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.
