She waited;and he had another try,doing more harm than good.
'Sound the horn then,if you won't let me push,'she said.'Hell!Be quiet a moment!'
She was quiet a moment:he made shattering efforts with the little motor.
'You'll only break the thing down altogether,Clifford,'she remonstrated;'besides wasting your nervous energy.'
'If I could only get out and look at the damned thing!'he said,exasperated.
And he sounded the horn stridently.'Perhaps Mellors can see what's wrong.'
They waited,among the mashed flowers under a sky softly curdling with cloud.In the silence a wood-pigeon began to coo roo-hoo hoo!roo-hoo hoo!
Clifford shut her up with a blast on the horn.
The keeper appeared directly,striding inquiringly round the corner.
He saluted.
'Do you know anything about motors?'asked Clifford sharply.
'I am afraid I don't.Has she gone wrong?'
'Apparently!'snapped Clifford.
The man crouched solicitously by the wheel,and peered at the little engine.
'I'm afraid I know nothing at all about these mechanical things,Sir Clifford,'he said calmly.'If she has enough petrol and oil--'
'Just look carefully and see if you can see anything broken,'snapped Clifford.
The man laid his gun against a tree,took oil his coat,and threw it beside it.The brown dog sat guard.Then he sat down on his heels and peered under the chair,poking with his finger at the greasy little engine,and resenting the grease-marks on his clean Sunday shirt.
'Doesn't seem anything broken,'he said.And he stood up,pushing back his hat from his forehead,rubbing his brow and apparently studying.
'Have you looked at the rods underneath?'asked Clifford.'See if they are all right!'
The man lay flat on his stomach on the floor,his neck pressed back,wriggling under the engine and poking with his finger.Connie thought what a pathetic sort of thing a man was,feeble and small-looking,when he was lying on his belly on the big earth.
'Seems all right as far as I can see,'came his muffled voice.
'I don't suppose you can do anything,'said Clifford.
'Seems as if I can't!'And he scrambled up and sat on his heels,collier fashion.'There's certainly nothing obviously broken.'
Clifford started his engine,then put her in gear.She would not move.
'Run her a bit hard,like,'suggested the keeper.
Clifford resented the interference:but he made his engine buzz like a blue-bottle.Then she coughed and snarled and seemed to go better.
'Sounds as if she'd come clear,'said Mellors.
But Clifford had already jerked her into gear.She gave a sick lurch and ebbed weakly forwards.
'If I give her a push,she'll do it,'said the keeper,going behind.
'Keep off!'snapped Clifford.'She'll do it by herself.'
'But Clifford!'put in Connie from the bank,'you know it's too much for her.Why are you so obstinate!'
Clifford was pale with anger.He jabbed at his levers.The chair gave a sort of scurry,reeled on a few more yards,and came to her end amid a particularly promising patch of bluebells.
'She's done!'said the keeper.'Not power enough.'
'She's been up here before,'said Clifford coldly.
'She won't do it this time,'said the keeper.
Clifford did not reply.He began doing things with his engine,running her fast and slow as if to get some sort of tune out of her.The wood re-echoed with weird noises.Then he put her in gear with a jerk,having jerked off his brake.
'You'll rip her inside out,'murmured the keeper.
The chair charged in a sick lurch sideways at the ditch.
'Clifford!'cried Connie,rushing forward.
But the keeper had got the chair by the rail.Clifford,however,putting on all his pressure,managed to steer into the riding,and with a strange noise the chair was fighting the hill.Mellors pushed steadily behind,and up she went,as if to retrieve herself.
'You see,she's doing it!'said Clifford,victorious,glancing over his shoulder.There he saw the keeper's face.
'Are you pushing her?'
'She won't do it without.'
'Leave her alone.I asked you not.
'She won't do it.'
'Let her try !'snarled Clifford,with all his emphasis.
The keeper stood back:then turned to fetch his coat and gun.The chair seemed to strange immediately.She stood inert.Clifford,seated a prisoner,was white with vexation.He jerked at the levers with his hand,his feet were no good.He got queer noises out of her.In savage impatience he moved little handles and got more noises out of her.But she would not budge.
No,she would not budge.He stopped the engine and sat rigid with anger.
Constance sat on the bank arid looked at the wretched and trampled bluebells.
'Nothing quite so lovely as an English spring.''I can do my share of ruling.'
'What we need to take up now is whips,not swords.''The ruling classes!'
The keeper strode up with his coat and gun,Flossie cautiously at his heels.Clifford asked the man to do something or other to the engine.Connie,who understood nothing at all of the technicalities of motors,and who had had experience of breakdowns,sat patiently on the bank as if she were a cipher.The keeper lay on his stomach again.The ruling classes and the serving classes!
He got to his feet and said patiently:
'Try her again,then.'
He spoke in a quiet voice,almost as if to a child.
Clifford tried her,and Mellors stepped quickly behind and began to push.She was going,the engine doing about half the work,the man the rest.
Clifford glanced round,yellow with anger.
'Will you get off there!'
The keeper dropped his hold at once,and Clifford added:'How shall I know what she is doing!'
The man put his gun down and began to pull on his coat.He'd done.
The chair began slowly to run backwards.
'Clifford,your brake!'cried Connie.
She,Mellors,and Clifford moved at once,Connie and the keeper jostling lightly.The chair stood.There was a moment of dead silence.
'It's obvious I'm at everybody's mercy!'said Clifford.He was yellow with anger.
No one answered.Mellors was slinging his gun over his shoulder,his face queer and expressionless,save for an abstracted look of patience.
