Nat Gould - The Runaways - A New and Original Story

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.

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 —

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."