MOSTYN PREPARES FOR BATTLE.
"Well, my boy, I'm glad to have seen you, and to have heard all about
this curious business from your own lips. Gad, I could hardly
believe it, when Pierce first told me, but thought he was trying to
pull my leg! The young dog, it's just the sort of thing he might
have been capable of."
Genial "Old Rory" smiled indulgently at his nephew, and then turned
again to Mostyn, to whom he had been addressing himself.
"Anyway, you may depend upon me to do all I can to help you. It's
about the finest sporting event I've ever come across in my life, and
there's humour in it, too"--Sir Roderick's broad features reflected
his appreciation of this--"just the sort of humour that I should have
expected of my poor old friend, Anthony Royce. To give a man--one
who knows nothing about racing--forgive me Clithero, but that's true,
isn't it?--a big capital, and oblige him, if he's going to win a
still bigger legacy at the end of it, to steep himself in racing,
just because there's an old grudge to be paid off against the
legatee's father, who abhors racing as he abhors the devil--well,
there's something that appeals to me in that, and I wouldn't miss the
fun of watching your progress for the next year, no, not if I never
won another race in my life. Here's luck to you, Clithero!"--the old
man lifted a foaming glass of champagne to his lips as he spoke--"may
you do justice to yourself, to Royce's memory, and to your father."
"Old Rory" laughed again as he spoke the last words. He was
picturing to himself the expression of John Clithero's face when the
latter came to learn that his son was becoming a prominent figure
upon the turf.
"He'll moan about the sins of the children being visited upon the
fathers," Sir Roderick muttered to himself, then continued: "But
don't you let out your secret, my boy, not to a living soul except
those who are already in the know. It's a good thing your solicitors
could keep it quiet for you. If anything of the truth leaked out
before you had carried the job through, the difficulties of your task
would be magnified a hundred-fold. You may take that from me, and I
know what I'm talking about."
Mostyn and Pierce had been dining, as Sir Roderick's guests, at the
Imperial Club. Mostyn had only arrived in town the day before, and
Pierce, who had been impatiently awaiting him, was not prepared to
allow the grass to grow under their feet. He was as keenly
interested in Mostyn's success as was the latter himself. The dinner
with Sir Roderick had been arranged at his suggestion.
"'Old Rory' is the best fellow in the world," he had told Mostyn,
"and he can do more for you than any man I know of in
London--introduce you to the right sort of people, and all that kind
of thing. If we can get him really interested in our struggle, why,
the battle will be more than half won before it has commenced."
Mostyn had been anxious at first that nothing should be said to Sir
Roderick MacPhane about the unsatisfactory deal he had made over the
colt Castor; he was very shy of any allusion to Rada, and the whole
story of Captain Armitage's duplicity could hardly have been touched
upon without some reference to the girl.
Besides, after all, so Mostyn had argued with himself, Captain
Armitage might be a disreputable and altogether unscrupulous old man,
but, nevertheless, he was Rada's father, and so a privileged person
in Mostyn's eyes. However, Pierce had advised that the truth should
be told, although, of course, it was not necessary to mention by what
means Rada had succeeded in paying for the colt. It was quite enough
to explain that, after having purchased Castor, Mostyn had discovered
his mistake and, out of consideration for Rada, had consented to the
whole transaction being annulled.
To Pierce, Mostyn had unbosomed himself, making a clean breast of
everything; not even keeping back the incidents of that passionate
moment when he had held Rada in his arms, and, goaded on by some
impulse that he hardly understood himself, had told her of his love.
As a consequence he had been forced to listen to what Pierce was
pleased to call a lecture upon worldly wisdom. He had indeed been
rather severely taken to task.
"Look here, Mostyn," Pierce had concluded by saying, "you've got a
stiff job before you, a task which is far more difficult than you
seem to think; well, if you're going to win you must put all thoughts
of love-making and suchlike nonsense out of your head. I know it's
jolly hard when a man gets taken that way--I ought to know, oughtn't
I? but I've got my year's probation, and now you've got yours as
well. Look at it in that light. You've got to think of horses for
the next year, and horses only. You'll come to grief if you go
running after the petticoats as well. As for Rada, she is like an
untrained filly, and you will have your work cut out for you if you
think of breaking her in. Do as you like in a year, old man; but you
can't stand a handicap yet."
"You needn't worry about Rada, Pierce," Mostyn returned, without any
loss of temper. "There's not going to be any more love scenes
between her and myself. Why, she said she hated me, and we've never
met yet without quarrelling."
"That's all right, then." Pierce had glanced sharply at his friend's
face as if to convince himself that Mostyn was quite serious. The
innocent! Why, according to his own tale, Rada had allowed him to
kiss her; she had rested for a few moments in his arms before she had
torn herself away, crying and protesting, just as Pierce would have
expected of her, wayward little creature that she was; and yet Mostyn
did not seem to realise that the game was in his own hands! He had
taken Rada quite seriously!
Such was, indeed, the case, for Mostyn had left Partinborough without
seeing Rada again, quite convinced that his company was odious to her.
Well, this was all for the best--so argued Pierce to himself, and, as
a wise man, with Mostyn's best interest at heart, it would be folly
for him to point out any possibility of mistake.
After dinner was concluded that evening the three men retired to the
club smoking-room, in order seriously to discuss Mostyn's projects
for the future, and, of course, Sir Roderick MacPhane was allowed to
be spokesman.
"Well, Mostyn," he said--he had easily dropped into the way of
calling the young man by his Christian name--"since you've lost
Castor, I expect you'll have to give up all hopes of doing anything
in next year's Derby. You're not likely to find another colt worth
the buying--certainly not one that could hold a candle to Castor--or
to my Pollux, for the matter of that. But, of course, if I have
correctly grasped the situation, the Derby is not a race that you
need consider seriously just yet. You have plenty of other chances
to win your money, and it is over those that you had better lay
yourself out. You've got to earn your legacy first, and then you'll
be in the position to direct all your attention to the Derby--that
is, if you're still anxious to make good what you said upon my coach
at Epsom a week or so back--that you would win the classic race in
five years' time."
Sir Roderick laughed heartily as he recalled the scene. "I didn't
know what to make of you that day, Mostyn," he continued, "but I
understand now, that it was Royce who instigated you to that quixotic
speech of yours. You were being laughed at. Oh, my dear boy, how
you flushed! and how angry you looked with that little spitfire, Rada
Armitage!"
Mostyn flushed now as if to prove that he had not yet lost the habit.
"I didn't understand what Mr. Royce meant either," he replied, "but I
just said what he told me. In fact, I said I would win the Derby in
five years' time instead of ten, as he suggested in my ear. Of
course, I was an arrant fool, and didn't know what I was talking
about."
"Well, you stand a very good chance, thanks to our friend, Royce, of
carrying your words into effect," said Sir Roderick, "but, as I was
saying, unless you are absolutely pushed to it, I wouldn't worry my
head too much over next year's Derby. If you should fail in all the
other races that are open to you, then, of course, we must see what
is to be done--for the Derby is the last chance you've got, isn't it?
The year granted you by the terms of the will terminates with the
Epsom Summer Meeting next year?"
"That is so," acquiesced Mostyn. "The Oaks will be absolutely my
last chance."
"I understand." The old sportsman was silent for a few moments,
leaning forward, his elbows resting upon his knees, as if in thought.
Once, a club friend, passing close to him, addressed him by name, but
"Old Rory" only looked up and grunted, immediately afterwards
resuming his attitude of profound thought. The man passed on with a
smile--"Old Rory" and his quaint habits were well known and
understood by every member of the club.
On his side Mostyn was in no hurry to interrupt the silence.
Everything that Sir Roderick had said so far quite coincided with his
own ideas. He had no wish whatever to run a horse for the next
year's Derby unless he was absolutely compelled by the circumstance
of forces to do so. The fact was that he did not wish to oppose
Rada, Rada who had set her heart upon winning that race. True, she
had in a way challenged him--he remembered the words quite well, for
she had spoken them on the first occasion of their meeting at
Partinborough Grange: "I'm only a girl, but I'll back myself to win
the Derby before you." That's what she had said, and later on, when
she found that he had purchased Castor she had jumped to the
conclusion that he had done so for the purpose of avenging himself
upon her--she, like everyone else, being ignorant of his real motive.
For a little while he had felt that it would be pleasant to enter
into competition with her and to beat her upon her own ground, but
that was before he had become convinced that he loved her; now things
appeared differently to him, and he desired nothing more than that
Rada should win her cherished ambition; for himself he had to
concentrate his attention upon realising his legacy by winning one of
the other races that were open to him, and, that done, he would still
have four years left him in which to find a Derby winner--no light
thing, of course--but then, his means would be almost unlimited. He
felt that he owed it to Royce's memory to attain this end, quite as
much as for the gratification of his own self-esteem.
But he would not hurt Rada if he could help it--that was the one
thing upon which his mind was made up. There was no reason whatever,
as he looked at the position now, why they should be opposed to each
other. The only rivalry between them lay in the undoubted fact that
she had defied him to win the Derby within five years, and he had
quite made up his mind to do so.
Sir Roderick looked up at last, and turned his attention to his
coffee, which had been growing cold in front of him. He began to
stir it slowly and reflectively with a long cigar cutter, which he
had taken up in mistake for his spoon, a mistake over which he
laughed heartily when Pierce hastened to rectify it.
"It's not only in my speeches that I blunder, apparently. That's
just what I am always doing in the House," he pronounced, "stirring
up things with the wrong sort of spoon. But the stirring gets done
all right, which is the main thing. But now to business," he went
on, "and this is my advice to you, Mostyn. You tell me you are going
to have a shot for the Royal Hunt Cup, the first race open to you;
well, of course, you can do so if you like, and there's no harm
whatever in trying your stride, but I can tell you right away that
you can't expect to do anything either for the Hunt Cup or at
Goodwood. The time is much too short. After Goodwood I see you have
the Leger--" Sir Roderick was inspecting, by means of one of the
circular magnifying glasses provided by the club, a written list of
the races which had been scheduled in Anthony Royce's will. "Well,
as to the Leger," he continued, "I really don't see that I can hold
out any hope for you there either. You are not likely to get a
three-year-old capable of beating either Hipponous or Peveril, and
they are both bound to run if fit. So it's as clear as a pike-staff
to me that your best chance will be for the Cesarewitch or the
Cambridgeshire, and with luck you might pull one of those races off.
Anyway I'll do what I can for you if you really think my advice and
assistance of any use--in fact, I've already got an idea that I may
be able to secure a horse for you for the Cesarewitch; I won't tell
you its name just yet, however, but you can take it from me that it
will be a good thing."
Mostyn was loud in his thanks, and before the little party broke up
that evening, he was as confident of winning his legacy as if the
money were already in his pocket.
"Well, good-bye, my boy," Sir Roderick said, when he rose to go--he
always observed early hours on those occasions when he was not
sitting late in Parliament. "You've been set a task that I envy you.
Go straight at it for all you are worth, and don't be afraid of
spending your money--that's the safest way of putting it in your
pocket."
Of course, both Pierce and Mostyn laughed heartily over this
characteristic bull, an inversion of ideas that had a sound basis of
truth as far as Mostyn was concerned. It was perhaps significant of
the real interest that "Old Rory" was taking in his subject that he
had only perpetrated one bull in the course of that evening.
Left alone, the two young men ordered whisky and soda, and then they
fell to discussing their own more intimate affairs. It may be
assumed that the names of Cicely and Rada--this in spite of Pierce's
eloquent discourse on worldly wisdom--were repeated many times before
the sitting came to an end. For now that Mostyn had come to town
there was no reason why he should not see his sister; of course, he
could not go to Bryanston Square, but they might easily meet by
appointment somewhere else--say at Mostyn's rooms in Jermyn Street.
And naturally, since Pierce was forbidden to see Cicely, he was eager
to hear all about her from her brother.
"I don't see why you should scold me about Rada," Mostyn smiled,
when, a little before midnight, he parted from his friend at the
corner of Jermyn Street, "you have spoken of nothing but Cicely for
the last hour, and I haven't been able to get in a word edgeways."
"Cicely and I love each other," returned Pierce thoughtlessly.
Mostyn reflected upon those words rather bitterly as he walked slowly
down Jermyn Street. Yes, of course, it was different--very
different. Pierce and Cicely had been engaged, were presumably
engaged still, in spite of the year's probation that had been imposed
upon them. At the end of that year, whether further opposition were
offered on the part of John Clithero or not, the two young people
would come together again, and all would be well between them.
How different it was with himself! How extraordinary that he should
have fixed his affections upon a girl with whom he could do nothing
but quarrel, who had made sport of him in public, and who had
declared that she hated him. What a fool he was, and how he wished
he could get the vision of Rada--Rada, with her glossy and rebellious
hair, and with her piercing black eyes--out of his brain. Rada, who
had called herself a devil when he had insisted that she was an angel!
Well, it was a good thing that he had so much to occupy his thoughts.
Pierce was right, and he must give himself up wholly to the task
before him--he must leave Rada to Jack Treves, if it could really be
possible that she cared for the trainer's son. Rada was not for him.
He sighed heavily as he entered his room and switched on the electric
light. A little pile of letters awaited him upon the table, and
topmost of all was one addressed in a rather straggling, feminine
handwriting; Mostyn, taking it up curiously, perceived that it bore
the Partinborough postmark.
He knew at once, instinctively, that the letter was from Rada
herself--from Rada, whom he was trying his best to forget.