随着春天的到来，保罗又像先前一样的狂躁，内心冲突激烈。现在， 他知道他一定得去找米丽亚姆了。不过，他为什么这么不情愿呢？他对自己说，这只是因为他俩过于看重贞节，谁也无法冲破它。他本来可以娶她的，但由于家人从中阻挠，这事就变得非常棘手。再加上他本人也不想结婚。结婚是为了生活，他并不认为他和她已经是亲密的友伴就必须结成夫妻。他并没有感到自己需要和米丽亚姆结婚，他倒是希望自己有这种想法，只要他能感到娶她并占有她的欢愉，他情愿献出自己的头颅来交换。那么，究竟为什么他丝毫没有这种欲望呢？因为有着某种障碍。什么障碍呢？障碍就是肉体上的束缚。他羞怯地逃避肉体上的接触。但这是为什么呢？和她在一起，他就感觉到内心仿佛被捆绑住了似的，无法挣脱束缚去爱她，他的内心有什么东西在挣扎着，可始终无法接近她，为什么呢？她爱他。克莱拉说她甚至想要他呢。那么，为什么他就不能 去接近她，同她求欢做爱，亲吻她呢？当 他们并肩而行，她怯怯地勾住他的胳膊，他为何因害怕产生邪念而畏缩起来呢？他欠着她的许多情，他想把自己献给她。也许这种退缩和逃避就是初恋中过分的害羞吧。他对她并没有一点厌恶。恰恰相反，他心里有一股强烈的欲望跟比它更为强烈的羞怯感和贞操观念进行搏斗，仿佛贞操观念是一种正面力量，它战胜其余两者。和她相处时他觉得很难克服这种童贞的羞怯，然而他们相处得极为亲密，而且只有和她在一起，他才能从容地打破这种状态。他欠着她的情。因此如果一切都顺利， 他们就可以结婚。不过，除非他感受到婚姻无穷乐趣，否则，他不会结婚的——决不会。要不他就没险 去见母亲。对他来说，牺牲自己，违愿地去结婚，那简直是堕落，会毁了他自己的一生，使婚姻失去了意义。他还是要尽力而为的。
他对米丽亚姆充满强烈的感情。她总是一副忧伤的神情，神游于她的宗教信仰中；而他几乎就是她心目中的信仰。他不忍心让她失望。只要他们努力，一切都会好起来的。
他看看周围他所认识的品行端正的男人中有许多跟他一样，被无法打破的童贞观念所束缚。他们对待自己所钟情的女人都格外小心，宁肯一辈子不娶，也不愿伤害她们，让她们受委屈。由于他们母亲的神圣的女性情感曾遭受到他们父亲的粗暴伤害，作为这些母亲的儿子，他们就显得超常的羞怯。他们可以轻易地克制自己，而不愿受到女性的责备，因为每位女性都像他们的母亲，他们总是悉心地替母亲考虑着。他们情愿自己忍受独守的煎熬也不愿给别人带来痛苦。
保罗又回到了米丽亚姆身边。当他望着她时，她神情中的什么东西竟会使他热泪盈眶。一天，她在唱歌，他就站在她身后，安妮用钢琴伴奏。米丽亚姆唱歌时，双唇看起来象修女对着上天歌唱一样，显得那么绝望。这让他想起博蒂切利画的《圣母像》里站在圣母身边唱歌人的嘴唇和眼睛，那么圣洁。于是他的内心又痛苦起来，像被烧红的烙铁烫过似的热辣辣的痛。他为什么还向她要求别的什么呢？为什么他的热血与她相逆呢？只要他能对她始终温柔有礼，在沉思和神圣的梦想中与她同呼吸共患难，他宁愿失去自己的右手。伤害她是不公平的。她似乎永远是一位童贞少女，每当他想起他的母亲，就仿佛看见一位睁着褐色大眼的少女，她几乎在恐慌和震惊中失去了童贞。尽管她生了七个孩子，但她那少女的童贞并未完全失去，因为这些孩子都是在违背她的意愿的情况下 出生的，就好像他们不是她生的，而强加加在她身上的。所以，她从来谈不上对他们放任自流，因为她从来不曾拥 有过他们。
莫瑞尔太太看到保罗又如此频繁地去找米丽亚姆，不禁十分吃惊。他没有告诉母亲，既不解释，也不开脱。如果他回来晚了，母亲责备了他，他就皱起眉头，用蛮横的口气对待她。
“我什么时候愿意回家就什么时候回，我已经长大了。”
“她非得把你留这么晚吗？”
“是我自己愿意的。”他答道。
“那她让你待下去？很好。”她说。
于是，她只好给他留着门上床睡觉去了，可是她躺在床上，竖着耳朵听着，直到他很晚回来才能入睡。他又回到米丽亚姆身边了，这对她来说再痛苦不过了，然而，她也认识到再怎么干涉也是徒劳的。他现在是以一个男人的身分而不再是一个小孩去威利农场的。她没有权力管束他。母子之间出现了隔阂。他几乎什么也不告诉她。尽管他对她这样冷漠，她还是一如既往等他，为他做饭，心甘情愿地服侍他，不过她的脸又变得冷冰冰的，像戴了一副面具似的。如今，除了家务之外，她就无事可干。她不能原谅他把整个心都给了米丽亚姆。米丽亚姆扼杀了他心中的快乐和温暖。他曾是一个快乐的小伙子，内心充满温情，可他现在却变得冷酷无情，脾气越来越暴躁，心情心越来越烦闷。这使她想起威廉，保罗的情况比他更糟糕。他干起事来更为专注，更想把自己的幻想付诸行动。母亲知道他因迫切的需要一个女人而受苦，她眼看着他又回到米丽亚姆的身边去。要是他已经下定了决心，那么任何力量都改变不了他。莫瑞尔太太已经心力疲惫，终于对他放任自流，她已经完成了她的使命，现在她成了绊脚石了。
他仍然一意孤行。他多少也明白一些母亲的心情。可这反而让他心肠更硬。他对她冷若冰霜，就如同对自己的健康完全漠视一样。很快他的健康愈来愈坏，但他仍然坚持着。
一个晚上，在威利农场，他仰躺在摇椅里，这几个星期来，他一直跟米丽亚姆谈天，然而始终没有涉及到关键。这时，他突然开口道：
“我快二十四岁了。”
她正在沉思着什么，听了这话突然吃惊地抬起头来。
“不错，你为什么说这个？”
屋里被一种令她害怕的气氛笼罩着。
“托马斯·莫尔爵士说，人到了二十四岁就可以结婚。”
她古怪地笑着说：
“这不需要托马斯·莫尔批准啊？”
“不是，可是一个人到了这个年龄也该结婚。”
“嗳。”她沉思地回答，等待 他往下说。
“我不能娶你，”他继续慢慢地说，“现在不行，因为我们没有钱，而家里又靠我养活。”
她坐那儿，猜测着他要说些什么。
“但是我现在就想结婚——”
“你想结婚？”她重复了一句。
“娶个女人——你知道我是什么意思。”
她没有吭声。
“现在我终于下决心要结婚了。”他说。
“嗳。”她答道。
“你爱我吗？”
她苦笑了。
“你干嘛羞耻啊？”他说，“当着上帝的面你都不羞耻，当着几人的面有什么好羞耻的呢？”
“不，”她深沉地回答，“我并没有羞耻。”
“你感到羞耻了，”他有些痛若地回答，“这都是我不好。不过你也知道，我也没有办法——确实没办法——你知道的，对不对？”
“我知道你是没有办法。”她说道。
“我非常爱你——但这爱里还欠缺点什么东西。”
“欠缺什么？”她看着他问道。
“哦，是我心里欠缺一些东西！我才应当感到羞耻——我像个精神上的残废。我感到羞耻，真痛昔。但是为什么这样啊！”
“我不知道。”米丽亚姆答道。
“我也不知道，”他重复着，“你难道不觉得我们有太多别人所谓的纯洁吗？你难道不觉得这样什么都害怕，什么都嫌弃，反而是一种肮脏吗？”
她瞪着那双吃惊的黑眼睛望着他。
“你总是逃避这类事，我受到你的影响，也唯恐避之不及，这或许会更糟。”
屋里一阵沉默。
“是的，”她说，“是这样。”
“这么多年来，”他接着说，“我们之间一直非常亲密，我在你面前毫无掩饰地袒露自己你明白吗？”
“我也这么想。”她答道。
“那你爱我吗？”
她笑了。
“不要嘲笑人。”他恳求道。
她望着他，有点替他难过， 他的眼睛充满痛苦，黯淡无光。她替他难过，让他承受这种畸形的爱比让她自己承受更加有害，她不是他适合的伴侣。 他坐立不安，总是急于找一条可以任意发泄的出路。他可以干自己想干的事情从她身上得 到她想得到的东西。
“不，”她柔声地说，“我并没有嘲笑。”
她觉得自己可以为他忍受一切，愿意为他而受苦。他坐在椅子上，身子往前倾着，她把手放在了他的膝上。他拿起她的手吻了一下，不过这么做使他心里感到痛苦。他觉得这是把自己当做局外人。他坐那里为她的纯洁做出牺牲，这种无谓的牺牲。他怎么能充满深情地吻她的手呢？这只会把她逼走，而留下痛苦。但 他还是慢慢地把她拉过来，吻了她。
他们互相太了解了，任何掩饰都是徒劳无益。当她吻他的时候，注视着他的眼睛，只见他凝视着屋子对面，那种古怪的炽热的眼神令她着迷。他纹丝不动。她可以感觉到他的心在胸膛里沉重地怦怦跳动着。
“你在想什么？”她问。
他那炽热的眼神问了一下，变得捉摸不定。
“ 我一直在想，我对你的爱是坚定不移的。”
她把头埋在他的怀里。
“嗯。”她应了一声。
“就是这样。”他说，声音里似乎充满了信心。他吻着她的脖子。
她抬起头来，那双含情脉脉的眼睛注视着他的眼睛，只见那炽热的眼神跃动着，仿佛竭力想避开她，随之平静下来。他赶紧把头转到一边。这是非常痛苦的一刻。
“吻我。”她低声说。
他闭上了眼睛，吻了她，两臂越来越紧地搂着她。
当他俩一起穿 过田野回家时，他说：
“我真高兴又回到你的身边。和你在一起我感到很单纯——就好像没有什么可以隐瞒的，我们会幸福吗？”
“会的。”她喃喃地说，热泪涌了出来。
“在 我们内心深处有种荒谬的东西，”他说，“它强迫我们不敢接受自身所需要的东西，甚至唯恐避之不及，我们必须跟它斗争。”
“是的。”她 说，随之心里感到吃惊。
她站在路边荆棘树下阴影里，他吻着她，手指在她的脸上轻轻地抚摸着。黑暗中，他看不见她，只能触摸到她的存在，他不禁情欲亢奋，紧紧地搂着她。
“你总有一天会要我的，是吗？”他把脸埋在她的肩头，喃喃地说。这话太难说了。
“现在不行。”她说。
他的希望和他的心一起往下沉，顿时感到意气消沉。
“不行？”他说。
他松开了搂着她的双手。
“我喜欢你的胳膊搂着我！”她说着后背紧紧地贴着搂她的胳膊，“这样我感到舒服。”
他紧紧地搂住她的腰，让她靠着。
“我们彼此属于对方。”他说。
“是的。”
“那为什么我们不能完全属于对方呢？”
“但是——”她结结巴巴，不知所云。
“我知道这要求太 过分，”他说，“可对你来说并不是冒险——不会重蹈覆辙，你信得过我吗？”
“哦，我相信你。”回答得既干脆又响亮。“不是因为这个——根本不是因为——但是——”
“什么？”
她把脸埋在他的脖子里，痛苦的 呻吟着。
“我不知道！”她叫道。
她似乎有点神经质，还略带恐惧。他的心凉透了。
“你不认为这是件丑事吧？”他问。
“不，我现在不这样认为，你已经让 我明白这不是丑事。”
“你害怕吗？”
她急忙镇定了一下。
“是的， 我只是感到害怕。”她说。
他温柔地吻着她。
“放心好了，”他说，“你可以按自己的心愿行事！”
突然，她抓住了那拥着她的胳膊，挺直身体。
“你可以要我。”这话像从她牙缝里挤出来的。
他的心又像一团火开始急速跳起来。他紧紧地拥着她，吻着她的脖子。她受不了，躲闪着。他松开了她。
“你回去不晚吧？”她温柔地问。
他叹了口气，几乎没听清她说了些什么。她等待着，希望他离开。终于，他轻轻地吻了她一下，然后翻过篱笆。他回头望了一眼，只见低垂枝条的树荫下隐隐露出她那苍白的面容。她全身已经隐 去了，只剩下了这张苍白的面孔。
“再见！”她柔声说道。已经看不见她的身体，只有声音和那张若隐若现的脸。他转身沿路跑去，紧握着双拳，他来到湖滨大堤上，靠在那儿，抬眼望着黑色的湖水，感到神情恍惚。
米丽亚姆踏着青草匆匆地往家跑。她并不害怕别人的闲言碎语，但是她害怕 和他发生那件事。是的，如果他坚持，她会让他要的，可是，事后想起来，她的心不由得往下沉。他得不到满足，准会非常失望的，也会因此而离开她。然而他是那么急切，对于她来说，那件事并不重要，重要的是因此而使他们的爱情破裂。毕竟，他与别的男人毫无二致，总想求得自己的满足。哦，他身上还有一些别的东西，一些更为深层的东西！尽管他有各种各样的欲望，但她还是信赖他。他说占有是生活中最伟大的时刻。所有强烈的感情都包容在这里面。也许真是这样。这里面包含某种神圣的意味；因此她愿意虔诚地做出牺牲。他应该占 有她。想到这儿，她全身不由自主地绷紧了，像是抵抗着什么，但生活如强逼她 走过这道痛苦之门，她也只好遵从了。不管怎么说，生活也会让他得 到他想得到的东西，这也是她最大的心愿。她这样翻来覆去的思考着，准备接受他的要求。
WITH the spring came again the old madness and battle. Now he knew he would have to go to Miriam. But what was his reluctance? He told himself it was only a sort of overstrong virginity in her and him which neither could break through. He might have married her; but his circumstances at home made it difficult, and, moreover, he did not want to marry. Marriage was for life, and because they had become close companions, he and she, he did not see that it should inevitably follow they should be man and wife. He did not feel that he wanted marriage with Miriam. He wished he did. He would have given his head to have felt a joyous desire to marry her and to have her. Then why couldn't he bring it off? There was some obstacle; and what was the obstacle? It lay in the physical bondage. He shrank from the physical contact. But why? With her he felt bound up inside himself. He could not go out to her. Something struggled in him, but he could not get to her. Why? She loved him. Clara said she even wanted him; then why couldn't he go to her, make love to her, kiss her? Why, when she put her arm in his, timidly, as they walked, did he feel he would burst forth in brutality and recoil? He owed himself to her; he wanted to belong to her. Perhaps the recoil and the shrinking from her was love in its first fierce modesty. He had no aversion for her. No, it was the opposite; it was a strong desire battling with a still stronger shyness and virginity. It seemed as if virginity were a positive force, which fought and won in both of them. And with her he felt it so hard to overcome; yet he was nearest to her, and with her alone could he deliberately break through. And he owed himself to her. Then, if they could get things right, they could marry; but he would not marry unless he could feel strong in the joy of it--never. He could not have faced his mother. It seemed to him that to sacrifice himself in a marriage he did not want would be degrading, and would undo all his life, make it a nullity. He would try what he COULD do.
And he had a great tenderness for Miriam. Always, she was sad, dreaming her religion; and he was nearly a religion to her. He could not bear to fail her. It would all come right if they tried.
He looked round. A good many of the nicest men he knew were like himself, bound in by their own virginity, which they could not break out of. They were so sensitive to their women that they would go without them for ever rather than do them a hurt, an injustice. Being the sons of mothers whose husbands had blundered rather brutally through their feminine sanctities, they were themselves too diffident and shy. They could easier deny themselves than incur any reproach from a woman; for a woman was like their mother, and they were full of the sense of their mother. They preferred themselves to suffer the misery of celibacy, rather than risk the other person.
He went back to her. Something in her, when he looked at her, brought the tears almost to his eyes. One day he stood behind her as she sang. Annie was playing a song on the piano. As Miriam sang her mouth seemed hopeless. She sang like a nun singing to heaven. It reminded him so much of the mouth and eyes of one who sings beside a Botticelli Madonna, so spiritual. Again, hot as steel, came up the pain in him. Why must he ask her for the other thing? Why was there his blood battling with her? If only he could have been always gentle, tender with her, breathing with her the atmosphere of reverie and religious dreams, he would give his right hand. It was not fair to hurt her. There seemed an eternal maidenhood about her; and when he thought of her mother, he saw the great brown eyes of a maiden who was nearly scared and shocked out of her virgin maidenhood, but not quite, in spite of her seven children. They had been born almost leaving her out of count, not of her, but upon her. So she could never let them go, because she never had possessed them.
Mrs. Morel saw him going again frequently to Miriam, and was astonished. He said nothing to his mother. He did not explain nor excuse himself. If he came home late, and she reproached him, he frowned and turned on her in an overbearing way:
"I shall come home when I like," he said; "I am old enough."
"Must she keep you till this time?"
"It is I who stay," he answered.
"And she lets you? But very well," she said.
And she went to bed, leaving the door unlocked for him; but she lay listening until he came, often long after. It was a great bitterness to her that he had gone back to Miriam. She recognised, however, the uselessness of any further interference. He went to Willey Farm as a man now, not as a youth. She had no right over him. There was a coldness between him and her. He hardly told her anything. Discarded, she waited on him, cooked for him still, and loved to slave for him; but her face closed again like a mask. There was nothing for her to do now but the housework; for all the rest he had gone to Miriam. She could not forgive him. Miriam killed the joy and the warmth in him. He had been such a jolly lad, and full of the warmest affection; now he grew colder, more and more irritable and gloomy. It reminded her of William; but Paul was worse. He did things with more intensity, and more realisation of what he was about. His mother knew how he was suffering for want of a woman, and she saw him going to Miriam. If he had made up his mind, nothing on earth would alter him. Mrs. Morel was tired. She began to give up at last; she had finished. She was in the way.
He went on determinedly. He realised more or less what his mother felt. It only hardened his soul. He made himself callous towards her; but it was like being callous to his own health. It undermined him quickly; yet he persisted.
He lay back in the rocking-chair at Willey Farm one evening. He had been talking to Miriam for some weeks, but had not come to the point. Now he said suddenly:
"I am twenty-four, almost."
She had been brooding. She looked up at him suddenly in surprise.
"Yes. What makes you say it?"
There was something in the charged atmosphere that she dreaded.
"Sir Thomas More says one can marry at twenty-four."
She laughed quaintly, saying:
"Does it need Sir Thomas More's sanction?"
"No; but one ought to marry about then."
"Ay," she answered broodingly; and she waited.
"I can't marry you," he continued slowly, "not now, because we've no money, and they depend on me at home."
She sat half-guessing what was coming.
"But I want to marry now---"
"You want to marry?" she repeated.
"A woman--you know what I mean."
She was silent.
"Now, at last, I must," he said.
"Ay," she answered.
"And you love me?"
She laughed bitterly.
"Why are you ashamed of it," he answered. "You wouldn't be ashamed before your God, why are you before people?"
"Nay," she answered deeply, "I am not ashamed."
"You are," he replied bitterly; "and it's my fault. But you know I can't help being--as I am--don't you?"
"I know you can't help it," she replied.
"I love you an awful lot--then there is something short."
"Where?" she answered, looking at him.
"Oh, in me! It is I who ought to be ashamed--like a spiritual cripple. And I am ashamed. It is misery. Why is it?"
"I don't know," replied Miriam.
"And I don't know," he repeated. "Don't you think we have been too fierce in our what they call purity? Don't you think that to be so much afraid and averse is a sort of dirtiness?"
She looked at him with startled dark eyes.
"You recoiled away from anything of the sort, and I took the motion from you, and recoiled also, perhaps worse."
There was silence in the room for some time.
"Yes," she said, "it is so."
"There is between us," he said, "all these years of intimacy. I feel naked enough before you. Do you understand?"
"I think so," she answered.
"And you love me?"
She laughed.
"Don't be bitter," he pleaded.
She looked at him and was sorry for him; his eyes were dark with torture. She was sorry for him; it was worse for him to have this deflated love than for herself, who could never be properly mated. He was restless, for ever urging forward and trying to find a way out. He might do as he liked, and have what he liked of her.
"Nay," she said softly, "I am not bitter."
She felt she could bear anything for him; she would suffer for him. She put her hand on his knee as he leaned forward in his chair. He took it and kissed it; but it hurt to do so. He felt he was putting himself aside. He sat there sacrificed to her purity, which felt more like nullity. How could he kiss her hand passionately, when it would drive her away, and leave nothing but pain? Yet slowly he drew her to him and kissed her.
They knew each other too well to pretend anything. As she kissed him, she watched his eyes; they were staring across the room, with a peculiar dark blaze in them that fascinated her. He was perfectly still. She could feel his heart throbbing heavily in his breast.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked.
The blaze in his eyes shuddered, became uncertain.
"I was thinking, all the while, I love you. I have been obstinate."
She sank her head on his breast.
"Yes," she answered.
"That's all," he said, and his voice seemed sure, and his mouth was kissing her throat.
Then she raised her head and looked into his eyes with her full gaze of love. The blaze struggled, seemed to try to get away from her, and then was quenched. He turned his head quickly aside. It was a moment of anguish.
"Kiss me," she whispered.
He shut his eyes, and kissed her, and his arms folded her closer and closer.
When she walked home with him over the fields, he said:
"I am glad I came back to you. I feel so simple with you--as if there was nothing to hide. We will be happy?"
"Yes," she murmured, and the tears came to her eyes.
"Some sort of perversity in our souls," he said, "makes us not want, get away from, the very thing we want. We have to fight against that."
"Yes," she said, and she felt stunned.
As she stood under the drooping-thorn tree, in the darkness by the roadside, he kissed her, and his fingers wandered over her face. In the darkness, where he could not see her but only feel her, his passion flooded him. He clasped her very close.
"Sometime you will have me?" he murmured, hiding his face on her shoulder. It was so difficult.
"Not now," she said.
His hopes and his heart sunk. A dreariness came over him.
"No," he said.
His clasp of her slackened.
"I love to feel your arm THERE!" she said, pressing his arm against her back, where it went round her waist. "It rests me so."
He tightened the pressure of his arm upon the small of her back to rest her.
"We belong to each other," he said.
"Yes."
"Then why shouldn't we belong to each other altogether?"
"But---" she faltered.
"I know it's a lot to ask," he said; "but there's not much risk for you really--not in the Gretchen way. You can trust me there?"
"Oh, I can trust you." The answer came quick and strong. "It's not that--it's not that at all--but---"
"What?"
She hid her face in his neck with a little cry of misery.
"I don't know!" she cried.
She seemed slightly hysterical, but with a sort of horror. His heart died in him.
"You don't think it ugly?" he asked.
"No, not now. You have TAUGHT me it isn't."
"You are afraid?"
She calmed herself hastily.
"Yes, I am only afraid," she said.
He kissed her tenderly.
"Never mind," he said. "You should please yourself."
Suddenly she gripped his arms round her, and clenched her body stiff.
"You SHALL have me," she said, through her shut teeth.
His heart beat up again like fire. He folded her close, and his mouth was on her throat. She could not bear it. She drew away. He disengaged her.
"Won't you be late?" she asked gently.
He sighed, scarcely hearing what she said. She waited, wishing he would go. At last he kissed her quickly and climbed the fence. Looking round he saw the pale blotch of her face down in the darkness under the hanging tree. There was no more of her but this pale blotch.
"Good-bye!" she called softly. She had no body, only a voice and a dim face. He turned away and ran down the road, his fists clenched; and when he came to the wall over the lake he leaned there, almost stunned, looking up the black water.
Miriam plunged home over the meadows. She was not afraid of people, what they might say; but she dreaded the issue with him. Yes, she would let him have her if he insisted; and then, when she thought of it afterwards, her heart went down. He would be disappointed, he would find no satisfaction, and then he would go away. Yet he was so insistent; and over this, which did not seem so all-important to her, was their love to break down. After all, he was only like other men, seeking his satisfaction. Oh, but there was something more in him, something deeper! She could trust to it, in spite of all desires. He said that possession was a great moment in life. All strong emotions concentrated there. Perhaps it was so. There was something divine in it; then she would submit, religiously, to the sacrifice. He should have her. And at the thought her whole body clenched itself involuntarily, hard, as if against something; but Life forced her through this gate of suffering, too, and she would submit. At any rate, it would give him what he wanted, which was her deepest wish. She brooded and brooded and brooded herself towards accepting him.
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