The Stronger Passion

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 631, 6 April 1929, Page 22

The Stronger Passion

~&y

Rowan Glen.

Author of “ The Great Anal. "The Best Gift of All." For Love or for Gold." 6 c . &c

YXOI'SIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. CHAPTERS T and ll.—Dr. Blair Mac- j ae, ex-convict, who has just been j ranted a free pardon for a errime he has I ever committed, is paying a visit to his | ncle, David Jenner. They discuss the scent happenings in Macßae’s life. Alaough the doctor considers his medical ractice and reputation are ruined, yet he wns that Dame Fortune has somewhat tunpensated by placing him in possession f a small Scottish estate, with £2,000 a ear on which to keep it up. The doctor eceives a visitor in the person of Robert Tingle, ex-warder, whom he engages as is body-servant. Pringle is to accomany Macßae to Scotland. After the ian's departure Macßae acknowledges hat he lias one ambition —to get even •ith the man, Mr. Justice Hart—to whom e felt he owed his wrong conviction. His ncle David retires for the night, while is nephew sits and muses on what the uture holds for him. Macßae finds verything going as it should do in his ew island home in Perthshire. Arnavach is a heavily-wooded island, lying tear the centre of Locn Stragoil. The ervants are highly respectable and rustworthy: fishing and shooting good. lacßae and Pringle are out fishing one ay when they see a girl in a boat trying o capture a floating oar. The boat overurns and* Macßae rescues her from rowning. Ife and Pringle carry her to u-navrach House, and Mrs. Cairns, the lousekeeper, takes charge of her. A rentleman calls on Macßae. Pringle says t is the young lady's father. As soon as lacßae catches sight of him he stiffens nd bows to Mr. Justice Hart. CHAPTER 111 (Continued) “Oh, yes.” Mcßae was smiling now, tncl his voice was genial. ‘‘We saw luite a lot. of each other a few years jack.” “Wait a minute,” Hart said. “I seem to remember your face, I mean! ,’m no good at names. Perhaps you’ll ielp me out?” “I don’t want, to make you feel uncomfortable,” Mcßae remarked. “You were doing your daily job, and 1 had 1.0 be there so that you could do it! My name’s Blair Macßae. I am —was —a surgeon. I appeared before you on a charge of forgery and falsification of funds, and you sent me to servitude for three years. Now do you remember?” “Good God!” The exclamation came spasmodically. “You’re Blair Mac Rae? I remember the case perfectly. . Blair Macßae! Why! I heard about you only the other day from a friend of mine, who’s on circuit at the moment. He told me of the developments: how that man, Dr. Talbot Morsley, had confessed to the crime when lie was dying, and how you’d been given a, free pardon.” He paused, it was evident that agitation had come to him again, though now it had sprung from a different cause. He drank from a tumbler, and, setting it down, looked across at the man whom he had treated with so great a lack of justice. “I’ve come across many strange coincidences in my life,” he went on, “but never one quite so .strange as this.” . “You’re living here as a near neignbour of mine. I’ve got a shooting lodge for the season on Docjh Stragoil. You’ve saved by daughter’s life, and you’re the man whom I sentenced for a crime he didn’t commit! It’s almost beyond me, Mr. Macßae. I feel tongue-tied again.” “It’s all right,” Macßae said. “I knew it ’ud upset you, but I had to tell you. You might have found out otherwise, and that ’ud have been awkward.” j “But you must feel bitterly toward me. r don’t see how you can do otherwise.” Macßae moved his shoulders. “It’s all right,” lie repeated. “After all, why should I feel bitter? I was overworking my brain when I got that : long rest. . Besides, as you say, Ive had a free pardon. ‘ It’s a unique experience—being given a free pardon . for something you omitted to do! Oh, well! anyway, all that’s over. “You were doing your job, as I say, and even if you stopped me doing mine, I haven’t lost by it. Ive come into this house and a ilice income, and I’m going to enjoy myself. We’ll start things from now, as you suggested. But there’s the mattei of that favour —repayment, if you care to put it like that.” “Yes?” Hart’s voice was eager. “I’ll be in your debt again if you’ll let me do whatever 1 can, whether it be small or big.” “It’s quite small, Sir Charles. I’m not a crinvinal, and never have been but I’ve been in prison. That’s enough for some people. Innocent or guilty, the word ‘prison’ affects their outlook. “So far as 1 know, there isn’t a soul in this district who knows about those three ghastly years of mine. I arrived as a stranger, and as no pubI licity was given to my release, there’s !no reason why anyone here, should ever know —unless they’re told. Of course, I run the risk of someone tj.irning up and speaking about it, but that’s very unlikely to happen. “Does - your daughter, Miss Elaine, I think you said? —know anything about me? I don’t suppose she does, for I expect you bar ‘shop’ talk.” I “I certainly never mentioned your name, nor your case, to her,” the other returned, “and I’ve never heard her mention it. She’s no newspaper reader, and since she was a child I’ve always urged her to leave court cases alone. No, she doesn’t know.” “Good! Well, then, the favour I ask is that you keep my story to yourself. I may be meeting you and her often while you’re here, and I’d much rather that she shouldn’t have the knowledge that I’m an ex-gaol-bird. Will you give me your solemn promise not to say a word to her till I give | you permission—if ever I do? That’s i all I ask.” j | “I promise,” Hart said. “You can I trust me implicitly never to break | that promise.” Macßae looked straightly into his I eyes. “I believe you,” he said. “Well, , then—that’s over!” He emptied his glass anti was mov- | ing toward the door wh&n it was i opened to admit Elaine Hart. Abruptly, Macßae turned away. | He heard the girl cry. “Father!” I heard Hart exclaim, a little huskily: “My child! Thank God! . . . Thank I God—Elaine!” j Not looking at them, Macßae went I from the room and waited in the I I lounge till they joined him. The men’s eyes met for an instant, cn I and then the older said: 3 “Elaine, you haven’t been intro-

duceil to your rescuer yet. I'm glad j to be able to do that. This is Dr. j Macßae —Mr. Blair Macßae lie’s usually called —who's come to settle here. ] Macßae! This is Elaine.” ' The girl held a hand out, and, tilting her lovely head a little to one side, j looked up into Macßae’s face. Taking her hand, he answered her smile. ‘‘l know what you’re going to do, Miss Hart,” he said. “You’re going to thank me.” “I was going to try,” she admitted. “Please don’t! Your father’s done that already, and I’d only feel awkward.” i “AVell. then, if it isn’t too soon, let me be the first to issue an invitation,” she said.. “Just to celebrate my—safety—will you dine with us to-mor-row night at The Lodge?” “Very willingly,” he answered. “And —thank you.” He saw them off by the boat In which the judge had come, and for nearly an hour afterwards walked to and fro on the shingle. There were many tilings about which he wished f,o think. His thoughts took definite shape when, after dinner on the following evening; he sat watching Elaine as she sang at the piano. She was beautiful, young, gracious of manner, cultured: — in every way desirable. From her lie glanced to her father. It was as he noted the latter’s expression of rapt admiration that MacRae, his purpose inflexible and hatred cold —and so more dangerous than had it been warm in his heart—nodded and said to himself: “Yes —that’s your best plan. You’ve got to strike at him through her.” CHAPTER IV.—THE ISLAND. On an afternoon some days later Macßae sat in a corner of his garden reading and writing letters. There were several from brother medical men with whom he had been intimate and to whom he had com-

municated the news of his freedom. A lengthy one had come from his uncle, David Jenner, and another from Lilian Manton, a girl of twentysix or so, whom he had known for many years, and who had been among the staunchest of his friends when his personal sky became clouded. He had met' her In the first place through her aunt, who had been a patient of his, and she and this aunt were the only two women to whom he had written since leaving prison. He smiled now as he read the concluding portion of Lilian’s letter: “Don’t feel too conceited when X tell you that Aunt Margaret and I will very probably be spending part of our holiday near Dochrine. Aunt’s always promised me a run round in Scotland, and as it happens, she’s been to your part of it before, and loved it. I’ll let you hear from us agpin before we come lip, because, as you’re an important person there, we’ll expect you to do the honours in a quiet way. “All the best, Blair, and I hope to find you haven’t forgotten how to laugh.” While Macßae folded that letter and placed it In an inner pocket, he remembered another girl and, remembering, became again the sombrefaced man who, while in his uncle’s flat at Hampstead, had vowed to square things some day, somehow, with Sir Charles Hart. Already his friendship with Elaine had progressed to a point which satisfied him. It must be remembered that at this time Macßae was not entirely normal. He had suffered as a man of grosser mentality would not have suffered. He had built while still a youngster, as an older generation of surgeons would have called him, a practice of distinction. He had lost that; had been humiliated and ruined. True, his fortunes -were more than rehabilitated now, but something better than money had been taken from him—enthusiasm had gone; youth had gone; even love of his profession seemed to have been crushed. And all these losses he laid at the door of the man whose daughter he

would meet later on that day . . . It was a perfect evening when MacRae rowed alone in one of his boats across the loch and up to the spot where the girl was waiting for him. She stood on a great rock thrusting its grey snout into the water, and he saw that she was dressed in tweeds. “Good!” he exclaimed as he held his hands out to help her aboard. “I was hoping you’d take my tip and wear what I believe is called ‘something serviceable.’ ” She laughed and, stepping on board, drew her fingers from his slowly. Seating herself on a thwart, she watched him as he pulled with long, easy strokes up the loch again and toward their objective—a tiny islet where on most nights wild duck were to be found. “You didn’t think, did you,” she asked, “that I’d come out duck-shoot-

ing in a dinner frock? What a perfectly heavenly night! 1 don’t think I’ve ever seen the loch and the hills look more beautiful. It’s so still, too.’* “Couldn’t be better,” he answered laconically. . . . “I’ve been looking forward to this, Miss Hart.” “So have I,” she admitted. “I love being out on the loch at night, but father’s rather stuffy about that sort of thing. Dinner’s a rite with him, y’know, and as we have it pretty

late I liardly ever get a chance to go further than the garden afterwards." Macßae did not look at her as he asked: “Does he know where you're going to-night?” “He knows I’m to be on the loch with you for an hour or two, but he doesn’t know that we’re going to one of the islands. The loch’s a big place. Still! he won’t be worried; He toid me to take care, but I reminded him that I’d have a strong swimmer with me.” Macßae laughed. “That was a special effort,” he said. "I wouldn’t guarantee to cover the same distance again. Well! I wonder if we’re going to have any fun with the duck. I don’t suppose you’ll be able to appreciate how I feel, but to me all this”—by a swepieng

glance he indicated the loch and the hills and the heathermoorland “is like a sort of children’s fairy-book. I’ve had a long spell away from the Highlands and rowing on a loch, or fishing for trout, or going out for wild duck means re-livlng the outings that I had when I was a boy.” Elaine was watching his handsome face with a half smile in her soft deeply-blue eyes. .. u° ne ud tJ iink,” she twitted him, that you were ancient., the way you talk. Yet you confessed the other night that you were only thirtythree.” Nine years older than you, anyway,” he returned, “and I started living young. You know what I mean by that?” Yes I think so. I wonder ij you

realise how lucky you * re— „ » to retire at thirty-three an® a beautiful home of your place like this?” He mocked her good-hum “Listen to her!” he _ to the wise one! Of lucky. But I’ve worked •>**• time.” (To be continued OP