The Stronger Passion

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 649, 29 April 1929, Page 5

The Stronger Passion

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Rowan Glen.

Author of “ The Great Anvil. "The Beat Gift of All," For Love or for Gold.” £rc . &c

CHAPTER XVII.—THE JUDGE; RECOVERS. Pleading with him almost, incoherently, she followed him to the door and there caught again at one of his hands. Through the open doorway of the bedroom further along the corridor he saw the nurse and called to her softly. Wnile he did so, he freed his hand from Elaine’s. “The best thing you cau do for yourself and your father, is to go to bed and try to sleep,” he advised. “You’ll probably have to do your share of nursing to-morrow.” He did not look at her again, but the nurse came up, said: “Nurse, I wish you’d look after Miss Hart, here. Make her go to bed, and convince her that if she doesn’t, she’ll have a breakdown.” He was afraid to look at the girl T hen; afraid lest he might weaken. At the end of the corridor, he looked back. Elaine had swayed forward, and the nurse’s arms were about her. Macßae was finishing a late breakfast on the following morning when Robert Pringle, whom he had sent to bochrine to execute several small commissions, came into the room. “Beg pardon, sir,” the man started. “I thought you’d finished. I’ll go out and wait till ” Macßae shook his head, then nodded to a chair. “Sit down, instead,” he invited. “I’ve only half a cup of tea to drink, and l can smoke a cigarette while I’m doing that. What’s the news? Did you get through to The Lodge?” “Yes. sir. I spoke to the nurse herself.” Good! Well? What’s the report? iou look pleased enough with things, so I suppose Sir Charles is going on I all right?’’

“Even better than they’d expected, sir, so the nurse said. I told her that you’d asked me to inquire, and to say that you meant to leave here before noon, and to be away for a few days. She said something about that being all right, and that another nurse was coming from Edinburgh this morning.” “Anything else?” “No, sir.” “I see. She didn’t mention Miss Hart?” “No. and I didn't think to ask.” “That’s all right, Pringle. Miss Hart was upset last night, of course, but I expect she’ll be all right this morning. And now, about the train times? You’ve arranged all that, and for a car to be here at 11?” Pringle said that he had, and after explaining the travelling details, rose and went to his own quarters. Alone again, Macßae sat for a minute or so staring in front of him; then, with a little shake of the head, pushed his chair back and stretched his long arms. He was glad that he was going from the Dochrine district. True, he meant to stay away for less than a week, but during that week he would be free from the possibility of meeting Elaine, and when he returned it would be only for a day or two at most. If Sir Charles Hart and his daughter had not gone south by then, he, Macßae, would certainly do so. Whether or not he would ever return to the island was something which might well be left for the future to decide. Pringle and he drove to the village railway station in good time for their train, and before night time came were in the far north of Scotland, and settled comfortably in a tiny fishing inn on the edge of a salmon river.

For five days they waited there. Then, almost as suddenly as he haa decided to leave Arnavrach, Macßae decided to return to it. On the day after his return a message reached him to the effect that Sir Charles Hart, who was in the first stages of convalescence, had expressed a wish to see him as soon as it would be convenient for him to go to The Lodge. At first Macßae demurred, then, though very reluctantly, rowed across the loch and walked up to the house from which he had last gone in so complex a mood. He had feared that he might meet Elaine before being taken to her father, but it was the nurse from Edinburgh who came to him in the room where he waited. “Yes,” she said, in answer to his question. “He’s going along splendidly, Mr. Macßae, and I don’t think it will do him a bit of harm to talk to you. Since I've been here he’s spoken about scarcely anyone else. Will you come up now, please?” He went with her. When, having announced him, she had closed the door and gone away, he walked to the bed and looked down at the man who sat there leaning against his heapedup pillows. Of the two it was Hart who was the more uneasy. He half put a hand out, then, almost as though ashamed of that action, let it slip back to the coverlet. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “So you’ve come, Macßae. I’m more glad than I can say. Will you drag one of those chairs forward? You’ll find cigars and cigarettes on that little table. I've had them waiting for you ever since I’d sense enough to give an order. You’re looking very fit, and browner than ever. Been fishing in the north, haven’t you? That’s what someone told me, anyway.” “Yes,” Macßae answered. “Pringle and I went up to a place in Sutherlandshire, and we had great sport with the salmon.” He turned away, and having lighted a cigarette, brought a chair forward and seated himself. “You’re quite sure,” he went on. “that you feel strong enough to talk to me, Sir Charles?” “Quite! But you’ll have to humour me a bit, Macßae.” “In what way?” “Well, I —l've done such a devil of a lot of thinking that I’ll probably want to say some things that you, being what you are, won’t want to

hear. I want you to let me say them.” He settled himself more comfortably against the pillows and wept on: “To begin with, I’d better explain that I’ve had the whole story of what happened after we started home from the shoot that day. What can I say, Macßae?” “Nothing,” the Scotsman answered. “I hope you haven’t brought me here so that you may talk a lot of nonsense about what I was able to do.” “That's where the humouring comes in,” the other reminded him. “I’ll make it as brief as I can, but I’ve got to thank you. 1 wouldn’t do that by deputy, though I know that my

girl thanked you on the night of the operation. Cairns has told me that it was touch and go, and that if it hadn’t been for you, I’d have gone out. Well! I’ve said ‘thank you,’ and it means far more than I can put into words. “This is the second time! First, there was my daughter—then me. I hate being in debt, and yet i must be in debt to you so long as I live.” “I hope,” Macßae said, “that you’ll live for a very long time, but I hope, too, that you’ll get that debt-notion out of your head right away. Is there anything else?” “Yes—one or two things. First, about Elaine.” Macßae stiffened. “I don’t want to talk about her,” he announced. “I've got to the point when 1 want to forget.” “Eh? You’ve changed then?” “I’m not going into that part of it, Sir Charles. I tell you I want to forget. That’s all.” “Well then, hear me out this time.

and I promise never to worry you on the subject again. Elaine told me that she’d offered to marry you. That is so?” “Yes. She offered to marry me, but though she didn’t know it, she put the offer rather as though she were suggesting the payment of a fee. I think she understands pretty clearly now that I’d a hundred times rather have no wife than a wife who gave herself to me out of gratitude, or for any reason except that she loved me.” “I understand exactly, Macßae. But I’ve got to remind you that if you feel bitterty toward her now, she has, or had, equal reason for bitterness. You say that you wouldn’t want to have a

wife who didn’t' love you, but you made love to a girl when you didn’t love her.” Macßae’s brow was warm. “That’s true,” he admitted. “If it’s any comfort for you to know it, I’ve learned to realise what a—a callous cad I was with Elaine in the beginning.” The judge Was frowning in perplexity. “1 can’t make Elaine out at all these last few days,” he said. “She’s been quite unlike herself. Seems to be dreaming half the time, and not to know what she wants to be at. I’ve questioned her about you, but I can’t get anything out of her. She’s indefinite about it. but I’ve an idea that there’s been some sort of break between her and Maurice Rollingwood.” “Would you be very sorry if that break came?” “Not now. I still like Maurice. He’s a good fellow, but I’m beginning to think that it was infatuation he had for my girl, and that she didn't

“I’ve few ambitions left. I think I want nothing more now' than to take things easily for the years ahead of me, however few or many they may be, and to see my girl happy. That’s my main ambition. Macßae. “I’m dreadfully worried about her. 1 may be dead wrong, but l believe that, despite everything that she says or hints, she's in love w'ith you.’’ Macßae shook his head. “I wish I could agree,” he returned, wearily. “I can’t.” It would take something very big indeed to convince

me now that Elaine did more than ! fancy that she loved me. No! I’m j not letting myself think along those j lines any longer. “But I’ll tell you this. Sir Charles , —l’ve changed too. I’m unworried by 1 any kind of ambition, but I’d like you j to believe me when I say that I’m ; finished with hate. “I’ve admitted that hate to you and i given my reasons for it. You’ve ad-, mitted that you w ere unjust to me at i my trial, and you've given your reasons for the injustice. What do you •

| say if, leaving Elaine out of things al- ; together, you and I shake hands—meaning the handshake? I’m going to be leaving Scotland almost at once and w r e mayn’t meet again. But —1 never thought to speak like this —I’d : like to have a friendship-pact between ! us.” The judge’s eyes brightened, i “My boy.” he said softly, “you’ve 1 made things easy for me. You’ve . said w’hat I’d meant to say, though I i felt sure that I’d bungle over it Everything’s on your side, really. (To be continued daily.)