Michael Carson*and his 

 

baby son were entombed there in an imposing marble vault, a life-size angel on top of its pediment with sword drawn to guard their rest. But perhaps a dozen less pretentious plots ringed the mausoleum, marked only by plain white wooden crosses and white croquet hoops to define their neat boundaries, some of them bare even of a name: a shearer with no known relatives who had died in a barracks brawl; two or three swaggies whose last earthly calling place had been Drogheda; some sexless and totally anonymous bones found in one of the paddocks;

Michael Carson's Chinese cook, over whose remains stood a quaint scarlet umbrella, whose sad small bells seemed perpetually to chime out the name Hee Sing, Hee Sing, Hee Sing; a drover whose cross said only TANKSTAND CHARLIE HE WAS A GOOD BLOKE; and more besides, some of them women. But such simplicity was not for Hal, the owner's nephew; they stowed his homemade box on a shelf inside the vault and closed elaborate bronze doors upon it.

After a while everyone ceased to speak of Hal except in passing. Meggie's sorrow she kept exclusively to herself; her pain had the unreasoning desolation peculiar to children, magnified and mysterious, yet her very youth buried it beneath everyday events, and diminished its importance. The boys were little affected save Bob, who had been old enough to be fond of his tiny brother. Paddy grieved deeply, but no one knew whether Fee grieved. It seemed she grew further and further away from husband and children, from all feeling. Because of this, Paddy was so grateful to Stu for the way he minded his mother, the grave tenderness with which he treated her. Only Paddy knew how Fee had looked the day he came back from Gilly without Frank. There had not been a flicker of emotion in those soft grey eyes, not hardening nor accusation, hate or sorrow. As if she had simply been waiting for the blow to fall like a condemned dog for the killing bullet, knowing her fate and powerless to avoid it.

"I knew he wouldn't come back," she said.

"Maybe he will, Fee, if you write to him quickly," Paddy said. She shook her head, but being Fee went into no explanations. Better that Frank made a new life for himself far from Drogheda and her. She knew her son well enough to be convinced 迈克尔·卡森和他那个早夭于襁褓中的儿子就葬在这里的一座堂皇的大理石墓穴里；顶部的人字墙上有一个握着出鞘利剑的、真人大小的守护神，护卫着他们的安息。但是，在这座陵墓的周围，大约有十来个不那么夸饰的坟，仅仅立着素白的木十字架，白色的槌球状铁环整整齐齐地拦出了它们的墓界。有些坟上只孤零零地写着名字：一个在工棚的打架中死去的不知其亲戚是何人的剪毛工；两三个在有生之年最后一个落脚之处是德罗海达的游民；几个在牧场中发现的性别不明的无名氏的遗骨；迈克尔·卡森的中国厨师，他留下的坟墓上是一座古雅的红色飞檐式墓碑，忧伤的小铃似乎在不停地敲出他的名字："郗新，郗新，郗新"；还有一个买卖牲口的商人的坟墓，他的十字架上仅仅写着："塔克斯坦德·查理。他是个好伙计。"此外还有一些女人的坟墓。但是产业主人的内侄哈尔的墓可不能这么寒伧。他们将那自制的箱子寄放在陵墓内的一个架子上，把上面那扇锻制的青铜门合上。

　　过了一会儿，除了偶尔提上几句之外，他们都不再谈起哈尔了。梅吉将她的哀伤独自留在心头，她的痛苦有一种孩子们所特有的、莫名其妙的凄楚，既夸张又神秘；然而小小年纪的她却把这种感情掩藏在日常的活动之下，使它的重要性降低了。除了鲍勃之外，这件事对其他男孩的影响甚小，鲍勃已到了钟爱他的小弟弟的年龄了。帕迪深感悲伤，但是，谁也不知道菲是否伤心。她似乎离丈夫和孩子们愈来愈远，离一切感情愈来愈远了。正因为这样，帕迪对斯图关注他母亲的作法感激不尽；斯图对母亲充满了一种深沉的柔情。只有帕迪才清楚菲是怎样看待他没和弗兰克一起从基里回来的那一天的。那时，她那双柔的和灰眼睛中没有情绪激动的光芒，没有冷酷之色，也没有责备之意，没有恨也没有悲伤。仿佛她就是束手等待着这一打击的到来，就像一条被判死刑的狗在等待着那致命的一枪，明知是命中注定，但又无计规避。

　　"我早就知道他不会回来了。"她说道。

　　"他也许会回来的，菲，只要你尽快给他写封信。"帕迪说。

　　她摇了摇头，但是菲这个人是不会做出什么解释的。弗兰克远离德罗海达和她，去过一种新生活，这样倒好一些。她深知自己的儿子,确信她(说一句话就会把他召回来)，