THE FIGHT WITH FATE.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 15962, 3 January 1914, Page 2

THE FIGHT WITH FATE.

[Published by Special Arrangement.]

BY SYBIL CAMPBELL LETHBItIDGE. Author nf "The Price of Her Vengeance," "Tho Shadow of Swords," "Love's Ambassador," "A Faith lietrayod," etc., ctc. (COI'THIOHT.) CHAPTER XXV.—FATAL ADVICE. Even since he had gone down to Duxhurst, to see Alston L&scelles, Bertie llisford had endeavoured to forget MaTjorie Kingsford, to put from him all thoughts of her, that tortured him with hopeless longing. He loved her better than he loved himself, he wanted her happiness, but he could not yet bear the thought of her finding it with the man she loved. Jealousy still tormented him; his love, though he knew that it was hopeless, would not die. Instead it flamed into anger, pulsing life, when ho received Marjorie's letter, in which she said that she was in town, and that she wanted to see him. Sfto spoke of Dr Blanchard's death, and told Bertie how it had come about, of the accusation that Mrs Blanchard had at first brought against her, and afterwards withdrawn. She wanted advice, sho added; would Bertie give it to her? Bertie put the paper that her hand had touched to his lips. His eyes were misty; he hardly realised what the letter contained ; ho only know that he was to see her, and that once more he would behold the face that haunted him, once more hear the voice that rang as sweetest music in his ear. He felt that to /wait would be impossible; the office would not see him that day, he decided. Marjorie was washing v »p Miss de Clancy's breakfast things when Bertie arrived. " Oh, I'd no idea you'd come so early," she said, flushing rosily, when she opened the door to him. , "How very good of you. I wonder, would you mind coming down into the kitchen? We shan't be disturbed there. Miss Brace is resting. She was glad- to have me back, I think. She has had.rather a hard time of it." Marjorie spoke - rapidly, a little nervously, whilst she guided Risf.ord downstairs to the kitchen, which he regarded with some distaste. What a dreary, depressing place this- was for the woman he adored, though her bright beauty lightened even that gloom and lent a certain radiance to the melancholy place. " Why are you here again?" Bertie demanded with dissatisfaction. " I thought that you ware ■provided for, thai, your troubles were at an end. What is this you tell me about those people, the Blanchards? Why on earth should Mrs Blaul chard accuse you of having shot her hus- | band?" Marjorie sighed wearily, a sudden shadow on her face, that had now grown pale. " I'll tell you the whole story," she said. " I'm afraid I can't help feeling that, though Miss de Clancy said Mrs Blanchard had taken back all she said, she may bring it up again against me. I thought, now that Dr Blanchard was dead, that I was safe: but now, I'm as afraid of her as I was of him." Her voice shook, tears fell upon the cup that she was wiping; Bertie Risford's heart yearned for her. _ . "Look here," he said' gently; "tell me all there is to tell; tell me everything that's worrying you, and why you want my advice. Of course, I'll give it you, and help you in every way. Has it anything to do with money"—he hesitated an instant, then added abruptly—"that'll be all right. Mrs Ponder is making me her heir; she gives me an allowance now, and soon I'll be independent, in a business of my own. I tell you this because I Want to help you, though I should have thought

•; He paused; Marjorie peeped at him inquiringly beneath her long lashes. : "What would you have thought?" she asked, and bluntly he told her. "That that chap, Lascelles —the man who loves you—would have been the one to help you, to give you advice. What's he doing?"

Marjorie caught her breath rather suddenly. She had not, expected this; she had not thought that Bertie would know or guess at her ill-starred love for Alston Lascelles."You don't understand," she contrived to say. '"Mr Lascelles is—is going to marry his cousin, Miss Carfax." Striv. thuiigh he did to prevent it, Risford could not hide thu joy that ner words brought to him. She was free, though he understood the unhuppiness that such freedom held for her, ho could not sympathise with her. He only knew that now there was a chance for him; slio was to bo wooed, and perhaps won. "Tell me what I'm to adviso you about," ho said in as matter-of-fact a voice as he could command: "that's why I'm here, you know." Marjorie made a sign of assent. "I'll tell you everything," she said. "Miss de Clancy frightened me yesterday, when I didn't go back with Miss Carfax, by saying that Mrs Blanchard would probably try and have me arrested if I didn't appear at the inquest. But I don't believe she will, I can't believe it. Why should I go back to that dreadful place," she added passionately, "where they frightened mo and said I was mad? Tell me, do you think that I ought to go back to Duxhurst; that if I don't Mrs Blanchard will dare to say that it was I—l who killed her husband?" Appealingly, she turned to Bertie, who for a second or so could only think how red and soft were her lips, how perfect the oultine of her cheeks. Then he thrust such thoughts from him, and answered her. "Tell me everything," he said, "and I'll advise you. I'm independent you see, outside the case as it were, so I can give you an unbiassed opinion. Only, tell me all." She obeyed him. The story she had told to Gwyneth Carfax she repeated to him. She kept back nothing, though she touched lightly on her shame and humiliation when she had learnt that at the time of her marriage with Maitland his first wife had been alivo. "It's perfectly plain," said Bertie, when she paused, " those Blanchards had <rot hold of Mainland's money, and they meant to keep it. Probably they'd got him to make a will, and of course they knew that it was worthless after he'd married you. Marriage always invalidates a will, that's why they told you that your marriage wasn't legal, why they tried to keep you so that no one else might get hold of you and let you know how you were being cheated." Marjorie's eyes opened widely in horror. "But, but later they'told me that Mr Maitland had made a mistake, that his first wife had been dead a long time when he married me." Bertie's face grew grim. " They wanted to get hold of you again," he said, shortly, "to get back your confidence, and then—then, I fancy, they'd have taken some means of securing the money, without any fear of your ever claiming it. Don't you realise, Marjorie, the sort of people they "were; don't you know that you were in danger, horrible danger, whilst you were at Willow Court ? My heavens, I can't bear to think of it, it's—it's too awful." His .hands flew up to cover his face. Marjorie looked at him thoughtfully. " Yes," she said in a low thrilling whisper, "I knew it, I felt it, they were going to kill me, and then—the money would haVe been theirs, there'd have been nothing to tea? from me any more; I should have been safe, dead, out of the way.". Bertie uncovered his face, it was ashen, upon it was stamped the impress of a great horror. " And I helped ycra to get back to them,'' he said hoarsely. " Oh, if I'd known!" " You couldn't, who could know," Marjorie hastened to ; assure him, " who would ever have thought that any people could be so diabolical, so wicked ?" ! "That's the mistake one makes; one thinks people won't do' things, and they do," retorted Bertie gloomily, " but, nevertheless, I think that you'd better go down to Duxhurst to the inquest, Marjorie. You must tell everything, absolutely everything, or goodness only knows what lies that woman, Mrs Blanchard, will make up. YeSj it'll be unpleasant I know, but you'd better go. Where can you stay?" Marjorie hesitated, then she told him of Mrs Lascelles's invitation, given through Mi.°6 Carfax. "Accept it at once then," said Bertie promptly, " wire to her that you're coming, and also wire to Mrs Blanchard. Don't give her time to start that lie of her's again. It'll frighten her to hear that you're going to give evidence at the inquest; it'll make her keep her mouth shut." " I'll stay at the inn, there must be one in the place; I won't go to Mrs Lascelles !" said Marjorie determinedly; " I'll go down to Duxhurst and I'll telegraph as you say I ought, but I won't stay with Mrs Lascelles." " Well, that's a trifle," said Bertie reassuringly, " the thing is for you to be off. I'll look out a train and I'll wire for you. If you like," he added hesitat- 1 jngly, " I'll come with you." But this Marjorie, though very grateful, declined. She agreed, however, to his seeing her off at tfie station after the telegrams had been despatched, one to Mrs Blanchard, the other to Mrs Lascelles, the last sent without Marjorie's knowledge, and to satisfy Bertie, who hoped that she would be met by one of, tne Lascelles, who would persuade her to reconsider her decision to stay at an inn. Fortified by the high approval of Miss : de Clancy, who assured her that she was a sensible girl, Marjorie started for the : station, accompanied by Bertie. He insisted on her travelling first class, and selected a compartment for her with great S care. ; "Take care of yourself,'' he told her ] as he held her Hand in a lingering clasp; ■ " I wish I were coming with you; I don't 1 like your going alone." 1 And later Marjorie recalled these words, ( they seemed to have been uttered with i a premonition of what was in store for her. 1 *' Have you got Mrs Lascelles's address t written down?'' Bertie asked, as at last < Marjorie drew her hand away from his; i "you'll go and see her, of course, even e if you don't stay with her, and you'll i wire to me the very instant you get i there.'' ( " Yes," said Marjorie hastily, "of course. The train's moving; please get g down, it is so dangerous to hold on like c that." t " Worth it, to get another last glimpse of you," he called back to her, and then I the train, gathering speed, took her from him, and Marjorie's eves filled with sud- f den tears. How good he was, and how 1: earnestly she wished that 6he could reward him as he wished, but hopelessly, s irrevocably, her love was Alston Las- t celles's. i ' Until Junction was reached, Mar- a jorie was alone in the compartment, o Then, just as the train was starting once more, the door was wrenched open, and a I tall woman, heavily veiled, scrambled into d the carriage and sank down on the seat n opposite Marjorie. An indignant porter banged the door, with the remark that if n the lady had wanted to kill herself it was r a. tricky way of doing it, getting into a r train when in motion; but the culprti a made no answer, as she drew her long and t: thick chiffon veil more tightly over her E face. Marjorie glanced at her indifferently, y and then looked away. She was startled, n however, by a hand being laid upon her h shoulder, gripping it with intense \\ strength. s( Alarmed, she looked up. Her fellow b traveller stood beside her, her veil thrown back, showing tne white, haggard face of Aldra Blanchard, whose dark eyes blazed L with passionate fury, as they rested upon w Marjorie. ai "Ah, you didn't expect to see me,' 1 tl she said, mockingly, as Marjorie gazed at fc her in evergrowing terror; " but when 1 ai got your telegram I thought that it would le Drily be kind to come and meet you. You hi are, going to give evidence at the inquest, are you? Do you. know, somehow I ai don't think that you will. No, my dear, ol you've been in my way for a long time, ni but now, at last, you'll be out of it. The li: money's mine, I'm to keep it, do you understand that?" k Aldra's voice was hoarse, unsteady; si there was something almost insane in the mger that glittered in her eyes, sor»otbh>;: y< .hat kopt Marjorie dumb, that prevent

ner crying out, as uie train tore aiong, and she felt that cruel hand upon her shoulder, pressing her down and down. She could say nothing, only she watched Aldra, while the latter, with her free hand, opened a small bag she carried and drew forth from it a large white handkerchief. . " ■ - " Ah," she said, " it's convenient to be the wife of a doctor, and to know where he keeps all his drugs, and how to use them. Don't struggle, it's no good, I've made up my mind." She hissed the last words into Marjorie's ear, as she pressed the handkerchief down upon the girl's face. The train's speed was slackening slightly as it entered a tunnel, whilst Marjorie (instinctively fought to free herself of that which was depriving her of consciousncss. But Aldra's hand was relentless in its strength, soon Marjorie ceased to strive for freedom. Motionless she lay there and Aldra took away the handkerchief and surveyed ' her with savage - satisfaction. Then, with a sudden jerk, Aldra opened the carriage door, took Marjorie in her arms, and thrust her from the carriage out on to the line. In the darkness of the tunnel there was little risk of that helpless form, lying upon the rail,' being seen before the passing of the express to town on which Aldra depended for the hideous finish of the work she had begun. Aldra sat with clenched hands and set face, as the train emerged from the tunnel. Its speed increased, and with a long drawn sob Aldra .Blanchard sank back in her corner. , She had won at last, her money was safe; Marjorie would trouble her no more! CHAPTER XXVI.—WEDDING BELLS. Late that night Bertie Risford alighted at Duxhurst Station, and inquired for a conveyance to take him to Duxhurst Manor. ' i He was haggard and worn with anxiety; he had received no telegram from Marjorie announcing her safe arrival, and he had begun to torture' himself with fears lest something untoward should have happened to her. He could not say what he feared, but with a lover's imagination he pictured various catastrophies; suspense became unbearable, and at last he left for Duxhurst feeling that to be upon the spot would be j more satisfactory than telegraphing. . _ : A fly was discovered, but the. drive seemed to Bertie of unending length. • At last the house was reached, Bertie jumped out, bade the cab wait for him, and then knocked impatiently at the door. " I want to see Mr Lascelles at once," he said breathlessly, when it was opened, " or wait, you can tell me. Is Miss Kingsford here? Did she arrive by the twelve-forty train?" The butler's grave visage became pfeternaturally solemn. " Can't say she arrived here, sir, but she was brought," he said, "she was found lying unconscious on the railway line in the tunnel, and. it' an accident hadn't happened to the express, so that it was delayed, it must have gone over her. and she'd have been killed. As it was she was found, and as my master's name and address were on her she was brought here. She's in bed, she's had the doctor, and he says she's suffering from shock, but she'll be all ririit soon." Bertie tried to speak, but words refused to come; all was black before him, the sound of as rushing water was in his ears. He knew nothing more until the darkness cleared away from before his eyes, and he found himself in the hall with Alston Lascelles and the pretty young girl, whom he recognised as Gwyneth Carfax, beside him. " There, you're all right now," Alston said cheerfully; " you nearly went right off, Mr Risford; take some of this whisky, that'll pull you round.'' But, Bertie rejected the proffered glass. : He looked about impatiently. " I want to hear of Mar—of Miss Kings- ' ford," he said hastily. " How did this happen to her?" ' "No one knows; she herself says that she has no recollection of how she came 1 to be on the line," said Gwyneth. " She must have been leaning agmst the door and it flew open, I should say; that's the j only explanation we can think of.'' ' "I saw her off; I was so anxious when I got no wire from her that I came ' down," muttered Bertie. "I'll go back ' now I know she's all right." , J " Nonsense, you're going to stay the ' night here; I'll lend y<?u all you want/' rejoined Alston heartily. "A room's J ready for you, you shall have some supper, anl then you shall go to it. You look < tired out. " And to-morrow you'll see Miss 1 Kingsford." '< Bertie could not resist that lure; he 1 yielded, and Alston took him away, to 1 return later to the drawing "room, where i his mother and Gwyneth awaited him, s with the report that the "poor fellow had e seemed famished, and had now gone to c bed. " The house seems- a sort of hotel for f Miss Kingsford and her friends,'' said Mrs t Lascelles with some reserve. " By the way, Alston, I hear that the verdict this i afternoon upon i>r Blanchard was ' death 1; through 'nisadventure.' It's satisfactory, r for suicide would have made a scandal, t and I do hope that Mrs Blanchard will e leave the neighbourhood, and we shall hear no more of her.'' . _ I Neither Alston nor Gwyneth replied, y and Mrs Lascelles. rolling up her knitting, observed that it was time for bed. Good- s nights were exchanged, but Gwyneth h lingered behind her aunt. r " There's something I've been meaning to 6ay to you for a long time, Alston," a she said gently. " I>o you remember when .Yl )■ Risford came down here just after tyour motor accident?" t Alston nodded. h

, " Yes," he said, " what of that?'' "I,was in the next room," said Gwyneth slowly. " I heard what you said. I You told him—that you loved Marjorie s Kingsford, and—and I • knew that it was I the truth. Ever since then I've been wait- • ing, waiting to tell you that I quite understand, that you're free." i She spoke so quietly, in so matter-of-i fact a fashion, that at first Alston hardly : realised what she was saying. Only when s she slipped off her engagement ring and held' it out to him did he realise it. He i would have spoken, but she checked him. " No, no, there s nothing to be said. 1 | only want you to be happy. She loves you,' and.you love her. It was all a mistake your thinking that you cared in that way for me,'' Gwyneth said. She smiled bravely. Alston must not guess at the hours of anguish, of travail of spirit, that she had suffered, of the struggle that it had been to .stand aside, to give up what she loved best. " To-morrow you'll speak to your Marjorie, an I'll tell your mother. She'll understand, though she may be a little vexed at first. ' Good night." She held out her hand. Impulsively, Alston bent and kissed it. " You're splendid," he said huskily. " Gwyneth, you don't know -how I feel just now.'' But she drew her hand gently from his, and went away, smiling still. Only in her own room did she break down, and weep bitter tears over the sacrifice of her own life's, joy, upon the altar of one whom she loved better than herself. This next morning it was Gwyneth who contrived .that Marjorie and Alston should meet'alone, in the garden, whilst she took Bertie Risford to show him the roses. Bertie went a little unwillingly, and Gwyneth, who had guessed his secret, was cruel only to be merciful. " Those two have suffered a great deal, and now they are going to be very happy," she said cheerfully; "they've cared for one another a long time, Mr Risford, and at last all difficulties have been smoothed away. They are going to be married and live happily ever after." " But—but I thought," began Bertie in dismay, and then he paused, blushing hotly; Gwyneth came to his rescue with admirable composure. , " That my cousin and I were engaged," ! she said; " that was a mistake, Mr Ris- ' ford, which.luckily Ave found out in time." And Bertie said no more, but he knew that here was an example that he must follow, that this brave, self-sacrificing woman was showing him what love could be in all its generosity and freedom from self. • _ Meanwhile, Marjorie and Alston were talking in rather desultory fashion of various topics. He had tried to discover how her accident of the previous day had happened, but Marjorie was vague upon that point. She was secretly determined that she would not betray "Aldra; what good purpose could be served by dragging the ugly scandal into the light?'' Not even Alston should know the truth. " You know that the inquest on Blanchard was held yesterday afternoon, and that the verdict was ' Death by misadventure,'" Alston said abruptly, "so, that's done with." " Yes," said Marjorie in a low voice, " I—l'm glad." " You were coming down to give evidence, wern't you, ' Alston pursued; " Gwyneth told me that you were' coming. She—she told me all that you told her," he added nervously; " I mean about Maitland and you." " Yes," said Marjorie sadly. " I'm dad that you know. It has been like a horrible nightmare to me, my whole life since the dreadful day my father died, I've been fighting, fighting, and at last, yesterday, I thought the end had come." " The end,',' repeated Alston with sudden passion; he took Marjorie's hands in his, he drew her, though she resisted, closer to. him; "dear iieart, it's only the beginning, the beginning of our life, our love." And then, held fast in the sweet prison of his arms, he told her that freedom 1 was his once more, that Gwyneth' had 1 told him that they had made a mistake, ' and that she was thankful that they had ' found it out before it was too late. "So I can tell, you how I love you, ■ how you're just the world to me," Alston whispered, his lips against her hair; " oh, • Marjorie, when 1 think what life would be without you, I don't know, I can't think, how could I face it. Marjorie, why beloved, you're crying." He kissed away the tears that left their salt upon his lips, he held her to the heart that was hers alone, lie told her again and again that she wae his idol, that he asked nothing better than to worship her. He did not guess that she was weepin because, after the fashion of women, she read Gwyneth Carfax aright; because she knew that her happiness was reached over the heart of another. " It doesn't mean that you don't care for me," Alston said at last. " I mean, that isn't why you're crying, Marjorie?" " Oh," she lifted her head, reproach in her wet eyes—"dearest, don't you know that you're just the world itself to me? I loved you all the time, and when I thought you didn't care it nearly broke my heart. I was crying because " But 6ho checked herself. She could rot betray the woman who had so generously yielded up her own happiness. " What does it matter why I cried,'' she murmured, as she raised her face to her lover's—" what do<w anything matter, now that we aro together?" And Alston, as his lips rested on hers, 1 agreed. If all that she had gone throntrh seemed I to Marjorie a luqhtnaare. the few weeks j that elapsed between her betrothal and j her wedding day, • vrcre like a beautiful (

iream, almost too good to b? true. She stayed at Duxhurst Manor, l&rs Lascelles gradually growing more cardial, whilo Gwyneth became Marjorie's great friend and ■ stand-by. Bertie Risford bore bis disappointment with a stoicism that hid how much ha suffered, and he accepted an invitation to the wedding, at which Miss Brace and Miss de Clancy, the latter in a gorgeous toilette, were also present, while Miss Ponder, now convinced by Bertie that she had misjudged her erstwhile companion, sent an affectionate letter and a present. AldTa Blanchard had left the neighbourhood immediately after her husband'B funeral, but first she wrote to Marjorie a letter in .which a certain repentance was mixed with gratitude to the girl she had so cruelly treated, for Marjorie's silence and for allowing her to keep the money to which she had no right. , Marjorie destroyed the letter and said nothing of it to Alston. It was the only; secret that she kept from him. They ' were married on a day of tinclouded' sunshine that to Marjorie was symbolical of the bliss that lay before i her. I "All the clouds have gone," she told her husband when they drove away in a shower of rose leaves, flung after them by Bertie Risford; "I feel as though not/ning could ever trouble tor hurt •me again.'' Her husband's arm was about her; he could scarcely believe that this woman whom he adored was his—his for ever, that separation and misunderstanding wei® alike at an end. " If I can guard you from it, my heart! Beloved," he whispered, " you shall nevar have any sorrow. Sweetheart, I love you so, that I'd lay down my life for you. I've often read,'' he added with a little smile, "of men who declared/that they'd die for a wcman, but I never understood what it meant till now.'' But Marjorie gave a little shiver and crept close to him. " Don't talk of dying," she said coaxingly; "it is so dreadful. It makes me, feel sad." " Then I won't," laughed her husband, cheerfully, '' especially when it's life that lies before us, my own beloved. Think— think how wonderful, that we shall be together now for ever, in this world and in the next, -until The End."