Page 216 - sons-and-lovers

flesh.
‘Oh, my son—my son!’ Mrs. Morel sang softly, and each
time the coffin swung 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 the room—six coatless men, with yielding,
struggling limbs, filling the room and knocking against the
furniture. 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 pol-
ished box. William, when laid out, was six feet four inches
long. Like a monument lay the bright brown, ponderous
coffin. Paul thought it would never be got 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 that looks over the fields at the big church and
the houses. It was sunny, and the white chrysanthemums
frilled themselves in the warmth.
Mrs. Morel could not be persuaded, after this, to talk and
take her old bright interest in life. She remained shut off. All
the way home in the train she had said to herself : ‘If only it
could have been me! ‘
When Paul came home at night he found his mother sit-

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