FINGERS OF FATE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXVI, Issue 20420, 23 November 1929, Page 20 (Supplement)

FINGERS OF FATE.

BY L. G. MOBERLEY

• SYNOPSIS. 'A. Tifcitor to Switzerland, Diana Bertram, finds t>n. the last day of her holiday, n dyinff' 1 woman on a river bank, who implores ber to take care of a girl whom she names •" Stephanie Ann." Diana. _ overcome with pity promiaes to do eo. Nothing is found ;ypon the. woman to indicate her identity. On returning to England, Diana advertises for " Sonie«me bearing the Jiame of " Stephanie Ann. In response, a firm of iolicitors communicate with her. CHAPTER ll.—(Continued). My interview with Mr. Dymond had carried me a certain distance. I wondered what further information I might get from the doctor, who had written to me from Clansmere, from the very place ,where.Miss Meriyale herself had lived. I caught a train to the small Surrey iown before noon, and, on arriving at that breezy and sunny spot, I inquired my way to the doctor's house. It turned out to be one of those substantial Queen !Ajjne's houses in which our small towns abound—a house standing flush with the street,.but having a fairly extensive garden in its rear. The doctor was at lunch, but he did not keep me waiting long. He was a pleasant-faced, bearded man, with lumourous blue eyes, and a smile that inspired confidence. Directly I said that I had come to explain the advertisement in the Agony Column ol ! the Morning Post, he became intensely interested; and when I told him the story of the tragedy at Grindelwald, he seemed genuinely distressed. * II Dear me," he said, " it is difficult to believe that Miss Merivale is really gone! She was so full of life and vigour; and though I think she was always inclined to overdo it "

" The Swiss doctor at the inquest found that there was serious heart trouble," I said; "he said her death was due to over-walktng, over-exer-tion,"

." There wsi no serious heart trouble when she went away," Dr. Wellsdale aaid emphatically; "there was slight trouble, and 1 warned her to be very careful, both about going to great heights, or exerting herself too much. But she was so eager to do everything there was to be done, that she probably forgot', the warning. She mentioned Stephanie Anr.e to you?"-

I told this kindly-faced doctor exactly ,what had passed between the dead .woman and me, and he looked at me ,with earnest scrutiny. " You. are accepting her request to you a sacred trust?'- he said, and I answered firmly:

" Certainly I am. I cannon see that any other coursi is open to me. I promised." " "R>u are a good woman," he anewered with odd abruptness. "I hope though in his glance there lingered. something -of a question, which I could not .quite .understand." ".I don't think there is any goodness about, it," I answered. " Keeping a promise made to a dying woman, seems to me an obligation which cannot be evaded."

" 1 adlere to my original opinion," he said,, his eyes twinkling; "but I never argue with a lady! Now, I suppose you will be going on to the Manor House, to see your ward. I know her .Very slightly. She is not one of the people, who will make a doctor's for--tune; Miss Merivale was my patient, although I have once or twice attended Stephanie Anne, too." " By the way, had Miss Merivale no relations V I asked. " Shall I find a host of people disputing my claim to interfere in her affairs ?"

" I never heard her mention relatives and I ha\-e a notion that, as far as .family ties are concerned, she was a lonely, woman Strangely enough,"— his face, grew dreamy and reminiscent, —'* strangely enough, the very lart time I saw her, she said she ought to consider whom she could appoint as guardian to Stephanie Anne, supposing anything happened to her. But I imagine «he never did make the appointment! After all. she was still a young woman— barely iorty, I think." "Barely forty." Then the dead woman • had been very little older than I was myself, was my reflection; and again, 'as often before, a great pity filled my heart when I thought of her ]ving in the sunny Grindelwald meadow, with -that serenity and peace upon her .white, face.

.-"If her solicitor is convinced of the identity of the lady you found with Miss Merivale, no doubt he will insert notice'of her death in the papers. Then, if she has relatives they will come forforward."

"Has she lived here long?" was my next question. " Some time. I should say perhaps five years. She bought the Manor House, .and settled there, with a nice couple, who left. A year ago t.he elderly couple whom you Avill find in charge came to her. She led a very quiet life here She was not exactly a recluse, I must gay that, but she did not court society. She always gave me the impression of preferring •to be alone; but she was an attractive woman, very attractive," ha added thoughtfully. " She struck me as being beautiful." 1 said. "And after death her face was so peaceful; she had such a happy gmiie."

" I am glad of that. I am very glad of that'. Although I know nothing of her history, she never gave me the impression of. having had much happiness. She was invariably bright and plucky; hut—well, I can't exactly explain why I felt it, but I had an indefinable feeling that her life had been an unhappy one, that there was tragedy in it. And now. it is ended."

"In spite of the suddenness of the end. I don't feel as if it were really tragic,'' I exclaimed. " She died in such a beautiful place: there was such joy upon Iter face; and she lies in one of the .lovliest churchyards I over saw."

" God rest her soul," Dr. Wellsdale said reverently: " and God bless you." he added, shaking me warmly by the hand. "It was fortunate for Miss Merivale, and for Stephanie Anne, that you

were Walking along that path in Switzerland when her end came!" " Do you think I ought to go on to the Manor House to-day?" I said later, " or had I better wait until Mr. Dymond can verify all my statements. The Swiss authorities have charge of Miss Merivale's belongings. They will be a sort of verification."

For a moment he considered my question. then he nodded gravely. "I think you are light." he. said: "you hkd better wait a little while before you go to the Manor House. When everything is quite in order, you can begin your new responsibilities. I have no doubt myself that it is Grace Merivale ■who lies in thq. churchyard at Grindclwa!d; but we ought to give the lawyers time to make the necessary legal inquiries, and obtain the necessary verification."

' He wrung my hand again when I went -.away, and somehow my heart felt lighter as I walked back to the station. Without exactly putting it into words. I knew .that I had made a new friend that day *n David Wellsdale. And, then a fleeting wonder crossed my mind. What -Wt>uld Arnold Ryecroft say to the whole transaction?

A STORY OF LOVE, MYSTERY, INTRIGUE AND ADVENTURE.

CHAPTER 111. ARNOLD. The answer.to my question was not long delayed. The very next afternoon, as I sat in my flat trying to dispose of the arrears of work which accumulated during my absence, Arnold was announced. Litce myself, lie was a writer; also, like myself, not a best seller, but merely one of those mediocre authors who contrive to scrape aiong from year to year without either making a big splash in the world or going under altogether.

We haa first met when we were both working upon a paper, which had a short but not inglorious career; and our relations ever since had been one of friendship, and friendship only. He liked to talk over his work with me; I found his brain a real stimulus to mine, and so we mutually helped one another. No sentimental touch had ever interfered with the pleasant friendliness of our intercourse; but I had come to feel that Arnold was a person with whom I could discuss' my affairs; who would give me at any rate the advice of a man of the world; who was interested in mo and my small concerns. And this had brought balm into my life after Rachel's marriage had left me lonelier than I had ever been before. But on that July afternoon, when my maid announced " Mr. Ryecroft," I found myself saying again in my own mind, " What will Arnold think about it all?"

lb was the first occasion on which we had met since my return from Switzerland, and he had yet to learn nil the details of the tragedy which had kept me there beyond my intended time. As usual, as soon as lie had dropped into my big armchair he began telling me various details of his work: and I sat and listened and sympathised, while, for I verily believe, the first time in our friendship, a faint shadow of criticism crossed rny mind. As I looked into his clean-shaven face, with its keen eyes and thin, well-cut lips, another face suddenly, and, as it seemed to me, absurdly, all at once rose up and obscured it from my view. That other face was bearded and fair; and the eyes were very blue. No greater contrast could have been conceived than the contrast between David Wellsdale's fair colouring and Arnold Ryecroft's olive-coloured comploxion and dark eyes. But why I should suddenly remember my doctor acquaintance of yesterday, when my friend of many years was pouring out his grievances and worries, I could not imagine. I pushed aside the odd, fleeting vision, and forced myself to give Arnold mv full attention, but he looked at me with an aggrieved expression. "You seem to be dreaming!" ho exclaimed; "you aren't really interested in what I am saying." " Oh, but indeed I am," I cried : " you know I am always interested, and 1 dp honestly think Messrs. Brandon have not behaved well to you." He was soon mollified. My disapproval of the publishers against whom he had a grievance cheered him up amazingly; and after a little more discussion of his immediate wrongs,, lie broke off, to say with a certain show of penitence: " But now, tell me about yourself. Why did you stay so much longer in Grindelwald ? What happened ?" I told him the story which I had/already told to Mr, Dymond and Dr. Wellsdale ; but, to my rather sharp dismay, he did not receive it in the least as they had done. He frowned, and there was distinct annoyance in his eyes. " My dear Diana, you must realise that you can't give up your life for the sake of a quixotic promise, given in a moment of emotion. I never heard anything so ridiculous."

He had pulled' himself up from his comfortable lounging attitude, and sat upright, looking at me almost angrily. " You surely wouldn't like me to go back on my word, . a word given to « woman who was dying?" I said, genuine astonishment m my voice. " For goodness sake don't let sentiment blind you to common, sense," he said. " The promise was forced from you. You had no time for proper consideration. You know nothing whatever about the child, or girl, or whoever it is you have agreed to look after; you may be letting yourself in for no end of bother and responsibility. Why, the thing is ridiculous! Of course you can't go on with it."

"Of course I can," I snapped out quickly, a sudden resentment against him rising within me. " I have the fullest intention of doing exactly what I promised Miss Merivale I would do. I mean to take care of Stephanie Anne for her."-

" AVho in the world ever heard such an idiotic combination of names?" he rejoined irritably.. "Stephanie Anne! Look here, Diana, you simply must reconsider your decision. Why, you might even find yourself obliged to leave town! How do you know what conditions are going to be imposed upon the guardian of. this Stephanie Anne ? is she an heiress, by any chance?" " On, no. I shouldn't think she was anything of the kind. I am still a good deal in the dark about Miss Merivale and her own connection with her ward, but——r " Then take my advice, and remain in the dark. Wash your hands of the whole business. You are not legally bound in any way." "I am morally bound," I answered sharply, " and that to me. is of infinitely more importance. Miss Merivale died in peace, because she trusted me to keep my promise. Do you really suppose I would break it now?"

" Are you afraid she may haunt you ?" There was a note of derision in Arnold's voice, and it hurt me absurdly. I know I flushed, and for an instant there was the sting of tears in my eyes, but I fought them down.

" I can't imagine that woman, with her beautiful serene face, haunting anyone," I answered; " all the same, I couldn't break my promise. As soon as her solicitor, Mr. Dymond, has arranged everything, I mean to go again to Clansmere, and see exactly how the land lies, and what my new duties are likely to be. I am sorry yon disapprove, Arnold; but in this I must follow my conscience." "Your conscience!" He laughed, and the laugh sounded like a sneer. *' Really, for a twentieth-century woman, you havA most extraordinary Early Victorian ideas."

"If conscience is Early Victorian, then I have," I said quietly; "it hasn't struck mo (hat the twentieth century would abolish conscience."

" And yet in most ways you arc so tremendously up to dale," he" saicl, staring at me thoughtfully, as though I had taken on a new guise, and was no longer the Diana Bertram ho had known;'"l thought your up-to-dateness would carry you further than it seems capable of doing."

" I hope to goodness it will never make me break my word, or go against my conscience!" I exclaimed, vehemently; " and, after all, I can't undeiisand why you should disapprove ol my accepting this guardianship. It won't make me less your friend." An expression I could not quite define, leapt into his eyes, but it was gone almost as soon as it had come, and he said quietly:

" You will probably leave town. That means that I shall see you verv seldom. And even if you don't leave town you will be absorbed in your new duties; you will have to give your chief thoughts to this preposterous Stephanie Anne. "All your other friends must take back seats." " I shall have plenty of room in my heart for all'my, friends," I said a little shakily. " and you are jumping too hastilv to conclusions. I don't know that I shall have to leave London at all. I have no reason to suppose Stephanie Anne is permanently glued to the Manor House."

(COPYRIGHT.)

"Well, wo shall see," Arnold-replied darkly; " but mind you, if you ask my advice, you will refuse to undertake this guardian business at all. You are only putting your head into a noose. You are starting out upon a road whose end you cannot by any possibility see. I give -you warning, and f beg you, for the sake of our' friendship, if for no other reason, up the whole idea. Let the solicitor niako what arrangements ho thinks fit for Stephanie Anne." At this juncture I rose. I felt i could no longer deal with the situation sitting down Arnold had for so long been a good friend to me, that I disliked going deliberately against his counsel. But this was a case in which I must decide fur myself. 1 could allow nobody else to be master of my conscience; 1 must follow the light within me, however disastrous the consequences might be. " I am very sorry, Arnold," I spoke after a pause, and 1 spoke very gently; " 1 hate not seeing eye to eye with you about things; and I don't like going exactly counter to your advico. But, in this matter, 1 simply can't see that 1 have any choice. It seems to me that 1 ougiit to keep my promise; it is the only right thing to do, and, after all. however, hackneyed the proverb is, it remains true, ' h'ais ce quo dois.' " " Oh, spare me that." Arnold spread out his hands and laughed. " 1 haven't known you for some years without realising that, when your mind is once made up, wild horses won't make you alter your decision. I think you are making a mistake: we must agree to differ." " Yes. we must agree to differ," I answered shortly, a sudden little hardening creeping about my heart; whilst again, for some unknown reason. Dr. Wellsdale's face came between me and Arnold, and I heard his voice say, * 'God bless you." " J wish you could have seen all this as I seo it," I added wistfully, as Arnold, too, rose; "we don't generally disagree so acutely."

" You have never taken such an unexpected step before," he retorted. " Well, there's no more to be said. Lot me know what you finally do, and don't let your new interests entirely swamp your old ones "

"A3 if they could or would!" I ex claimed. " I don't change interests, oi friends, like a chameleon."

When lie left me that afternoon. I felt vaguely disappointed, andf a little disheartened. Nevertheless, I had no doubt as to the lightness of the course 1 intended to take. I never wavered from that for a single instant; and when, a fortnight later, Mr. Dymond wrote and asked me to call and see him, 1 was not sorry. 1 felt unsettled; I wanted the whole thing finished and done with. Whatever my iuturo was to be, I preferred to know all about it, rather then live in a state of uncertainity. I found that Mr. Dymond had made every necessary inquiry; taken every means to satisfy himself that it was indeed Grace Merivale, who lay buried in the grave at Grindelwald. Her knapsack and its contents had been identified by her servants; but the Swiss police had not discovered her registration anywhere —tbey could not trace her; but in any case there was no longer the slightest reason to doubt that it was Grace Merivale. who had died by the tumbling stream, on the way to the Upper Glacier; and that Grace Merivale's name must be engraved upon the gravestone, above the iines she herself had written.

" I arn sole executor. Mr. Dymond said, after he had given me all the above information, " and she has left everything of which she died possessed to her ward, Shephanie Anne Denway; with the exception of a locked tin box, which is to be given, with its contents, to Philip Crosfield. whenever he comes to the Manor House. That is absolutely all. It is one of the shortest wills I ever drew up." "Who is Philip Crosfield?" I questioned.

. The lawyer shook his head. " 1 haven't the slightest idea," he answered. Then with perceptible hesitation, he went on: "I have had a surprise, Miss Bertram. As Miss Merivale's executor, I went to the Manor House to take over her papers and so on; and 1 found among them a sealed letter addressed to myself. It is very short, and under all the circumstances I think you had better read it."

He handed mc a letter written in the same bold, clear hand that had written those lines on Grindelwald Churchyard, and dated in April of the current year. It ran Dear Mr. Dymond,

As vou will manage my affair* after mv death. I leave tbis note, to tell you that the Manor House is the property of my ward Stephanie Anne Denway. Also the sum of £60.000, the securities for which are lodsred in the National Provincial Bank, Baker Street, Wl. As she is a minor I administer her money lor ''" r " Yours truly, Grace Merivale. " Then Stephanie Anne is a rich woman?" I gasped. " A very rich woman." was tha emphatic reply " Miss Merivale's property amounts to about twenty thousand pounds, and, as I say, that also is left to Stephanie Anne Denway. 'J hereforn your ward inherits a fortune of £130,000 pounds or so."

Again I gasped. " I feel a little bit as if the floor of the world was opening under my feet," I said. " I had no notion to what I was committing myself, when I gave that promise to Miss Merivale. What am I to do with an heiress ? And what is our whole future to be ?—and I do wonder who Philip Crosfield is ?• -and how he fits into the scheme of things?"

My mind was, in fact., one huge interrogation mark, when I made my next visit to Clansmei'6. I frankly confess that my chief feeling was one of trepidation. My heart sank almost into my boots, when I directed the cab-driver at the station to take me to the Manor House; and the thought of what might lie ahead of ine, gave me a craven wish !o turn tail and flee back to London, and to the safe shelter of my own flat. I felt as if I was embarking on a voyage upon some strange ocean, where countless*adventures might await me. I wished the cab would creep along at even a slower rate, than the snail's pace at' which it actually went.

" That's the Manor House, ma'am," The driver turned round on the box and waved his whip to the right, and I saw, standing on rising ground, a house, llie sight of which made me draw in my breath sharply. It was an Elizabethan house, gabled, and built of delicious soft red bricks, mellowed by lime into an indescribable colour. The sunlight twinkled upon diamond-paned windows; and the whole place had that gracious, dignified air which belongs to beautiful old buildings. Wo drove up to the front door by a sweep of gravel, on either side of which were growing herbaceous borders; and under the house itself was a bed of roses, that made a positive riot of colour and fragrance.

The door stood hospitably open, and I caught a plimpse of an oak-pancllcd hall, looking very cool and inviting, after the dusty road by which w& had come. On the far side of the hall another door stood open, civing upon a velvet lawn bordered by flower-beds—masses of glowing loveliness. In the trees close by, pigeons cooed softly; and from whfcre I stood, I looked down upon fields already whitening to harvest, that swept downward to the plain below.

It was a very peaceful spot, wrapped round by the drowsy warmth of a summer afternoon. The bell I set jangling seemed to be a wanton disturbance of the all-surrounding peace, and 1 felt as though I were an intruder in some magic place breaking a spell of silence. (To be continued on Saturday nextj