RANDOM.
Squire Maynard remained in the dining-room throughout the night. Towards
morning he fell asleep in his arm-chair, Bersak watching on the rug at
his feet. It would have gone ill with the man who attempted to touch the
Squire with Bersak on guard. More than one poacher had felt the hound's
teeth in his calf, and howled for mercy, and been forgiven on account of
the punishment received.
Bersak once saved Ulick's life, or if not his life, at any rate rescued
him from being maimed.
A three-year-old bull attacked him, and there was no chance of escape.
The furious beast had Ulick at his feet, and was bellowing over him, as
a preliminary to goring him, when Bersak came to the rescue. The
wolf-hound tore across the field in a direct line for the bull, who,
seeing him, raised his head and bellowed forth defiance. On came Bersak,
and flew straight at the bull's throat. He tore him terribly, but the
animal could not rid himself of his fierce enemy. Never had bull such a
mauling, and when Ulick came to himself he saw the dog still dragging
his enemy down. It was a long struggle, but Bersak won, and the bull was
shot to end his misery.
Bersak's fame spread far and wide, and he had the honour of having
several attempts made upon his life by the bad characters in the
district.
So, while his master slept, Bersak kept watch; and when the door was
opened by Bob Heather in the morning a faint growl warned the intruder
that his master still slept. He closed the door and went quietly away,
thinking it was a blessing the Squire had not kept awake all night.
A faint light stole into the room as Redmond Maynard awoke, and at first
he looked round, hardly realising where he was. Then, as he thought over
the events of the previous day, he said to himself, "Not this year. I
must be patient; perhaps it will be in the next." Then he drew aside the
curtains and looked again upon the wintry scene. A good deal of snow had
fallen during the night, and the wind drifted it against the hedges and
the trunks of the huge oak trees. There was no sign of life until a hare
ran across the lawn into the garden, where there was a plentiful supply
of winter vegetables. Presently stealing along with his tail out, head
down, and glancing from side to side with a cunning look, came a fox.
He, too, crossed the lawn in the track of the hare, and the Squire
smiled as he watched him.
"You are having a rest, my friend," he said; "but I think you would
prefer the hounds at your heels, and an open country before you, in
preference to all the snow. No hunting for weeks, that is what it looks
like. Deuce take Warren, I wonder why he always goes to town when there
is an excuse handy. Was I right in advising Irene to marry him. I think
so, I hope so; but yet I doubt. He is good-looking, has money, a fine
estate adjoining mine, bears a good character, as young men go, and yet
there is something wanting about him. He must love Irene, no one could
help it, but he has no business to leave her alone to her own devices.
She is young, has no children yet, nothing to occupy her mind; no, it is
not fair to her. In a hunting country like this the free-and-easy
intercourse at the meets sometimes leads to danger. Nothing is meant at
first, but gradually acquaintance ripens into intimacy, and one cannot
well decline to put up a fellow sportsman, even if one's husband be
absent. Irene is to be trusted, I know, but she is remarkably handsome,
and her good nature is apt to carry her too far in her efforts to
please. If only Ulick had--but there, he didn't, so what is the use of
thinking about it. Stupid fellow, not to see his way clear, and then to
disgrace our name beyond all redemption. I wonder where he is, and where
she is?" He stopped soliloquising, and went to the bath-room, from
whence, in about half-an-hour, he emerged refreshed and in a more
amiable frame of mind. In the breakfast-room he found Irene.
She came forward smiling, and kissed him.
"There, was not that nice? You do not deserve it though, for you sat up
all night."
"Who has been telling tales?" he asked.
"Bersak."
He laughed as be said, "And, pray, how is Bersak to be held
responsible?"
"He took me into the dining-room, and I followed him to your chair. He
stood looking at it so comically that I had to laugh. He said as plainly
as though he had spoken, 'That's where he sat all night, and I watched
him. No fear of anyone touching him with me on guard.'"
"Wonderful," laughed the Squire. "Irene, with Bersak as your instructor
and guide, you would quickly find out all my secrets."
"I did not know you had any."
"They are not very terrible, but I possess a few; I must be in the
fashion," he said.
"I have no secrets from Warren. I tell him everything."
"I wonder if he tells you everything," thought Redmond Maynard, and said
aloud, "That's right, my dear, never have any secrets from your
husband."
She poured out his coffee for him, and handed it herself. She tempted
him with a dainty portion of pigeon pie, and then insisted upon some
anchovy paste.
"I'll tell you what it is, Irene; I have not made such a good breakfast
for many a day. Your presence is appetising."
She was pleased to hear him talk in this strain, more like his old self.
Somehow, she did not miss Warren; she hardly gave him a thought. As for
Anselm Manor, she much preferred Hazelwell, as it was more like home.
At the Manor she often felt nervous and depressed when alone, peopling
the old place with the figures of clean-shaven monks in long brown
gowns, pacing up and down the corridors, Bible in hand or telling their
beads, and thinking of things earthly while engaged spiritually.
Anselm Manor, in the centuries gone by, had been a monastery, and it was
an ancestor of Warren Courtly who founded it. Harry the Eighth upset
many monkish arrangements, but, strange to say, he allowed Anselm to
exist. The much-married monarch never even visited the place on a monk
hunt, although it contained much valuable plate, and the eighth Henry
had a penchant for other people's property.
In Anselm Manor Irene had come across an old deed, or she fancied it a
deed. It looked dirty and musty, and smelt abominably enough to be such
a document, which, after much labour in deciphering, she found was a
gift in perpetuity from Henry the Eighth, by the Grace of God, to one
Anselm Courtly, of the monastery and all the lands belonging to it.
She thought it highly probable that the King had secured the said
Anselm's good offices, at a price, when some of his numerous matrimonial
troubles arose.
Irene thought the Manor a fine old place, but she preferred to see its
rooms filled with scarlet coats to imaginary monkish habits. It was to
get rid of morbid fancies she walked over to Hazelwell when her husband
took his departure for London. They got on well together, seldom
quarrelled, although there was very little genuine love on her side.
About six months after Ulick Maynard left Hazelwell, Warren Courtly
proposed to Irene. She declined the offer, but subsequently, acting
mainly on her guardian's advice, she accepted him, and they were married
the same year.
Redmond Maynard watched her moving about the room, and noticed how
daintily she rearranged the various ornaments and chairs.
"There," she said, "that looks much better."
"I agree with you," he replied. "You have the artistic temperament
strongly developed. By the way, have you done much painting during the
past few months?"
"Yes, I have painted several pictures, but three out of every four I
destroyed."
"They did not come up to your expectations?"
"No, and I do not care to keep inferior work. I think I have painted one
that will please you."
"What is it--the subject?"
"A new departure for me. I have painted Random; I mean to give it you if
you will accept it."
"That is good of you. I shall be delighted. Random shall have a
prominent place in my study."
Random was a bright bay horse Redmond Maynard had given Irene on her
marriage. He was a splendid hunter, either for lady or gentleman, and
before Ulick left the horse had been his favourite.
Irene had been given the pick of the Hazelwell stable, and she selected
Random because he had been Ulick's horse, and she thought, perhaps, his
father would sell him now he was gone.
Random was duly sent over to Anselm Manor, and Irene vowed she would not
part with him until Ulick came home, when she would hand him back to his
rightful owner. She had ridden the horse in many a fast burst across
country, and he carried her well. He was a safe, fearless jumper, and
Irene was a splendid rider. When she appeared at a meet on Random, Sam
Lane, the huntsman, thought, "We're in for it to-day; it will take the
best of us all our time to keep up with Mrs. Courtly on Random." His
surmise generally turned out correct, and on more than one occasion he
and Irene were the only two in at the death. Many attempts had been made
by sporting millionaires, American and otherwise, to secure Random, and
a big figure would have been given for him, but Irene laughed at their
offers, and said a shipload of gold would not buy him.
Random was sometimes the cause of dispute between Irene and her husband.
Warren Courtly was ridiculously jealous of the horse. He would have
scouted the idea that this feeling was engendered because Random had
been Ulick Maynard's favourite horse, and yet Irene knew such to be the
case. On more than one occasion he had suggested Random should be sold,
or the Squire persuaded to make an exchange for him. His excuse was that
the horse was not safe for a lady to ride, too much of a puller, and so
on. Irene remained firm, and declined to entertain any ideas suggesting
a parting with her favourite.
"You seem to care more for the horse than you do for me," he said,
angrily.
She laughed, and said he must have a very poor opinion of himself if he
thought she preferred Random.
"Mr. Maynard was kind enough to give him to me, and I mean to keep him.
Don't let us quarrel about such a trifle. You would not like it if I
asked you to give up your favourite hunter for a mere whim of mine."
"Has Warren become reconciled to Random?" asked the Squire. "I cannot
understand his antipathy to the horse. Of course, he is anxious you
should not run into danger, but Random is a very safe horse to ride--a
more perfect fencer I have seldom seen."
"Warren has his likes and dislikes, and when he makes up his mind he
seldom gives in. Random seems to have been his pet aversion ever since
you gave him to me, and I do not think even now he would be at all sorry
if he met with an accident, provided I came off scot free," laughed
Irene.
"It is ridiculous. I begin to think I urged you to marry a monument of
selfishness; I hope you will forgive me."
"You require no forgiveness. You provided me with a suitable husband and
a good home. Warren is kind to me, and I have everything my own way. He
is not a demonstrative man, but I feel sure he loves me, and he is not
responsible for his restless disposition--that is inherited."
"And do you love him, Irene?" he asked.
She momentarily hesitated, and then said--
"Yes, I love him. We seem to understand each other now, although at
first there was some restraint between us. I think we are quite as happy
as the majority of married couples."
He was only half satisfied with her answer, but did not pursue the
subject further.
"Is the painting of Random finished?" he asked.
"Yes, but not framed."
"May I send Bob over for it?"
"I will ride over myself if you will give me a mount," she said.
"The roads are very bad, will it be safe?"
"The horse can be 'roughed,' and I shall enjoy a ride in the keen
morning air, it will brace me up."
"Very well, Irene. I will order Rupert to be saddled, he is the safest
conveyance you can have in this weather."