FINGERS OF FATE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXVII, Issue 20454, 4 January 1930, Page 12 (Supplement)

FINGERS OF FATE.

BY L. G. MOBERLEY.

CHAPTER EX.—(Continued). The doctor's consulting room window looked into his garden, of ;wbich he was not unreasonably proud; and upon the soft May air came the scent of white pinks, from the big bed upon the lawn. He listened to my story in silence, making no comment until I had put before him both Becky's and my own doubts and misgivings. In that way he !was a very satisfactory person, to yrhom to (talk; he never interrupted or questioned yhile you were speaking. He allowed you jto have your say, and then gave you his cpinion.

" Your friend, Miss Trinder, is not at all m, person to run away with any imaginary idea," he ,said slowly, when I had finished; , "she' is very clear-sighted. fThere is something very sterling about Sber."

" She is a dear," was my enthusiastic reply, although I am ashamed to say his praise of Becky gave me a sudden sense of— was it surprise, or dismay 1

During the months I had spent at Clansjnere I had learnt to look upon David [Wellsdale as a very real friend; and I suppose I had jumped to the totally jerroneous conclusionthat he was especially and particularly my friend; while, on the other hand, I had still given Arnold tho the first'place in my heart, and never allowed Dr. Wellsdale or any other man to jencroach upon his preserves! My cerjtainty that Arnold might ultimately fall iSnto-lina with my thoughts and wishes had hitherto survived even my doubts. His present silence aroused within me fresh doubts. I was no longer so full of a pleasiant conviction that some day Arnold might come round to my way of thinking; and the way in which Dr. Wellsdale's eyes had lighted up when the mentioned Becky, gave me a sudden chill sensation of being pat- in the cold. • Yet obviously my sencations were ridiculous. What right had I to suppose that Dr. Wellsdale would bestow upon me his exclusive friendship'! When all was said and done, why should fce? " Becky is a dear," I repeated firmly, fefter these horrid thoughts had -flitted .through my brain, " and as you say, she is not foolishly imaginative. . Just because I feel she has an unusual amount of common sense', her impression of the Grogans impresses me. But how am I to get rid of tbem ? Sometimes I wonder whether I have bitted off too big a thing in undertaking this whole difficult charge," I ended rather despondently. " • '

He shook his he.id. •" You did the only thing possible under .very exceptional circumstances," _he answered with decision; " don't" evei" dream you made a mistake, in keeping your pi'Opiise. Miss Merivale. And about the Grojgajis, my own advice to you is, give them notice. If you want some one to back you up, ring up the solicitor, and ask for his authorisation. Then simply say that Mr. Dvmond wishes you to make a change in the establishment. That ought to be enough; but if you have any bother with these people, telephone to me, and I will |ielp you." I thanked him warmly. His hand-clasp jwas very strong and comforting; the expression in his blue eyes also gave mo a pleasant sense of comfort; and as I walked slowly homewards, I found myself involuntarily comparing him with Arnold, and the question pushed itself into my mind— Have I chosen dross when perhaps I might ihave had gold 1 In my own mind I knew perfectly well that I had to a certain extent kept Dr. Wellsdale at a distance, in spite of our friendly relations. [Arnold had alwavs in a sense been between us. My attitude to Dr. Wellsdale had always been " Thus far and no further "; and now, as I tramped along the lanes where the trees met overhead, and hawthorns .were white in the hedges, I iiad a queer conviction that, in some way through mv own fault or my own misfortunes. I had /alien between two stools. " The milk is spilt," I said to myself us I leaned "over the gate and looked at jthe wide prospect of hill and woodland. f and whether you poured it out of the tan yourself, of whether it got shaken out by inadvertence, who can say ? _ But it is definitely spilt, and has soaked by cow into the dust of the highway, so don't waste any tears over it! And yet, and' yet it hurt me to remember how far Arnold and I had drifted apart in our ideas of duties and obligations. Of had I perhaps all along imagined at. Arnold who was-really non-exist-fent? lam not sure that this reflection ?/as not the most chastening and bit'ter of all. I had always prided myself upon being a woman of common sense, not given to highly coloured imaginings; but as I walked along the sandy lane on that May afternoon, I was fain to confess to myself that I had built up a fairy Arnold, V/ho had no counterpart in actual' life. I had imagined him as I should have liked him to be, and he had not come up to my expectations; there was the painful truth in a nutshell. I felt small and ashamed of myself; fend my* heart* ached more than a little .because the Arnold of my dreams had toppled off his pedestal: and as I approached the Manor, I was in no very enviable frame of mind. I dreaded abEurbly having to dismiss the Grogans, and I wanted to turn tail and flee! But 1 am not in the, habit of shirking my funs, however unpleasant' they mSy be to face; so I quickened my steps, and reached the front door, just as a big jmotor sv;ept round from the further gate, land drew up close to me. " You see I had to come," a gay voice tailed out;, and the next moment.l found myself shaking hands with Mrs. Daubeny, looking more lovely than on the day we parted—more lovely and more altogether beguilding. "I had to come." she repeated, when she stood on the drive beside me, my hand held 7 in both of hers. "I found I had (wo days to spare, and being a creature of moods, I rushed down here to see 'your, beautiful village, your home, your little girl! Don't scold me for my impetuosity." She looked at me with .with the expression of some delicious appealing child, and I laughed. "Scold you!" I exclaimed; "I am delighted to see you. It is good of you to find time to come here. ' I want you to make acquaintance, with this dear old house, and with Stephanie .Anne." " Ah. that dear little quaint name," the said - laughing her attractive laugh, ss we entered t-ho hall; " the name alone is so sweet,—and is this the owner of the riame!" These words were added, as [Anne, running quickly down the wide staircase', pulled up short on . seeing a etranger with me. " Anne ydear, this is Mrs. Daubeny, v.ho travelled with me from Switzerland," I said, and the visitor made a quick step forward, and took both the child's hands in hers, just as she. had taken mine, smiling down into Anne's rather bewildered face.

" I wonder " —Mrs. Daubeny spoke [with a graceful hesitation which I thought charming—" r wonder, may I kiss 'you?' 1 and without, waiting for Anne's ,consent, she bent down and kissed the Child's cheek. ;

Anne flushed deeply, and I could almost have s\<rorn that, she half drew back, ~though anything of the kind was so unlike her usual courtesy, -that I thought my eyes must have deceived me. But there was a look in Anne's eyes which surprised me even more than that swift movement tof withdrawal, a look of combined resentment ' and shrinking, which puzzled me. Anne's welcome to visitors ;was, as a rule, so eager, so full of forthcomingness, if 1 may coin a, ward, that iter present, attitude puzzlt*?- me: She Jvas nuvfi nearly gaucha than I h»4-«w

A STORY OF LOVE, MYSTERY, INTRIGUE AND ADVENTURE.

seen her; and to cover what I felt to be an awkward moment, I talked unusually fast and loud myself. Mrs. Daubeny kept her arm upon Anne's arm, and we all went into the drawing-room together, to find Becky on the floor, intent upon teaching Joseph his tricks and manners. To her also Mrs. Daubeny was move than charming; but during the whole two hours which Mrs. Daubeny spent with us, I was conscious that Anne was in some strange way inimical. Her courtesy did not fail; but, although I could not. put it into words, I realised that she was holding herself aloof; and I instinctively felt that our visitor knew she was holding herself aloof.

Nothing could exceed Mrs. Daubeny's delightful way of ignoring the aloofness; she chattered on gaily and inconsequent lv; she and Becky compared notes about various places abroad, whilst she and I talked Switzerland; and nobody watching our little tea party would have dreamed that any shadow of embarrassment rested upon it. Only because of that incomprehensible aloofness of Anne's the embarrassment was there, and I could not understand it.

• After tea Mrs. Daubeny pleaded most eagerly to be shown (lie house and garden. " These English houses give me more pleasure than I can possibly put into words," she said, clasping her hands in a pretty-foreign way natural to her. "I have'lived so little in this beloved country that I know less of it than many strangers know. Old houses such as this one give me delicious little thrills. I want to know all that has happened in them ; all the stories of the lives that have been lived in these walls. Every family that lives in a house ought to be compelled to leave its history behind. Promise you will write a history of yourself and of all that, happens to you-here." she added, turning to me impulsively, " and all about this dear Stehpanie Anne with the sweet name."

We were moving across the room as she spoke, and her hand fell caressingly on the child's shoulder, and again I saw Anne shrink as though the gentle touch was repulsive to her. And yet—yet how could this pretty, soft-voiced creature, with the fascinating ways, be repulsive to anybody ? That, thought'flashed first into my mind; aud hard upon it, and quite irrelevantly, came the remembrance of the eyes that had looked at me across the little table in the restaurant car, the eyes of a bird of prey. And following that remembrance came "the' thought of my dream of the night before; the strange, disquieting dream in which Mrs. Daubeny had played a part, • in. which her laugh had pursued me in so terrifying a fashion ! I shook off the thoughts, and we went all round the house, Mrs. Daubeny full of'admiration over the oak panelled walls; the wide staircase, the mcny queer nooks and crannies. Indeed, s.ie showed herself -thoroughly appreciative, and my heart warmed toward her afresh. As for the garden, words almost failed her there, and she insisted on bestowing a minute inspection upon every part of it, even including what we called the rough garden, a semi-wild piece of ground, where flowers bloomed-.under the apple trees and a little path led across a stream to a- copse beyoud. The copse ended the Manor House property, and from it, a wicket gate led into the lane; and Mrs. Daubeny lingered in the copse, declaring that it. gave her a more-perfect sense of being in England than any other' place she had been in since her arrival.

" Don't you love this copse?" she asked Anne. "If I lived here, I believe I should want to spend most of my time in this lovely little wood." "T do love it," Anne answered.

'.- " Anne spends a great deal of time here," I put in when the girl fell unaccountably silent. " When in doubt, look in the copse, is always my motto when I can't- find her."

"Ah. ueil! I agree with Anne. If you never ask me to stay here I shall always be found in the copse if I am missing from the house."

I saw that Anne's eye were fixed upon the visitor's laughing face with the strangest expression of—what was it, doubt, repulsion, surprise ? I could not fathom that expression and it was very fleeting. But. when, later on that day, after our visitor had left us. I said to the child: "Did you like Mrs. Daubeny?" she flushed scarlet and shook her head. " She mokes me feel queer inside," was her answer, " something in her makes me afraid."

Afraid! Stephanie Anne afraid ? Hitherto I had looked upon her as one of the most completely fearless creatures I had ever come across. She had no fear of any animal; she had never appeared to have any fears at all; yet here she was unexpectedly telling me she was afraid of a lovely and charming little woman, who had evinced for her nothing but admiration and affection.

She saw mv puzzled surprise, and repeated wistfully: " It's true, dear, something in her makes me afraid. I hope she'll never come here again." " She isn't likely to come here again." I was conscious of a certain tartness in rrfy speech; I felt oddly irritated with Anne. I had wanted her to show herself at her best, and she had showh a side of herself which I should never have believed could exist at all. I felt irritated, and inclined to visit my irritation upon the girl who stood-silently watching me, .her grey eves very wistful and troubled.

".Anne, dear, you have let your imagination run away with you," I said, more impatiently than I had ever spoken to her. " What possible reason could you have for being afraid of anybody so delightful as Mrs. Daubeny? Besides which, can't you see that it is rather silly to be afraid of somebody in your own home, where there are plenty of people to take care of you ?" Anne's eyes met mine fully. There was a hurt look in them, the sort- of look you see in the eyes of a dog whom you have punished unjustly. " I know it is silly, dear," she said gently, " but I—just couldn't help it. Her eyes looked as if they wanted to eat- me up." My irritation vented itself in a laugh, which I knew held scorn. I meant it to be scornful. T felt vexed, and rubbed up the wrong way.

" Oh, Anne, don't go on talking such nonsense," I exclaimed. " Where in the world have you. imbibed all these extraordinary ideas ? Well! anyhow, Mrs. Daubeny has gone now, and we are not likely to see her again; so we needn't wbrry our heads about her any more." Anne did not answer. She only looked at; me again, still with that strange hurt expression in her eyes, and left the room. , As. the door shut quietly behind her. a flashing remembrance came to me of the eyes that had looked at-me across the table'in the restaurant car—the. eyes of a bird of prey. And suddenly I shivered as though tile cold air of a November day blew through the room, instead of the warm, scented air of a divine evening in May. " All the same," I argued to myself when conscience told me I had been too impatient to the child, —" all the same I can't-allow her to have foolish fancies, and morbid imaginings; she must learn common sense." ■

In this comfortable fashion I silenced my conscience, and when Becky presently came in. I talked to her rather ..hard and fast about the Grogans, and-my interview with Dr. Wellsdale. Somehow I declined to discuss Mrs. Daubeny with her. My passage at arms with Anne had made that particular subject distasteful; and I did not mention our unexpected visitor.of the afternoon to Becky at all.

I biaced. myself to deal with the Grogans when the moment, came; and I spent a sleepless hour or so in framing the exact words in which I would do the dealing. Every incident, of that evening arid night, stand out in my mind with a cameo-like clearness; even small details seem to be indelibly engraved upon my memory;.and perhaps that is not wonderful, in view of all that was to come after, —of all that yras to come after!

(COPYRIGHT,)

CHAPTER X V GONE. Some moments in life are stamped upon one's remembrance, as though dug into it with a sharp-pointed instrument; and to my dying day, I think that particular moment when Millicent, the girl I had engaged as Anne's maid, came acuoss the lawn towards me, will stand out as one of the most dreadful I ever rfemember. Even now as I sit. here, pen in hand, I feel again the old sick dismay, the sudden sense of impending disaster. I see again tho long shadows across the grass—tho trees beyond tho lawn touched with the. golden light of the westering sun; and I smell again the warm scent of the white pinks, and hear the long call of the swifts as they flew to and 'fro. across the grass. And then everything is obliterated, excepting 'Millicent's white face and scared eyes; and all other sounds are merged in the sound of her shaking voice. " Oh, madam," she said," I can t find Miss Anno anywhere." "What do you mean, Millicent?" I answered, trying to speak quietly, whilst my heart beat in thick heavy beats, and then seemed to stand completely still. Anne's day had been spent as usual. Neither sho nor T had made any allusion to yesterday, or lo Mrs. Daubeny. and T had decided not to speak to the Grogans until I heard what Mr. Dvmond thought of the matter, so that nothing had disturbed our normal procedure. "What do you mean, Millicent?" T repeated, when.she did not at, once answer my question. " Surely Miss Anne is in her room; it is just time for her to dress for dinner."

" Yes. madam, I went up to speak to Miss Anne about her new . frock; she wished to try it 011 before dinner. She said I was to go to her room at half-past six, but. she isn't there, and I can't find her anywhere."

My heart was racing on again now, and already my own acceptance of the maid s evident anxiety, struck my common sense as absurd.

"Well, Millicent, there is surely no reason to make any fuss," I said quickly. " Miss Anne is probably in the garden somewhere. She very likely didn t want to go in on such a lovely evening." , Millicont's glance met mine reproacbfull v.

"I wouldn't have troubled you. madam" she sa'id." if I hadn't looked everywhere, and its long past the time Miss Artne told me. She said half-past six. and it's close on half-past seven, and Miss Anne is always so punctual and all." It was true. Anno was most punctual little soul, and I had often noticed how very particular she was never to keep a servant waiting, a trait which I put down to Miss .Merivale's excellent teaching. Still I would not allow my heart to sink a'gain. Anne had, of course, mistaken the time. She would appear at any moment, .breathless and apologetic; I my-* self would go and hunt for her; and without any doubt I should find her in one of her favourite haunts, garden or copse.

Telling Millicent not to worry, I sped down the garden calling to Anne as I went. But there was no answer to my call; and although I searched the gardens thoroughly from end to end, I found no sign of the child anywhere. My heart began to sink again, unaccountably and ridiculously I told myself; of course Anne was in the house all the time, —most likely curled up on the sofa in the draw-ing-room with a book, and oblivious of everything. Or perhaps she had rambled into'the copse, and was intent on watching some pet- bird in its own home. She loved all wild creatures, and was happv for hours, studying the ways of the woodland folk. I crossed the tiny stream over which we had piloted Mrs. Daubeny the day before, and I followed the small meandering path into the copse, constantly calling to Anne as I went. But still there was no reponse to my call. Nothing answered me but the whisper of the evening breeze in the hazels, and the evening songs of the birds. I went- into every corner of the little copse: I went as far as the wicket gate- that led into the lane, and looked to right and left along the lane itself, a great fear knocking at my heart. But I scolded myself for the fear, as I hurried back to the house. I argued that my fear was idiotic and quite unnessarv. I should find Anno in the drawing-room, as I had thought, deep in her book: or by now she was in her bedroom trying on her new frock: or—perhaps she had, after all gone with Becky to the village shop for stamps. AH these possibilities, I argued hotly with myself, might have happened; but when-1 entered the hall, the first person I met was. Becky herself, looking scarcely less scared than Millicent had looked; and to see Becky look scared—Becky, who was usually so reliant, so quiet—gave me a moment of such acute terror that- my heart, began to beat like a threshing machine.

" Di, what has become of "Anne?" Becky said breathlessly. " TVo have hunted for her all over the house, and Millicent said you were hunting the garden. Can't you find her? J ' I shook my head. My mouth seemed dry. my tongue for an instant refused to speak: I could only look at Becky in dumb misery. Then I managed to gasp out:

"I've been all over the garden and copse She isn't anywhere there. I thought and hoped she might have followed you into the village." " She said she couldn't come: she had m-omised Millicent to try on her frock. She told me she was going up to do it at half-past six." "When was that?" T asked, feeling as if my world were all at once falling to pieces. "When did you last see her?" " Not- long after tea. You remember, when Grogan took the tea-tray from the lawn, you picked up your book, and Anne and T went into the house?" I nodded. " She wanted to show me the embroidery she was doing and we went.to the schoolroom and looked at it. Then T had tc flv off to the village, and Anne said she should go back and sit with you, after she had picked some flowers'for the draw-ing-room." " She never came back to me," I-said dully. " I didn't see her picking flowers. I didn't see her again, after you and. she went in together. " Oh, Becky, .where is she? Where is she?" I exclaimed', a sort of desperation seizing me.' and I caught Becky's arm almost fiercely. I knew, in that moment, how infinitely dear the grey-eyed child had gro,wn, how much she' meant in my .life: My heart sank down and down like lead; I could only stare at Becky helplessly, whilst she put a firm hand • over mine that- still gripped her arm. "Don't look like that, Di. my dear," she said, and the- quiet, -of her voice braced me. " After all. there is no need for panic. Anne is a very level-headed girl'. She is not likely to do anything foolish."

" But where can she be. Becky?" T questioned. " I grant she is»level-headed. and for that very reason why should ..we miss her in this extraordinary way?"

Becky tried again to offer me consolation. but a dead weight 1/iy upon my heart : and although I tried not. to let. myself grow unduly agitated, my agitation did increase, as the hours went, on, and Anne did not come hack. . • The soft semi darkness of the night seemed full of menance; sinister shapes seemed to hover over the garden: all the familiar peace •of the place had gone, leaving instead a grim terror. "Uhen. at- ten o'clock, there was still no sign of Anne. T telephoned to Dr. Wellsdale; I think at that moment. T was nearly frantic with suspense, and with a sense of my own helplessness; and when he appeared at the Manor House as fast as his car could bring him after my telephone message, f suppose-my desperation was apparent. for lie took my hand and held it in a firm clasp. . . " Don't let. yourself get too much worried," he said; "there may be a simpler explanation than one imagines." ,(To bo oontinuad cn Saturday n«rt.)'