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The Floating Press - Nat Gould

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117 pages

English

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When it comes to star-crossed lovers, Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet have nothing on the characters in Nat Gould's "The Runaways." Enmeshed in an exceedingly complex set of romantic entanglements, the members of the Maynard clan are determined to pursue their passions at all costs. Will everything work out for the best? Read "The Runaways" to find out.

Sujets

Historical fiction

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 mai 2012
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775457510
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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THE RUNAWAYS
A NEW AND ORIGINAL STORY
* * *
NAT GOULD

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The Runaways A New and Original Story First published in 1903 ISBN 978-1-77545-751-0 © 2012 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Nat Gould: An Appreciation Chapter I - As the Snow Falls Chapter II - The Runaways Chapter III - Random Chapter IV - Irene's Painting Chapter V - Honeysuckle's Foal Chapter VI - A Wily Young Man Chapter VII - Selling His Heritage Chapter VIII - Warren's Return Chapter IX - How Ulick Bought the Saint Chapter X - "The Curiosity" Chapter XI - For a Woman's Sake Chapter XII - Two Schemers Chapter XIII - The Squire and the Saint Chapter XIV - A Discovery Imminent Chapter XV - The Result of the Discovery Chapter XVI - A Race to Be Remembered Chapter XVII - The Squire Overhears Chapter XVIII - "Tally-Ho!" Chapter XIX - A Fatal Leap Chapter XX - Perfect Harmony
Nat Gould: An Appreciation
*
Nat Gould's novels of the Turf are read and enjoyed by multitudes of menand women all over the world. That in itself is a guarantee of literarymerit. Had he been a stylist, the sale of his hundred odd books wouldnever have run into a score of millions. He wrote to please and not topuzzle, to give pleasure and not to educate, and his reward came in thegratitude of a host of admirers of clean, healthy fiction.
His main theme was the King of Sports and the Sport of Kings. Nat Goulddearly loved a horse, and so does the great British public, includingthose who have no liking for racing. It is a characteristic as nationalas our admiration of ships, sailors and the sea. The theme fascinatedhim, and, combined with a gift for writing, was one of the secrets ofhis success. Another reason for his almost boundless popularity is to befound in the "atmosphere" of his stories, which is created withoutelaborate literary setting. The machinery of it is hidden by reason ofits very artlessness. The romance is told in a plain, straightforwardway that carries intense conviction, and though the plots are neithersubtle nor involved, they are unfolded in so vigorous and lifelike amanner that few people who pick up one of Nat Gould's novels are able toput it down before having finished the last chapter. Few modern writerscan boast that they are read and understood at a single sitting.
His novels ring true. They are clean, manly and sincere. There isnothing vicious about them. As The Times truly said of Nat Gould inits obituary notice of him, "He must have written some millions ofwords, but few of them were wasted, if a rattling good story makes areader happier and more contented for having read it."
Such praise is praise indeed, for literature that is involved andappeals to a select few obviously cannot have the influence ofliterature that embraces so large a section of the population. To haveadded to the enjoyment of so vast a number of young and old, rich andpoor, were a monument worthy of any man.
Nathaniel Gould was born in Manchester in 1857, and died in 1919. Hiswide experience as a journalist in England and Australia doubtlessexplained his methods of rapid workmanship, while his travels in theAntipodes and elsewhere afforded him that "local colour" which is notthe least pleasing characteristic of his novels. He not only wrote ofoutdoor life, but enjoyed it, for racing, driving and gardening were hishobbies.
E. Laton Blacklands.
Chapter I - As the Snow Falls
*
Redmond Maynard stood at the dining-room window gazing at the deep-dyedreflection upon the snow of the blood-red setting sun. The leaflesstrees, with their gnarled trunks and gaunt, twisted branches, spreadingfiercely in imprecation at the hardness of their lot, resembled giantmonsters from an unknown world. These diseased protruding growths put onall manner of fantastic shapes, as his eyes dwelt first upon one, thenupon another. It was the shortening winter's day drawing near a close,and a spirit of melancholy brooded over the landscape. On such anevening as this, the thoughts of thinking men are apt to drawcomparisons which bring vividly before them the uncertainty of life, andthe prospects of that something after death which has never beenunderstood, never will be, until each one solves the problem by goingout into the eternal night.
It seemed to Redmond Maynard that he was peering into a mystery he hadno hope of solving. He was not a godless man, neither was he a man whoselife had been altogether well spent. His mistakes had been many; heacknowledged this, and thereby robbed his detractors of selfishvictories. Slowly the sun sank, and as it dipped lower and lower intoobscurity the red shadows on the snow grew fainter, the harshnessmelted, and a gentle warmth seemed to mingle with the biting cold. Theglow remained some time after the sun had disappeared, and RedmondMaynard 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 thebosom of the earth, to mingle with the white mantle lying there, to liepure and undefiled until an angry thaw turned all its beauty intodulness and decay. How gently the flakes fell, and Redmond Maynardwatched them with the warm glow from the fire shedding flickering lightbehind and around him.
"Shall I draw the curtain, sir?"
"No."
The man silently left the room, sighing as he did so, thinking tohimself, "It's two years come to-night since Mr. Ulick left home. Iwonder will he come back. The Squire's thinking of it now. God help 'emboth."
"There will be no darkness to-night," muttered Redmond Maynard, as hesaw 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 thanthe blackness of night. Two years ago Ulick Maynard walked out of thatvery room, and had not since returned. Bitter words were spoken betweenfather and son. Both were proud. The accusation fell upon Ulick like athunderbolt; for the moment he was stunned. Then, with his frozen bloodbursting into a fiery torrent, he hurled back the insult his father hadput upon him. He stayed not to think what causes led Redmond Maynard tomake the charge. In his mind no evidence, however conclusivelycircumstantial, ought to have been considered sufficient to make hisfather speak such words.
The elder man recoiled under the shock. Given an opportunity, he wouldhave recalled his words. But the chance was not allowed.
"Believing, as you must, or you would not have accused me, that I amguilty 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 theroom. 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 atonce. Ulick!"
No answer was returned, and the still angry man thought, "He'll get overit 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 hisfather had never been the same man since. Without drawing the curtains,Redmond Maynard left the window, and, walking to the fireplace, stoodwith 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, butobserving no sign that his services were required, stretched himself outagain at full length with a sigh of satisfaction. There was ample roombetween the dog and the hearth for his master to stand, and RedmondMaynard 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, headerect, listening for footsteps he had not heard for two years, but whichhe would have recognised even amidst the deadening snow. Man and doglooked at each other. That question had been asked before.
"Bersak, where's Ulick?"
Rather shaky the tones this time, and something in them affected thehound, for he lifted up his head and whined; the sound would havedeveloped into a howl, but Redmond Maynard placed his hand on his headand said—
"Don't howl, Bersak, I could not stand it. Lie down. Good dog, liedown."
Obedient to the word of command, Bersak lowered himself—no other wordadequately expresses the dog's movement,—to the hearthrug, and with hisfore-paws stretched out watched the Squire's face.
How much would Redmond Maynard have given to see the door open and hisson 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 ofwelcome, and a spring forward until his strong paws reached Ulick'sshoulders.
He fixed his eyes on the door, and as he did so it opened. But it wasnot Ulick entering, although the newcomer brought a faint smile on hisface.
"Irene!" he exclaimed, as the vision in furs came across the fire-litroom; "this is good of you. However did you get here; is it stillsnowing?"
"No, Squire, it is not snowing, although there is plenty of snow; and asto how I came here, well—look at my boots," and she held up her dressand disclosed a pair of strong "lace-ups," fitting perfectly herwell-shaped feet