Читать книгу The Runaways - Nat Gould - Страница 4

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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.