THE EXILE.

Otago Witness, Issue 3994, 30 September 1930, Page 76

THE EXILE.

By

Hough Wood.

(Copyright.—Fob the Otago Witness.) Two hours had gone by since Robertshaw’s car, with a sudden but also sullen heave, and to the accompaniment of ominous sounds from under the bonnet, had locked itself fast by the roadside. Those sounds told him much; there could be no tinkering with the trouble on the wayside, so freewheeling the machine down the slope to a wide part •of the grass verge, he set himself to wait for help. It was a lonely stretch of road he was on, and it was late on a mid-week night. At a guess the nearest garage was eight or nine miles away, and he had no idea how near the nearest farmhouse was. He dared not leave the car; things of value were on board it;, he could only wait, ever and again pacing the road to give vent to growing impatience and to keep himself warm. Before two hours had slowly dragged on he was aware that a moonlight night was an over-rated thing. At first, too. he had liked the way the night mists had gathered in the fields, billowing a knee’s depth across the grass, so that ever and again the ’ hedges and the shrubs stood up as black islands in a white, tumbled, but eerily quiet sea, and the grazing cattle were all body, heads and legs being submerged in the fleecy blanket of the mist. Save for the owls—how he came to detest that weird hooting overhead —the far-off barking of a dog, and the heavy breathing of the cattle as they strayed near the hedge side, there was silence. He listened for any reverberations on the air, that might tell of the coming of a motor vehicle, but none smote his ear. There was a queer, deep silence. He could not have-thought it could be so quiet, even though this was a cross-country by-road. Also it was becoming clammily cold as the mist thickened, and he was aware, too, that the contents of his pouch were getting low. In less than two hours it would be midnight, and as he realised this he began seriously to wonder if any help would come. He was climbing back into the car once more to seek warmth in a rug and try another pipe when he noticed that the uppermost boughs of a tall elm were more distinct; in a matter of seconds he noticed, too, that the light was rapidly stealing down the tree. He was back in the road at once. From over the crest of the rise an up-shooting beam of light was to be seen. The great shaft was lowering; a second later the oncoming car had topped the rise and was sweeping smoothly and quietly down. He was in the middle of the road now, waving his handkerchief. The car slid down upon him, stopped, and a figure descended. ° “You’re flagging me?” queried a deep voice. In the glare of the headlights Robertshaw could see but indistinctly. “Is there anything wrong ? ” “A good deal, I’m afraid,” he answered. “ I’m stuck up.” “ Short of petrol, or is it something worse? ” A big figure of a man moved into the light. . Robertshaw was curiously aware of a number of little things—the lightness of the man’s movements, something that was at once familiar and yet strange about the man. It was a figure, and it was a voice that inspired confidence. Scarcely aware of it, Robertshaw felt hugely relieved. “Mechanical trouble. Big end gone, or something like that, I fancy,” he replied briefly. He had a feeling that short answers and to the point would best please this man. “ Um, that’s bad. Been here • long ? ” “ I should say at least a couple of hours.” "Rotten luck! ’’ breezily. “Well, I’d better tow .you in somewhere. Got a rope?”

Robertshaw, his irritation and impatience vanished, almost laughed. The idea that the makers of his £l5OO car included a towing rope in the equipment tickled him. A -wild thought of suggesting it to them in order to see what they would . say flashed . through ” his mind, and with it came the realisation that he was reacting to his recent irrita-i tion and the strain of his long, wait for help. He' quickly pulled himself to-; gether. ' ’, t u 1 : “Sorry, I’ve no rope.” • ; “ Neither have I. Well, let’s see what can be done.” The newcomer moved over to the hedge and groped about it. Presently he cried: “ There’s a good stretch of wire here, and it isn’t the barbed kind. I’ll cut a length off.” ■ And returning to the car he fumbled ; about for a moment or two, then made for the hedge again, and shortly returned, trailing a length of wire. “ We’ll' make this serve,” he said. “Good strong loops, if only we can twist it tight enough.” : ‘ > J

“ What will the farmer say ? ” The other laughed. “ I really don’t know, but we can see him, or you can, later. Where I come from we don’t stick at trifles like that when we’re held up. Dog car or motor car, we just splice up with anything we can get hold of. Its the recognised practice, and no one objects.” Where he came from, Robertshaw puzzled his brains. He had an idea he knew where that was, but he failed to place it. He had sense enough, too, to help his rescuer instead of worrying over the matter, and presently the other car was manoeuvred into position and the two were linked up. “ Now we’re ready. Let’s be moving. I’ve quarters to find for the night, yet. By the way, have you ever been towed in before? No. Well it’s a bit ticklish steering a towed car. I’d better do it. You get into mine. My daughter will take the wheel. Nan! ”

The car door opened and a slim-coated figure stepped out on to the road. “You’d better take on, lassie. We’re towing this gentleman. I’ll take his car. Will you ” —he turned to Robertshaw—“direct her. My daughter doesn’t know this road. And I say, Nan, about three miles on there’s a bad S bend and a drop beyond. Remember the tow when you get there and go easy. This wire isn’t as flexible as a rope.” The suddenness and the extraordinary unexpectedness of it all—it was like a dream to Robertshaw. That vaguely familiar form of the man, that vaguely familiar voice, were now placed. Instantly familiar was that slim figure whom now he sat beside at the steering wheel; that face, the profile of which he could just see in the dim, diffused light of the lamp on the dashboard. He settled back in huge content, certain ideas working in his mind, and, with an innate sense of delicacy, speaking only to direct the girl. But presently she began to talk, freely and in friendly fashion, with no sense of embarrassment or fear of conventions.

“I heard you talking to father,” she said. “You have been stuck up two hours. What wretched luck.”

He laughed. “So I thought.” “ What did you do ? How did you pass the time? Such a dark and lonely road.”

He laughed again, for impressions come back vividly. “ I watched the moonlight streaming through the trees and lighting up the white mist rolling about the fields. At first it was pretty, but now' I don’t want another moonlight night again. I listened to the owls. Rather interesting at first; now I’d like to shoot every blessed owl in the country.” It was her turn to laugh, and her laugh was musical. “ What a wretched time.”

“ Then,” he went on, “ I got back into the car and day-dreamed. I thought of Sydney Harbour and the Heads, and of a motor launch, and picnic parties. It was all very pleasant, Nan.” “ Oh! ” She leaned forward and spun round the cover of the light until the interior of the car was illuminated. “ You! Arthur Robertshaw ? ” “ The same. And for a hundred and one reasons I’m glad to meet you again.” “ Oh,” a little embarrassed, then, “ Isn’t it extraordinary ” in a voice that shook just a little. Perhaps more than her voice shook, for there was a quick warning toot from the car behind. Nan bent to her task, concentrating on her driving. “How far have we to go ” she asked, and there was a suggestion in the question had put other matters far behind. She was brisk, businesslike, efficient. He peered through the window. ■ “ I’ve got my bearings,” he said. “ That was the little w'ooden church of Stanhope. We’ve four miles to go yet. Go ahead, I won’t trouble you. There will be plenty of time later.”

What he meant she did not realise until presently he directed her through a pair of gates, along a drive, and brought her to a stand opposite the door of a large house. ; 'At their coming the door flew open and a middle-aged lady appeared. , . “Is that you, Arthur ? ” she cried, advancing towards the cars. “I was beginning to get, anxious.”

. ; Robertshaw slipped out of the can and helped Nan to alight. .sii >•,.{. .< ! “I’m alFfight, mbiher',” lfe ! criefl. “I had a breakdown, and these two friends towed me in. We must put them up for the night, and meanwhile Im sure some’food will be welcome.

Mrs Robertshaw took the girl by the arm and drew her towards the door, r

“ This is a pleasure, but—Arthurl might I know our guests ? ■” ? ■

.He uttered an exclamation, half of amusement, half of. dismay. I’m sorry, mother. This is Miss Snowden, of : Sydney, and her father. I '’-met them, you know when I was over there wool ;:

The elder lady turned to the other. “ I know you well, by name. It is a double pleasure.” And by the time the two had descended the stairs again after the girl had been taken to her room, Arthur and Mr Snowden were standing in the hall, and the ■ face of the elder man betrayed unusual emotion. His hostess advanced to greet him.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Snowden. It was good of you to be so kind to my boy. I would like—Walter ! You ? ”

There was a pink flush on her cheeks, some embarrassment of manner. On his part he was dusky red, 'and seemed to have some obstruction in his throat. “ Martha,” he cried, and seized her hand, patting it again and again. " Martha, after all these years, and looking wellnigh as young as ever. To think we should meet like this.” He glanced round the hall. “Like this, here,” he added, huskily. It was a woman’s tact that saved the situation, though to be sure none but Nan saw that her lips trembled, and that behind the finished manner of the hostess, and the smoothness of it all, there was ■ deep agitation. “ Arthur, show Mr Snowden to his room, and when he is ready we will have some refreshment.” Snowden hesitated. “I didn’t think of staying here,” he said, and there was an undercurrent of protest in his tones. “We’re putting you to trouble. Nan and I can well go to an hotel.” “ You will stay here,” was the hostess’s firm reply. “ Here.” Why, wondered Nan, that curious emphasis; why the visible agitation of the two. Not for many years, not since those long years ago when her mother died, had she seen her father so moved. What, further, was the meaning of that look she caught in Mrs Robertshaw’s eyes ? It was when their eyes met that the elder woman answered the unconscious question in those of the girl with a smile.

“So you are Walter Snowden’s daughter ? To think of it.” Light flashed across Nan’s mind. “ Yet,” she said. “ Were you—do you mind if I ask—were you Martha Oldfield before your marriage ? ” “ I was.”

“I know all about it.” With a quick movement the girl moved towards the other. “Father has talked to me about it many a time.” She was snatched to the other’s .'arms in a second, and their lips met. “Oh. Nan, Nan,” the elder murmured. “ And to think that you might have been my daughter.” The steps of the men were heard descending the stairs. Although there was obvious restraint, shared by three, and equally obvious and gallant attempts to shake off the restraint, it was a merry party that gathered at the supper table. Arthur, the only one unconscious of those things under the surface, tried to amuse them with descriptions of his hold-up, ’ and found humour in the suggestion, once again, that the makers of the Majestic car. should include a tow rope in the equipment. And gallantly his efforts were backed up, for, as Nan saw, the two elder folk fought shy of raking up what old memories were their possession. She divined, too, that whatever confidences her father had shared with her, those on Mrs Robertshaw’s side had not been shared with Arthur. It occurred to her that she, too, in like situation, would have kept, what obviously were precious things, to herself. But it was not until next day that she learned of things of which she had not been made a confidant. Revelations came at breakfast. And it was Arthur whose touch unsealed the closed book. “Do you know,” he said, “I could have sworn that someone -was about the house in the night. I expect I got a bit overstrung by that hold-up.” He laughed at the confession. “ I thought my nerves were in better trim than that.”

It was Snowden who replied. Up to this point he had been silent and rather restrained in manner. “There was someone,” he said, with a touch of defiant bluntness. “ I well perhaps I couldn’t sleep—l wandered round the house a bit.”

“Oh,” Arthur’s reply was just the slightest restrained, polite, but with a suggestion of astonishment, even of displeasure. Guests are not expected to wander about at will, even if they are newly-found, old-time friends.

It was Mrs Robertshaw who sensed what was coming. “Walter,” she said, and laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t. It’s all over and done with, long ago, Don’t rake up old

' “I say ! ” cried Arthur, in genuine astonishment.' “I'say!” - i

Snowden was blunt and decisive. Hp gently ; put away Mrs hand. . ’ i

“It’s got to be said, and I’m going to say it. Nan ought to know all, and so ought Arthur. Why, he might have been my son.” Arthur reddened and choked. “ I don’t know what you are talking about,” and could have kicked himself for his bluntness as he caught Nan's gaze upon him.

“I’m telling you, and you, Nan,” turning to the girl. “I’m'warm flesh and blood, and a man with some feeling, and it’s given me a turn, I must admit, to find myself a guest in the house in which I was born, and out of which I was turned.”

“ Walter ! ” pleadingly, from Mrs Robertshaw.

“It’s got to be said, Martha, so don’t interrupt. Yes, I was turned out. It gave me a shock last night when I entered it. I ought to have recognised it as we came in through the gates, but I was thinking of something else. Yes, I was born here, and. my father, and my grandfather. My father died young, and I came straight back here from college, not over ready for business, and perhaps a bit wild. But I was never vicious, Martha, I did nothing to be ashamed of.”

Mrs Robertshaw inclined her head. “No one who knew you ever thought so,” she said.

“That’s nice of you. But my old grandfather, a stiff-backed man, hard and unrelenting, thought I was worse than I was. We had a tremendous row one day, in this very room, and at breakfast. I had been asked to play for the county, and he wouldn’t have it. Cricket against business ! I must be going mad. Then I lost my temper and said things. In ten minutes I was outside, dismissed, thrust out of the house and the firm. Sent off to Australia, a remittance man. My dunnage to follow.”

He stopped, his voice choking. Fists clenched as they lay upon the table.

“Arthur!” He was almost fierce as he turned to the young man. “ I was beginning to like your mother then, and I had determined to put other things aside and put my back into the business so as to win her regard. Then this happened. I was kicked out, a scandal to the neighbourhood. It was a smaller place then, and everybody knew of everybody else’s doings. I got figuratively tarred and feathered.” “ Walter!” “ Dad!”

Two voices, young and fresh, musical and matured, mingled in tones that conveyed sorrow and warm regard. “ Aye,” he went on, unheeding. “ I was exiled. Me an exile, who was to have inherited all that big business. Your grandfather bought it,” again he turned to Arthur, “ when mine died, and your father succeeded as you have succeeded him. He was a fine chap, and I liked him. I begrudged him one thing onlv. As I told you, you might have been my son.”

“ I should have been proud, sir,” said Arthur, moved in spite of himself. “ But all the same, although I knew so little of dad, as I was young when he died, 1 know he was a fine fellow.”

The glances of two women thanked him, each from a different standpoint. “ Aye, an exile. I hadn’t to come back to England, and the money was to come regularly. When the first cheque came I sent it back, and told him—l told him ”

He stopped abruptly. “ Say it, dad,” said Nan encouragingly, laying a hand on his arm. She saw how moved her father was, and knew speech would ease him. Indeed, she was touched at once by his story and by the emotion he was suffering. “ Mrs Robertshaw’ will not mind, and I’m sure Arthur won’t.”

“ Not in the least,” murmured Arthur. His face was red and his eyes were alight. She had called him Arthur. Snowden laughed. He had recovered himself, at least temporarily. “Oh, well, I told him I wouldn’t have it. I was bitter, but I think I had reason. When the second cheque came I was more emphatic, and when the old man died I was glad to hear that he’d left everything to the hospitals and so forth. I made my way. I owned one of the biggest stations in Australia, but before that happened I’d a lot of ups and downs.” He turned to Martha. “ A good woman shared most of them with me, and I’m glad to say she had a good share of good things before she left me. And I’ve something to remember her by.” He nodded towards Nan. “ There now, lassie,” he turned and patted her hand. “ There’s nothing to cry about. We had a happy married life, and I’m glad of that. It’s something to remember. Martha,” sternly, “ put that handkerchief away.” For it appeared that Martha had been caught wiping her eyes, and not at all furtively. “ I should have come here sooner or later,” went on Snowden, “on a matter of business. I sold out in Australia, determined to let my girl know something of England and the old home, the place where her father and his people came from. I’d some idea, too, of buying the old home back. Is it,” again he turned to Arthur, “ is it by any chance for sale ? ” -

Arthur looked across at his mother, slightly embarrassed.

“Really, sir, I can’t say. You see, it’s mother’s.”

Snowden turned towards Martha. “I daresay, Walter,” she said. There was a light in her eyes. “I’ve some times thought that I might like to get out of it.”

_ Walter gazed at her for a time in silence. Under it her colour came and went. Nan was alert, as if on thin-spun wire. What was going to happen? Her breath came and went quickly. -“ Well,” said Walter at length, “it’s a business proposition we might discuss. I should want the house, furniture, everything.” . J

“ Oh, but,” demurring, “ I should want the furniture, I’m afraid.”

‘ Well, I’m not seeking to part you from it.”

“Arthur,” cried Nan, “I want to speak to you now,” and she was through’ the door in a flash.

It was some time before Arthur, blundering wonderingly after her, could be' made to understand. When it dawned' upon him he laughed in glee. Good old dad! ”he cried. “ I say, he has a way with him, hasn’t he?” Then another thought occurred to him. I say, Nan, we’ll have a double’ wedding.” “We shall not,” decisively. His face fell. “ I say. Perhaps I was abrupt, but don’t you see I ” ’ I see well enough,” was the answer, and I see more. Really, Arthur, you' are too dense for words. I wouldn’t butt’ into their romance for worlds.” But, still at a loss for her meaning, “I don’t see ” •

just what I’m complaining about. I tell you, I won’t butt in in’’ that way. The dear things! After all these years, to march up the aisle with us! No, thank you!” She gave him a glance that set his. blood leaping: “Two separate marriages,’ perhaps,” she said. •