推开一些，那时我们便要有接触的德漠克拉西，是肉体的复活！”她实在一点都不知道那是什么意思，但是那使她得到安慰，好象其他不知意义的东西有时使人得到安慰一样。

然而一切事物都是可怖的愚蠢。这一切，克利福、爱娃姑母、奥莉芙、贾克及文达斯罗，甚至督克斯，都使她厌烦不堪。空话‘空话，只是些空话！这不尽的空谈，令人难受得象人地狱一般。

但是，当客人都走了时，她也不觉得好过些。她继续着作她的忧郁的散步，但是愤懑的激怒，占据着她的全身，她不能逃避。日子好象发着咬牙声似地过去，使她痛苦，却毫无新的东西来到，她渐渐地消瘦了。甚至又管家也注意到了，问她是不是有什么不舒服，甚至唐米·督克斯也重复说她的身体日见不好，虽然她并承认。只是那达娃斯哈教堂下的小山旁直立着的那些不祥的白色墓石，开始使她惧怕了。这些墓石有一种奇特的、惨白的颜色，象加拿拉的大理石一样，象假牙齿一样的可憎，她可发从园中清楚地望见。这些假牙似的丑恶的墓石，耸立在那小山上，难她一种阴森的恐怖，她觉得她不久便要被埋葬在那儿，加入那墓石和墓碑下的鬼群中，在这污秽的米德兰地方。

她知道她是需要帮助的。于是她写了一封信给她的姊姊希尔达，露了一点她的心的呼喊：“我近来觉得不好，我不知道是怎么回事。”

希尔达从苏格兰赶了来。那是三月时候，她自己驶着一部两入座的轻便小汽车。响着喇叭，沿着马路驶了上来，然后绕着屋前面的有两株山毛榉树的那块椭圆形的草坪。

康妮忙赶到门口台阶上去接她。希尔达把四停了，走了出来抱吻了她的妹妹。

“啊，康妮哟！”她说，“怎么样了？”

“没有怎么！”康妮有点难过地说，但是她知道她自己和她姊姊是恰恰地相反的，这一点使她痛苦着。从前，这姊妹俩，有着同样的光辉而带点金黄的肉色，同样的棕色的柔软的头发，同样的天然地强壮丽温热的体质。但是现在呢，康，妮瘦了，颜容惨淡，她的颈项从胸衣上挺出来，又瘦又带点黄色。

“但是你是病了，孩子哟！”希尔达用那种从前婶妹俩同有的温柔而有点气怒的声音说。希尔达比康妮差不多大两岁。

“不，没有什么病。也许是我烦恼的缘故”，康妮说，她的声音有点可怜。

希尔达的脸上，焕发着一种战斗的光芒。虽然她的样子看起来温柔而肃静，查她是一个有古代女弄士的风度的女子，和男子们是合不来的。

“多可怕的地方！”她深恨地望着这所可怜的残败的老勒格贝，轻轻地说。她的外貌是温柔而温热的，象一个成熟了的梨于一样，其实她却是一个道地的古代的女武士。

她静默地进去见克利福。克利福心里想，她长得真漂亮，但同时她却使他惧怕。他的妻家的人没有和他一样的举止仪态。他认为他们是有点外边人的样子，但是既已成了亲家，便只好以另眼相看了。

“他堂皇地、谈蓝色的眼睛有些凸出；他的表情是不可思仪的，但是很斯文。不过希尔达哪里管他态度怎样镇定，她已准备战斗了。他就是教里或皇帝，她也不怕。

“康妮的样子太不健康了。”她用柔软的声音说道。她华丽的灰色的眼睛，不转瞬的望着他。她和康妮一样，有着那种很处女的神气，但是克利福很知道那里面却隐藏着多么坚强的苏格兰人的固执性。

“她瘦了一点。”他说。

“你没有想什么法子？”

“你相信想法子有什么用处么？”他问道。他的声音是很英国式的，又坚定又柔和。这两种东西常常是混在一起的。

希尔达直望着他没有回答。她同康妮一样，随曰答话不是她的能事。她只是不转瞬地望着他，这使他觉得很难受，比她说什么都更难受。

“我得把她带去看看医生。”过了一会希尔达说，“你知道这附近有好医生吗？”

“我不太知道。”

“那么我要把她到伦敦去，那儿我们有一位可靠的医生。”

“克利福虽然怒火中烧，但是不说什么。

‘我想我还是在这儿过夜吧。”希尔达一面脱下手套一面说，“明天早晨我再把她带到伦敦去。”

克利福愤怒得脸色发黄。到了晚上，他的眼睛的白膜也有点发黄了。他的肝脏是有毛病的，但是希尔达依旧是这样地温逊如处女。

晚饭过后，当大家似乎安静地喝着咖啡时，希尔达说。“你得找个看护妇或什么人来料理你的私事才好，最好还是找个男仆。”

她的声音是那样的缓和，听起来差不多是温雅的。但是克利福却觉得她在他的头上用棍子击着似的。

“你相信那是必要的么？”他冷淡地说。

“当然呵！那是必要的，否则父亲和我得把康妮带开去位几个月才行，事情不能照这样子继续下去的。”

什么事情不能照这样子继续下去？”

“难道你没有看见这可怜的孩子怎么样了么？”‘希尔达问道，两眼固视着他。她觉得他这时候有点象是煮过了的大虾。

“康妮和我会商量这事的。”他说。

“我已经和她商量过了。”希尔达说。

克利福曾经给看护们看护过不少时间，他憎恶他们，因为她们把他的一切私密都知道了，至于一个男仆！……他就忍受不了一个男子在他的身边，那还不如任何一个妇人的好。但是为个么康妮不能看护他呢？

姊妹俩在次日的早晨一同出发。康妮有点象复活节的羔羊似的。在驶着车的希尔达旁边坐着，的点细微，麦尔肯爵士不在伦敦，但是根新洞的房子是开着门的。

医生很细心地诊验康妮，询问着她的生活的各种屑事。

“在画报上我有时看见过你的。”和克利福男爵的像片，你们差不多都是名人了，可不是？好温静的女孩子们都长大了，但是画报上虽然刊着你的像片，你却还是个温静的女孩子呢，不要紧的，不要紧的，各个器官都毫无病状。但是却不能这样继续下去！告诉克利福男爵，他得把你带到伦敦，或带到外国去，给你点娱乐消遣的东西。你得要娱乐娱乐才行。那是不可少的，你的元气太衰了，没有一点儿底蓄。心的神经状况已经有点异状了，是的，是的，就是这神经太不好了！到于纳或比亚力治去玩一个月，准保你复原起来，但是一定不能，一定不能这样继续下去。否则将来怎样了，我是不敢说的。你消耗着你的生命力，而不使它再生。你得要散散心，找些适当的有益的健康的娱乐！你只消耗着你的元气，而授有递补些新的元乞。你知道那是不能继续下去的。伤神的事！避免伤神的事！”

希尔达紧咬着牙关，那是含有意思的。

蔑克里斯听见她们都在伦敦，赶快带着玫瑰花来。

“为什么，怎么样不好了？”他叫道，“你只剩下一个影子了。咳，我从来没有见过变得这么厉害的！为什么你全不让我知道？和我到尼斯去哪！到西西里去吧！去吧、和到西西里去，那儿此刻正是最可爱的时候。你需要阳光！你需要好好的生活！啊，你是日见衰萎下去了！跟我去！到非洲去！咳，该死的克利福，丢了他跟我去罢。你们一离婚我便要马上娶你，来吧，试一试新的生活吧！天哟，勒格贝那种地方是无论谁都要闷死的！肮脏的地方！鬼地方！无论谁都要闷死的！跟我到有阳光的地方去吧！你需要的是阳光，阳光和一点常态的生活。”

但是，就这样干脆地抛弃了克利福，康妮却过意不去。她不能那佯做。不……不！……她简直不能。她得回勒格贝去。

蔑克里斯厌根析了，希尔达并不喜欢蔑克里斯，但是她觉得他似乎比克利福好一点。她们妹妹俩又回到米德兰去了。

希尔达向克利福交叔叔。克利福的眼睛还是黄的。他也是一样。他有他的焦虑过头的地方。但是他不得不听希尔达的一番话和医生的一番话；他却不听——当然啦——蔑克里斯的那番话的。他听着这个最后通隙，麻木地不做一声。

“这儿是一个好男仆的地址，他服侍过那个医生诊治的一个残废人，那病人是前月死了的，这是一个很好的用人、他一定肯来的。”

“但是我并不是一个病人，而且我不要一个男仆。”克利福这可怜的家伙说。

“这儿还有两个妇人的地址，其中一个是我见过的，她很合适，她是一个五十上下的妇人，安静、壮健、和蔼，而且也受过相当的教养……”

克利福只是倔怒着，不答应什么。

“好吧，克利福，要是到明天还没有什么决定，我便打电话报给父亲，我们便把康妮带走。”

“康妮愿意走么？”克利福问道。

“她是产愿意走的，但是，她知道这是不得不的事。我们的母亲是癌症死的，她这病是神经耗损后得来的，我们不要再冒同样的险了。”

到了次日。克利福出主意雇用波尔敦太太，她是达娃斯哈教区内的一个着护妇。显然这是女管家白蒂斯太太想起。波尔敦太太正在辞去教区里的职务而成为一个私人看护。克利福有一种怪癣，他很怕把自己委身于一个不相识的人。但是，当他的一次患了猩红热的时候，这位波尔敦太太曾经服侍过他，他是认识她的。

妹妹俩立刻去见波尔敦太太。她住在一条街上的一所新房子里，这条街在达娃斯哈是算得高雅的。她是一个四十多岁的样子够好着的妇人，穿着看护妇的制服，白色的衣领和白色的围裙。她正在一个壅塞的小起坐室里煮着茶。

波尔敦太太是顶殷勤顶客气的，看起来似乎很可爱。她说话时带着点土音，但说的是很正确的英语，因为她多年琐看护过那些矿工病人，并且他们都贴服地服从她，所以她对她自己是很自尊而且很自信的。简言之，在她的小环境里，她是村中领导阶级的一个代表，很受人尊敬。

“真的，查太莱男爵夫人的脸色真不好！是哟，她从前是那样丰美的，可不是吗？但是一个冬天来她就瘦弱了！啊，那是难堪的，真的可怜的克利福男爵！唉，那大战，好多的痛苦都是大战的啡恶啊！”

波尔敦太太答应了如果沙德罗医生可以让她去的话，她马上就可以到勒格贝去。她在教区里还要尽半个月的职务，但是他们也许可以找到一个替手的。

希尔达忙跑过去见沙德罗医生。到了下个星期日，波尔敦太太便带了两口箱子，乘着马车到勒格贝来了。希尔达和她谈过几番话。波太太是无论何时都准备着和人谈话的。她看起来是宋的年青！热情来了时，是要把她的有点苍白的两颊潮红起来的。她是四十七岁了。

她的丈夫德底·波尔敦，是在矿坑里出事死的。那是二十二年前的事了，那时正圣诞切，他抛下了她和两个女，其中一个还是襁褓之中，呵，这小女孩爱蒂斯现在已和雪非尔德的一个青年药剂师结了婚了。名他一个是在齐斯脱非尔德当教员，她每星期末了便回家来看望母亲，如果波太太不到旁地方去的话。年轻人今日是根写意的了，不象她——爱微·波尔敦——年轻的时候了。

德底·波尔敦在煤矿穴晨发生爆炸而丧命时，是二十岁。那时，前的一个工友向他们喊着躺下，大家都及时躺下了，只有德底，他就这样丧失了性命。事后判查时，矿主方面他们说德底是慌张起来想逃走。没有服从命令，所以事实上，他是由自己的过错死的。于是赔偿费只有三百镑，他们还认为这是恩惠，因为死者是由自己的过错死的。而且这三百解放军他们也不肯一次交给她；(她是想拿这笔钱来开个小铺子的。)他们说，要是一次交了她定要花光，也许要花在醉酒上呢！她只好每星期去领三十先令。是的，她只好每个星期一的早晨上办事处去，在那里站着直等两个钟头才轮到她；是的，差不多四年中，她每星期一都去。两个孩子都是这样幼小，她能怎样呢？但是德底的母亲却对她很好。当孩子们会走路时，白天里她常把她们看管着，而她，爱微，波尔敦呢，却到雪非尔德去上战地医院的课。到了第四年，她又攻读看护的课程，而且得到了文凭。她决心不领先他人，而自己养育她的孩子。这样，她在阿斯魏特医院当了一个时期的助手。达娃斯哈煤矿公司的当事人，——事实上便是克利福男爵——看见了她能独身奋斗，却对她起了艰感，他们给了她教区看护的位了，事事从旁先后，这是她不能不说的。她在那里工作着，直至现在，她觉得这工作在些使她疲乏了，她需要找点清闲些的事了，一个教区看护的工作，是忙个不了的工作呵。

“是人，公司对我很好，我常常这样说。但是我永忘不了他们对德底所说的话，因为从来没有一个矿工是象德底那样隐健丽勇敢和，而他们所说的话，等于骂他是个懦夫。但是，他已死了，他再也不能说什么以自白了。”

她的话里奇异地显示着各种感情的交错。她喜欢那些她多年来看护过的矿工们，但是她觉得自己比他们高得多。她差不多觉得自己是上层阶级的人，而同时，她心里却潜伏着一种对于统治阶级的怨恨。老板们，在工人与老板们中间起着争论的时候，她是常常站在工人方面的，但是如果那儿并没有什么争论的话，她是热切的希望着自己比工人高，而属于上层阶级的。上层阶级盘惑她，引起她的英国人所特有的脐身于显贵的热望。她到勒格贝来真是使她心醉极了，她心醉着能够跟查太莱男爵夫人谈话，老实说，这位男爵夫人不是那些矿工的妻子们比得上的！这是她敢率直地承认的。但是，一个人却可以觉察出来，她是有着一种对查太莱家的仇恨的，有着和种对老板们的仇恨。

“啊，是的，当然哪，那一定要使查太莱夫人操劳过度的：幸得她有个婶婶来帮助她。男子们是想不到的。他们无论尊卑都一样，他们觉得一个女子对他们所做的事是当然的。啊，我常常把这话对矿工们说。但是掩饰利福男爵也有他的难处。他是个两腿残废的人呢。查太莱家里一向都是些很自尊的人，常常总站在人的上头，这倒也是他们的权利。