“她们尽管保守秘密好了，”她深思了一会儿苦涩地继续说，“可是她们不该这么炫耀，让我始终蒙在鼓里。这事——这简直让人受不了。”

    保罗想了一会儿，深感不安。

    “我来告诉你是怎么一回事，”他说。他面色苍白神色慌张，“今天是我的生日，她们全体给我买了好多颜料，她们嫉妒你——”保罗觉得她一听到“嫉妒”这个词神色顿时变得冷冰冰的——“仅仅是因为我有时带本书给你。”他慢吞吞地加了一句，“但是，你要明白，这仅仅是件小事，你千万别介意——因为——”他很快地笑笑——“嗯，尽管她们一时得意，现在她们要是看见咱们在一块，会说什么？”

    克莱拉很生气，因为 他冒失地提到了他们眼下的亲密关系，这话简直是侮辱。然而， 看到他如此平心静气，她也只好竭力克制着自己，原谅了他。

    他俩的手都放在城堡墙粗糙的石栏上。他从母亲那儿继承了一种纤巧的气质，所以他的手长得小巧而又充满活力。她四肢发达，双手相应地又显得很大，不过看上去又白又有力。保罗一瞧见这双手，就明白她的心思，就了解她：“她想让人握住她的手。——尽管她对我们是如此高傲。”他默默自语，暗自思量。而她也在注视他温暖又活泼的双手，好像是专为她而生。这时 他正双眼忧郁，凝视着旷野，陷入深思，千姿百态的万物都从他眼前消失了，剩下一片黑暗，其中包含着多少忧伤和悲剧，所有的房屋、河滩、人类、飞禽都无一例外引人忧伤和悲悯。只是外形上不同而已。此刻，万物形状仿佛都模糊一片，只剩下那一大堆黑乎乎的土堆，充满了挣扎与痛苦的物质。这一切构成了眼前的景色。工厂、女工、乡亲、高耸的教堂、镇上的密集的房舍，全都淹没在幽暗、深思和忧愁的氛围中。

    “两点钟敲过了吗？”道伍斯太太惊奇地问。

    保罗从深思中惊醒，万物都恢复了原形，重新获得了各自被忽略的个性和欢乐。

    他俩匆匆赶回去上班。

    他匆忙准备着晚上的邮件，检查芬妮车间送来的活儿，这些成品还散发出一股熨烫的味儿。正在这时晚班邮递员进来了。

    “保罗·莫瑞尔先生，”他边说边笑着递给保罗一个邮包，“是一位女士的笔迹！别让姑娘们看见。”

    邮递员本人就极受人喜爱，他很喜欢拿姑娘们对保罗的感情开玩笑。

    这是一卷诗集，还夹着一张便条：“请允许我献上这份心意，请勿见外。衷心祝福你顺心如意。——克·道。”保罗顿时满脸通红了。

    “天呀！道伍斯太太。她太破费了。上帝，谁会想到呢！”

    他忽然大受感动，心里充满了来自她的温情，沉浸在这温情中，他似乎感觉到她就在跟前——她的双臂、她的肩膀、她的胸脯。他不仅能看到，而且可以摸到，甚至觉得与它们融为一体了。

    克莱拉的这一举动使他们的关系更亲密了。其他女工也注意到保罗一碰到道伍斯太太就抬起闪光的双眼瞟着她，特别亲切地向她致意。人人都能看出其中的奥秘。克莱拉知道他本人尚未意识到，她也就不动声色，要是有时看见他迎面走来，她就故意转过头去。

    午饭时间，他们经常出去走走，这事完全光明正大、心地坦诚，人人都觉得保罗还没有完全意识到自己的感情状况，所以也见怪不惊。他现在与她谈话多少有些像以前同米丽亚姆谈话时的热情，但是对话题不大在意，也不费心推敲自己的结论。

    十月的一天，他们去兰伯利喝茶。他们在山顶上停了下来，保罗爬上去坐在一扇门上，她坐在踏阶上。下午，天空弥漫着一层薄雾，麦捆在雾里透出昏黄的光束。他们都沉默不语。

    “你结婚时多大了？”他平静地问。

    “二十二岁。”

    她的噪门压得很低，有点低声下气的。她现在愿意告诉他一切。

   “八年以前？”

    “是的”

    “你什么时候离开他的？”

    “三年前。”

    “五年！结婚时你爱他吗？”

    她沉默了许久，然后慢悠悠地说：

    “我想当时是爱他的——多少是爱他的。这事我没多 想过。他需要我，当时我太拘谨。”

    “你没多想就糊里糊涂地走入婚姻圈吗？”

    “是啊。我好像睡了一生似的。”

    “梦游症吗？可是——你何时醒来的？”

    “我不知道我什么时候醒来，是否醒来——从我很小的时候。”

    “当你长成一个女人后你还在睡吗？多奇怪！难道他没有叫醒你吗？”

    “没有，他没能做到。”她单调地回答。

    褐色的小鸟掠过树篱，那里野蔷薇开得红艳艳的。

    “他做到过什么？”他问。

    “打动 过我。他对我从来是无足轻重的。”

    下午天气温暖，日色朦胧。农舍的红屋顶在蓝色的雾雹中红得耀眼。他喜欢这样的天气。他能感觉到，但却无法明白克莱拉在说些什么。

    “但是，你为什么要离开他呢？他对你态度很恶劣吗？”

    她微微打了个寒噤。

    “他——在糟践我。他想吓唬我，因为他没能完全得到我。后来我感觉自己想逃走，好像自己被绑住似的。他好像很卑鄙。”

    “我明白了。”

    其实他根本不明白。

    “他老是很卑鄙吗？”他问。

    “有一点。”她慢慢地回答，“后来他看出确实得不到我的真心，他就耍起横来——他很野蛮！”

    “那你最后为何离开 他？”

    “因为——因为他对 我不忠实。”

    俩人沉默了片刻。她的手搁在门柱上，以保持身体平衡，他把手盖在她的手上，一颗心怦怦地急跳起来。

    “可是你就——根本——根本不给他机会？”

    “机会，怎么 给？”

    “让他亲近你。”

    “我嫁给他——我本来是心甘情愿的——”

    他们俩都尽力保持嗓音的平静。

    “我认为他爱你。”他说。

    “看起来是。”她回答。

    他想把手挪开，可是不能。她自己挪开了，解了他的围。沉默了一会儿，他又开始问：

    “你就这样 把他甩了吗？”

    “是他离开了我。”她说。

    “我猜想，他没能使自己成为你的一切。”

    “他本想威胁我就范。”

    不过这番话使两人都有点茫然。保罗突然跳下 来。

    “来，”他说，“咱们喝茶去。”

    他们找到一家小茶馆，坐在凉爽的馆舍内。她替他倒好茶。她显得很沉静。他感到她又回避自己。喝完茶，她深思似的望着茶杯，手里不停转动着自己的婚戒，深思中，她竟退下戒指，把它竖在桌上转了起来。金戒指变成一个玲珑剔透、闪闪发亮的圆球。圆球倒了，戒指在桌面上颠了几下停住。她转了又转，保罗看得出了神。

    可是她是个结过婚的女人，而且他只信奉纯朴的友谊。他认为自己对她的情感是光明正大的。他们之间只不过是普普通通的文明男女之间的友谊罢了。

     他与许多同龄的青年一样，性的问题在他心中显得很复杂，以至于他拒绝承认自己曾想过要克莱拉或米丽亚姆，或任何一个相识的女人。性欲是一种超然的东西，它并不属于一个女人。他精神上爱着米丽亚姆，而一想到克莱拉他就感 到温暖。在心里穹她争斗，他对她的 乳房及肩膀的线条非常熟悉，就好像这些线条塑造在他脑海中，可他并不是非要她不可，他也许可以一辈子不要她。他认为自己被米丽亚姆束缚住了。假如有一天他要结婚的话，他应 有责任娶米丽亚姆为妻。他向克莱拉说明了这一点，她什么也没说，由他自己去决定。一有机会，他就去找她——道伍斯太太。同时， 他经常给米丽亚姆写信，有时还去探望她。整个冬天就这么度过，似乎他并不大烦恼。母亲对他也比较放心，她以为他和米丽亚姆逐渐疏远了。

    米丽亚姆也知道此时克莱拉对他的吸引力有多大，可是她依然相信他的良知一定会胜利。他对道伍斯太太的感情，比起她的爱来要浅薄得多，而且非常短暂，何况，道伍斯太太是结 过婚的女人，她肯定他一定会回到她身边的，说不定还会退 去几分稚气，医治他对低下事物的欲望，这种欲望只有其他女人可以满足 他，她可不行。只要他的心对她是忠实的，并且回到她身边来，她一切都可以忍受。

    他丝毫也未觉察到自己的处境有什么变化。米丽亚姆是他的故友、情人，她属于贝斯伍德，属于家庭和他的青年时代。相比而言，克莱拉是个新朋友，她属于诺丁汉姆，属于生活、属于人间。对他来说，一切很明了。

    道伍斯太太同 他有时很冷淡，两人下常见面，最后总是又凑到一块儿。

    “你对巴克斯特·道伍斯态度很坏是吧？”他问她，这事老使他不安。

    “哪方面？”

    “噢，我不知道，你难道没有对他态度很坏过吗？你难道没有做什么事几乎气死他吗？”

    “你指什么？”

    “使他感到他可有可无——我知道。”保罗宣称。

    “你很聪明， 我的朋友。”她冷冷地说。

    两人谈话到此为止，这以后倒让她冷落了他好一阵子。

    最近她很少看到米丽亚姆。两个女人的友谊虽 没有完全中断，但已十分淡薄了。

    “星期六下午你来参加音乐会吗？”圣诞节刚过，克莱拉就问他。

    “我答应要去威利农场。”他回答。

    “噢，好吧。”

    “你不介意，对吧？”他问。

    “为什么要介意？”她答。

    这回答差点惹火了他。

    “你 知道，”他说，“我和米丽亚姆从 我十六岁时就好上了——到现在已经七年了。”

    “时间真不短。”克莱拉回答。

    “是的，不过不知为何，她——事情总不顺——”

    “怎么啦？”克莱拉问。

    “她好像把我据为己 有，她甚至不肯让我的一根头发随便落下或吹走——她抓住一切不放。”

    “可是，你不是乐意人家霸占你吗？”

    “不，”他说，“我不愿意。我希望一切正常些，彼此取舍——像你我一样。我要个女人守住我，但不是 把我放在她的口袋里。”

    “可是如果你爱她，就不可能正常如你我一样。”

    “是啊，不然我会更爱她些。她要求我的太多了，我不能把自己给她。”

    “她要你怎样？”

    “她要我把灵魂托附给她。我忍不住要逃离她。”

    “可你依然爱她！”

    “不，我不爱她，我甚至还没吻过她。”

    “为什么不吻她？”克莱拉问。

    “我不知道。”

    “我想你是害怕。”她说。

    “我不怕。我一看见她心里就不知怎么搞的，就想逃离她——她是那么好，而我却不好。”

    “你怎么知道她是什么样的人呢？”

    “ 我知道！我知道她想追求一种精神的结合。”

    “不过，你怎么知道她想要呢？”

    “我和她好了七年了。”

    “可你却没看出她最重要的一点。”

    “什么？”

    “她想要的并不是什么精神结合，那是你自己的想象，她要的是你。”

    他反复思量着她的话，也许他错了。

    “但是，她好象——”他开口 说。

    “你从未试过。”她答。

    "They can have all the secrets in the world," she went on,brooding bitterly; "but they might refrain from glorying in them,and making me feel more out of it than ever. It is--it isalmost unbearable."
　　Paul thought for a few minutes. He was much perturbed.
　　"I will tell you what it's all about," he said, pale and nervous. "It's my birthday, and they've bought me a fine lot of paints,all the girls. They're jealous of you"--he felt her stiffen coldlyat the word 'jealous'--"merely because I sometimes bring you a book,"he added slowly. "But, you see, it's only a trifle. Don't botherabout it, will you--because"--he laughed quickly--"well, what would theysay if they saw us here now, in spite of their victory?"
　　She was angry with him for his clumsy reference totheir present intimacy. It was almost insolent of him. Yet he was so quiet, she forgave him, although it cost her an effort.
　　Their two hands lay on the rough stone parapet of the Castle wall. He had inherited from his mother a fineness of mould, so thathis hands were small and vigorous. Hers were large, to match herlarge limbs, but white and powerful looking. As Paul looked at themhe knew her. "She is wanting somebody to take her hands--for all sheis so contemptuous of us," he said to himself. And she saw nothing buthis two hands, so warm and alive, which seemed to live for her. He wasbrooding now, staring out over the country from under sullen brows. The little, interesting diversity of shapes had vanished from the scene;all that remained was a vast, dark matrix of sorrow and tragedy,the same in all the houses and the river-flats and the people andthe birds; they were only shapen differently. And now that the formsseemed to have melted away, there remained the mass from which allthe landscape was composed, a dark mass of struggle and pain. The factory, the girls, his mother, the large, uplifted church,the thicket of the town, merged into one atmosphere--dark, brooding,and sorrowful, every bit.
　　"Is that two o'clock striking?" Mrs. Dawes said in surprise.
　　Paul started, and everything sprang into form, regainedits individuality, its forgetfulness, and its cheerfulness.
　　They hurried back to work.
　　When he was in the rush of preparing for the night's post,examining the work up from Fanny's room, which smelt of ironing,the evening postman came in.
　　"'Mr. Paul Morel,'" he said, smiling, handing Paul a package. "A lady's handwriting! Don't let the girls see it."
　　The postman, himself a favourite, was pleased to make funof the girls' affection for Paul.
　　It was a volume of verse with a brief note: "You will allow meto send you this, and so spare me my isolation. I also sympathiseand wish you well.--C.D." Paul flushed hot.
　　"Good Lord! Mrs. Dawes. She can't afford it. Good Lord,who ever'd have thought it!"
　　He was suddenly intensely moved. He was filled with the warmthof her. In the glow he could almost feel her as if she werepresent--her arms, her shoulders, her bosom, see them, feel them,almost contain them.
　　This move on the part of Clara brought them into closer intimacy. The other girls noticed that when Paul met Mrs. Dawes his eyes liftedand gave that peculiar bright greeting which they could interpret. Knowing he was unaware, Clara made no sign, save thatoccasionally she turned aside her face from him when he came upon her.
　　They walked out together very often at dinner-time; it wasquite open, quite frank. Everybody seemed to feel that he was quiteunaware of the state of his own feeling, and that nothing was wrong. He talked to her now with some of the old fervour with which hehad talked to Miriam, but he cared less about the talk; he didnot bother about his conclusions.
　　One day in October they went out to Lambley for tea. Suddenly they came to a halt on top of the hill. He climbed and saton a gate, she sat on the stile. The afternoon was perfectly still,with a dim haze, and yellow sheaves glowing through. They were quiet.
　　"How old were you when you married?" he asked quietly.
　　"Twenty-two."
　　Her voice was subdued, almost submissive. She would tellhim now.
　　"It is eight years ago?"
　　"Yes."
　　"And when did you leave him?"
　　"Three years ago."
　　"Five years! Did you love him when you married him?"
　　She was silent for some time; then she said slowly:
　　"I thought I did--more or less. I didn't think much about it. And he wanted me. I was very prudish then."
　　"And you sort of walked into it without thinking?"
　　"Yes. I seemed to have been asleep nearly all my life."
　　"Somnambule? But--when did you wake up?"
　　"I don't know that I ever did, or ever have--since I was a child."
　　"You went to sleep as you grew to be a woman? How queer! And he didn't wake you?"
　　"No; he never got there," she replied, in a monotone.
　　The brown birds dashed over the hedges where the rose-hipsstood naked and scarlet.
　　"Got where?" he asked.
　　"At me. He never really mattered to me."
　　The afternoon was so gently warm and dim. Red roofsof the cottages burned among the blue haze. He loved the day. He could feel, but he could not understand, what Clara was saying.
　　"But why did you leave him? Was he horrid to you?"
　　She shuddered lightly.
　　"He--he sort of degraded me. He wanted to bully me because hehadn't got me. And then I felt as if I wanted to run, as if Iwas fastened and bound up. And he seemed dirty."
　　"I see."
　　He did not at all see.
　　"And was he always dirty?" he asked.
　　"A bit," she replied slowly. "And then he seemed as if hecouldn't get AT me, really. And then he got brutal--he WAS brutal!"
　　"And why did you leave him finally?"
　　"Because--because he was unfaithful to me---"
　　They were both silent for some time. Her hand lay on the gate-postas she balanced. He put his own over it. His heart beat quickly.
　　"But did you--were you ever--did you ever give him a chance?"
　　"Chance? How?"
　　"To come near to you."
　　"I married him--and I was willing---"
　　They both strove to keep their voices steady.
　　"I believe he loves you," he said.
　　"It looks like it," she replied.
　　He wanted to take his hand away, and could not. She savedhim by removing her own. After a silence, he began again:
　　"Did you leave him out of count all along?"
　　"He left me," she said.
　　"And I suppose he couldn't MAKE himself mean everything to you?"
　　"He tried to bully me into it."
　　But the conversation had got them both out of their depth. Suddenly Paul jumped down.
　　"Come on," he said. "Let's go and get some tea."
　　They found a cottage, where they sat in the cold parlour. She poured out his tea. She was very quiet. He felt she had withdrawnagain from him. After tea, she stared broodingly into her tea-cup,twisting her wedding ring all the time. In her abstraction she tookthe ring off her finger, stood it up, and spun it upon the table. The gold became a diaphanous, glittering globe. It fell, and thering was quivering upon the table. She spun it again and again. Paul watched, fascinated.
　　But she was a married woman, and he believed in simple friendship. And he considered that he was perfectly honourable with regard to her. It was only a friendship between man and woman, such as any civilisedpersons might have.
　　He was like so many young men of his own age. Sex had becomeso complicated in him that he would have denied that he evercould want Clara or Miriam or any woman whom he knew. Sex desirewas a sort of detached thing, that did not belong to a woman. He loved Miriam with his soul. He grew warm at the thoughtof Clara, he battled with her, he knew the curves of her breastand shoulders as if they had been moulded inside him; and yet hedid not positively desire her. He would have denied it for ever. He believed himself really bound to Miriam. If ever he should marry,some time in the far future, it would be his duty to marry Miriam. That he gave Clara to understand, and she said nothing, but left himto his courses. He came to her, Mrs. Dawes, whenever he could. Then he wrote frequently to Miriam, and visited the girl occasionally. So he went on through the winter; but he seemed not so fretted. His mother was easier about him. She thought he was getting awayfrom Miriam.
　　Miriam knew now how strong was the attraction of Clara for him;but still she was certain that the best in him would triumph. His feeling for Mrs. Dawes--who, moreover, was a married woman--was shallow and temporal, compared with his love for herself. He would come back to her, she was sure; with some of his youngfreshness gone, perhaps, but cured of his desire for the lesser thingswhich other women than herself could give him. She could bear allif he were inwardly true to her and must come back.
　　He saw none of the anomaly of his position. Miriam was hisold friend, lover, and she belonged to Bestwood and home and his youth. Clara was a newer friend, and she belonged to Nottingham, to life,to the world. It seemed to him quite plain.
　　Mrs. Dawes and he had many periods of coolness, when they sawlittle of each other; but they always came together again.
　　"Were you horrid with Baxter Dawes?" he asked her. It wasa thing that seemed to trouble him.
　　"In what way?"
　　"Oh, I don't know. But weren't you horrid with him? Didn't you do something that knocked him to pieces?"
　　"What, pray?"
　　"Making him feel as if he were nothing--I know," Paul declared.
　　"You are so clever, my friend," she said coolly.
　　The conversation broke off there. But it made her coolwith him for some time.
　　She very rarely saw Miriam now. The friendship betweenthe two women was not broken off, but considerably weakened.
　　"Will you come in to the concert on Sunday afternoon?" Clara asked him just after Christmas.
　　"I promised to go up to Willey Farm," he replied.
　　"Oh, very well."
　　"You don't mind, do you?" he asked.
　　"Why should I?" she answered.
　　Which almost annoyed him.
　　"You know," he said, "Miriam and I have been a lot to eachother ever since I was sixteen--that's seven years now."
　　"It's a long time," Clara replied.
　　"Yes; but somehow she--it doesn't go right---"
　　"How?" asked Clara.
　　"She seems to draw me and draw me, and she wouldn't leavea single hair of me free to fall out and blow away--she'd keep it."
　　"But you like to be kept."
　　"No," he said, "I don't. I wish it could be normal, give and take--like me and you. I want a woman to keep me, but not in her pocket."
　　"But if you love her, it couldn't be normal, like me and you."
　　"Yes; I should love her better then. She sort of wants meso much that I can't give myself."
　　"Wants you how?"
　　"Wants the soul out of my body. I can't help shrinking backfrom her."
　　"And yet you love her!"
　　"No, I don't love her. I never even kiss her."
　　"Why not?" Clara asked.
　　"I don't know."
　　"I suppose you're afraid," she said.
　　"I'm not. Something in me shrinks from her like hell--she'sso good, when I'm not good."
　　"How do you know what she is?"
　　"I do! I know she wants a sort of soul union."
　　"But how do you know what she wants?"
　　"I've been with her for seven years."
　　"And you haven't found out the very first thing about her."
　　"What's that?"
　　"That she doesn't want any of your soul communion. That's your own imagination. She wants you."
　　He pondered over this. Perhaps he was wrong.
　　"But she seems---" he began.
　　"You've never tried," she answered.