Stronger Passion

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 644, 22 April 1929, Page 5

Stronger Passion

3y

Rowan Glen .

Author of " The Greot Anvil. The Beat Gift of All," For Love or for Gold.” &c . &c

CHAPTER Xlll.—(Continued) —THE SEARCH FOR ELAINE Macßae watched them till they dis-j appeared in the woodland. Then, j stepping on to the roadway, he saluted i Lilian’s aunt with a geniality which he did not feel, and held her in inconsequential talk till Lilian and Rolliugward reappeared. They were surprised to see him, aud their eyes gave evidence of that surprise. Of the two, it was Lilian who seemed the more confused. “You, Blair!” she exclaimed. "Why., I haven’t seen you for days. What have you been up to?” “Ask Rollingward,” he answered. “I’ve been fishing, I’ve been shooting. I’ve been golfing, I've been tramping, I’ve been doing all the things that are prescribed as the correct thing in this part of the world in early autumn. I've been talking to your aunt about you, and she says that you are becoming a handful.” Lilian Laughed at that, and Rolling- ■ ward laughed, too. and Miss Fair-' weather, as though thinking it was; expected from her. added a laugh of her own. “Lilian s all right, Mr. Macßae,” she said. “When I look round at the girls of to-day, I’m glad to think that mv niece, though she’s not so oldfashioned as me. is not too modern.” “Don’t you believe it.” Rollingward Put in with a resumption of gaiety. “Lilian’s right bang up to date. Dou’t you think so. Macßae?” “I used to think.” Macßae answered, and because he smiled when he spoke. f he sting went from his words, "that Lilian could never be reproached with Mightiness. Now l'n. beginning to wonder.” He had so trained himself That he was able to meet the girl’s eyes with Um-oncern in his own. She dropped hers. “And I think.” she said, “that Mr. Blair Macßae, late of Harley Street, and now Laird of Arnavrach. is developing an acid tongue.” Macßae bowed to her. and she laughed again. Rut he knew that the laugh was insincere. Even while he heard it, he deter ( mined to have, as soon as possible, a :

private talk with Maurice Rolling- \ ward. The chance to do that came sooner ! than he had expected, for next night lie met the younger man on the pubi lie road, and half a mile or so from The Lodge. They greeted each other affably enough, but presently, learning that, like himself, Macßae was on his way to call on Elaine, Rollingward, with something defiant in his tone, spoke about his rival’s persistency. He seemed, indeed, so near to anger that Macßae was puzzled. “Best keep a grip on yourself.” the latter advised coolly. “No need to storm at me, Rollingward, as though I’d done anything I’d no right to do. It seems that you know* all about my meeting with Sir Charles, and what passed between us, but even yet I’m not losing hope.” “Pretty swell-headed that, isn’t it?” “No. I don't look at it that way. I don’t expect though that you’d understand, even if I explained.” Rollingward was opening and shutting his cigarette case irritably. “Well, anyhow,” he said, “I’m going to marry Elaine. That’s all that there is to it.” • They had walked for some time in silence before Macßae mentioned Lilian Manton. “I don’t want to butt in on that side of your affairs, but as tilings are. I’ve got to,” he announced. “You can flare up if you like, but I’m going to say that, as far as I can read the i signs—and I’m not blind—you’ve been doing rather more than flirting with her aud that, mark you. while you’ve been making love to Elaine.” “Now- dammit all,” Rollingward was : starting, when he was stopped. "One moment!” Macßae said. “I might as well finish. I know Lilian

very well. I admire her, and respect her, and like her. Perhaps I don’t know her as well as 1 think I do, but I’ll take a guess that what might be merely flirting to you would be a serious matter to her.” “How dare you speak like that?” the other demanded. “Because, where Elaine’s concerned. I'm in the field against you, and so : am allowed to speak about anything that affects her, even indirectly.” He could see that his companion was not merely uneasy, but was conscious j of showing signs of that uneasiness. Suddenly Macßae’s mood became : I less grave. ! “Look here!” he exclaimed, “as I’ve been so outspoken I might as well finish. You mustn't think that I regard you as anything of a rotter. I don’t. I think that you’re a very good fellow, but a bit—well, let us say, j foolish. You may want to strike me I for saying it, but you’re irresponsible ! yet, Rollingward. You don’t seem to j have grown up. Look here, man! Why not admit that you’ve made a mistake about Elaine, and that, in your heart of hearts, it’s really Lilian you want nowadays?” “What infernal piffle!” the other returned. “Macßae, I’ve had enough of this. It isn’t I who am being the fool —it's you! So you want me to admit that I’ve made a mistake, do you? I’ll see you to the devil first! And I’ll tell you another thing—l wish you’d have the decency to clear out now, and let me go on to The Lodge alone. Elaine won’t want to see you. and certainly Sir Charles won’t.” “I’m fighting for my own hand, now,” he was told. “I can’t study the wishes of anyone—not even Elaine at the moment. No! we’re together, you i and I. Unless you insist on walking there alone, we’ll go to the house toj gether.” They did so and there a surprise ■ ‘awaited them —a surprise which held in it more than an element of shock. , Miss Elaine, so the servant who j , answered their summons informed i them, had gone up the hillside alone : in early evening, saying that she i would be back in good time for dini ner. She had not returned, and alI ready Sir Charles and one or two i others had gone out in search of her. “Everybody’s dreadfully worried.” | the servant added. “You see, if Miss i Elaine says that she’ll be back at a j certain time —well, she is back! Sir Charles was proper scared. He’s , | afraid that she may have fallen down I ! somewhere, and not be able to move.” The men glanced at each other, their eyes worry-touched. “Did Sir Charles leave any message?” Rollingward asked. “He knew that I was going to call to-night.” “Yes, sir. He said to explain what had happened, and to say that if you oared to go up the hill, you might help in the search, and that if you cried out now and then you might find either Miss Elaine, or at least get in touch with some of the others.” “Thanks,” he said. “That’s what I I’ll do then.” , By Macßae’s side he went from

the garden, but it was not till they had reached the hill foot that he asked: “You coming, too, then, Macßae?” “Yes,” Macßae’s voice was grave. “What did you think I’d do? Go honfe and read and smoke a pipe, while Elaine was missing? Listen, Rollingward! We’d best settle to be apart while we make this search. That’s not said because I want to be rid of you, but because if we go in opposite

directions, it gives Elaine an extra chance. It’s a damned awful night, and we may get lost ourselves. Not that that matters.” The other nodded. “It’s the needle and the haystack business over again.” he remarked | gloomily. “Even in the daytime lookj ing for anyone lost on this mountain

would be a long and chancy game. Macßae!” “Well?” “What if something really bad has happened to her? What if she isn’t found?” “Don’t talk like a fool,” Macßae said harshly. “She’s got to be found. Perhaps she’s been found already. Anyway, the sooner we start off the better.” He elected to make for the right shoulder of the ben and, less than a minute after parting from Rollingward, was plodding sturdily upward through the dew-drenched heather. The night was semi-dark, and very eerie. There were no sounds at all save the swish-swishing noise that his feet made, and the soughing of the wind in a fir tree plantation nearby, and the occasional haunting cry of a. curlew-. Up and up he went, and every now and then paused to form a miniature megaphone with his hands, and to call a “Hallo!” No one answered him. The only living things that he saw were certain straying sheep, and a covey of grouse which rose almost under his feet with a startling whirring of wings. He was on one of the high spurs of the mountain w-hen he paused to drink from a stream which, at this point, was a mere trickle. There w r as chaos in his brain and, try as he would, he could not prevent the coming of tragedy-holding doubts. He tried to steady himself by reflecting that possibly the girl whom he sought had already been discovered, or that her non-return to The Lodge was to be explained in some way quite unconnected with disaster to herself. Yet morbidity had taken so deep a root in him that he pictured her lying at the foot of some treacherous crag, still and lifeless, and with her beautiful face marred and turned toward the murky night-time sky. Wiping the sweat from his brow, and cursing himself, he strode on again. More than once he saved himself from falling only by dual quickness of body and mind. The gloom of the night increased. and now there "was not even the sound of the burn's thin voice, nor of the breeze that had swept along the mountain. Again and again, till his throat grew- dry. he sent out that “Hallo!” He reached the hill crest and w*aited there for some minutes, inhaling a cigarette whose smoke irritated anew his rasping throat. He was thinking thinking, thinking. “My dear!” he said aloud once. “My dear, if only I could find you!” The love, so newly come to him. was to torture now. He memorised every little incident w-hich he had shared with this girl for whom he searched: recalled every soft glance of hers and every gentle word. At his second meeting with her he

had set out to win, if possible, hei interest and her affection, telling himself that once that affection had been gained—if so wonderful a thing were possible—he would be in a position to use it to hurt the man who was her father. He knew, too, as he plodded downwards with hope dying in him, that his hatred of Mr. Justice Hart had received a new and, apparently, fatsgiven fillip. Previously, he had striven to skill himself toward the viewpoint that, as he loved the daughter, he must inevitably cast aside any bitterness toward the father. “Fool!” he called himself now as he went blundering on through the murk. “Fool to think that even because of her, you could forgive!” And then again. “My dear! . . . My dear!” He found himself back by the stream-side at a point in it which he had not touched on his upward journey. Once again he drank from its chill, vivifying water, once again straightened himself and sent out his hail. He waited for an answer, as on every previous occasion he had waited, and this time the answer came. Very faintly, he heard a woman’s voice call: “Here.” For a second or two Macßae felt numbed; told himself that he was dreaming the glorious thing. Then he heard the voice again and, his body tingling, started forward. “Coming!” he cried. “Coming, Elaine! ” He found her near to the burn-bed. half-sitting, half-lying, her wonderful hair freed and hanging about her shoulders; her tweed hat a yard or so

away; her left arm wedged between two great stones. One of these stones was securely embedded, but the other wobbled slightly as he touched it. “Elaine,” he said, as he went on his knees beside her. “Thank God I’ve found you! We’ve only got to keep by the burn-side and we’ll come out just j above The Lodge. But I’d forgotten What is it that’s wrong?” She was crying quietly; was doing so because help had come when she had been at her most hopeless. “So it’s you, Blair,” she whispered. ! “When I heard you call out I was trying to be brave, and to think that ; death wouldn’t be such a very dreadj ful thing after all. I’ve been here for ! hours and hours. It’s my arm. you • know*. It doesn’t hurt so much, but I I can’t move it. I was coming down j the hank when I fell. As T clutched 1 at this rock, another rock which I must have dislodged, somehow' or i other, banged against—this one. Docs that sound very involved? I’m try* ; ing to explain how it is that my arm wasn’t broken. You see the second rock hit the first one terrifically, but only just caught the arm. I’ve been held here like a prisoner fastened by a chain to a wall.” “My poor Elaine! —” “Can you manage to shift it. Blair? Oh! you can’t think what I’ve beer through—the terrible things I’ve visioned! I saw myself lying here till i I starved to death.” He had touched her brow gently j with a handkerchief which he had wetted in the water. “You knew.” he asked, “that your • father and the others would search for you?" “Yes. But I know. too. that it might 1 *

take tliem days and days before they —found me." He rose. “Keep still for a moment,” he said. “I’m going to try to shift this gaoler of yours.” Perspiration was running down hia brow and tickling his eyes, but at the third attempt the big stone answered to his efforts, and went with a thunderous “plop” into the burn. Stooping, Macßae lifted the cramp <1 form of the girl and, all his waning strength returning, carried her. Feeling his way cautiously, he bore h_r up to relatively level ground. They could see each other only blurredly, but, as best he could, lie bandaged her bruised arm with hi a handkerchief, much as she had once bandaged his hand when he, too, had known misadventure by a burn-side. “Elaine!” he called her again. “Don't call me a cad when I tell you. here where we’re alone together, that t love you! I'd do anything in the world for you; make any sacrifice, i Can’t you believe me? Try! [ mean | it, you know.” He waited for an answer, and wh< n it came, some warm thing in his heart's core, seemed to shrivel. “For a second time,” she said, ju-t j over her breath, “you’ve saved me.” In silence he raised her to her feer. They were about to move forward when a form loomed up out of the gloom. Seeing it, and recognising it, Mac- | Rae put an arm about Elaine. “Tell me now.” he begged her indistinctly. “Is it me—or him?” Before she could answer Maurice Rollingward had reached them. (Continued daily ) i