六个人抬棺材的人高高地抬着棺材，走进了小园子。再有三步台阶就到门口了。灵车上那盏黄色的灯孤零零地在黑沉沉的马路上闪烁着。

    “小心！”莫瑞尔说。

    棺材晃动着。人们爬上这三级台阶。第一个人刚出现，安妮手里的蜡烛就忽闪了一下，她禁不住呜咽起来。六个男人垂着脑袋挣扎着进了屋，棺材压着六个人，仿佛压在每个人的心上似的沉重而悲哀。

    “噢，我的儿子——我的儿子！”这些人因为上台阶步伐不一致而引起棺材晃动，每晃一次，莫瑞尔太太就低声地哭号一阵。

    “噢，我的儿子——……——……——………，”

    “妈妈！”保罗一手扶着她的腰，呜咽地喊道。

    她没听见。

    “哦，我的儿子——我的儿子！”她一遍一遍地念叨着。

    保罗看见汗珠从父亲额头上滚落下来。六个男人都进了屋里——六个都没穿外套，弯着胳膊，使着劲，磕碰着家具，把屋里挤得满满的。棺材掉了个头，轻轻地放在了椅子上，汗从莫瑞尔脸上滴落在棺木上。

    “哎呀，他可真沉！”一个男人说，其它五个矿工叹着气，躬着腰，哆哆嗦嗦地挣扎着走下台阶，随手关上了身后的门。

    现在客厅里只剩下全家人和这个巨大的上了漆的木匣子。威廉入殓时，身长有六英尺四英寸，像一块纪念碑似的躺在那个浅棕色笨重的棺材里。保罗觉得棺材将永远留在房间里了。母亲在抚摸着那上了漆的棺木。

    星期一，在山坡上的小公墓地他们葬了他。在这片小公墓里可以俯瞰田野上的大教堂 和房屋。那天天气晴朗，白色的菊花在阳光下皱起花瓣。

    葬礼后，莫瑞尔太太不再像过去一样谈论生活，对生活充满希望，谁劝她也没用，她不和任何人交谈。在回家的火车上，她就自言自语：“如果死的是我就好了！”

    保罗晚上回家时，母亲总是坐在那儿，双手叉着放在膝上那条粗围裙上。所有的家务事都干完了。过去她总是换掉衣服，带上一条黑围裙。现在是安妮给她端饭菜，而妈妈则茫然地看着前方，紧紧地闭着嘴。这时他就绞尽脑汁 想起点事来说给她听。

    “妈妈，乔丹小姐今天来了，她说我那张素描《忙碌的矿山》画得很棒。”

    但是莫瑞尔太太漠然对之。虽然她不听，可 他还是每天强迫自己给她讲些什么。她这副麻木的神情几乎要让他发疯了。终于，

    “你怎么了，妈妈？”他问。

    她没有听到。

    “怎么了？”他坚持问，“妈妈，你怎么了？”

    “你知道我怎么了。”她烦躁地说着，转过身去。

    这个孩子——16岁的孩子——郁郁不乐地上床去了。他就这样愁苦地度过了十月、十一月和十二月，整整三个月。母亲也试着改变一下，可她怎么也振奋不起来。她只是默默思念着死去的儿子，他死得可真惨。

    后来，十二月二十三日那天，保罗口袋里装着五先令的圣诞赏钱，晕晕乎乎地走进了屋，母亲看着他，愣了一下。

    “你怎么了？”她问。

    “我难受得很，妈妈。”他回答，“乔丹先生给了我五先令圣诞赏钱。”

    他颤抖着把钱递给她，她把钱放在桌上，

    “你不高兴？”他有些责怪她，身体颤抖得更厉害了。

    “你哪儿不舒服吗？”她说着解开他大衣的钮扣。

    她常这么问。

    “我觉得很难受，妈妈。”

    她给他脱了衣服，扶他上了床。医生说，他得了很严重的肺炎。

    “如果我让他呆在家里，不去诺丁汉，也许他不会得这种病吧？”她首先问道。

    “可能不会这么严重。”医生说。

    莫瑞尔太太不禁责备自己。

    “我应该照顾活人，而不该一心 想着死去的。”她对自己说。

    保罗病得很厉害，可他们雇不起护士，每天晚上母亲就躺在床上陪他。病情开始恶化，发展到病危期。一天晚上，他被一种就要死的那种阴森恐怖的感觉折磨着，全身的细胞好象都处在就要崩溃的过敏状态，知觉疯狂地正在做最后的挣扎。

    “我要死了，妈妈！”他喊着，在枕头上不停地喘着粗气。

    她扶起他，低低地哭着：

    “哦，我的儿子——我的儿子！”

    母亲的哀泣使他清楚过来，认出了她，他的全部意志由此产生并振奋起来。他把头靠在母亲胸前，沉浸在母亲的慰籍之中。

    “从某种意义上来说，”他姨妈说，“保罗在圣诞前生病倒是一件好事，我相信这倒救了他妈妈。”

   保罗在床上躺了七个星期，再起来时，脸色苍白，浑身虚弱不堪。父亲给他买了一盆深红和金黄色的郁金香。当他坐在沙发上跟母亲聊天时，花儿就放在窗台上，在三月的阳光下闪耀着。现在，母子俩相依为命，莫瑞尔太太把保罗当成了命根子。

    威廉是个预言家。圣诞节时，莫瑞尔太太收到了莉莉寄来的一份小礼物和一封信。新年时，莫瑞尔太太的姐姐也收 到了莉莉的一封信。“昨天晚上我参加了一个舞会，舞会上碰到一些讨人喜欢的人，我玩得很痛快。”信上这么写着，“我每支舞都跳，没空错过一支舞曲。”

从那以后，莫瑞尔太太再没有她的消息。

    儿子死后的一段时间里，莫瑞尔夫妇相敬如宾。他常常陷入一阵恍惚之中，眼睛瞪得大大的，茫然地看着房间的另一头。之后，他突然站起身，急匆匆地到“三点”酒家，回来后就又正常了。不 过他再也没有路过莎普斯通，因为那儿有儿子工作过的办公室，而且也总回避着那座公墓。

    "Steady, steady!" cried Morel, as if in pain.
　　All the six bearers were up in the small garden, holding thegreat coffin aloft. There were three more steps to the door.The yellow lamp of the carriage shone alonedown the black road.
　　"Now then!" said Morel.
　　The coffin swayed, the men began to mount the three stepswith their load. Annie's candle flickered, and she whimperedas the first men appeared, and the limbs and bowed heads of sixmen struggled to climb into the room, bearing the coffin that rodelike sorrow on their living flesh.
　　"Oh, my son--my son!" Mrs. Morel sang softly, and each timethe coffin swung to the unequal climbing of the men: "Oh, my son--myson--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 polished box. William, when laid out, was six feet four inches long. Like a monumentlay the bright brown, ponderous coffin. Paul thought it would neverbe got out of the room again. His mother was stroking the polished wood.
　　They buried him on the Monday in the little cemetery on thehillside that looks over the fields at the big church and the houses. It was sunny, and the white chrysanthemums frilled themselvesin the warmth.
　　Mrs. Morel could not be persuaded, after this, to talk andtake her old bright interest in life. She remained shut off. All the way home in the train she had said to herself : "If only itcould have been me! "
　　When Paul came home at night he found his mother sitting,her day's work done, with hands folded in her lap upon hercoarse apron. She always used to have changed her dress and puton a black apron, before. Now Annie set his supper, and his mothersat looking blankly in front of her, 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 sketchof a colliery at work was beautiful."
　　But Mrs. Morel took no notice. Night after night he forcedhimself to tell her things, although she did not listen. It drovehim almost insane to have her thus. At last:
　　"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 and wretched through October, November and December. His mother tried, but she could not rouse herself. She could onlybrood on her dead son; he had been let to die so cruelly.
　　At last, on December 23, with his five shillings Christmas-boxin his pocket, Paul wandered blindly home. His mother looked at him,and her heart stood still.
　　"What's the matter?" she asked.
　　"I'm badly, mother!" he replied. "Mr. Jordan gave me fiveshillings for a 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 doctor said.
　　"Might he never have had it if I'd kept him at home, not lethim go to Nottingham?" 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 not afford a nurse. He grew worse, and the crisis approached. One night he tossed into consciousness in the ghastly, sickly feelingof dissolution, when all the cells in the body seem in intenseirritability to be breaking down, and consciousness makes a lastflare of struggle, like madness.
　　"I s'll die, mother!" be cried, heaving for breath on the pillow.
　　She lifted him up, crying in a small voice:
　　"Oh, my son--my son!"
　　That brought him to. He realised her. His whole will roseup and arrested him. He put his head on her breast, and took easeof her for love.
　　"For some things," said his aunt, "it was a good thing Paulwas ill that Christmas. I believe it saved his mother."
　　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 saton the sofa chattering to his mother. The two knitted together inperfect intimacy. Mrs. Morel's life now rooted itself in Paul.
　　William had been a prophet. Mrs. Morel had a little presentand a letter from Lily at Christmas. Mrs. Morel's sister hada 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 everydance--did not sit out one."
　　Mrs. Morel never heard any more of her.
　　Morel and his wife were gentle with each other for some timeafter the death of their son. He would go into a kind of daze,staring wide-eyed and blank across the room. Then he got up suddenlyand hurried out to the Three Spots, returning in his normal state. But never in his life would he go for a walk up Shepstone,past the office where his son had worked, and he always avoidedthe cemetery.