MOSTYN IS TEMPTED.
Left alone, Mostyn drew his arm-chair nearer the fire, and settling
himself comfortably, gave himself up to solitary reflection. The
evenings were still fresh, for May had set in unseasonably, and a
fire was by no means to be despised. It was, indeed, because the
dining-room was the warmer of the two sitting-rooms that Mostyn had
elected to occupy it that evening. Frazer, the man-servant, had long
ago cleared the table, and so Mostyn did not expect to be disturbed.
Of course, as was only natural, his thoughts turned to Rada. And
now, as he sat gazing into the fire, he knew that he had been very
dense. That foolish stubbornness of his--it was there that the blame
lay. He had made up his mind that Rada's injunction was to be obeyed
strictly and to the letter, and so he had put temptation behind him,
even when his common-sense, combined with his racing experience, told
him that the time had come to force the pace.
He had refrained from speaking, although, over and over again, he had
read invitation in Rada's eyes; he had given his word to her, he had
given his word to Pierce; besides, Rada's semi-engagement to Jack
Treves was still an accepted fact, and so Mostyn argued that until
she, voluntarily and of her own accord, elected to break with Jack,
he had no right to interfere. He had never doubted that she would do
this after the Derby, when the question of a formal engagement was to
be raised.
Of course, there was much overstraining at honour in all this, as
well as a lamentable ignorance of the feminine nature; but then that
was Mostyn all over. He did not--in this case, it was almost would
not--take into account the possibility, the inherent probability, of
a woman changing her mind. He was quite aware that Rada's moods were
as variable as those of the proverbial April day, and yet he insisted
upon taking her literally, with the natural result that his attitude
was sorely misunderstood.
For Rada had come to the conclusion that his feelings towards her had
undergone a change--that he no longer cared--and she was miserable in
consequence. Mostyn had been aware of this fact for some little time
past; he was now only too conscious of all that he had left undone.
He would have asked nothing better than to go to Rada and speak out
his love; it was no longer stubbornness and a straining at honour
that hindered him. It was something more potent than that.
For, now that all might have been well, another factor in the case
had arisen, another opponent had sprung into being, and poor Mostyn
was beginning to realise that he was beaten all along the line. Rada
was further away from him than ever just when she seemed to be most
near.
Ruin stared him in the face--irrevocable ruin. He was a
failure--Anthony Royce's millions would never be his. In another
month's time he would be plunged back into poverty--he would have
nothing left, nothing save the Grange, which he would not be able to
keep up. All the ready money which had been handed over to him had
been expended--he had even the possibility of debts to face.
For himself he did not care--he had had his sporting chance and fate
had been against him. The world would say that there was another
young spendthrift gone under; his father and his brothers, not
knowing the truth, would have some excuse for pointing the finger of
scorn at him; but these things troubled him little. He would fight
for himself, as he had meant to fight before he had known of Royce's
bequest.
If it were not for Rada--Rada whom he loved so passionately! How
could he ask her to share his poverty? The thing was impossible--he
had realised the impossibility of it for some weeks past--just as the
truth of her love for him was filtering into his brain. How
tragically ironical it all was!
"Asmodeus won't win the Guineas," he muttered to himself,
disconsolately enough, since there was none present before whom he
must keep up the farce of cheerfulness. "And as for the filly, she
is quite hopeless. So what remains? Only the Derby, and that I
should have to fight out against Rada. I don't know that I would win
it from her, even if I could. But I can't, so there's an end of it.
There's an end to everything, so far as I can see--to fortune, to
ambition, to love--yes, jolly well an end to everything. That's what
I see in the future."
He could see no brighter picture by staring into the dying fire, and
presently he rose with a sigh and a yawn, preparatory to making his
way upstairs to bed. It was at that moment that he heard the front
door bell ring, and a minute or so later the sedate Frazer put in an
appearance and announced that there was a man, who had not given his
name but who looked like a stable-man, who wished to see Mostyn upon
urgent business.
"It's not Stanhope, Frazer?" asked Mostyn anxiously.
"No, sir," Frazer shook his head decidedly; he knew Stanhope by sight
quite well. "I've not seen the fellow before," he added. "He's
never been to the house, I'm quite sure of that."
"Show him in here, Frazer," Mostyn commanded. "I'll see him, whoever
he is."
Accordingly, after a brief interval, the stranger was admitted. He
stood in the doorway fidgetting from one foot to the other, his cap
in his hand, his tightly-fitting coat buttoned close over his chest.
The buttons were big and flashy; the man's general appearance--his
expression as well as his attire--was unprepossessing.
Mostyn recognised him at once, and wondered what on earth he had come
for. He waited, however, till Frazer had withdrawn, till the door
was closed upon them both.
"You are Wilson," he said then, "Ted Wilson, the jockey. Why do you
want to see me, and at this hour of the night?"
"I couldn't come afore, sir," Wilson shifted from one foot to the
other in an undecided sort of manner. He had little twinkling eyes,
and sandy hair brushed over his forehead in a carefully oiled curl.
He had yellow teeth, which protruded like a rabbit's, and a weak,
receding chin; he was a clever jockey, which is about as much as
could be said in his favour.
"I couldn't come afore becos the guv'nor wouldn't let me out of his
sight. He's a jolly sharp 'un, is David Isaacson, I give you my
word."
"Well, what's your object in coming to see me?" repeated Mostyn
rather sharply. He neither liked the man himself, nor did he care
for this intercourse with one of the servants of his rival.
Wilson took a few steps forward into the room and seated himself,
without being invited to do so, upon the very edge of the most
unpretentious-looking chair that he could pick out. "I want a word
with you, private like," he said in a hoarse, throaty voice. His
eyes rested nervously upon the spirit tantalus in its place on the
sideboard. He had, perhaps wittingly, seated himself in close
proximity to it.
"I've walked across from the Crathorn Stables," he said pleadingly,
"an' I can tell you it's dry work." The Crathorn Stables were those
at which Don Quixote had been lodged, and they were distant, as
Mostyn knew, a good half-dozen miles in the direction of Newmarket.
"You can help yourself. You'll find a tumbler close beside you, and
there's whisky in the stand." The jockey did not await a second
invitation, but helped himself largely to the spirit, adding to it a
very small quantity of water.
"That's better," he said, as he tossed off the spirit. "Now we can
tork."
"I'm waiting," said Mostyn drily.
"Well, it's like this," said the jockey, fixing his little eyes upon
Mostyn as though attempting to read his thoughts. "I've had a row
with the guv'nor; he's a rotter, that's wot he is!" He paused
meaningly.
Mostyn gave him no assistance. "Well?" was all he said.
"A rotter," repeated Wilson, "a low-down, measly Jew. I've never
ridden for a Jew afore, an' I'm sorry I consented to this time."
"Well?" repeated Mostyn.
"Carn't you see wot I'm drivin' at, Mr. Clithero? Carn't you help a
chap a bit?" protested Wilson, who thought that the object of his
visit should have been guessed at once.
"Hadn't you better speak clearly, and come to the point?" suggested
Mostyn, who had a pretty shrewd idea of what was about to be proposed
to him.
Wilson accordingly made the plunge. "Don Quixote is goin' to win the
Two Thousand," he said. "Asmodeus ain't. There's no getting round
that to us as knows; that is, of course, if all goes normal like.
Well, Mr. Clithero, sir, I guess you want to win this race, and
that's why I've come to you, Mr. Clithero, sir."
Mostyn hated the constant repetition of his name, and he was boiling
over with indignation at the suggestion made to him, though he kept
his features under control, and allowed the little man to have his
say.
To the jockey it seemed that the owner of Asmodeus must be
particularly dense. He did not like to put his proposition into
plain words. What was the necessity for it?
"Between man and man who understand each other," he began, "these
little things can be arranged, you know." He rose from his chair,
putting his empty glass aside, and sidled nearer to Mostyn. "I'm
ready to strike a bargain with you, Mr. Clithero, sir, if so be ye're
willing. It needn't be such a dead cert for Don Quixote, after all."
Mostyn sat silent, staring straight before him, though he kept one
elbow well out in order to prevent Wilson coming too near. Of
course, he knew quite well what was meant--had understood all the
time. This little rogue was willing to pull Don Quixote for a
consideration--a consideration which, though no doubt it would be
heavy, Mostyn was quite capable of providing, and, as far as he was
concerned, there was no actual danger. If any objection were raised
to the riding--which was most unlikely, for Wilson was clever at that
sort of thing--it would all be put down to a manoeuvre on the part of
Isaacson, or to spite on the part of the jockey--as far as Mostyn was
concerned, it didn't matter which.
The boy's face was burning, the blood coursing quickly through his
veins, his heart beating quickly. A few moments ago, when he had
first realised what was being proposed to him, his inclination had
been to get up, to take the jockey by the scruff of his neck, and
throw him out without more ado; then, suddenly, and as if someone had
whispered in his ear, a temptation, such as he had never known before
in his life, had come upon him.
There was so much at stake for him--so vast a sum of money, which
seemed about to slip through his fingers. And there was Rada, too.
If Asmodeus should win this race, why, all might still be well. He
would not be a beggar in another month's time, and then, what was
there to prevent him going to Rada and saying: "You love me--you
don't love Jack Treves--I want you, Rada, and mean to have you!" He
was sure--at that moment--that she would fall into his arms, and that
he had only to speak. All this--success, wealth, love--might be his,
if Asmodeus won. At that moment, sharper than ever, he felt the
bitter sting of defeat. "There is no other way," whispered the
insinuating voice in his ear. "You'd much better accept a good offer
when it's made to you."
"It's a fair deal I'm proposin' to you, Mr. Clithero, sir," muttered
the jockey, his voice seeming to harmonise and blend with that of the
imaginary tempter. "I can do it easy as easy, and who wants a
beastly Jew to win? You can back Asmodeus for all you like--put your
shirt on 'im--for if we get to understand each other he's bound to
win, there ain't another horse in the race. It'll be worth your
while, I tell you that straight."
Perhaps, all unconsciously, the jockey had made a mistake when he
spoke of making money upon the horse's victory, which was the last
thing that Mostyn, who never made a bet, cared about doing. In some
insidious fashion, this new suggestion touched a cord in the boy's
nature and made him realise the peril in which he stood. He, who had
never in his life done an act which he could call dishonourable, what
was he thinking of now? How could he have allowed himself, even for
a moment, to listen to so vile a suggestion? His cheeks flushed with
shame. With a mighty effort he thrust the temptation aside. He
smote the table violently with his fist, and broke out with an
oath--an oath that came strangely to his lips.
"D---- you, you dirty hound!" He pushed his chair bark, and stood
trembling with wrath, towering huge over the wretched little man.
"How dare you come to me with such a proposal? How dare you? how
dare you? Get out of the room, and out of the house, and be sharp
about it, or before God----" He raised his fist threateningly.
The little jockey slipped from his chair, nearly sliding on to the
floor in his dismay, and held up his puny fists as if to ward off a
blow. "Look 'ere, Mr. Clithero, sir," he whined, "what are you
a-gettin' at? I came 'ere as a friend--for your good."
"Go!" thundered Mostyn, pointing a trembling forefinger at the door.
"I told you to go."
"Very well, I'm goin'." The jockey, seeing that he stood in no
danger of bodily hurt, pulled himself together and shuffled towards
the door. "You ain't treated me fair, Mr. Clithero," he grumbled, as
he went. His little eyes shot malice. He muttered something else
under his breath--a remark that was evidently not intended for
Mostyn's ears; nor did the latter, who had turned to ring the bell
for Frazer, notice the clenched fists or the vindictive look.
At the door the jockey halted once more. "Look 'ere," he growled,
"you're not a-goin' to say anythin' about this? I trust you as a
gentleman."
"You may cheat your master, for all I care," said Mostyn, "as long as
you don't do it for me. That's his own look out, not mine, but
remember that I have nothing to do with you or with your dirty
tricks. Now go!" Once more he pointed to the door, and the next
moment, mouthing an ugly word under his breath, the jockey was gone.
As for Mostyn, he stood for a moment, breathing hard, his teeth
tightly clenched together; then he threw himself down upon a chair,
leaning his elbows upon the table, and pressing his hands to his
forehead.
"My God!" he muttered to himself, "and there was a moment when I
might have yielded!"