FINGERS OF FATE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXVII, Issue 20520, 22 March 1930, Page 16 (Supplement)

FINGERS OF FATE.

BY L. G. MOBERLEY.

' CHAPTER XXIV. " A GOOD BUN FOE MS MONET." I cannot describe the blessed relief and rest of those days at Drangen. After the continual anxiety : and watchfulness in which my life for many months had been spent, the peaceful security of that Swiss village was an abiding joy. Anno soon recovered her natural serenity in the clear air and sunshine. Sho revelled in the mountain walks, the flowery meadows, the melodious sounds which belong to Switzerland; the cow-bells in the pastures; the ..whisper of wind in the pino trees; the sound of many waters!

She and her grandmother were delightfully happy together; indeed, we were a very happy trio; and after all the turinoil/'I had lately endured, I appreciated my present peacoful surroundings. They put all the worry and fret of life very far away; their restfulness sank into my soul.

Tho letter, readdressed from the Manyr House, was put into my hands by tho postman on a sunny morning .when I sat outside the house drinking in the loveliness of the great world spread out before me. The postman always meandered across tho garden, from the house immediately below, the chalet, strolling up the narrow little path which went from Mrs. Bernley's property to tho property of Monsieur Margelet, who owned tho farm further down the mountain-side.

My favourito seat was in an angle of the chalet from which I coulrl look across Mrs. Bernley's garden, and see, beyond the farm, to the woods that sloped steeply downwards; and beyond them again to tho huge panorama of mountains, which was a never-ending deflight- Tho postman and I had many rliats together on those mornings when I skfc there in the sunshine, and ho came walking up the narrow path, whistling as hp. came. Chi "this particular morning he held out a letter to me, with a smile. t

" It; has travelled far," lie said, taking hiis usual friendly interest in my correspondence, "so many addresses," he added, with another glance at the envelope I had just taken from his hand.

I laughingly assented, and after a few . more' interchanges of ideas with the friendly postman. I studied the handwriting upon tho envelope, in the absurd way in which as I laid before, one does study the outside of a letter instead of going straight inside without delay! The original handwriting I did not recognise at all. In that writing ihe letter had first been addressed to the Manor House; from there it had been sent to. the fiat, presumably by the lady to whom the Mauor House was let; and Mrs. Dane's uneducated hand had obviously written my present address. Tho postmarks intrigued mo almost as much as did the handwriting. The original postmark was Marseilles, and as far as I was aware I did not know a living soul in the French port. "How odd!" I said aloud, and a chaffinch who had been trilling his hurried littW lay in a bush beyond the path, cocked his head on one side and eyed me inquisitively. " Why on earth don't you open your letter and find out who has written it?" his bright eyes seemed to say, and I nodded to him and laughed. " Quite right, most wise bird," I answered. " I am an idiot to sit hero speculating, when I could find an answer to my speculations straight and I at once proceeded to open the letter. It was brief. " 500 Rue Street, Marc, " Marseilles. " Juno 14.■ "Dear Madam,—

" This is a small, English Hospital, and *re have here a patient who asks us to send for you immediately. Sho is very ill—in fact, no hope is held out of her recovery. She save us her name as Afxs. Smith. I may say that tho case is very urgent.

" Yours faithfully, "Dora Stubbs (Sister in Charge)." Mrs. Smith ? I could not recall to my memory a single acquaintance of that name, and my first thought was that there must be some mistake. They had sent for me thinking I was someone else. And yet, beyond a doubt the letter was correctly addressed to me, and ho much time had already been lost in sending it from Marseilles to Clansmere and then out to Drangen, that it seemed wrong to risk any further delay. It seemed strange that I should again be called to a hospital, and again by an unknown person, but I did not like to refuse to go; and Mrs. Bernley agreed with me that it was my bounden duty to travel at once to Marseilles,' and see this woman, who had sent for me so urgent!}'. " I,'have a very strong feeling about doing what the dying wish," Mrs. Bernley said, quietly. I echoed her - sentiment. " "I should never forgive myself if I did/not go," I answered, and I little thought as I uttered the words how true they ,were! Assuredly I never should have forgiven myself if I had not taken thfjit journey to the French coast; if I ha'd allowed that dying woman to go down into the Great Silence with her last words to me unspoken: Anne was safe with her grandmother; I could leave her with a quiet mind; and I forthwith looked up trains, packed a small suit-case, and started as soon ai; the train service permitted on my journey to the south. I had never before been so far south at that particular time of the year, but I am a sun-worshipper; and the heat of the Marseilles streets, the blaze of sunshine in the deep blue sky overhead, and the no less glare of the summer sea, did not daunt me in the least. The houses looked blazingly white, and their green shutters made a refreshing note of coolness; as did the green trees along the streets, contrasting with the white dust of the roadways. Ihe house before which my cab deposited me was white, and green-sliuttered like the rest ; and it was in a quiet street leading- out of a main thoroughfare. A pleasant-faced servant admited me, and I was shown at once into a. room on the right, which appeared to be a sort of office. ■ Here an elderly woman, dressed in whit 6 uniform, rose to greet me. I liked her face; there was something wholesome and healthy in her clear eyes and bright complexion; and the strong line of mouth gave evidence of a strong character. " I am very glad you have come," she said, when I had explained my identity. "Mrs. Smith is much worse to-day, and she has been worrying herself terribly about seeing you." I explained the reason for my delay, and further explained that I was terribly afraid her patient might be disappointed when she saw me. " I cannot in the least imagine who she is." I ended. "I felt bound to come when'l read your letter, but I can't help feeling there has been some mistake." "I hope not," she said; "indeed, I hope not. Mrs. Smith appeared to have iio doubt in her own mind as to who it was she wanted to see; but a minute will decide whether it .is you for whom she is asking. Would you come straight in to sec her ? There is no time to lose." I naturally assented at once to her. proposal, and, following h<?r down a passage off, which several doors opened, was nslWed finally into the last room of the passage. It was a big airy apartment, with window;? thrown wide to catch any air that might be caught coining from tho sea; with polished floor, and pale green walls, and the minimum of furniture. The bed was drawn as near as possible to tho window, and the patient who wus lying in it was propped high with pillows, her face turned away from the door, so that when r w ®nt in I saw onl.v a. mats of chestpnt haiiv

A STORY OF LOVE, MYSTERY, INTRIGUE AND ADVENTURE.

.She turnod at the sound of the opening door, and then I know her, and for a second sheer amazement held me dumb. It was the-woman I had known as Mrs. Daubeny; the woman who was actually Philip Crosfield's wife, arid Stephanie Anne's mother! She was very white, her eyes were deeply sunken; and even I, ignorant about illness as I was, realised that she was a very sick woman, sick indeed unto death. A most curious smile crossed her face as she recognised me—a smile that seemed to combine triumph and malice: a smile that made mo shiver. " Ah! you have -Aiie," sho said. Her voice was faint aaU tired, but .considering her appearance it was wonderfully strong. " Sit down," she went on. " I want to tell you one or two things that may interest you." Like her smile, her voice held a strange mixture of malice and triumph, and her eyes raked my face, " I daro say you will be pleased to know I am dying," she continued, before I could get in a word; "it will bo a relief to you to have me out of the world." ( " Oh! please don't talk like that " I began, but she brushed my words aside and laughed. "There is no need for us to be polite to one another, or to mince words; and there is not much time for anything. You have been a long time coming." " I am sorry," I said. " 1 camo away directly I had your letter, but it had to follow mo to Switzerland. Anno and I are staying with Mrs. Bernley." " Dear me, what a j6y for my mother!" The sarcasm in her tones was like a dagger-thrust. " You all felt safo at Drangen; you knew I could not go to Switzerland ! I quite understand. Most amusing!" " Would you like to see your mother?" I asked, impelled to put the question, though I did not know why I put it; and the low laugh with which she greeted it gave mo a sense of nausea. "My mother? No, thank you; I have no wish for dying farewells. lis nc sont pas nion metier. So Stephanie Anno is at the chalet in the arms of her grandmother!' How quaint and how humourous !" I did not answer, simply because I could not . Words refused to come; I was filled ! with a burning resentment, which I was powerless to express. " Well," she began again after a moment's pause, "wo need not sentimentalise over the fond grandmother. Let us come straight to the point." " Yes, please let us come to the point," I agreed, feeling as though I could not bear to sit very long beside this woman with the mocking smile, and sarcastic voice. " Tell me whatever it is you have sent for mo to hear, and let me go." " Oh! you are iit a hurry to go, are

you?" " I think there is no good in my staving. Mrs. Bernley is my friend; Anue is my very dear ward. I would rather not talk about them." "La! la! but we must talk about them. They are the centre of my story, or rather, Anne is tho centre. _ I have asked you to como here that I might tell you the truth. I thought it would amuse me to see your face, when you knew." "When I knew what?" " What I mean to tell you." The gleam of malicious amusement flashed into her sunken eyes. " You will be so surprised, and I hope annoyed. I should not have died happily if I had not told you." " Tell me quickly," was all I could bring myself to say, and she flung out her hands on the coverlet, and laughed onco more, a mocking laugh, which echoed weirdly about the room. She and I were alone. The nurse who had been silting with the patient had gono away with Miss Stubbs, whispering to me that she would be close by in the ante-room; and there was nobody to overhear what, tho sick woman said to me.

" Stephanie Anne is not really my child. That is my first bombshell," she said slowly, and tho words brought mo to mv feet.

" Not your child ?" "Not my child," she repeated, a sort of elfish smile upon her lips, malice still shining in her eyes. " Don't stand over mo like an avenging angel. Sit down, and I will explain." I sat down, because with a woman so ill as this one, yielding to her every wish was the only course; but I sat very upright, my hands clasped tightly together, my heart beating fast. " No, she is not my daughter," Mrs. Crosfield repeated. "My child died—" " Then why " I put in, but she waved her hand imperiously and went on, as though I had not spoken: , ' My baby died when it was a week old, and I adopted . another. Wait; listen. I knew the terms of my father's will."

" Your father's will ?" I echoed, feeling dazed. " By his will he had left all his money, not to me, but to the child who was coming to me. He had quarrelled with me—no matter why—we quarrelled bitterly, and he left tho money to the child. But— he inserted a clause by which I was to have an income out of her money, if she was living with me." " Then that was why " I broke in. " Yes, that was why I wanted to get the child. That was why I was only too glad to adopt the baby they brought in to me, when my own child died. I knew all about my father's will. I knew how much depended upon my having a cHild; and so when the nurse brought in the baby of a woman who had died in giving birth to her in the nursing home, I pretended to welcome it with rapture. I accepted it; I let the world suppose it was my own." " But Mr. Crosfield, your husband ?" I faltered out. / " Oh, he was away when the child was born. It all happened in a nursing home in Paris. He'didn't come back till weeks later. He was delighted with the baby, very sentimental over her. He never knew she was not his own." My brain felt rather like a tossing whirlpool, and I could only capture one or two stray ideas as they rushed past. " But I thought you told me that, by a later copy of your father's will, all his money went to you if Anne died," I said. She looked at me with an expression of such cunning, such wickedness, that I shuddered. It seemed to me so dreadful that a woman as near death as this woman, could be thinking thoughts which would bring such a look into her eyes. " Oh, that!" she laughed, " that will was a fake. It was easy enough to produce any sort of will I happened to require, and at that moment it would have suited me very well if Anno died. Now" —she spread out her hands significantly —"now—it doesn't matter." The callousness of it afl, the utter indiffcrenco to any consideration of rieht or wrong, the total lack of all morality staggered me. " Then really, Anne has nothing to do with vou at all ?" I managed to sav at last. v " Nothing at all." " But the money, to whom does it belong ?" I captured another of those ideas tossing about on the whirlpool of my mind. " Oil, by my father's will —" "The right will?" I put in, emphasising the words. "The right will, yes; it is quite all right, quite legal, quite what your conscientious mind would approve. By that will it is arranged that, in the cvenj, of Anne's death, ail the money is to go to a man with whom my father worked; it will go to the gang of which my father and I were both members—internationtal crooks!" "But floes Mrs. Bernley know anything thing of this?" I felt bewildered, i'l don'fc Euppose; why should she ? She and mv fatherhad bean anart -iaij/oaxa.-..

(COPYRIGHT.)

She did not approve of his way of living—such an exciting way it was, too," she said regretfully; "they had no communication with one another. I was their only link, and I spent most of my time with him. The quiet of Drangen and my mother's mountain-top ethics were too much for me. I only went there when I needed a breakj just for a rest!" "Then what—"

" What did I do! Oh, my dear Miss Bertram. I enjoyed life thoroughly. The virtuous will tell you I am an adventuress, whatever they may mean. They will say I am an international crook. So I am, and I have had glorious times. I'vo had a good run for my money." She laughed again, but she was evidently growing very exhausted. Her face was more ashen; her eyes were more sunken ; and she gasped out her words with more difficulty.

" Your husband—" I began, wondering whether there was any message she would wish me to convey to Mr. Crosfield. Her eyes had closed for a moment; sho opened them wide. "My husband ? Oh! you mean poor Philip Crosfield. Did you really suppose he was my husband ?" ■ " Certainty I did." There was indignation in my voice, and her mocking laughter answered mo. "When poor old Philip married me, or thought he married me,~l had a husband living in South America—a rich man," she said cynically. "Do you think I am tho kind of woman to lie myself for lifo to a man like Philip Crosfield ? Pas si beto!" " But ho thinks—"

" Oh, dear lady, never mind what he thinks. It doesn't matter two centimes what Philip thinks. I fell in love with him. Ho was ono of those fools who put women on pedestals and fall down and worship. He fell down and worshipped me. 110 would have thought it a deadly insult to offer mo less than marriage. I

let him imagine we were married. Oh, I have sucked my orange to the very last piece of pulp, and enjoyed it all!" "But the child; ho took the child; be thought tho child—" " Ho took the child," she answered with sudden vindictivencss,' " because ho had begun to suspect me. He had begun to realise that I was not the angelic saint lie Jiact imagined. He took the baby away and gave her into the care of that woman, Grace Merivale; and ever since that day there has been a constant pull devil, puil baker, between me and tho wonderful Grace; and after that between you and me. Well, you have won"—her voice all at once became fiat and exhausted—"won in a way, .she added. " You havo got Anne, but Anno won't have the monov, because Anno is not my father's granddaughter ! I wanted to seo your face when I told you that. I wanted to hear what you would say." " I say ' thank God,' from the bottom of my heart, I say thank God.' " CHAPTER XXY, | THE CONCLUSION' OF I'IEE WHOLE WAITER, j Before I left tho sick room in that j Marseilles house, something moved me to say to the dying woman; "Aren't you sorry about it all?" And slio laughed, just laughed, her head moving weakly on tho pillow. "Sorry?" sho said. "Oh, dear, no; I'm not sorry. Why should Ibe ? I tell you, I've had a good run for my money; I'm not afraid to face tho music, if there is any music to face." They were the last words I heard her speak. When they were spoken, she shut her eyes, as though the subject was closed, and sho wished to say no more. Tho nurse came in at that moment, and rather hastened my departure, saying that tho patient was too exhausted to have a visitor any longer; and I went away, my mind in an odd confusion of sadness, rolief and dismay. Sadness at so tragic a close to a life; relief that Aniie was set free from so terrible a heritage; dismay at tho flippancy upon thoso dying lips. " And yet sho has courage about her," I said to myself, as I walked away along the sunny white street, " with all her sins; she is plucky; sho has no fear!" Tho journey back to Drangen seemed

very long and wearying, and it was a blessedness to find myself once more in the chalet, Anne's grey eyes brimming over with joy: Mrs. Bernley giving me the gracious welcome which gave one such a sense of homecoming. I had dreaded telling her the story of my visit to her daughter: dreaded letting her know the identity of tho unknown woman; but she took my news very quietly. "My poor Lisa!" she said, "she was such a dear baby, such a dear little girl. I did my best for her, but her father's influenco was too strong. Ho won; I lost." A few days later news came to us of the death of the woman who had given so much pain to us all. The matron of the hospital wrote, saying that she did so by Mrs. Smith's wish; and that by hexwish also, her funeral was to take place quietly in Marseilles. Why she had called herself Mrs. Smith, none of us ever knew; but her mother surmised that her work had involved many aliases, and Smith was j

probably merely one of them. My admiration for Mrs. Bernley increased during those summer days. She never allowed her own sorrow to cloud Anne's life or mine; and yet I was sure that her heart was aching sorely. After all, say what you will, to lose an only daughter first because of that daughter's evil life, and then by death, must mean bitter heartbreak; and I realised now why it was that Mrs. Bernley's eyes held such haunting sadness. But to us she was always her sweet and gracious self; and I think her affection for Anno was unchanged even when she learnt that tho child was not, after all, her own granddaughter. I told Anno tho truth, and she drew a long breath, and clasped her hands tightly together. "I'm not that woman's daughter? she said quickly. " Oil, lam glad, dear, I am glad. I couldn't bear it I thought I belonged to her. Only I'm sorry dad isn't really my dad, she added wistfully. " I seem to have had him such a short time,_ and now he is taken away from me again. I wonder wheio I really do belong?" ■" You belong to me, I said urmly, " and you and I are going to stick to one another for always arid always." I wrote to tell 'Mr. Dymond oi the death of tho woman who, for want of knowing any other name, I must still call Mrs. Crosfield; and I told him exactly what she had said to mo about her father's will. Mrs. Bernley had no knowledge either of that will itself, or of where it had been drawn up; but Mr. Dymond ultimately discovered that it had been drawn up in England, and he himself saw it at Somerset House, and c?nt us a copy. Lisa Crbsfield had told mo tho truth. Anne's grandfather had willed Ins fortune to her; and at her death it was to pass intact to a certain Michel Sabaticr whose address was fully given, also tho name of his lawyers in Paris; and I am hoping with all my heart that, when our little Anno comes of age, she will shake herself free of those ill-gotten gains, and give them into Monsieur Sabaticr's possession for good and all. It was the middle of July before we had obtained all the information about the will from Mr. Dymond, and I was beginning to wonder what Anne's and my future had better be, when tho future settled itself for us in a very unexpected fashion! Anne and I were at Grindehvald when

the unexpected happening came about; we went there because she had such a great longing to see Grace Merivale's grave in tho little churchyard. •" Of course it isn't that I think Dearest is there," she said. " Dearest and I knew that dying only means starting fresh life. But I do want to see the place where you put hex dear, beautiful self,"

Mrs. Bernley did not go with us. I fancied she was perhaps, much as she liked having Anno with her, glad to be alone for those few days; and Anne and I went to Grindelwald together. It pleased me to see the dear little place, again. The hay had been cut; the meadows were shorn of' their flowers; but in the churchyard the'roses were in bloom, and there were tall "white lilies round Grace Merivale's grave. . Anne held my hand-very tightly as we stood "looking clown at the cross upon which tlio name was engraved; and under the name those words we had fouuu in Miss 'Merivale's pocket-book: "God's Peace is brooding o'er this Garden blest, A place of rest." " I'm glad you put those words, Anne said softly, " and I'm glad Dearest was put here. It's the sort of place siifc would love. It's so still and lovely; and yet always that sound of water. Dearest would havo loved it all—the great mountains, and tlio rushing water, and the stillness, and the pink roses.' She touched the frail pink blossom that hung against tho cross, and I thought agaiU, as I had thought often before, what a fair and peaceful place it was, in which the woman Anne had loved had found a resting-place. We were turning out of the churchyard, we had just reached the gate, when a tall figure crossed tho road and came towards us, and Anno gave a glad little cry. . , " Oh! you've come," she said,.' you ve come back to us." And at the same moment' Philip Crosfield took my hand into his, and held it as though lie would never again let it go. Everything about me faded away into a remote nothingness. The sights and sounds of tho summer clay vanished. I saw nothing but Philip's face; I heard nothing but his voice. Tho whole world seemed full of Philip and of Philip only; and I stood there, looking up at him, my hand in his, and neither of us said one single word. " It was Anne's voice which broke the | silence, and tho spell! "How did you find us?" she said. " I've asked you three times and you don't seem to hear." Then Philip laughed and dropped my hand, and I believe I laughed too, I know my face must have been tho colour of the most full-blown peony ever grown! " I reached England two days ago. I chased you from the Manor House to the flat; from the flat to Drangen; from Drangen here," Philip said, "and Mrs. Bernley told me about Marseilles." " Then you know—she told you that Anne, that you " " I think she told me everything, was his answer, " and when sho told mo I said to her, 4 Thank God.' " His thought had been tlio same thought as mine. We were both glad with an abiding thankfulness that Anne was not Lisa's daughter! Philip went by himself into the churchyard ; Anne and I waited slowly back towards our hotel and all the way luy heart sang a To Deum. It was so good to see his face again! As good luck would have it a girl in the hotel who had made friends with Anne dragged her away to play teunis, and I wandered away alone, down the steep path towards tho lower glacier, thinking happy little thoughts; taking out my newly found joy and gloating over lfc Absorbed as I was, I wandered on much further than I had intended to go, and presently I found myself on the path that leads up to tho glacier, just at a bend where the rocks are covered with that dainty bell-like saxifrage, which at a cursory glance makes you think of hues o» the valley. Close to these rocks I sat down looking out across the valley, dreaming happy dreams, and not very conscious of my surroundings, when footsteps sounded close beside me, and a hand was laid on my shoulder. ~ " X StVW you turn down tho I Philip said; " but you walked so 1 j couldn't overtake you. However,"—ho I looked round him with an air of supreme j satisfaction, —" we couldn't have a better . place than this." i " Better for what?" I questioned; and j I read my answer in his face, and began to scramble to my feet, my own face flushing rosily. " I must be getting back to Anne," I began confusedly. I didn t mean to come so far. I can't imagine What were you dreaming about?"

lie broke in, taking both my hands in his and looking down at inc with a smile. We were quite alone amongst the rocks by the little path. The usual stream of walkers must have como and gone, for Philip and I were by ourselves, and the only sounds about us were the of the river far below and the little hurried song of the chaffinches among the busiios. nearly choked me. .... , in "Oh! I was just thinking of—of all sorts of things," I answered quickly, " and now I must hurry back. Anno will be wondering " " Let Anne wonder," was the unconcerned reply. " I want you now, all to mvself. I have something to say to you, and this is a perfect place for what I want to say." . His eyes told me so much; his smile sent a thrill along my pulses; and when his hands all at once drew me very near to him, my heart beat so fast that it nearly chocked me. " Dear, my little Anne's Dear, I am glad I have found you again here, in this place where you found Grace, and were, good to her. I think she would bo glad, too, to know that we havo found each ~ The words were so simply spoken that every wish to evade the issue slipped fiom me. I only wanted to be as simple and straight as he was himself. Up there, in those mountain solitudes, there was no room for coquetry or for petty evasions. " I am not fit to take her place," I faltered. " She was so beautiful—so serene." " She was a very wonderful woman, he answered, " and I think she will always be a part of our life. It is to be our life, my dear? It is to be that?" " Yes, it is to be that, if you want me," I said, end ho' held mo more closely to him. / , , „, i "If I want you," he laughed softly. | "what a silly question—if I want you! I went away because I did not dare to stay 60 near you. I knew I could not stay and say nothing. I believe I have wanted you every day, and every hour, since I left you at Clansmere. You fill my heart." It was such a dear little phrase, " You fill my heart." It set my own heart beating fast again, and as Philip kissed me, Heine's words went rioting through my brain:

3 " Doch venn ich luisse deinon Mund So werd ich ganz uud gar gesuiid." ! We strolled slowly down the narrow path, and up tho other eido of the slope, ; into tho village; but before going to the hotel our steps turned instinctively toward the little churchyard. The last rays of the setting sun lay upon it; the Wetterhorn in the background .stood like a shining sentinel, its white summits still in a blaze of sunlight against a sky already turning golden. Long shadows were spreading over the roeadowland, but upon Grace's grave there fell rays of sunshine, i lighting the pink roses into softer loveliness. From the valley below the voice of tho river came singing up to us; and on a tree beside the churchyard wall a chaffinch sat and sang. Philip and I stood hand in hand beside the grave of tho woman ho had loved, and for many minutes were silent Wo were alone in that lovely place of peace, and only tho murmur of voices from the road reminded us that there were other human beings in the world. In our world at that moment there was nobody but just our two selves, and suddenly Philip lifted my faco to his and kissed, me," a tender, lingering kiss. " I like to think Grace has given us her blcsisng," he said, and, stooping, ho gathered, from the bough that swayed against tho cross, a delicate pink rosebud, and laid it in my hand. 'Tor remembrance," he said softly, adding: " Hers was such a beautiful life; we will mako our life beautiful, too—the life wo arc going to live together, you and I.'.' KTHB EKD.jj