MOSTYN FACES DEFEAT.
"Pierce, old man, I'm afraid we are going to be beaten." Mostyn
pushed his chair back from the dinner table, lit a cigarette and
disconsolately watched the little rings of smoke which he blew in
quick succession from his lips.
The two friends were seated in the dining-room of the Grange, and
they had just partaken of a good dinner, which had been well served
up by a quiet man-servant, who had been in Mostyn's service for the
last eight months.
The winter, following a series of reverses, had come and gone, and
now, though the prescribed year had nearly elapsed, Mostyn found
himself apparently as far as ever from successfully carrying out the
terms of his bequest.
On the following day the Two Thousand Guineas would be run, then
there was the Thousand; after that there remained the Derby and the
Oaks--and that was all.
Pierce stared straight at the wine-glass which he had just filled
with fine old port, of which Mostyn had found a good supply in his
cellar. He had little to say by way of comfort.
"I am afraid Asmodeus will go down, like the rest of them," he
muttered. "He hasn't an earthly chance against Don Quixote. And
then there's Bouncing Boy."
"Bouncing Boy won't win either," commented Mostyn. He was very
proficient in racing by now, an excellent judge of winning form. He
had formulated quite a theory in his own mind of horses for courses,
but whenever he tried to buy a good horse that had already won a big
handicap he was always met by difficulties in the way of refusal to
sell. "Don Quixote will win, and win easily. Asmodeus may be
second, but what's the use of that to me?" he added. "I'm sick of
horses that are placed second."
Herein, indeed, was disclosed much of the irony of the whole
position. Three times in quick succession on the flat Mostyn's
horses had been accorded the second place, which was palpably no use
to him whatever. The Lincolnshire, the Chester Cup, and the City and
Suburban--in all three of these races Mostyn's horses had come in
second.
"We've done our best," commented Pierce, after a moment's pause; "at
least there's that to be said. But it was too hard a task, Mostyn:
Anthony Royce made it too stiff for you."
"At any rate he obtained what he wanted." Mostyn looked up with a
quaint smile. "He steeped me in racing and he made my father wild;
he got his revenge right enough. The papers are always advertising
my name. It is 'Mr. Clithero, that ubiquitous young sportsman, has
purchased so and so'; or 'Mr. Clithero, the irrepressible, will run
so and so for such a race.' They write articles about me, comment on
my not betting, on my personal appearance, and all the rest of it.
I've seen my portrait in the papers till I'm sick of the sight of it.
Some call me plucky; others laugh at me for my folly and think I'm
just a wild young spendthrift. My father sees all those papers;
Cicely tells me in her letters that he has them sent to him. He must
simply rage with fury. That's just what Royce wanted. You remember
how my father tried, through the solicitors, to put a stop to my
racing under my own name?"
Pierce nodded. The mention of Cicely had set up a new train of
thought in his mind; he heard what was said without paying particular
heed to it.
"Of course I couldn't do that," Mostyn went on; "and my refusal must
have made the poor old man more angry than ever, and I expect the
very idea that I had been left money by Anthony Royce, his enemy,
must have driven him half crazy."
"He's making things almost impossible at home," put in Pierce,
following his own thoughts. "You know how Cicely, poor child, writes
of him. His temper is abominable, and she always has to bear the
brunt of it. Cicely hardly dare send you a letter now because she is
accused of abetting you in your misdeeds." Pierce frowned and kicked
viciously at the leg of the table. "And then, hasn't he threatened
to turn her out of the house unless she will consent to promise never
to marry me? Oh! I tell you, Mostyn, her life must be a hell, a
hell!" He rose and promenaded the room with long strides.
Cicely's relations with her father were perhaps even worse than
Pierce was aware of. She had written long letters to Mostyn--though
of late he had guessed, from the rarity with which she wrote, that
her correspondence had been placed under surveillance--and had poured
out her heart to him. She had begged him, however, to observe
discretion with Pierce, fearing to cause the latter unnecessary
trouble. She was still convinced that she must hold out till the end
of the year, but it was hard, very hard, to do so.
The chief cause of offence was her constancy to her lover. She
steadily refused to give him up, even though, day after day, John
Clithero poured out upon her the vials of his wrath. The smallest
word would lead to a scene, and she had no one to turn to for
comfort, for both her brothers were united against her.
"Go and join Mostyn, the profligate," John Clithero would cry,
lifting his fists in impotent rage. "You are children of Belial,
chaff for the burning. My sin is upon me, that I have begotten such
as you!"
Knowing of these scenes, Pierce had gone to his father and again
begged to be allowed to take Cicely away at once; but the old man had
relented nothing of his stubbornness, though when he spoke of the
year's probation which he had imposed upon his son, there was always
that queer look upon his face which Pierce could not understand.
"Don't let's worry our heads over these things to-night, old chap,"
Mostyn said at last. "To-morrow's the Guineas--another step in my
progress. Come and sit down, and let's talk over our chances."
After a few more rapid strides up and down, Pierce adopted the
suggestion, and soon, for the time being, he had forgotten his own
troubles in fighting anew with Mostyn their past battles, in
preparing a brave face for what was still to come.
There was not one race out of all those scheduled in the will which
Mostyn had neglected. He had thrown himself, heart and soul, into
his task. Pierce, with his better knowledge of the Turf, had ably
advised and seconded him.
In so many instances they had come near to victory--that was the
heart-rending part of it all. Success had seemed within their grasp,
only to be snatched away at the last moment.
The Cesarewitch--that had perhaps been the greatest disappointment of
all. A horse like Gulliver, with his pedigree and his record, hot
favourite, too, as he had been made--Mostyn and Pierce had indeed
been justified in their belief that with Gulliver their great object
would be achieved.
But Gulliver failed, and that apparently by sheer ill-luck. How
clearly all the particulars were engraved upon Mostyn's brain! The
bad news had come to him--the news that forecasted the failure that
was to follow--a couple of days before the race, and almost
immediately after the short, sharp tussle which he had had with Jack
Treves outside the gates of the stables. He had found the trainer
awaiting him, an ominous yellow paper in his hand, an expression of
keen anxiety upon his honest face.
"I'm sorry, sir, upon my word, I'm as sorry as if the affair were my
own." Thus had spoken the blunt old man.
"What's up, Treves?" Mostyn had asked, a sense of misgiving seizing
upon him. Old Treves would not have looked so worried without a real
cause.
The latter handed over the telegram without another word, and Mostyn
realised what had happened. The jockey who was to have ridden
Gulliver--none other than the redoubtable Fred Martin himself, the
same who had steered Hipponous to victory at the Derby--Fred Martin
had been taken ill, was lying in hospital, and had been forced now,
at the eleventh hour, to throw up the sponge.
"It's all true, sir," Treves said, as if he had an idea that Mostyn
might have doubted the genuineness of the story. "I'd stake my life
that Fred Martin wouldn't give up unless he was forced--the lad's as
straight as they make 'em."
The blow was irreparable, and Mostyn realised it at once. At such
short notice it was practically impossible to find an adequate
substitute, and the jockey who finally rode Gulliver, a mere boy,
proved himself unequal to the task. The horse was bad-tempered, and
realised at once that a stranger was on his back. He made a bad
start, and, though he picked up afterwards, only succeeded in running
into third place.
Mostyn, who had felt that with Gulliver the game was in his hands,
was terribly cast down; but there was, luckily perhaps, no time for
serious reflection. The Cambridgeshire followed on so quickly, and
here again, all his plans having been carefully laid, he stood a very
fair chance.
When the weights for the Cambridgeshire had been announced, it was
found that Silver Star, the property of a well-known nobleman, had
been treated most leniently by the handicappers. The mare at once
became a raging-hot favourite, and Mostyn spared no expense in his
endeavours to purchase her. The noble owner was by no means inclined
to sell, but, finally--and here again Mostyn had to thank Sir
Roderick for his good offices--the deal was carried through, though
it made a terrible inroad into Mostyn's diminishing capital.
But the day before the race, just when she was about to be
transferred from Treves's stables to Newmarket, Silver Star was found
to be ailing. There were suspicious circumstances about the case,
too, for the horse's illness was so very sudden and unexpected, also
it appeared difficult to diagnose the actual cause of the trouble.
On the other hand, it was impossible to throw suspicion upon anyone.
Had Jack Treves been at home, Mostyn might have felt interested in
his movements at that time, but Jack had been sent away by his father
to purchase horses in another part of the country, and so, as far as
Silver Star was concerned, he seemed beyond suspicion.
It was due to the discretion of old Treves himself that Jack had been
sent away. The trainer had learnt of the assault upon Mostyn, and
had immediately taken vigorous and characteristic action. He had not
spared his son, but had rebuked him in round and unmeasured terms,
both for his treatment of Rada--having regard to his philandering
with Daisy Simpson--and for his utter folly in risking the making of
bad blood between his father and his father's best client.
Old Mr. Treves had every wish to see the engagement between Jack and
Rada a settled thing; having made money himself, he was now anxious
that his son should raise himself in the social scale. But, from his
point of view, Jack was busily engaged in spoiling his best chances.
"Mark my words," he said, "you will lose the girl altogether if ye
don't treat her as a real lady--which she is. Daisy Simpson,
indeed!"--the old man sniffed indignantly--"carrying on with a drab
like that! Why, you are just askin' to get the chuck, that's what
you're doin'--askin' for it." Here his indignation almost
overpowered him. "It's a good thing you caught it from Mr.
Clithero," he went on, "an' wot you got served you right. If you
hadn't been punished already, I've a mind to hide you myself--yes, to
take the stick to you, as I did when you was a lad--what's more, I
could do it, too!"
Old Treves was bulky, broad of shoulder, and in rude health; as
father and son stood there together it looked very much as if the
elder man could easily have carried his words into effect.
"Anyway, you shan't be hangin' about the place, making a nuisance of
yourself, more'n I can help till after next June. Miss Rada shall
have the clear run she wants, and I expect the less she sees of you,
in the meanwhile, the more she'll be likely to take to you in the
end."
It was, as a consequence of this, that Jack, despite his grumbles and
the consciousness that he was giving a clear field to his rival, was
packed off from Partinborough, and troubled Mostyn and Rada very
little more during the months that ensued.
Silver Star was scratched for the Cambridgeshire, and so Mostyn's
last hope for that year expired. He had now some four months to wait
in which to make his preparations for the big steeplechase in the
following March, as well as for the Lincolnshire.
Mostyn had taken no advantage of Jack's summary dismissal from
Partinborough. He was, indeed, only on and off at the Grange,
finding that he had plenty to occupy him in London. He had taken up
a definite position with regard to Rada, and he was resolved to
adhere firmly to it. She knew he loved her; it was for her to
choose, when the time came, between him and Jack. She could break
off her semi-engagement to the latter if she pleased; should Castor
win the Derby, she would certainly have the means of paying off her
debt; besides, apart from this, she was already making money with her
horse, whose record was as yet unbroken. Castor had won everything
for which he had been entered. Then there was the thousand pounds
still reposing in Mostyn's safe--this money was quite at her
disposition if her pride would allow her to take it. All this Mostyn
had told her. So it was for Rada to choose. Mostyn would not speak
of his love, he would not "bother" her. They met constantly, they
teased each other, they quarrelled now and then--always making peace
very quickly--and there were times when Mostyn thought that the eyes
of the girl were wistful, times when he could not help fancying that
she would show no bitter resentment if he opened his arms to take her
to them, as he had done once before.
In his way he was stubborn, stubborn in his determination to abide by
the conditions he had imposed upon himself. It was true that he did
not understand women, and Rada was, of course, a particularly complex
study. "I'll wait till after the Derby," so he told himself over and
over again. "Rada wants no talk of love till then; has she not said
so?" He often wondered why Rada should sometimes be cross with him
without a cause; and once--he remembered quite well--she had burst
into tears and run away; it was just before he left Partinborough for
a longer stay than usual in town.
All this while, although, so far, failure had befallen him, there was
not the smallest doubt in his mind that he would ultimately be
successful in carrying out the terms of Anthony Royce's bequest.
But a fresh series of failures awaited him at the opening of the
season. The Lincolnshire--that was the first of the three races in
which his horse had run into second place; then had followed the
Grand National, and here, having successfully negotiated Beecher's
Brook and Valentine's Brook on the first round, Mostyn's mare,
Giralda, had come badly to grief upon the second round; both jockey
and mare were injured, the latter so much so that she had then and
there to be shot.
The Chester Cup--second again; and finally, the City and Suburban,
with exactly the same result.
Now there remained Asmodeus, who was second favourite for the Two
Thousand Guineas, and a filly for the Thousand, whose training,
however, had been insufficient for Mostyn to place much reliance upon
her. She might possibly do better for the Oaks--absolutely Mostyn's
last chance--but even with regard to this he had little confidence.
For a long while he had steadily refused to have anything to do with
the Derby, and so valuable time had been lost. Now he had a colt
named Cipher in training, but Cipher was not a patch upon either
Castor or upon Sir Roger's Pollux, and could hardly be looked upon as
standing a chance. Such was the present position, and, considering
it squarely and without bias, both Mostyn and Pierce had to admit
that it was a desperate one.
"That beast of a Jew, Isaacson, will carry off the Two Thousand,"
groaned Pierce. "Don Quixote is bound to win on his form. We shall
be in for another second. The only thing is, that we've got a better
man up. Stanhope is a fine jockey, while Wilson is a fellow whom I
never trusted, and they speak badly of him in the ring. But I expect
he's being well paid for his job."
Isaacson, the owner of Don Quixote, was the same man whose horse,
Peveril, had so nearly won the Derby against Hipponous. He had only
made his appearance upon the Turf within the last year or so, since
some successful speculation had brought him a fortune. The only good
point about him, so Pierce was wont to aver, was that he had not
shown himself ashamed of his name, or of the method by which he had
earned his living. He had been a bill discounter and money lender
upon rather a large scale, and though he was reputed hard, no
imputation had ever been made upon his honesty. Since wealth had
come to him, he had given away large sums in charity, but this was
probably in order that he might win the popularity which he coveted.
He liked to make a big show, and his racing colours were all gold.
After a while Pierce rose, yawned, and expressed his determination to
go to bed. The two young men had dined late, and their discussion
had been a prolonged one. "Good-night, old chap," he said, "and
don't worry your mind more than you can help. Things may come all
right, after all. Asmodeus is a good horse, and there are a lot who
fancy him."
Mostyn looked up brightly as he nodded good-night. "Oh, I'm not
worrying!" he said, "the whole thing has been a gamble, hasn't it,
Pierce? And he's a poor gambler who growls at his losses."