FINGERS OF FATE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXVI, Issue 20426, 30 November 1929, Page 18 (Supplement)

FINGERS OF FATE.

BY L. 0. MOBERLEY

SYNOPSIS. A visitor to Switzerland. Diana Bertram, finds on the hist day of lier holiday, a dying woman on a river bank, who implores her io take care of a girl whom sho names 14 Stephanie Anne. 1 Diana. overcome with pity promises to do so. Nothing is found upon the woman to indicate her identity. .On returning to England, Diana advertises for " Someone bearing the name of " Stephanie Anne." In response; a firm of solicitors and a medical man, Dr. "VV-'lsdale. communicate with her. Through them Diana learns of the girls history, and in a short time meets her word. Stephanie Anne. Following this, Diana has a visit from an old friend, Arnold Ryecroft, a writer like herself, to whom sho iells the story. Diana, notwithstanding opposition from Arnold Hyeeroft, determines to keep her promise to befriend Stephanie. "Within a short time a communication reaches htr from Mr. Diamond, her solicitor, informing her that Stephanie is rich, Diana Bertram yhaving left, everything to her, excepting a locked tin box, which is to go to one Philip Crosfield, who unknown to either Diuna or Diamond. Diana s next step is to call/011 Stephanie at the Manor House, iliss Merivalc's old home. / CHAPTER IV. STEPHANIE AXXE. 'A middle-aged woman answered my hell. I sensed the appraising question iu the glance that met mine, though her manner was respectful. " You expected mo—Miss Bertram ?" I said. v "Oh yes, miss, Mr. Dvmond told me to get everything ready for you; and little Miss, though it- seeins as if it couldn't be true " Sho broko off her sentence/abruptly, and I saw there wore tears in her eyes.

"■I am sure it must all be dreadful for you," I exclaimed impulsively. " You mustn't look upon me as a usurper. lam only doing what Miss Merivale asked me to do."

I think my impulsive words broke down so mo barricade slie had intended to erect against me, for her little air of stiffness dropped from her, and for a moment she became quite human and kindly " Come in here, madam." she said, crossing the hall toward a door on the left; bu/ before wo reached it I heard a sound on my right, and looking round 1 saw some ono coming slowly clown the wide oak staircase.

She ivas holding the balustrade with one baud; under her other arm she clasped a puppy/! a bundle of grey fluff; and she moved' slowly toward the hall, her eyes never leaving my face. She wore a little straight frock of a shade of soft deep blue;' her eyes were grey, and fringed with long dark lashes; and I thought then, as I think still, that I had never in all the course of my life seen anything sweeter than Stephanie Anne, on that summer fvening when wo came into each other's lives.

She was a slip of a child, looking younger -than her years, which, as a matter of fact, were fifteen; and she moved with the grace of some wild thing of ; the>/woods. She was the very embodiment of grace, and it was a pleasure even to watch her slowly coming down thfc w-idc staircase, the sunlight falling upon her face, and upon the bronze glory of her hair, and tho delicate oval of her features. Its dainty colouring, and that glorious hair, iqade up a whole which gave me the same sort of pleasure one feels upon seeing any beautiful things': and I am not sure that I was not staving at her open-mouthed, when she reached the bottom of the stair, and came across the hall to me, holding out her / re? hand. ■' HOW- do you do," site said, with a composure; that -took my breath away. " You don't mind Joseph, do you !'

"1 am prepared .to adore him," was my answer as 1 touched Joseph s furry head; "he will probably soon find out that I am an incurable dog lover.'' " That's rather a good thing," iny ward said gravely, " uecause wo have several- dogs here, and they simply hate it when people' don't lifce them." "I should think they would have it," I answered, aware that aJI the tiiue, she was talking, her eyes were scanning me sizing'mo sizing'mo up," 1 reflected: with some ruefulness. ,

"I'm glad you've come,"' she went on, still with/, that composure which sat, so oddly, - yet so gracefully upou her. " I want to ask you such a lot." When she" said these words, her Jips trembled just a little; I thought her eyes grew injsty,. but she recovered her selfcontrol in :t way little short of marvellous, and ushered me into a drawing-room, which was as perfectly satisfying as all I had seen of the house..

Low-ceilinged and oak -panelled,' it was neither too low not too dark in its effect; and the harmonious carpet and upholstry struck just the right note, as did the pictures on the walls, and the flowers which filled every available vase. A tea-tablo was set. near the open window,, and the girl paused beside it, and looked at me, with eyes grown suddenly wistful. " It's been very lonely," she said. " Please -will you pour out the lea? I can't Lear doing it any more." Again her lips quivered, and again sho mastered herself with admirable self-con-trol, and I drew oft my gloves, and seated myself in front of the tea-tray, feeling all at once that 1 could understand what the lonely/child meant. .1 wondered why she had been left here alone w'ith sen ants why she had not gone with Miss Merivale to Switzerland; and as though in answer to my unspoken thought, she said quietly: " You. see. Dearest couldn't take me with her. She had important business to do, and somebody to meet, and I should have been' ; in the way. So I just stayed hero with Mr. and Mrs. Grogan. They are very good to me. but I've been so lonelv."

She spoke simply. There was something very ; ohiidl'ko about, lici, and my heart went out to her thero and then. " You shan't be lonely any more," I said. " You and I must learn to like each other/ and gc l on well together." She had se.ited herself on a small chair opposite to mc, the puppy curled up in her lap litfe a ball of fluff: she iooked at me with earnest scrutinv.

" I believe I'm going to like you," she Raid, " only it's all most, dreadfully strange, and sometimes T can't believe it. Its like/a nightmare, and Dearest always came when I. had a nightmare." Iter voice quivered; her eyes filled with tea rs.

" After /ea we will have a real talk," I said, " rfnd we will begin to know each other: and ] will tell you everything you would like, to hear."

An expression of gratitude shone in her fives She leant towards rue, and touched mv hand.

1 Nobody will tell me anvthing about Dearest," she said; "they are afraid to ten me much, but they needn't be afraid." I shall not be afraid," I said, seeing that the .child was breaking her heart with I he longing to be told tlie truth. "You fchall hear all that 1 eari tell you." \\ lion we had finished our tea, wo strolled together across (hat velvet green lawn, behind the house, to a little rosegarden, set about, with tall holly bushes, a place of sweetness,. The paths were i>a ved; and between tlie paving-stones liny (lowers peeped, delicate, dainty flowers, a lacework among the tracery of stone. I lie roses were in their full giorv, -and round tl)e rose-beds grew violas in every shade 'of purple and lilac, palest yellow, and deepest bronze. It was easy to see that every detail of the place haa been thought out and planned with most lovmg care, and looking at if, I knew that the dead woman had put much and love into its devising. What a delicious place!" I exclaimed, as the.child and I sat down upon a wooden bench,, slnyled by a tall holly bush. I his was Dearest's favourite corner in the whole garden." was the soft answershe, loved it all the time. Even winter (there were flowers here." "How;, perfectly wonderful!" J ox- «• Tiri. 0 !' n \ V i , town eyes opening wide. ,VVn«.t couid be done here in winter J"

A STORY OF LOVE, MYSTERY, INTRIGUE AND ADVENTURE

" Over in that bed," —my companion pointed to the bed fronting one. of the walls of holly—" tiiere are irises that come out in January. Thoy arc so lovely, very lilac and beautiful, and all along that wire," —she pointed now to a low wire fencing—" there is yellow jasmine; and the snowdrops and aconites come earlier in this roso garden, than they do anywhero else. You will love it in snowdrop time: Dearest did." She sighed, a quick little sigh, and put a hand on mine. " It's dreadful to say ' Dearest did,'" slio exclaimed; "it seems to put her so far away; and she isn't far away, is she?"

" Certainly not." 1 answered with great decision. " I believe the pooplo we lovo, who have gone on into another life, are always near us; and. after all, why should you use tho past tense in speaking of some one who has passed to the other side ? If your Dearest loved her garden before, j'ou may be sure she loves it still."

A look of relief flashed into the eyes that met mine: a smile trembled out over her face.

" I'm glad you think that." she said. " I can't bear it. if I have to think Dearest has gone right away out of reach. Mrs. Grogan thought it was wrong to imagine Dearest could still be near me." " Perhaps Mrs. Grogan looks at things more conventionally than I do," was. my response. "I am not very orthodox; and I am quite sure no one m the other world who loves us, can be very far away. To go right away from us, would hurt them as much as it hurts us."

"I'm glad you feel like that,"—she heaved a sigh of genuine relief—" and you will tell mc everything, won't you?" she pleaded. " Sir. Dyinond was very kind, and 1 believe he was afraid I might bo hurt or frightened if ho told me the truth; and Mrs. Grogan seeins to wrap things up so. that I can't undersand properly. Dearest never wrapped things up. She used to say 1 was old enough to face life squarely."

' The words sounded so quaint coming j from the lips of some one who looked so childlike; and yet, looking at her. 1 realised that Stephanie Anne was not childish, in spito of her lovely childlike ways. There is all the difference m the world between (ho childish and tiie childlike, if one only takes the trouble to distinguish between the two. " [ am going In tell you exactly what happened, as far as I—as far as anybody —■knows." 1 answered quietly. " There couldn't be anywhere lovelier than this peaceful corner in which to tell you the truth; and after all. the truth I have to tell is not terrible. Your Dearest passed out of this life into the next, in the most beautiful place you can imagine. She Jay upon grass covered with flowers; and tho sunshine was pouring down out of a very blue sky; and the mountains that morning looked vso white, so still, and wonderful." " Wore you there ?" she asked wistfully. "Yes. I was there. I happened to be walking along the path between the meadows, and I was tho only person who was with her when she died. The doctors thought she had walked too far, and hurt her heart, which could not have been strong beforo." " It wasn't." the child's soft A-oicc put in; "she had sometimes had bad turns, but sho hadn't had ono for a long, long time. I believe she thought she was quite well." " Yes, I expect that was just what happened. She thought she was quite well; and taxed her strength too much. No one knows, no one could find out from what hut she had come that morning. We think sho must have slept in a mountain hut, and that then she meant to come on to Grindelwald. By .the way," I suddenly interrupted my story, "did she give you no address in Switzerland to which to write?". " Yes. two addresses. One was Poste Restante, Montreux, and the other, Poste Itestarite, Grindelwald " "No hotel ? No chaleL The child shook her head.

" She didn't mean to be away long."' she answered. " She had business near Montreux. - She told me that; she was going to stay a few nights with an old friend in a chalet somewhere not far from Montreux; and after that I thought she was going to walk about a little, and then go to Grindelwald." Probably that is * exactly what did happen," I said slowly; "most likely she did stay at the chalet, where her namo would not have besci registered; and then she walked on, perhaps sleeping somewhere on the way, in a hut. wliero again she would net need to bo registered. That would account for the fact that we could find no trace of her 'in any hotel." " She was ill when you saw her thero, in the meadow among the flowers:" came the next question

" Sho was ill, but I don't think sho suffered any pain,"—l spoke gently and slowly, it hurt me to see the expression in the young eyes that watched me—- " the end came so quickly. 1 did what I could for her, but there was time to do so little, time too for so few words. Her one thought was of yo'u " The hand lying upon mine give it a quick little squeeze, but un indrawn breath was her only other sign of emotion. What ever elso Miss Merivale had done or omitted to do she had, at least, laid the foundations of self-control in this child's character.

" She asked me if I would take care of you," I went on, "and I promised that I would.; And then, quite quietly, without any sign of suffering, she—went on into the bigger life." " T like the way you say that " —again my hand was tightly squeezed—" it's tho way Dearest herself talked about dying. She used to say it only means going into another room, into something much better and finer than anything we have here."

For a moment ivc were silent, and only tlic soft whisper of the wind that ruffled flic bushes, touched, without disturbing tho peaco of that sheltered corner. "Tell mo about the place where you left. Dearest," was the next question; and again I marvelled at the self-control of the questioner. " It is one, of the loVeliest churchyards I ever saw," was my reply; " it is on a slope, and the slopes aro planted with flowers—roses, and pinks, and all the dear garden flowers your Dearest loves"— as I used that word, a little smile crossed her face—" and across the valley the great _ mountains stand, like beautiful guardians, always watching over the place; and there is a sound of running water from the river in tho valley's bottom; and among tho trees the chaffinches sing; and all the place is flooded with sunshine. T have brought you the verses we found in your Dearest's pocketbook. Mr. Dymond allowed me to keep them and bring them to you." As I spoke, I drew them from my own pocket-book, and handed them to her. She read the.rn through twice, and her eyes filled with tears.

" I'm glad you left her in that lovelv place," she said. " I think she would lather stay there."

" I am sure she would," I agreed; "hesides which, when we think about it sanely and rightly, we know it isn't sho who lies there, only the body she left behind,"

" Yes, I know; only sometimes it aches me, it just aches me Uiat I can't see Dearest, when I want to see her so dreadfully. T feci as if I couldn't bear to know I shouldn't ever see her again." At that point the amazing self-control broke down, and she dropped her head into her hands and sobbed, as though her heart would break. Instinctively 1 felt that it was better her grief should have its way. Her self-conh'ol had been too great for lier years, too great for anybody, at any age.

(COPmiGIIT.)

A breakdown, such as this, would in the long run bo better for her than too much self-restaint; and knowing that sho would prefer to be by herself in her sorrow, I stole away from tho roso garden, leaving the poor child alone with the fluffy dog. I went into tho house and rang the bell for Mrs. Grogan " I have left Miss Stephanie Anne in tho garden," I said; "she is a good deal upset, because I have been telling her all she wanted to hear. I thought it was best to tell her tho simple truth." " Of course you had to please yourself about that, madam," she said, respectfully enough; but I fanccid that in her eyes I saw again tho flash of antagonism which T had seen there before.. " I've tried to keep the knowledge of everything unpleasant from our little lady. Miss Merivale was very particular about her." At tho implication in these words, something unregenerato within mo boiled up a little. Naturally I had no wish to put any unpleasant aspects of life before that grey-eyed child who had already laid proprietary fingers upon my heart; but not less naturally, I desired to maintain friendly relations with the woman who stood before me. in an attitude of respectful, yet bristling _ animosity. My path promised to be difficult enough, without adding to it any stumbling-blocks; and I choked down my bubbling resentment, and answered her quite quietly:

" I am sure you and I will both want to keep everything harmful away from Miss Stephanie Anne," I said, substituting another word for the one she had used. "But I am sure you will agree with me, that in every life, however sheltered, there comes a time when facts have to ho faced. 1 thought it was really kinder to that poor little girl to tell her the truth, than to let her eat her heart out, wondering and speculating about things. She is such a brave soul, sho won't misunderstand, and I want your help very much Mrs. Grogan," I went on; "my position is not an easy one, not one 1 should ever have undertaken, but that it was impossible to refuse a dying woman's request." Some of tho smouldering animosity left her face; she looked mollified, and her voice lost, the rasping quality which it had hitherto held; though I still felt that my hold over her would be a very uncertain one.

" Well, if there's anything I can do, madam, I'm suro," sho began, and I broke in quickly: "There is a great deal you can do. 1 have coino here as u total stranger; I have to feci my way as it were, and you have been for some time with Miss Merivale, haven't you ?" " Me and Grogan have been with her for a year, and a good mistress sho has always been." " I am sure she has," I responded, " and I do understand how difficult it must be for you now—how much you must dislike a stranger coming into tho house."

1 thought my gentle words had finally completed the mollifying process; but when she answered me. there was a traco of suspicion in her voice. " It's a puzzle to me, to both Grogan and me," she said, " why Mr. Dymond couldn't have arranged that some relation. or old friend of Miss Merivale, or the lit tie lady, should como here, and mind her."

" I can quite understand your feeling" —the smouldering resentment within me showed itself afresh—" but you see, both Mr. Dymond and I are not free agents. Wc aro' bound by Miss Merivale's own wish, her very clearly expressed wish." I emphasised these words. '' Besides which," I went on, before she could speak again, "it does not appear that Miss Merivale had any near relations, nor the poor little girl either. Mr. Dymond could tell me of none. Could you ?" I asked the question suddenly; I had a wish to take her, if possible, off her guard; perhaps to surprise her into some admission. It had all at once struck mo that possibly she knew more about Miss Merivale, and her relation to the child than sho chose to say. But if Mrs. Grogan did know more than she pretended to knoW' sho showed no sign, ller expression was quite non-committal; her next words, apparently quite genuine. " No. I can't tell you anything about Miss Merivale's relations, or the little lady's," she said. "I've heard Miss Merivale say she herself hadn't any near relations; but"—she hesitated, and her rather small eyes narrowly scrutinised my face—" but, of course, it stands to rea_son tho little lady must have relations some'where. She can't have grown out of nothing, as ono might say, and it's my belief "

She pulled herself up short, as though she thought sho was saying too much, but when I replied: " It's your belief, what ?" she answered hastily: " It's my belief the little lady's got relations right enough, and that Miss Merivale wanted to keep them away from her. That's my belief, and Grcrgan's," sho added, with a sort of defiance.

I thought of the beautiful still faco of .the woman who had lain dead on the Grindelwald meadow. I thought ot its peace, of the serene smile that had shone upon it; and something in Mrs. Grogan's tone, as sho expressed her opinion, renewed within me that boiling sensation of anger. I had a sudden desire to lash out at this woman, with the cold eyes, set too close together; but prudence counselled gcntlo methods, and I curbed my temper and my tongue. " If what you think is true, if Miss Merivale did really wish to keep Miss Stephanie Anne away from her relations, we may be sure there was some very good reason for it," I said quietly. My own quietness surprised me, for I am, by nature, impetuous and impulsive, only too apt to blurt out at headlong speed whatever is in my mind. "In any case," I went on, " in any case," —I repeated the phrase—" Miss Merivale, who was perfectly conscious, perfectly herself, quite certainly and decidedly put her ward into my charge. Before sho died, she asked mo to take care of Miss Stephanie Anne, and I promised to do it. That promise I intend to carry out." As I spoke, I looked full into Mrs. Grogan's eyes, and I had an odd feeling that in that moment we were crossing swords, though her answer was quite respectful, and though, as far as I could see, there was no particular reason why she should cross swords with mc, unless sho fancied sho could gain any advantage from those problematical relations of Stephanie Anne!

After our conversation she. was all smoothness and solicitude. She seemed to mako a virtue of necessity, and to, accept me with a good grace; and yet, in spite of all her smoothnes.\, I did not trust her. I scolded myself for fancifulness; I argued that I was absurd, that I was imagining what had no existence in fact nevertheless, far down in my mind, I did not trust tho housekeeper. " Either she does really know something about the child's relations," I reflected, "and she doesn't chooso to tell me what she knows; or she knows nothing, hut wants to keep me on tho qui vive, and perhaps in time contrive to get rid of me. Whichever it is, I am ready for her. I don't intend that she should get rid of me, and, relation or no relation, I mean to justify the trust of that dead woman who counted on me, who put her trust in mc. (To be continued on Saturday next.)