忽然听到院子大门砰地响了一声。
“快！”比特丽斯叫道， 把刮好的面包递给了保罗。“把它包在湿毛巾里。”
保罗飞跑进了洗碗间。比特丽斯急忙把她刮下来的面包焦屑扔到火里，然后若无其事地坐在那里。安妮冲进来。她是个莽撞的姑娘，长得很漂亮。在强烈的灯光下她直眨巴眼睛。
“一股焦味？”她叫道。
“是烟卷的味儿。”比特丽斯一本正经地回答。
“保罗在哪儿？”
伦纳德跟着安妮进来了。他长着一张长长的脸，带有滑稽的表情，一双蓝蓝的眼睛，流露出忧郁的神色。
“我想他离开你们，是为了平息你们之间的不和吧。”他说。他对米丽亚姆同情地点了点头，又朝比特丽斯露出一丝嘲讽的表情。
“没有。”比特丽斯说：“他吃了迷魂药睡觉去了。”
“我刚碰见梦神在打听他呢。”伦纳德说。
“是啊——我们打算像所罗门判孩子那样，把他瓜分掉。”比特丽斯说。
安妮大笑起来。
“哦，嗳，”伦纳德说：“那你要哪一块呢？”
“ 我不知道。”比特丽斯说，“我会让别人先选。”
“你等着要剩下的对吗？”伦纳德说着做了个鬼脸。
安妮看着烤炉里面，米丽亚姆被冷落地自个坐在那儿，这时保罗走了进来。
“保罗啊，这面包可真好看。”安妮 说。
“你应该停下你的活儿呆在家里烤面包。”保罗说。
“你的意思是你应该干你认为值得干的事。”安妮回答。
“他当然应该忙自己的事，这难道不对吗？”比特丽斯嚷道。
“我想他手头一定有不少活得干。”伦纳德说。
“你来的时候路很难走，是吧？米丽亚姆？”安妮说。
“是的——不过我整个星期都呆在家里。”
“你自然 想换换空气了。”伦纳德善意地暗示说。
“是啊，你不能老闷在家里。”安妮赞同地说。这次她很友善。比特丽斯穿上外套 和伦纳德、安妮一起出去了。她要见自己的男朋友。
“别忘了面包，保罗。”安妮喊道：“晚安，米丽亚姆。我想不可能不会下雨吧。”
他们都走了。保罗拿出那个包起来的面包，打开却沮丧地看着。
“糟透了！”他说。
“不过，”米丽亚姆不耐烦地回答道：“这又有什么呢，最多不过值两个半便士罢了。”
“是这样。但是——妈妈最重视烤面包了，她准会计较的。不过现在着急也没有用。”
他把面包又拿回了洗碗间。他和米丽亚姆之间仿佛有些隔膜。他直挺挺地站在她对面，思索了一阵子，想起刚才他和比特丽斯的行为，尽管他感到有些内疚，但还是很开心，由于某种不可确知的理由，他认为米丽亚姆活该受到这样的对待，因而他不打算表示后悔。她想知道他站在那里神情恍惚地想着什么。他那浓密的头发散在前额上，为什么她不能上前把头发给他理平整，抹去比特丽斯的梳子留下的痕迹？为什么她不能双手紧紧地拥抱他的身体呢？他的身体看上去那么结实，到处都充满活力。而且他能让别的姑娘跟她亲热，为什么就不能让她拥抱呢？”
突然，他从沉思中醒了过来，当他匆匆把头发从前额上打开，向她走来时，她害怕得发抖了。
“八点半了！”他说，“我们得抓紧时间，你的法语作业在哪儿？”
米丽亚姆不好意思地，但又有点难过地拿出了她的练习本。她每星期用法语写一篇关于自己内心生活的类似日记的作业交给他。保罗发现这是让她写作文的唯一方法。她的日记多半像情书。他现在就要念了。她觉得，让他用这种心情来念作文，她的心灵变化过程似乎真要被 他亵渎了。他就坐在她身边。她 看到他那温暖有力的手正严格地批改着她的作业，他念的只是法文，而忽视了日记里她的灵魂。他的手慢慢停了下来，静静地默念着，米丽亚姆一阵颤抖。
“今天早晨小鸟儿把我唤醒，”他念道，“天刚蒙蒙亮，我卧室的小窗户已经泛出白色，接着又呈现出一片金黄色。树林中鸟儿在欢唱着。歌声不绝。整个黎明似乎都在颤抖，我梦见了您，莫非您也看到了黎明？每天清晨几乎都是小鸟把我唤醒，鸫鸟的叫声中似乎流露着恐怖的情感，天是那么的蓝……”
米丽亚姆哆嗦地坐在那里，有点儿不好意思。他仍然坐在那里一动不动，尽力想理解到底是怎么回事。他只知道她爱他，但却害怕她对他的爱。这种爱对他来说是过于美好，使 他无以回报。是他自己的爱已陷入误区而不是她的。出于羞愧，他批改纠正着她的作文，谦恭地在她的字上写着什么。
“看，”他平静地说，“Aroir这个词的过去分词放在前面时，变格形式要和直接宾语一致。
她俯身向前，想看看清楚，弄个明白。她那飘散的卷发挨在他脸上。他吓了一跳，仿佛被火烫了似的，竟战栗起来。他看见她盯着本子，红唇惹人怜爱地张着，黑发一缕缕披散在她那红润的脸上。她的脸色是那种石榴花的颜色。他看着看着……呼吸不由得急促起来。突然她抬起头望着他，黑黑的眼睛里分明显露着恐惧和渴望、流露出爱的深情。他的双眼也同样的幽黑，但这对眼睛伤害了她，似乎在主宰着她。她失去了自制力，显露出内心的恐惧。保罗明白自己必须先克服内心的某种障碍，才能吻她，于是对她的憎恨又悄悄地涌上心头。他又回到了她的作业本上。
突然，他扔下笔，一个箭步跨到了烤炉前去翻动面包。对于米丽亚姆来说，他这一动作太突然了，也太快了，她被吓了一大跳。这真正地伤了她的心，甚至他蹲在炉边的姿势也让她伤心。那种姿势似乎有点冷酷，甚至他匆匆地把面包扔出烤盘，又把它接住的姿势也是如此。要是他动作轻柔些，那她就会感到充实和热情。然而它不是这样的，这使她伤心。
他折身返回，改完她的作业。
“这个星期你写得很好。”他说。
她看出来他对她的日记很满意，但这不能完全补偿她的伤心。
“有些时候你的文笔确实不错。”他说：“你应该写写诗歌。”
她高兴地抬起头来，随后她又不相信地摇了摇头。
“我不相信我自己。”她说。
“你应该试一试。”
她又摇摇头。
“我们是不是该念点什么？也许太晚了。”他说。
“是不早了——不过，我们可就念一点。”她恳求地说。
她现在好象正在为自己下个星期的生活贮备精神食粮。保罗叫她抄了波特莱尔的一首《阳台》。然后他念给她听。他的声音本来柔和而亲热的，可逐渐变得粗声大气起来。他有个习惯，每当他被深深地感动时，他常常激动和痛苦地龇牙咧嘴。现在他又这么做了，这让米丽亚姆觉得好象在侮辱她。她不敢抬头看他，就那么低着头坐着。她不理解他为什么那么慷慨激昂。这让她沮丧。总的来说，她不喜欢波德莱尔。也不喜欢魏尔伦。
“看她在田野里歌唱，
远处孤独的高原上的少女。”
这样的诗句就会让她欣慰。《美丽的伊纳斯》也同样如此，还有……
“这是个美丽的夜晚，宁静而悠闲，
呼吸着修女般神圣的宁静。”
这些诗句就好象她自身的写照。而他呢，却痛苦地咕哝着：
“你回忆起了美丽少女的爱抚。”
诗念完了，他把面包从烘箱里拿了上来，把烤焦的面包放在面盆底，好的放在上面，而那只烤焦的面包仍旧包着放在洗碗间里。
“这样，妈妈到明天早晨才会发现，”他说，“那她就不会像晚上生那么大的气了。”
米丽亚姆看着书架，上面放着他收到的信和明信片，以及各类书籍，她拿了一本他感兴趣的书。然后他熄了煤气灯，同她走了出去。他连门都懒得锁。
直到夜里十一点差一刻他才回家。只见母亲正坐在摇椅上，安妮脸色阴沉地坐在炉前一张低矮的小木凳上，头发扎成一股甩在背上，两只胳膊肘撑在膝盖上。桌子上放着那只从裹着的湿毛巾里取出来的倒霉的面包。保罗上气不接下气地走了进来，屋里谁也没吭声。他的母亲正看着一张本地小报。他脱下外套，走去想坐在沙发上，母亲怒气冲冲地挪挪身子让他过去。还是没人说话，他很不自在。开始几分钟他假装坐在那儿看着他在果子上找到的一张报纸.后来—-“我忘了那只面包了，妈妈。”他说。
母女俩都没有答理他。
“得了。”他说，“那个面包只不过值两个半便士罢了，我可以赔你。”
他生气了，把三便士放在桌子上，并向母亲那边推了过去。她转过脸去，紧紧地拐着嘴。
“行了，”安妮说：“你不知道妈妈身体多不舒服。”
她坐在那儿盯着炉火。
“她为什么不舒服？”保罗不耐烦地问道。
“哼！”安妮说：“她差点都回不了家啦。”
他仔细端详着母亲，她果然看起来像病了的样子。
“为什么你差点回不了家？”他问道，神色还是很严峻。莫瑞尔太太没有回答。
“我发现她坐在这儿，脸白得像一张纸。”安妮说着，几乎要哭出来了。
“可是，为什么呢？”保罗坚持问，他紧锁双眉，大睁的眼睛里一片深情。
“任何人都会受不了的。”莫瑞尔太太说，“提着这么多包，又是肉，又是蔬菜，还有一副窗帘……”
“可是，你为什么要拿这些包呢，你用不着嘛。”
“那么谁去拿？”
“可以让安妮去拿肉。”
“是的， 我可以去拿肉，但我怎么知道呢？你和米丽亚姆走了，妈妈回来时，家里就没人。”
“你到底怎么了？”保罗问母亲。
“我想可能是心脏的问题。”她回答。的确，她嘴唇发紫。
“你以前有过这种感觉吗？”
“是的——常有。”
“那你为什么不告诉我？——又为什么不去看医生？”
莫瑞尔太太在椅子上动了一下，对他的高声嚷嚷非常恼火。
“你从来不关心任何事。”安妮说，“就一心 想同米丽亚姆出去。”
“哦，我是这样的吗？——哪儿比你和伦纳德差？”
“我差一刻十点就回家了。”
屋子里沉默了一阵子。
“我本来认为，”莫瑞尔太太痛苦地说：“她不会整个儿把你都勾走，弄得一炉面包全烤焦了。”
“当时比特丽斯也在这儿。”
“或许是这样。但我们清楚面包为什么被糟蹋了。”
“为什么？” 他发火了。
“因为你的全部精力在米丽亚姆身上。”莫瑞尔太太冲动地说。
“哦，说得好极了——但事情根本不是这样的！”他生气地回答。
他苦恼而沮丧，抓起一张报纸就看起来。安妮脱开外套，把长头发编成了一根辫子，冷冷地跟他道了声晚安，就上楼睡觉。
保罗坐在那儿假装在念着什么。他知道母亲要责问他，可是他很担心，也想知道为什么她会犯病。他本想溜去睡觉，就因为这才没去。只是坐在那儿等待着。屋里的气氛紧张而寂静，只 有时钟嘀嗒地响着。
“你最好在你爸爸还没回 来之前先上床去。”母亲严厉地 说：“如果你想吃什么，最好现在就去拿。”
“我什么都不想吃。”
母亲有个习惯，就是在每星期五，矿工们大吃大喝的晚上，总要给她带回来点做晚餐。今晚她太生气，不愿去伙房自己拿，这让她很气恼。
“如果我让你在星期五晚上去席尔贝，我都可以想象你是怎样一副表情。”莫瑞尔太太说，“要是她来找你，你从来不会累的，而且你连吃喝都不需要了。”
“我不能让她独自回去。”
“为什么不能？那为什么她要来呢？”
“我没让她来。”
“你不让她来，她是不会来的……”
“好，就算我让她来，那又怎么样？……”他回答说。
“哦，如果事情稍有理智或合情合理的话，那没什么。可是在烂泥里来回走好几英里，半夜才回家，而且明天一大早你还得去诺丁汉呢……”
“即使我不去，你也会同样说的”。
“对，我会。因为这事情没有道理。难道她就那么迷人，以至你必须一路送她到家？”莫瑞尔太太狠狠挖苦着他。接着，她不说话了，坐在那里，脸扭向一边，手快速有节奏地拍打着她的那黑色的棉缎围裙。这一动作让保罗看得很伤心。
“我是喜欢她，”他说，“但是……”
“喜欢她，”莫瑞尔太太说，依旧是那种讽刺的语调，“在我看来，你好象别的什么人什么东西都不喜欢了，不管是安妮还是我，还是别的什么人。”
“你胡说些什么呀，妈妈——你知道我不爱她——我——我告诉你我不爱她——她甚至从来没跟我一起手挽手走过。因为我不要她那样做。”
“那你为什么如此频繁地往她那跑！”
"Quick!" cried Beatrice, giving Paul the scraped loaf. "Wrap it up in a damp towel."
Paul disappeared into the scullery. Beatrice hastilyblew her scrapings into the fire, and sat down innocently. Annie came bursting in. She was an abrupt, quite smart young woman. She blinked in the strong light.
"Smell of burning!" she exclaimed.
"It's the cigarettes," replied Beatrice demurely.
"Where's Paul?"
Leonard had followed Annie. He had a long comic faceand blue eyes, very sad.
"I suppose he's left you to settle it between you," he said. He nodded sympathetically to Miriam, and became gently sarcasticto Beatrice.
"No," said Beatrice, "he's gone off with number nine."
"I just met number five inquiring for him," said Leonard.
"Yes--we're going to share him up like Solomon's baby,"said Beatrice.
Annie laughed.
"Oh, ay," said Leonard. "And which bit should you have?"
"I don't know," said Beatrice. "I'll let all the otherspick first."
"An' you'd have the leavings, like?" said Leonard, twisting upa comic face.
Annie was looking in the oven. Miriam sat ignored. Paul entered.
"This bread's a fine sight, our Paul," said Annie.
"Then you should stop an' look after it," said Paul.
"You mean YOU should do what you're reckoning to do,"replied Annie.
"He should, shouldn't he!" cried Beatrice.
"I s'd think he'd got plenty on hand," said Leonard.
"You had a nasty walk, didn't you, Miriam?" said Annie.
"Yes--but I'd been in all week---"
"And you wanted a bit of a change, like," insinuated Leonard kindly.
"Well, you can't be stuck in the house for ever," Annie agreed. She was quite amiable. Beatrice pulled on her coat, and went outwith Leonard and Annie. She would meet her own boy.
"Don't forget that bread, our Paul," cried Annie. "Good-night, Miriam. I don't think it will rain."
When they had all gone, Paul fetched the swathed loaf,unwrapped it, and surveyed it sadly.
"It's a mess!" he said.
"But," answered Miriam impatiently, "what is it,after all--twopence, ha'penny."
"Yes, but--it's the mater's precious baking, and she'll takeit to heart. However, it's no good bothering."
He took the loaf back into the scullery. There was a littledistance between him and Miriam. He stood balanced opposite her forsome moments considering, thinking of his behaviour with Beatrice. He felt guilty inside himself, and yet glad. For some inscrutablereason it served Miriam right. He was not going to repent. She wondered what he was thinking of as he stood suspended. His thick hair was tumbled over his forehead. Why might she notpush it back for him, and remove the marks of Beatrice's comb? Why might she not press his body with her two hands. It lookedso firm, and every whit living. And he would let other girls,why not her?
Suddenly he started into life. It made her quiver almostwith terror as he quickly pushed the hair off his forehead and cametowards her.
"Half-past eight!" he said. "We'd better buck up. Where's your French?"
Miriam shyly and rather bitterly produced her exercise-book.Every week she wrote for him a sort of diary of her inner life,in her own French. He had found this was the only way to get herto do compositions. And her diary was mostly a love-letter. Hewould read it now; she felt as if her soul's history were goingto be desecrated by him in his present mood. He sat beside her. She watched his hand, firm and warm, rigorously scoring her work. He was reading only the French, ignoring her soul that was there. But gradually his hand forgot its work. He read in silence, motionless. She quivered.
"'Ce matin les oiseaux m'ont eveille,'" he read. "'Il faisaitencore un crepuscule. Mais la petite fenetre de ma chambre etait bleme,et puis, jaune, et tous les oiseaux du bois eclaterent dans un chansonvif et resonnant. Toute l'aube tressaillit. J'avais reve de vous. Est-ce que vous voyez aussi l'aube? Les oiseaux m'eveillent presquetous les matins, et toujours il y a quelque chose de terreur dansle cri des grives. Il est si clair---'"
Miriam sat tremulous, half ashamed. He remained quite still,trying to understand. He only knew she loved him. He was afraidof her love for him. It was too good for him, and he was inadequate. His own love was at fault, not hers. Ashamed, he corrected her work,humbly writing above her words.
"Look," he said quietly, "the past participle conjugatedwith avoir agrees with the direct object when it precedes."
She bent forward, trying to see and to understand. Her free,fine curls tickled his face. He started as if they had been red hot,shuddering. He saw her peering forward at the page, her red lips partedpiteously, the black hair springing in fine strands across her tawny,ruddy cheek. She was coloured like a pomegranate for richness. His breath came short as he watched her. Suddenly she looked up at him. Her dark eyes were naked with their love, afraid, and yearning. His eyes, too, were dark, and they hurt her. They seemed to master her. She lost all her self-control, was exposed in fear. And he knew,before he could kiss her, he must drive something out of himself. And a touch of hate for her crept back again into his heart. He returned to her exercise.
Suddenly he flung down the pencil, and was at the ovenin a leap, turning the bread. For Miriam he was too quick. She started violently, and it hurt her with real pain. Even the wayhe crouched before the oven hurt her. There seemed to be somethingcruel in it, something cruel in the swift way he pitched the breadout of the tins, caught it up again. If only he had been gentlein his movements she would have felt so rich and warm. As it was,she was hurt.
He returned and finished the exercise.
"You've done well this week," he said.
She saw he was flattered by her diary. It did not repayher entirely.
"You really do blossom out sometimes," he said. "You oughtto write poetry."
She lifted her head with joy, then she shook it mistrustfully.
"I don't trust myself," she said.
"You should try!"
Again she shook her head.
"Shall we read, or is it too late?" he asked.
"It is late--but we can read just a little," she pleaded.
She was really getting now the food for her life duringthe next week. He made her copy Baudelaire's "Le Balcon". Then heread it for her. His voice was soft and caressing, but growingalmost brutal. He had a way of lifting his lips and showinghis teeth, passionately and bitterly, when he was much moved. This he did now. It made Miriam feel as if he were trampling on her. She dared not look at him, but sat with her head bowed. She couldnot understand why he got into such a tumult and fury. It made her wretched. She did not like Baudelaire, on the whole--nor Verlaine.
"Behold her singing in the field Yon solitary highland lass."
That nourished her heart. So did "Fair Ines". And--
"It was a beauteous evening, calm and pure, And breathing holy quiet like a nun."
These were like herself. And there was he, saying in histhroat bitterly:
"Tu te rappelleras la beaute des caresses."
The poem was finished; he took the bread out of the oven,arranging the burnt loaves at the bottom of the panchion,the good ones at the top. The desiccated loaf remained swathedup in the scullery.
"Mater needn't know till morning," he said. "It won't upsether so much then as at night."
Miriam looked in the bookcase, saw what postcards and lettershe had received, saw what books were there. She took one that hadinterested him. Then he turned down the gas and they set off. He did not trouble to lock the door.
He was not home again until a quarter to eleven. His motherwas seated in the rocking-chair. Annie, with a rope of hair hangingdown her back, remained sitting on a low stool before the fire,her elbows on her knees, gloomily. On the table stood the offendingloaf unswathed. Paul entered rather breathless. No one spoke. His mother was reading the little local newspaper. He took offhis coat, and went to sit down on the sofa. His mother moved curtlyaside to let him pass. No one spoke. He was very uncomfortable. For some minutes he sat pretending to read a piece of paper he found onthe table. Then---
"I forgot that bread, mother," he said.
There was no answer from either woman.
"Well," he said, "it's only twopence ha'penny. I can pay youfor that."
Being angry, he put three pennies on the table and slidthem towards his mother. She turned away her head. Her mouthwas shut tightly.
"Yes," said Annie, "you don't know how badly my mother is!"
The girl sat staring glumly into the fire.
"Why is she badly?" asked Paul, in his overbearing way.
"Well!" said Annie. "She could scarcely get home."
He looked closely at his mother. She looked ill.
"WHY could you scarcely get home?" he asked her, still sharply. She would not answer.
"I found her as white as a sheet sitting here," said Annie,with a suggestion of tears in her voice.
"Well, WHY?" insisted Paul. His brows were knitting, his eyesdilating passionately.
"It was enough to upset anybody," said Mrs. Morel, "huggingthose parcels--meat, and green-groceries, and a pair of curtains---"
"Well, why DID you hug them; you needn't have done."
"Then who would?"
"Let Annie fetch the meat."
"Yes, and I WOULD fetch the meat, but how was I to know. You were off with Miriam, instead of being in when my mother came."
"And what was the matter with you?" asked Paul of his mother.
"I suppose it's my heart," she replied. Certainly she lookedbluish round the mouth.
"And have you felt it before?"
"Yes--often enough."
"Then why haven't you told me?--and why haven't you seen a doctor?"
Mrs. Morel shifted in her chair, angry with him for his hectoring.
"You'd never notice anything," said Annie. "You're too eagerto be off with Miriam."
"Oh, am I--and any worse than you with Leonard?"
"I was in at a quarter to ten."
There was silence in the room for a time.
"I should have thought," said Mrs. Morel bitterly, "that shewouldn't have occupied you so entirely as to burn a whole ovenfulof bread."
"Beatrice was here as well as she."
"Very likely. But we know why the bread is spoilt."
"Why?" he flashed.
"Because you were engrossed with Miriam," replied Mrs. Morel hotly.
"Oh, very well--then it was NOT!" he replied angrily.
He was distressed and wretched. Seizing a paper, he beganto read. Annie, her blouse unfastened, her long ropes of hair twistedinto a plait, went up to bed, bidding him a very curt good-night.
Paul sat pretending to read. He knew his mother wantedto upbraid him. He also wanted to know what had made her ill,for he was troubled. So, instead of running away to bed, as he wouldhave liked to do, he sat and waited. There was a tense silence. The clock ticked loudly.
"You'd better go to bed before your father comes in," said themother harshly. "And if you're going to have anything to eat,you'd better get it."
"I don't want anything."
It was his mother's custom to bring him some trifle forsupper on Friday night, the night of luxury for the colliers. He was too angry to go and find it in the pantry this night. This insulted her.
"If I WANTED you to go to Selby on Friday night, I can imaginethe scene," said Mrs. Morel. "But you're never too tired to goif SHE will come for you. Nay, you neither want to eat nor drink then."
"I can't let her go alone."
"Can't you? And why does she come?"
"Not because I ask her."
"She doesn't come without you want her---"
"Well, what if I DO want her---" he replied.
"Why, nothing, if it was sensible or reasonable. But to gotrapseing up there miles and miles in the mud, coming home at midnight,and got to go to Nottingham in the morning---"
"If I hadn't, you'd be just the same."
"Yes, I should, because there's no sense in it. Is she so fascinating that you must follow her all that way?" Mrs. Morel was bitterly sarcastic. She sat still, with averted face,stroking with a rhythmic, jerked movement, the black sateenof her apron. It was a movement that hurt Paul to see.
"I do like her," he said, "but---"
"LIKE her!" said Mrs. Morel, in the same biting tones. "It seemsto me you like nothing and nobody else. There's neither Annie,nor me, nor anyone now for you."
"What nonsense, mother--you know I don't love her--I--I tellyou I DON'T love her--she doesn't even walk with my arm, because Idon't want her to."
"Then why do you fly to her so often?"
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