Stronger Passion

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 636, 12 April 1929, Page 5

Stronger Passion

By

Rowan Glen.

Author of " The Great Anal. The Best Gift of All." " For Love or for Gold.” &c , &c

CHAPTER VII (Continued) i She seemed to have forgotten that the same offer had been made by an- | other man, and had been refused. “I think,” she went on. “that we’d | better turn back, and try to get to the '.•aim.” “Good!” he agreed. “You must be tired out, but we’d better start before this stuff gets any thicker.” Within five minutes they were questioning each doubtfully as to whether or not they were moving in the right direction; within ten minutes knew that it was dangerous to move at all. The clammy blanket of mist heaped

fold on fold; became impenetrable in I its density. Once a straggling string |of sheep blundered past, looking as i big as buffaloes, and Elaine caught at I Macßae’s arm. I “What were—those?” she asked, j “Sheep,” he told her. “That’s a trick of the mist. It magnifies everything. - Seems to me, we’d better sit down here and wait, even though things are damp. We daren’t move. I haven’t, the faintest idea where we are. We might be on the crag edge. It’s the only thing, Elaine—to wait.” It was the first time he had called her that. He thought that she shiv-

ered, but a shiver would have been natural enough then for, like his own, her tweeds were heavy now with little globules of water. They seated themselves and rubbed their smarting eyes. “Dam’ nice business, this,” Macßao commented. “I’ve got to apologise, Elaine. You’ve been tremendously decent about things. If it hadn’t been for me you’d have been safe up yonder by the cairn.” “I’m just as safe here,” she pointed out. “Father was right though, wasn't he?” “Right? What about?” “Have you forgotten? When he said that when you and I were alone together something always seemed to happen. We do get into trouble, don t we?” Had she not mentioned her father, Macßae might have let his often rehearsed words of love wait for expression till later on. But she had set him visioning again, not the face of Sir Charles Hart, generous host at The Lodge on Loch Stragoil side, but the face of Mr. Justice Hart, the unjust judge. If he, Macßae, could win an avowal of love from the girl beside him, then the first definite step would have been successfully taken in his march toward that revenge, the longing for which had obsessed him through dreary, soul-crushing years. He waited for what seemed a long time; waited till Elaine, touched by an unusual morbidity, said something about the possibility of their being lost on the mountain, and dying there. “Yes,” Macßae agreed. “There have been cases like that, but this isn’t going to be one of them. I can remember that when the mist came down as suddenly as it came down today, it almost went as suddenly. Why, bless you. my dear ” He paused. “My dear!” he repeaed more quietly. “That’s what I’ve been wanting to call you ever since I carried you to my house that day when you were nearly drowned. My dear! Elaine!” “Yes?” “I wonder if I’m making a fool of myself? I’ve done that often before, but never in this way. I suppose you know what it means—that it’s love. I didn't mean to tell you so soon. It’s being here —in danger. Elaine! Say something! ” He felt her tremble against him; heard faintly the sharp intake of her breath. Still she did not speak, and he rose and stood looking down at her. He could not see her save indistinctly, but he knew that she was rising, too. Then the stillness was broken by the sound of feet and the clattering of small stones. A figure blundered against Macßae, and even in the mist he knew that the figure was that of Mr. Justice Hart. A sharp, dominating voice beat at Macßae’s inner consciousness. “Now!” the voice said. “Now!” Before the astonished Hart had steadied himself, strong fingers were I about his throat and were pressing at it mercilessly.

No sound came from Mcßae as the pressure of his fingers increased. He felt a fist strike at his brow twif’o hut the ir*wc mip-hf have been

the beating of thistledown, so little did they affect him. A horrible, gurgling noise came from the man whom he held. Then McRae felt one of his arms caught by small hands, and heard a voice say: “What is it? What are you doing?”

His moment of reckless hatred passed. His pressing fingers relaxed, and he cursed the voice which had urged him toward this folly. “It’s all right,” he said unsteadily to Elaine. “At least, I hope it is. I hope I haven’t hurt him, whoever he may. he.” Hart had stumbled to his knees, and was breathing with difficulty. “What have you done to him?” Elaine went on brokenly. “Oh! what have you done?” “I’ll tell you,” said Macßae, a sleeve wiping at his wet brow. “I thought he was some madman, the way he blundered up and barged into me, and I took him by the throat. Good God’ I nearly choked him, I think. It was so unexpected —like something in a nightmare. Steady though! You’re not to worry. Everything seems to — pau out all right.” He stooped, and shook at Hart’s shoulders. “Who are he asked. “What in heaven’s name made you come along like that? Where were you going?” “Dam’ fool,” a voice answered. “I was going down the hill, of course—trying to find you, Macßae —you and my girl. The others started, but I waited for you. Then i thought I’d start, too.” Again Elaine gripped at Macßae’s arm. “Why—it’s father!” she exclaimed. She went on hex* knees in the sodden heather, her arms about the man who had been so near to death. “Father!” she managed. “You! And he tried to choke you? He didn’t mean it, though. Didn’t you hear what he said? He thought you were some madman, or something not human at all. He was scared, just as I was. Are you all right, now?” “Yes —getting that way,” the judge rea.ssured her. “But, Lord! I never want to feel your hands on me again, Macßae. They’re too infernally strong. 1 thought I was gone a second after you gripped at me.” It was Macßae who helped him to his feet. “What can I say?” he asked. “1 must have hurt you badly. A devil of a business it ’ud have been if Miss Elaine hadn’t grabbed at me. As she says, I was scared. “You seemed to bump into me out of nothiug. and we’d been facing dander enough without a lunatic blowing up. It really was madness, sir—coming down the hill the way you did. Why! we have been waiting here for I don’t know’ how- long because I’d wit enough to realise that even one step might bump us plunk into the next world. Did you know where yon were?” “No. I knew that T was going down the ben, and that was about all. I was worried about Elaine. T couldn't help thinking that perhaps she’d been lost, or badly hurt. Thank God. she’s safe!” “Thank God!” Macßae repeated. “Well! here we are. all three of us, and as we’re here we’ve got to wait till the mist clears. We’ll laugh at

all this later on, but at the moment it’s still serious. I’ve known mists to hang about the ben for days. If that happened this time, our number ’ud be up, but I’ve an idea that luck’s with us. There’s a glimmer of light even now, and that wretched, heavy feeling is passing.” He spoke quite sincerely there. Minute by minute, the density of the mist lessened. In half an hour they were able to see their way, and, in hall an hour after that, had come in sight of th,e other members of the picnic party, no unit among which was to forget the outing on Ben Alsh. At The Lodge they waited to rest and to sample the contents of Sir Charles’s temporary cellar. Their chilled bodies were set tingling, and the gloom engendered by the mist was scattered. Macßae, leaving a half-finished whisky and soda behind him, went in search of Robert Pringle. Moving over the thick-piled carpet on the staircase, he was about to call out the latter’s name, when, from a shadowed corner in the hall, Elaine’s voice came to him. “No!” he heard her say. “No, Maurice! You’re not to." When I came here with you I hadn’t a thought that you’d want to kiss me. It’s—silly! How can I tell whether I’ll be able to love you?” “Won’t you try?” Rollingward answered. “Won’t you try, Elaine? You’re the only thing that matters to me. I’m an awful ass, I know, but I think I could make you—” Macßae, his under-lip pulling in his upper, turned and went slowly upstairs. On the landing he met his troubledlooking host. “Ah —Macßae!” Hart started. “I’d wondered where you'd got to. Your man, Pringle’s been looking for you. There’s no hurry, of course. For that matter, you can stay here and dine. I’d be glad if you would, but Miss Fairweather and her niece seem to want to get back to Dochrine. I suppose Maurice Rollingward will go with them, for they came up in the same car. By the way, have you seen him? Or Elaine? Everybody’s scattered about so that I've been thinking of sending scouts out.” “I haven’t seen Rollingward nor I Miss Elaine for ten minutes,” Mac- | Rae answered. “But I rather think i they’re together in the hall. Anyi way, I d swear that I heard him speak- | ing, and that she answered him.” [ Hart slapped his rather podgy hands ! together. j “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Thanks! “Til go down to see.” He went off smugly, and some five minutes later a servant came to MacRae to say that the car was ready, and that if he wished it, Mr. Rollingward would give him and Pringle a lift to that point in the road near which their boat was waiting for | them.

Macßae sat between Lilian Manton and Rollingward, and as the car slowed up. felt his arm pressed by the former and heard her say:

“This is almost the first word I’ve had with you to-day, Blair. What a

fright you gave us! You can’t think how I worried about you.” “Did you?” he asked. “Why, Lilian ?” “I don’t suppose you’ll ever know,” she answered. “But I did worry.” Macßae did not answer her. It was when he and Pringle were rowing across to their island home that he broke his silence with a laugh. Pringle had said: “That was a rare baur up the hill the day, sir. We might have all been killed in yon dam’ mist!” “Yes,” said Macßae. “Yes, Pringle, we might have all been killed.” CHAPTER VIII.—ONE NIGHT ON THE ISLAND When, on the following day, MacRae called at The Lodge he was told by a rather suspiciously-mannered Sir Charles Hart that Elaine had driven to Dochrine that morning and had caught the early train to Edinburgh. He was told, too. that in all likelihood, she would be absent for some days. “An old school-friend of hers is staying with her people there.” the judge explained, “and when Elaine got a letter last night she decided to go off at once.” “I see,” said Macßae. But he did not see. He was wondering whether what he had said to the girl on the previous evening had influenced her in this sudden decision to go from the district. Was she perhaps anxious to avoid an early meeting with him? Did she wish to think things out carefully before answering the unspoken question which he had put? He had not actually asked her to be his wife, but he had told her that he loved her. To a girl such as Elaine

I that declaration must have been tantamount to a proposal. “Care to come with the guns this afternoon?” Sir Charles asked, less graciously than was his custom. “Maurice Rolling-ward’s turning up, and, of course, the men you met yesterday will be with us. We’re going to shoot over part of old Fergusson’s moor, and he asked me to bring whomever I wished.” “Thanks,” the Scot answered, “but I’m afraid I can’t manage it, Sir Charles. I’m booked to play golf at Dochrine with Miss Manton. It’s jolly good of you to ask me, and—l hope you’ll ask me again.” “Of course,” the other answered. “You know you can come whenever you wish. I gave a special invitation this time because we’re going to another man’s land.” Macßae was moving off when a thought, which had occurred to him days earlier, found vocal expression. “I want you to come to my place to dine one of these nights, Sir Charles,” he said. “I’ll get Miss Fairweather to play hostess. It’ll be a sort of housewarming, for though I’ve been in Arnavrach for some time, I’ve had no chance to entertain yet. We can fix all that, though, when Miss Elaine comes back from Edinburgh. You’ll promise to come, won’t you? I’ll be asking Rollingward, and Cameron, the Dochrine minister—who’s a good fellow—and one or two others.” “Certainly, we’U come,” Sir Charles answered. “Just give us a couple of days’ notice, in case we’ve fixed up anything here.” They parted on that, and as MacRae walked toward the loch, he admitted to himself that, for all his outward amiability, the judge had given, unconsciously, no doubt, evidence of some change in his attitude

toward the man whom he had once condemned to prison and to whom he had recently vowed life-long gratitude. It might be, Macßae thought, that the older man suspected the possibility of some love affair which would interfere with his plans where Elaine and Maurice Rollingward were concerned. On the other hand it might be that the memory of strong fingers choking the life from him had brought a passing resentment. On an evening midway in the following week, Macßae gave his dinner party and had reason to be gratified at its success. Mrs. Cairns, his housekeeper, had planned things well, and the servants had worked well. I Miss Fairweather. too. had supported him with admirable tact and geniality, and Macßae himself—though he did not realise it—had been, as Lilian Manton said to him later, “the perfect host.” He did not guess when Lilian said this, that for her, and for another, the night was to hold an emotional crisis. Indeed, he gave little thought to the dark-haired, friendly-eyed girl who, with the one exception of her aunt, was the oldest friend among his guests. ! The emotional side of him was dormant. The mental side was concentrating on the hope of capturing Elaine Hart. Circumstances had prevented them from being alone together since that unforgettable episode on Ben Alsb, and it was not till dinner had been over for some time that he contrived to get her away from the others. (To be continued daily)