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 T H E NU rS E
M E NTor’S
HA NDBo o K
Supporting Students
in Clinical Practice

Thlrd
EdlTlo
n

DA NNY WA L S H
with contribitions by Julie Dixon,
Fran Maplethorpe,Wendy Leighton,
Clare Sobieraj and Karen Johnston
The Nurse Mentor’s
Handbook
The Nurse Mentor’s
Handbook
Supervising and Assessing
Students in Clinical Practice
THIRD EDITION

Danny Walsh
Open University Press
McGraw-Hill Education
8th Floor, 338 Euston Road
London
England
NW1 3BH

email: [email protected]
world wide web: www.openup.co.uk

and Two Penn Plaza, New York, NY 10121-2289, USA

First published in this 3rd edition 2021

Copyright © Open International Publishing Limited, 2021

All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of
criticism and review, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written
permission of the publisher or a licence from the Copyright Licensing Agency
Limited. Details of such licences (for reprographic reproduction) may be obtained
from the Copyright Licensing Agency Ltd of Saffron House, 6–10 Kirby Street,
London EC1N 8TS.

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

ISBN-13: 9780335248612
ISBN-10: 0335248616
eISBN: 9780335248629

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

CIP data applied for

Typeset by Transforma Pvt. Ltd., Chennai, India

Fictitious names of companies, products, people, characters and/or data that may be
used herein (in case studies or in examples) are not intended to represent any real
individual, company, product or event.
Praise page

Out with the old and in with the new! Looking back on my nurse train-
ing I can vividly recall clinical placements where I was mentored by
inspirational, dynamic, enthusiastic, and nurturing mentors. However,
I can equally recall the toxic mentors that ruined clinical placements
and made me question whether I wanted to be a nurse at all! Support-
ing students in clinical practice is a privilege and getting it right is
essential! Danny Walsh’s book demystifies the NMC’s SSSA document
and provides a real insight into the meaning of the word mentorship,
along with practical advice on how to be a practice supervisor.
Mike Parker is an Associate Professor in
Emergency Nursing at the University of York, UK

This is a real-world book that offers practice supervisors and asses-

sors detailed guidance on their new role within the context of the
recent NMC (2018) standards for supervision and assessment of
students. It gives information on the background policy to the stan-
dards and what is expected of nurses who take on these new roles.
The book provides the theoretical base and practical guidance on
facilitating good quality learning experiences for students and on
teaching, assessment and providing evidence of learning. It is the
ideal handbook for nurses since it addresses all the issues that you
are likely to encounter whilst supporting students, with an easy ref-
erence system and great practical examples.
Professor Fiona Irvine - Emeritus Professor
in Nursing, University of Birmingham

A book worth recommending and adopting as a core text for mod-

ules, especially those in teaching, learning and assessment for new
mentors, practice assessors and supervisors. It can be a resource
for nurses returning to study, international students and anyone
involved in clinical guidance/teaching such as practice education
coordinators, facilitators, and nominated persons. It would also be
suitable for lecturers delivering core modules for Diploma, Degree,
Masters and Dissertations.
Leontia Hoy - Course Director - Bsc Hons/
Graduate Diploma/ Post Graduate Diploma–
Specialist Practice, School of Nursing,
Queens University Belfast
Contents

List of figures xi
Acknowledgements xiii

Introduction1
Who is this book for? 1
A brief summary 2
Quotes and narratives 3
Benefits of being a practice supervisor 4
Students’ views 4
Summary5
References5

1 The mentor’s new clothes: the NMC standards for

student supervision and assessment 6
Key points 6
History and context of student supervision 6
SLAiP: the NMC framework to support learning and
assessment in practice 7
NMC review of nurse education 2010 11
The mentor’s new clothes 2018 13
Summary20
Further reading 20
References20

2 Effective practice supervision 22

Key points 22
Motivation, Maslow, and practice supervisors 22
The characteristics and roles of the supervisor/mentor 24
Effective working relationships and the practicalities
of supervision 26
The first day and week 28
Active listening: the basis of effective working relationships 34
Student-centred leadership 39
Summary41
Further reading 41
References41
viiiContents

3 Supervision considerations 43
Key points 43
What can we learn from the clinical supervision
literature?43
Supporting students through clinical supervision 43
Toxic mentoring and supervising (how not to do it!) 49
Practice supervisor SWOT analysis 55
A useful alternative 57
Liaison with higher education institutions 58
The case of the associate nurse: a new role for
health and social care  60
Summary63
Further reading 63
References64

4 The clinical learning environment 66

Key points 66
Creating an environment for learning 66
Factors that enhance a placement experience 68
Factors that detract from a placement experience 72
Learning experiences 74
Learning resources 78
Placement profiles 80
Insight visits 82
Links with the School of Nursing/university 82
Role modelling 82
Structured teaching 83
Mapping of learning opportunities 83
Educational audit 85
SWOT analysis of the placement area 87
Students’ evaluation of placement 88
Physical safety 89
Evidence-based practice 89
Practice supervisor’s evaluation of placement 92
Conclusion: putting it all together 93
Summary94
Further reading 95
References95

5 Teaching and learning theory 96

Key points 96
Teaching and learning theories 97
Behaviourist theories 97
Humanistic theories 99
Contents ix

Cognitive theories 103

Learning styles 107
Criticisms of learning styles 112
Bloom’s taxonomy 113
Summary of key principles of good teaching 116
Summary117
Further reading 117
References118

6 Teaching in practice 119

Key points 119
Theory in practice! 120
Lesson planning 121
Teaching methods and strategies 126
Assessment of learning 140
Student evaluations 140
Conclusion141
Summary142
References142

7 Assessment: theory and practice reality 144

Key points 144
Theory of assessment 147
Cardinal criteria 148
Types of assessment 151
Evaluating learning 155
Factors influencing assessments  155
Assessment in practice 157
Levels of learner  162
Attitude163
Good practice in assessment  164
Summary166
Further reading 166
References166

8 Evidence of learning 168

Key points 168
What is a portfolio? 168
Structure of a portfolio 170
Reflection173
Types of evidence of learning 175
Learning contracts 176
Summary180
References180
xContents

9 Fostering a successful placement 182

Key points 182
Support mechanisms other than the practice supervisor 182
Link tutor/personal tutor 183
Students with disabilities and difficulties  188
Disability189
Dyslexia192
Dyscalculia193
Sickness and stress 193
Workplace harassment 195
Bad practice 195
Supporting the failing student 196
Reasons for failure 196
The error of leniency: why nurses fail to fail students! 197
Providing feedback 199
Avoiding failure and failing with fairness 203
Managing the process of failure 204
Attitude  208
Accountability and responsibility in practice 212
NMC requirements 216
Summary216
Further reading 216
Useful web resources 217
References217

10 Support and development for the practice

supervisor and assessor 219
Key points 219
Practice supervisor’s guide to surviving a placement! 219
The politics of time 221
Maintaining competence 222
Evidence for a portfolio 223
Research227
Revalidation  227
Support for practice supervisors/assessors 227
Common practice supervision/assessment problems 230
Some problems to ponder 235
Ongoing developments 236
Good practice for practice supervisors: a few reminders 238
The future! 239
Summary240
Further reading 241
Useful web resources 241
References241
Index243
Figures

1.1 How it might look! 19

4.1 Role of the nurse spider chart 76
4.2 Sample patient’s journey 78
4.3 Mapping learning experiences 79
4.4 Nursing action research cycle 91
4.5 Simplified nursing action research cycle 91
5.1 The nursing process 108
5.2 The nursing process and Kolb’s learning
cycle combined 109
6.1 The lesson-planning cycle 121
6.2 Example of the construction of a mind map 131
8.1 Student’s reflective cycle 174
Acknowledgements

For this third edition I am hugely indebted to a host of friends and col-
leagues. The advice and contributions of my colleagues Julie Dixon and
Fran Maplethorpe have been invaluable and their contribution on the art of
supervision does much to enhance this volume. I am also grateful to Clare
Sobieraj and Karen Johnston for their general overview of the Nursing and
Midwifery Council (NMC) changes to nurse education and student supervi-
sion. The material relating to nursing associates was written by Wendy
Leighton. My thanks also go to Diane Ramm who has drawn on her consid-
erable experience to write an important section detailing the key principles
of teaching clinical skills, and to Chris Craggs who contributed her insight
with the section relating to students with disability. Many of the mentor/
supervisor and student quotes used within were drawn from various student
evaluations from a range of nursing courses nationally. Many were also sent
to me anonymously, so to persons unknown I am especially grateful. Some
narratives were recollected on request specifically for this book and I am
grateful to these contributors: S. Bettles, A. Hurrell, N. Raybould, Y. Potter,
C. Burrows, Z. Mabandla, G. Helme and I. Trueman. Finally Sylvia Hep-
worth, whose wisdom and experience I called upon many times in the pro-
duction of the second edition, remains a major influence upon this third. I
have been lucky to have had such support from all those listed above – as far
as mentors go, there could be no better.
Another random document with
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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 whiskey 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
plainness 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 de 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 said. "Whatever is the matter?"
"Nothing!" said Connie, rather shame-facedly; 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 stone 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 over-wrought; 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 tomorrow, 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 school-teacher 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 he 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 enquiry, 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
round 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 classes. 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 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 realised 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.

CHAPTER VIII
Mrs. Bolton also kept a cherishing eye on Connie, feeling she must
extend to her her female and professional protection. She was
always urging her ladyship to walk out, to drive to Uthwaite, to be in
the air. For Connie had got into the habit of sitting still by the fire,
pretending to read, or to sew feebly, and hardly going out at all.
It was a blowy day soon after Hilda had gone, that Mrs. Bolton said:
"Now why don't you go for a walk through the wood, and look at the
daffs behind the keeper's cottage? They're the prettiest sight you'd
see in a day's march. And you could put some in your room, wild
daffs are always so cheerful-looking, aren't they?"
Connie took it in good part, even daffs for daffodils. Wild daffodils!
After all, one should not stew in one's own juice. The Spring came
back.... "Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet
approach of Ev'n or Morn."
And the keeper, his thin, white body, like a lonely pistil of an invisible
flower! She had forgotten him in her unspeakable depression. But
now something roused.... "Pale beyond porch and portal" ... the
thing to do was to pass the porches and the portals.
She was stronger, she could walk better, and in the wood the wind
would not be so tiring as it was across the park, flattening against
her. She wanted to forget, to forget the world, and all the dreadful,
carrion-bodied people. "Ye must be born again! I believe in the
resurrection of the body! Except a grain of wheat fall into the earth
and die, it shall by no means bring forth. When the crocus cometh
forth I too will emerge and see the sun!" In the wind of March
endless phrases swept through her consciousness.
Little gusts of sunshine blew, strangely bright, and lit up the
celandines at the wood's edge, under the hazelrods, they spangled
out bright and yellow. And the wood was still, stiller, but yet gusty
with crossing sun. The first windflowers were out, and all the wood
seemed pale with the pallor of endless little anemones, sprinkling
the shaken floor. "The world has grown pale with thy breath." But it
was the breath of Persephone, this time; she was out of hell on a
cold morning. Cold breaths of wind came, and overhead there was
an anger of entangled wind caught among the twigs. It, too, was
caught and trying to tear itself free, the wind, like Absalom. How
cold the anemones looked, bobbing their naked white shoulders over
crinoline skirts of green. But they stood it. A few first bleached little
primroses too, by the path, and yellow buds unfolding themselves.
The roaring and swaying was overhead, only cold currents came
down below. Connie was strangely excited in the wood, and the
colour flew in her cheeks, and burned blue in her eyes. She walked
ploddingly, picking a few primroses and the first violets, that smelled
sweet and cold, sweet and cold. And she drifted on without knowing
where she was.
Till she came to the clearing, at the far end of the wood, and saw
the green-stained stone cottage, looking almost rosy, like the flesh
underneath a mushroom, its stone warmed in a burst of sun. And
there was a sparkle of yellow jasmine by the door; the closed door.
But no sound; no smoke from the chimney; no dog barking.
She went quietly round to the back, where the bank rose up; she
had an excuse, to see the daffodils.
And they were there, the short-stemmed flowers, rustling and
fluttering and shivering, so bright and alive, but with nowhere to
hide their faces, as they turned them away from the wind.
They shook their bright, sunny little rags in bouts of distress. But
perhaps they liked it really; perhaps they really liked the tossing.
Constance sat down with her back to a young pine tree, that swayed
against her with curious life, elastic, and powerful, rising up. The
erect, alive thing, with its top in the sun! And she watched the
daffodils turn golden, in a burst of sun that was warm on her hands
and lap. Even she caught the faint, tarry scent of the flowers. And
then, being so still and alone, she seemed to get into the current of
her own proper destiny. She had been fastened by a rope, and
jagging and snarring like a boat at its moorings; now she was loose
and adrift.
The sunshine gave way to chill; the daffodils were in shadow,
dipping silently. So they would dip through the day and the long cold
night. So strong in their frailty!
She rose, a little stiff, took a few daffodils, and went down. She
hated breaking the flowers, but she wanted just one or two to go
with her. She would have to go back to Wragby and its walls, and
now she hated it, especially its thick walls. Walls! Always walls! Yet
one needed them in this wind.
When she got home Clifford asked her:
"Where did you go?"
"Right across the wood! Look, aren't the little daffodils adorable? To
think they should come out of the earth!"
"Just as much out of the air and sunshine," he said.
"But modelled in the earth," she retorted, with a prompt
contradiction, that surprised her a little.
The next afternoon she went to the wood again. She followed the
broad riding that swerved round and up through the larches to a
spring called John's Well. It was cold on this hillside, and not a
flower in the darkness of larches. But the icy little spring softly
pressed upwards from its tiny well-bed of pure, reddish-white
pebbles. How icy and clear it was! brilliant! The new keeper had no
doubt put in fresh pebbles. She heard the faint tinkle of water, as the
tiny overflow trickled over and down hill. Even above the hissing
boom of the larchwood, that spread its bristling, leafless, wolfish
darkness on the downslope, she heard the tinkle as of tiny water-
bells.
This place was a little sinister, cold, damp. Yet the well must have
been a drinking-place for hundreds of years. Now no more. Its tiny
cleared space was lush and cold and dismal.
She rose and went slowly towards home. As she went she heard a
faint tapping away on the right, and stood still to listen. Was it
hammering, or a woodpecker? It was surely hammering.
She walked on, listening. And then she noticed a narrow track
between young fir trees, a track that seemed to lead nowhere. But
she felt it had been used. She turned down it adventurously,
between the thick young firs, which gave way soon to the old oak-
wood. She followed the track, and the hammering grew nearer, in
the silence of the windy wood, for trees make a silence even in their
noise of wind.
She saw a secret little clearing, and a secret little hut made of rustic
poles. And she had never been here before! She realised it was the
quiet place where the growing pheasants were reared; the keeper in
his shirtsleeves was kneeling, hammering. The dog trotted forward
with a short, sharp bark, and the keeper lifted his face suddenly and
saw her. He had a startled look in his eyes.
He straightened himself and saluted, watching her in silence, as she
came forward with weakening limbs. He resented the intrusion, he
cherished his solitude as his only and last freedom in life.
"I wondered what the hammering was," she said, feeling weak and
breathless, and a little afraid of him, as he looked so straight at her.
"Ah'm gettin' th' coops ready for th' young bods," he said, in broad
vernacular.
She did not know what to say, and she felt weak.
"I should like to sit down a bit," she said.
"Come and sit 'ere i' th' 'ut," he said, going in front of her to the hut,
pushing aside some timber and stuff, and drawing out a rustic chair,
made of hazel sticks.
"Am Ah t' light yer a little fire?" he asked, with the curious naiveté of
the dialect.
"Oh, don't bother," she replied.
But he looked at her hands: they were rather blue. So he quickly
took some larch twigs to the little brick fireplace in the corner, and in
a moment the yellow flame was running up the chimney. He made a
place by the brick hearth.
"Sit 'ere then a bit, and warm yer," he said.
She obeyed him. He had that curious kind of protective authority she
obeyed at once. So she sat and warmed her hands at the blaze, and
dropped logs on the fire, whilst outside he was hammering again.
She did not really want to sit, poked in a corner by the fire; she
would rather have watched from the door, but she was being looked
after, so she had to submit.
The hut was quite cosy, panelled with unvarnished deal, having a
little rustic table and stool beside her chair, and a carpenter's bench,
then a big box, tools, new boards, nails; and many things hung from
pegs: axe, hatchet, traps, things in sacks, his coat. It had no
window, the light came in through the open door. It was a jumble,
but also it was a sort of little sanctuary.
She listened to the tapping of the man's hammer; it was not so
happy. He was oppressed. Here was a trespass on his privacy, and a
dangerous one! A woman! He had reached the point where all he
wanted on earth was to be alone. And yet he was powerless to
preserve his privacy; he was a hired man, and these people were his
masters.
Especially he did not want to come into contact with a woman again.
He feared it, for he had a big wound from old contacts. He felt if he
could not be alone, and if he could not be left alone, he would die.
His recoil away from the outer world was complete; his last refuge
was this wood; to hide himself there!
Connie grew warm by the fire, which she had made too big: then
she grew hot. She went and sat on the stool in the doorway,
watching the man at work. He seemed not to notice her, but he
knew. Yet he worked on, as if absorbedly, and his brown dog sat on
her tail near him, and surveyed the untrustworthy world.
Slender, quiet and quick, the man finished the coop he was making,
turned it over, tried the sliding door, then set it aside. Then he rose,
went for an old coop, and took it to the chopping-log where he was
working. Crouching, he tried the bars; some broke in his hands; he
began to draw the nails. Then he turned the coop over and
deliberated, and he gave absolutely no sign of awareness of the
woman's presence.
So Connie watched him fixedly. And the same solitary aloneness she
had seen in him naked, she now saw in him clothed: solitary, and
intent, like an animal that works alone, but also brooding, like a soul
that recoils away, away from all human contact. Silently, patiently, he
was recoiling away from her even now. It was the stillness, and the
timeless sort of patience, in a man impatient and passionate, that
touched Connie's womb. She saw it in his bent head, the quick, quiet
hands, the crouching of his slender, sensitive loins; something
patient and withdrawn. She felt his experience had been deeper and
wider than her own; much deeper and wider, and perhaps more
deadly. And this relieved her of herself; she felt almost irresponsible.
So she sat in the doorway of the hut in a dream, utterly unaware of
time and of particular circumstances. She was so drifted away that
he glanced up at her quickly, and saw the utterly still, waiting look
on her face. To him it was a look of waiting. And a little thin tongue
of fire suddenly flickered in his loins, at the root of his back, and he
groaned in spirit. He dreaded with a repulsion almost of death, any
further close human contact. He wished above all things she would
go away, and leave him to his own privacy. He dreaded her will, her
female will, and her modern female insistency. And above all he
dreaded her cool, upper-class impudence of having her own way. For
after all he was only a hired man. He hated her presence there.
Connie came to herself with sudden uneasiness. She rose. The
afternoon was turning to evening, yet she could not go away. She
went over to the man, who stood up at attention, his worn face stiff
and blank, his eyes watching her.
"It is so nice here, so restful," she said. "I have never been here
before."
"No?"
"I think I shall come and sit here sometimes."
"Yes!"
"Do you lock the hut when you're not here?"
"Yes, your Ladyship."
"Do you think I could have a key too, so that I could sit here
sometimes? Are there two keys?"
"Not as Ah know on, ther' isna."
He had lapsed into the vernacular. Connie hesitated; he was putting
up an opposition. Was it his hut, after all?
"Couldn't we get another key?" she asked in her soft voice, that
underneath had the ring of a woman determined to get her way.
"Another!" he said, glancing at her with a flash of anger, touched
with derision.
"Yes, a duplicate," she said, flushing.
"'Appen Sir Clifford 'ud know," he said, putting her off.
"Yes!" she said, "he might have another. Otherwise we could have
one made from the one you have. It would only take a day or so, I
suppose. You could spare your key for so long."
"Ah canna tell yer, m' lady! Ah know nob'dy as ma'es keys round
'ere."
Connie suddenly flushed with anger.
"Very well!" she said. "I'll see to it."
"All right, your Ladyship."
Their eyes met. His had a cold, ugly look of dislike and contempt,
and indifference to what would happen. Hers were hot with rebuff.
But her heart sank, she saw how utterly he disliked her, when she
went against him. And she saw him in a sort of desperation.
"Good afternoon!"
"Afternoon, my Lady!" He saluted and turned abruptly away. She
had wakened the sleeping dogs of old voracious anger in him, anger
against the self-willed female. And he was powerless, powerless. He
knew it!
And she was angry against the self-willed male. A servant too! She
walked sullenly home.
She found Mrs. Bolton under the great beech tree on the knoll,
looking for her.
"I just wondered if you'd be coming, my Lady," the woman said
brightly.
"Am I late?" asked Connie.
"Oh ... only Sir Clifford was waiting for his tea."
"Why didn't you make it then?"
"Oh, I don't think it's hardly my place. I don't think Sir Clifford would
like it at all, my Lady."
"I don't see why not," said Connie.
She went indoors to Clifford's study, where the old brass kettle was
simmering on the tray.
"Am I late, Clifford!" she said, putting down the few flowers and
taking up the tea-caddy, as she stood before the tray in her hat and
scarf. "I'm sorry! Why didn't you let Mrs. Bolton make the tea?"
"I didn't think of it," he said ironically. "I don't quite see her
presiding at the tea-table."
"Oh, there's nothing sacrosanct about a silver teapot," said Connie.
He glanced up at her curiously.
"What did you do all afternoon?" he said.
"Walked and sat in a sheltered place. Do you know there are still
berries on the big holly tree."
She took off her scarf, but not her hat, and sat down to make tea.
The toast would certainly be leathery. She put the tea-cosy over the
teapot, and rose to get a little glass for her violets. The poor flowers
hung over, limp on their stalks.
"They'll revive again!" she said, putting them before him in their
glass for him to smell.
"Sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes," he quoted.
"I don't see a bit of connection with the actual violets," she said.
"The Elizabethans are rather upholstered."
She poured him his tea.
"Do you think there is a second key to that little hut not far from
John's Well, where the pheasants are reared?" she said.
"There may be. Why?"
"I happened to find it today—and I'd never seen it before. I think it's
a darling place. I could sit there sometimes, couldn't I?"
"Was Mellors there?"
"Yes! That's how I found it: his hammering. He didn't seem to like
my intruding at all. In fact he was almost rude when I asked about a
second key."
"What did he say?"
"Oh nothing: just his manner; and he said he knew nothing about
keys."
"There may be one in father's study. Betts knows them all; they're all
there. I'll get him to look."
"Oh do!" she said.
"So Mellors was almost rude?"
"Oh, nothing, really! But I don't think he wanted me to have the
freedom of the castle, quite."
"I don't suppose he did."
"Still, I don't see why he should mind. It's not his home, after all! It's
not his private abode. I don't see why I shouldn't sit there if I want
to."
"Quite!" said Clifford. "He thinks too much of himself, that man."
"Do you think he does?"
"Oh decidedly! He thinks he's something exceptional. You know he
had a wife he didn't get on with, so he joined up in 1915 and was
sent out to India, I believe. Anyhow he was blacksmith to the
cavalry in Egypt for a time; always was connected with horses, a
clever fellow that way. Then some Indian colonel took a fancy to
him, and he was made a lieutenant. Yes, they gave him a
commission. I believe he went back to India with his colonel, and up
to the north-west frontier. He was ill; he has a pension. He didn't
come out of the army till last year, I believe, and then, naturally, it
isn't easy for a man like that to get back to his own level. He's
bound to flounder. But he does his duty all right, as far as I'm
concerned. Only I'm not having any of the Lieutenant Mellors touch."
"How could they make him an officer when he speaks broad
Derbyshire?"
"He doesn't ... except by fits and starts. He can speak perfectly well,
for him. I suppose he has an idea if he's come down to the ranks
again, he'd better speak as the ranks speak."
"Why didn't you tell me about him before?"
"Oh, I've no patience with these romances. They're the ruin of all
order. It's a thousand pities they ever happened."
Connie was inclined to agree. What was the good of discontented
people who fitted in nowhere?
In the spell of fine weather Clifford, too, decided to go to the wood.
The wind was cold, but not so tiresome, and the sunshine was like
life itself, warm and full.
"It's amazing," said Connie, "how different one feels when there's a
really fresh fine day. Usually one feels the very air is half dead.
People are killing the very air."
"Do you think people are doing it?" he asked.
"I do. The steam of so much boredom, and discontent and anger out
of all the people, just kills the vitality in the air. I'm sure of it."
"Perhaps some condition of the atmosphere lowers the vitality of the
people?" he said.
"No, it's man that poisons the universe," she asserted.
"Fouls his own nest," remarked Clifford.
The chair puffed on. In the hazel copse catkins were hanging pale
gold, and in sunny places the wood-anemones were wide open, as if
exclaiming with the joy of life, just as good as in past days, when
people could exclaim along with them. They had a faint scent of
apple-blossom. Connie gathered a few for Clifford.
He took them and looked at them curiously.
"Thou still unravished bride of quietness," he quoted. "It seems to fit
flowers so much better than Greek vases."
"Ravished is such a horrid word!" she said. "It's only people who
ravish things."
"Oh, I don't know ... snails and things," he said.
"Even snails only eat them, and bees don't ravish."
She was angry with him, turning everything into words. Violets were
Juno's eyelids, and windflowers were unravished brides. How she
hated words, always coming between her and life: they did the
ravishing, if anything did: ready-made words and phrases, sucking
all the life-sap out of living things.
The walk with Clifford was not quite a success. Between him and
Connie there was a tension that each pretended not to notice, but
there it was. Suddenly, with all the force of her female instinct, she
was shoving him off. She wanted to be clear of him, and especially
of his consciousness, his words, his obsession with himself, his
endless treadmill obsession with himself, and his own words.
The weather came rainy again. But after a day or two she went out
in the rain, and she went to the wood. And once there, she went
towards the hut. It was raining, but not so cold, and the wood felt so
silent and remote, inaccessible in the dusk of rain.
She came to the clearing. No one there! The hut was locked. But she
sat on the log doorstep, under the rustic porch, and snuggled into
her own warmth. So she sat, looking at the rain, listening to the
many noiseless noises of it, and to the strange soughings of wind in
upper branches, when there seemed to be no wind. Old oak trees
stood around, grey, powerful trunks, rain-blackened, round and vital,
throwing off reckless limbs. The ground was fairly free of
undergrowth, the anemones sprinkled, there was a bush or two,
elder, or guelder-rose, and a purplish tangle of bramble; the old
russet of bracken almost vanished under green anemone ruffs.
Perhaps this was one of the unravished places. Unravished! The
whole world was ravished.
Some things can't be ravished. You can't ravish a tin of sardines. And
so many women are like that; and men. But the earth...!
The rain was abating. It was hardly making darkness among the
oaks any more. Connie wanted to go; yet she sat on. But she was
getting cold; yet the overwhelming inertia of her inner resentment
kept her there as if paralysed.
Ravished! How ravished one could be without ever being touched.
Ravished by dead words become obscene, and dead ideas become
obsessions.
A wet brown dog came running and did not bark, lifting a wet
feather of a tail. The man followed in a wet black oilskin jacket, like
a chauffeur, and face flushed a little. She felt him recoil in his quick
walk, when he saw her. She stood up in the handbreadth of dryness
under the rustic porch. He saluted without speaking, coming slowly
near. She began to withdraw.
"I'm just going," she said.
"Was yer waitin' to get in?" he asked, looking at the hut, not at her.
"No, I only sat a few minutes in the shelter," she said, with quiet
dignity.
He looked at her. She looked cold.
"Sir Clifford 'adn't got no other key, then?" he asked.
"No, but it doesn't matter. I can sit perfectly dry under this porch.
Good afternoon!" She hated the excess of vernacular in his speech.
He watched her closely, as she was moving away. Then he hitched
up his jacket, and put his hand in his breeches pocket, taking out
the key of the hut.
"'Appen yer'd better 'ave this key, an' Ah mun fend for t' bods some
other road."
She looked at him.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"I mean as 'appen Ah can find anuther pleece as'll du for rearin' th'
pheasants. If yer want ter be 'ere, yo'll non want me messin' abaht
a' th' time."
She looked at him, getting his meaning through the fog of the
dialect.
"Why don't you speak ordinary English?" she said coldly.
"Me! Ah thowt it wor' ordinary."
She was silent for a few moments in anger.
"So if yer want t' key, yer'd better ta'e it. Or 'appen Ah'd better gi'e 't
yer termorrer, an' clear all t' stuff aht fust. Would that du for yer?"
She became more angry.
"I didn't want your key," she said. "I don't want you to clear
anything out at all. I don't in the least want to turn you out of your
hut, thank you! I only wanted to be able to sit here sometimes, like
today. But I can sit perfectly well under the porch, so please say no
more about it."
He looked at her again, with his wicked blue eyes.
"Why," he began, in the broad slow dialect. "Your Ladyship's as
welcome as Christmas ter th' hut an' th' key an' iverythink as is. On'y
this time o' th' year ther's bods ter set, an' Ah've got ter be potterin'
abaht a good bit, seein' after 'em, an' a'. Winter time Ah ned 'ardly
come nigh th' pleece. But what wi' Spring, an' Sir Clifford wantin' ter
start th' pheasants.... An' your Ladyship'd non want me tinkerin'
around an' about when she was 'ere, all th' time."
She listened with a dim kind of amazement.
"Why should I mind your being here?" she asked.
He looked at her curiously.
"T' nuisance on me!" he said briefly, but significantly. She flushed.
"Very well!" she said finally. "I won't trouble you. But I don't think I
should have minded at all sitting and seeing you look after the birds.
I should have liked it. But since you think it interferes with you, I
won't disturb you, don't be afraid. You are Sir Clifford's keeper, not
mine."
The phrase sounded queer, she didn't know why. But she let it pass.
"Nay, your Ladyship. It's your Ladyship's own 'ut. It's as your
Ladyship likes an' pleases, every time. Yer can turn me off at a wik's
notice. It wor only...."
"Only what?" she asked, baffled.
He pushed back his hat in an odd comic way.
"On'y as 'appen yo'd like the place ter yersen, when yer did come,
an' not me messin' abaht."
"But why?" she said, angry. "Aren't you a civilised human being? Do
you think I ought to be afraid of you? Why should I take any notice
of you and your being here or not? Why is it important?"
He looked at her, all his face glimmering with wicked laughter.
"It's not, your Ladyship. Not in the very least," he said.
"Well, why then?" she asked.
"Shall I get your Ladyship another key then?"
"No thank you! I don't want it."
"Ah'll get it anyhow. We'd best 'ave two keys ter th' place."
"And I consider you are insolent," said Connie, with her colour up,
panting a little.
"Nay, nay!" he said quickly. "Dunna yer say that! Nay, nay! I niver
meant nuthink. Ah on'y thought as if yo' come 'ere, Ah s'd 'ave ter
clear out, an' it'd mean a lot o' work, settin' up somewheres else.
But if your Ladyship isn't going ter take no notice o' me, then ... it's
Sir Clifford's 'ut, an' everythink is as your Ladyship likes, everythink
is as your Ladyship likes an' pleases, barrin' yer take no notice o' me,
doin' th' bits of jobs as Ah've got ter do."
Connie went away completely bewildered. She was not sure whether
she had been insulted and mortally offended, or not. Perhaps the
man really only meant what he said; that he thought she would
expect him to keep away. As if she would dream of it! And as if he
could possibly be so important, he and his stupid presence.
She went home in a confusion, not knowing what she thought or
felt.

CHAPTER IX

Connie was surprised at her own feeling of aversion from Clifford.

What is more, she felt she had always really disliked him. Not hate:
there was no passion in it. But a profound physical dislike. Almost it
seemed to her, she had married him because she disliked him, in a
secret, physical sort of way. But of course, she had married him
really because in a mental way he attracted her and excited her. He
had seemed, in some way, her master, beyond her.
Now the mental excitement had worn itself out and collapsed, and
she was aware only of the physical aversion. It rose up in her from
her depths: and she realised how it had been eating her life away.
She felt weak and utterly forlorn. She wished some help would come
from outside. But in the whole world there was no help. Society was
terrible because it was insane. Civilised society is insane. Money and
so-called love are its two great manias; money a long way first. The
individual asserts himself in his disconnected insanity in these two
modes: money and love. Look at Michaelis! His life and activity were
just insanity. His love was a sort of insanity.
And Clifford the same. All that talk! All that writing! All that wild
struggling to push himself forward! It was just insanity. And it was
getting worse, really maniacal.
Connie felt washed-out with fear. But at least, Clifford was shifting
his grip from her on to Mrs. Bolton. He did not know it. Like many
insane people, his insanity might be measured by the things he was
not aware of; the great desert tracts in his consciousness.
Mrs. Bolton was admirable in many ways. But she had that queer
sort of bossiness, endless assertion of her own will, which is one of
the signs of insanity in modern woman. She thought she was utterly
subservient and living for others. Clifford fascinated her because he
always, or so often, frustrated her will, as if by a finer instinct. He
had a finer, subtler will of self-assertion than herself. This was his
charm for her.
Perhaps that had been his charm, too, for Connie.
"It's a lovely day, today!" Mrs. Bolton would say in her caressive,
persuasive voice. "I should think you'd enjoy a little run in your chair
today, the sun's just lovely."
"Yes? Will you give me that book—there, that yellow one. And I think
I'll have those hyacinths taken out."
"Why, they're so beautiful!" She pronounced it with the "y" sound:
be-yutiful! "And the scent is simply gorgeous."
"The scent is what I object to," he said. "It's a little funereal."
"Do you think so!" she exclaimed in surprise, just a little offended,
but impressed. And she carried the hyacinths out of the room,
impressed by his higher fastidiousness.
"Shall I shave you this morning, or would you rather do it yourself?"
Always the same soft, caressive, subservient, yet managing voice.
"I don't know. Do you mind waiting a while. I'll ring when I'm ready."
"Very good, Sir Clifford!" she replied, so soft and submissive,
withdrawing quietly. But every rebuff stored up new energy of will in
her.
When he rang, after a time, she would appear at once. And then he
would say:
"I think I'd rather you shaved me this morning."
Her heart gave a little thrill, and she replied with extra softness:
"Very good, Sir Clifford!"
She was very deft, with a soft, lingering touch, a little slow. At first
he had resented the infinitely soft touch of her fingers on his face.
But now he liked it, with a growing voluptuousness. He let her shave
him nearly every day: her face near his, her eyes so very
concentrated, watching that she did it right. And gradually her
fingertips knew his cheeks and lips, his jaw and chin and throat
perfectly. He was well-fed and well-liking, his face and throat were
handsome enough, and he was a gentleman.
She was handsome too, pale, her face rather long and absolutely
still, her eyes bright, but revealing nothing. Gradually, with infinite
softness, almost with love, she was getting him by the throat, and
he was yielding to her.
She now did almost everything for him, and he felt more at home
with her, less ashamed of accepting her menial offices, than with
Connie. She liked handling him. She loved having his body in her
charge, absolutely, to the last menial offices. She said to Connie one
day: "All men are babies, when you come to the bottom of them.
Why, I've handled some of the toughest customers as ever went
down Tevershall pit. But let anything ail them so that you have to do
for them, and they're babies, just big babies. Oh, there's not much
difference in men!"
At first Mrs. Bolton had thought there really was something different
in a gentleman, a real gentleman, like Sir Clifford. So Clifford had got
a good start of her. But gradually, as she came to the bottom of him,
to use her own term, she found he was like the rest, a baby grown
to a man's proportions: but a baby with a queer temper and a fine
manner and power in its control, and all sorts of odd knowledge that
she had never dreamed of, with which he could still bully her.
Connie was sometimes tempted to say to him:
"For God's sake, don't sink so horribly into the hands of that
woman!" But she found she didn't care for him enough to say it, in
the long run.
It was still their habit to spend the evening together, till ten o'clock.
Then they would talk, or read together, or go over his manuscript.
But the thrill had gone out of it. She was bored by his manuscripts.
But she still dutifully typed them out for him. But in time Mrs. Bolton
would do even that.
For Connie had suggested to Mrs. Bolton that she should learn to
use a typewriter. And Mrs. Bolton, always ready, had begun at once,
and practised assiduously. So now Clifford would sometimes dictate
a letter to her, and she would take it down rather slowly, but
correctly. And he was very patient spelling for her the difficult words,
or the occasional phrases in French. She was so thrilled, it was
almost a pleasure to instruct her.
Now Connie would sometimes plead a headache as an excuse for
going up to her room after dinner.
"Perhaps Mrs. Bolton will play piquet with you," she said to Clifford.
"Oh, I shall be perfectly all right. You go to your own room and rest,
darling."