保罗二十三岁时，送了一幅风景画参加诺丁汉姆堡的冬季画展，乔丹小姐对他很感兴趣，邀请他去她家做客。他在那儿认识了其他一些画家，使他开始变得野心勃勃。

    一天早晨，他正在洗碗间洗漱，邮递员来了，突然，他听到母亲一声狂叫，他赶紧冲进厨房，只见她站在炉前的地毯上，拼命地挥舞着一封信，嘴里大喊“好啊！”就像发了疯。他吃了一惊。吓得要死。

    “怎么了，妈妈！”他惊呼道。

    她飞奔向他，伸 出双臂抱了 他片刻，然后挥舞着信，大叫道：

    “好啊，我的孩子！我就知道咱们会成功的！”

    他有点怕她——这个身材矮小、神态严肃、头发斑白的女人怎么会突然变得这样疯狂。邮递员生怕出什么事，又跑了回来。母子俩看见他歪戴着的帽子出现在半截门帘上方，莫瑞尔太太便冲到门边。

    “他的画得了一等奖，弗雷德，”她大叫着说，“还卖了二十个金币。”

    “天哪，真了不起！”他们熟识的年轻的邮递员 说。

    “莫尔顿少校买下了那幅画！”她大叫着 说。

    “看来确实了不起，真的，莫瑞尔太太，”邮递员说着，蓝眼睛闪闪发亮，为自己送 来了一个喜讯而高兴。莫瑞尔太太走进里屋，坐下来，颤抖着。保罗担心她看错了信，落得空欢喜一场，于是他仔仔细细地把信看了一遍又一遍。不错，他这才相信竟是真的，他坐下来。颗心乐得怦怦直跳

    “妈妈！”他次呼似的喊。

    “我不是说过咱们总会成功吗？”她说着竭力不让他看到自己在哭。

    他从火炉上取下水壶，冲上茶。

    “你当时没想到过，妈妈——”他试探着说。

    “没有， 我的孩子——没有想到这样大的成功——不过我对你期望很高。”

    “没那么高吧？”他说。

    “不——不——可我知道咱们总会成功。”

    随后，她恢复了镇静，至少表面上这样。他敞开衬衣坐着，露出几乎象女孩子一样细嫩的脖子，手里拿着毛巾，头发湿淋淋地竖着。

    “二十个金币，妈妈！正好够你给亚瑟赎身的钱。现在你不必再借钱了，正好够用。”

    “可是，我不能都拿去。”她说。

    “这为什么？”

    “因为我不愿意。”

    “好吧——你有二十英镑，我添九英镑。”

    两人反复地商量怎么分这二十个金币。她只想拿她需要的五英镑，他却不依，于是两人吵了一场，以此平息了心中的兴奋。晚上莫瑞尔从矿井回到家里就说：

    “他们告诉我保罗的画得了一等奖，并且五十镑卖给了亨利·本特利公爵。”

    “噢，瞧人们编的故事多动听！”她大叫着。

    “嘿！”他答道，“我说过这准是瞎说，但是他们说是你告诉弗雷德·霍基森的。”

    “好像我真会告诉他这番话似的！”

    “嘿！”莫瑞尔附和着说。

    但是他还是觉得很扫兴。

    “他真的得了一等奖。”莫瑞尔太太说。

    莫瑞尔一屁股重重地坐在椅子上。

    “真的，我的天呐！”他惊呼道。

    他呆呆地盯着房间对面的墙。

    “至于五十镑——纯属胡说！”她沉默了一会儿。“莫尔顿少校花了二十个金币买了那幅画，这倒是真的。”

    “二十个金币！没有的事吧！”莫瑞尔大叫道。

    “没错，而且也值这么多。”

    “哎！”他说，“我不是不信，但是用二十个金币买一幅他一两个小时就可以画出来的东西！”

    他暗暗为儿子感到自豪。莫瑞尔太太若无其事地哼了一声。

    “这钱他几时到手？”莫瑞尔问。

    “那我可说不上，我想总得等画送到他家以后吧。”

    大家都沉默了。莫瑞尔只是盯着糖罐，却不吃饭。他那黝黑的胳膊搁在桌子上。手由于干活磨得粗糙不堪。他用手背擦着眼睛，把煤屑抹得一张黑脸上全是，妻子假装没有看见。

    “是啊，要是另外那个孩子，没被整死的话，也会这么有出息。”他悄悄地说。

    想起威廉，莫瑞尔太太感到心里像是被冰冷的刀子扎了一下。这时她才感到自己非常疲倦，要休息了。

    乔丹先生邀请保罗去吃饭。回来后他说：

    “妈妈，我想要套夜礼服。”

    “是啊，我想你该有一套。”她说着心里感到高兴。两人沉默了一会儿。“家里有威廉的那一套，”她继续说，“我知道他花了四镑十先令，而他只穿了三次。”

    “你愿意让我穿这一套吗，妈妈？”他问。

    “是的，我想你穿着合身——至少上衣准合身。裤子要改短些。”

    他上楼去，穿好上衣和背心。下来时，只见他的夜礼服上衣和背心里露出一截绒布领子和衬衣前襟，怪模怪样，而且衣服相当肥大。

    “裁缝改一下就好了。”她说着，用手抚摸着他的肩膀。“料子很漂亮，我从来舍不得让你爸爸穿这条裤子，现在我非常高兴让你穿。”当她手刚摸到领结，就想起了大儿子。不过眼前穿这套衣服的是个活生生的儿子。她的手顺势往下摸到他的脊背，他活着，是属于她的儿子，而另一个已不在人世了。

    他穿着威廉生前的夜礼服出去参加了几次宴会。每次母亲都是既骄傲又欣喜，心里很踏实。他现在开始出头露面了。她和孩子们给威廉买的饰针都钉在了他的衬衣前襟上，他还穿着威廉的一件衬衣。但是他的体态优雅，相貌虽然粗扩，却是春风满面，很讨人喜欢。他看上去虽不特别像一位绅士，可是她觉得他的确富有男子气。

   他把所见所闻统统都告诉她，她听了像亲自在场一样。而他呢，急于想把她介绍给当晚七点半一起用餐的这些新朋友。

    “自己去吧，”她说，“他们认识我干嘛？”

    “他们想认识你！”他愤愤不平地大叫，“如果他们想认识我——他们说他们真的想认识我——那么他们也想认识你，因为你和我一样聪明。”

    “去你的吧，孩子！”她大笑道。

    可是，她开始爱惜自己的双手。如今这双手由于干活磨得非常粗糙，在热水中泡了这么长时间，皮肤都透亮了，而且指关节也肿了。不过，她开始小心不碰苏打水，她惋惜当初自己的一双手——长得又纤小又细腻。安妮坚持要她添几件适合她这个年龄的时髦外衣，她也顺从了。她甚至还允许在发际上别一个黑丝绒蝴蝶结，然后，她就嘲讽似的对自己嗤之以鼻，确认自己看上去一定怪模怪样。但是，保罗却宣称她看上去像一位贵夫人，跟莫尔顿上校夫人不相上下，甚至有过之而无不及。家境日渐好转，只有莫瑞尔依然如此，倒不如说是慢慢垮下去了。

    如今保罗和母亲经常就人生进行长时间的讨论。宗教意识在他心灵中渐渐消退。他已经铲除了所有妨碍他的信念，扫清了道路，不同程度地树立了这样的信仰，即人应该凭自己的内心来辨别是非，而且应该有耐心去逐渐认识自己心中的上帝。如今生活使他兴趣盎然。

    “你知道，”他对母亲说，“我不想路身富裕的中产阶级，我愿意作普通的平民百姓，我属于平民百姓中的一员。”

    “可要是别人这样说，你听了难道不会难受吗？你要知道你自认为可以与任何绅士媲美。”

    “从我内心来说是如此。”他回答，“可是从我的出身，我的教育或我的举止看并非如此，而从我本身来说，我的确可以与他们并驾齐驱。”

    “很好，那你干嘛又谈论什么平民百姓呢？”

    “因为——人与人之间的差别不在于他们所处的阶级，而在于他们本身。一个人从中产阶级那里能获得思 想，而从平民百姓中——能获得生活的热情，你能感到他们的爱 与恨。”

    “很不错，我的孩子。可是你为什么不去和你爸爸的伙伴谈谈呢？”

    “可他们截然不同。”

    “一点也不。他们是平民百姓。你现在到底和谁混在一起呢？是那些改变了思想，变得像中产阶级的人，而其他在平民百姓中的人引不起你的兴趣的。”

    “可是——他们那儿有生活——”

    “我不相信你从米丽亚姆那儿得到的就一定超过从任何一个有教养的姑娘那儿得到的——一比如说莫尔顿小姐—一是你自己对出身抱有偏见。”

    她真诚地希望他能脐身于中产阶级，她知道这并不难。最终她要他娶个名门淑女。

    她开始跟一直在六神不安、满心烦恼的他进行斗争。他依然跟米丽亚姆有来往，既不能彻底摆脱，又不能下决心订婚。这种优柔寡断似乎 把他搞得精疲力竭。更糟的是母亲还疑心他对克莱拉也在暗中倾心，何况克莱拉是个有夫之妇。母亲希望他能与一个生活条件比较优越的姑娘相爱。但是，他就是傻，仅仅因为姑娘社会地位高就不愿意去爱她，甚至连表示爱慕之意都不情愿。

    “我的孩子，”母亲对他说，“你聪明，敢于与旧事物决裂，能掌握自己的命运，可这些似乎都没给你带来任何幸福。”

    “什么是幸福，”他大叫道。“我才不在乎呢！我会幸福吗？”

    这鲁莽的话使她心烦意乱。

    “这就要你 去判断了，我的孩子。但如果你遇到一位能使你幸福的好女人——你就会开始考虑成家——当你有了养家糊口的途径时——你就可以安心工作，不必日夜烦恼——这样你的日子就好过多了。”

    他皱皱眉。母亲正好触 到了他与米丽亚姆关系的痛处。他撩开额前乱糟糟的头发，两眼冒火，痛苦万分。

    “你图的是安乐，妈妈，”他大叫道，“那是女人的全部的生活信条——心灵和肉体的安逸舒适。可我瞧不起这些。”

    “哦，是吗！”母亲答道。“那你的生活信条就是超凡入圣的不满足？”

    “是的，我不管是不是超凡入圣。那是你要的幸福！只要生活充实，幸福与否根本不重要，恐怕你所谓的幸福会使我厌烦。”

    “你从不肯找个机会试试！”她说。接着她把对他的忧虑全部发泄出来。“可是这的确有关系！”她大叫道：“你应该争取幸福，生活得幸福。我怎能忍心看你生活得不幸福！”

    “你自己的生活已经够糟的了，可是这也没有使你比那些比较幸福的亲戚处境更糟。我认为你尽力了，我也如此，我不是过得很好吗？”

    “你过得不好，我的儿子。搏斗——搏斗——还有受苦，这就是你所做的，这也是 我所知道所看到的一切。”

    “可为什么不呢，亲爱的？我告诉你这是最好的……”

    “不是，每个人应当幸福。每人应该的。”

    说到这儿，莫瑞尔太太不由得浑身发抖。她好像在竭力保全他的性命，且试图打消他自甘灭亡的念头似的，母子之间经常发生这样的争执。保罗用双臂搂住母亲，她既虚弱又可怜。

    “不要紧，妈妈，”他咕哝着 说，“只要你不觉得生活的艰辛与做人的悲惨，余生幸福与否根本无关紧要。”

    她紧紧搂住他。

    “可是我想让你幸福。”她可怜巴巴地说。

    “呃，亲爱的——不如说你要我活下去。”

    莫瑞尔太太觉得自己的心为他操碎了。眼下这种情形，她知道他是活不下去的。他对自己，对自己所受的苦，对自己的生活抱有一种满不在乎的态度，这简直是一种慢性自杀。她的心几乎都要碎了。莫瑞尔太太生性激烈，她极其痛恨米丽亚姆阴险地破坏了他的欢乐。尽管米丽亚姆并没有什么过错，可她不管这些，米丽亚姆破坏了他的欢乐幸福，她就痛恨米丽亚姆。

    她多么希望他会爱上一个相配的姑娘作伴侣——既有教养，身体又强壮。可是 他对身份地位比他高的姑娘连看都不看。他好像喜欢道伍斯太太，无论如何，这种感情还是健康的。母亲日夜为他祈祷，希望他不要虚度青春。她所祈祷的——既不是为他的灵魂，也不是为他的正直，而是求神保佑他不要虚度年华。当他睡觉的时候，她时时刻刻都在为他思虑，为他祈祷。

    他不知不觉跟米丽亚姆疏远了。亚瑟为了结婚而离开军队，婚后六个月就生下孩子。莫瑞尔太太又替他在公司里找到了一份工作，周薪二十一先令。靠比特利斯母亲的帮助，她给他布置好一套两间房的小屋。现在亚瑟被绊住手脚了。不管他怎么挣扎，怎么折腾，终于给拴住了。有一阵子 他对深爱着他的年轻妻子发火，使性子。每当娇嫩的小宝宝哭闹时，他就被搅得心烦意乱。他向母亲诉了半天苦。她只是说：“好啦，我的孩子，你自作自受。现在你必须好好过日子。”于是，他拿出勇气，认真地干活，负担起自己的责任，承认自己属于妻子和孩子，真的好好过起日子来。以前他就跟父母的家不太亲热，如今就更少来往了。

    几个月的时间慢慢地过去了。保罗由于认识了克莱拉，多少与诺丁汉姆城的社会主义者、女权主义者和唯一神教派的教徒有了来往。一天，他和克莱拉都认识的在贝斯伍德的一个朋友请他给道伍斯夫人捎个口信。他当晚就穿过斯拿顿市场到蓝铃山去了。在一条铺着鹅卵石，两旁的人行道砌着瓦楞青砖的简陋的小街上，他找到了那栋房子。行人的脚步踩在这条崎岖的人行道上发出嘎嚓嘎嚓、吧嗒吧嗒的响声，紧靠人行道，跨上一级台阶就是屋子的大门，门上的棕色油漆已经剥落，裂缝间裸露木头。他站在街上敲门，一会儿里面传出一阵沉重的脚步声。一个六十多岁的胖女人赫然屹立在他的面前，他站在人行道上抬眼望着她，她脸孔相当严峻。

    WHEN he was twenty-three years old, Paul sent in a landscape tothe winter exhibition at Nottingham Castle. Miss Jordan had takena good deal of interest in him, and invited him to her house,where he met other artists. He was beginning to grow ambitious.
　　One morning the postman came just as he was washing inthe scullery. Suddenly he heard a wild noise from his mother. Rushing into the kitchen, he found her standing on the hearthrugwildly waving a letter and crying "Hurrah!" as if she had gone mad. He was shocked and frightened.
　　"Why, mother!" he exclaimed.
　　She flew to him, flung her arms round him for a moment,then waved the letter, crying:
　　"Hurrah, my boy! I knew we should do it!"
　　He was afraid of her--the small, severe woman with graying hairsuddenly bursting out in such frenzy. The postman came running back,afraid something had happened. They saw his tipped cap over theshort curtains. Mrs. Morel rushed to the door.
　　"His picture's got first prize, Fred," she cried, "and is soldfor twenty guineas."
　　"My word, that's something like!" said the young postman,whom they had known all his life.
　　"And Major Moreton has bought it!" she cried.
　　"It looks like meanin' something, that does, Mrs. Morel,"said the postman, his blue eyes bright. He was glad to have broughtsuch a lucky letter. Mrs. Morel went indoors and sat down, trembling. Paul was afraid lest she might have misread the letter, and might bedisappointed after all. He scrutinised it once, twice. Yes, he becameconvinced it was true. Then he sat down, his heart beating with joy.
　　"Mother!" he exclaimed.
　　"Didn't I SAY we should do it!" she said, pretending shewas not crying.
　　He took the kettle off the fire and mashed the tea.
　　"You didn't think, mother--" he began tentatively.
　　"No, my son--not so much--but I expected a good deal."
　　"But not so much," he said.
　　"No--no--but I knew we should do it."
　　And then she recovered her composure, apparently at least. He sat with his shirt turned back, showing his young throat almostlike a girl's, and the towel in his hand, his hair sticking up wet.
　　"Twenty guineas, mother! That's just what you wanted to buyArthur out. Now you needn't borrow any. It'll just do."
　　"Indeed, I shan't take it all," she said.
　　"But why?"
　　"Because I shan't."
　　"Well--you have twelve pounds, I'll have nine."
　　They cavilled about sharing the twenty guineas. She wantedto take only the five pounds she needed. He would not hear of it. So they got over the stress of emotion by quarrelling.
　　Morel came home at night from the pit, saying:
　　"They tell me Paul's got first prize for his picture, and soldit to Lord Henry Bentley for fifty pound."
　　"Oh, what stories people do tell!" she cried.
　　"Ha!" he answered. "I said I wor sure it wor a lie. But they said tha'd told Fred Hodgkisson."
　　"As if I would tell him such stuff!"
　　"Ha!" assented the miner.
　　But he was disappointed nevertheless.
　　"It's true he has got the first prize," said Mrs. Morel.
　　The miner sat heavily in his chair.
　　"Has he, beguy!" he exclaimed.
　　He stared across the room fixedly.
　　"But as for fifty pounds--such nonsense!" She was silent awhile. "Major Moreton bought it for twenty guineas, that's true."
　　"Twenty guineas! Tha niver says!" exclaimed Morel.
　　"Yes, and it was worth it."
　　"Ay!" he said. "I don't misdoubt it. But twenty guineasfor a bit of a paintin' as he knocked off in an hour or two!"
　　He was silent with conceit of his son. Mrs. Morel sniffed,as if it were nothing.
　　"And when does he handle th' money?" asked the collier.
　　"That I couldn't tell you. When the picture is sent home,I suppose."
　　There was silence. Morel stared at the sugar-basin insteadof eating his dinner. His black arm, with the hand all gnarledwith work lay on the table. His wife pretended not to see him rubthe back of his hand across his eyes, nor the smear in the coal-duston his black face.
　　"Yes, an' that other lad 'ud 'a done as much if they hadnaha' killed 'im," he said quietly.
　　The thought of William went through Mrs. Morel like a cold blade. It left her feeling she was tired, and wanted rest.
　　Paul was invited to dinner at Mr. Jordan's. Afterwards he said:
　　"Mother, I want an evening suit."
　　"Yes, I was afraid you would," she said. She was glad. There was a moment or two of silence. "There's that one of William's,"she continued, "that I know cost four pounds tenand which he'd only worn three times."
　　"Should you like me to wear it, mother?" he asked.
　　"Yes. I think it would fit you--at least the coat. The trouserswould want shortening."
　　He went upstairs and put on the coat and vest. Coming down,he looked strange in a flannel collar and a flannel shirt-front,with an evening coat and vest. It was rather large.
　　"The tailor can make it right," she said, smoothing her handover his shoulder. "It's beautiful stuff. I never could findin my heart to let your father wear the trousers, and very gladI am now."
　　And as she smoothed her hand over the silk collar she thoughtof her eldest son. But this son was living enough inside the clothes. She passed her hand down his back to feel him. He was alive and hers. The other was dead.
　　He went out to dinner several times in his evening suit that hadbeen William's. Each time his mother's heart was firm with prideand joy. He was started now. The studs she and the children hadbought for William were in his shirt-front; he wore one of William'sdress shirts. But he had an elegant figure. His face was rough,but warm-looking and rather pleasing. He did not look particularlya gentleman, but she thought he looked quite a man.
　　He told her everything that took place, everything that was said. It was as if she had been there. And he was dying to introduce herto these new friends who had dinner at seven-thirty in the evening.
　　"Go along with you!" she said. "What do they want to knowme for?"
　　"They do!" he cried indignantly. "If they want to know me--andthey say they do--then they want to know you, because you are quiteas clever as I am. "
　　"Go along with you, child! " she laughed.
　　But she began to spare her hands. They, too, were work-gnarled now. The skin was shiny with so much hot water, the knuckles rather swollen. But she began to be careful to keep them out of soda. She regrettedwhat they had been--so small and exquisite. And when Annie insistedon her having more stylish blouses to suit her age, she submitted. She even went so far as to allow a black velvet bow to be placedon her hair. Then she sniffed in her sarcastic manner, and wassure she looked a sight. But she looked a lady, Paul declared,as much as Mrs. Major Moreton, and far, far nicer. The familywas coming on. Only Morel remained unchanged, or rather,lapsed slowly.
　　Paul and his mother now had long discussions about life. Religion was fading into the background. He had shovelled awayan the beliefs that would hamper him, had cleared the ground,and come more or less to the bedrock of belief that one should feelinside oneself for right and wrong, and should have the patience togradually realise one's God. Now life interested him more.
　　"You know," he said to his mother, "I don't want to belongto the well-to-do middle class. I like my common people best. I belong to the common people."
　　"But if anyone else said so, my son, wouldn't you be in a tear. YOU know you consider yourself equal to any gentleman."
　　"In myself," he answered, "not in my class or my educationor my manners. But in myself I am."
　　"Very well, then. Then why talk about the common people?"
　　"Because--the difference between people isn't in their class,but in themselves. Only from the middle classes one gets ideas,and from the common people--life itself, warmth. You feel their hatesand loves."
　　"It's all very well, my boy. But, then, why don't you goand talk to your father's pals?"
　　"But they're rather different."
　　"Not at all. They're the common people. After all, whom do youmix with now--among the common people? Those that exchange ideas,like the middle classes. The rest don't interest you."
　　"But--there's the life---"
　　"I don't believe there's a jot more life from Miriam than youcould get from any educated girl--say Miss Moreton. It is YOUwho are snobbish about class."
　　She frankly WANTED him to climb into the middle classes,a thing not very difficult, she knew. And she wanted him in the endto marry a lady.
　　Now she began to combat him in his restless fretting. He still kept up his connection with Miriam, could neither breakfree nor go the whole length of engagement. And this indecisionseemed to bleed him of his energy. Moreover, his mother suspectedhim of an unrecognised leaning towards Clara, and, since the latterwas a married woman, she wished he would fall in love with oneof the girls in a better station of life. But he was stupid,and would refuse to love or even to admire a girl much, just becauseshe was his social superior.
　　"My boy," said his mother to him, "all your cleverness,your breaking away from old things, and taking life in your own hands,doesn't seem to bring you much happiness."
　　"What is happiness!" he cried. "It's nothing to me! How AM I to be happy?"
　　The plump question disturbed her.
　　"That's for you to judge, my lad. But if you could meetsome GOOD woman who would MAKE you happy--and you began to thinkof settling your life--when you have the means--so that you couldwork without all this fretting--it would be much better for you."
　　He frowned. His mother caught him on the raw of his woundof Miriam. He pushed the tumbled hair off his forehead, his eyesfull of pain and fire.
　　"You mean easy, mother," he cried. "That's a woman's whole doctrinefor life--ease of soul and physical comfort. And I do despise it."
　　"Oh, do you!" replied his mother. "And do you call yoursa divine discontent?"
　　"Yes. I don't care about its divinity. But damn your happiness! So long as life's full, it doesn't matter whether it's happy or not. I'm afraid your happiness would bore me."
　　"You never give it a chance," she said. Then suddenly allher passion of grief over him broke out. "But it does matter!"she cried. "And you OUGHT to be happy, you ought to try to be happy,to live to be happy. How could I bear to think your life wouldn'tbe a happy one!"
　　"Your own's been bad enough, mater, but it hasn't left youso much worse off than the folk who've been happier. I reckonyou've done well. And I am the same. Aren't I well enough off?"
　　"You're not, my son. Battle--battle--and suffer. It's aboutall you do, as far as I can see."
　　"But why not, my dear? I tell you it's the best---"
　　"It isn't. And one OUGHT to be happy, one OUGHT."
　　By this time Mrs. Morel was trembling violently. Struggles ofthis kind often took place between her and her son, when sheseemed to fight for his very life against his own will to die. He took her in his arms. She was ill and pitiful.
　　"Never mind, Little," he murmured. "So long as you don't feellife's paltry and a miserable business, the rest doesn't matter,happiness or unhappiness."
　　She pressed him to her.
　　"But I want you to be happy," she said pathetically.
　　"Eh, my dear--say rather you want me to live."
　　Mrs. Morel felt as if her heart would break for him. At this rate she knew he would not live. He had that poignantcarelessness about himself, his own suffering, his own life,which is a form of slow suicide. It almost broke her heart. With all the passion of her strong nature she hated Miriam for havingin this subtle way undermined his joy. It did not matter to herthat Miriam could not help it. Miriam did it, and she hated her.
　　She wished so much he would fall in love with a girl equalto be his mate--educated and strong. But he would not look atanybody above him in station. He seemed to like Mrs. Dawes. At any rate that feeling was wholesome. His mother prayed and prayedfor him, that he might not be wasted. That was all her prayer--notfor his soul or his righteousness, but that he might not be wasted. And while he slept, for hours and hours she thought and prayedfor him.
　　He drifted away from Miriam imperceptibly, without knowing hewas going. Arthur only left the army to be married. The baby wasborn six months after his wedding. Mrs. Morel got him a job underthe firm again, at twenty-one shillings a week. She furnished for him,with the help of Beatrice's mother, a little cottage of two rooms. He was caught now. It did not matter how he kicked and struggled,he was fast. For a time he chafed, was irritable with hisyoung wife, who loved him; he went almost distracted when the baby,which was delicate, cried or gave trouble. He grumbled for hoursto his mother. She only said: "Well, my lad, you did it yourself,now you must make the best of it." And then the grit came out in him. He buckled to work, undertook his responsibilities, acknowledged thathe belonged to his wife and child, and did make a good best of it. He had never been very closely inbound into the family. Now he wasgone altogether.
　　The months went slowly along. Paul had more or less got intoconnection with the Socialist, Suffragette, Unitarian people inNottingham, owing to his acquaintance with Clara. One daya friend of his and of Clara's, in Bestwood, asked him to takea message to Mrs. Dawes. He went in the evening across SneintonMarket to Bluebell Hill. He found the house in a mean little streetpaved with granite cobbles and having causeways of dark blue,grooved bricks. The front door went up a step from off thisrough pavement, where the feet of the passersby rasped and clattered. The brown paint on the door was so old that the naked wood showedbetween the rents. He stood on the street below and knocked. There came a heavy footstep; a large, stout woman of about sixtytowered above him. He looked up at her from the pavement. She had a rather severe face.