Любовник леди Чаттерлей / Lady Chatterley's Lover

As he pushed the chair up the steepish rise of the knoll in the park, he breathed rather quickly, through parted lips. He was rather frail really. Curiously full of vitality, but a little frail and quenched. Her woman’s instinct sensed it.

Connie fell back, let the chair go on. The day had greyed over; the small blue sky that had poised low on its circular rims of haze was closed in again, the lid was down, there was a raw coldness. It was going to snow. All grey, all grey! the world looked worn out.

The chair waited at the top of the pink path.

Clifford looked round for Connie.

“Not tired, are you?” he said.

“Oh, no!” she said.

But she was. A strange, weary yearning, a dissatisfaction had started in her. Clifford did not notice: those were not things he was aware of. But the stranger knew. To Connie, everything in her world and life seemed worn out, and her dissatisfaction was older than the hills.

They came to the house, and around to the back, where there were no steps.

Clifford managed to swing himself over on to the low, wheeled house-chair; he was very strong and agile with his arms. Then Connie lifted the burden of his dead legs after him.

The keeper, waiting at attention to be dismissed, watched everything narrowly, missing nothing. He went pale, with a sort of fear, when he saw Connie lifting the inert legs of the man in her arms, into the other chair, Clifford pivoting round as she did so. He was frightened.

“Thanks, then, for the help, Mellors,” said Clifford casually, as he began to wheel down the passage to the servants’ quarters.

“Nothing else, Sir?” came the neutral voice, like one in a dream.

“Nothing, good morning!”

“Good morning, Sir.”

“Good morning! it was kind of you to push the chair up that hill… I hope it wasn’t heavy for you,” said Connie, looking back at the keeper outside the door.

His eyes came to hers in an instant, as if wakened up. He was aware of her.

“Oh no, not heavy!” he said quickly.

Then his voice dropped again into the broad sound of the vernacular: “Good mornin” to your Ladyship!”

“Who is your game-keeper?” Connie asked at lunch.

“Mellors! You saw him,” said Clifford.

“Yes, but where did he come from?”

“Nowhere! He was a Tevershall boy… son of a collier, I believe.”

“And was he a collier himself?”

“Blacksmith on the pit-bank, I believe: overhead smith.