In the meantime Stephen Walker sat alone in the little parlour behind the empty shop, like one stunned13, crouching14 silently by the fire;—for although the autumn sun shone warm and bright, he was chilled to the bone: so he sat from morning to night. He seldom moved; he never spoke10; he hardly even thought. He sat there in an apathy15 of despair. Everything around remained as it had been left. There was Carry's workbox. There in the window hung her birdcage, with the canary, to which she would chirrup and sing, and which would reply in such loud jubilant carollings; but the bird, missing its mistress's presence and attention, had ceased to sing, and sat silent upon its perch16, a mere17 ball of rough disordered yellow feathers. There at his feet was the stool upon which Carry was [148] so fond of sitting. Everything reminded him of her, but yet he could hardly think of the past. He was too utterly18 crushed and hopeless to rouse himself into active thought, but sat there hour after hour and day after day, with the one despairing cry,—where was she, where was she? That question to which no answer came.
Many of the neighbours would have gladly done any kind offices for the old man in his trouble, but he would admit two only. One was Mrs. Holl, who brought him in his meals, and stopped to see him eat them—which he would not otherwise have done—talking to him in the meantime, and trying, as she said, to comfort him up a bit. The talking, however, was all upon her side, for Stephen Walker sat as if he did not hear her, as if he was scarcely aware that she was in the room. His only other visitor was A 56. These interviews were not long ones. As the Policeman entered Stephen Walker would look up with blood-shot eyes, and trembling lips, which could hardly frame the words, “No news?” and would pause with almost more of fear than of hope for an answer. But day after [149] day A 56, with his usually set face softened19 before this great sorrow, could only shake his head. “No news to-day, Mr. Walker, and no news, you know, is good news;” and then, after a few more cheery words which the bent-down figure before him seemed not to hear, the Policeman would turn quietly, and go off to his duty. But one day the Policeman's step was less firm than usual, and his face was very grave and serious. Almost before he entered the room Stephen Walker felt instinctively20 that this time there was something to tell. He rose from his chair, made a step forward, leaned one hand upon the table for support, and held the other before him as if to ward21 off a blow.
“What is it?” he asked, almost in a whisper.
“Now don't you go and distress22 yourself, Mr. Walker,” the Policeman said, soothingly23. “Don't you flurry yourself. There ain't nothing certain, nothing at all. It is just this, it may be, or it may not be, more likely, not. If it weren't that I had promised to let you know directly I heard of anything which might, so to say, bear upon it, I wouldn't have spoken to you at all about it; leastways not till I had been down myself and [150] seen about it. Yes, I am coming to it,” he said, answering the appealing look of the old man; “Yes, but don't you frighten yourself; it may not turn out as you are afraid, not at all. Well, according as you asked me, I sent round to all the Police Stations down the river, but I have heard of nothing that seemed at all likely, not till this morning. But this morning I got word—now don't you frighten yourself, Mr. Walker, it may not have, and I don't suppose it has anything to do with us at all—but this morning I got word that down Gravesend way they have picked something up. There is nothing whatever to identify it by, but it seems, they say, to have been a young woman, and fair. That's all I've heard.”
Stephen Walker did not speak, but motioned with his hand towards his hat.
“Yes, we'll go, Mr. Walker, but just sit down a few minutes first,” the Policeman said, soothingly. “You had better take a nip of something before you start. If you haven't got it in the house, I'll fetch it for you.”
[151]
The Policeman opened it, took out a bottle of brandy, and poured a glassful into a tumbler, added a little water to it, and gave it to the old man. “There, Mr. Walker, drink that down.” Then the Policeman mixed a glass for himself; for, accustomed as he was to scenes of suffering, and misery25, he felt nervous at the thought of the scene he had to go through.
Stephen Walker drank the brandy, holding the tumbler to his lips with both his trembling hands. When he had finished it, the Policeman said, “Now, Mr. Walker, we will start if you like. I've got leave off duty to go down with you, and I've got a cab at the door. You take my arm, sir. That's right,” and so they went out and got into the cab.
During the drive to London Bridge not a word was spoken. Upon the journey by rail down to Gravesend, the Policeman spoke two or three times to his companion, but received no answer, and did not even know whether he was heard. Stephen Walker sat in a stupor26 of despondency and dread27, from which the Policeman had to touch him to arouse him upon arriving at their journey's end. Outside the Station A 56 again [152] took a cab, for Stephen Walker had scarcely strength to stand. They were soon at the Police Office.
“I will go in first, Mr. Walker, you sit here for a minute or two; it may be that I may be able at once to tell you that it is not as you fear, and thus you will be saved the pain of such a sight.”
The Policeman was away about three minutes, which seemed an age to the watcher in the cab. Then he came again to the door. Stephen Walker gazed at the grave face as if to read his sentence there. “I can tell you nothing, sir, it has been ten days in the water, and ten days in the Thames alters one beyond all knowing. I have asked about the clothes, and there were none on to speak of, and the marks have been torn off what there were, either before on purpose, or accidentally, it looks as if on purpose. You will not know more than I do when you see it, but I suppose you had better, though it is a pitiful sight.” He opened the door as he spoke, and [153] assisted Stephen Walker to get out. The old man followed him into the station-house with a firmer step; it was a relief at any rate that it was not certain that it was she. Besides, the very extent of his dread took away all hesitation29 or nervousness. There were two or three policemen in the office which they passed through. An inspector30 was sitting in a sort of railed off den7 writing, the others were standing31 about talking in a low voice. They ceased speaking as Stephen Walker passed through with his conductor. A 56 paused for a moment to take up a tumbler of water which had been placed in readiness, and then, accompanied by the inspector, led the way through the office into a yard, in one corner of which was a small outhouse. A policeman was standing at the door; he opened it and they passed into a small room, bare and whitewashed32, with a brick paving. The shed was unceiled, and the roof was of slates33 supported by light rafters. Opposite the door upon some boards and tressels, and covered with a sheet, lay the body of the dead girl. A 56 closed the door, and the inspector moved forward to turn down the sheet from her face. But Stephen [154] Walker motioned him back, and with a steady step approached. His face was hard set; he was strung up to a point now, when even the dreadful spectacle which met his gaze, and which few strong men could have viewed without shuddering34 and turning faint, had no effect on him. He looked steadily35 at it, every thought was absorbed by the question, “Had it been Carry?” He could not say. No one could say now. It was past all recognition. Only the hair remained intact, and although it was fair and long, even that was changed; the sheen and the glossy36 brightness were gone, and in the tangled37 skein were pieces of straw and wood and river drift. Even the hair was scarcely a guide. He took it in his hands, as if he would fain tell by touch whether it was the same hair he had so often tenderly stroked and played with. A thousand memories rushed upon him as he did so, the golden haired child who had climbed upon his knee and stroked his face and called him daddy, the bright merry girl whose laugh had cheered him in his darkest days, the graceful38 woman he had been so proud and fond of; and then a mist swam before his eyes, the room reeled round, [155] and he felt himself grasped by the strong arms of the inspector and A 56. When he recovered he was lying upon a bed, and the inspector and policeman were standing by him. His shirt was open and wet, and a glass of brandy was upon a table near. As soon as they saw that he was reviving they raised him up, and held the spirits to his lips. In a few minutes he was able to sit up.
“Do you feel better now, sir?”
“Yes,” he said, “I am better now.” In a short time he was able to walk.
“Before you go, sir,” the inspector said, “I must ask you if you identify the body you have seen as being that of your daughter?”
“I do not,” Stephen Walker said firmly. “It may be; I do not know; God alone can answer. Her hair is of the same colour, but that is not sufficient for me to say. Please put down that I do not identify the body.” This denial upon Stephen Walkers part was in obedience39 to a suggestion which A 56 had thrown out upon their way down. This, although he had at the time made no reply, and had not apparently40 even heard it, now recurred41 to him. The Policeman had said,—
[156]
“Unless you are sure, Mr. Walker, quite sure, don't swear to it, else the name might get into the paper, and be put into the registries, and come out at the coroner's inquest, and all sorts of painful inquiries42 would be made. Don't you identify, Mr. Walker, unless you are quite certain.”
“At the same time,” Stephen Walker continued to the inspector, “although I do not recognise the body, it is possible that it may be hers, and I should wish to pay the funeral expenses. I should not like her to lie in a parish grave.”
“The coroner and jury will see it this afternoon,” the inspector said, quite understanding Stephen Walker's feelings, “and I will tell them that the body is not identified. Of course an open verdict will be found, and I will speak to the parish people; they will offer no objection to the expenses being saved. I shall go off duty this afternoon myself, and if you like, sir, will make all the necessary arrangements for you. The funeral must take place to-morrow morning.”
“Thank you very much,” Stephen Walker said, “you are very good. I will be down here at ten o'clock.”
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1
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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2
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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3
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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4
affixed
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| adj.[医]附着的，附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
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5
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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6
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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7
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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8
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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9
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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10
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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11
lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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12
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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13
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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14
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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15
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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16
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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17
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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18
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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19
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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20
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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21
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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22
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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23
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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24
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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25
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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26
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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27
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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28
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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29
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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30
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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31
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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32
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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33
slates
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| （旧时学生用以写字的）石板( slate的名词复数 )； 板岩； 石板瓦； 石板色 | |
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34
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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35
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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36
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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37
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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38
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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39
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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40
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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41
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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42
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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