WHO WAS IT?
THE shop in New Street is shut up, and has been so for the last ten
days. Two days after Carry's disappearance, an enterprising young
rival a few doors off made an arrangement through Mrs. Holl with
Stephen Walker, to take the business off his hands, and to supply
his customers with newspapers. There was an hour's bustle as the
books and stock were taken across the road in a hand cart, and then
the shutters were put up, a notice affixed stating that the business
was transferred to No. 27 over the way, and Stephen Walker remained
alone by his deserted hearth. Great was the excitement and talk in
New Street upon those first few days. Not a little was the matter
discussed upon the top of the Brompton 'busses by the young clerks
who had so long bought their morning papers and tobacco at the
shop of Stephen Walker, when they first heard of the reason of its
sudden closing, at the new establishment at No. 27. For a few days
indeed the matter was talked over almost to the exclusion of every
other topic. Men's comments upon an affair of this sort are very
different from those of women. Women discuss it quite theoretically.
Comparatively few women ever are greatly tempted, and they can
therefore neither understand nor make allowance for those who are so
tried. Their blame thus falls almost wholly upon the woman. Upon her
they are pitiless. She becomes as one who is dead, and her name is
no more to be spoken by pure lips. To the man they are very lenient.
There may be a little coolness, but it soon passes over, and in a
short time they will again feast him at their tables, and offer him
their lambs in marriage. Men, upon the other hand, reason from what
they know. In these matters they live altogether in a different
atmosphere to that which women inhabit. They can understand the old
sad story of temptation and weakness, of loving trust, and broken
promises, and their censure falls wholly upon the man. There was no
word of blame for poor Carry on the lips of those by whom the matter
was discussed upon the top of the Brompton 'busses. For her there was
pity and even sorrow; while had his name been known, he would have
fared but badly at the hands of more than one of the young fellows
who had once hoped to win the pretty tobacconist's daughter for their
wife.
In the meantime Stephen Walker sat alone in the little parlour
behind the empty shop, like one stunned, crouching 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 spoke; he hardly even thought. He sat there in an
apathy 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 perch, a mere ball of rough disordered yellow feathers.
There at his feet was the stool upon which Carry was so fond of
sitting. Everything reminded him of her, but yet he could hardly
think of the past. He was too utterly 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 day A 56, with his usually set
face softened 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 instinctively 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 ward off a blow.
“What is it?” he asked, almost in a whisper.
“Now don't you go and distress yourself, Mr. Walker,” the Policeman
said, soothingly. “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 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.”
Stephen Walker sank down into his chair again, and pointed to a
cupboard, saying, “Brandy.”
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 misery, 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 stupor of despondency
and dread, from which the Policeman had to touch him to arouse him
upon arriving at their journey's end. Outside the Station A 56 again
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.”
Stephen Walker made a gesture of assent, he was too sick and faint
with dread to speak.
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 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 hesitation or nervousness. There were two or three policemen
in the office which they passed through. An inspector was sitting
in a sort of railed off den writing, the others were standing 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 whitewashed, with a brick paving. The shed was unceiled,
and the roof was of slates 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 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 shuddering and turning faint, had no effect on him. He
looked steadily 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 glossy
brightness were gone, and in the tangled 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 graceful woman he had been so proud and fond of;
and then a mist swam before his eyes, the room reeled round, 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 obedience 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 apparently
even heard it, now recurred to him. The Policeman had said,—
“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
inquiries 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.”