他不承认他俩是恋人。他们之间的亲密关系一直保持着十分超然的色彩，好象只是一种精神上交流。一种想法，一种努力保持清醒的挣扎。因此，他觉得，这只不过是一种柏拉图式的恋爱。他坚决否认他们之间还有其它任何关系。米丽亚姆则保持沉默，或者是默认了。他真傻，不知道自己到底是怎么一回事。他俩一致同意，不理会亲友的议论和暗示。
“我们不是情人，我们是朋友。”他对她说，“我们清楚，让他们说去吧， 他们说什么又有什么关系呢？”
有时，他们走在一起时，她羞怯地挽着他，他总是对此不满，她也知道这点。因为这引起了他内心激烈的冲突。和米丽亚姆在一起，他总是处于一种极端超然的状态，把他那股自然的爱火转化成一些微妙的意识。米丽亚姆也愿意 他这样，如果他情绪高昂，像她所说的忘乎所以，她就等待着，等他回到她身边，等到他的心情恢复原样。他努力和自己的灵魂抗争着，皱着眉头，热切地渴望得到谅解。在这种渴望得到谅解的热情中，她的灵魂和他的紧紧连在一起，她觉得他完全属于她了，不过，他得首先处于超然状态。正因为这样，要是她伸出胳膊挽住他，那简直令他受酷刑，他的意识都似乎要分裂了。她挨着他的地方由于摩擦而变得温热。他心里好象在进行一场你死我活的斗争，为此 他对她变得冷酷极了。
仲夏的一个傍晚，米丽亚姆来到他家看望他，由于爬坡的缘故，脸通红。保罗一个人在厨房里，可以听到母亲正在楼上走动的脚步声。
“来看这些甜豌豆花吧。”他对姑娘说。
他们走进花园。小镇和教堂背后的天空呈现一片桔红，花园里弥漫着奇妙而温暖的光，衬得每一片叶子都美不胜收。保罗走过一排生长得很旺的甜豌豆花，不时地摘几朵奶黄和淡黄色的花。米丽亚姆跟着他，呼吸着这芬芳的香味。她觉得花儿似乎有一种强大的吸引力，自己非得变成它们中的一部分不可。她弯下腰去闻闻花朵，好象和花在相爱似的。保罗厌恶她这样，她的动作显得太露骨，太亲热。
他采了一大串花后，他们回到了屋子。他听了听母亲在楼上轻轻地走动声，说：
“来，我给你戴花。”他两三朵两三朵地把花别在她的衣服上，不时地往后退几步欣赏别得好不好。“你知道吗？”他把别针从嘴里取出来，说，“女人应该在镜子跟前戴花。”
米丽亚姆笑了，她觉得花应该就那么随随便便地戴在衣服上，保罗这么认真地给她戴花是一时心血来潮。
看见她笑，他有些不高兴。
“有些女人是这样的——那些看起来高雅的女人。”他说。
米丽亚姆笑了，但只是苦笑。因为她听见他竟把她和其它女人混为一谈。如果别的人这么说，她才不会在乎，但这话出自他的口，这就伤了她感情。
他就要别完这些花时，听到了母亲下楼的声音，他急急忙忙别上最后一个别针。说：
“不要让我母亲知道。”他说。
米丽亚姆拿起她的书，站在门口，有些委屈地看着美丽的夕阳。我再也不来看保罗了，她心里发誓说。
“晚上好，莫瑞尔太太。”她恭敬地说，那声音听起来仿佛她无权待在这儿似的。
“哦，是你呀，米丽亚姆。”莫瑞尔太太冷冷地回答道。
由于保罗坚持要全家人都承认他和这位姑娘的友谊，莫瑞尔太太也很聪明，她不会和她当面闹翻脸的。
到保罗二十岁时，他们家才能支付得起外出度假。莫瑞尔太太自从结婚，除了去看望过她的姐姐，再没有出去度过假。现在保罗存够了钱， 他们全家都可以去了。这一回还有一帮人是：安妮的几个朋友，保罗的一个朋友，威廉生前单位的一位同事以及米丽亚姆。
写信找房子真是让人激动不已。保罗和母亲无休止地讨论这个问题。他们 想租一幢带家具的小别墅，租两周。莫瑞尔太太认为一周就足够了，但保罗坚持租两周。
最后，他们得到了从马布勒索浦来的答复，答应租给他们想要的那种小别墅，三十先令一星期。全家一片欢腾雀跃，保罗也为母亲高兴得不得了。这回她总算可以真正地度假了。晚上他和母亲坐在一起，想象着这个假日会是什么样子的情景。安妮进来了，还 有伦纳德、爱丽思和凯蒂。大家都欣喜若狂，满怀期望。保罗把消息告诉了米丽亚姆，她高兴地默默思量着这件事。而莫瑞尔家可是兴奋激动的翻了天。
他们打算在星期天的早晨赶七点钟的那趟火车。保罗建议米丽亚姆来他家过夜，因为她家的路太远了。那天晚上她来他家吃晚饭。全家人都为这次旅行而激动万分，米丽亚姆也因此受到了热情欢迎。而且她一进屋，就感觉到家庭气氛亲密和气。保罗事先找到了一首琼·英吉罗描写马布勒索浦的诗，他一定要念给米丽亚姆听。他从来没有这么动过感情，当着全家人念什么诗。但此刻他们都迁就地听着他朗诵。米丽亚姆坐在沙发上，全神贯注地看着他。只要有他在场的时候，她似乎总会被他深深地吸引住。莫瑞尔太太妒嫉地坐在自己的椅子上，也准备听。甚至连安妮和父亲也在听着。莫瑞尔头歪在一边，就像有的人在自觉恭敬地听牧师布道。保罗低头看着书，他所需要的听众都来了。莫瑞尔太太和安妮几乎是在和米丽亚姆竞争，看谁听得最认真以便博得他的欢心。他兴致勃勃。
“可是，”莫瑞尔太太插了一句，“钟声奏出‘恩特贝新娘’是什么意思呢？”
“那是一支人们用钟声演奏警告人们提防洪水的古老调子。我想恩特贝的新娘就是在洪水里淹死的。”他回答。其实，他对这件事是一无所知，不过在这伙女人面前，他可不肯失掉面子，承认自己的无知。他们都听信了他，连他自己也相信。
“人们都知道这个调子的含义吗？”母亲说。
“是的——就像苏格兰人一听见那支《森林里的花朵》是什么意思一样——他们一听到钟是颠倒敲便明白是报告水警。”
“怎么？”安妮说，“一只钟不论正着敲，还是颠倒敲都不是一样的声音吗？”
“可是，” 他说，“如果你先打低音的钟，再打高音的，当——当——当——当——当——当——当当！”
他哼着音阶。大家都觉得这个办法很聪明，他自己也这么认为。过了一会，他接着朗诵诗歌。
朗诵完之后，莫瑞尔太太带着新奇的神情说：“哦，我还是希望每篇作品不要写得那么悲伤才好。”
“我不明白他们为什么会跳水自杀。”莫瑞尔说。
大家沉默了片刻，安妮站起身去收拾桌子了。
米丽亚姆站起身 来帮着收拾锅碗。
“我来帮你洗吧。”她说。
“这哪行，”安妮叫道，“你还是坐下吧，没有多少锅碗要洗。”
而米丽亚姆还不习惯于太随便，太不拘礼节，就又坐了下来，陪着保罗一起看书。
保罗是这伙人的领头，他父亲不中用。他一路上提心吊胆，生怕别人弄错，没有把铁箱子运到马布勒索，而运到弗斯比去。可他又没有勇气去雇一辆四轮马车，还是他那勇敢的妈妈去雇的。
“喂！”她冲着一个男人喊道，“喂！”
保罗和安妮躲在其它人后面，有些不好意思地 笑起来。
“到青溪别墅要多少钱？”莫瑞尔太太问。
“两个先令。”
“哦，到那儿有多远啊？”
“相当远。”
“我不相信。”她说。
但她还是爬进了马车，于是，这八个人就这么挤在一辆破旧的海滨游览马车里。
“你们瞧，”莫瑞尔太太说，“每人才三便士，如果这是一辆电车的话……”
他们一路驶去，每经过一幢别墅，莫瑞尔太太就叫着。
“是这地儿吗？哦，是的！”
大家都屏息坐着，直到车子驶过，大家才叹了一口气。
“谢天谢地，不是那所破烂别墅。”莫瑞尔太太说：“我真害怕是。”他们一直往前驶去。
终于，他们下车了，这所别墅孤单单地坐落在公路边的堤岸上。进入前院，必须得走过一座小桥，大家都对此激动不已。不过， 他们倒是很喜欢这所地处僻静的别墅。房子的一面是一大片的海滩草地，另一面是一望无际的田野，田野上种着一块块的白色的大麦，黄色的燕麦、红色的小麦和绿色的根茎作物，平坦而无垠一直延伸到天边。
保罗管帐目，并和妈妈共同调配支出用度。他们全部费用——住、食，和其它一切零用——是每人每星期十六先令。早晨他和伦纳德去洗澡，莫瑞尔则悠闲地在外面转悠着。
“哦，保罗，”母亲在卧室里喊道，“ 来吃一块黄油面包吧。”
“好的。”他回答。
他回来的时候，看见母亲已经在早餐桌旁指挥着。
这所别墅的女房东还很年轻，丈夫是个瞎子，她还给别人洗衣物，因此莫瑞尔太太常常自己到厨房洗碗刷锅，自己亲手为大家铺床。
“你不是 说你来度一个真正的假日吗？”保罗说，“怎么你干起活来了。”
“干活！”她叫道，“你在说什么呀！”
保罗喜欢和母亲一起穿过田野到村子里去，到海边去。她害怕走那些木板桥，他骂她胆小得像个小孩子，紧跟着她寸步不离，就好象他是她的男人一样。
米丽亚姆很少有机会跟保罗在一起，除非别的人都去听流行歌手演唱的时候，米丽亚姆认为，这些歌手愚蠢到了让人难以忍受的程度，保罗也这样认为，他曾一本正经地训导过安妮， 说去听那些歌手演唱是件蠢事。然而，这些流行歌他都会唱，一路上他还放声高唱过呢。如果他听到别人唱这些歌，那种蠢劲还使他感到很惬意呢。但他却对安妮说：
“全是胡扯！一点意义也没有，有头脑的人决不会去坐在那儿听歌的。”而在米丽亚姆面前，他又用不屑一顾的口气说安妮和其他人：“我想他们去听流行歌手演唱去了。”
看见米丽亚姆也唱流行歌来真是件怪事。她长着一个笔直的下巴，从下唇到下巴弯曲处形成了一条直线。她唱歌时总让保罗想起波蒂西里画中的悲伤的天使，即使她唱的是：“沿着情人小巷,陪我散步与我倾诉。”
只有在保罗画素描时，或晚上其他人都去听流行歌手演唱时，他才是完全属于米丽亚姆的。他滔滔不绝地给她讲述他是多么喜欢地平线，讲述林肯那连绵不断的天空和巴野怎样向他预示着无穷的意志力，正如诺曼底式的教堂重重叠叠的拱门显示着人类灵魂不屈不挠地顽强地前进，永无止境地前进。他说，诺曼底式跟垂直线条和哥特式拱门截然不同，哥特式拱门高耸入云，伸向极乐世界，消失于天国。他说他自己属于诺曼底式，而米丽亚姆则属于哥特式，她对此深表赞同。
一天傍晚，保罗和米丽亚姆来到瑟德素浦附近宽阔的沙滩上，海浪卷着浪花不断地涌向岸边，夹杂着哗哗的响声堆起一堆泡沫。那是一个温暖的傍晚。这片偌大的沙滩上除了他俩外，再没有别的人；除了海浪声外，再也没有别的声音。保罗喜欢海浪拍打海岸的声音，喜欢体验身处浪花的渲闹和沙滩的寂静之间的那种感受。有米丽亚姆和他在一起，一切都变得情趣盎然。他们回来时，夜幕已经落下。回去的路上都经经过沙丘豁口，还要经过两条长堤之间的一条隆起的草地。四周一片寂静，夜幕沉沉，只有沙丘后面传来大海的低语。保罗和米丽亚姆默默地走着，突然，他吓了一惊，全身的血液似乎都燃烧起来，他简直透不过气来了。一轮巨大的桔红色的月亮从沙丘边缘上凝视着他们。他一动不动地站在那里，看着月亮。
“啊！”米丽亚姆望着月亮，惊叫起来。
他仍旧一动不动地站在那儿，看着那轮巨大的泛着红的月亮——这无边无际的黑暗中唯一的东西。他的心猛烈的跳着，胳膊上的肌肉也在跳动。
“怎么啦？”米丽亚姆低声说着，等着他。
他转过身来看着她。她就站在他身边，始终形影不离。她的脸被帽檐的阴影遮住了，看不见她凝视的双眼。她心里在沉思，有点儿害怕。这类似宗教的氛围深深地感动了她。这就是她的最佳心态。保罗对此是无能为力的。他的热血宛若一股火焰在胸腔燃烧，然而他就是无法把自己的想法给她讲清楚。他浑身热血沸腾，她却不知为什么佯装不知，她盼望他处于一种虔诚的状态，她一面迫切地盼望着他能这样，一面对他的激情也隐约有感，她凝望着他，心里十分不安。
“怎么啦？”她又低声说。
“这月亮。”他皱着眉头回答。
“是啊，”她表示赞同地说，“多美啊！”她不甚明白他怎么了，危机已经过去。
他自己也不知道这是怎么回事。他还年轻，而他们之间的这种亲密又非常抽象的纯洁，他不知道自己需要的是把她拥在怀里来解除心中痛苦的渴求。可是他有些怕她，怕对她产生那种男人对女人的欲望——这在他的心灵中被看作是一种耻辱。她宁愿忍受痛苦和激动的折磨，也拼命排除这种念头，他只好把这种念头藏在心底。就是这种所谓的“纯洁”，阻止着他们连初恋的吻也不敢尝试，也几乎受不了肉体爱的震动，甚至受不了一个热吻。他太胆层，太敏感，不敢去吻她。
他们沿着黑黑的沼泽草地走着，保罗一直看着月亮，什么也不说。米丽亚姆拖着沉重的步子； 走在他身边。他恨她，因为她似乎有点让他看不起自己了。他向前望 去，看到黑暗中有一点光亮，这就是他们那点着灯的别墅窗户。
他喜欢想到母亲 和其它欢乐的人们。
“唷，别的人早就回 来了！”他们一进屋，母亲就说。
“那又怎么了！”他烦躁地大声说，“如果我愿意，我可以出去散散步，对吧？”
“可我以为你会回来和我们一起吃晚饭的。”莫瑞尔太太说。
“那要看我是否高兴了，”他反驳说，“现在还不晚，我爱怎么样就怎么样。”
“很好，”母亲尖刻地说，“那么就去做你想做的事去吧。”那天晚上，她再也没有理他。他也假装不在乎也不注意这些，径自坐在那里看书。米丽亚姆也在看书，尽量让别人不注意她。莫瑞尔太太恨她把她的儿子变成这样。她看着保罗变得急躁、自负、郁郁寡欢，就把这些都推到米丽亚姆身上。安妮和她所有的朋友也都反对这个姑娘。米丽亚姆自己没有朋友，只有保罗。不 过并不为此感到苦恼，因为她看不起其 他那些人的浅薄。
保罗也有些恨她，因为不知怎么的，她破坏了他的悠闲自然，使他有一种屈辱的感觉，他因此而苦恼不堪。
"We aren't lovers, we are friends," he said to her. "WE know it. Let them talk. What does it matter what they say."
Sometimes, as they were walking together, she slipped her armtimidly into his. But he always resented it, and she knew it. It caused a violent conflict in him. With Miriam he was alwayson the high plane of abstraction, when his natural fire of love wastransmitted into the fine stream of thought. She would have it so. If he were jolly and, as she put it, flippant, she waited till he cameback to her, till the change had taken place in him again, and hewas wrestling with his own soul, frowning, passionate in his desirefor understanding. And in this passion for understanding her soullay close to his; she had him all to herself. But he must be madeabstract first.
Then, if she put her arm in his, it caused him almost torture. His consciousness seemed to split. The place where she was touchinghim ran hot with friction. He was one internecine battle, and hebecame cruel to her because of it.
One evening in midsummer Miriam called at the house,warm from climbing. Paul was alone in the kitchen; his mothercould be heard moving about upstairs.
"Come and look at the sweet-peas," he said to the girl.
They went into the garden. The sky behind the townlet and thechurch was orange-red; the flower-garden was flooded with a strangewarm light that lifted every leaf into significance. Paul passedalong a fine row of sweet-peas, gathering a blossom here and there,all cream and pale blue. Miriam followed, breathing the fragrance. To her, flowers appealed with such strength she felt she mustmake them part of herself. When she bent and breathed a flower,it was as if she and the flower were loving each other. Paul hatedher for it. There seemed a sort of exposure about the action,something too intimate.
When he had got a fair bunch, they returned to the house. He listened for a moment to his mother's quiet movement upstairs,then he said:
"Come here, and let me pin them in for you." He arranged themtwo or three at a time in the bosom of her dress, stepping backnow and then to see the effect. "You know," he said, taking the pinout of his mouth, "a woman ought always to arrange her flowersbefore her glass."
Miriam laughed. She thought flowers ought to be pinnedin one's dress without any care. That Paul should take painsto fix her flowers for her was his whim.
He was rather offended at her laughter.
"Some women do--those who look decent," he said.
Miriam laughed again, but mirthlessly, to hear him thus mixher up with women in a general way. From most men she would haveignored it. But from him it hurt her.
He had nearly finished arranging the flowers when he heardhis mother's footstep on the stairs. Hurriedly he pushedin the last pin and turned away.
"Don't let mater know," he said.
Miriam picked up her books and stood in the doorway lookingwith chagrin at the beautiful sunset. She would call for Paulno more, she said.
"Good-evening, Mrs. Morel," she said, in a deferential way. She sounded as if she felt she had no right to be there.
"Oh, is it you, Miriam?" replied Mrs. Morel coolly.
But Paul insisted on everybody's accepting his friendshipwith the girl, and Mrs. Morel was too wise to have any open rupture.
It was not till he was twenty years old that the family couldever afford to go away for a holiday. Mrs. Morel had never been awayfor a holiday, except to see her sister, since she had been married. Now at last Paul had saved enough money, and they were all going. There was to be a party: some of Annie's friends, one friend of Paul's,a young man in the same office where William had previously been,and Miriam.
It was great excitement writing for rooms. Paul and hismother debated it endlessly between them. They wanted a furnishedcottage for two weeks. She thought one week would be enough,but he insisted on two.
At last they got an answer from Mablethorpe, a cottage such as theywished for thirty shillings a week. There was immense jubilation. Paul was wild with joy for his mother's sake. She would havea real holiday now. He and she sat at evening picturing what itwould be like. Annie came in, and Leonard, and Alice, and Kitty. There was wild rejoicing and anticipation. Paul told Miriam. She seemed to brood with joy over it. But the Morel's house rangwith excitement.
They were to go on Saturday morning by the seven train. Paul suggested that Miriam should sleep at his house, because itwas so far for her to walk. She came down for supper. Everybody was so excited that even Miriam was accepted with warmth. But almost as soon as she entered the feeling in the family became close and tight. He had discovered a poem by Jean Ingelow which mentioned Mablethorpe,and so he must read it to Miriam. He would never have got so far inthe direction of sentimentality as to read poetry to his own family. But now they condescended to listen. Miriam sat on the sofaabsorbed in him. She always seemed absorbed in him, and by him,when he was present. Mrs. Morel sat jealously in her own chair. She was going to hear also. And even Annie and the father attended,Morel with his head cocked on one side, like somebody listeningto a sermon and feeling conscious of the fact. Paul ducked his headover the book. He had got now all the audience he cared for. And Mrs. Morel and Annie almost contested with Miriam who should listenbest and win his favour. He was in very high feather.
"But," interrupted Mrs. Morel, "what IS the 'Bride of Enderby'that the bells are supposed to ring?"
"It's an old tune they used to play on the bells for a warningagainst water. I suppose the Bride of Enderby was drowned in a flood,"he replied. He had not the faintest knowledge what it really was,but he would never have sunk so low as to confess that to his womenfolk. They listened and believed him. He believed himself.
"And the people knew what that tune meant?" said his mother.
"Yes--just like the Scotch when they heard 'The Flowers o'the Forest'--and when they used to ring the bells backward for alarm."
"How?" said Annie. "A bell sounds the same whether it's rungbackwards or forwards."
"But," he said, "if you start with the deep bell and ring upto the high one--der--der--der--der--der--der--der--der!"
He ran up the scale. Everybody thought it clever. He thoughtso too. Then, waiting a minute, he continued the poem.
"Hm!" said Mrs. Morel curiously, when he finished. "But Iwish everything that's written weren't so sad."
"I canna see what they want drownin' theirselves for,"said Morel.
There was a pause. Annie got up to clear the table.
Miriam rose to help with the pots.
"Let ME help to wash up," she said.
"Certainly not," cried Annie. "You sit down again. There aren't many."
And Miriam, who could not be familiar and insist, sat downagain to look at the book with Paul.
He was master of the party; his father was no good. And greattortures he suffered lest the tin box should be put out at Firsbyinstead of at Mablethorpe. And he wasn't equal to getting a carriage. His bold little mother did that.
"Here!" she cried to a man. "Here!"
Paul and Annie got behind the rest, convulsed with shamed laughter.
"How much will it be to drive to Brook Cottage?" said Mrs. Morel.
"Two shillings."
"Why, how far is it?"
"A good way."
"I don't believe it," she said.
But she scrambled in. There were eight crowded in one oldseaside carriage.
"You see," said Mrs. Morel, "it's only threepence each,and if it were a tramcar---"
They drove along. Each cottage they came to, Mrs. Morel cried:
"Is it this? Now, this is it!"
Everybody sat breathless. They drove past. There wasa universal sigh.
"I'm thankful it wasn't that brute," said Mrs. Morel. "I WAS frightened." They drove on and on.
At last they descended at a house that stood alone overthe dyke by the highroad. There was wild excitement because theyhad to cross a little bridge to get into the front garden. But they loved the house that lay so solitary, with a sea-meadowon one side, and immense expanse of land patched in white barley,yellow oats, red wheat, and green root-crops, flat and stretchinglevel to the sky.
Paul kept accounts. He and his mother ran the show. The total expenses--lodging, food, everything--was sixteen shillingsa week per person. He and Leonard went bathing in the mornings. Morel was wandering abroad quite early.
"You, Paul," his mother called from the bedroom, "eat a pieceof bread-and-butter."
"All right," he answered.
And when he got back he saw his mother presiding in state atthe breakfast-table. The woman of the house was young. Her husbandwas blind, and she did laundry work. So Mrs. Morel always washedthe pots in the kitchen and made the beds.
"But you said you'd have a real holiday," said Paul, "and nowyou work."
"Work!" she exclaimed. "What are you talking about!"
He loved to go with her across the fields to the villageand the sea. She was afraid of the plank bridge, and he abused herfor being a baby. On the whole he stuck to her as if he were HER man.
Miriam did not get much of him, except, perhaps, when all theothers went to the "Coons". Coons were insufferably stupid to Miriam,so he thought they were to himself also, and he preached priggishlyto Annie about the fatuity of listening to them. Yet he, too,knew all their songs, and sang them along the roads roisterously. And if he found himself listening, the stupidity pleased him very much. Yet to Annie he said:
"Such rot! there isn't a grain of intelligence in it. Nobody withmore gumption than a grasshopper could go and sit and listen." And to Miriam he said, with much scorn of Annie and the others: "I suppose they're at the 'Coons'."
It was queer to see Miriam singing coon songs. She had a straightchin that went in a perpendicular line from the lower lip to the turn. She always reminded Paul of some sad Botticelli angel when she sang,even when it was:
"Come down lover's lane For a walk with me, talk with me."
Only when he sketched, or at evening when the others were atthe "Coons", she had him to herself. He talked to her endlesslyabout his love of horizontals: how they, the great levels of skyand land in Lincolnshire, meant to him the eternality of the will,just as the bowed Norman arches of the church, repeating themselves,meant the dogged leaping forward of the persistent human soul,on and on, nobody knows where; in contradiction to the perpendicularlines and to the Gothic arch, which, he said, leapt up at heaven andtouched the ecstasy and lost itself in the divine. Himself, he said,was Norman, Miriam was Gothic. She bowed in consent even to that.
One evening he and she went up the great sweeping shoreof sand towards Theddlethorpe. The long breakers plunged and ranin a hiss of foam along the coast. It was a warm evening. There was not a figure but themselves on the far reaches of sand,no noise but the sound of the sea. Paul loved to see it clangingat the land. He loved to feel himself between the noise of itand the silence of the sandy shore. Miriam was with him. Everything grew very intense. It was quite dark when theyturned again. The way home was through a gap in the sandhills,and then along a raised grass road between two dykes. The countrywas black and still. From behind the sandhills came the whisperof the sea. Paul and Miriam walked in silence. Suddenly he started. The whole of his blood seemed to burst into flame, and he couldscarcely breathe. An enormous orange moon was staring at themfrom the rim of the sandhills. He stood still, looking at it.
"Ah!" cried Miriam, when she saw it.
He remained perfectly still, staring at the immense and ruddymoon, the only thing in the far-reaching darkness of the level. His heart beat heavily, the muscles of his arms contracted.
"What is it?" murmured Miriam, waiting for him.
He turned and looked at her. She stood beside him, for everin shadow. Her face, covered with the darkness of her hat, was watchinghim unseen. But she was brooding. She was slightly afraid--deeplymoved and religious. That was her best state. He was impotentagainst it. His blood was concentrated like a flame in his chest. But he could not get across to her. There were flashes in his blood. But somehow she ignored them. She was expecting some religiousstate in him. Still yearning, she was half aware of his passion,and gazed at him, troubled.
"What is it?" she murmured again.
"It's the moon," he answered, frowning.
"Yes," she assented. "Isn't it wonderful?" She was curiousabout him. The crisis was past.
He did not know himself what was the matter. He was naturallyso young, and their intimacy was so abstract, he did not know hewanted to crush her on to his breast to ease the ache there. He was afraid of her. The fact that he might want her as a man wantsa woman had in him been suppressed into a shame. When she shrankin her convulsed, coiled torture from the thought of sucha thing, he had winced to the depths of his soul. And now this"purity" prevented even their first love-kiss. It was as if she couldscarcely stand the shock of physical love, even a passionate kiss,and then he was too shrinking and sensitive to give it.
As they walked along the dark fen-meadow he watched the moonand did not speak. She plodded beside him. He hated her, for sheseemed in some way to make him despise himself. Looking ahead--he sawthe one light in the darkness, the window of their lamp-lit cottage.
He loved to think of his mother, and the other jolly people.
"Well, everybody else has been in long ago!" said his motheras they entered.
"What does that matter!" he cried irritably. "I can go a walkif I like, can't I?"
"And I should have thought you could get in to supper withthe rest," said Mrs. Morel.
"I shall please myself," he retorted. "It's not LATE. I shall do as I like."
"Very well," said his mother cuttingly, "then DO as you like." And she took no further notice of him that evening. Which hepretended neither to notice nor to care about, but sat reading. Miriam read also, obliterating herself. Mrs. Morel hated herfor making her son like this. She watched Paul growing irritable,priggish, and melancholic. For this she put the blame on Miriam. Annie and all her friends joined against the girl. Miriam had nofriend of her own, only Paul. But she did not suffer so much,because she despised the triviality of these other people.
And Paul hated her because, somehow, she spoilt his easeand naturalness. And he writhed himself with a feeling of humiliation.
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