DAUGHTER OF EXILE

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXVI, Issue 23302, 22 March 1939, Page 24

DAUGHTER OF EXILE

By ALEXANDER CAMPBELL I Author of many Hcbridean stories and articles.

(COPYRIGHT)

An ancient Gaelic prophecy, " They will come from over the sea, pursuer and pursued ... to death ..." is the base of this thrilling romance.

SYNOPSIS The opening scene is laid on the boulderstrewn moor near Carnach, in the Hebrides. Laurence Shane, artist, Baw a golden-haired girl seated by the roadside. She knows who ho is and that he is on hit) way to the lighthouse to stay with Captain Macpherson, who has told her of him. Also staying at the lighthouse is John lialford, but Shane notices a restraint on the girl's part when Halford's namo is mentioned. The girl lives in a large, grim-looking building on the cliffs called the House of the Bards. Her name is Martha Pelmann and she resides ulone with her father and a giant of a servant named Hoinrich. Shane discovers that he has taken the wrong case from the hotel at Stornaway and states his intention of returning next day to restoro it and claim his own. Search of the contents of the one in his possession failed to give any clue to the identity of the owner. On the way to Stornaway next day Shane Is offered a lift in a big car driven hy Heinrich, and Martha accompanies him. On the journey Shane learns that Halford, who had behaved in a queer manner the previous evening, had paid attention to Martha, who dislikes him.

CHAPTER lll.—(Continued) They were passing through Carnach, a tiny village of one street, with thatched cottages on either side and straggling fences over which sheep dogs bounded joyously to meet them. The dogs awaited the car's coming, crouchlow, then shot alongside, barking and snapping at the wheels. Shane was sure one of them would bo killed, but Heinrich never even slackened speed, nnd the dogs seemed to know to within an inch how near they could come in safety. At the side of the road, with two wheels in the ditch, rested the Carnach bus. It had been moved so far over to let other traffic pass, but even SO, its bulky body filled most of the narrow road.

The bus was an amateur looking affair of yellow painted wood, long, with a rusty bonnet. A huge halo of hay had been tied on to the roof, giving it an alarmingly top-heavy appearance, and bicycles were tied to the sides and to the offside door with pieces of cord. Out of the open back protruded a long plank of wood. The driver stood at the bonnet, smoking placidly, and his intending passengers surrounded him. They all seemed to be talking at once, lowly and pleasantly, in Gaelic. There were grey bearded fishermen in rough Iblue jerseys, who by the look of their heavy muddied boots were crofters too, and women in black with black shawls over their heads. Through the back door of the bus Shane had glimpsed, in addition to the plank of wood, a large number of parcels and bags. He wondered how the passengers were going to get in. The little group turned their collective heads as the car approached. Heinrich slowed to pass the vehicle. Shane found himself the cynosure of a large number of inquiring eyes, set in faces alight with curiosity. They left the village behind, and the last of the dogs which had pursued them valiantly dropped baffled in their rear. The road wound along the coast, and the cliffs gave place to flat sandy dunes and clumps of tall wiry grass. On their right, the moor stretched flat and lonely, its emptiness broken here and there by an airidan, or a tinkers' encampment. Tiny lochs glittered like mirrors under the sun. The day had promised to be hot, and it was keeping its promise. The road became whiter and dustier, and the sea was like a flat shield that had been hammered out of blue steel. On the commons of the villages through which they passed sheep and cows lay motionless, too lethargic even to browse. The sky was a vast blue canopy without a single white speck of cloud. They swung through Gress past gleaming golden sands, past a churchyard, and over a bridge that spanned a slowly moving brown stream. The Stornoway war memorial, a pointing finger of stone set on a high _ hill, loomed up, and soon they were gliding downhill through the village of Laxdale. They passed the wooded estate of Stornowav Castle on their right, and entered the outskirts of the town. Shane asked to be let out at tha hotel, where he had stayed the night. He turned to Martha. "Will vour errand take long?" He tapped the case. "When I've handed this over to its rightful owner, we might meet and have lunch together." "That will be delightful," she nodded. Shane passed into the hotel, and the big car swung out round a stationary lorry loaded with fish barrels, and carried on down the main street in the direction of the post office. Shane got hold of the proprietors, and explained his mission. The hotel proprietor nodded quickly. "That'll be General Mitchell's case." he said, "lie opened yours, and realised what had happened. I hope you've been put to no inconvenience." "Not at all," said Shane. "Is General Mitchell still in the hotel?" General Mitchell was, and the proprietor departed to bring him. Shane was ushered into the lounge. The place was empty and he sat down to wait.

Once again he recalled Halford's perturbation at seeing the bag of sweets. Here was a mystery which the owner of the case might be able to solve. Shane decided to step warily and see if he could pick up any clue.

CHAPTER IV. OWN Ell OF THE PEI'PERMINTS The man who entered the lounge was short and tubby. He had red hair and a look of Irish abandon, and merry blue eyes twinkled in a round, jolly face. Ho was dressed in plus fours of a painful green hue, and a large green tie flapped untidily under his chin. They were just the sort of clothes, Shane's artistic soul decided, that the owner of the horribly striped pyjamas lie had found in the suitcase would wear. He was certainly not Shane's idea of a general. The title, he decided, must be an honorary one; or else this was not the man he was waiting for after ail. But the latter notion was swiftly dispelled. Ho had risen doubtfully, and the man strode swiftly toward him with a short, pert gait that reminded Shane irresistibly of a cheeky sparrow. "Mr. Shane, is it?" he said, and his sharp, merry eyes played over Shane's face questioningly. "General Mitchell?" "General Alan Carmichael Mitchell, if you must have it all," grinned the red haired man. "But just call me Mitchell. It's friendlier." Ho dipped a liand in his pocket, and once and for all dispelled any doubts as to his identity. "Have a peppermint," he said. "They're good for the throat."

Shane gazed almost aghast at tho paper bag that was hold out to him. It contained about a quarter of striped sweets, some of them stuck hard together. There was something dramatic, something almost awe inspiring, about tho way in which these innocent striped balls kept bobbing up to catch his attention. Halford had gone white at the sight of them. He felt tlioy were beginning to affect him, too. "No thanks," he managed to say. He felt rather dazed. Then he pulled himself together with a jerk as lie became aware that the blue eves were regarding him with something more than merriment in their depths. He also became more aware of their sharpness. On close scrutiny the red haired little man was not so young as Shane had at first thought. There were lines on his forehead and at the of his mouth that belied his perky appearance of youth. The man was in the fifties. And with this discovery Shane decided that he was no fool cither.

There was an unsleeping watchfulness behind his careless, hail fellow well met manner. Ho might be a dangerous adversary. The man suddenly realised that Shane was studying him. He relaxed, and laughed shortly. "No? Well, you'll excuse me if I have one myself?"

He dipped into the bag with a stubby forefinger nnd dug out a striped ball which he slipped into his mouth and rolled into his cheek. "They're my favourite sweet," he said between sucks. "I don't smoke and I don't drink, and its appallingly bad for a man to have no vices at all." His blue eyes beamed at Shane, and he grinned as widely as the sweet in his mouth would let him. "You're thinking I'm not exactly your idea of a general, what?" This was so exactly whnt Shane was thinking that ho blinked in confusion. His companion laughed again—a sound of sheer merriment. "Never mind," he said, "it takes all sorts to make a world. If it comes to that, you're not my idea of an artist." , "Now how on earth," said Shane blankly, "did you know that?" General Mitchell chuckled richly. He produced a scrap of paper—the back of an old envelope—from his pocket. Shane recognised one of his sketches. He had traced it idly while in the train.

"I found it in your case," said the general. "I knew it was no amateur's work. You're a Slade man?" Shane admitted it. "'You can always tell the touch of the professional. I've a young nephew at the Slade myself. 1 think it's a crying shame —these places knock all the original fire out of a man. Not," added the general hastily, "that that isn't a nice little bit of work to knock off in an idle moment. "But we're getting of the rails," he went on. "It's my Irish tongue that's forever running away with me. 1 see you've got my case with you?" Shane handed it over with apologies.

"Nonsense!" said the other vigorously. "mistake that might happen to anybody. It was very decent of you to come all the way into town to return it. I was in no hurry for it, and I'd have sent yours on to you with a note if you hadn't turned up so soon.'' His blue eyes probed Shane. "They tell me here'that you're staying at a place on the coast. D'you know the island at all?" . . Shane explained that this was his first visit. It suddenly occured to him that it was the general who was doing all the questioning, and he the answering. He resolved to exchange the roles. "Are you on holiday yourself?" he inquired politely. "Combining business with pleasure, as you might say," Mitchell replied. "I'm not a stranger to the place. I visited it once or twice during the war, and I've been here since." Ho was studying Shane's face curiously. "We're well met," he said with an easy grin. "They tell me I'm the perfect Irish redhead, and you must be the perfect Nordic type. Fair hair, blue eyes—" He gestured. "I wonder did our ancestors come from some common place of origin? It's a fascinating study, the study of races. You don't have any German or it might be Bavarian connections, Mr. Shane?" "Not that I know of," Shane answered lightly. More than ever he felt that this rambling conversation was not so haphazard as it appeared. The man was after something. But what he was getting at Shane was blessed if he could discover. ''Ah, well!" said Mitchell, and dismissed the question with a shrug. He took a short step and stopped. "D'you know the Gaelic at all, Mr. Shane?" His head was cocked slightly on one side, with an eyebrow raised, and his hands were clasped behind bis back. Shane was reminded again of a perk}' sparrow. "A little," he replied cautiously. "Enough to ask my way, and the time, and say its a fine day—that sort of thing." . . "It's a fine tongue," said Mitchell. To Shanes astonishment he began to recite what appeared to be a primitive poem in a sort of blank verse with hery eloquence. Shane caught fragmentary familiar words and pnrases. There was something about birds and death. "it's a sort of poem that a local seer wrote a long time ago," said Mitchell in answer to his wordless query. "It contains all his prophecies, and it's very long, and I'm afraid I've forgotten most of it. But that bit was one of his minor forecasts. It doesn't seem to make much sense." He shook his head as if this distressed him, and began to translate slowly in English. "They will come from over the sea, the pursuer and the pursued, to the stony place, and there will bo death in the House of the Birds." Shane's heart took a mighty leap. Carnach was Gaelic for the stony place. Desperately he pulled himself together, aware that Mitchell's blue eyes were boring quizzically into him. "Look here!" he burst out. "That's —1 mean it's an odd sort of prophecy, isn't it?" He was fencing to gain time. "J seo you're sensitive to poetry, Mr. Shane," said Mitchell. His good humour had surged back. His blue eyes were twinkling again, and his round face was wrinkled in a grin. "It's just an old wife's tale, but there's a fascination in the rhythm of the words." He dug a hand briskly into his pocket. "Have a peppermint." Shane shook his head. How much should he tell? Did he have anything to tell? He did not know. The green clad little man with his twinkling eyes and Irish garrulity had suddenly become a queerly sinister figure. Shane pulled out his watch. "I'm afraid I'll have to be going," he said. "If you'll lot mo have my case, I think-" "What's your hurry?" cried Mitchell. "I was hoping you'd have lunch with me. It's just on the hour." "I've an appointment" said Shane. At any moment Martha Pelmann might return to the hotel. Ho was not sure that lie wanted the little man to meet her. The prophecy about the House of the Birds was still rinsing in his ears. *' A lady, eh?'" said Mitchell, and winked broadly. "Would it be the pretty little iass that was in the big car with you? T happened to see you drive up." he added shamelessly. "The car caught my eye. and the driver too, I wouldn't have said he was a beauty, myself. A foreigner, I'll wager?"

This was worse and worse. Shane did not know whether to damn his eyes for his impertinence, or to ask him straight out what his game was; or to turn the other cheek and gee out as quickly as possible. Martha Plemann solved the problem for him. Her fair head came round tho door, and she walked into the room. She halted when she saw that Shane was not alone. "Oh!" she said with tho familiar soft exclamation. "I am sorry. I thought you would have finished your—" Shane blundered into speech. "This is tho gentleman whose case I took in mistake for my own—Miss Polmann, General Mitchell. Did you finish your errand ?" "I am finished, and I am starving," she announced smilingly. "You promised—" (To be continued daily.).