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THE RUNAWAYS
All rights reserved
THE RUNAWAYS
A New and Original Story
by
NAT GOULD
[Illustration]
G. Heath Robinson
and J. Birch, Limited
London:
Printed by William Clowes and Sons, Limited.
Duke Street, Stamford Street, S.E. and Great Windmill Street, W.
NAT GOULD: AN APPRECIATION.
[Illustration]
Nat Gould's novels of the Turf are read and enjoyed by multitudes of men
and women all over the world. That in itself is a guarantee of literary
merit. Had he been a stylist, the sale of his hundred odd books would
never have run into a score of millions. He wrote to please and not to
puzzle, to give pleasure and not to educate, and his reward came in the
gratitude of a host of admirers of clean, healthy fiction.
His main theme was the King of Sports and the Sport of Kings. Nat Gould
dearly loved a horse, and so does the great British public, including
those who have no liking for racing. It is a characteristic as national
as our admiration of ships, sailors and the sea. The theme fascinated
him, and, combined with a gift for writing, was one of the secrets of
his success. Another reason for his almost boundless popularity is to be
found in the "atmosphere" of his stories, which is created without
elaborate literary setting. The machinery of it is hidden by reason of
its very artlessness. The romance is told in a plain, straightforward
way that carries intense conviction, and though the plots are neither
subtle nor involved, they are unfolded in so vigorous and lifelike a
manner that few people who pick up one of Nat Gould's novels are able to
put it down before having finished the last chapter. Few modern writers
can boast that they are read and understood at a single sitting.
His novels ring true. They are clean, manly and sincere. There is
nothing vicious about them. As _The Times_ truly said of Nat Gould in
its obituary notice of him, "He must have written some millions of
words, but few of them were wasted, if a rattling good story makes a
reader happier and more contented for having read it."
Such praise is praise indeed, for literature that is involved and
appeals to a select few obviously cannot have the influence of
literature that embraces so large a section of the population. To have
added to the enjoyment of so vast a number of young and old, rich and
poor, were a monument worthy of any man.
Nathaniel Gould was born in Manchester in 1857, and died in 1919. His
wide experience as a journalist in England and Australia doubtless
explained his methods of rapid workmanship, while his travels in the
Antipodes and elsewhere afforded him that "local colour" which is not
the least pleasing characteristic of his novels. He not only wrote of
outdoor life, but enjoyed it, for racing, driving and gardening were his
hobbies.
E. LATON BLACKLANDS.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--AS THE SNOW FALLS 11
II.--THE RUNAWAYS 23
III.--RANDOM 35
IV.--IRENE'S PAINTING 45
V.--HONEYSUCKLE'S FOAL 57
VI.--A WILY YOUNG MAN 70
VII.--SELLING HIS HERITAGE 83
VIII.--WARREN'S RETURN 96
IX.--HOW ULICK BOUGHT THE SAINT 108
X.--"THE CURIOSITY" 120
XI.--FOR A WOMAN'S SAKE 133
XII.--TWO SCHEMERS 146
XIII.--THE SQUIRE AND THE SAINT 158
XIV.--A DISCOVERY IMMINENT 170
XV.--THE RESULT OF THE DISCOVERY 182
XVI.--A RACE TO BE REMEMBERED 194
XVII.--THE SQUIRE OVERHEARS 206
XVIII.--"TALLY-HO!" 219
XIX.--A FATAL LEAP 230
XX.--PERFECT HARMONY 242
THE RUNAWAYS
CHAPTER I.
AS THE SNOW FALLS.
Redmond Maynard stood at the dining-room window gazing at the deep-dyed
reflection upon the snow of the blood-red setting sun. The leafless
trees, with their gnarled trunks and gaunt, twisted branches, spreading
fiercely in imprecation at the hardness of their lot, resembled giant
monsters from an unknown world. These diseased protruding growths put on
all manner of fantastic shapes, as his eyes dwelt first upon one, then
upon another. It was the shortening winter's day drawing near a close,
and a spirit of melancholy brooded over the landscape. On such an
evening as this, the thoughts of thinking men are apt to draw
comparisons which bring vividly before them the uncertainty of life, and
the prospects of that something after death which has never been
understood, never will be, until each one solves the problem by going
out into the eternal night.
It seemed to Redmond Maynard that he was peering into a mystery he had
no hope of solving. He was not a godless man, neither was he a man whose
life had been altogether well spent. His mistakes had been many; he
acknowledged this, and thereby robbed his detractors of selfish
victories. Slowly the sun sank, and as it dipped lower and lower into
obscurity the red shadows on the snow grew fainter, the harshness
melted, and a gentle warmth seemed to mingle with the biting cold. The
glow remained some time after the sun had disappeared, and Redmond
Maynard stood in the same position watching it.
Then, almost without warning--
"Out of the bosom of the air,
Out of the cloud folds of her garment shaken--
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest fields forsaken,
Silent and soft and slow,
Descended the snow."
It came fluttering down from the "bosom of the air," to nestle in the
bosom of the earth, to mingle with the white mantle lying there, to lie
pure and undefiled until an angry thaw turned all its beauty into
dulness and decay. How gently the flakes fell, and Redmond Maynard
watched them with the warm glow from the fire shedding flickering light
behind and around him.
"Shall I draw the curtain, sir?"
"No."
The man silently left the room, sighing as he did so, thinking to
himself, "It's two years come to-night since Mr. Ulick left home. I
wonder will he come back. The Squire's thinking of it now. God help 'em
both."
"There will be no darkness to-night," muttered Redmond Maynard, as he
saw a silvery ray cross the lawn in front of the house. No darkness,
perhaps not, but in his heart there was a desolate feeling deeper than
the blackness of night. Two years ago Ulick Maynard walked out of that
very room, and had not since returned. Bitter words were spoken between
father and son. Both were proud. The accusation fell upon Ulick like a
thunderbolt; for the moment he was stunned. Then, with his frozen blood
bursting into a fiery torrent, he hurled back the insult his father had
put upon him. He stayed not to think what causes led Redmond Maynard to
make the charge. In his mind no evidence, however conclusively
circumstantial, ought to have been considered sufficient to make his
father speak such words.
The elder man recoiled under the shock. Given an opportunity, he would
have recalled his words. But the chance was not allowed.
"Believing, as you must, or you would not have accused me, that I am
guilty of this infamy, I will no longer inflict my presence upon you,
sir. Good-night."
No more, no less; those were the very words, and Ulick Maynard left the
room. That was two years ago, and nothing had been heard of him since.
"Ulick!" called his father, as the door closed behind him. "Come back at
once. Ulick!"
No answer was returned, and the still angry man thought, "He'll get over
it by morning. Gad, what a devil of a temper he has. He's the culprit,
safe enough, although Eli will not hear of it."
Ulick Maynard did not "get over it by morning." He disappeared, and his
father had never been the same man since. Without drawing the curtains,
Redmond Maynard left the window, and, walking to the fireplace, stood
with his back to the blaze.
Stretched on the hearthrug was a strong, powerful, shaggy wolf-hound.
Bersak raised his long, lean head, and looked at his master, but
observing no sign that his services were required, stretched himself out
again at full length with a sigh of satisfaction. There was ample room
between the dog and the hearth for his master to stand, and Redmond
Maynard looked down upon him from a height of nearly six feet.
"His dog," he muttered. "Bersak, where's Ulick?"
The hound sprang to his feet and stood alert, every nerve strained, head
erect, listening for footsteps he had not heard for two years, but which
he would have recognised even amidst the deadening snow. Man and dog
looked at each other. That question had been asked before.
"Bersak, where's Ulick?"
Rather shaky the tones this time, and something in them affected the
hound, for he lifted up his head and whined; the sound would have
developed into a howl, but Redmond Maynard placed his hand on his head
and said--
"Don't howl, Bersak, I could not stand it. Lie down. Good dog, lie
down."
Obedient to the word of command, Bersak lowered himself--no other word
adequately expresses the dog's movement,--to the hearthrug, and with his
fore-paws stretched out watched the Squire's face.
How much would Redmond Maynard have given to see the door open and his
son Ulick walk in. All he possessed--aye, more, many years of his life.
He knew how Bersak would have leapt [to] his feet with a mighty bark of
welcome, and a spring forward until his strong paws reached Ulick's
shoulders.
He fixed his eyes on the door, and as he did so it opened. But it was
not Ulick entering, although the newcomer brought a faint smile on his
face.
"Irene!" he exclaimed, as the vision in furs came across the fire-lit
room; "this is good of you. However did you get here; is it still
snowing?"
"No, Squire, it is not snowing, although there is plenty of snow; and as
to how I came here, well--look at my boots," and she held up her dress
and disclosed a pair of strong "lace-ups," fitting perfectly her
well-shaped feet.
"So you walked all the way from the Manor, and with the express object
of cheering a lonely old man on a depressing winter's evening. I call
that good of you, positively charitable, but Irene Courtly's name is
ever associated with good works," said the Squire.
"I am afraid the good work on this occasion is closely allied with
selfishness," she replied, smiling. "Being alone, I appreciate the
feelings of others similarly situated, and that is how I came to think
of you."
"Alone!" he exclaimed. "Where is Warren?"
"Gone to London. Important business. No hunting, you see, Squire," she
said, with a laugh he thought had not a very true ring about it.
Redmond Maynard gave an impatient gesture, and Bersak pushed his head
against her hand in doggish sympathy. Irene Courtly noticed the
movement, and said--
"He really had to go; he assured me it was absolutely necessary," she
said.
Warren Courtly had also added. "I'll be back in a few days, Irene. Run
over and see the Squire, you will be company for each other."
"You cannot humbug me, Irene," said Redmond Maynard. "He's tired of the
country because there is no sport, and I call it downright selfish of
him to go up to town and leave you behind at Anselm Manor."
"But, really, I did not wish to go, Squire."
"You mean it?"
"Yes, most decidedly."
"Then pull off those furs; let me send Bob over for your things and your
maid, and stay here until Warren returns," said the Squire.
This time the laugh was hearty enough, and she said--
"Impetuous as ever, Squire. I only wish I could."
"And what is to prevent your doing so?"
"My duty towards my neighbours," said Irene, laughing.
"Love your neighbour as yourself, and I am your nearest neighbour," he
answered.
Then, going to the window, he opened it, and, putting out his arm for a
few moments, drew it in again and showed her the snowflakes on his
coat-sleeve.
"You cannot possibly return to the Manor in such weather," he said, and
touched the bell.
"Can you drive, or ride, to Anselm Manor, Bob?" he asked.
The man shook his head doubtfully.
"I'll try, sir."
"Take the old mare and 'the tub,' and bring Mrs. Courtly's maid back.
She will know what her mistress requires."
"Yes, sir, I'll manage it," replied Bob Heather, with alacrity.
Mary Marley, Mrs. Courtly's maid, was Bob Heather's favourite, and he
had an idea she preferred him to any of her admirers.
"The maid did it," said the Squire, with a smile. "I doubt if he would
have undertaken the journey for the luggage alone."
Irene laughed, and then, in a serious mood, said, as she stroked
Bersak's head, "Do you think it right for me to remain here. You are my
oldest friend, and my guardian until I married Warren. Ought I to stay?"
"Of course, of course," he replied impatiently. "It is snowing fast
again. Warren would not expect you to go home on such a night."
She settled down to spend a quiet evening with him. She knew what this
night meant to him, what it might have meant to her had all gone well
with Ulick.
Watching him as he sat with the firelight on his face, she noticed how
he had aged during the past year. No, not aged exactly, for he was still
a firm, strong, active man; but there was something in his noble, if
severe, face that told of a great struggle racking him within.
She knew the largeness of his heart, and his notions of honour, which
many modern hypocrites laughed at, because their little minds could not
grasp his greatness. She remembered how he guarded her [as] his own
child when her father, Colonel Carstone, died and left her as a legacy
to his old friend. He brought her as a girl of sixteen to Hazelwell, and
said--
"Irene, this is your home. Your father gave you to me, and it is a
sacred gift. You will get on with Ulick, he is a good lad, and you have
known each other for some years. Hazelwell will be the brighter for your
presence."
She revered Redmond Maynard above all men, and whatever he did she
considered right, until--until Ulick left his home.
"He is thinking of him now," she thought. "Oh, why does he not come
home? The old scandal is dead; I have forgiven him, surely he has--he
must."
Bersak sat with his head in her lap looking into her face, his sharp,
keen eyes blinking, and occasionally he turned to look at the silent
figure in the chair. Irene did not disturb him, but to know his thoughts
she would have given much.
She saw his hands clench the chair tightly--sure sign of a strong man's
emotion.
Quietly she rose from her seat, took a footstool, placed it beside him,
and sat at his feet. She laid her head on his knee; Bersak followed her
and lay at her feet. They formed a pretty group in the firelight's glow.
The room was warm and cosy, although large; outside, the snow was still
falling, adding steadily to the frozen mass upon which it descended.
Redmond Maynard placed his hand on her head and gently stroked her hair.
She remained silent and quite still.
"It is like old times to have you here again," he said at length.
"And I am very glad to be with you. Will you play chess, shall I read to
you, or will you talk?" she said.
"Being a woman, Irene, I will talk to you."
"Am I such a chatterbox?" she answered, laughing.
"Not that, anything but that. You speak when you have something to say;
you are not an aimless chatterer."
"Warren says my tongue is never still."
"Warren is an ass," he snapped.
"Oh, dear no, not at all. He is by no means stupid."
"I retract; I ought not to have made use of the expression."
"I will keep it to myself in strict confidence," she replied, with a
smile.
The door opened, and a maid said--
"Shall I light the lamps, sir?"
"Please."
The room was soon aglow with a soft, delicate light, and as the maid
went out she said to herself--
"Well, I never. The ways of these gentry are past me. Fancy her sitting
like that, and going to stop here all night. It's not respectable."
She was a new maid, with a narrow mind and a relaxable conscience, which
could be stretched to any required length to suit her own purposes.
The maid, the luggage, and Bob Heather duly arrived. Bob had taken good
care Mary Marley should not be cold during the drive.
"Are you tired, Irene?"
"No. I will sit up until you are ready to go."
"An hour longer, and then I shall pack you off," he said.
"And you?"
"I shall be up all night."
"All night?" she exclaimed, in surprise, "Why?"
"Because it is the night, two years ago, that Ulick left home. I sat up
all night on this date last year. I know it will be on a night such as
this he will come back."
"To-night, not to-night? Will he come home to-night?" she asked,
eagerly.
"How can I tell, child? If he does not I must wait another year," he
said, sadly.
"You have forgiven him?"
"Yes; but not his sin," he said.
"Are you sure, quite sure, it is his sin?" she asked.
"Unfortunately, there is no doubt about it."
"But Eli Todd----" she commenced.
"Is wrong," he answered. "He is blinded by his faith in Ulick. Eli would
sacrifice even more than he has done for him, and God knows how he has
suffered."
"I wish we had Eli's faith," she replied.