[COPYRIGHT STORY.] THE STORY ROGER HOWARD TOLD

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVII, Issue 24, 15 December 1906, Page 24

[COPYRIGHT STORY.] THE STORY ROGER HOWARD TOLD

By

LILIAN QUILLER-COUCH

I AM a strong man, but I have always been bothered and distressed by the cry of a child. It hurts me more than the cry of a woman —

certainly more than the cry of a jackal. I don’t care for women, with one or two exceptions; I hate jackals, but I lather like children.

It is unusual to hear the cry of a child on the staircase of the Hotel Nare, Vienna: that is not a place where children are taken as a rule: it is decidedly not a place where they would be tolerated if they had the bad taste to be unhappy. Yet a shrill wail of misery struck on my ear, bringing me surprise and that sense of discomfort which I

complain of. as I came down one evening from my bedroom on the second floor to make my way to the dining-hall. The cry was an abrupt, shuddering affair, oxer almost as soon as begun, yet betraying fear and a hopeless appeal. ‘■That is enough!" came a- low, distinct voice. “I will have obedience.’’

I expected to see a martinet nurse, or a grim governess as I turned round the wall of the staircase. and to be discomposed by a child in tears. When I reached the corridor, however, I saw no such scene: there was no one there. At least no one angry, no one in tears. Coming slowly along the peed-piled carpet, with arms entwined, were a lady and a little girl; but as I glanced at them before I turned to go down the last flight of stairs I saw' that, the lady’s face Was placidity itself, and about the eyes of the child there was not the slightest trace of tears.

When a man is in love and at the stage which I had then reached, he is apt to be more than punctual for dinner when expecting to meet the girl he wants to marry; so there were several minutes after I reached the smaller hall (the less formal room where we intended to dine that night ), which 1 was able, to spend in watching the curtained doorway for the coming of Diana Terence and her mother. You will naturally suppose that I undervalued the worth of Time during those minutes. For about live of them ibis was true; I did undervalue it. But just then, through the curtains came the lady and the little girl I had glanced at On the corridor, and Diana herself would be merciful if she were to hear me tell you that she faded into the background of my mind for several moments. Diana laughs over little things of that sort, in her happy, confident, way But I can never laugh over the child at the Hotel Na re.

There was nothing obviously attracting in the couple, nor was I conscious that they interested me. I merely, involuntarily, gave up looking at the doorwax and looked at them: and I saw that tin- lady had the placid, beautiful face of a Madonna, of a Madonna minus motherliness. and minus loveableness; and that the child looked more like a spirit than n flesh and blood mortal.

The lady was wearing a clear black jgown. simply made but distinguished in effect, and at her breast was a small clasp of tine diamonds. The child—l can scarcely tell of the child, yet I wish to. Nhe had on a little slip of a grey, dia-phanous-looking frock hanging from her thin shoulders; and when she turned to- " Wards me. her little face seemed to have faken on the grey shade, an I her eyes seemed wells of the same colour. At a cursory glance she looked about seven years old ; as one gave her a longer ex-

amination she seemed to hold all the sorrows of the Ages behind her eyes. It occurred to me that she was more like an allegory' than like a breathing child. Then Diana came in through the curtains with her mother, and the rose-col-oured gown and milk-white neck of my love, and the scintillating diamonds of Mrs. Terence seemed to lighten the whole room, and make as shadows of another world the black and grey figures which I had been scrutinising. Mrs. Terence has America for the land of her birth, and wealth for her comfort, and we were going on to a notable reception after dinner; these facts will account for the splendour of her jewels, which were, literally’ .worth a king’s ransom.

Our dinner was a merry one; Diana is a merry person, and I—well, 1 was seeing most things rose-coloured and scintillating at the time. Now and again I glanced casually down the room at the table whore the black lady sat with the grey child. Not. once did I see the calmfaced woman glance towaids us, but the eyes of the child were upon us each time 1 looked.

I am not professing to tell the talc of my courtship of Diana Terence; indeed, it was so perfect and untroubled in itself that to any but ourselves I ean imagine it might be splendidly null—or dull. I am thinking now of the child.

The next time I saw her was late on that same night. I had parted from Diana and her mother soon after our return from the Embassy, and having watched the last rose-coloured frill sweep round the corner of the stairs, I went back to the lounge to smoke and dream a little over a railway guide-book —likely' enough held upside down. When I went up the. stairs an hour later, and glanced with, I suppose, the instinct of the lover, along the first corridor, where Mrs. Terence and Diana had their private suite of rooms, I was curiously startled to see again, coming slowly along towards me, the lady in black, with one arm about the shoulder of the child in grey.

I think I halted. It. is probable that I looked surprised. There was, of course, no reason, except, perhaps, the lateness of the hour, and. perhaps, the similarity of the occurrence.

The lady', having come to the corner, where a streak of bright light cut through an unfastened door, made as if to go into her room. Then, as if with a sudden recollection, she turned to me, and asked in pleasing English with a slightly guttural accent. “Would you then, sir, tell me the exact time?”

I looked at my watch, and fold her how much it was past, midnight; and with a dignified smile she thanked me. “My little girl,” she said, “loves too much the moonlight. She has escaped from her room, the little naughty thing,” patting the thin shoulder caressingly, “to gaze from the window,” and she inclined her head towards the high casement at the end of the corridor through which the white light streamed. With the beginning of a smiling reproof I turned to the child, but her face stopped the words on my tongue. It was pallid, hunted; she looked faint with unspoken fear, and I saw that she was trembling. “She is cold,” said lh« mother, with ealm kindness. “Is a cold moon better than n warm

bed?” I asked, stooping towards the child with a sympathetic desire to learn what troubled her, what strange effect the moon would have on this abnormal nature.

“Ah!” exclaimed the lady, revealing for the first time a trace of emotion in the tension of her fingers as they clasped the little shaking hand. “Ah—my poor child! She—she —is dumb!”

The last word was almost a whisper, but distinct as a command; and in her curbed distress the seemingly placid woman’s grip of the child left her own knuckles as a row of white bones across the soft hand. As for me, I turned unaccountably sick and horror-stricken.

“Dumb!” I echoed. But that she was not deaf also I concluded hastily, for at the word the piteous eyes struck out a spark of despair, then closed; from the pinched, grey-white face half the life seemed suddenly' to go out, and she swayed against the black draperies of her mother. The woman, with a politelyspoken “good-night, she will be gay again to-morrow,” supported the limp body' with a firm, unhurried grasp into the lighted room. I went up to my own apartments thoughtfully. And the dawn was breaking when it crossed my' mind that halfpast twelve had been a late hour for a child to be fully dressed, even if she had “escaped from her room.” The next morning was sunny and cold, a pretty day; but for me an empty day, liecause Diana and her mother were to drive out of it for twelve, entire hours, wasting themselves, it seemed to me. on long Austrian roads and an old American friend. Twelve hours seemed over-many for the kicking of heels in a foreign hotel, when you have no wish to kick at all.

When, however, I had waved my love upon her way, the brilliance of the morning and the natural man in me lured me to something less limited than the kicking of heels. I decided to walk out from the pleasure-loving city and sec something of the country. It was as I was passing out through the trim hotel gardens, shaping the thought, “pleasure-loving city.” with a smile, that I again saw the child; and the contrast between my mind-picture of gay Vienna and the child’s appearance in the unshaded morning light was rather ghastly'. She still wore a grey frock, a limp woollen thing, and she was leaning against the low basin of a fountain, looking into the moving water. When she saw me she tried to shrink and sidle to the other side; but I spoke to her, and she stood still with an awkward expression of strained nonchalance graved on her face. I thought of her mother’s words, “She will lie gay again to-mor-row.” Gay! Poor little ghost; she looked as if her eyes had never lighted on a gay sight since she opened them on the world. “Will yon come for a walk with me?” I asked breezily, with a sudden impulse, “and look at some shops.” That frightened her; she coloured painfully. The very words when they' sounded seemed a violence, the idea of dolls and toys seem so incongruous with this inscrutable child. Angry' with myself for searing her, I talked casually of other things—• of the fish in the fountain and the flowers that woke up when the sun came—till she was pale grey’ as usual, poor little soul.

“If you will not come with me I shall

go away for a long , long walk all alone,” I concluded some minutes later; and fit? a moment I forgot that she was dumb. I was thrilled by the swirft, keen look of dread in her eyes; she looked i)S if she were on the verge of uttering eager words. But the new' nonchalance was quickly' strained oxer her features again, and she smiled her first smile. It was a ghastly effort. The child again shared my thoughts with Diana as I went on my way; she even seemed to flit before me, a little desperate shade, with sorrowful eyes and that smile that was worse than all. I had every right to think in rose-colour, but instead I thought all grey. When I got baek to the hotel the afternoon was dim. I had had a good day in a way, bright and pleasant, but I was not in the best of spirits. Diana had not yet come back, the place seemed gloomy and empty, and a scarcely-defined sense of trouble weighed on me. As I was passing the end of the long corridor, on my way to my room, I thought I caught sight of the child again, hurrying, ghost-like, along in the dimness at the far end. In idle curiosity I held my step a moment, to see her emerge from the gloom of the passage into the lesser gloom beneath the long window from which she had watched the moon. She did not emerge, and, doubting my own eyesight, which had been haunted all day’ by the small grey' shape, and shaking myself irritably for my' fancifulness, I went slowly on my' way up. Then I called rayself a fool, had a bath and a good meal, and felt better. Next day’ grey child, black lady, even my own rather important affair of the heart, were matters of insignificance. Mrs. Terence had lost, her diamonds!

The jewels had disappeared from niy future mother-in-law’s room. That superb collection which had sparkled on royal brow and bosom had lieen neatly abstracted from its usual cabinet; the elaborate velvet-lined cases being tidily' closed and left in their usual plaees. Mrs. Terence wept. Diana was pale and frightened. The one was broken by the irreparable loss, the other panicstricken by' the thought that a thief had been close to them, watching them, entering their very rooms, fingering their possessions. Fits of shuddering seized her as she dwelt upon the thought, yet nothing I could say would induce her not to dwell upon it. Except for the hotel proprietor, Herr Gluckstern, and myself, the affair was kept secret from every'one on that direful morning. It was a nightmarish day. I shall never forget it. From breakfast time till the middle of the afternoon we searched, questioning one another, interviewing the police, and finlly telegraphing for the man who was, everyone said, the cleverest detective in Europe.

It was about the middle of the afternoon that Herr Gluckstern received a message saying that Madame de Carnis, the lady in black, wished to speak to him on a matter of much importance; and with vague relief lighting his honest, protruding eyes, he hurried away from us. I, too, had a moment of hope, quite unwarranted, I admit, when, about ten minutes later, a servant came to beg that I would trouble myself to join Herr Gluckstern at number one room on the first floor.

It was a simple scene that mol my eyes as I wont into the presence of the lady iu black; it is only from after events that

it has taken on a horror from wliieh I Can never now dissoeiale U. On a sofa drawn up i*.ihc stove lay the child, ivi I supposed, asleep. I saw folds of the grey frock here and there beneath the. scarlet shawl which covered her; one edge of which shawl drooped over and threw the little face into shadow. Beside the sofa stood the lady, a tall, black figure, her face wearing the same expressionless calm, but whiter than I had yet seen it, ami one heavily-ringed hand gently patting tha scarlet shawl. Facing her stood Herr Gluckstern, and one glance at liis troubled face convinced me that he had met with no lightening of his anxiety; his voice, when he turned ami spoke to me. settled that fact. His .usual suavity was torn from him by a genuine concern. "Herr Howard," he began hurriedly, “this lady also has lost diamonds- —gone this day. I took the liliert.y to send for you. It is an plalmrate, planned crime. It must, be so. I tell Aladame de Carnis “My loss," the lady interposed politely, “is a small one compared with that of your friends. I did not. know of their disaster when I sent for Herr Gluckstern. Mine is but a small clasp, but the diamonds were exceptionally line, and it means much to me.’’ "Ah, of course, of course,” agreed Herr Gluckstern. By a few questions I gained a description of the jewel ami of the discovery of the loss; and I hastened to assure the lady that, everything possible was already being done secretly to trace and secure the thief and recover the property. She. listened to me with ealm attention, and quickly realised Hie promptness of our action. “And when Detective Walder is arrived ” hastily began Herr Gluckstern. "A good detective ?” questioned the lady. “His name is—what did you say?” And for a moment her hand ceased its gentle patting of the scarlet shawl. "Detective Walder,” repeated Herr Gluckstern proudly. "The greatest man in Europe for jewel robberies.” - "Ah—that will be—a relief,” she replied rattier dazedly, “to know—the matter is in—the most skilful hands.” She spoke in a curiously intense monotone. "The diamonds niesni -more than their intrinsic worth to her," 1 thought. After a short lime more of regrets and discussions the lady, facing us both in the fading light, said, “It would be better, I think, if I were to fetch for you the box in which my diamonds are, as a rule, kept ; you can then sec, perhaps, if the methods have been the same in both eases.” Bending over the little form on the sofa, she raised the edge of the scarlet shawl, amt took a long look at the shaded face. Then she turned away from it and went into.an inner room. We wailed in the. twilight, the plump little Herr Gluckstern and I: occasionally w e. spoke, in lowered tones for fear of disturbing the motionless child on the ssofa. Once or twice a curious wave of unreality passed, over me. born,! suppose, of the silence, the dimness, and the startling events which had brought me to this •loom. And when the dimness deepened, and the lady did nut come back to us, the discovery of some, fresh, dismaying fact, however exaggerated, in my opinion, seemed to become, quite jiossible. Like the drcam-life of the night, the amazing, the fantastic, the awful, whatever might happen, would seem to be but a natural .phase of this tense period. I do not know what impulse urged me at length to cross over to the sofa and softly raise the scarlet shawl. I was, I think, still in a half-absent, half-unreal state of mind. I felt suddenly that I wanted to sec. that little face in repose, and I obeyed the impulse. The lifting of the shawl did not disturb the sleeper, she lay perfectly still; but as I placed it back again my hand touched the little hand lying on the grey folds. and in an instant I knAv! “A light!”! demanded. forgetful of the lady who had passed into the other room, forgetful of the fact that the child was no business of mine. “A light, quickly!” Obeying the insistence in my voice, TFerr Gluckstern pressed the electric light on, and I pulled back the shawl, letting the dazzling stream fall on the face Of the child.

She did not stir; not an eyelash quivered; she lay there with open eyes and an undying -fear on her face, but. she, the child—she must have been dead some hours. Before that awful day was over we knew much; much we could only guess.

We knew that while Herr Gluckstern ami 1 had waited there in the twilight the lady in black had passed out from that inner room into oblivion. Whether or not she had loved the child whose little dead shoulder she had patted so mechanically, as she talked 'to us, we could only guess. We knew, when Herr Walder came,'that we had stood face to face with one of the most daring jewel thieves of the century. Whether her calmness meant, callousness, or whether lieheath that placidity she had hidden maternal agony that afternoon, we could only guess. I knew now that she had known the child beneath the shawl to be dead. I guessed that she was facing her peril when she heard the name of Herr Walder, when she took her last look at the little pinched face and left it for ever. But the woman herself —at the end as at the beginning, she was and has remained inscrutable. The child—of her little life, of her death, what could we know?

She was buried in the English cemetery. Diana and I wished it, we arranged it, wc followed her there, and there left her.

In the pocket of her little woollen frock was found a diamond earring, caught in the stitching. That was the only item Mrs. Terence ever recovered of her priceless collection.

Was the child at the Hotel Nitre dumb? Was she guilty? Was she tortured? Of what use are guesses? To this day I shudder when 1 think of the final agony of fear, the mad child-despair which may, in mercy, have brought the final rest : but I only know that she went out into the unknown with horror in her eyes.