复活节假期欢乐地开始了，保罗还是那个坦率的保罗。然而她却总觉得什么事不对劲。星期四下午，她站在卧室窗前，眺望着对面树林和那片橡树。在午后的明媚的阳光下，枝桠间透着斑斑驳驳的微光。一丛丛浅绿色的冬树叶悬在窗前，她 想或许有的已经发芽了吧。既会恐惧又欢喜的春天来了。
大门咯吱一响，她不安地站在那儿。天气阴沉着。保罗推着锃亮的自行车进了院子。平时，他总是摁着车铃走向屋子。今天，他走进来时，却双唇紧闭，举上露出一股冷酷、懒散而嘲讽的神情。她现在已对他了如指掌，从他那敏锐、高傲的外表，就能推测出他的内心。他不经意地把车停在老地方，米丽亚姆看着不禁心里一沉。
她紧张地下了楼，身穿一件她认为比较配她的新网眼罩衫。高高的皱领于，使她联想到苏格兰的玛丽女王，并且暗自认为自己看上 去一定漂亮而又矜持。二十岁的她已经发育得胸部丰满，体态啊娜。可她的脸却仍象戴着个柔软多彩的面具，毫无变化。不过一旦她抬起眼帘，那简直妙不可言。她有些害怕，怕他会注意到她的新罩衫。
他用那种嘲讽刻薄的语气绘神绘色地向她家人讲美以美教会守旧派一个著名的传教士在教堂里做礼拜的情形。他坐在餐桌的一头，脸上表情丰富多变，学着那个他嘲讽的对象的模样。两只漂亮迷人的眼睛一会儿闪着柔和的光，一会儿又眉飞色舞。他的嘲弄伤害了她：因为模仿得太逼真了。他过于敏锐，也过于残忍。每当他眼睛这样冷，这样充满嘲讽的恨意，她就知道他一定不会放过任何人，甚至她自己。可是雷渥斯太太却笑得直擦眼泪。刚从星期日午睡中醒来的雷渥斯先生，也乐得直摸脑袋，三个兄弟只穿着衬衫坐在那儿，脸上还挂着睡意，听得也不时地哈哈大笑，全家人都非常欣赏他这种模仿和嘲弄他人的“表演”。
保罗没有理会米丽亚姆，过了一会儿，她看到他注意到了她的新罩衫。从他脸上，她看到了画家的赞赏，但却 没有赢得一点热情的赞扬。她有点紧张，几乎没法从架于上把茶杯拿下来。
屋里的男人们都出去挤牛奶了。米丽亚姆这时壮着胆独自跟他打了声招呼。
“你来晚了。”她说。
“是吗？”他答道。
两人沉默了一会儿。
“路难走吗？”她问。
“我没在意。”
她继续飞快地摆着餐桌，摆完之后——
“茶还得沏几分钟，你要不要来看看水仙花？”她问。
他站起身来，默不做声。他俩走进了后花园，站在含苞欲放的西洋李树下，群山和大空晴朗而略带寒意，一眼看上去都好象被洗过一般，显得格外刺眼。米丽亚姆看了保罗一眼，只见他脸色苍白，表情漠然。在她看来，她深爱的那双眼睛，眉毛会看上去如此伤人，这对她太残忍了。
“风尘仆仆的，累了吧？”她问，她觉察到他隐隐有点倦意。
“不，我不觉得累。”他回答道。
“路一定很难走——风吹得树林直响。”
“ 看看云，你就知道这是西南风，到这儿来是顺风。”
“你知道，我不骑车，所以我也不懂这些。”她低声说。
“难道这需要骑车才知道吗？”他说。
米丽亚姆认为他的讥讽毫无必要。他俩默默地往前走着，有一堵荆棘树篱绕着屋后的那片长满野草的草坪，树篱下的水仙花正从浅绿色的叶丛中探出头来。花瓣呈绿色，略透着寒意，不过还是开了几朵，金黄色的花朵摇曳多姿，灿烂生辉。米丽亚姆跪在一簇水仙花前，捧起一朵野花似的水仙，低下头去，用嘴唇、脸颊和额头接受着金黄色的花瓣。他站在旁边，双手插在口袋里看着她。她把花一朵一朵地转向保罗。一边两手仍不停地抚弄着这些花。
“这些花挺美，是吗？”她喃喃地说。
“挺美！只是花开得有点密了——不过，还算漂亮！”
尽管保罗对她的赞赏横加挑剔，她还是低下头看花。他看着她蹲 下身子，用热情的吻啜吮着花朵。
“为什么你一定要抚弄它们？”他烦躁地说。
“我就是喜欢抚爱花朵。”她不高兴地回答。
“难道你喜欢什么东西就一定得紧紧抓住不放，好象要把它们的心掏出来不可吗？为什么你不能多少克制一点，或者保守一点呢？”
她痛苦地抬起头来看着保罗，接着又慢慢用唇去碰这一朵朵摇曳生姿的花儿。她闻着花的芳香，觉得它要比保罗友好。这种感觉使她想痛哭一场。
“你能把什么东西都哄骗得灵魂出窍。”他说，“我决不会这样。 我总是直来直去。”
他都不知道自己在说些什么。这些话是无意识地说出来的。她望着他。他的身子仿佛象一 把坚硬挺直毫不容情的尖刀直指着她。
“你总是在乞求爱，”他说，“仿佛你是爱情的乞丐，甚至对花朵，你也这般乞求……”
米丽亚姆有节奏地用嘴一下一下地抚弄着花朵，呼吸着花的芳香，幽幽花香扑鼻而来，她不禁浑身颤抖起来。
“你不想去爱——你只是没完没了地、反常地渴望别人来爱你，你不主动，而是消极等待，你吸啊吸，好象你内心某个角落有什么缺憾必须用爱来填充自己似的。”
她被他的刻薄狠毒惊得发呆，再也听不下去了。他根本就不清楚自己在说些什么。由于热情遭到打击，他那烦恼痛苦的心灵激情仿佛无法自制。因此，这一番话就象闪电火花似的冒了出来。她不明白 他说的是什么，只有在他对她的刻薄和厌恶下，蜷缩着身子坐在那里。她没有一下子清醒过来，只是默默地思索着思索着。
用过茶点后，他和艾德加兄弟们呆在一起，不再理会米丽亚姆。她呢，对这个盼望已久的节日感到极度的失望，只好等着他。到了后来，他总算是让了步，来到她身边，她打定主意要弄清楚他心情变化的缘故，她认为这只不过是心情不好罢了。
“我们再穿过林子走一程好吗？”她问他。她知道他从不拒绝一个直截了当的要求。
他们来到狩猎区，半路上他们路过了一个陷阱，是用小纵树枝编的马蹄形树篱盖着，里面放着当作诱饵用的兔子内脏。保罗皱着眉看了一眼，她注意到了他的眼神。
“很可怕，是不是？”她问。
“我不知道！难道这比黄鼠狼叼住兔子的喉咙更可怕么？是逮一只黄鼠狼呢，还是让许多兔子遭殃？二者必居其一！”
他对生命的痛苦大发感慨，米丽亚姆为他感到难过。
“我们回屋子去吧，”他说，“ 我不想再在外面走了。”
他们经过丁香树，上面古铜色的叶芽就要绽开，有一堆方形的干草堆在那儿，呈棕色，像个石柱子，这是上次割草时留下的一个小草垛。
“我们在这坐一会吧。”米丽亚姆说。
他不太情愿地坐了下来，背靠着干草堆。他俩面对着晚霞有如圆形的戏台的群山，远处一排排小小的白色农舍。牧场泛着金光，树林阴暗，然而还不时闪着亮光，清楚地看到层层叠叠的树顶渐渐远去，傍晚时分，天朗气清，远方天际有一抹霞光，霞光下的大地多彩而寂静。
“这景色是不是很美啊？”她追问他。
他只是皱着眉头，其实他倒希望景色不堪入目。
这时，一只高大猛大跑了过来，张着嘴，两只爪子搭在保罗的肩头，舔着 他的脸，他大笑着往后退，比尔对他是一大安慰。他把狗推到一边，可它又扑了上来。
“走开，”小伙子说，“要不就打你了。”
但是狗推也推不开，保罗就跟这畜牲打闹起来，把可怜的比尔推到一边，它却更挣扎着往回扑，高兴地发起野来，两个撕打成一团。他勉强笑着，狗也张牙舞爪。米丽亚姆 看着他们，觉得保罗有些可怜，他如此迫切地渴望得到爱，渴望得到温存，他跟狗厮打玩闹，其实就是爱。比尔跳起身，乐得喘着粗气，褐色的眼珠直转个不停，蹒蹒跚跚地又靠近过来。它很喜欢保罗，保罗却皱着眉。
“比尔，我跟你闹够了。” 他说。
这只狗却用有力的爪子站了起来，颤抖着满心欢喜地扑在他的大腿上，冲着他伸着红舌头。他往后退着。
“别，”他说，“——别，我已经闹够了。”
没多久，狗就夹着尾巴一溜烟地跑了，另找乐去了。
他依旧感伤地凝望着对面的群山，依旧在怨恨着群山的美丽，他想去找艾德加骑车玩，然而他又鼓不起勇气丢下米丽亚姆。
“你为什么伤心啊？”她谦卑地问。
“我没有伤心，我为什么伤心？”他回答道，“我很正常。”
她很纳闷为什么他心里不痛快，而嘴上总说自己正常。
“到底是怎么一回事啊？”她好声好气地恳求他。
“没事！”
“不是这样！”她低声说。
他拾起一根树枝，在地上刺着。
“如果你不说话，那再好不过了。”他说。
“但我希望知道……”她回答。
他报复似的大笑起来。
“你总是这样。”他说。
“这对我可不公平。”她低声说。
他用这根尖尖的树枝在地上戳着、刺着，挖起了一小堆土，好象他满肚子的烦躁苦恼没处发泄。她温柔而坚定地握住他的手腕。
“别这样！”她说，“扔掉吧。”
他才把枝条扔进了醋栗丛中，然后斜躺下来。现在，他的情绪总算控制住了。
“什么事？”她温柔地追问。
他一动不动地躺着，只有眼睛还在转着，里面饱含着痛苦。
“你清楚，”最后他消沉地说，“你清楚……我们还是分手的好。”
这正是她所害怕的。立刻，她觉得眼前的一切都暗淡下来。
“为什么？”她喃喃地说，“发生了什么事？”
“没什么事， 我只是认清了我们自己的处境。这样下去，没有好处……”
她耐着性子默默地等着，非常伤心，跟他在一起下放松，一直是这样的，不管怎么说，现在他会告诉她是什么让他苦恼。
“我们说定了保持友谊，”他声调沉重而呆板地说，“我们不也一直说定保持友谊吗？而且——我们的关系既没止于友谊，也没有进一步地发展。”
他又沉默了。而她内心琢磨着，他说的是什么意思啊？他是如此的消沉。他肯定有什么事不愿意说出来，她一定得耐心地对待他。
“我只能给你友谊——这是我唯一能够 做到的——我的性格有点缺陷。事情发展到了一个极端——我讨厌这种不稳定的关系。我们就到此为止吧。”
他的最后几句话含有激愤的情绪。她的意思是她爱他甚于他爱她。也许他不能爱她，也许她内心没有他所需要的东西。她灵魂深处最隐密的行为动机就是自我怀疑。她的行为动机埋藏得很深。她既不敢去认识，也不敢去承认。也许她是有缺陷的。这象极为强烈的羞耻感那样，使她总往后退缩，如果他真是这样，那么她没有他也行。她宁愿控制自己，不让自己 想他。她现在只是在观望事情的发展。
“可是到底发生了什么事？”她问。
“什么也没发生——只是我自己的缘故——现在才发泄出来了。到复活节时总是这样。”
他如此绝望地求饶，让她觉得同情起来。至少他从没这样可怜兮兮的前言不搭后语过，毕竟，这回主要还是他丢了面子。
“你到底要怎样？”她问 他。
“哦——我绝不能来得太频繁——就这些。我为什么要独占你呢，我又不是……你看，和你比起来，我有点缺陷……”
他在 告诉她，他不爱她，因此应该给她机会 去找其他的人，他简直太愚蠢，太糊涂，大盲目！对她来说，其他男人是什么呀！根本算不了什么！而他，哼！她爱他的灵魂，他有缺陷吗？也许是的。
“可我不明白，”她沙哑着嗓子说，“昨天……”
夜暮渐渐降临，对他来说，夜变得喧闹而可恨。她则痛苦地低着头。
“我知道，”他叫起来，“你绝不会，你绝不会相信我会象只云雀那样飞翔，我也不会在肉体上……”
The Easter holidays began happily. Paul was his own frank self. Yet she felt it would go wrong. On the Sunday afternoon she stoodat her bedroom window, looking across at the oak-trees of the wood,in whose branches a twilight was tangled, below the bright skyof the afternoon. Grey-green rosettes of honeysuckle leaveshung before the window, some already, she fancied, showing bud. It was spring, which she loved and dreaded.
Hearing the clack of the gate she stood in suspense. It was a bright grey day. Paul came into the yard with his bicycle,which glittered as he walked. Usually he rang his bell and laughedtowards the house. To-day he walked with shut lips and cold,cruel bearing, that had something of a slouch and a sneer in it. She knew him well by now, and could tell from that keen-looking,aloof young body of his what was happening inside him. There wasa cold correctness in the way he put his bicycle in its place,that made her heart sink.
She came downstairs nervously. She was wearing a new net blousethat she thought became her. It had a high collar with a tiny ruff,reminding her of Mary, Queen of Scots, and making her, she thought,look wonderfully a woman, and dignified. At twenty she wasfull-breasted and luxuriously formed. Her face was still like a softrich mask, unchangeable. But her eyes, once lifted, were wonderful. She was afraid of him. He would notice her new blouse.
He, being in a hard, ironical mood, was entertaining the familyto a description of a service given in the Primitive Methodist Chapel,conducted by one of the well-known preachers of the sect. He sat at the head of the table, his mobile face, with the eyesthat could be so beautiful, shining with tenderness or dancingwith laughter, now taking on one expression and then another,in imitation of various people he was mocking. His mockeryalways hurt her; it was too near the reality. He was too cleverand cruel. She felt that when his eyes were like this, hard withmocking hate, he would spare neither himself nor anybody else. But Mrs. Leivers was wiping her eyes with laughter, and Mr. Leivers,just awake from his Sunday nap, was rubbing his head in amusement. The three brothers sat with ruffled, sleepy appearance in theirshirt-sleeves, giving a guffaw from time to time. The wholefamily loved a "take-off" more than anything.
He took no notice of Miriam. Later, she saw him remarkher new blouse, saw that the artist approved, but it won fromhim not a spark of warmth. She was nervous, could hardly reachthe teacups from the shelves.
When the men went out to milk, she ventured to addresshim personally.
"You were late," she said.
"Was I?" he answered.
There was silence for a while.
"Was it rough riding?" she asked.
"I didn't notice it." She continued quickly to lay the table. When she had finished---
"Tea won't be for a few minutes. Will you come and lookat the daffodils?" she said.
He rose without answering. They went out into the back garden underthe budding damson-trees. The hills and the sky were clean and cold. Everything looked washed, rather hard. Miriam glanced at Paul. He was pale and impassive. It seemed cruel to her that his eyesand brows, which she loved, could look so hurting.
"Has the wind made you tired?" she asked. She detectedan underneath feeling of weariness about him.
"No, I think not," he answered.
"It must be rough on the road--the wood moans so."
"You can see by the clouds it's a south-west wind; that helpsme here."
"You see, I don't cycle, so I don't understand," she murmured.
"Is there need to cycle to know that!" he said.
She thought his sarcasms were unnecessary. They went forwardin silence. Round the wild, tussocky lawn at the back of the housewas a thorn hedge, under which daffodils were craning forward fromamong their sheaves of grey-green blades. The cheeks of the flowerswere greenish with cold. But still some had burst, and their goldruffled and glowed. Miriam went on her knees before one cluster,took a wild-looking daffodil between her hands, turned up itsface of gold to her, and bowed down, caressing it with her mouthand cheeks and brow. He stood aside, with his hands in his pockets,watching her. One after another she turned up to him the facesof the yellow, bursten flowers appealingly, fondling them lavishlyall the while.
"Aren't they magnificent?" she murmured.
"Magnificent! It's a bit thick--they're pretty!"
She bowed again to her flowers at his censure of her praise. He watched her crouching, sipping the flowers with fervid kisses.
"Why must you always be fondling things?" he said irritably.
"But I love to touch them," she replied, hurt.
"Can you never like things without clutching them as if youwanted to pull the heart out of them? Why don't you have a bitmore restraint, or reserve, or something?"
She looked up at him full of pain, then continued slowlyto stroke her lips against a ruffled flower. Their scent, as shesmelled it, was so much kinder than he; it almost made her cry.
"You wheedle the soul out of things," he said. "I wouldnever wheedle--at any rate, I'd go straight."
He scarcely knew what he was saying. These things came fromhim mechanically. She looked at him. His body seemed one weapon,firm and hard against her.
"You're always begging things to love you," he said, "as if youwere a beggar for love. Even the flowers, you have to fawn on them---"
Rhythmically, Miriam was swaying and stroking the flower withher mouth, inhaling the scent which ever after made her shudderas it came to her nostrils.
"You don't want to love--your eternal and abnormal cravingis to be loved. You aren't positive, you're negative. You absorb, absorb, as if you must fill yourself up with love,because you've got a shortage somewhere."
She was stunned by his cruelty, and did not hear. He had notthe faintest notion of what he was saying. It was as if his fretted,tortured soul, run hot by thwarted passion, jetted off these sayingslike sparks from electricity. She did not grasp anything he said. She only sat crouched beneath his cruelty and his hatred of her. She never realised in a flash. Over everything she broodedand brooded.
After tea he stayed with Edgar and the brothers, taking nonotice of Miriam. She, extremely unhappy on this looked-for holiday,waited for him. And at last he yielded and came to her. She was determined to track this mood of his to its origin. She counted it not much more than a mood.
"Shall we go through the wood a little way?" she asked him,knowing he never refused a direct request.
They went down to the warren. On the middle path theypassed a trap, a narrow horseshoe hedge of small fir-boughs,baited with the guts of a rabbit. Paul glanced at it frowning. She caught his eye.
"Isn't it dreadful?" she asked.
"I don't know! Is it worse than a weasel with its teeth in arabbit's throat? One weasel or many rabbits? One or the other must go!"
He was taking the bitterness of life badly. She was rathersorry for him.
"We will go back to the house," he said. "I don't wantto walk out."
They went past the lilac-tree, whose bronze leaf-buds werecoming unfastened. Just a fragment remained of the haystack,a monument squared and brown, like a pillar of stone. There wasa little bed of hay from the last cutting.
"Let us sit here a minute," said Miriam.
He sat down against his will, resting his back against the hardwall of hay. They faced the amphitheatre of round hills that glowedwith sunset, tiny white farms standing out, the meadows golden,the woods dark and yet luminous, tree-tops folded over tree-tops,distinct in the distance. The evening had cleared, and the eastwas tender with a magenta flush under which the land lay stilland rich.
"Isn't it beautiful?" she pleaded.
But he only scowled. He would rather have had it ugly just then.
At that moment a big bull-terrier came rushing up, open-mouthed,pranced his two paws on the youth's shoulders, licking his face. Paul drew back, laughing. Bill was a great relief to him. He pushed the dog aside, but it came leaping back.
"Get out," said the lad, "or I'll dot thee one."
But the dog was not to be pushed away. So Paul had a littlebattle with the creature, pitching poor Bill away from him, who,however, only floundered tumultuously back again, wild with joy. The two fought together, the man laughing grudgingly, the doggrinning all over. Miriam watched them. There was something patheticabout the man. He wanted so badly to love, to be tender. The rough way he bowled the dog over was really loving. Bill got up,panting with happiness, his brown eyes rolling in his white face,and lumbered back again. He adored Paul. The lad frowned.
"Bill, I've had enough o' thee," he said.
But the dog only stood with two heavy paws, that quiveredwith love, upon his thigh, and flickered a red tongue at him. He drew back.
"No," he said--"no--I've had enough."
And in a minute the dog trotted off happily, to vary the fun.
He remained staring miserably across at the hills, whose stillbeauty he begrudged. He wanted to go and cycle with Edgar. Yet he had not the courage to leave Miriam.
"Why are you sad?" she asked humbly.
"I'm not sad; why should I be," he answered. "I'm only normal."
She wondered why he always claimed to be normal when hewas disagreeable.
"But what is the matter?" she pleaded, coaxing him soothingly.
"Nothing!"
"Nay!" she murmured.
He picked up a stick and began to stab the earth with it.
"You'd far better not talk," he said.
"But I wish to know---" she replied.
He laughed resentfully.
"You always do," he said.
"It's not fair to me," she murmured.
He thrust, thrust, thrust at the ground with the pointed stick,digging up little clods of earth as if he were in a fever of irritation. She gently and firmly laid her band on his wrist.
"Don't!" she said. "Put it away."
He flung the stick into the currant-bushes, and leaned back. Now he was bottled up.
"What is it?" she pleaded softly.
He lay perfectly still, only his eyes alive, and they fullof torment.
"You know," he said at length, rather wearily--"you know--we'dbetter break off."
It was what she dreaded. Swiftly everything seemed to darkenbefore her eyes.
"Why!" she murmured. "What has happened?"
"Nothing has happened. We only realise where we are. It's no good---"
She waited in silence, sadly, patiently. It was no good beingimpatient with him. At any rate, he would tell her now what ailed him.
"We agreed on friendship," he went on in a dull, monotonous voice. "How often HAVE we agreed for friendship! And yet--it neitherstops there, nor gets anywhere else."
He was silent again. She brooded. What did he mean? He was so wearying. There was something he would not yield. Yet she must be patient with him.
"I can only give friendship--it's all I'm capable of--it'sa flaw in my make-up. The thing overbalances to one side--I hatea toppling balance. Let us have done."
There was warmth of fury in his last phrases. He meant sheloved him more than he her. Perhaps he could not love her. Perhaps she had not in herself that which he wanted. It was thedeepest motive of her soul, this self-mistrust. It was so deep shedared neither realise nor acknowledge. Perhaps she was deficient. Like an infinitely subtle shame, it kept her always back. If it were so,she would do without him. She would never let herself want him. She would merely see.
"But what has happened?" she said.
"Nothing--it's all in myself--it only comes out just now. We're always like this towards Easter-time."
He grovelled so helplessly, she pitied him. At least shenever floundered in such a pitiable way. After all, it was hewho was chiefly humiliated.
"What do you want?" she asked him.
"Why--I mustn't come often--that's all. Why should I monopoliseyou when I'm not--- You see, I'm deficient in something with regardto you---"
He was telling her he did not love her, and so ought to leave hera chance with another man. How foolish and blind and shamefully clumsyhe was! What were other men to her! What were men to her at all! But he, ah! she loved his soul. Was HE deficient in something? Perhaps he was.
"But I don't understand," she said huskily. "Yesterday---"
The night was turning jangled and hateful to him as thetwilight faded. And she bowed under her suffering.
"I know," he cried, "you never will! You'll never believe thatI can't--can't physically, any more than I can fly up like a skylark---"
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