CHAPTER X
CLARA
When he was twenty-three years old Paul sent in a landscape to the winter exhibition at Nottingham Castle. Miss Jordan had taken a good deal of interest in him, had 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 in the scullery. Suddenly he heard a wild noise from his mother. Rushing into the kitchen, he found her standing on the hearthrug wildly 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 greying hair suddenly bursting out in such frenzy. The postman came running back, afraid something had happened. They saw his tipped cap over the short curtain. Mrs. Morel rushed to the door.
“His picture’s got first prize, Fred,” she cried, “and is sold for 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 brought such a lucky letter. Mrs. Morel went indoors and sat down, trembling. Paul was afraid lest she might have misread the letter, and might be disappointed after all. He scrutinized it once, twice. Yes, he became convinced it was true. Then he sat down, his heart beating with joy.
“Mother!” he exclaimed.
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