MOSTYN REALISES HIS POSITION.
Poor Cicely was still in tears when Mostyn kissed and left her; but
he had been able to show her the necessity of avoiding any further
scene, and he had promised to see Pierce that very evening and tell
him all that had happened. "Pierce won't give you up, sis," he had
comforted her. "Whatever happens you may be quite sure of that."
"But his father didn't like our engagement," she had sobbed. "I know
he only gave way because Pierce was so much in love. And now he
knows that my father objects--
"You don't know yet that father will object," Mostyn had interrupted.
"For my part, I should think it most unlikely. The Trelawnys are
wealthy people, and Pierce will come in for a great deal of money
some day. And father loves gold," he added bitterly.
Mostyn had decided to spend that night at one of the big hotels in
Northumberland Avenue. On the next day he would look out for cheap
lodgings, and when he got settled Cicely could send him the rest of
his belongings. In the meanwhile, should there be a letter for him
the next morning--he was thinking of Anthony Royce's promise to
write--would Cicely forward it to him at the hotel? This having been
settled, Mostyn, carrying his bag, made his way down to the hall,
whistled for a cab, and drove away from the house without any
interference with his actions. A new life was about to dawn for him.
He felt strange upon reaching the hotel and engaging his room. He
had very little acquaintance with hotels of any kind, save, perhaps,
when he had stayed at the seaside in the company of his relations.
John Clithero was quite suburban in his ideas of the annual holiday.
It was a new experience, then, for Mostyn to find himself alone and
independent in one of London's huge caravansaries, and it was not
altogether without its element of charm.
He felt himself that evening more the man than he had ever done in
his life before; the whole world was before him, and he had to carve
out his own path through it.
He dined alone, in the great restaurant, but he was too excited to
take any particular notice either of the food that was put before him
or of the smart crowd by which he was surrounded. He was anxious for
the time to pass so that he might wend his way to the Imperial Club,
which was in Pall Mall, and so not very far away, and there talk over
the whole matter with Pierce Trelawny. He fancied that Pierce might
have friends dining with him, and so he did not like to intrude
himself too early at the club.
It was ten o'clock when he gave his name to the hall porter and asked
to see Mr. Trelawny. Pierce came to him immediately. His friends
had just taken their departure, for they were due at the Empire,
where the Derby crowd was sure to collect in force. All of which
Pierce explained before he had time to notice how pale and distressed
Mostyn appeared.
"It's jolly lucky you found me, Mostyn," he said heartily, "for I
might have gone out in another ten minutes. But what on earth has
brought you round to the club at this time of the night? I never
thought you would have been allowed such a dissipation."
"Take me somewhere where we can have a quiet talk," Mostyn said
huskily. "There has been trouble, Pierce, and I want to tell you all
about it."
Pierce glanced quickly into his friend's face and realised that there
must indeed have been trouble. "Poor old chap!" he exclaimed. "I
was blind not to see that there was something wrong. Come along up
to the smoking-room; we can find a corner, and you shall tell me all
about it."
As they were about to set their feet on the broad staircase they were
buttonholed by Captain Armitage, who was coming downstairs to the
hall. He laid a hand upon an arm of each of the young men--almost as
if to support himself--and began to talk hoarsely of the day's racing.
"I dropped a pot," he muttered. "Infernal bad luck! Didn't even
back Hipponous. Lost my money in backing old Rory's horses so often
that I couldn't think his luck was going to turn. Damnable--what?"
It was some moments before Pierce could shake him off; then, as the
two young men continued their way up the stairs, Pierce commented in
no unmeasured terms upon Captain Armitage as a member of the club.
"The fellow makes himself a general nuisance," he grumbled. "He's
always hanging over the tape, and forces his conversation upon
everyone who happens to come near him. He belongs to the genus 'club
bore.' The waiters hate him, too, for he gives endless trouble and
never subscribes a cent to any of the servants' funds. Then he is
always half-screwed; it's lucky that he doesn't live in town, for if
he did he would spend the whole of his time at the club."
"How did he get in?" asked Mostyn, for the sake of saying something.
"Oh, he was quite a decent sort in his younger days," returned
Pierce, "and it's for the sake of old times that my uncle and other
good-natured people put up with him. Then they are sorry for his
daughter, Rada--she has quaint ways--but they suit her somehow."
"Do they?" Mostyn spoke the words viciously, upon a tone of doubt:
from his experience of that afternoon he was not at all inclined to
attribute virtues to Rada. He felt, indeed, that he disliked her
intensely.
They installed themselves in a recess of the smoking-room, and
Pierce, summoning the waiter, ordered a couple of brandy-and-sodas,
though it was only after considerable persuasion that Mostyn could be
induced to touch spirits. He was not a teetotaler, as his brothers
professed to be, but the habits of his home-life dominated him. It
was necessary for Pierce to point out that a stimulant was palpably
required, and that Mostyn must look upon it as a medicine.
Pierce Trelawny was possessed of a rather dominant manner. He was
not built upon such a large scale as Mostyn, though he was well made
and athletic. He was equally at home plodding muddy fields with his
gun, riding to hounds, or as a young man about town. He had dark
hair, very carefully parted on the left side, thin, refined features,
and his dress was always immaculately correct in cut and style. He
enjoyed a liberal allowance from his father--a good old country
squire--and upon the death of the latter he would inherit a property
of very considerable importance. He had no profession, finding life
quite full enough without one.
Mostyn made no further objection, but took a long draught from the
tall tumbler when it was set before him. The piece of ice that
floated on the liquid was cool against his lips, and he liked the
touch of it.
And so, a little fresh colour creeping into his cheeks, he told his
story, and Pierce listened attentively, with only an occasional
interruption, an interruption that usually took the form of some
muttered comment by no means flattering to Mr. John Clithero.
"He's an impossible man, your father," Pierce exclaimed when Mostyn
had concluded, "And the ghastly part of it is that he is quite
sincere, fully convinced that he is in the right and that all the
world who disagree with him are in the wrong. In a way he's just
like my old uncle with his Tory politics. Your father is stubborn
and pig-headed in a different and unpleasant direction; that's all
there is between them."
"He killed my mother; he bullied her to death. My brothers are his
idea of rectitude. That's the kind of man my father is." Mostyn
spoke bitterly, as he felt. Never before in his life had he allowed
himself to breathe a word against his father, whatever his own
feelings may have been; but it was different now.
He gulped down one or two mouthfuls of his brandy-and-soda, then
glanced up at his friend, who appeared lost in thought. "I'm not
only worrying about myself, Pierce," he said. "It was Cicely who
asked me to see you this evening. You see it is quite possible"--he
broke off, hardly knowing how to explain himself.
"I see it is." Pierce drummed his fingers restlessly on the ornate
little table before him. "Your father knows I induced you to go to
the Derby, and he may forbid Cicely to see me again. I'm inclined to
think that that's what is going to happen." He frowned, staring at
his tumbler. "Of course, I shan't give her up," he went on, "but
things may pan out badly for us. My old dad hates your father, and
he was wild when he knew that I had fallen in love with a Clithero.
I don't know how he'll take it if there should be any opposition on
your father's side. He likes Cicely, so he may tell me to go ahead
and marry her, or he may say that it's a good thing for me the
engagement is broken off. Cicely is under age, too, and won't be
free to do as she likes for another year. It's a devil of a mess:
anyway, I shall see Mr. Clithero first thing to-morrow morning and
have it out with him," he added with decision; "and I rather think
the interview will be a stormy one." He pursed up his lips, thinking
that he was perhaps better able than Mostyn to hold his own with the
redoubtable John Clithero.
"What about yourself, Mostyn?" he asked, after a pause. "It strikes
me I've been selfish, thinking of my own troubles, which may or may
not eventuate, while you've got a very real one to face. In some
ways it may be for the best, for you had a rotten time at home, and
the row was bound to come sooner or later. I don't know how you and
Cicely were ever born in the Clithero family," he added sapiently.
"You are not like the rest of them, and so I suppose you must have
got the blood of some more sporting ancestor in your veins. But what
do you mean to do?" he went on; "for I don't suppose you have any
idea of making up the quarrel?"
Mostyn shook his head. "No," he replied. "I'm going to fight for
myself. Unfortunately I don't think I'm good for much. Of course, I
shall have to give up the Bar."
"That's a pity," mused Pierce; "why should you?"
"I've got no money of my own except a hundred in the bank. My father
won't give me another penny, so I must just put my shoulder to the
wheel."
"A clerk on a pound a week, or something ridiculous of that sort,"
said Pierce half derisively. "That won't do for you, Mostyn. But
you needn't worry your head about it; I'll get my father or my uncle
to find you something more suitable: I've got plenty of influential
friends."
For a moment Mostyn made no answer, but once more lifted his tumbler
to his lips; when he spoke it was with decision. "No," he said.
"It's awfully good of you, Pierce, and I haven't the smallest doubt
that you could do as you say, but there is nothing that your father
or your uncle could give me--nothing well paid, at any rate--that I
should be fit for. It would be just the same as taking charity."
Pierce was loud in his protest against such principles as these, but
he argued in vain. Mostyn had quite made up his mind; he had thought
it all over during his solitary dinner, and had decided upon his
course of action. He would accept help from no one. He would
undertake no work unless it was such as he conscientiously felt he
was able to perform. Of course, he had not forgotten Anthony Royce;
but if it was money that the latter proposed to offer him, money to
be expended upon racing, then, in the light of the present position,
Mostyn did not see his way to accept. What, after all, did his
foolish words spoken upon the coach matter? They were uttered in a
moment of heat, and no one would remember them. He had to think of
earning his living now: he had probably been to his first and last
race meeting.
He had decided to try his luck with journalism; he had an aptitude
for writing, and he had a friend who was on the staff of an important
London paper. He would look up Arden Travers on the morrow and take
the journalist's advice as to the proper manner of setting to work.
Pierce expressed his opinion that this was a grievous folly, but at
the same time he could not help admiring Mostyn's pluck. There was,
at any rate, no harm in trying. So nothing was said on the subject
of help to be provided from outside sources, and the two young men
parted at about half-past eleven, after making an appointment to meet
the following evening, when Mostyn would report how he had got on
with his journalist friend, and Pierce would relate the result of his
interview with John Clithero.
As he was about to leave the club, Mostyn was accosted by Captain
Armitage, who was still hovering about the hall.
"Are you going? That's a good thing, for I'm just off, too." The
captain's voice had grown still more husky, and he dragged his feet
across the stone floor with a shambling gait; nevertheless, he was
quite master of himself.
"I'm glad I caught sight of you," he said with assumed geniality of
tone, "for I was going away by myself, and I hate being alone. We'll
walk together a bit, my young friend, and you shall tell me of your
ambitions to run race-horses and to win the Derby." He chuckled as
he spoke, with an irritating noise in the depth of his throat, and he
passed his arm under Mostyn's, leaning heavily upon it.
"I'm not going far," Mostyn said shortly; "only to Northumberland
Avenue. Perhaps I'd better help you into a cab."
The old man shook his head. "I want a little fresh air first," he
mumbled. "It does me good to walk part of the way home, and I love
the London streets at this time of night." He waved his free hand.
"It's life," he chuckled, "and it makes me think of the days when I
was a boy and full of life. It's too early to go home yet."
"Where do you live?" asked Mostyn.
"Bloomsbury," was the muttered answer. "Lodgings--a dirty hole; not
fit for a gentleman to live in--not fit for a girl like Rada. People
don't know where we stay when we are in London; I keep it dark." As
a matter of fact, everybody who knew Captain Armitage knew that his
lodgings were of the poorest; he made the same confession to
everybody, when, as was usually the case towards night, he exchanged
the braggart for a sort of maudling sentimentality. By day he was
the old soldier, a man who was as good as any in the land--his
swagger was proverbial; at night, or after an exaggerated bout of
drinking, his mood would change, and it was sympathy for which he
craved. There was nothing he enjoyed more at such times than to
dwell upon his bye-gone sins.
"Walk with me a little way, at any rate," he urged. "There is
something I should like to tell you."
So Mostyn complied, his good-nature compelling him; and Captain
Armitage, with palpable enjoyment, recounted his tale of woe. Of
course, it was false for the best part: the man was a failure through
drink, a fact that was plainly writ upon his mottled and congested
cheeks, which contrasted so forcibly with his fine white beard and
moustache. Certainly, he had sufficient means to indulge his passion
for the racecourse, though none but himself knew if it was upon this,
and this alone, that he spent his income.
Mostyn felt constrained to remonstrate. "I didn't think you were in
such desperate straits, Captain Armitage," he said. "What about
Castor?"
"Ah!" The old man drew himself up with a sudden jerk. "You remind
me: that's just what I wanted to talk about. Castor's my horse, a
two-year old; you wouldn't find a better if you searched the United
Kingdom from end to end. Old Rory's Pollux isn't in it with the
colt. A Derby winner, sir, if I know anything about racing. Well, I
can sell Castor if I think fit." He glanced meaningly at Mostyn as
he spoke.
"Why would you sell Castor if you feel so sure about him?" queried
Mostyn, "There may be a fortune in the horse."
"Perhaps, but I'm broke--broke to the world; things have been going
precious bad with me lately." The old man tapped Mostyn on the arm
with his bony knuckle. "Now, there's you," he continued, "a young
man of promise, a sportsman in embryo, keen as they make 'em. You
were saying to-day that you wanted to win a big race. Well, here's
your chance. You can have Castor for a song, a mere song. What do
you say to fifteen hundred pounds?" He leered insinuatingly. "It's
the chance of a lifetime."
Mostyn laughed aloud. Fifteen hundred pounds! He who had but a
tithe of that sum in the world. However, Captain Armitage was hardly
to be blamed for the error into which he had fallen, for Mostyn had
certainly contrived to give a false impression that day. It was all
due to that absurd enthusiasm of his.
"I shall never own race-horses," he said humbly. "I've got no money
for such things. I was only saying what I felt, not because I hoped
ever to do it really."
Captain Armitage's hand dropped from Mostyn's arm. His jaw fell and
he muttered something in his beard. He was annoyed at having been
deceived; he had taken Mostyn for a young man of wealth and position,
or he would not have wasted his breath upon him.
"Then it was bluff?" he said curtly.
"Call it what you like." Mostyn was not prepared to argue the point.
"It's certainly true that I have no intention whatever of going in
for racing."
Once again Captain Armitage muttered in his beard, and Mostyn was
quite assured that the remark was not complimentary to himself. They
walked on a few paces almost in silence, then suddenly the captain
turned his head, and muttering, "There's a friend of mine; so long!"
waved his hand airily and was hidden in the crowd that thronged the
street. Mostyn stood still, and after a moment or so, he saw the
unmistakable figure of his military friend disappearing,
unaccompanied, under the flaming portals of a public-house.
Mostyn found himself standing alone close to the brilliantly-lit
entrance of a well-known music hall, through the doors of which a
crowd was pouring out, the entertainment being just concluded. He
had never been inside a music hall in his life, and, indeed, the
whole aspect of the streets at this time of night was new to him.
Tired as he was he watched the scene with interest. Here was Life,
as it was understood by most young men of his age.
Over-dressed men and under-dressed women passed across the pavement
to the cabs, broughams, or motors which were summoned for them by the
liveried messengers. Mostyn, as he stood crowded against the
shuttered window of a shop, could see the bare shoulders,
insufficiently covered by rich opera cloaks, the glint of jewels, the
flushed faces; his nostrils received the vague impression of perfume;
his ears were pierced by shrill whistling, by the roar of traffic, by
the shouting and laughter, by all the discord--or was it harmony?--of
a London night. And ceaselessly the restless crowd of the street
surged to and fro: all manner of man and woman--the satisfied and the
hungry, the well-clad and the ragged, the joyful and the sad.
It was a different aspect of life from that which he had studied
earlier in the day, and it was another emotion that stirred him as he
watched. For was it not well that a man should see all sides, that
he should judge for himself? The policy of repression, that which he
had known all his life long--John Clithero's policy--now, more than
ever, Mostyn saw the fallacy of it. The thing forbidden has a
fascination which blinds the eyes to its danger; wilful ignorance may
engender excess. Mostyn knew what it was to struggle with
temptation, but his sense of honour and duty had held him in check.
A weaker nature might easily have succumbed. As he watched, he
reflected upon the attraction which this scene had had for his
imagination; but he was not so sure that he felt the same about it
now.
By the curb stood a woman clad in the Salvation Army dress. She
spoke to many, but was rudely repulsed. A stout young man, whose
face Mostyn had not seen, was assisting a smartly-dressed woman into
the hansom which had been summoned for him. The Salvation Army girl
approached him. She lifted her arms and extended them straight out
to the right and left, finally bringing them forward and pressing
them together as if she were striving against a great weight. In
that gesture she seemed to concentrate upon one man alone all the
veiled sin, the careless folly of the scene.
"Man," she cried appealingly, "behold thy handiwork!"
He repulsed her roughly, muttering an oath. He pushed her from him
into the gutter. Mostyn sprang forward, fearing that she would fall,
and at that moment, as he dragged her back to the pavement, he caught
a glimpse of the face of the young man who had acted so brutally.
There could be no mistaking those pale, pasty cheeks, nor the thin
streaks of nondescript coloured hair hanging over the forehead--it
was Mostyn's brother Charles--Charles, whose idea of honour had
impelled him to play the part of tale-bearer and slanderer.
Recognition was mutual. For one moment Charles stood staring at
Mostyn in petrified dismay, then, without a word, he plunged after
his companion into the hansom and was whirled away.
As the cab drove off, Mostyn laughed aloud. He was not really
surprised. He had often had his suspicions of Charles in this
particular direction, though he had never voiced them. Charles
professed to be keenly interested in some East End Mission work, and
it was understood that he stayed occasionally with his friend who
conducted the Mission. Mostyn remembered that he had arranged to be
absent that particular evening. Well--it all fell in with Mostyn's
reflections. Charles was a weaker spirit, and he had yielded to
temptation--yielded dishonourably, hiding his weakness behind a lie.
Mostyn was not vindictive by nature, but he was human enough to be
glad that Charles had recognised him. Charles--judging according to
his own nature--would certainly conclude that his brother would
retaliate upon him, and he would suffer accordingly. "Serve him
right, too," was Mostyn's reflection. "Charles won't enjoy being
found out--and by me. I hope his conscience will prick him--the
sneak!"
"Paper, captain? last extry speshul?" A small newsboy, keen-eyed and
ragged, thrust his wares before Mostyn, who fumbled in his pocket and
produced a coin. He did not really want a paper, but he thought the
lad looked tired and hungry. He folded his purchase, thrust it away,
and forgot all about it till he was back at the hotel and in the
solitude of his own room.
As he undressed he scanned the pages carelessly, his thoughts in
reality far away. But suddenly an item of intelligence, under the
stop-press news attracted his attention. He carried the paper under
the electric light, and, with a gasp of dismay and genuine regret,
perused the paragraph.
"At a late hour to-night, intelligence has come to hand of a fatal
accident to the well-known American financier and explorer, Mr.
Anthony Royce. Particulars are still wanting, but Mr. Royce's death
is reported to be due to a motor-car mishap."
The paper dropped from Mostyn's hand. Anthony Royce, in whose
company he had been that very afternoon, who had evinced so much
interest in him for the sake of his dead and gone mother--who had
instigated Mostyn's wild speech about winning a Derby--Anthony Royce
had met with a sudden and tragic death!
Whatever scheme may have been in the financier's mind, whatever the
suggestion that he wished to propose to Mostyn, here was an end to it
all. Anthony Royce had carried his plan with him to the grave.