FINGERS OF FATE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXVII, Issue 20496, 22 February 1930, Page 18 (Supplement)

FINGERS OF FATE.

BY. L. G. MOBERLEY.,

- • CHAPTER XVHL XHP WEDDIKO.' I-am afraid that,- in all those days of and anxiety, I. had rather lost account oi date?;, and we. found that we fcad come home on the eve of Becky s [wedding day. She and I had planned (that,- according to her own wish, everything should be very quiet; and she had intended "slipping' out about nine o'clock jin- the morning, meeting David Wellsidala at. the church door, and getting married ■ with ■ the clerk and his wife IBS: witnesses! "Well, I-am'glad we have come homo in-time to have something a little more like a i wedding than that-,' was my iemark • when Becky divulged her plan. £ l .£Jo, my dear, it is of no use to aigue [with'me ! You are not going to have a jkiiid of runaway ceremony at cockcrow; you ai'e going to married at respectable hour; and you will have lunch beie, and then'go off as soon as you like. \\e (will telephone to the vicar, and to, Dr. [Wellsdale about -.the change of arrange-, and I Rm sure they will agree that I'm quite rignt." i ' ; Thev- did agree. The dear u old vicar (willingly fell in' with all .that. I suggested; so did. Dr. Wellsdale. and ..when I Ipropounded-my plans to Mr. and Mr?. [Dane, the -pleasant couple who had succeeded .the Grogans, they were delighted. I couldn't bear to think : of , Miss fTrinder going off to church the way she cieant to," Mrs. Dane said at once, ' and tme and Dane will do all we. can to help yQU, madam.. We can have. a. nice iupch; and there's flowers enough in the teajden - and greenhouses to make, the (table pretty; and I'm sure everyone here likes ISliss Trinder, and will be; glad to mkke her wedding what a wedding should They, certainly all showed their, willingness; next day, and every, member of the household took a share in giving dear !Beckv a wedding day.to remember. The [weather, too, was kind. The sky was cloudless; the sun shone from morning till night, andi the air was crisp with'the uilicious crispness of October. / .It was a,golden world through which (we went, to for the beech trees '|that made an archway all along the lanes shone yellow and orange in the sunlight; ithe hawthorns might have heen carved put of gold; and the larches on the hillside were like a tawny sea. Becky looked very sweet in a, grey gown, end at: her breast a bunch of pink roses which the gardener had brought'in to ber—pink monthly roses, very fragrant and dainty. - Anne was radiant, and. to her great joy she officiated as bridesmaid, and held Becky's gloves and bouquet dur;ine the service. Mr. Crosfield gave the ' tride away.• He begged Becky to allow him to* do this, and she most gratefully accepted, being, as she laughingly to d feihi ■ a- lone, lorn woman, owning only one'male relation, who declined to come! The church was full. The villagers loved a wedding, and during the months : jwhich Becky had spent at 4he Manor House-she had endeared herself to many of them. Becky had a way of endearing herself to people; and the number ' bf men women who confided in her and brought- their difficulties and troubles to her for solution or comfort, was amaz-

Wellsdale's face beamed as she talked .up. the little nave on Mr. Crosfield's arm; and the unselfish side of me was fuH of gladness that Becky and he & be ..o happy; whilst my more selfish side wanted to grab some of the game Wt of happiness for its own gratification. I .sat upon my selfish side. I eat upon it heavily; and I had a reward a ^t haf:eryßeckyr y ßecky and her husband bad driven away, and Anne Mr. Grosifield and I stood together in *ke drawingroom: feeling a little dull and at a loose end, Anne turned to me: "Fancy if it was you who had been parried to-day," she exclaimed, whatever should we do ? . '"We shouldnt do at all, Mr. Crosfield put in; "we should be like lost cheep. You are the pivot on which we (turni Miss Bertram; couldu t do [without you, Anne and I. r The / words brought a warm glow about mv heart; " We couldn't do without you, 'Anne and I." Those words gave me a most blissful sense of being really needed arid every woman knows how much that cense implies! ... When Anne had gone to bed that night I set myself to discuss a subject which, ever, since Anne's return to us, i had felt must be thrashed out and decided. !AU the matter of Anne's disappearance, and ; forcible imprisonment was in the bands of the police, English and French; pd were no longer taking more than a passive interest in the question. lint •Anne's future and mine, now that Anne s father' was on the spot, were subjects .which I felt must be definitely faced; fend .when Mr. Crosfield ana I were seated opposite one another in nay sitting-room beside a cheery wood fire, I opened the 'discussion. . "When are you going to tell Anne you are her father?" I bjgan abruptly, fell the more elaborate beginnings I had invented slipping awa y„ frora me; C oughtn't she to be told :" ■ " Yes of course she ought; J was only (waiting'until she had got over the shock cf; all she had to en dura lately, poor little tl)ing. It may be a great additional ehbck to her to find out what is my relationship to her." . " Why dosen't she know it already?jsras my next abrupt question. . " Because I dare say I was a fool, but I couldn't bear that, the.child, as a. child, should have any knowledge of all the trouble between her mother and me; land I asked Grace to leavf. her in ignorance of everything until she was grown ,cp'. She came to Grace .is a baby. I jtvas constantly away; her mother was a quantity not. to be reckoned with st all; and so I thought we would leave all revelations alone until Anne was old enough to understand th* whole affair. I think now it was perhaps a mistake." " I think it was," I answered bluntly; P' and I do think, too, that the sooner the mistake is remedied the better. Anrje (will be overjoyed when shit knows of her relationship to you. It will make her ,very happy to realise she is your daughter. She is devoted to you already." Ha!smiled, and the smite drove away gome of the haunting sadness of his face. " That decides one question," I went on, after a moment's silence, " but there is something elso to be discussed. I have been thinking thing» over lately." "Thinking over what things?" he fesked/'with a stratled look. "Thinking over my position here, and coming to the conclusion that, under the circumstances it is rather a false pne."/ • " A false position ? Why? How?" • " Because it is ridiculous that I should fce. here as Anne's legal guardian, when Bhe has a father who is naturally her real guardian. Miss Merivale could only have meant me to occupy this position pro tem., until you came back." "Good heavens! You don't want to go away, do you ?" Tho;re Mas genuine alarm in his accents. "You are not (wishing to throw up your guardianship |of - Anne ?"

" I don't want to do anything but ,What is rational and right. Only ■it Baems to me," —I spoke slowly, feeling for Ay words,—" it seemit to me that 1 fcm, in a way superfluous," " Look here, Miss Bertram,"—he sat tipright and spoke with great earnestness,—" don't talk nonsense. No one in their sonsss could pretend that your presence here is superfluous. However much be Anne' .8 natural .which

A STORY OF LOVE, MYSTERY, INTRIGUE AND ADVENTURE.

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of course,l am, she needs a woman to look after her and help her. She has come to an age"—his tones grew increasingly grave—" when she more than ever , needs a woman's guidance. She has a terrible heritage from her mother; I want that terrible heritage counteracted in, every possible . way. Please don't think of leaving us,"—there was a .pleading note now in his voice,,— "we can't spare you. Unless " —he broke off suddenly, and stared at me,— "'you are not feeling that conventions are forbidding you to stay ? You are not. worrying about Mrs. Grundy ?" At. that I laughed whole-heartedly. "Oh! no; I am afraid I have never allowed Mrs. Grundy to trouble me much, and I don't care twopence-halfpenny about conventionality. In any case, I am not a girl, and surely even Mrs. Grundy could not object to your having someone here to take care of your daughter, who -is, in- herself, a kind of chaperon, >if chaperon were needed," I laughed , agaiu. " I only thought that, as .circumstances have changed, we ought to review the whole position." " Circumstances have not materially changed"," he said quietly. " I shall be going away before.very long—" " .Going away ?"• my voice interrupted him, and I'am sure there was dismay in my voice. • "One half of me would like to settle down into a quiet, country life," he answered;." the other half is driven out into the wilderness." He spoke with.curious vehemence. "I shall soon have to go back to the wilderness." My -heart sank. I realised in that moment how much I had,learnt to lean upon ' this man's strength, and look to him for help; the very thought of his going right'away, sent my courage oozing out of my finger-tips.

' " I shall leave Anne in your care with perfect confidence" —he was speaking agajn—" and I shall, carry alyays with me, as .a background to my life, the thought of this home in which you and Anne are together. 1 ' What' could-.I do? Restlessness looked out of,'his eyes; there was restless misery about thejipes round his mouth. I knew he spoke.the truth when he. said he was driven opt, into the wilderness; and I knew thai I should be both selfish and cruel if' I tried to keep him back. Acquiescence is still, after all, one of the chief parts a;woman has to play! Next day,we told Anne of her relationship to Mr. Crosfield, and it, was delightful ■ toseethe colour that flashed over her face, the light that shone in her eyes. , Oh ! I'm. glad," she said, slipping her hand into.her father's hand, and looking up at' him ; with a glance of shy adoration. "Dearest loved you; Dearest thought you were' the best person in the .world; and so do I!" During .the days that followed the two were inseparable, and I liked to watch them together. Anne's loving ways drove some.of the sadness out of Mr. Crosfield's eyes; and I. thought the lines upon his face grew less marked, .when his little daughter put her arm through his, and dragged him to her favourite haunts in Ihe'garden, or along the lanes. But even her. influence could not keep him with us. Every day I realised that his restlessness increased. Every day I knew that his' beloved wilderness was calling to him with a more and mors insistent voice. And at last he. went—went with dramatic suddenness, which, in a way, seemed more suitable and more like him than any long-drawn-out farewells. One Wednesday evening he said goodnight to Anne with a lingering tenderness, holding her against him for many minutes,- as though he could not bear to let'her go; and his good-night to me ended with the words: "I cant ever thank you enough for what you have done, and are doing, for my little Stephanie Anne."' The next morning he was gone! Anne and I each found a note for us upon our breakfast plate, and in each lie said he could, not bear to say goodbye; but that the time had come when he felt'he must go. This time his travels would take him into the heart of Africa, where he intended to do some botanical and other' research work; and his address would - be c/o The .Shipping Agents, Messrs. Courtray, Leadenhall Street. That was all; and Anne and I,were left to our daily round of existence, feelin* that something very precious had gone out of our lives,, and that a great blank had been left behind.

CHAPTER XIX. " NO." " Mr. Arnold Ryecyoft." Excepting in rather melodramatic fiction, I do not believe that people "start violently." But when Dane opened the room door with the above.announcement, my heart gave a little start, though I myself remained passive. For months I had heard nothing of Arnold. I had supposed 'that he no longer wanted my'friendship; and for all practical purposes I had put him out of my life. It was not unnatural, then, that his sudden appearance at the Manor House on that October day should surprise me. "£ was alone, and, as a matter of fact, on >my knees by the piano, sorting out music for a village concert at which Anne and I were to help. I.did not receive Arnold in the "least gracefully or overbecomingly. • I merely sat back on my heels and stared at him, saying, with shameful gau'cherie: . ■ • " I never dreamt-of seeing you !' By the time Thad scrambled, to my feet and given him my' 1 band, I realised my own bad mariners. ■„ " Do forgive m'e for being such a bear, ' I said. " Please sit down. I am busy preparing for' a concert, hence this haymaking amongst the music! I hope the world'wags well with you ?" ' . 5 I could see that my lightness of manner intrigued and annoyed him. I don t know what he had expected. Possibly, being a man,'he had thought I should have.been bewailing his absence, and should welcome him with outstretched - arms! And, to tell the truth, I myself was rather surprised to find with what comparative indifference I viewed him! All at once I knew that he was an old acquaintance, neither more : nor less, just,an old acquaintance. I could look iqto his dark e\es with out a tremor; and it was he, not' I, who showed signs of nervousness. As far as I was concerned, I felt I bad the situatiou well in hand! He began -with' apologies for his long silence, explaining:at'some length that he had been' abroad;' that work had simply piled up during his absence; that all his correspondence had> perforce, gone to the wall; and so forth) and so on. I listened politely, throwing in, an interested comment when ! comment seemed necessary; wondering all the while, far down in my heart, whither all .thqse explanations were tending.

He asked me questions about my own work, which I was obliged to own had been very much neglected during the past months; and at that his face clouded. " You know, Diana, you mado a great mistake when you threw up your career to come and be a nursery maid," he said, quite sharply. I raised my eyebrows, . . " I haven't thrown up my career, it is still there," • I said coolly; "neither am I a nursdry maid. I have a charming position here; and I find my work'among human beings is more interesting, and I believe more useful, than my work with pens and paper!" " Don't you realiso that your friends in town miss you?" he burst out next. "It is "very nice of them, but tho truth about serving two masters remains eternally a truth. I can't be here and in town at the same, time, and my duty is here."

" Your duty T • What 'nonsense! How can you owe duty to complete strangers ? "Ah!. Bub they are not strangers now. They are part of my life. I couldn't give them up. I belong to them, and they to me." As I said the words there flashed before my taind a vision of Anne, my little Anne with her starry eyes and loving smile; of Philip Crosfield's thin ■ brown face, in which the eyes were vividly, blue; and—how can I put it clearly? Those two faces seemed to fill all my hqrizon,- and Arnold's blivG fac© arid daiH eyes were out' of the picture altogether. Yes, that was the strange part of"it—; he ;was quite out of the picture;, and yet for a time, he had filled such a large proportion of my thoughts and time! My wandering reflections came back suddenly to'the present, brought back by Arnold s answer to my words.

" Supposing I don't want you to bejong to them, and they to you any longer?" he was saying, and I.believe I sat up very straight, and looked •at him very hard, really, not grasping what he meant. " You look as if I had said something very extraordinary," he went on, smiling a little nervously; "hut the truth is, Diana, I've, been findinjg out, for the last few months, that I can't get on without you." . I believe.l opened and shut my mouth, but no. sound came, from behind my lips. I felt dumbfounded. Once upon a time, if' Arnold had spoken to m? as he was Speaking now, I- should have felt, as if life was .offering, me of its best; but now? \V<jll, now, his words left me cold. I actually pinched myself to see if I was awake or dreaming; and I knew that this really was I, sitting in the Manor House drawing room, listening to Arnold, who was. telling me rather falteringly that he could not do without. me!

"Can't you say anything to me?" he asked, when I still stared speechlessly. "T don't know what to say," I responded • feebly; " and I can fc understand why-you should begin to miss me all of a sudden ?" ...

" I suppose I was a fool, but I thought our friendship was just a pleasant, platonic sort of affair, free from all sentimentality, and—and everything of the kind. But I've found out it wasn't that sort of friendship, 'it wasn't friendship at all."

" But," I began, a great nervousness grabbing hold of me—" but surely " It wasn't friendship at all," Arnold interrupted, speaking firmly; " I ve found out that I can't do without you. I've come down to-day to ask you to marry me."

"Oh, the pity of it!" That was my first thought. If Arnold had said those words to me a year before, when our friendship.had meant so much to us both; when. I was a woman alone, with none of. liie responsibilities Fate had since thrust upon me, I should have felt as though a very wonderful and beautiful gift had been put into my hands! To-day I knew the gift had come too late! I had only spoken the truth when I said that those newcomers into my life belonged to me and I to them; and I knew, beyond any possibility of doubt, that not. even Arnold'could make me wish to'put them out of, my life again."

"Have 1 startled you?" Arnold's voice broke in again upon my thoughts, and I roused myself to try and grasp what he was saying. " Surely you need not be surprised that I should only have found out how much' I cared, after you had gone right away ? I never realised before how much you meant to me." " But all these montha," I began, " why—haven't you "

" I thought I could fight it down," he said rather shamefacedly. " I had, always made up my mind not to marry. I didn't want to give up my freedom. But freedom is rather a poor sort of thing after all. Don't you think so, Diana? Haven't you yourself realised that freedom isn't worth half the price we pay for it?"

" Oh, yes, I've realised ; that," I said dreamily. " Freedom is overrated; -I wouldn't for. the world go-'/back to my life in the flat, though I once, thought, it absolutely ideal; I gloried" in ' being free and independent." " And now?" he questioned; eagerly, " now'you realise that a lonely life is not ideal?" :

I did really start this time, for I saw that he and'!'were talking at cross purposes. "I have found that the perfect'life is one' of living for other people," I said; "' I have found it here."

" But you don't mean " He paused. ".Diana, don't you understand that I want you to come back to town ? I want you to marry me? " •I believe I smiled. I had no intention of hurting or annoying'him, but an expression flashed across his face which seemed to show that he was annoyed or hurt.

" You appear , to think t am trying to be funny," he said stiffly; and I was instantly remorsefnl, for after all we had been'very good friends, very dear friends, and perhaps it was more his misfortuno than his fault that-this new knowledge about bis feelings • for me had come too late! " Oh, Arnold, I am so sorry. Indeed I didn't think you were trying to be funny. Please forgive me if I seemed horrid ; but —just for a minute the irony of it all struck me."

"The irony! What irony? I come to ask you a plain question; why can't you give me a plain answer?" He spoke rather huffily; and T remembered that Arnold had always been disposed to take offence easily, to be a. trifle touchy. In old days I had slurred' that failing over and paid very little attention to it. Now. it all at once assumed larger proportions. The thought leaped into my mind that it • implied a petty mind, a lack of bigness and breadth. Mr. Crosfield's face, and his wider_ tolerant outlook, slid into my line of vision like the slide of a kaleidoscope. They went with kaleidoscopic swiftness; but for good or ill the comparison had reached .my consciousness. ; " Arnold,"—l tried to speak gently—- " I am afraid I can't do wnat you want —now.' l

" Why not now ? I am the same person that I was a year ago; -have you changed ? " " All life has changed. If you had asked me a. vear ago what you are asking me now, I think I would have said yes. Now "

"Why do ' you go on repeating ' now ''! " he asked irritably. " Are, you trying to tell me that your new friends bave put old ones out of your heart? _ >" It isn't quite that" —I was makiug an effort to understand my own feelings, as well as to explain them to Arnold—- " but—you know you were very vexed with me for coming here. As far as 1 was concerned, you ratlier shook the dust off your feet. For months I have not heard a. word from you; I thought—ancl I am sure I was justified in;thinking—that vou didn't need my friendship any more. He had the grace to look ashamed at my words, but be said nothing. And 1 was sorrv," I went on, " but I had only done what I thought was right in accepting new duties; and when I found you didn't want to be mends, I threw myself entirely into my new life. I have become part 6f it now." " Then you never really cared for me . " I cared, very much. Your friendship meant a very groat deal to me. But all these months have shown me that my friendship meant very little to • you. Arnold, X am dreadfully sorry, but, you have come too late. 1' I repeated the words. „ " I never dreamt you were changeable, he said, and there was a distinct sneer in his voice. u I would haye staked anything upon your constancy! and now you are turning ma down."

For a Eecond I wondered whether I Had really been inconstant and disloyal, faults for which I have a profound contempt: but my native common sense came to' my help, and I knew that this was one'of the occasions when an accusation must not be taken lying down, so to speak! Arnold had risen from his chair, and I stood up too and faced him. " You had your chance," I said vjoietly; " I gave you my fullest friendship without stint, without holding back. If you had asked for more then, I believe I should have given you what you asked. But you never showed me that you wanted more "

"I "he began; but I was determined to have my say out first, and I am afraid I talked him down. You were very angry with me for doing whati-1 felt it was right to do." I still spoke quietly, and I hope with dignity. " Each time we met after I had left-town,-you showed me,, with increasing plainnes that you disapproved of what. I had - done;, and ; I certainly thought you were repudiating our friendship. Finally, you leave me for months without the slightest sign of remembrance! I don't think I can blame myself in any way. You put me out of your life, and now you are vexed because I have made an independent lifo of my own."

"I only realised in all these months how much I missed you, how much • I wanted vou," he began, and I am afraid I took him up rather -sharply. "Then why didn't you tell me so?" I exclaimed. " Why leave me to conclude that • you had put me completely out. qf your life ?" • He did not answer that question. I suppose he could not; and I spoke more gently:" " Don't let us quarrel, Arnold; we have been good friends. Let us keep our friendship as a happy remembrance. If I. have done anything to h ur t y° u .» please forgive me."

" A happy remembrance!" he laughed. " There is not much solid consolation, in a happy remembrance! I suppose the truth is,"—he suddenly burst out with vehemence, —" the truth is, you have found some other man you like better ? Why not tell the truth right out and have done with it?' " Because it isn't the truth," I cried with a vehemence that matched his own. " There is no question of any other man. I found a duty here, and I have taken up this life, and mean to Hve it to the best of my ability. That is all."

" I wonder," he answered, with a earcastic smile, —" I wonder whether the life here'by itself is enough to account for your volte-face 1"

That remark aroused me to a .white heat of indignation. " I have made no volte-face," I exclaimed; "I gave you of my best, and directly I did something of which you chose to disapprove, you drop me like an old shoe. Now that you find you miss me a little, you come and accuse me of inconstancy —me! You must learn .that a woman—at any rate the sort of woman I am—can't be flung away, and then picked up again as if nothing had happened! t You had your chance and lost it."

I was ashamed of myself afterward for having lost my temper, for by nature I am good-tempered. " Then we must say good-bye, I presume?" Arnold's voice was icy now, a mask of coldness had dropped over his face.

"'I am afraid so. lam sorry, but as I can't do what you want " " ,There is; no ' more to .be said," Arnold answered, and, with a sense of relief, I realised that his vanity was being hurt much more than his heart. " I hope you will find, your life of. seclusion all that you could wish," he went on shaking my hand stiffly. " You have buried yourself so completely in these country solitudes, that all your London friends must have lost sight of you."

" Not quite all." His sarcasm made me want either to laugh or cry, and I chose laughing as the most dignified of the two! " Most of my London friends remember me, and come to see me, and are as much to' me as ever. But my life is here."-

" Well, I hope you'll enjoy it," he burst out savagely, " and nothing will ever persuade me to believe that it is but some other' man who ljas turned me out of your heart." With this parting thrust, and not allowing rae an opportunity to answer, even if I had wished to do so, he flung out of the room, shutting the door after him with a sharp clang. A moment later the front door also banged loudly, and while I still stood where he had left me, feeling rather breathless and dismayed, I heard his engine starting up, and his car tearing away down the drive at a breakneck pace. All these actions of his seemed to emphasise the essential littleness of the man, a littleness of which I had sometimes before been dimly conscious. That littleness had flaunted itself before my eyes to-day; and again I knew a sense of relief. It was not this man's heart which I had hurt, it was only bis self-esteem and vanity; and they, too, were symbols of a littleness of soul.

CHAPTER XX. TOT LETTER. I believe it was two days after Arnold's visit that the letter came. I know it was on a misty morning of late October, when the sun slowly pushed its way through a veil of fog, to reveal a world of copper and bronze and vivd gold! It the garden the dahlias were still aglow; great clumps of Michaelmas daisies shone like lilac stars; and there were roses in fhe sheltered corner, beside the sundial.

It-so happened that I was sitting in that' sheltered nook 'basking in the sunshine which • had ■ by 1 then dispersed th 9 mists, when Anne came flying out to me with the second-post letters. " There's one here that has travelled quite a great deal," she said; " it seems to have gone half over France." She handed me an envelope which indeed did bear the signs of much travel. Postmarks of a great variety of places; scribbled remarks as to the address being unknown, vied with one another to prove the' 6tupidity ot 6ome French post-office official! For the address at Breze was, as a, matter of fact, quite clearly written in Becky's handwriting, underneath the erased address of the Manor House. As far as I could discover, by studying the postmarks (which, like the generality of my kind,. I did before opening the letter!), the letter bad originally reached Clansmere the day. after my hurried departure for France, and Becky had forwarded it directly my wire'reached her, giving her my lirezo address. But the letter had .then proceeded to gallivant all over France, going apparently to any places whose names bore the slightest resemblance' to Breze, but not arriving at Breze itself until three days before it had come back to me.

"How queer!" I remarked, ns I opened the envelope, while Anne sat down beside me on the bench, and Joseph, her faithful follower, lay down at her feot and watched her with adoring eyes. Joseph had grieved desperately over her disappearance; nothing and nobody had been able to arpuse him'to any real interest or enthusiasm; and tha wildness of his joy when Anne came homo, was tlia loveliest and chokiest thing that can possibly be imagined.

Anne was singing a little song to herself'. as we sat there in. the sunshine by the rose trees, and I opened that letter; and the song she sang wove itself backwards and forwards among'the'words I read, and have ever since been associated with them in my mind: Malbruk Ven To-t-en guerre, Mironton, mironton, mirontnine; Mnlbruk s'en vo-t-en guerre, Ne es.it qu'il reviendra. (To bo continued on. Saturday next.),