Page 61 - lady-chatterlys-lover

the mystery of wild, old England; but Sir Geoffrey’s cuttings
during the war had given it a blow. How still the trees were,
with their crinkly, innumerable twigs against the sky, and
their grey, obstinate trunks rising from the brown bracken!
How safely the birds flitted among them! And once there
had been deer, and archers, and monks padding along on
asses. The place remembered, still remembered.
Clifford sat in the pale sun, with the light on his smooth,
rather blond hair, his reddish full face inscrutable.
’I mind more, not having a son, when I come here, than
any other time,’ he said.
’But the wood is older than your family,’ said Connie
gently.
’Quite!’ said Clifford. ‘But we’ve preserved it. Except for
us it would go...it would be gone already, like the rest of the
forest. One must preserve some of the old England!’
’Must one?’ said Connie. ‘If it has to be preserved, and
preserved against the new England? It’s sad, I know.’
’If some of the old England isn’t preserved, there’ll be no
England at all,’ said Clifford. ‘And we who have this kind of
property, and the feeling for it, must preserve it.’
There was a sad pause. ‘Yes, for a little while,’ said Con-
nie.
’For a little while! It’s all we can do. We can only do our
bit. I feel every man of my family has done his bit here, since
we’ve had the place. One may go against convention, but
one must keep up tradition.’ Again there was a pause.
’What tradition?’ asked Connie.
’The tradition of England! of this!’

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