The Stronger Passion

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 630, 5 April 1929, Page 5

The Stronger Passion

By

Rowan Glen.

CHAPTER II. —THE NEW HOME. “T know you’ve always Celt like that.” Jenner said with a sigh. “Of course you do. You know liow it was. You were at the trial yourself. If it had been the prosecuting counsel who’d got me convicted. I wouldn’t have had a kick. That was his job—he was paid for it. But the man on the Bench was supposed to balance things, not to be severe, and not to be generous, but to be just. Hart wasn’t just. “I don’t know whether he was normal during my trial. He may have been ill, or he may have had domestic worries. Anyhow, it was he and not the Crown counsel who got me shoved into prison. I’ll believe that to my dying day. He was biased; his summing-up was biased: his directions to the jury left no hope for me.” He fell silent, and, brow frowning, eyes disturbed, looked again at the fire. Ilis big hands were closed, and gripped between his knees. “I’ve heard,” he went on, ‘‘that it’s only the sir.all-minded who can hate or who wish for vengeance. Very well, then! I must be small-minded. I want revenge! I tell you this. Uncle David—if ever 1 meet Mr. Justice Hart—and it soems that I’m likely to do that for you say he’s taken a shoot near my new home —I’ll fix him somehow. All the little tin-pot overlords of mine who’ve kicked at me, so to speak, these last two or three years, are forgiven. But Mr. Justice Hart isn’t forgiven. I don’t know' how I’m going to get at him, but when I do and I will—l'll be through.” A small, kindly hand was laid on his shoulder. “Steady, boy!” David Jenner said. 'Don't take it this way. You’ve beeu through a rough time and you were knocked off the hill that you’d climbed when you were near to its top. But carrying a load of hate around with you won’t do any good. Forget Mr. Justice Hart.” Maoßae moved his shoulders. “Forget him?” he said. Yes. when I’m dead.” Suddenly, he smiled, and his smile was one which even now, after all his corroding experiences, held rare charm. “Good-night, Uncle David,” ie jsaid. “You slip off to bed. I’ll get along to my own when I’ve had a drink, and smoked a good night cigarette.” When the door was closed and he had poured out a whisky and soda, he seated himself again and lighted a cigarette. When it scorched his fingers, lie dropped it in the grate. But he con-

Author of " The Great Anvil. The Beet Gift of AH." For Love or for Gold. " &c . 6rc

tiuued to sit there, gazing unseeiugly at the gas lire and wondering what the future was to hold. When twelve o’clock struck on a distant church, he rose and. stretching his big body, yawned. Stooping, he turned the lire out and went wearily to bed. It was Macßae’s first day as laird and owner of the romantically-situated estate of Arnavrach. The estate was perhaps as strange and small as any in all Scotland, consisting as it did of a heavilv-wooded island, lying near to the centre of Loch Stragoil in the north-western corner of Perthshire. Set on a bold-browed, heather-cov-ered knoll on the island's eastern shore was Arnavrach House, a building large enough to be imposing, but not too big to be worked in comfort by a small staff. The cottages of the few outdoor servants were a Quarter of a mile or so away, and the island was so small that no stock could be reared on it, nor any farming done. The previous owners had never used it as other than a living place; their incomes had been derived from quarters far remote from Loch Stragoil. Macßae, therefore, looked forward to no strenuous estate supervision, nor to the demands or grumblings of dissatisfied tenants. Ahead of him there was, he reflected thankfully, a life of comparative ease and prosperity; a life which, if it palled, he could. whensoever he wished, exchange for some other. But he did not dread dullness. There was the loch to boat on, and fish in, and swim in. No doubt, too, there would he plenty of shooting, once he made friends with his mainland-living neighbours. Five miles away, and so two miles from the loch foot, was the village of Dochrine, a beautifully-situated place, famous as a summer resort. The loch itself was circled by great mountains, austerely grand, and going away, tier on crumpled tier, till their peaks became dim in the distance. He had found a staff of servants waiting to give him a cautious but friendly greeting and, pushing aside temporarily that gravity of mood which had become habitual, he gave to each a hearty handshake, and to each that smile which made him friends so easily. There was Mrs. Cairns, the housekeeper. a woman of fifty or so, who had lived on the isle since early girlhood. There was old Duncan Graham, a sort of general overseer who acted variously as steward or boatman, or gamekeeper, or messenger. There

was the still older Robin Fergusson, who for nearly fifty years had looked after the beautifui gardens in the middle of which the big house was set. Macßae liked each of these on sight, and—though they did not let his realise that till much later—the liking was returned. He had said to Mrs. Cairns and to Duncan Graham:“Please let everything go pn exactly as it’s been going. I’ll get used to the isle and its ways after a while, but you know how things have been run, and if there's any trouble about servants or anything, you’ll tell me.” Toward evening on that first day he went down to the island’s one beach, balancing a light fly-rod on hip shoulder, and accompanied by Robert Pringle, his one-time warder, and now his man-servant. “You know, Pringle,” he said, as he tied on a long fly-cast to his line, “this is the first time I’ve had the feeling of youth come hack; since my trial, I mean. 1 feel older than I should feel, anyway; nearly twenty of them must have gone since I fished for trout on a Highland loch. I don't expect any luck, working from the shore, though—especially now that the wind’s risen. To-morrow we’ll get one of the boats out.” “You never know, sir,” Pringle encouraged him. “There might be some fine bit trouts lying among the rushes yonder. Anyway, you have a cast or two, and we’ll see.” Macßae who, as a schoolboy, bad been taught the art of fly-fishing by

his father, cast his line assiduously and with ever-increasing skill. But the trout, if there were any, refused to be tempted. It was when he was reeling the liii£ in, preparatory to going from the beach and back to the house, that lie felt his elbow* jogged suddenly and heard Pringle say: “See yon! See yon, sir! Lord above us! She’ll be overboard in a second if she keeps on trying to get that oar.” Pausing in his business of linereeling, Macßae looked to where, hundreds of yards away, a small brown boat was rocking crazily among the little snappy waves which the wind had created. The boat had only one occupant, a slim-figured girl who, through carelessness or ill-luck, had lost an oar and was striving to pull it back to her. It bobbed tantalisingly just outside her reach and, over eager, she made a lunge at it. Next moment she had stumbled. Before they heard her faint cry of fear, she had toppled into the water and sunk. “Good heavens!” Macßae exclaimed. “That’s done it!” His eyes strained and unwinking, he watched the spot where she had disappeared; then unbuttoned his jacket and waistcoat and let them fall at his feet. Next he pulled at his shoe laces, swearing the while. “Got a knife, Pringle?” he asked. “Right! Cut that left shoe lace—quick! ” Some seconds later he strode into the shallow* w’ater, and did not hear Pringle cry after him. “Take care, sir. Can you swim?” It was, of course, a foolish question, but the folly was understandable. Robert Pringle had never discussed outdoor sports with the cnetime convict; thought it probable that the latter w r as being foolhardy. The water was chill and seemed to grip icy fingers about Macßae’s heart. In the days before he had gone to prison, however, he had been a keen and strong swimmer, and now*, hampered by his clothes though he was, he struck out powerfully and knew a w r arming exultation when he glimpsed a little billow* of skirts 'some 20 yards away from the empty boat. “Steady!” he called jerkily. “You’re all right.” A pale, lovely face was turned to his for an instant, and he saw two large, fear-filled eyes, mutely pleading. The girl was flapping her arms about uselessly. Yet there was in the action something suggesting a swimmer who had merely—in the common phrase—lost her head momentarily. When lie was within touching distance of her, Macßae had wit enough to tread water. His chest seemed to be near to bursting and his head was aching, but he believed in his own strengt!% It w*as her probable lack of nerve that he feared. “I can save you easily if you’ll do what I tell you.” he told her. “You’re not going to drown. Everything’s all right. Try to turn on your back, and keep quite still. Try to lie fiat, and don’t grab at me. Are you ready? Good. That’s the style. I’ve got you.”

Fie, too, was on his back now. Gripping her under the arms, he kicked out vigorously. “Splendid!” he managed. “Just keep like that, and I’ll have you ashore inside a minute.” It took him rather longer than that, but he brought her to safety at last. Robert Pringle helped him to carry her up to the beach. She had lost consciousness and lay rigid, her eyes closed, and the dark lashes touching white cheeks; her hair, thick and of a beautiful auburn, lying across her shoulders, limp hut still holding its beautiful sheen. Her thin frock clung to her body and limbs showing their loveliness of contour. “Well, we’Ve got to carry her indoors,” Macßae said. “Take her feet, Pringle; I’ll get her under the arms. That’s the way! Now then! off w*e go! ” They climbed slowly the rough pathway up the knoll and, once in the hall of Arnavrach House, laid their burden gently on a settee near to the oldfashioned fireplace there. “Mrs. Cairns!” Macßae called, making a miniature megaphone of his hands. “Mrs. Cairns!” From her quarters the dazed housekeeper came to him at a shambling trot. “Mercy above us!” she exclaimed as she saw the figure on the settee. “What’s happened, sir? She’s not dead. Is she?” “No. and she’s not going to die,” he answered. “But you’ve got to take her in charge now. Pringle and I will carry her up to one of the bedrooms. You’d better get hot blankets ready, and look out some clothes that she can wear. Get one of the maids to help you. I’ll send up a glass of brandy. Now then, Pringle! Stir yourself, rna.nl Don’t stand there, gaping at her. Have you never seen a pretty girl before? Go into the dining room and fetch out the brandy—No! Y'ou’d better wait a minute. We’ll get her upstairs.” It was nearly an hour later that Mrs. Cairns came to a dry-clothed, and pipe-smoking Macßae with the news that the young ‘Teddy” had come round, and wished to see her rescuer, and to thank him. After that, so Mrs. Cairns explained, the young leddy wished to go home. “Tell her," said Macßae, “to take things easy for a hit. Tell her that we’ll send her to her home, wherever that is, as soon as she’s had a sandwich and another spot of brandy. It’ll do her good.” Leaving her, he strolled into the little room that, so soon as this, he had set aside as his private loungingplace. He had been seated there, content with his pipe and a daily paper, for perhaps five minutes when Pringle came to him, apologetically, and made an announcement. “The lassie was coming downstairs to see you. sir, but I stopped that,” he said. “Oh you did, did you?” Mr. MacRae laid his pipe aside and finished his drink. “Why, Pringle?” “Because, sir. if you please, there’s a gentleman called to see you. He’s half out of his mind I’m thinking.” “You must be, too,” Macßae returned. “There’s no old gentleman on the isle —except perhaps Robin Fergusson.’’ The ex-warder grinned. “Ah. but this one came across the

lock In a boat,” he exclaimed. “He saw the accident, and you swimming out and bringing the lassie back an’ all. It seems that he’s her father like.” “Did he ask for me by name?” MacRae asked. “No, sir. He just said that he wanted for to see his daughter, an’ when I said that she was still in bed, he said that he wanted to see the gentleman who’d saved her. I don’t know his name, but anyway you’ll mebbe, come to him? He’s in the hall.” Macßae rose. “Yes,” he said, a little wearily. “I'll come.” With Pringle beside him, he stepped into the hall. When he saw his caller standing before the empty fireplace, Macßae’s whole body stiffened. He gripped at Pringle's arm. “Pringle,” he said quietly, “you needn’t wait. Go out through the side door there, and have a walk in the garden.” Some clamouring inner voice said to him: “Why did you save her? You got the chance and took it, but if you hadn’t taken it—what a revenge!” His face stiff, and the sharp-forged demons of bitterness biting in him anew, he walked forward and, almost ironically, bowed to Mr. Justice Hart. CHAPTER III.—THE COMPACT. Their , eyes met, but those of the older man showed no sign of recognition. Their habitual keenness had been softened temporarily by anxiety, the memory of which remained acute. The judge was a man in the early fifties, just over medium height and already inclined toward a plumpness of person which did not seem to blend well with the vigour of his promin-ently-featured, deeply-lined face. His hair was thin, save above the ears and the neck, and was grey. His eyes were brown and heavily-lidded. It was a face attracting attention because of its hinted power rather than

because it suggested any lovable qualities. Trained through many years to retain both outward and inner calm, Mr. Justice Hart —or “Sir Charles.” as his friends knew him —had felt that calm snap completely when, an hour or so previously the life of his one child had been in danger. He fingered nervously at his signet ring, the while lie looked at the tall man who stood silently watching him. At length the judge spoke, and as he did so Macßae pressed his lips together tightly. The voice, sonorous and methodical in its grouping of words, took him back across the years to that court of justice in which he had been unjustly sentenced. “I hope you’ll forgive me for having disturbed you.” he heard the voice say. “Perhaps your man explained that it was my daughter whom you rescued so gallantly? I saw the accident fror* the other side of the lake, and though I couldn’t distinguish her. T guessed who the girl in the boat was. You can imagine how I thanked God when I saw you swim to her and take her ashore. “I’d have come across sooner, but at first I could find neither a boat nor a boatman. I’m told that my girl is quite safe —hasn’t taken any illeffect.” Again Macßae bowed. “My housekeeper has been looking after her,” he returned. “Your daughter was unconscious for rather longer than we cared about, but she’s all right again now. I expect that she’ll be downstairs in a minute or so. Meantime, will you come into my little smoke-room? You liad an anxious time, sir—but it’s over.” Once in the room, he closed the door and, going to a table where a decanter and syphon and glasses stood, poured out drinks. “You’ll join me. T hope?” he invited. “I can recommend this whisky, and a stiff one’ll do you good.” The carefully-kept hand which took

the Klass from him was not qui ■■ steady. Before he drank. Sir Charles said that which he had meant to say in th beginning. “We haven't introduced ourselv. yet, but before doing that, I want to thank you. It’s pne of those cast s where words seem useless things. None I could find could express tit depth of my gratitude. My girl's ell I have- in the world, nowadays. Ti mother died many years ago, and Elaine means everything to me. Yet il w-as you, a stranger, who risked his life for her! I cau’t say more than ‘Thank you,’ but I hope that you’ll l< t a friendship start between us now. and that it will go on for so long we live. That's really all 1 can say “If I were able to speak of repay ment, Fd do it, because I’m sure; th.->‘ you’d take it in the right spirit. But nothing could repay you. " Macßae knew that liis lips \> twitching, but there was neith r warmth nor humour in the slight smile that touched them. “Please don’t speak of repayment.” he said. “Good luck saw to it that I happened to be handy w-hen your daughter fell into the water. I was able to fetch her out. That’s all there is to it. Perhaps though. I may ask you one favour.” “Anything,” the other said. “Auything in the world.” “Well, to begin witb—look at me. carefully! We’ve been introduced before, y’know. I couldn't possibly be making a mistake about that. I’m right. I think, in saying that you are Mr. Justice Hart, officially, and that unoflieially, you're Sir Charles Hart, K.C.?” Hart’s brow wrinkled. He stroked at his clean-shaven chin with a thumb and forefinger. “Yes,” he said. “You know me. but —it’s stupid of me—l can’t remember you. We’ve met before?” (To be continued daily!