Page 213 - sons-and-lovers

‘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, his hand over his eyes. He was not crying. Paul
stood looking round, waiting. On the weighing machine a
truck trundled slowly. Paul saw everything, except his fa-
ther leaning against the truck as if he were tired.
Morel had only once before been to London. He set off,
scared and peaked, to help his wife. That was on Tuesday.
The children were left alone in the house. Paul went to work,
Arthur went to school, and Annie had in a friend to be with
her.
On Saturday night, as Paul was turning the corner, com-
ing home from Keston, he saw his mother and father, who
had come to Sethley Bridge Station. They were walking in
silence in the dark, tired, straggling apart. 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 nothing, she said nothing, only:
‘The coffin will be here to-night, Walter. You’d better
see about some help.’ Then, turning to the children: ‘We’re
bringing him home.’
Then she relapsed into the same mute looking into space,
her hands folded on her lap. Paul, looking at her, felt he

1 Sons and Lovers