NAT GOULD: AN APPRECIATION
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.
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.
CHAPTER II
THE RUNAWAYS
There was a stud of thoroughbreds at Hazelwell, not large, but select, some of the mares boasting of blue blood such as can seldom be obtained after much search. Eli Todd was the manager of the stud, and lived in a small but picturesque and comfortable cottage on the estate. He served in the – th Hussars with Colonel Carstone, and during the time they were in India he acquired a considerable knowledge of horses of every description. He handled the Colonel's "Walers," and broke them in cleverly; he also trained the Colonel's horses for the races, and on one occasion had the audacity to declare he meant to win the Viceroy's Cup for his master, a feat he all but accomplished, as the Scout ran a good second for that coveted trophy.
When Colonel Carstone died, and Irene was committed to the care of Redmond Maynard, Eli Todd entered his service at the same time. It was owing to Irene that he did so. She persuaded her guardian that Eli was a veritable wonder in the management of horses, and that she was perfectly certain that if his services were secured Hazelwell Stud would benefit thereby.
Ulick Maynard backed up her recommendation, declaring he had cast curious eyes upon Eli ever since he returned from India with the Colonel.
"Lose no time in securing him," said Ulick; "such a man will be snapped up at once. Don't lose him whatever you do."
Redmond Maynard engaged Eli to manage his stud, and also to superintend the hunters and all the horses on the estate – a step he had never regretted. Eli was a widower with one child, a daughter, Janet Todd. She was about the same age as Irene, and a bright, merry, mischievous, exceedingly pretty girl. Vanity was her besetting sin, but apart from this she was of an amiable disposition, and innocent of any desire beyond harmless flirtations. Naturally her father idolised her, and it was mainly on her account he accepted the position Mr. Maynard offered him.
The night that Redmond Maynard sat up, hoping against hope that his son would return, Eli Todd was in a troubled state of mind.
Like his master, he dated the great misfortune of his life two years back from that night. He recalled vividly how his daughter Janet had kissed him good-night and then gone to bed. Her manner gave no indication of what was to befall during the next few hours.
He remembered how he sat waiting for her to come down to breakfast, wondering what kept her so long. Her room was above that in which he sat, and he heard no movement on the floor above. The strain became too great, and at last he could bear it no longer. He did not ring for the housekeeper, but crept upstairs and tapped gently at her door. There was no answer, and as he sat now, two years after, he felt again the throbbing of his heart in anticipation of some unknown evil he experienced on that occasion. He knocked again, and then slowly, noiselessly opened the door.
The room was empty, the bed had not been slept upon. Dazed and bewildered, he failed at first to understand what it meant. The stillness stunned him, and he groped his way forward like a blind man. Mechanically he ran his hands over the spotless counterpane, seeking, feeling for that he knew he should not find. He looked under the bed, in a closet, and even in her wardrobe; she was hiding, playing him a trick, but where had she hidden herself?
He sat down in the chair at her bedside and looked helplessly about the room. He fingered the candlestick which stood on a small table near the bed, examining it with unusual interest. There was an old pair of snuffers there, and he took them up and pressed the wick, which stuck fast, and the candle with the snuffers attached fell on the table. He put the empty candlestick on the bed and got up.
Walking to the window, he drew up the blinds and looked round the room again. He was near the dressing-table, and picked up one article after another. He did not look for a letter, a brief note; he would not have found one had he done so. She had gone, left him desolate without one parting word.
Still in a dazed condition, and not fully realising his loss, he went out of the room, closing the door after him, and stumbled downstairs.
Mrs. Marley, his housekeeper, heard him, and came into the room,
"Is Janet ill?" she asked, in a tone of concern.
"Yes," he replied, in a hollow voice. "I will take her breakfast upstairs."
"I can take it myself," she replied.
"No; please let me do it."
"Very well, but you spoil her, Mr. Todd; it is not good for her," said Mrs. Marley.
He laughed strangely, and she looked at him in surprise. He took the tray upstairs, placed it on the table at the bedside, and locked the door as he came out, putting the key in his pocket. Why he did this he failed to understand, except that he wanted time to think.
He was going over again everything that happened that terrible night. He had considered it many times, and he would not lay the guilt at Ulick's door; no, not even after two years of grave suspicion, which had not yet been removed. He once more saw the door open and Ulick Maynard come in out of the snowy night. He heard the startled cry Janet gave as she sprang from her chair, and her exclamation, "Mr. Ulick, what are you doing here?" rang in his ears.
"Eli, I want to sit down and think," Ulick had said, and, wonderingly, he bade him make the house his home, as he had always done.
Janet, pale and bewildered, left the room.
"Is anything the matter, Mr. Ulick?" asked Eli.
"You'll learn soon enough," was the vague reply; and then he saw Ulick take out his pocket-book and count some notes.
"Have some supper?" said Eli.
"No, I dined at home an hour ago." Then he looked hard at Eli. Surely he knew what people were saying, knew of the gossip about Janet. It amazed him when he had to acknowledge that Eli Todd was the only person in the village who was in ignorance of what concerned him most.
"Where's Janet? I must speak to her," said Ulick.
Eli called her, and she came slowly into the room, her face as pale as death.
"Mr. Ulick wishes to speak to you. I'll leave you together, I want to look at Blossom again."
What passed between them he never knew; what he did know was that next morning Janet was gone.
As he sat crushed and stunned under the blow, there came a furious knocking at the door, and Mrs. Marley called out in an agitated voice —
"It's the Squire, and isn't he in a rage!"
As Eli sat in his chair by the fire he again conjured up the picture of Redmond Maynard striding furiously into the room, knocking the snow from his boots with his hunting crop.
"Is my son here, or has he been here?" he asked, angrily.
"He was here last night," said Eli, in a hollow voice.
"And is he here still?"
"No."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know; he went away after – after – "
"After what?" thundered the Squire.
"After he had seen Janet about something he wished to say to her," said Eli, slowly.
"And where is the hussey; d – n it, man, where is she?"
Eli strode up to him, and looking him full in the face, said —
"Not that word from you, Squire, take it back, take it back; she is my child."
Redmond Maynard controlled his feelings.
"It is a hard word, Eli, I ought not to have used it. You have sufficient to bear without that," he said.
"He knows," thought Eli. "How does he know?" and he looked at the Squire, who could not fail to notice his surprise.
"May I speak with your daughter?" said the Squire; and from this Eli knew there was some mystery he did not yet grasp.
"She is gone," he replied, in a low voice, for the first time acknowledging the dreadful truth.
"Left your house!" exclaimed Redmond Maynard.
"Yes. I found her room empty this morning, but I have, so far, concealed her flight from my housekeeper."
Redmond Maynard strode up and down the room, muttering threats and imprecations.
"He has stolen her from you, Eli; but he shall pay for it dearly. He is even a greater scoundrel than I accused him of being," said the Squire.
"Do you know who has tempted my daughter to leave me?" asked Eli, placing his hand on the Squire's arm in his earnestness.
"Man, you must know," replied the Squire, amazed at his stupidity. "Have you noticed nothing wrong with her during the past few weeks?"
"No, my Janet has always been the same to me until last night."
The Squire's rage against Ulick passed all bounds. He had accused him of trifling with Janet's affections, and now, to crown his offence, the graceless fellow had induced her to run away with him.
"My son came here last night," he said. "You left him alone with your daughter, and it was no doubt during that time they planned to go away together. He has taken her from you, Eli, and I hope he will make her an honest woman. To think a son of mine should be such a scoundrel. Ulick, whom I have loved beyond all others, it is too terrible."
At last Eli Todd understood. His daughter, the pride of his life, the prettiest of all the village lasses, was a light o' love, and Ulick, his favourite, to whom he would have entrusted her life, was accused of betraying her. The shock of this discovery overwhelmed him, but he had more faith in Ulick than his father had.
"If a man has tempted my daughter to leave my home and follow him, it is not Mr. Ulick, Squire," said Eli, solemnly. "He'd never do it; he'd cut off his right hand first. You wrong him, and you'll regret the day you taxed him with such a charge."
Redmond Maynard wondered at the man's faith in his son. To his mind the proof was clear as day, especially now Janet Todd had disappeared at the same time as Ulick.
"Your feelings do you credit," he replied; "but the evidence is too clear. You know as well as I that when people hear Ulick and Janet have disappeared, they will say they went together. Can it be otherwise? They have been great friends, constantly meeting, and have often been seen alone together. My son has done you a great and grievous wrong, and I must do all in my power to lessen the blow."
"I'll hear no words against Mr. Ulick, Squire. True, he came here last night, but he left long before Janet could have gone. I will never believe it of him. It was not his nature to do evil. He'll prove it some day. As for my poor lass, God help her. She'll come back to me some day, when her heart is sore and aching for her father's love. Whatever she is, whatever she may have done, I will never refuse her the shelter of my home and name. We don't know all, Squire; there may be something we cannot understand, but which will be explained in the future. But Mr. Ulick! Why, Squire, I'd as soon accuse myself of crime as him."
Two years ago this scene took place between master and man, and Eli still held firm in his belief in the stainless honour of Ulick Maynard. No word had come from Janet during all that time. Where she was he knew not, but he thought of her day and night, and as he went about his work he offered up many a plea for her return.
"The Squire 'll be thinking of Ulick to-night," he muttered, as he rose from his chair, went to the door, and looked out into the night.
Snow was still falling softly, and the moon bathed the landscape in silvery splendour. As he looked, he heard the faint, dull sound of a horse's hoofs on the snow, and the rumble of clogged wheels.
"Where can they be going from the house to-night?" he thought, and then recognised Bob Heather, seated in "the tub," and almost smothered in wraps.
"Hallo, Eli, that you? A nice job I've got, fetching Mrs. Courtly's maid, and a heap of luggage, from Anselm a night like this."
"Going to Anselm!" exclaimed Eli. "What's up there?"
"Seems to me everything's up. Mr. Courtly's gone up to London on most important business, and left Mrs. Courtly alone. He's always got business in London. I'd know what it was if I was her. She came over to see the Squire, and he's made her stop with him. I say, Eli, don't you think she'd have been a lot better off if she'd married Mr. Ulick?"
"Mind your own business," growled Eli. "It don't concern you; and as to what I think, I'll keep it to myself."
"It's two years since he left us, and the Squire's been thinking about it all night. He's got a notion Mr. Ulick will come back at this time of year."
"So he will, and I hope my lass will come too," said Eli.
"You still think they did not go away together?" asked Bob.
"I don't say that, but I'll swear Mr. Ulick never harmed a hair of her head," said Eli.
"He's a rum 'un," thought Bob. "Why, everybody knows they ran off together; that's what made the Squire so bitter."
"Have a glass of ale?" said Eli.
"Thanks, you keep a better tap than they have at Hazelwell."
"I drink it myself," said Eli, smiling, "and order it myself. I expect it's not the Squire's fault if you don't get the best."
"No, it's not. Old Josh knows how many beans make five, and I'll bet he charges top price for the stuff he gets in for us," said Bob.
Eli went indoors and came out with a foaming tankard of ale, which Bob Heather made short work of.
"That will keep me warm," he said, with a sigh of satisfaction.
"You have plenty of rugs, are you afraid the luggage will catch cold?" said Eli, slyly.
"Luggage be blowed," said Bob. "These things are for Mary; she'd never forgive me if she caught a cold," and he shook the reins and proceeded on his journey.