Page 211 - sons-and-lovers

liam, prayed that he would recognise her. But the young
man’s face grew more discoloured. In the night she strug-
gled with him. He raved, and raved, and would not come
to consciousness. At two o’clock, in a dreadful paroxysm,
he died.
Mrs. Morel sat perfectly still for an hour in the lodging
bedroom; then she roused the household.
At six o’clock, with the aid of the charwoman, she laid
him out; then she went round the dreary London village to
the registrar and the doctor.
At nine o’clock to the cottage on Scargill Street came an-
other wire:
‘William died last night. Let father come, bring money.’
Annie, Paul, and Arthur were at home; Mr. Morel was
gone to work. The three children said not a word. Annie be-
gan to whimper with fear; Paul set off for his father.
It was a beautiful day. At Brinsley pit the white steam
melted slowly in the sunshine of a soft blue sky; the wheels
of the headstocks twinkled high up; the screen, shuffling its
coal into the trucks, made a busy noise.
‘I want my father; he’s got to go to London,’ said the boy
to the first man he met on the bank.
‘Tha wants Walter Morel? Go in theer an’ tell Joe Ward.’
Paul went into the little top office.
‘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.’

10 Sons and Lovers