MOSTYN MAKES AN ENEMY.
"I don't hate you!" Rada's letter began quite abruptly. "Indeed I
don't, Mr. Clithero, and I was a little beast to say I did, and I am
writing to you now because my conscience pricks me. You were very
good--awfully good--to me about Castor, and I am grateful to you, I
really am. I know how you insisted on giving the colt back to my
father, and the terms you exacted from him. I don't believe you
bought Castor out of any malice towards me, and I only said so
because I was in a temper and couldn't control my tongue. Then you
would insist upon my being an angel, a paragon of virtue, when I was
feeling myself a wicked little devil--and that was silly of you, you
know--you ought to understand women better.
"But I feel I want to be friends with you, Mr. Clithero, and that is
why I am writing. I haven't got so many that I can afford to part
with one. We are rivals in a way, and since I have got Castor back,
I do think I stand the best chance of winning the Derby first. As
far as that part of our bet goes--since you will insist upon looking
at it as a bet--I have the advantage. But, then, it wasn't fair to
you from the start. I spoke, knowing that I had got Castor, while
you didn't even know that I had registered my colours. That was just
like me, so I won't attempt to excuse myself.
"But since you are so eager to win a Derby, and prove me wrong in
what I said upon the coach, I do hope you will be successful. You
gave yourself five years, you remember, so you need not grudge me
Castor next June. Only I don't want you to go on spending a lot of
money over what was only, after all, a silly speech. Wouldn't it be
better for me to retract every word I said, and for us both to forget
all about it?"
"Poor Rada!" mused Mostyn, smiling as he read. "She little knows,
she little guesses why I have taken up racing so keenly. I wonder
what she'll say later on when she sees me throwing my money about
right and left--in order to put it in my pocket, as 'Old Rory' would
say. She'll think I'm doing it only out of bravado, and just because
I want to get even with her. She'll think me a silly young fool," he
added, rather ruefully, "but I can't help it if she does. I won't
tell the truth, even to her, until I've succeeded in my task. Then I
don't mind who knows."
A few minutes ago Mostyn had been telling himself that he must put
Rada out of mind altogether; now, as a consequence of her letter, he
found himself half unconsciously contemplating what he should say to
her upon their next meeting.
Their ways were not to lie so far apart, after all. The girl did not
hate him, and it was only his colossal innocence which had made him
think she did. Mostyn was beginning to learn his lesson.
But there was Jack Treves. Did she say anything in her letter about
Jack Treves? With fingers that trembled a little, he turned over the
page, and there, about half-way down, he espied the name of the
trainer's son. After that he resumed his reading of the letter at
the place where he had left off, his heart fluttering foolishly, the
written words upon the page dancing before his eyes.
"And now, just a few words on another subject," so the letter went
on. "It's a thing that I can write better than I can speak--it's
about Jack Treves and that thousand pounds. It's true I got the
money from him, and that there's a sort of promise of marriage
between us. It's not only because he helped me to buy back Castor,
but there has been a vague kind of understanding, for the last year
or two, that I am to marry him some day. My father wants it. You'll
respect my confidence, I know, so I will tell you that there's a
considerable debt, and it must be paid off somehow."
"The old blackguard!" commented Mostyn forcibly, when he reached this
point. "He's selling his daughter to pay off his debts--that's just
what it means. But to sell her to a low-down bounder like young
Treves--it's cruel and disgusting. And she, I don't believe she
cares for Treves a bit, really, and she's probably angry with herself
now because she's bound the fetters all the tighter about her by
going to him in one of those tempestuous tempers of hers and
borrowing a thousand pounds. A curse upon the money--if only Rada
had taken it back!"
Mostyn had thrust the notes away in his safe at the Grange that
night, and there they had remained. It was a foolish thing to have
done, no doubt, but he could not bring himself to touch the money--it
was like fire to his fingers.
Mostyn continued his reading. "The truth is, that I don't love
anyone--at least, I don't think I do. It did not seem to me to
matter if I married Jack Treves or not. He would do as well as
another--since I had to marry some day. And just now my mind is far
too full of other matters--of Castor, for instance, whom I think I
love better than any man upon earth--to think of marriage, or
anything of the sort. Jack understands that, and he's promised not
to bother me till after the Derby next year. I like him for that;
it's nice of him, don't you think so?
"Now, Mr. Clithero, I think I've explained everything as well as I
can. You'll come back to the Grange soon, won't you? We'll be
friends, and try not to quarrel again."
It was with mingled feelings that Mostyn, having read and re-read the
letter, folded it up and thrust it in his pocket. The one point that
stood out clearly in his mind was that Rada did not really love Jack
Treves, although she had allowed herself to drift into a sort of
engagement with him. Mostyn could not flatter himself, from anything
she said in her letter, that she had any deeper feeling towards
himself; but, after all, there was no saying what might happen in the
course of the next year. It was very clear that, till after Castor
had run in the Derby, Rada did not want to be bothered--that was her
own expression--with questions of love from him or from anyone else.
Well, no doubt it was all for the best. He, himself, had quite
enough to occupy his attention till after the next Derby was raced
and won; in the meanwhile, it was an excellent arrangement that he
and Rada should be good friends, and he would willingly undertake, as
Jack Treves had evidently undertaken, not to "bother" her with any
further suggestion of his affection. Ultimately, if she should care
for him better than for Jack--his lip curled derisively at the mere
idea of the comparison--well, there was very little doubt that
Captain Armitage would not mind who married his daughter as long as
his debts were paid.
"I shall be something like a millionaire by then, I hope," Mostyn
muttered to himself, "so Master Jack, if it's a question of money, I
think I shall stand a better chance than you."
With which reflection and a satisfied smile upon his lips, Mostyn
retired to bed.
"Well, all I can say is I hope you'll stick to the arrangement of
being just friends," Pierce grumbled when, the next day, Mostyn told
him of the letter he had received, and how he had answered
it--answered it, perhaps, with a little more enthusiasm than Pierce
altogether cared for, explaining that he was looking forward to the
day when he could return to Partinborough Grange. This, however,
could not be for a week or so, Mostyn had added, at any rate not till
after Goodwood. But the Cesarewitch was bound to bring him to
Newmarket. "Just the race that's going to mean so much for us,"
Pierce commented with a sigh.
"Don't be afraid, old man," laughed Mostyn, who was happier that day
than Pierce had seen him since his arrival in London--a bad omen, the
latter argued. "I give you my word that I'll put the Cesarewitch
before everything else. Rada doesn't want to be bothered, and I
won't bother her."
And with this promise Pierce was constrained to be content.
The days passed, and, as they had anticipated, their first essay--for
the Royal Hunt Cup--met with most indifferent success; they had,
indeed, been quite confident of failure long before the day of the
race.
The same fate befell them, just as "Old Rory" had predicted, at
Goodwood, and later on, at the St. Leger. The latter race cost
Mostyn a good deal of money. The only animal that he had been able
to secure was a dark horse from the Manton stables, which, for
various reasons, could not be trained earlier in the year, and was
thought to have some chance. He proved an expensive bargain, and
came in with the ruck. The actual race was, as had been foretold, a
struggle between Hipponous and Peveril. These two horses fought out
their battle a second time, and the Doncaster course suited the
chestnut even better than that of Epsom. Once more Sir Roderick
MacPhane secured a victory.
These defeats having been anticipated, neither Mostyn nor Pierce were
in any way discouraged; on the contrary, they were all agog with
excitement, for the day of the Cesarewitch was approaching, and for
this race they had secured a horse through the kind offices of Sir
Roderick, who had remembered his promise, with which they hoped to do
wonders.
Gulliver, the horse in question, came of an irreproachable pedigree,
and could already boast of a good record. He had run third the
previous year, and was only carrying seven pounds more than on the
former occasion. Indeed, under the training of old Treves, to whom
Mostyn had naturally sent him, Gulliver soon become a hot favourite
for the Cesarewitch.
Of course, by this time Mostyn and Rada had met again, not once but
many times. Gulliver being in the charge of Treves at Partinborough,
there was nothing to be wondered at in Mostyn running up and down
between London and his country home. Certainly his visits to the
Grange were brief, but then Pierce was always at his elbow to hurry
him away. Mostyn sighed but obeyed. His life seemed to be
compounded of long railway journeys all over the country; he had even
been dragged to Dublin for the Horse Show, and on another occasion he
had journeyed to Paris to view some horses which had been
particularly recommended to him.
He was beginning to be talked about; the sporting papers were taking
notice of his name. His face had become a familiar one upon the
racecourse. A little later, unless he attained his object either at
the Cesarewitch or Cambridgeshire, he knew quite well that he was
bound to become an object of general curiosity, a young man who was
throwing himself wildly into the track of the spendthrift, the way
many had gone before him, those who foolishly dissipated fortunes on
the Turf. But then, of course, the world did not know, and, after
all, it mattered very little to him what the world should say. Let
it be clearly stated here that, apart from his genuine love of sport,
Mostyn took no pleasure in the apparently reckless course to which he
was pledged. He did not bet. His object was to achieve the task
which had been set him as quickly as possible, and then to take up
the position of the man who went in for racing reasonably, with
discretion and without the inordinate passion of the gambler.
That John Clithero was already raging and fuming over his son's
growing notoriety, so much Mostyn already knew. He had seen Cicely
on several occasions soon after his first return to London from
Partinborough. These meetings had been a great pleasure to himself
as well as to the girl, as long as they could be continued, but
eventually, by some misfortune, John Clithero obtained an inkling of
them, and summarily brought them to a conclusion by denying his
daughter the liberty which she had till then enjoyed.
Poor Cicely! Mostyn thought her sadly changed in those days. She
had always been a little shy and nervous in manner, not very strong
physically, but now these peculiarities were so markedly increased
that Mostyn had asked her anxiously, more than once, if she were sure
that she were not ill?
She had replied that there was nothing amiss with her health, only
that she was not happy. Could it be expected that she should be
happy? Prevented from seeing her lover, she was always torturing
herself as to what the end of it all would be. Her father was
constantly telling her that she should never marry Pierce, that he
would see her in her coffin first, and though Pierce had declared to
her, taking all his gods to witness that he spoke the truth, that as
soon as the year's probation imposed upon him by his father had
passed, he would take her away from home and cheerfully set John
Clithero at defiance; although over and over again Mostyn, inspired
by Pierce himself, would repeat this statement to her, yet she always
shook her fair head, nervously clasping and unclasping her fingers, a
bright spot of colour rising ominously to the centre of each pale
cheek.
"Who can say what will happen in a year's time?" she would murmur
half under her breath. "Our father is a strong man, Mostyn, and he
has always had his way. I feel that he will have his way with me."
No arguments that Mostyn could adduce had any effect upon her, nor
would she consent to his suggestion that she should leave her home
and settle with him. His idea was that he could easily have
installed her at Partinborough Grange.
But again Cicely shook her head, though her eyes glistened and became
wet with tears at her inability to accept. The truth was that she
was afraid, and perhaps not without reason, for, if she were free
from her father's yoke, living under her brother's care--her brother,
who was so constantly in the company of Pierce--well, then, the
temptation that both she herself and her lover would have to endure
might be more than their strength could withstand. They might meet,
the probability was that they would meet, and then Pierce would want
to set not only Mr. Clithero but his own father as well at defiance.
And to do this would mean his ruin: Cicely quite understood that, and
she was not going to allow him to run the risk. It was wiser, far
wiser, for her to endure her life at home, almost unbearable though
it was becoming because of her father's ill-temper so often directed
against herself, and because of the overbearing manner which both
James and Charles had adopted towards her: it was better for her to
put a brave face upon all this and to wait till the year's probation
had expired, hoping against hope that all might be well in the end.
Mostyn, concerned as he was for his sister, had seen the reason of
her arguments, and he had comforted her as best he could, assuring
her of Pierce's fidelity, and pointing out, adopting a tone of levity
that he did not feel, that some months of the year had already
passed, and that the rest would go by quickly enough. But all the
same, his heart bled for his sister, and he would have liked nothing
better than to have had a few minutes uninterrupted conversation with
those brothers of his, James the Prig and Charles the Sneak; it was
against them that his animosity was chiefly directed, for he knew
that his father acted rightly according to his lights; but as for the
two younger men--well, Mostyn had good reason to mistrust them both.
He had explained to Cicely that his sudden accession to wealth was
due to a legacy bequeathed to him by Anthony Royce; beyond this he
had entered into no particulars. Let John Clithero believe, as
undoubtedly he would believe, that his son had thrown himself into
the world of sport by his own inclination; Mostyn did not care very
much what interpretation might be put upon his acts. He had, indeed,
been more amused than annoyed when he was approached by his father's
solicitors with the request that, if he must go racing and squander
good money, he should adopt another name for the purpose. This was
only evidence of the fact that Anthony Royce's subtle revenge was
already taking effect, and that John Clithero was raging impotently
at the fancied degradation of his family honour. Yet what had
happened so far was nothing to what might be expected in the future:
so Mostyn, a little irritated by the tone adopted by the solicitors,
had felt bound to tell them. His father had cast him off cruelly and
unjustly, and now Mostyn was his own master, at liberty to face the
world as seemed best to him.
When Pierce learnt that the meetings of Mostyn and Cicely had been
prohibited he was furiously angry, and it was all that Mostyn could
do to keep him from there and then proceeding to Bryanston Square and
summarily carrying Cicely off. But he calmed down after a time, and
admitted that the girl was right, that it was best not to precipitate
matters, nor to incur the anger of old Mr. Trelawny.
"Although I must say," Pierce grumbled, "as I have said before, that
I can't make my governor out. He was loud in his praises of you for
having struck out your own course, but if I went and did the same
thing--well"--Pierce shrugged his shoulders disconsolately--"I
believe that Cicely and I might beg our bread for all that he'd care."
So matters stood when Mostyn and Pierce took up their residence at
Partinborough Grange some ten days before the Newmarket meeting. The
house had been thoroughly put in order, and was now as comfortable a
residence as anyone could desire. As for the garden, this had
become, under the careful auspices of Willis--who had now someone to
work for--a very floral paradise. Perhaps it was for the sake of
Rada that Mostyn had given special care to the cultivation of roses;
he knew how she loved the flower, and how they had attracted her to
the Grange before he came.
Mostyn and Rada met almost daily, but they met as good friends,
nothing more. Pierce could have had no possible reasons for
grumbling. Mostyn had quite made up his mind that the girl must not
be bothered by his attentions, and she herself seemed to appreciate
his decision, for she never referred in any way to that explanatory
letter which she had written to London.
Mostyn had no particular reason to be jealous of Jack Treves, in
spite of the understanding which he knew existed between the girl and
the trainer's son. Rada showed herself, as far as she could, to be
impartial, and her one desire during these days seemed to be to
avoid, as far as she could, any reference to love or marriage: Castor
was her one care.
Certainly Mostyn was not jealous, nor did he ever attempt, by word or
deed, to belittle Jack Treves in Rada's eyes--this though not
infrequently she would appeal to him for his opinion as to this or
that in the behaviour of Jack. He had fully made up his mind that he
would hold himself quite neutral and await events--the crisis that
would have to come after the following year's Derby.
But as for Jack Treves, he did not look upon matters quite in the
same light, and when trouble came it was due wholly to his jealousy,
for he had quite decided that he had cause to be jealous. Thus it
was that he was the first to break the stipulation about not
bothering Rada, and she, in revenge, retaliated by cutting him for
days together and allowing herself to be more than ever in the
company of Mostyn. Of all this the latter knew nothing until, as was
to be expected, the storm broke.
It was two or three days before the Cesarewitch and Mostyn had
strolled over to the stables to have a look at Gulliver after he was
brought in from exercise. He was strolling leisurely across the
stretch of open country towards the gates when he was suddenly
confronted by Rada, emerging flushed and excited, her lips pursed
angrily together, her eyes glittering with that look of irresponsible
defiance which Mostyn had already grown to recognise, though of late
it had not been directed against himself.
Nor could it be so on the present occasion; he was quite sure of
that, for it was more than a fortnight since he and Rada had had
anything approaching a quarrel, and then it had been merely over some
trivial matter quickly forgotten. The girl would have passed him
with a little quick nod of her head, but he held out his arm and
impeded her.
"What's up, Rada; what's wrong?" he asked.
At first she would give him no explanation at all; she begged him to
let her go; her father was expecting her at home, and she was in a
hurry. But Mostyn, although he knew it was at some risk to himself,
took her by the arm and quietly demanded particulars. He had grown
in daring of late.
"You must tell me, Rada," he said, "you really must. I insist."
She looked at him, startled. It was the first time that he had
adopted a tone of command towards her. Perhaps in her heart she was
not altogether displeased, although for a few moments she was
inclined to resent his interference.
But the truth came out in the end. She had just had a scene with
Jack Treves, and she was furious with him, so she asserted, perfectly
furious. He had been worrying her, making her life wretched, and now
matters had come to a climax.
Mostyn did not guess that he was in any way the cause of this, nor
did Rada care to admit the fact. The trouble, however, on the
present occasion was more deeply seated.
It was due, in a great measure, to Daisy Simpson. Jack had refused
to break off his intimacy with this young woman, even after his
semi-engagement to Rada had become generally known, with the very
natural result that tongues had wagged and scandal been hinted at.
Daisy had finally put an end to all this by taking her departure for
London with the avowed intention of going upon the stage.
Jack had raged furiously and unreasonably, nor had he made any secret
of his annoyance. Since there was no definite engagement, he argued,
between himself and Rada he was clearly justified in maintaining his
old friendship; if there was any scandal about the matter it was the
fault of Rada and her ridiculous decree, a decree which placed him in
an absurd and quite anomalous position. He therefore demanded that
the girl should consent to her engagement to him being officially
announced.
Such had been the cause of the trouble, and Jack Treves had just been
treated to a touch of Rada's temper. And, no doubt, to judge from
her flashing eyes and the contemptuous curve of her lips, he had been
badly worsted in the encounter.
Rada appeared somewhat relieved when she had unbosomed herself of her
troubles. It was something new for her to find a confidant; under
ordinary circumstances she would have gone straight home, and there,
never having been accustomed to give way before her father or to tell
him anything of her doings, she would have shut herself up in her own
room to brood for hours together, or she might have saddled her mare
and ridden away, just for the mere want of sympathy, as she often did
when Captain Armitage happened to be in a particularly obnoxious
frame of mind, or muddled from drink, now more often than ever the
case.
These ideas flashed quickly through Mostyn's brain as, awkwardly
enough, he attempted to speak words of consolation. All his heart
went out in sympathy to the wayward girl. How could it be expected
that Rada should be anything than just what she had become?
"I won't have it announced to all the world that some day I am going
to be married to Jack," Rada cried, petulantly tapping the turf with
an impatient little foot. "When I have said a thing I mean to abide
by it, and I told Jack that there was to be no mention of any
engagement between us till after next June. It's bad enough to think
that I've got to be married at all----"
"Rada, do you really care for Jack?" The words were upon Mostyn's
tongue, but he did not speak them. He was quite certain that Rada
did not really care for Jack, but at the same time he had no reason
to believe that she cared any better for himself. And what danger of
harming himself in her eyes might he not be running if he suggested
anything of the sort? Rada would only have two men bothering her, as
she expressed it, instead of one. Far better for him to bide his
time and let matters take their own course.
Rada, of her own accord, made answer to the unspoken question. "I
think I'm beginning to hate him," she asserted.
Mostyn turned his head away and, despite himself, his lips parted in
a smile, for he understood the words were spoken in temper and bore
no real significance. Had she not said the same to him? And for the
time being he had been fool enough to believe it.
The truth was, so he told himself a little sadly, after Rada had left
him, that she cared for no one at all. It was the truth that she had
written in her letter. But could she not grow to care? She had had
so little of love in her life that, as yet, she hardly knew the
meaning of the word.
"You are very good to me," so she had said when she left him that
morning, refusing his company on her way home: not that she would not
have been pleased to have it, but because she knew his time was
valuable. "I'm glad that we are friends, Mostyn"--she had come to
call him by his Christian name by now--"though I can't see what there
is in me for you to trouble yourself about."
Mostyn would have liked to have told her there and then, but once
more discretion urged silence.
His adventures of that morning were, however, not yet concluded, for
before he turned in at the stable gates he met Jack Treves himself
lounging heavily out, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his
breeches, his cap tilted to one side of his head, a cigarette thrust
between his lips and carried at an aggressive upward angle.
"Good morning, Treves," said Mostyn. He was always on terms of armed
neutrality with the trainer's son, and he affected to take no notice
of the scowls with which the latter usually met him, and the scarcely
veiled impertinence of the tone which he was wont to adopt. Mostyn
had no wish to quarrel with Jack Treves, mainly for Rada's sake, but
also because he had a sincere respect for Jack's father, the rough,
simple-minded, and uneducated old trainer whom, nevertheless, he
recognised as a straightforward and honest man, one who was serving
him faithfully, and who was doing his utmost to ensure Gulliver's
victory.
Jack came to a halt, standing aggressively between Mostyn and the
stable gates. He drew his hands from his pockets, removed the
cigarette from between his lips and blew out a cloud of smoke--smoke
the odour of which fell offensively upon Mostyn's nostrils. Jack's
fancy in tobacco was not of the most refined order.
"I saw you talkin' to Rada just now," he said. "Been tryin' to
comfort her, I suppose, because I thought it time to have my say? A
nice sort of comforter you are!" There was a vicious sneer upon his
lips. "Look here," he went on, taking a menacing step forward and
dropping the tone of sarcasm which he had not the wit to maintain,
"what do you mean by it?"
"Please explain yourself." Mostyn spoke very quietly; on such
occasions he never lost his temper, and always held himself under
complete control. His calmness galled his adversary.
"You know jolly well what I mean. You're always hanging about Rada,
and ever since you've been here you've tried to make mischief between
us. Well, I'm not going to have it; I tell you that straight."
The young man's words were liberally intersected with oaths.
"You're labouring under a delusion," Mostyn said; then he too
advanced a step, as if to indicate that he had had enough of Jack's
company.
But the latter, already goaded into a passion by Rada, appeared
anxious to vent some of it upon Mostyn. He was not lacking in pluck,
so much can be said for him, for he was in truth the smaller and
sparer man of the two. Mostyn, with his splendid physique, might
well have warned him to think twice before he ventured, as he
actually did, to break out with a string of invectives and foul
words. He had quite a remarkable vocabulary at his disposition.
Even then Mostyn did not lose his temper, recognising that Jack
Treves was in a rage and not responsible for what he said.
"You're a silly fellow, Treves," he remarked with perfect composure,
"and a foul-mouthed one at that. Just stand out of my way, please,
and let me pass. I've some business to talk over with your father."
As he spoke he raised his arm to thrust Jack aside. But this was too
much for the latter; the idea that he should be treated with this
calm disdain, his protest simply ignored, and he himself pushed aside
as if he were of no account whatever, all this caused him completely
to lose control of himself.. He threw himself blindly upon Mostyn
and struck out wildly, not as he would have done in calmer moments,
for, as a matter of fact, lie rather fancied himself upon his
pugilistic powers.
The next moment the natural result came about. Mostyn, forced to it
against his will, retaliated with a well-directed blow, and Jack
Treves measured his length upon the ground. The fight, if fight it
could be called, was very soon at an end, for Jack showed no further
inclination to renew the combat.
"I'm sorry if I hurt you, Treves," Mostyn remarked, as his late
adversary sat up and dabbed a handkerchief to his damaged face. "But
really, you know, if you have anything to say you should be a little
more careful in the way you say it." With which Mostyn passed on.
The matter was concluded as far as he was concerned.
But Jack Treves, behind him, scrambled to his feet. His lip was cut
and the blood was trickling down his chin. There was blood in his
mouth too, and he spat it out as once more a volume of oaths escaped
him.
"D---- you, Mostyn Clithero!" he cried, safely now, for the object of
his hatred was well out of ear-shot. "You haven't downed me for
nothing, I can tell you that. I'll be even with you some day, you
mark my words!"