THE
SPORTING CHANCE.
BY
ALICE AND CLAUDE ASKEW,
AUTHORS OF
"THE SHULAMITE," "THE ETONIAN," "THE PLAINS OF SILENCE,"
"NOT PROVEN," ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED._
LONDON:
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED.
1910.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. Mostyn Makes his Debût
II. Mostyn Sees the Derby
III. Mostyn Accepts a Challenge
IV. Mostyn is Rebellious
V. Mostyn Realises his Position
VI. Mostyn is put on his Mettle
VII. Mostyn is Surprised
VIII. Mostyn Entertains a Guest
IX. Mostyn Makes a Purchase
X. Mostyn Learns his Error
XI. Mostyn Makes Reparation
XII. Mostyn Tells his Love
XIII. Mostyn Prepares for Battle
XIV. Mostyn Makes an Enemy
XV. Mostyn Faces Defeat
XVI. Mostyn is Tempted
XVII. Mostyn is Given Another Chance
XVIII. Mostyn Meets with an Accident
XIX. Mostyn is Better Understood
XX. Mostyn Completes his Task
THE SPORTING CHANCE.
CHAPTER I.
MOSTYN MAKES HIS DEBÛT.
"It may be old-fashioned to drive a coach to the Derby, but I'll be
in my coffin before I'll go down any other way!" Thus, perpetrating
a characteristic "bull," spoke genial and popular "Old Rory," as he
was known to the best part of the world--Sir Roderick Macphane, to
give him his true title.
A few minutes back he had handed over the ribbons to one of the
grooms, who, with his fellow, was now busily engaged unharnessing the
horses, four fine roans, as handsome a team as the heart of man could
desire. "Old Rory" was a famous whip, and, in spite of his advancing
years, a good all-round sportsman--a master of hounds, a familiar
figure on the race-course, and as good a judge of horse and dog flesh
as any in the country. In his younger days he had been an intrepid
rider at the hurdles, an amateur of more than common merit.
There was, perhaps, no more popular man than "Rory" Macphane in the
three kingdoms. He was laughed at, especially in Parliament, where
he held a seat for an Irish division, because of his quaint sayings
and frequent _faux pas_, but his good nature, charity, and kindness
of heart were admitted on all sides. They were as palpable as his
sportsmanship.
Mostyn Clithero, who occupied a seat at the back of the coach
together with his friend and future brother-in-law, Pierce Trelawny,
a nephew of Sir Roderick's, enjoyed the comments of the crowd as the
coach threaded its way to the appointed place opposite the Grand
Stand.
"That's 'Old Rory,' what owns Hipponous." How the populace murdered
the colt's name! "The Derby winner--perhaps! He's one of the best.
Look at the old sport sitting up there with his back as straight as a
lad's! Good luck to ye, sir, and good luck to the 'oss!
Hip--Hip--Hipponous!" This had become a popular catch-word, easily
taken up and repeated.
Sir Roderick smiled a little and nodded now and again, quite
conscious of his popularity and of that of his horse. It was the
ambition of his life to win the Derby. He had tried many times and
failed, but on the present occasion it looked as if he stood a good
chance, for Hipponous had won the Middle Park Plate and was second
favourite in the betting.
Sir Roderick stood up on the box, his back turned to the course, and
made a little speech to his guests. Lady Lempiere, who had occupied
the place of honour by his side, and to whom his first remark had
been addressed, turned too, as in duty bound. She was a well-known
society dame, no longer young but still reputed for her beauty as
well as for her success upon the turf. She fixed her eyes, which
were blue and liquid and full of expression, upon Major Molyneux, who
sat directly behind her, and who--or so her eyes seemed to say--might
soon be by her side. He was her accepted cavalier, and it was an
understood thing that wherever Lady Lempiere was asked Major Molyneux
must also receive his invitation.
"I want you all to understand that ceremony is a non-starter to-day,"
thus spoke Sir Roderick, "and this is to be a go-as-you-please race
for all of you. There's lunch on the coach for any one at any time
it's asked for, and the ice will give out before the wine does,
though we've got a hundredweight on board. Bring as many of your
friends as you like; there's enough for all. Don't worry about me: I
shall probably be in the House--I mean the Paddock"--he corrected
himself with a broad smile--"a place where I'm more in my element,
and occasionally get listened to." He drew a deep breath as of
relief at a duty performed. "Since I'm not at Westminster," he
added, "I needn't talk for an hour when all I have to say is just
comprised in two words: good luck!"
The little speech was greeted with laughter and applause, applause in
which none was so vociferous as an individual with a bibulous red
face and a white beard, who had the carefully fostered appearance of
a military man. This was Captain Armitage, and he occupied the back
seat together with Mostyn Clithero, Pierce Trelawny, and a fourth
man, Anthony Royce by name, who from his manner rather than his
speech gave the impression of being an American.
"I wonder," whispered Mostyn to his friend, "what makes the captain
so particularly demonstrative?"
"The idea that he'll soon get a drink, I expect," was the answer,
spoken in an undertone, although Captain Armitage had turned his back
and was airily waving his hand to his daughter, Rada, who sat on the
front seat, pretending to listen with interest to the conversational
inanities of young Lord Caldershot.
"I guess you're right there," commented Mr. Royce, his sides shaking
with silent laughter. He had a way of laughing inwardly and without
any apparent reason that was rather disconcerting till one was
accustomed to it; it gave the impression that he was possessed of a
peculiarly selfish sense of humour. He was an Englishman by birth,
though for the last twenty years he had made his home in the States,
where he had accumulated a great fortune and had become a recognised
power in Wall Street. He had also gained some reputation as a
traveller--an explorer upon scientific lines of little-known parts of
the world--and he had but recently returned from an expedition of the
sort, an expedition organised and financed by himself, which had,
however, only partially achieved its object.
"Armitage will punish the champagne before the day's through," he
continued in a voice that was agreeably free from nasal twang. "Look
at him now!" Captain Armitage had swung himself down from the coach
and could be seen in interested converse with the butler, who had
emerged from its interior. "He's a curious sort of fellow, is the
captain. Had a big fortune once, but did it all in on the turf.
Kind-hearted fellows like Rory still keep in with him for the sake of
old times, and because of the girl, who's a character, too, in her
way. They live in a tumble-down cottage near John Treves's training
stables at Partinborough, in Cambridgeshire. It was there I first
came across them, for I've a house of my own in the neighbourhood.
The girl"--he nodded his head in the direction of Rada--"has a poor
time of it, and just runs wild. Armitage brings her to London now
and then and tries to make a dash, showing up at the big race
meetings and putting on a swagger, although heaven alone knows in
what wretched lodgings he hangs out! He spends most of the time at
his club, and leaves Rada to look after herself. He manages somehow
to keep a horse or two in training at Treves's, but he's a sponge,
and that's why I warn you two young fellows about him."
It was very clear that Anthony Royce had no liking for the bibulous
captain: nor had Mostyn Clithero, even upon his shorter acquaintance,
and that with good reason.
Mostyn knew nothing about racing; he was a very innocent in all
matters connected with the turf. Captain Armitage had made this
discovery very early in the day--when the party had met at Sir
Roderick's house in Eaton Square, in fact--and he had proceeded to
amuse himself at the young man's expense, a fact of which Mostyn had
subsequently become uneasily aware. There was one matter especially
which weighed upon his mind, and now, feeling himself with friends,
he proceeded to unburden himself.
"I think," he said, "that Captain Armitage has been making fun of me.
Is it true that Hipponous won the Waterloo Cup?"
There remained no doubt in Mostyn's mind after he had put that
question, though his two companions let him down as gently as they
could; even, as far as possible, refraining from laughter as they
gave the necessary explanation.
Mostyn flushed indignantly. "It was too bad of him," he cried; "too
bad. He came up and talked so amiably that I quite believed all he
said. Of course, he saw at once that I was a fool. He asked me if I
could remember what price Hipponous had started at for the Waterloo
Cup. And later"--his voice trembled--"I asked other people if they
could tell me. I asked Lord Caldershot, and he just stared at me
through that beastly eye-glass of his and turned away. And then I
asked Miss Armitage, to whom I had just been introduced. I couldn't
make out why she laughed at me. I was a fool to come to the races at
all!" he ended, miserably.
He had come full of enthusiasm, and at a personal risk of which none
but he himself knew the full measure, so his sense of wrong was all
the more acute. Nor was he easily appeased, though both Pierce
Trelawny and Anthony Royce did their best to make light of the
incident.
"It was too bad of Armitage to pull your leg," Royce said feelingly.
"I'll have a word with him on the subject. But in the meanwhile
forget all about it, my boy, and enjoy your day."
Anthony Royce had shown himself very well disposed towards Mostyn on
the way down, fully appreciative of the young man's enthusiasm as
well as his ignorance, and it was due to him that Captain Armitage,
who had evinced an inclination to continue the "leg-pulling" sport,
had been finally silenced.
It was by Royce's own wish that he had taken a seat at the back of
the coach, giving up his place in the front to the fair-haired youth,
Lord Caldershot, gorgeous with eye-glass and button-hole, who had
immediately appropriated Rada Armitage as his particular property for
the day. They had already established themselves in the front when
Mostyn clambered up at the back, and they were laughing together,
their eyes turned upon him. He was sure, even then, that he was the
object of their laughter. He had taken a dislike to the girl, though
he could have given no reason for the feeling.
For he had recognised--he could not fail to recognise--that Rada was
young--she could not have been much over twenty--high-spirited, and
good to look at. Unfortunately he was always a little diffident and
shy with strange girls--qualities that were not really natural to
him, but which were the result of his home training--and he had not
shown himself at his best that morning. Of course, matters had not
been improved when she laughed at him, apparently without cause.
When he mounted the coach his one wish was that the Armitages had
been left out of the party altogether. He was struck by the contrast
between Royce and the captain. The former was evidently strong and
masterful, possessed of a will of iron, while the latter was
bombastic, given to swagger, and totally lacking in repose. He was
never still for a moment: he would shuffle his feet and fidget with
his hands; he would spring up from his seat and then immediately sit
down again; he would wave his arms and strike attitudes. His voice
was now raised to a shout, now lowered to a whisper, hardly ever even
in tone. Sometimes he would break out into snatches of song,
particularly aggravating, since it usually occurred when he was being
addressed. He was one of those men who seldom, even early in the
morning, appear quite sober.
While on the road Armitage would have continued to make fun of
Mostyn, an easy victim, had not Royce quietly intervened. The big
financier had taken a fancy to the boy, and did not intend to see him
bullied.
It was unfair, and particularly so because Mostyn had admitted from
the first, and with becoming modesty, that he was totally lacking in
racing experience. Yet he was obviously enthusiastic, and Anthony
Royce, man of the world, admired the enthusiasm of the tall fair boy
who was so simple and yet so manly withal. There was something about
Mostyn's eyes, too; but upon this point the American was not yet sure
of his ground. Mostyn Clithero was risking much that day. This
jaunt to the Derby was a stolen expedition, undertaken without the
knowledge of his father, and Mostyn knew quite well that when the
truth came out there would be a terrible scene.
John Clithero looked upon the race-course as the devil's playground,
and racing men as the devil's disciples; furthermore, he had sternly
imposed this faith upon his children.
Mostyn had never accepted his father's views, though he did not
dispute them. He liked horses without understanding them, and he had
a good seat in the saddle, though his opportunities for riding were
few and far between. It was natural that he should have a more open
mind than either of his two elder brothers, James and Charles, for
they had been brought up at home under their father's influence,
while Mostyn had enjoyed an Eton and Oxford education, this being due
to the intervention of his mother, now dead, who had probably vaguely
realised that her elder sons were developing into prigs.
Mostyn, however, so far had respected his father's prejudices. He
had never risked a penny in gambling of any sort; he had refused all
invitations to attend race meetings; he had even avoided the theatre,
this because he felt it his duty as his father's son. It was not an
easy task for him, for his instincts were all towards the natural
enjoyment of life: he was just a healthy-minded, well-intentioned
young Englishman with nothing of the prig about him. Luckily for
himself he developed a taste for athletics, and so by his prowess on
the river and in the football field he gained respect both at school
and University, and his prejudices were overlooked or readily
forgiven. Mostyn never confided to anyone, till Pierce came upon the
scene, how irksome these restraints were to him, how his inmost soul
militated against them.
It was after he came down from Oxford and set to work to study for
the Bar that he met Pierce Trelawny. Pierce was already engaged to
Cicely, Mostyn's sister, though the match had not met with the
unqualified approval of John Clithero, who considered the young man
worldly-minded and fast because he went to theatres and attended
race-meetings; and besides, the whole Trelawny family were
conspicuously sporting. On the other hand, there was no question as
to the desirability of the engagement from the social and monetary
point of view, and it was to these considerations that Cicely's
father had yielded, seeing nothing unreasonable in this shelving of
his principles in favour of Mammon. As for Pierce, he was in love
with Cicely, whose nature was akin to that of her brother Mostyn; and
he did not worry his head about the rest of her family, whom he
placidly despised, until he discovered that Mostyn was fashioned in a
different mould. After that the two young men became firm friends,
and went about a good deal together, though John Clithero looked on
askance, believing that his son was being led astray; indeed, there
had been one or two rather stormy scenes, for a new spirit had been
aroused in Mostyn's breast, a desire to unfurl the standard of revolt.
Then came the great temptation. Pierce Trelawny had received an
invitation to drive down to the Derby on his uncle's coach, and had
been told that he might take a friend with him. "Why not bring your
future brother-in-law?" Sir Roderick suggested. "I mean the lad you
introduced to me in the Park the other day. Rowed for his college,
didn't he? Was in the Eton eight, and did well at racquets? That's
the sort of boy I like--a young sportsman."
"God bless my soul!" the old gentleman cried, when Pierce explained
that Mostyn had never seen a race, and the reason for this neglect.
"I did not know that any sensible people held such views nowadays.
They even wanted to keep us at work at Westminster on Derby day," he
added, with apparent inconsistency, "but I don't look for sense in
the House of Commons! That's why I went into Parliament." He meant,
of course, that it was his object to convince his fellow-members of
their folly.
Sir Roderick was returned for one of the divisions of Ulster, and had
held his seat, undisputed, for many years. He was a Tory of the old
school, staunchly loyal, and to his mind no other views were
admissible. Politics, therefore, in the sense of party division, did
not exist. He loathed the very word. He would say irritably, "Don't
talk to me of politics, I hate 'em--and, besides, there's no such
thing." His Irishisms and unconscious word contortions contributed
to the amusement of the House as well as to his personal popularity.
"Bring young Clithero, Pierce," he said decidedly. "It'll do him
good, open his eyes a bit. He's too fine a lad to have his head
stuffed with such nonsensical ideas. How old is he, did you say?
Twenty-five? Well, he's quite old enough to have a will of his own."
All of which was perfectly true, but Sir Roderick, as well as Pierce,
overlooked the fact that Mostyn was utterly dependent upon his father.
As it happened, John Clithero was absent from London when Pierce
conveyed Sir Roderick's invitation to Mostyn, and so he could not be
consulted: the hopeless task of asking his approval could not be
undertaken. It was open to Mostyn to keep his own counsel: to go to
the Derby on the sly--a course that did not commend itself to his
straightforward nature--or to make confession when his father
returned, which would be two or three days after the Derby had been
run. Letter-writing was out of the question, too, for John Clithero
was actually on his way home from America, where he had been upon
business. He was a banker, head of the old established house of
Graves and Clithero, a firm of the highest repute and universally
considered as stable as the Bank of England, all the more so because
of the high standard of morality demanded of all connected with it,
from the partners to the humblest employee.
Mostyn did not hesitate long. He wanted to see the Derby, and he was
asked to go as the guest of a man who was universally respected.
Only rank prejudice could assert harm in this. It was time to make
his protest. And so, the evening before the race, he quietly
announced his intention to his horrified brothers.
"A beastly race-course," sniffed James. "All the riff-raff of
London. An encouragement to gambling, drunkenness, and vice." James
was a perfect type of the "good young man"; than that no more need be
said.
"Just because father happens to be away," remarked Charles; "I
suppose that's your idea of honour, Mostyn." Charles was always
talking about honour. He was unhealthily stout, had pasty cheeks and
long yellow hair that lacked vitality.
"I think Mostyn's quite right, and I wish I was going too,"
proclaimed Cicely the rebellious.
And so the wrangle proceeded. It was distinctly uncomfortable, but
Mostyn was quite determined to abide by his decision. Nor had he
changed his mind when the next day came.
Owing to the behaviour of Captain Armitage it had not at first been
particularly pleasant for Mostyn upon the coach, but Pierce and Mr.
Royce had come to the rescue, the former engaging the attention of
the captain, while the latter took the boy in hand and explained
certain things that he ought to know about racing. It was all done
with such infinite tact that Mostyn was soon at his ease, able to
enjoy the fund of anecdote with which Anthony Royce enlivened the
journey, as well as the scenes by the way, the ever-changing
panorama, of which he had read, but which he had never expected to
see.
He spoke little, but his eyes glittered with excitement. To him it
was as though he was being carried into a new world, a world with
which his soul was in sympathy, but the gates of which had always
been closed. And yet it was not so strange to him as he had
expected: perhaps in his dreams he had gazed through the gates, or
even travelled down that very road upon a visionary coach that
threaded its way proudly amid the heterogeneous traffic. So, despite
his ignorance and inexperience, he felt in his element; he was a
sportsman by instinct, so he told himself, and all these years he had
been crushing down his true nature. Well, it was not too late to
repair the mischief: for now he knew--he knew.
Anthony Royce watched him with kindly appreciative eyes. There were
moments, though Mostyn was far too absorbed to notice this, when his
broad forehead wrinkled into a frown as he gazed into the young man's
face; it was a peculiar enigmatical frown, suggestive of an effort to
think back into the past, to pierce the veil of years.
Mostyn could hold himself in no longer when the coach had taken up
its place under the hill, and when Sir Roderick, by his little
speech, had discharged his obligation towards his guests. A few
moments of bustle followed. Captain Armitage, champagne bottle in
hand, was filling a glass for Lord Caldershot, who was stooping down
from his place upon the coach to take it; Rada was intently studying
a race-card and comparing it with a little pink paper--a paper issued
by some tipster or other; most of the other guests had already
descended and mingled with the crowd. Among these was Pierce, who
had hurried off after his uncle in the direction of the Paddock.
Mostyn stood up in his place; he was quivering with excitement, all
his nerves seemed on edge. He stared about him and took in at a
glance the whole wonderful sight--the restless mass of humanity
seething over hill and dale, humanity in all its gradations, from the
coster and his lass to the top-hatted men and smartly-dressed women
who mingled with the throng till they found their centre in the
enclosure and Grand Stand. The highest in all the land and the
lowest--silk, satin, muslin, rags--Mayfair and Whitechapel--Tom,
Dick, Harry, as alive and playful to-day as in the forties--they were
all there just as Mostyn had read of them many a time. The white
tents, the extravagantly dressed bookmakers, the itinerant musicians
and jugglers, the gipsies. He drew a deep breath; he was looking
upon the world!
"I'm glad I came," he cried, forgetting for the moment that he was
not alone. "For now I know what it is to be alive."
His voice shook. Anthony Royce laid his hand gently upon the boy's
shoulder. "I like your enthusiasm," he said, "I understand it. You
are just making your debût upon a larger stage, and it is a little
overwhelming. Well, I'll put you through your paces, my boy. Leave
yourself in my hands and you won't regret it. I'll guarantee that
your first Derby Day shall not be your last."
Mostyn accepted joyfully. "You're awfully kind, sir," he said. "I'm
afraid I should have a poor time by myself, and I don't like to
bother Pierce--besides, he wants to be with Sir Roderick. It's good
of you to pity my ignorance. I wonder why you do it?"
Royce made no reply--probably none was expected. Only that strange
enigmatical smile came once more to his face, and for a moment his
eyes were vacant--again it was as though he were looking back into
the past.
To himself Mostyn muttered: "Sufficient unto the day is the evil
thereof."