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"I want my father; he's got to go to London." "Thy feyther? Is he down? What's his name?" "Mr. Morel." "What, Walter? Is owt amiss?" "He's got to go to London." The man went to the telephone and rang up the bottom office. "Walter Morel's wanted, number 42, Hard. Summat's amiss; there's his lad here." Then he turned round to Paul. "He'll be up in a few minutes," he said.
"Lord, let my father die," he prayed very often. "Let him not be killed at pit," he prayed when, after tea, the father did not come home from work. That was another time when the family suffered intensely. The children came from school and had their teas. On the hob the big black saucepan was simmering, the stew-jar was in the oven, ready for Morel's dinner. He was expected at five o'clock.
Then she withdrew and said, trying to be quite normal: "But how late you are!" "Aren't I!" he cried, turning to his father. "Well, dad!" The two men shook hands. "Well, my lad!" Morel's eyes were wet. "We thought tha'd niver be commin'," he said. "Oh, I'd come!" exclaimed William. Then the son turned round to his mother. "But you look well," she said proudly, laughing. "Well!" he exclaimed.
Paul was in bed for seven weeks. He got up white and fragile. His father had bought him a pot of scarlet and gold tulips. They used to flame in the window in the March sunshine as he sat on the sofa chattering to his mother. The two knitted together in perfect intimacy. Mrs. Morel's life now rooted itself in Paul. William had been a prophet. Mrs.
The coffin veered, and was gently lowered on to the chairs. The sweat fell from Morel's face on its boards. "My word, he's a weight!" said a man, and the five miners sighed, bowed, and, trembling with the struggle, descended the steps again, closing the door behind them. The family was alone in the parlour with the great polished box. William, when laid out, was six feet four inches long.
"Father, father!" cried one of Morel's little boys, coming out of the garret, "mother is calling you; come directly, pray do." The lapidary hastily entered the room. "Now, neighbor," said Rudolph to Miss Dimpleton, "you must render me a still further service." "With all my heart, if it be in my power." "You are, I am sure, an excellent little housewife.
Morel had managed wonderfully while her children were growing up, so that nothing was out of place. Miriam talked books a little. That was her unfailing topic. But Mrs. Morel was not cordial, and turned soon to Edgar. At first Edgar and Miriam used to go into Mrs. Morel's pew. Morel never went to chapel, preferring the public-house. Mrs.
Morel had a little present and a letter from Lily at Christmas. Mrs. Morel's sister had a letter at the New Year. "I was at a ball last night. Some delightful people were there, and I enjoyed myself thoroughly," said the letter. "I had every dance did not sit out one." Mrs. Morel never heard any more of her.
As such, he looked spruce, and what his clothes would not do, his instinct for making the most of his good looks would. At half-past nine Jerry Purdy came to call for his pal. Jerry was Morel's bosom friend, and Mrs. Morel disliked him. He was a tall, thin man, with a rather foxy face, the kind of face that seems to lack eyelashes.
Morel's relatives, "superior" people, and wept, and said what a good lass she'd been, and how he'd tried to do everything he could for her everything. He had striven all his life to do what he could for her, and he'd nothing to reproach himself with. She was gone, but he'd done his best for her. He wiped his eyes with his white handkerchief. He'd nothing to reproach himself for, he repeated.