["[Event happened on 2024-01-01 The user is reading a book]\n<User> DEATH IN THE FAMILY\n\nARTHUR MOREL was growing up. He was a quick, careless, impulsive boy, a\ngood deal like his father. He hated study, made a great moan if he had\nto work, and escaped as soon as possible to his sport again. In appearance he remained the flower of the family, being well made,\ngraceful, and full of life. His dark brown hair and fresh colouring, and\nhis exquisite dark blue eyes shaded with long lashes, together with his\ngenerous manner and fiery temper, made him a favourite. But as he grew\nolder his temper became uncertain. He flew into rages over nothing,\nseemed unbearably raw and irritable. His mother, whom he loved, wearied of him sometimes. He thought only of\nhimself. When he wanted amusement, all that stood in his way he\nhated, even if it were she. When he was in trouble he moaned to her\nceaselessly. \"Goodness, boy!\" she said, when he groaned about a master who, he said,\nhated him, \"if you don't like it, alter it, and if you can't alter it,\nput up with it.\" And his father, whom he had loved and who had worshipped him, he came\nto detest. As he grew older Morel fell into a slow ruin. His body, which\nhad been beautiful in movement and in being, shrank, did not seem to\nripen with the years, but to get mean and rather despicable. There came\nover him a look of meanness and of paltriness. And when the mean-looking\nelderly man bullied or ordered the boy about, Arthur was furious. Moreover, Morel's manners got worse and worse, his habits somewhat\ndisgusting. When the children were growing up and in the crucial stage\nof adolescence, the father was like some ugly irritant to their souls. His manners in the house were the same as he used among the colliers\ndown pit. \"Dirty nuisance!\" Arthur would cry, jumping up and going straight out\nof the house when his father disgusted him. And Morel persisted the more\nbecause his children hated it. He seemed to take a kind of satisfaction\nin disgusting them, and driving them nearly mad, while they were so\nirritably sensitive at the age of fourteen or fifteen. So that Arthur,\nwho was growing up when his father was degenerate and elderly, hated him\nworst of all. Then, sometimes, the father would seem to feel the contemptuous hatred\nof his children. \"There's not a man tries harder for his family!\" he would shout. \"He\ndoes his best for them, and then gets treated like a dog. But I'm not\ngoing to stand it, I tell you!\" But for the threat and the fact that he did not try so hard as he\nimagined, they would have felt sorry. As it was, the battle now went on\nnearly all between father and children, he persisting in his dirty and\ndisgusting ways, just to assert his independence. They loathed him. Arthur was so inflamed and irritable at last, that when he won a\nscholarship for the Grammar School in Nottingham, his mother decided\nto let him live in town, with one of her sisters, and only come home at\nweek-ends. Annie was still a junior teacher in the Board-school, earning about four\nshillings a week. But soon she would have fifteen shillings, since she\nhad passed her examination, and there would be financial peace in the\nhouse. Mrs. Morel clung now to Paul. He was quiet and not brilliant. But still\nhe stuck to his painting, and still he stuck to his mother. Everything\nhe did was for her. She waited for his coming home in the evening, and\nthen she unburdened herself of all she had pondered, or of all that\nhad occurred to her during the day. He sat and listened with his\nearnestness. The two shared lives. William was engaged now to his brunette, and had bought her an\nengagement ring that cost eight guineas. The children gasped at such a\nfabulous price. \"Eight guineas!\" said Morel. \"More fool him! If he'd gen me some on't,\nit 'ud ha' looked better on 'im.\" \"Given YOU some of it!\" cried Mrs. Morel. \"Why give YOU some of it!\" She remembered HE had bought no engagement ring at all, and she\npreferred William, who was not mean, if he were foolish. But now the\nyoung man talked only of the dances to which he went with his betrothed,\nand the different resplendent clothes she wore; or he told his mother\nwith glee how they went to the theatre like great swells. He wanted to bring the girl home. Mrs. Morel said she should come at the\nChristmas. This time William arrived with a lady, but with no presents. Mrs. Morel had prepared supper. Hearing footsteps, she rose and went to\nthe door. William entered. \"Hello, mother!\" He kissed her hastily, then stood aside to present a\ntall, handsome girl, who was wearing a costume of fine black-and-white\ncheck, and furs. \"Here's Gyp!\" Miss Western held out her hand and showed her teeth in a small smile. \"Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Morel!\" she exclaimed. \"I am afraid you will be hungry,\" said Mrs. Morel. \"Oh no, we had dinner in the train. Have you got my gloves, Chubby?\" William Morel, big and raw-boned, looked at her quickly. \"How should I?\" he said. \"Then I've lost them. Don't be cross with me.\" A frown went over his face, but he said nothing. She glanced round\nthe kitchen. It was small and curious to her, with its glittering\nkissing-bunch, its evergreens behind the pictures, its wooden chairs and\nlittle deal table. At that moment Morel came in. \"Hello, dad!\" \"Hello, my son! Tha's let on me!\" The two shook hands, and William presented the lady. She gave the same\nsmile that showed her teeth. \"How do you do, Mr. Morel?\" Morel bowed obsequiously. \"I'm very well, and I hope so are you. You must make yourself very\nwelcome.\" \"Oh, thank you,\" she replied, rather amused. \"You will like to go upstairs,\" said Mrs. Morel. \"If you don't mind; but not if it is any trouble to you.\" \"It is no trouble. Annie will take you. Walter, carry up this box.\" \"And don't be an hour dressing yourself up,\" said William to his\nbetrothed. Annie took a brass candlestick, and, too shy almost to speak, preceded\nthe young lady to the front bedroom, which Mr. and Mrs. Morel had\nvacated for her. It, too, was small and cold by candlelight. The\ncolliers' wives only lit fires in bedrooms in case of extreme illness. \"Shall I unstrap the box?\" asked Annie. \"Oh, thank you very much!\" Annie played the part of maid, then went downstairs for hot water. \"I think she's rather tired, mother,\" said William. \"It's a beastly\njourney, and we had such a rush.\" \"Is there anything I can give her?\" asked Mrs. Morel. \"Oh no, she'll be all right.\" But there was a chill in the atmosphere. After half an hour Miss Western\ncame down, having put on a purplish-coloured dress, very fine for the\ncollier's kitchen. \"I told you you'd no need to change,\" said William to her. \"Oh, Chubby!\" Then she turned with that sweetish smile to Mrs. Morel. \"Don't you think he's always grumbling, Mrs. Morel?\" \"Is he?\" said Mrs. Morel. \"That's not very nice of him.\" \"It isn't, really!\" \"You are cold,\" said the mother. \"Won't you come near the fire?\" Morel jumped out of his armchair. \"Come and sit you here!\" he cried. \"Come and sit you here!\" \"No, dad, keep your own chair. Sit on the sofa, Gyp,\" said William. \"No, no!\" cried Morel. \"This cheer's warmest. Come and sit here, Miss\nWesson.\" \"Thank you so much,\" said the girl, seating herself in the collier's\narmchair, the place of honour. She shivered, feeling the warmth of the\nkitchen penetrate her. \"Fetch me a hanky, Chubby dear!\" she said, putting up her mouth to him,\nand using the same intimate tone as if they were alone; which made the\nrest of the family feel as if they ought not to be present. The young\nlady evidently did not realise them as people: they were creatures to\nher for the present.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-01, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-04 The user is reading a book]\n<User> William winced. In such a household, in Streatham, Miss Western would have been a lady\ncondescending to her inferiors. These people were to her, certainly\nclownish--in short, the working classes. How was she to adjust herself? \"I'll go,\" said Annie. Miss Western took no notice, as if a servant had spoken. But when the\ngirl came downstairs again with the handkerchief, she said: \"Oh, thank\nyou!\" in a gracious way. She sat and talked about the dinner on the train, which had been so\npoor; about London, about dances. She was really very nervous, and\nchattered from fear. Morel sat all the time smoking his thick twist\ntobacco, watching her, and listening to her glib London speech, as he\npuffed. Mrs. Morel, dressed up in her best black silk blouse, answered\nquietly and rather briefly. The three children sat round in silence and\nadmiration. Miss Western was the princess. Everything of the best was\ngot out for her: the best cups, the best spoons, the best table cloth,\nthe best coffee-jug. The children thought she must find it quite grand. She felt strange, not able to realise the people, not knowing how to\ntreat them. William joked, and was slightly uncomfortable. At about ten o'clock he said to her:\n\n\"Aren't you tired, Gyp?\" \"Rather, Chubby,\" she answered, at once in the intimate tones and\nputting her head slightly on one side. \"I'll light her the candle, mother,\" he said. \"Very well,\" replied the mother. Miss Western stood up, held out her hand to Mrs. Morel. \"Good-night, Mrs. Morel,\" she said. Paul sat at the boiler, letting the water run from the tap into a stone\nbeer-bottle. Annie swathed the bottle in an old flannel pit-singlet, and\nkissed her mother good-night. She was to share the room with the lady,\nbecause the house was full. \"You wait a minute,\" said Mrs. Morel to Annie. And Annie sat nursing\nthe hot-water bottle. Miss Western shook hands all round, to everybody's\ndiscomfort, and took her departure, preceded by William. In five minutes\nhe was downstairs again. His heart was rather sore; he did not know why. He talked very little till everybody had gone to bed, but himself and\nhis mother. Then he stood with his legs apart, in his old attitude on\nthe hearthrug, and said hesitatingly:\n\n\"Well, mother?\" \"Well, my son?\" She sat in the rocking-chair, feeling somehow hurt and humiliated, for\nhis sake. \"Do you like her?\" \"Yes,\" came the slow answer. \"She's shy yet, mother. She's not used to it. It's different from her\naunt's house, you know.\" \"Of course it is, my boy; and she must find it difficult.\" \"She does.\" Then he frowned swiftly. \"If only she wouldn't put on her\nBLESSED airs!\" \"It's only her first awkwardness, my boy. She'll be all right.\" \"That's it, mother,\" he replied gratefully. But his brow was gloomy. \"You know, she's not like you, mother. She's not serious, and she can't\nthink.\" \"She's young, my boy.\" \"Yes; and she's had no sort of show. Her mother died when she was a\nchild. Since then she's lived with her aunt, whom she can't bear. And\nher father was a rake. She's had no love.\" \"No! Well, you must make up to her.\" \"And so--you have to forgive her a lot of things.\" \"WHAT do you have to forgive her, my boy?\" \"I dunno. When she seems shallow, you have to remember she's never had\nanybody to bring her deeper side out. And she's FEARFULLY fond of me.\" \"Anybody can see that.\" \"But you know, mother--she's--she's different from us. Those sort of\npeople, like those she lives amongst, they don't seem to have the same\nprinciples.\" \"You mustn't judge too hastily,\" said Mrs. Morel. But he seemed uneasy within himself. In the morning, however, he was up singing and larking round the house. \"Hello!\" he called, sitting on the stairs. \"Are you getting up?\" \"Yes,\" her voice called faintly. \"Merry Christmas!\" he shouted to her. Her laugh, pretty and tinkling, was heard in the bedroom. She did not\ncome down in half an hour. \"Was she REALLY getting up when she said she was?\" he asked of Annie. \"Yes, she was,\" replied Annie. He waited a while, then went to the stairs again. \"Happy New Year,\" he called. \"Thank you, Chubby dear!\" came the laughing voice, far away. \"Buck up!\" he implored. It was nearly an hour, and still he was waiting for her. Morel, who\nalways rose before six, looked at the clock. \"Well, it's a winder!\" he exclaimed. The family had breakfasted, all but William. He went to the foot of the\nstairs. \"Shall I have to send you an Easter egg up there?\" he called, rather\ncrossly. She only laughed. The family expected, after that time of\npreparation, something like magic. At last she came, looking very nice\nin a blouse and skirt. \"Have you REALLY been all this time getting ready?\" he asked. \"Chubby dear! That question is not permitted, is it, Mrs. Morel?\" She played the grand lady at first. When she went with William\nto chapel, he in his frock-coat and silk hat, she in her furs and\nLondon-made costume, Paul and Arthur and Annie expected everybody to bow\nto the ground in admiration. And Morel, standing in his Sunday suit\nat the end of the road, watching the gallant pair go, felt he was the\nfather of princes and princesses. And yet she was not so grand. For a year now she had been a sort of\nsecretary or clerk in a London office. But while she was with the Morels\nshe queened it. She sat and let Annie or Paul wait on her as if they\nwere her servants. She treated Mrs. Morel with a certain glibness and\nMorel with patronage. But after a day or so she began to change her\ntune. William always wanted Paul or Annie to go along with them on their\nwalks. It was so much more interesting. And Paul really DID admire\n\"Gipsy\" wholeheartedly; in fact, his mother scarcely forgave the boy for\nthe adulation with which he treated the girl. On the second day, when Lily said: \"Oh, Annie, do you know where I left\nmy muff?\" William replied:\n\n\"You know it is in your bedroom. Why do you ask Annie?\" And Lily went upstairs with a cross, shut mouth. But it angered the\nyoung man that she made a servant of his sister. On the third evening William and Lily were sitting together in the\nparlour by the fire in the dark. At a quarter to eleven Mrs. Morel was\nheard raking the fire. William came out to the kitchen, followed by his\nbeloved. \"Is it as late as that, mother?\" he said. She had been sitting alone. \"It is not LATE, my boy, but it is as late as I usually sit up.\" \"Won't you go to bed, then?\" he asked. \"And leave you two? No, my boy, I don't believe in it.\" \"Can't you trust us, mother?\" \"Whether I can or not, I won't do it. You can stay till eleven if you\nlike, and I can read.\" \"Go to bed, Gyp,\" he said to his girl. \"We won't keep mater waiting.\" \"Annie has left the candle burning, Lily,\" said Mrs. Morel; \"I think you\nwill see.\" \"Yes, thank you. Good-night, Mrs. Morel.\" William kissed his sweetheart at the foot of the stairs, and she went. He returned to the kitchen. \"Can't you trust us, mother?\" he repeated, rather offended. \"My boy, I tell you I don't BELIEVE in leaving two young things like you\nalone downstairs when everyone else is in bed.\" And he was forced to take this answer. He kissed his mother good-night. At Easter he came over alone. And then he discussed his sweetheart\nendlessly with his mother. \"You know, mother, when I'm away from her I don't care for her a bit. I\nshouldn't care if I never saw her again. But, then, when I'm with her in\nthe evenings I am awfully fond of her.\"\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-04, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-07 The user is reading a book]\n<User> \"It's a queer sort of love to marry on,\" said Mrs. Morel, \"if she holds\nyou no more than that!\" \"It IS funny!\" he exclaimed. It worried and perplexed him. \"But\nyet--there's so much between us now I couldn't give her up.\" \"You know best,\" said Mrs. Morel. \"But if it is as you say, I wouldn't\ncall it LOVE--at any rate, it doesn't look much like it.\" \"Oh, I don't know, mother. She's an orphan, and--\"\n\nThey never came to any sort of conclusion. He seemed puzzled and rather\nfretted. She was rather reserved. All his strength and money went\nin keeping this girl. He could scarcely afford to take his mother to\nNottingham when he came over. Paul's wages had been raised at Christmas to ten shillings, to his great\njoy. He was quite happy at Jordan's, but his health suffered from the\nlong hours and the confinement. His mother, to whom he became more and\nmore significant, thought how to help. His half-day holiday was on Monday afternoon. On a Monday morning in\nMay, as the two sat alone at breakfast, she said:\n\n\"I think it will be a fine day.\" He looked up in surprise. This meant something. \"You know Mr. Leivers has gone to live on a new farm. Well, he asked me\nlast week if I wouldn't go and see Mrs. Leivers, and I promised to bring\nyou on Monday if it's fine. Shall we go?\" \"I say, little woman, how lovely!\" he cried. \"And we'll go this\nafternoon?\" Paul hurried off to the station jubilant. Down Derby Road was a\ncherry-tree that glistened. The old brick wall by the Statutes ground\nburned scarlet, spring was a very flame of green. And the steep swoop\nof highroad lay, in its cool morning dust, splendid with patterns of\nsunshine and shadow, perfectly still. The trees sloped their great green\nshoulders proudly; and inside the warehouse all the morning, the boy had\na vision of spring outside. When he came home at dinner-time his mother was rather excited. \"Are we going?\" he asked. \"When I'm ready,\" she replied. Presently he got up. \"Go and get dressed while I wash up,\" he said. She did so. He washed the pots, straightened, and then took her boots. They were quite clean. Mrs. Morel was one of those naturally exquisite\npeople who can walk in mud without dirtying their shoes. But Paul had to\nclean them for her. They were kid boots at eight shillings a pair. He,\nhowever, thought them the most dainty boots in the world, and he cleaned\nthem with as much reverence as if they had been flowers. Suddenly she appeared in the inner doorway rather shyly. She had got a\nnew cotton blouse on. Paul jumped up and went forward. \"Oh, my stars!\" he exclaimed. \"What a bobby-dazzler!\" She sniffed in a little haughty way, and put her head up. \"It's not a bobby-dazzler at all!\" she replied. \"It's very quiet.\" She walked forward, whilst he hovered round her. \"Well,\" she asked, quite shy, but pretending to be high and mighty, \"do\nyou like it?\" \"Awfully! You ARE a fine little woman to go jaunting out with!\" He went and surveyed her from the back. \"Well,\" he said, \"if I was walking down the street behind you, I should\nsay: 'Doesn't THAT little person fancy herself!\"' \"Well, she doesn't,\" replied Mrs. Morel. \"She's not sure it suits her.\" \"Oh no! she wants to be in dirty black, looking as if she was wrapped in\nburnt paper. It DOES suit you, and I say you look nice.\" She sniffed in her little way, pleased, but pretending to know better. \"Well,\" she said, \"it's cost me just three shillings. You couldn't have\ngot it ready-made for that price, could you?\" \"I should think you couldn't,\" he replied. \"And, you know, it's good stuff.\" \"Awfully pretty,\" he said. The blouse was white, with a little sprig of heliotrope and black. \"Too young for me, though, I'm afraid,\" she said. \"Too young for you!\" he exclaimed in disgust. \"Why don't you buy some\nfalse white hair and stick it on your head.\" \"I s'll soon have no need,\" she replied. \"I'm going white fast enough.\" \"Well, you've no business to,\" he said. \"What do I want with a\nwhite-haired mother?\" \"I'm afraid you'll have to put up with one, my lad,\" she said rather\nstrangely. They set off in great style, she carrying the umbrella William had given\nher, because of the sun. Paul was considerably taller than she, though\nhe was not big. He fancied himself. On the fallow land the young wheat shone silkily. Minton pit waved its\nplumes of white steam, coughed, and rattled hoarsely. \"Now look at that!\" said Mrs. Morel. Mother and son stood on the road to\nwatch. Along the ridge of the great pit-hill crawled a little group\nin silhouette against the sky, a horse, a small truck, and a man. They\nclimbed the incline against the heavens. At the end the man tipped the\nwagon. There was an undue rattle as the waste fell down the sheer slope\nof the enormous bank. \"You sit a minute, mother,\" he said, and she took a seat on a bank,\nwhilst he sketched rapidly. She was silent whilst he worked, looking\nround at the afternoon, the red cottages shining among their greenness. \"The world is a wonderful place,\" she said, \"and wonderfully beautiful.\" \"And so's the pit,\" he said. \"Look how it heaps together, like something\nalive almost--a big creature that you don't know.\" \"Yes,\" she said. \"Perhaps!\" \"And all the trucks standing waiting, like a string of beasts to be\nfed,\" he said. \"And very thankful I am they ARE standing,\" she said, \"for that means\nthey'll turn middling time this week.\" \"But I like the feel of MEN on things, while they're alive. There's a\nfeel of men about trucks, because they've been handled with men's hands,\nall of them.\" \"Yes,\" said Mrs. Morel. They went along under the trees of the highroad. He was constantly\ninforming her, but she was interested. They passed the end of\nNethermere, that was tossing its sunshine like petals lightly in\nits lap. Then they turned on a private road, and in some trepidation\napproached a big farm. A dog barked furiously. A woman came out to see. \"Is this the way to Willey Farm?\" Mrs. Morel asked. Paul hung behind in terror of being sent back. But the woman was\namiable, and directed them. The mother and son went through the wheat\nand oats, over a little bridge into a wild meadow. Peewits, with their\nwhite breasts glistening, wheeled and screamed about them. The lake was\nstill and blue. High overhead a heron floated. Opposite, the wood heaped\non the hill, green and still. \"It's a wild road, mother,\" said Paul. \"Just like Canada.\" \"Isn't it beautiful!\" said Mrs. Morel, looking round. \"See that heron--see--see her legs?\" He directed his mother, what she must see and what not. And she was\nquite content. \"But now,\" she said, \"which way? He told me through the wood.\" The wood, fenced and dark, lay on their left. \"I can feel a bit of a path this road,\" said Paul. \"You've got town\nfeet, somehow or other, you have.\" They found a little gate, and soon were in a broad green alley of the\nwood, with a new thicket of fir and pine on one hand, an old oak glade\ndipping down on the other. And among the oaks the bluebells stood in\npools of azure, under the new green hazels, upon a pale fawn floor of\noak-leaves. He found flowers for her. \"Here's a bit of new-mown hay,\" he said; then, again, he brought her\nforget-me-nots. And, again, his heart hurt with love, seeing her hand,\nused with work, holding the little bunch of flowers he gave her. She was\nperfectly happy. But at the end of the riding was a fence to climb. Paul was over in a\nsecond. \"Come,\" he said, \"let me help you.\" \"No, go away. I will do it in my own way.\" He stood below with his hands up ready to help her. She climbed\ncautiously.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-07, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-09 The user is reading a book]\n<User> \"What a way to climb!\" he exclaimed scornfully, when she was safely to\nearth again. \"Hateful stiles!\" she cried. \"Duffer of a little woman,\" he replied, \"who can't get over 'em.\" In front, along the edge of the wood, was a cluster of low red farm\nbuildings. The two hastened forward. Flush with the wood was the apple\norchard, where blossom was falling on the grindstone. The pond was deep\nunder a hedge and overhanging oak trees. Some cows stood in the shade. The farm and buildings, three sides of a quadrangle, embraced the\nsunshine towards the wood. It was very still. Mother and son went into the small railed garden, where was a scent\nof red gillivers. By the open door were some floury loaves, put out to\ncool. A hen was just coming to peck them. Then, in the doorway suddenly\nappeared a girl in a dirty apron. She was about fourteen years old, had\na rosy dark face, a bunch of short black curls, very fine and free, and\ndark eyes; shy, questioning, a little resentful of the strangers, she\ndisappeared. In a minute another figure appeared, a small, frail woman,\nrosy, with great dark brown eyes. \"Oh!\" she exclaimed, smiling with a little glow, \"you've come, then. I\nAM glad to see you.\" Her voice was intimate and rather sad. The two women shook hands. \"Now are you sure we're not a bother to you?\" said Mrs. Morel. \"I know\nwhat a farming life is.\" \"Oh no! We're only too thankful to see a new face, it's so lost up\nhere.\" \"I suppose so,\" said Mrs. Morel. They were taken through into the parlour--a long, low room, with a great\nbunch of guelder-roses in the fireplace. There the women talked, whilst\nPaul went out to survey the land. He was in the garden smelling the\ngillivers and looking at the plants, when the girl came out quickly to\nthe heap of coal which stood by the fence. \"I suppose these are cabbage-roses?\" he said to her, pointing to the\nbushes along the fence. She looked at him with startled, big brown eyes. \"I suppose they are cabbage-roses when they come out?\" he said. \"I don't know,\" she faltered. \"They're white with pink middles.\" \"Then they're maiden-blush.\" Miriam flushed. She had a beautiful warm colouring. \"I don't know,\" she said. \"You don't have MUCH in your garden,\" he said. \"This is our first year here,\" she answered, in a distant, rather\nsuperior way, drawing back and going indoors. He did not notice, but\nwent his round of exploration. Presently his mother came out, and they\nwent through the buildings. Paul was hugely delighted. \"And I suppose you have the fowls and calves and pigs to look after?\" said Mrs. Morel to Mrs. Leivers. \"No,\" replied the little woman. \"I can't find time to look after cattle,\nand I'm not used to it. It's as much as I can do to keep going in the\nhouse.\" \"Well, I suppose it is,\" said Mrs. Morel. Presently the girl came out. \"Tea is ready, mother,\" she said in a musical, quiet voice. \"Oh, thank you, Miriam, then we'll come,\" replied her mother, almost\ningratiatingly. \"Would you CARE to have tea now, Mrs. Morel?\" \"Of course,\" said Mrs. Morel. \"Whenever it's ready.\" Paul and his mother and Mrs. Leivers had tea together. Then they\nwent out into the wood that was flooded with bluebells, while fumy\nforget-me-nots were in the paths. The mother and son were in ecstasy\ntogether. When they got back to the house, Mr. Leivers and Edgar, the eldest\nson, were in the kitchen. Edgar was about eighteen. Then Geoffrey and\nMaurice, big lads of twelve and thirteen, were in from school. Mr.\nLeivers was a good-looking man in the prime of life, with a golden-brown\nmoustache, and blue eyes screwed up against the weather. The boys were condescending, but Paul scarcely observed it. They went\nround for eggs, scrambling into all sorts of places. As they were\nfeeding the fowls Miriam came out. The boys took no notice of her. One\nhen, with her yellow chickens, was in a coop. Maurice took his hand full\nof corn and let the hen peck from it. \"Durst you do it?\" he asked of Paul. \"Let's see,\" said Paul. He had a small hand, warm, and rather capable-looking. Miriam watched. He held the corn to the hen. The bird eyed it with her hard, bright eye,\nand suddenly made a peck into his hand. He started, and laughed. \"Rap,\nrap, rap!\" went the bird's beak in his palm. He laughed again, and the\nother boys joined. \"She knocks you, and nips you, but she never hurts,\" said Paul, when the\nlast corn had gone. \"Now, Miriam,\" said Maurice, \"you come an 'ave a\ngo.\" \"No,\" she cried, shrinking back. \"Ha! baby. The mardy-kid!\" said her brothers. \"It doesn't hurt a bit,\" said Paul. \"It only just nips rather nicely.\" \"No,\" she still cried, shaking her black curls and shrinking. \"She dursn't,\" said Geoffrey. \"She niver durst do anything except recite\npoitry.\" \"Dursn't jump off a gate, dursn't tweedle, dursn't go on a slide,\ndursn't stop a girl hittin' her. She can do nowt but go about thinkin'\nherself somebody. 'The Lady of the Lake.' Yah!\" cried Maurice. Miriam was crimson with shame and misery. \"I dare do more than you,\" she cried. \"You're never anything but cowards\nand bullies.\" \"Oh, cowards and bullies!\" they repeated mincingly, mocking her speech. \"Not such a clown shall anger me,\n     A boor is answered silently,\"\n\nhe quoted against her, shouting with laughter. She went indoors. Paul went with the boys into the orchard, where they\nhad rigged up a parallel bar. They did feats of strength. He was more\nagile than strong, but it served. He fingered a piece of apple-blossom\nthat hung low on a swinging bough. \"I wouldn't get the apple-blossom,\" said Edgar, the eldest brother. \"There'll be no apples next year.\" \"I wasn't going to get it,\" replied Paul, going away. The boys felt hostile to him; they were more interested in their own\npursuits. He wandered back to the house to look for his mother. As he\nwent round the back, he saw Miriam kneeling in front of the hen-coop,\nsome maize in her hand, biting her lip, and crouching in an intense\nattitude. The hen was eyeing her wickedly. Very gingerly she put forward\nher hand. The hen bobbed for her. She drew back quickly with a cry, half\nof fear, half of chagrin. \"It won't hurt you,\" said Paul. She flushed crimson and started up. \"I only wanted to try,\" she said in a low voice. \"See, it doesn't hurt,\" he said, and, putting only two corns in his\npalm, he let the hen peck, peck, peck at his bare hand. \"It only makes\nyou laugh,\" he said. She put her hand forward and dragged it away, tried again, and started\nback with a cry. He frowned. \"Why, I'd let her take corn from my face,\" said Paul, \"only she bumps a\nbit. She's ever so neat. If she wasn't, look how much ground she'd peck\nup every day.\" He waited grimly, and watched. At last Miriam let the bird peck from\nher hand. She gave a little cry--fear, and pain because of fear--rather\npathetic. But she had done it, and she did it again. \"There, you see,\" said the boy. \"It doesn't hurt, does it?\" She looked at him with dilated dark eyes. \"No,\" she laughed, trembling. Then she rose and went indoors. She seemed to be in some way resentful\nof the boy. \"He thinks I'm only a common girl,\" she thought, and she wanted to prove\nshe was a grand person like the \"Lady of the Lake\". Paul found his mother ready to go home. She smiled on her son. He took\nthe great bunch of flowers. Mr. and Mrs. Leivers walked down the fields\nwith them.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-09, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-11 The user is reading a book]\n<User> The hills were golden with evening; deep in the woods showed\nthe darkening purple of bluebells. It was everywhere perfectly stiff,\nsave for the rustling of leaves and birds. \"But it is a beautiful place,\" said Mrs. Morel. \"Yes,\" answered Mr. Leivers; \"it's a nice little place, if only it\nweren't for the rabbits. The pasture's bitten down to nothing. I dunno\nif ever I s'll get the rent off it.\" He clapped his hands, and the field broke into motion near the woods,\nbrown rabbits hopping everywhere. \"Would you believe it!\" exclaimed Mrs. Morel. She and Paul went on alone together. \"Wasn't it lovely, mother?\" he said quietly. A thin moon was coming out. His heart was full of happiness till it\nhurt. His mother had to chatter, because she, too, wanted to cry with\nhappiness. \"Now WOULDN'T I help that man!\" she said. \"WOULDN'T I see to the fowls\nand the young stock! And I'D learn to milk, and I'D talk with him, and\nI'D plan with him. My word, if I were his wife, the farm would be run,\nI know! But there, she hasn't the strength--she simply hasn't the\nstrength. She ought never to have been burdened like it, you know. I'm\nsorry for her, and I'm sorry for him too. My word, if I'D had him, I\nshouldn't have thought him a bad husband! Not that she does either; and\nshe's very lovable.\" William came home again with his sweetheart at the Whitsuntide. He had\none week of his holidays then. It was beautiful weather. As a rule,\nWilliam and Lily and Paul went out in the morning together for a walk. William did not talk to his beloved much, except to tell her things from\nhis boyhood. Paul talked endlessly to both of them. They lay down, all\nthree, in a meadow by Minton Church. On one side, by the Castle Farm,\nwas a beautiful quivering screen of poplars. Hawthorn was dropping\nfrom the hedges; penny daisies and ragged robin were in the field, like\nlaughter. William, a big fellow of twenty-three, thinner now and even a\nbit gaunt, lay back in the sunshine and dreamed, while she fingered with\nhis hair. Paul went gathering the big daisies. She had taken off her\nhat; her hair was black as a horse's mane. Paul came back and threaded\ndaisies in her jet-black hair--big spangles of white and yellow, and\njust a pink touch of ragged robin. \"Now you look like a young witch-woman,\" the boy said to her. \"Doesn't\nshe, William?\" Lily laughed. William opened his eyes and looked at her. In his gaze was\na certain baffled look of misery and fierce appreciation. \"Has he made a sight of me?\" she asked, laughing down on her lover. \"That he has!\" said William, smiling. He looked at her. Her beauty seemed to hurt him. He glanced at her\nflower-decked head and frowned. \"You look nice enough, if that's what you want to know,\" he said. And she walked without her hat. In a little while William recovered, and\nwas rather tender to her. Coming to a bridge, he carved her initials and\nhis in a heart. L. L. W.\n\nW. M.\n\nShe watched his strong, nervous hand, with its glistening hairs and\nfreckles, as he carved, and she seemed fascinated by it. All the time there was a feeling of sadness and warmth, and a certain\ntenderness in the house, whilst William and Lily were at home. But often\nhe got irritable. She had brought, for an eight-days' stay, five dresses\nand six blouses. \"Oh, would you mind,\" she said to Annie, \"washing me these two blouses,\nand these things?\" And Annie stood washing when William and Lily went out the next morning. Mrs. Morel was furious. And sometimes the young man, catching a glimpse\nof his sweetheart's attitude towards his sister, hated her. On Sunday morning she looked very beautiful in a dress of foulard, silky\nand sweeping, and blue as a jay-bird's feather, and in a large cream hat\ncovered with many roses, mostly crimson. Nobody could admire her enough. But in the evening, when she was going out, she asked again:\n\n\"Chubby, have you got my gloves?\" \"Which?\" asked William. \"My new black SUEDE.\" \"No.\" There was a hunt. She had lost them. \"Look here, mother,\" said William, \"that's the fourth pair she's lost\nsince Christmas--at five shillings a pair!\" \"You only gave me TWO of them,\" she remonstrated. And in the evening, after supper, he stood on the hearthrug whilst she\nsat on the sofa, and he seemed to hate her. In the afternoon he had\nleft her whilst he went to see some old friend. She had sat looking at a\nbook. After supper William wanted to write a letter. \"Here is your book, Lily,\" said Mrs. Morel. \"Would you care to go on\nwith it for a few minutes?\" \"No, thank you,\" said the girl. \"I will sit still.\" \"But it is so dull.\" William scribbled irritably at a great rate. As he sealed the envelope\nhe said:\n\n\"Read a book! Why, she's never read a book in her life.\" \"Oh, go along!\" said Mrs. Morel, cross with the exaggeration,\n\n\"It's true, mother--she hasn't,\" he cried, jumping up and taking his old\nposition on the hearthrug. \"She's never read a book in her life.\" \"'Er's like me,\" chimed in Morel. \"'Er canna see what there is i' books,\nter sit borin' your nose in 'em for, nor more can I.\" \"But you shouldn't say these things,\" said Mrs. Morel to her son. \"But it's true, mother--she CAN'T read. What did you give her?\" \"Well, I gave her a little thing of Annie Swan's. Nobody wants to read\ndry stuff on Sunday afternoon.\" \"Well, I'll bet she didn't read ten lines of it.\" \"You are mistaken,\" said his mother. All the time Lily sat miserably on the sofa. He turned to her swiftly. \"DID you read any?\" he asked. \"Yes, I did,\" she replied. \"How much?\" \"I don't know how many pages.\" \"Tell me ONE THING you read.\" She could not. She never got beyond the second page. He read a great deal, and had a\nquick, active intelligence. She could understand nothing but love-making\nand chatter. He was accustomed to having all his thoughts sifted through\nhis mother's mind; so, when he wanted companionship, and was asked in\nreply to be the billing and twittering lover, he hated his betrothed. \"You know, mother,\" he said, when he was alone with her at night, \"she's\nno idea of money, she's so wessel-brained. When she's paid, she'll\nsuddenly buy such rot as marrons glaces, and then I have to buy her\nseason ticket, and her extras, even her underclothing. And she wants to\nget married, and I think myself we might as well get married next year. But at this rate--\"\n\n\"A fine mess of a marriage it would be,\" replied his mother. \"I should\nconsider it again, my boy.\" \"Oh, well, I've gone too far to break off now,\" he said, \"and so I shall\nget married as soon as I can.\" \"Very well, my boy. If you will, you will, and there's no stopping you;\nbut I tell you, I can't sleep when I think about it.\" \"Oh, she'll be all right, mother. We shall manage.\" \"And she lets you buy her underclothing?\" asked the mother. \"Well,\" he began apologetically, \"she didn't ask me; but one\nmorning--and it WAS cold--I found her on the station shivering, not able\nto keep still; so I asked her if she was well wrapped up. She said: 'I\nthink so.' So I said: 'Have you got warm underthings on?' And she\nsaid: 'No, they were cotton.' I asked her why on earth she hadn't got\nsomething thicker on in weather like that, and she said because she HAD\nnothing. And there she is--a bronchial subject! I HAD to take her and\nget some warm things. Well, mother, I shouldn't mind the money if we\nhad any. And, you know, she OUGHT to keep enough to pay for her\nseason-ticket; but no, she comes to me about that, and I have to find\nthe money.\" \"It's a poor lookout,\" said Mrs. Morel bitterly.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-11, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-13 The user is reading a book]\n<User> He was pale, and his rugged face, that used to be so perfectly careless\nand laughing, was stamped with conflict and despair. \"But I can't give her up now; it's gone too far,\" he said. \"And,\nbesides, for SOME things I couldn't do without her.\" \"My boy, remember you're taking your life in your hands,\" said Mrs.\nMorel. \"NOTHING is as bad as a marriage that's a hopeless failure. Mine\nwas bad enough, God knows, and ought to teach you something; but it\nmight have been worse by a long chalk.\" He leaned with his back against the side of the chimney-piece, his hands\nin his pockets. He was a big, raw-boned man, who looked as if he would\ngo to the world's end if he wanted to. But she saw the despair on his\nface. \"I couldn't give her up now,\" he said. \"Well,\" she said, \"remember there are worse wrongs than breaking off an\nengagement.\" \"I can't give her up NOW,\" he said. The clock ticked on; mother and son remained in silence, a conflict\nbetween them; but he would say no more. At last she said:\n\n\"Well, go to bed, my son. You'll feel better in the morning, and perhaps\nyou'll know better.\" He kissed her, and went. She raked the fire. Her heart was heavy now\nas it had never been. Before, with her husband, things had seemed to be\nbreaking down in her, but they did not destroy her power to live. Now\nher soul felt lamed in itself. It was her hope that was struck. And so often William manifested the same hatred towards his betrothed. On the last evening at home he was railing against her. \"Well,\" he said, \"if you don't believe me, what she's like, would you\nbelieve she has been confirmed three times?\" \"Nonsense!\" laughed Mrs. Morel. \"Nonsense or not, she HAS! That's what confirmation means for her--a bit\nof a theatrical show where she can cut a figure.\" \"I haven't, Mrs. Morel!\" cried the girl--\"I haven't! it is not true!\" \"What!\" he cried, flashing round on her. \"Once in Bromley, once in\nBeckenham, and once somewhere else.\" \"Nowhere else!\" she said, in tears--\"nowhere else!\" \"It WAS! And if it wasn't why were you confirmed TWICE?\" \"Once I was only fourteen, Mrs. Morel,\" she pleaded, tears in her eyes. \"Yes,\" said Mrs. Morel; \"I can quite understand it, child. Take no\nnotice of him. You ought to be ashamed, William, saying such things.\" \"But it's true. She's religious--she had blue velvet Prayer-Books--and\nshe's not as much religion, or anything else, in her than that\ntable-leg. Gets confirmed three times for show, to show herself off, and\nthat's how she is in EVERYTHING--EVERYTHING!\" The girl sat on the sofa, crying. She was not strong. \"As for LOVE!\" he cried, \"you might as well ask a fly to love you! It'll\nlove settling on you--\"\n\n\"Now, say no more,\" commanded Mrs. Morel. \"If you want to say these\nthings, you must find another place than this. I am ashamed of you,\nWilliam! Why don't you be more manly. To do nothing but find fault with\na girl, and then pretend you're engaged to her!\" Mrs. Morel subsided in wrath and indignation. William was silent, and later he repented, kissed and comforted the\ngirl. Yet it was true, what he had said. He hated her. When they were going away, Mrs. Morel accompanied them as far as\nNottingham. It was a long way to Keston station. \"You know, mother,\" he said to her, \"Gyp's shallow. Nothing goes deep\nwith her.\" \"William, I WISH you wouldn't say these things,\" said Mrs. Morel, very\nuncomfortable for the girl who walked beside her. \"But it doesn't, mother. She's very much in love with me now, but if I\ndied she'd have forgotten me in three months.\" Mrs. Morel was afraid. Her heart beat furiously, hearing the quiet\nbitterness of her son's last speech. \"How do you know?\" she replied. \"You DON'T know, and therefore you've no\nright to say such a thing.\" \"He's always saying these things!\" cried the girl. \"In three months after I was buried you'd have somebody else, and I\nshould be forgotten,\" he said. \"And that's your love!\" Mrs. Morel saw them into the train in Nottingham, then she returned\nhome. \"There's one comfort,\" she said to Paul--\"he'll never have any money to\nmarry on, that I AM sure of. And so she'll save him that way.\" So she took cheer. Matters were not yet very desperate. She firmly\nbelieved William would never marry his Gipsy. She waited, and she kept\nPaul near to her. All summer long William's letters had a feverish tone; he seemed\nunnatural and intense. Sometimes he was exaggeratedly jolly, usually he\nwas flat and bitter in his letter. \"Ah,\" his mother said, \"I'm afraid he's ruining himself against that\ncreature, who isn't worthy of his love--no, no more than a rag doll.\" He wanted to come home. The midsummer holiday was gone; it was a long\nwhile to Christmas. He wrote in wild excitement, saying he could come\nfor Saturday and Sunday at Goose Fair, the first week in October. \"You are not well, my boy,\" said his mother, when she saw him. She was\nalmost in tears at having him to herself again. \"No, I've not been well,\" he said. \"I've seemed to have a dragging cold\nall the last month, but it's going, I think.\" It was sunny October weather. He seemed wild with joy, like a schoolboy\nescaped; then again he was silent and reserved. He was more gaunt than\never, and there was a haggard look in his eyes. \"You are doing too much,\" said his mother to him. He was doing extra work, trying to make some money to marry on, he said. He only talked to his mother once on the Saturday night; then he was sad\nand tender about his beloved. \"And yet, you know, mother, for all that, if I died she'd be\nbroken-hearted for two months, and then she'd start to forget me. You'd\nsee, she'd never come home here to look at my grave, not even once.\" \"Why, William,\" said his mother, \"you're not going to die, so why talk\nabout it?\" \"But whether or not--\" he replied. \"And she can't help it. She is like that, and if you choose her--well,\nyou can't grumble,\" said his mother. On the Sunday morning, as he was putting his collar on:\n\n\"Look,\" he said to his mother, holding up his chin, \"what a rash my\ncollar's made under my chin!\" Just at the junction of chin and throat was a big red inflammation. \"It ought not to do that,\" said his mother. \"Here, put a bit of this\nsoothing ointment on. You should wear different collars.\" He went away on Sunday midnight, seeming better and more solid for his\ntwo days at home. On Tuesday morning came a telegram from London that he was ill. Mrs.\nMorel got off her knees from washing the floor, read the telegram,\ncalled a neighbour, went to her landlady and borrowed a sovereign, put\non her things, and set off. She hurried to Keston, caught an express for\nLondon in Nottingham. She had to wait in Nottingham nearly an hour. A\nsmall figure in her black bonnet, she was anxiously asking the porters\nif they knew how to get to Elmers End. The journey was three hours. She\nsat in her corner in a kind of stupor, never moving. At King's Cross\nstill no one could tell her how to get to Elmers End. Carrying her\nstring bag, that contained her nightdress, a comb and brush, she went\nfrom person to person. At last they sent her underground to Cannon\nStreet. It was six o'clock when she arrived at William's lodging. The blinds\nwere not down. \"How is he?\" she asked. \"No better,\" said the landlady. She followed the woman upstairs. William lay on the bed, with bloodshot\neyes, his face rather discoloured. The clothes were tossed about, there\nwas no fire in the room, a glass of milk stood on the stand at his\nbedside. No one had been with him. \"Why, my son!\" said the mother bravely. He did not answer. He looked at her, but did not see her.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-13, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-14 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Then he began\nto say, in a dull voice, as if repeating a letter from dictation: \"Owing\nto a leakage in the hold of this vessel, the sugar had set, and become\nconverted into rock. It needed hacking--\"\n\nHe was quite unconscious. It had been his business to examine some such\ncargo of sugar in the Port of London. \"How long has he been like this?\" the mother asked the landlady. \"He got home at six o'clock on Monday morning, and he seemed to sleep\nall day; then in the night we heard him talking, and this morning he\nasked for you. So I wired, and we fetched the doctor.\" \"Will you have a fire made?\" Mrs. Morel tried to soothe her son, to keep him still. The doctor came. It was pneumonia, and, he said, a peculiar erysipelas,\nwhich had started under the chin where the collar chafed, and was\nspreading over the face. He hoped it would not get to the brain. Mrs. Morel settled down to nurse. She prayed for William, prayed that he\nwould recognise her. But the young man's face grew more discoloured. In the night she struggled with him. He raved, and raved, and would not\ncome 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\nshe roused the household. At six o'clock, with the aid of the charwoman, she laid him out; then\nshe went round the dreary London village to the registrar and the\ndoctor. At nine o'clock to the cottage on Scargill Street came another wire:\n\n\"William died last night. Let father come, bring money.\" Annie, Paul, and Arthur were at home; Mr. Morel was gone to work. The\nthree children said not a word. Annie began to whimper with fear; Paul\nset off for his father. It was a beautiful day. At Brinsley pit the white steam melted slowly in\nthe sunshine of a soft blue sky; the wheels of the headstocks twinkled\nhigh up; the screen, shuffling its coal into the trucks, made a busy\nnoise. \"I want my father; he's got to go to London,\" said the boy to the first\nman 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.\" 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\nhere.\" Then he turned round to Paul. \"He'll be up in a few minutes,\" he said. Paul wandered out to the pit-top. He watched the chair come up, with its\nwagon of coal. The great iron cage sank back on its rest, a full carfle\nwas hauled off, an empty tram run on to the chair, a bell ting'ed\nsomewhere, the chair heaved, then dropped like a stone. Paul did not realise William was dead; it was impossible, with such\na bustle going on. The puller-off swung the small truck on to the\nturn-table, another man ran with it along the bank down the curving\nlines. \"And William is dead, and my mother's in London, and what will she be\ndoing?\" the boy asked himself, as if it were a conundrum. He watched chair after chair come up, and still no father. At last,\nstanding beside a wagon, a man's form! the chair sank on its rests,\nMorel stepped off. He was slightly lame from an accident. \"Is it thee, Paul? Is 'e worse?\" \"You've got to go to London.\" The two walked off the pit-bank, where men were watching curiously. As\nthey came out and went along the railway, with the sunny autumn field on\none side and a wall of trucks on the other, Morel said in a frightened\nvoice:\n\n\"'E's niver gone, child?\" \"Yes.\" \"When wor't?\" \"Last night. We had a telegram from my mother.\" Morel walked on a few strides, then leaned up against a truck-side,\nhis hand over his eyes. He was not crying. Paul stood looking round,\nwaiting. On the weighing machine a truck trundled slowly. Paul saw\neverything, except his father leaning against the truck as if he were\ntired. Morel had only once before been to London. He set off, scared and\npeaked, to help his wife. That was on Tuesday. The children were left\nalone in the house. Paul went to work, Arthur went to school, and Annie\nhad in a friend to be with her. On Saturday night, as Paul was turning the corner, coming home from\nKeston, he saw his mother and father, who had come to Sethley Bridge\nStation. They were walking in silence in the dark, tired, straggling\napart. The boy waited. \"Mother!\" he said, in the darkness. Mrs. Morel's small figure seemed not to observe. He spoke again. \"Paul!\" she said, uninterestedly. She let him kiss her, but she seemed unaware of him. In the house she was the same--small, white, and mute. She noticed\nnothing, she said nothing, only:\n\n\"The coffin will be here to-night, Walter. You'd better see about some\nhelp.\" Then, turning to the children: \"We're bringing him home.\" Then she relapsed into the same mute looking into space, her hands\nfolded on her lap. Paul, looking at her, felt he could not breathe. The\nhouse was dead silent. \"I went to work, mother,\" he said plaintively. \"Did you?\" she answered, dully. After half an hour Morel, troubled and bewildered, came in again. \"Wheer s'll we ha'e him when he DOES come?\" he asked his wife. \"In the front-room.\" \"Then I'd better shift th' table?\" \"Yes.\" \"An' ha'e him across th' chairs?\" \"You know there--Yes, I suppose so.\" Morel and Paul went, with a candle, into the parlour. There was no gas\nthere. The father unscrewed the top of the big mahogany oval table, and\ncleared the middle of the room; then he arranged six chairs opposite\neach other, so that the coffin could stand on their beds. \"You niver seed such a length as he is!\" said the miner, and watching\nanxiously as he worked. Paul went to the bay window and looked out. The ash-tree stood monstrous\nand black in front of the wide darkness. It was a faintly luminous\nnight. Paul went back to his mother. At ten o'clock Morel called:\n\n\"He's here!\" Everyone started. There was a noise of unbarring and unlocking the front\ndoor, which opened straight from the night into the room. \"Bring another candle,\" called Morel. Annie and Arthur went. Paul followed with his mother. He stood with his\narm round her waist in the inner doorway. Down the middle of the cleared\nroom waited six chairs, face to face. In the window, against the lace\ncurtains, Arthur held up one candle, and by the open door, against the\nnight, Annie stood leaning forward, her brass candlestick glittering. There was the noise of wheels. Outside in the darkness of the street\nbelow Paul could see horses and a black vehicle, one lamp, and a few\npale faces; then some men, miners, all in their shirt-sleeves, seemed to\nstruggle in the obscurity. Presently two men appeared, bowed beneath a\ngreat weight. It was Morel and his neighbour. \"Steady!\" called Morel, out of breath. He and his fellow mounted the steep garden step, heaved into the\ncandlelight with their gleaming coffin-end. Limbs of other men were seen\nstruggling behind. Morel and Burns, in front, staggered; the great dark\nweight swayed. \"Steady, steady!\" cried Morel, as if in pain. All the six bearers were up in the small garden, holding the great\ncoffin aloft. There were three more steps to the door. The yellow lamp\nof the carriage shone alone down the black road. \"Now then!\" said Morel. The coffin swayed, the men began to mount the three steps with their\nload. Annie's candle flickered, and she whimpered as the first men\nappeared, and the limbs and bowed heads of six men struggled to climb\ninto the room, bearing the coffin that rode like sorrow on their living\nflesh.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-14, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-15 The user is reading a book]\n<User> \"Oh, my son--my son!\" Mrs. Morel sang softly, and each time the coffin\nswung to the unequal climbing of the men: \"Oh, my son--my son--my son!\" \"Mother!\" Paul whimpered, his hand round her waist. She did not hear. \"Oh, my son--my son!\" she repeated. Paul saw drops of sweat fall from his father's brow. Six men were in\nthe room--six coatless men, with yielding, struggling limbs, filling\nthe room and knocking against the furniture. The coffin veered, and was\ngently lowered on to the chairs. The sweat fell from Morel's face on its\nboards. \"My word, he's a weight!\" said a man, and the five miners sighed, bowed,\nand, trembling with the struggle, descended the steps again, closing the\ndoor behind them. The family was alone in the parlour with the great polished box. William, when laid out, was six feet four inches long. Like a monument\nlay the bright brown, ponderous coffin. Paul thought it would never be\ngot out of the room again. His mother was stroking the polished wood. They buried him on the Monday in the little cemetery on the hillside\nthat looks over the fields at the big church and the houses. It was\nsunny, and the white chrysanthemums frilled themselves in the warmth. Mrs. Morel could not be persuaded, after this, to talk and take her old\nbright interest in life. She remained shut off. All the way home in the\ntrain she had said to herself: \"If only it could have been me!\" When Paul came home at night he found his mother sitting, her day's work\ndone, with hands folded in her lap upon her coarse apron. She always\nused to have changed her dress and put on a black apron, before. Now\nAnnie set his supper, and his mother sat looking blankly in front of\nher, her mouth shut tight. Then he beat his brains for news to tell her. \"Mother, Miss Jordan was down to-day, and she said my sketch of a\ncolliery at work was beautiful.\" But Mrs. Morel took no notice. Night after night he forced himself to\ntell her things, although she did not listen. It drove him almost insane\nto have her thus. At last:\n\n\"What's a-matter, mother?\" he asked. She did not hear. \"What's a-matter?\" he persisted. \"Mother, what's a-matter?\" \"You know what's the matter,\" she said irritably, turning away. The lad--he was sixteen years old--went to bed drearily. He was cut off\nand wretched through October, November and December. His mother tried,\nbut she could not rouse herself. She could only brood on her dead son;\nhe had been let to die so cruelly. At last, on December 23, with his five shillings Christmas-box in his\npocket, Paul wandered blindly home. His mother looked at him, and her\nheart stood still. \"What's the matter?\" she asked. \"I'm badly, mother!\" he replied. \"Mr. Jordan gave me five shillings for\na Christmas-box!\" He handed it to her with trembling hands. She put it on the table. \"You aren't glad!\" he reproached her; but he trembled violently. \"Where hurts you?\" she said, unbuttoning his overcoat. It was the old question. \"I feel badly, mother.\" She undressed him and put him to bed. He had pneumonia dangerously, the\ndoctor said. \"Might he never have had it if I'd kept him at home, not let him go to\nNottingham?\" was one of the first things she asked. \"He might not have been so bad,\" said the doctor. Mrs. Morel stood condemned on her own ground. \"I should have watched the living, not the dead,\" she told herself. Paul was very ill. His mother lay in bed at nights with him; they could\nnot afford a nurse. He grew worse, and the crisis approached. One\nnight he tossed into consciousness in the ghastly, sickly feeling of\ndissolution, when all the cells in the body seem in intense irritability\nto be breaking down, and consciousness makes a last flare of struggle,\nlike madness. \"I s'll die, mother!\" he cried, heaving for breath on the pillow. She lifted him up, crying in a small voice:\n\n\"Oh, my son--my son!\" That brought him to. He realised her. His whole will rose up and\narrested him. He put his head on her breast, and took ease of her for\nlove. \"For some things,\" said his aunt, \"it was a good thing Paul was ill that\nChristmas. I believe it saved his mother.\" Paul was in bed for seven weeks. He got up white and fragile. His father\nhad bought him a pot of scarlet and gold tulips. They used to flame in\nthe window in the March sunshine as he sat on the sofa chattering to his\nmother. The two knitted together in perfect intimacy. Mrs. Morel's life\nnow rooted itself in Paul. William had been a prophet. Mrs. Morel had a little present and a letter\nfrom Lily at Christmas. Mrs. Morel's sister had a letter at the New\nYear. \"I was at a ball last night. Some delightful people were there, and I\nenjoyed myself thoroughly,\" said the letter. \"I had every dance--did not\nsit out one.\" Mrs. Morel never heard any more of her. Morel and his wife were gentle with each other for some time after the\ndeath of their son. He would go into a kind of daze, staring wide-eyed\nand blank across the room. Then he got up suddenly and hurried out to\nthe Three Spots, returning in his normal state. But never in his life\nwould he go for a walk up Shepstone, past the office where his son had\nworked, and he always avoided the cemetery. PART TWO\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-15, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far."]
[{"question": "Summarize the content of the book I read from 2024-01-01 to 2024-01-15", "answer": "Arthur Morel, Walter Morel, Mrs. Morel, Paul Morel, William Morel, Lily, Anne, Miriam Leivers, London, engagement ring, Christmas, Easter, farm, meadows, flowers, pneumonia, telegram, coffin, miners, Jordan's, family friend, adolescence, brutal treatment, nagging, self-interest, William's engagement, William's death, William's illness, Lily's family, expensive clothes, jewelry, Paul's raise, Paul's illness, Mrs. Morel's grief, mother-son relationship, sibling admiration, resentment, superficiality, marriage advice, servant treatment, emotional dependence, family dynamics, loss, change, gentleness after death"}]