MOSTYN IS GIVEN ANOTHER CHANCE.
The following morning Pierce Trelawny appeared at breakfast with a
pale face and a look of determination about his lips.
Mostyn, who was already seated at the table, glanced up, mystified at
his friend's unwonted appearance.
"What's wrong, old chap?" he asked. "You look worried."
Pierce poured himself out a cup of coffee before he responded, Mostyn
watching him the while with increasing anxiety. "You haven't got bad
news, have you?" he asked.
"It's about Cicely," Pierce explained at last. There was a heavy
frown upon his brow. "Look here, Mostyn, I can't stand this sort of
thing any longer--something has got to be done. Cicely has written
to me. Oh, it's the first letter she has written." He laughed
hoarsely. "We have kept to our promise right enough up till now, but
matters have come to a crisis."
"Tell me," said Mostyn, drawing his chair nearer to that of his
friend with that display of sympathy which was with him so charming a
characteristic. "But I can guess," he added with a melancholy shake
of the head. "Cicely finds it impossible to get on at home, even for
the month or two that remain."
"That's just it," said Pierce, tossing the letter over to his friend.
"Read what she says for yourself. It makes one's blood boil, that
any girl can be treated in such a fashion, and I tell you I've made
up my mind to take matters into my own hands."
Mostyn read the letter through carefully, the frown deepening on his
brow as he came to the end. Cicely had penned the epistle under the
stress of deep emotion, and the page was blotted here and there where
her tears had fallen upon it. The gist of her letter was that she
could stay no longer at home--that her father's insults and cruelty
had become unbearable--that he had even raised his hand against her.
It was in her very misery of spirit that she had at last yielded to
the temptation to write to Pierce, whom she loved so utterly, so
devotedly. She had been seized by a terrible fear, too, a fear which
had haunted her for weeks and months, that his love for her was on
the wane; she could bear it no longer, and so in her misery she had
broken her promise. Would he come to her? The request was repeated
over and over again, in the course of the letter. She wanted his
comfort--his support--his kiss--and if she were denied these any
longer, she feared her health would break down.
"I'm going to her--I'm going to her to-day!" Pierce rose from the
table, having swallowed his coffee almost at a gulp, and eaten
nothing. He pushed his chair back viciously and began parading the
room with long, angry strides. "I'm not going to be kept from Cicely
another day, and I don't care a hang what my father, or anybody else,
may do. It was a shame--an infernal shame--to keep us apart, and
I've suffered more than you can guess, Mostyn. We love each other,
and what do you think it has been to me to know that she has been
left with that infernal old---- I beg your pardon, Mostyn," he added
hastily, "but I'm so upset I hardly know what I'm saying."
"Why shouldn't Cicely come to me?" suggested Mostyn, who was trying
to keep his head cool. "She could stay here at the Grange till after
her twenty-first birthday. Wouldn't that satisfy your father?"
Pierce wheeled round sharply and indignantly. "And I not see her all
the time," he exclaimed, "just because of a silly fad of a silly old
man! And how could you and I go about together, Mostyn, if she were
with you? No, that won't do either. I've made up my mind. I'm
going straight to London; yes, to-day, in spite of the race, in spite
of everything, and I'm going to beard the lion in his den. I'm going
to take Cicely out of his clutches--carry her off by force if needs
be. She can stay with my aunt, Lady Fenton, who knows her and is
fond of her, and who will do anything for me. Cicely shall stay
there till we can be married, and that shall be just as soon as ever
I can get the licence."
"But the Squire--your father?" protested Mostyn.
"He must do as he pleases," was the tempestuous reply. "I'm not
going to worry myself about him. He can cut me off if he likes, just
as yours did you. I've got a little money of my own, thank God!
enough to live on quietly somewhere in the suburbs." He made a wry
face as he spoke. "It'll be a bit of a change, but I shall have to
lump that, and I daresay Cicely won't mind. There, Mostyn, old
chap"--he came and stood by his friend's side--"You must forgive me
if I'm excited, but you can see how it is and understand what I feel.
I'm sorry that I shan't be with you at the races, but I should be a
shockingly poor companion for you if I were. I can't be of any
service, either, there's that at least to be said."
And so at last matters were settled, though it was not without
further parley. Mostyn succeeded in calming his friend after a
while, and they sat down together and talked the matter out seriously
and reasonably. Their deliberations, however, brought them to no new
conclusion. Pierce's mind was made up, and he was quite prepared to
defy his father and to bear the consequences.
"You'll come for the wedding, Mostyn, won't you?" he asked, when the
sitting came to an end. "It'll have to be an absolutely quiet
affair. Lady Fenton and yourself will be the only two to be present.
Cicely will be my wife long before Cipher wins the Derby for you."
"I can quite believe that," commented Mostyn drily, though he
understood the sense in which the remark had been intended. "Anyway,
Pierce, I wish you luck, and I'm glad that you are going to do
something to make Cicely happy."
Thus it came about that, later that day, Mostyn found himself without
his friend in the paddock of the Newmarket racecourse. He missed
Pierce badly, for this was the first time that they had not been
together when one of the races in which they were interested had been
decided.
There were, however, many faces that he knew. Rada and Captain
Armitage had been driven over by Jack Treves. The latter had been
settled at Partinborough for the last month or two, and had done his
best to monopolise Rada. He had not intruded his company upon
Mostyn, though, of course, it was inevitable that the two men should
meet now and then. On these occasions Jack was surly, his malice but
thinly veiled. Of Rada herself Mostyn had lately seen but little. A
sense of restraint had arisen between them, and half instinctively
they had avoided each other. But now she came to his side, and
slipped a little soft hand into his. Just as soft as the hand were
the dark eyes he looked into, the smile that played about her lips,
and the tone in which she addressed him.
"I do hope you'll win to-day, Mostyn," she murmured. "Asmodeus is a
fine horse, and should make a fight for it. At any rate I wish you
success, I do indeed."
There was something in the girl's expression, something beyond the
softness and tenderness which he had already noticed, that made
Mostyn scrutinise her face more carefully. There were black rims
under her eyes, and he could have sworn that she had been crying and
that quite recently.
He felt instinctively, too, that in this gentleness of demeanour, so
unusual to the wayward girl, there was something of appeal, and of
appeal directed to himself. It was as though she wanted him to
understand more than she dared say.
He looked down pitifully into the girl's dark eyes. "Rada," he
whispered, "you are not happy. I have been certain of it for a long
time. Will you tell me what has happened? Oh"--he hesitated--"is it
because----"
"Oh! I wish I could speak to you," she sighed. "I've wanted to ever
so many times." She hung her head, evidently struggling with her
pride. "Oh, you don't know," she cried at last, clasping her hands
together, "what it has been like for me! There is no one that I can
talk to--no one who can sympathise with me."
"Why not have come to me?" asked Mostyn reproachfully. "Are we not
good friends?"
"Good friends, yes!" Her words were bitter. "But that it must be
you to whom I have to come and admit that I have been a silly little
fool--oh! the silliest little donkey ever born! Don't you understand
how it hurts me--how it lowers me in my own eyes?"
"Never mind that," said Mostyn pitifully. "You poor little thing,
don't you think that after all this time I have got to know you
better, and that I can make allowance for your whims and all those
wayward tricks of yours? Tell me the truth, Rada." He trembled as
he spoke, for he felt that he had no right to put the question since
Rada could not be for him. "You don't love Jack Treves; you don't
want to marry him?"
Rada shook her head, and then fixed her eyes upon her race-card as
though she were intensely interested in it. These two, who were
talking of matters of such vital interest to them both, stood there
in the midst of the pushing throng of the paddock. They spoke in
lowered tones, and now and again, when anyone passed close to them or
came to a halt by the railing where they stood, Mostyn would make
some remark in a louder voice in order to make it appear that they
were merely discussing the races.
"He has been a brute to me," she murmured, "a brute. Just now,
driving to the course, he insulted me; he--he made me cry. Love
him?" She stamped her little foot. "I hate him!" This time the
words were genuine; they came from her heart.
"And it was all because of that wretched thousand pounds, and because
of your pride. Oh, Rada! Rada! But it isn't too late," he went on.
"Thank God for that. You are not bound to the man." Though he
himself could never ask her to be his wife, Mostyn reflected quickly,
yet she was not obliged to marry that scamp, that bounder, Jack.
"I'm not sure that he wants to marry me." She sighed wearily. "He's
always comparing me to Daisy Simpson--think of that! He says she's
so much smarter than I. But it's his father and my father who insist
that we shall be married. Old Mr. Treves wants his son to marry a
lady, you see, and my father--well, you know it's a question of money
with him. Far more has been borrowed than we can ever repay." She
flushed as she made the admission.
"I only know that you mustn't marry a man you don't love!" cried
Mostyn heatedly. "Surely the money can be found. Castor will bring
you in enough if he wins the Derby. Then there's that thousand
pounds you paid me: I've never touched the wretched notes. They're
still lying at the Grange in my safe--
"No, no, no!" interrupted Rada. "I couldn't accept any money from
you; indeed I couldn't, not a single penny. I should never forgive
myself, and it would be worse than the other. No," she repeated
despairingly, "there is no help for it." She paused, then broke into
a laugh that grated upon Mostyn's ears. "What does it matter after
all?" She was choking down a sob. "There's no one who cares what
becomes of me; it doesn't matter a scrap to anyone if I marry Jack or
not----"
Mostyn clenched his fists. "You're wrong, Rada," he said with all
the energy he could express. "I care. The fellow's not worthy of
you. Besides, he's a bounder and a scamp----"
"Who's a bounder and a scamp?" Mostyn looked up quickly and Rada
gave a little cry, for Jack Treves, who had approached unseen by
either of them, was standing close by. He took Rada viciously by the
arm; then turned scowling upon Mostyn. "Who's a scamp," he repeated,
"and what were you two talking about?"
"It was nothing, Jack, nothing!" gasped Rada. "Mr. Clithero and
I----"
"I've had enough of Mr. Clithero and you," said Jack roughly. "The
sooner you both understand that, the better. I'm sick of Clithero
hanging about you and making mischief between us. I'd lay any odds
that's what he was doing when I came up." He turned again sharply
upon Mostyn. "Who is the scamp you were talking about?" he asked
again aggressively.
"You!" replied Mostyn with fine nonchalance. "I was talking about
you. I just said what I thought."
Jack Treves took a step forward, his fists clenched. His face was
purple and congested. But no blow fell; he had had his experience,
and did not wish to repeat it.
Already the little scene had attracted some attention, although it
was only among the immediate bystanders. But these, if they expected
a fight, were doomed to disappointment. Jack stood scowling, then
muttering "This isn't the place for a scrap; but I'll be even with
you, for God I will!" he slipped his hand under Rada's arm and
unceremoniously bustled her away.
The onlookers, robbed of their fun, growled disapproval and dispersed
likewise. One of them, however, whom Mostyn had not noticed before,
since he had kept himself well in the background, remained. Mostyn
recognised the evil and malicious face of the jockey, Ted Wilson.
The little man was dressed as Mostyn had seen him the night before.
He wore the same tightly-fitting covert coat with big shiny pearl
buttons, but he had replaced the cap by a bowler hat, pressed down
well on the back of his head.
"I wish 'e'd gone for yer!" Wilson muttered between his teeth,
drawing a few steps nearer. "I wish 'e'd thrashed yer, Gawd 'elp me
I do!"
This was a fresh attack, and one which Mostyn had not expected. He
supposed the jockey was still incensed because his proposition had
been refused, and, not desiring any further discussion on the
subject, he turned away without deigning a reply. Wilson, however,
followed at his heels, yapping and snarling like a mongrel cur. "A
low down trick you played me," he muttered. "What did you want to do
it for? The Lord knows I 'aven't done you no 'arm. But to give a
chap away and get 'im the sack--why, you ought to be bloomin' well
ashamed of yerself!"
Mostyn turned at this. "What on earth do you mean?" he asked.
"Why," screeched the indignant little man, "just listen to 'im! As
if 'e didn't know! Wot should I 'av got the sack for if you 'adn't
split to my boss? Given me the chuck without a word of explanation,
'e 'as, and not more'n a couple of hours ago. Why should 'e 'ave
done it if you 'adn't rounded on me? D---- 'im for a dirty Jew! and
d---- you too for----"
The jockey's language was charged with strange oaths, and there was a
lurid monotony about his epithets. However, he appeared to have a
grievance, and that being so, some explanation seemed due to him.
The refinement of Mostyn's speech sounded almost ridiculous when
taken in conjunction with that of the jockey.
"I assure you that you are absolutely mistaken if you think that I
have had anything to do with your discharge, since I understand that
you have been discharged. This is the first I have heard of it, and
I have not the smallest idea why Mr. Isaacson should have acted so."
"You're a liar!" retorted Wilson. "Is it likely that Isaacson would
have sacked me, an' put up a chap like Jones, who may lose the race
for 'im, if 'e 'adn't thought that I might ride crook? Do yer think
I don't see through yer little game?" His narrow eyes sparkled with
spite and malice as he stared up into Mostyn's face. "Got me the
chuck, yer did, so that Don Quixote might be handicapped and yer own
'orse 'ave a better charnce! Oh, you're a sharp 'un, you are, but,
strike me pink! I'll be even with yer for it, Mr. Clithero, sir, if
not to-day, then some other time. Ted Wilson ain't the man not to
get a bit of 'is own back, you can bet your bottom dollar on that.
My friend, Jack Treves"--he accented the words--"'as got 'is knife
into yer, too, I see, and between the pair of us I'll lay you come
off bad in the end."
He had been speaking so volubly that Mostyn had not been able to get
a word in. Now, once more, and with all the patience he could
muster, he sought to convince the angry jockey that he was quite
innocent of the offence with which he was charged. But argument was
futile, as he quickly found out. Wilson was convinced that he had
Mostyn to thank for what had happened.
It was some time before Mostyn could throw off his adversary, and it
was only with renewed threats of vengeance, and because he saw no
less a person than Mr. Isaacson himself approaching, in the company
of Sir Roderick Macphane, that Wilson at last took himself off, and
disappeared in the direction of the nearest bar.
Mostyn reflected that he had another enemy to contend with, and one
who was even more likely than Jack Treves to hit below the belt.
Luckily, Asmodeus was quite safe in the charge of Stanhope, and
Mostyn could not conceive of any other way by which he could be
damaged; this since he was not afraid of personal attack. He did not
worry himself, therefore, when, later in the day, he saw Wilson in
the company of Jack, and realised that the jockey had spoken the
truth when he mentioned Treves as his friend.
Mostyn looked up in response to a hearty slap on the back, and found
himself confronted by the smiling face of Sir Roderick Macphane. It
was a pleasure after the scowls with which he had been met that day
to look upon the genial face of the old baronet. Behind Sir Roderick
stood a tall man, of Jewish cast of features, whom Mostyn recognised
at once, though he had never met the man, as David Isaacson, the
owner of Don Quixote.
"Mr. Isaacson wished to be introduced to you, Mostyn," Sir Roderick
said, "and so, as I caught sight of you ten minutes ago, I brought
him up. You are opponents to-day, of course, but that's no reason
why two sportsmen shouldn't know each other. I won't wish good luck
to the best man," he added heartily, "but to the best horse, and as
matters stand, it promises to be a good race."
The Jew extended his hand to Mostyn and smiled, showing a straight
row of white teeth. He was not ill-looking, and there was very
little to suggest the hardness with which he had been accredited as a
money-lender. It was a little surprising to find him on such good
terms with Sir Roderick, but then "Old Rory" was "hail fellow well
met" with all the world.
"It's even money on the horses," Isaacson remarked; "I don't suppose
one stands a better chance than the other." He turned to Mostyn,
scrutinising him rather closely. His voice was not unpleasant,
though it possessed the Jewish rasp. "You know, of course," he
continued, "that I had to dismiss my jockey, Wilson, at a moment's
notice this morning, and that I've put up Jones in his place. Jones
is a smart man, but, of course, the handicap is a pretty severe one.
You see, Mr. Clithero, I have reasons to believe that Wilson wished
to pull my horse so that yours might win. I got my knowledge in
rather a roundabout way. It appears that someone has backed Asmodeus
pretty heavily, and when this person found that Don Quixote was the
favourite he approached Wilson and offered to pay him to pull the
horse. I understand that Wilson had consented to do so; so, as you
may imagine, I fired him this morning, and I shall probably place the
whole matter before the stewards. It was the intermediary who acted
between the backer and Wilson who gave the story away to one of my
own men, and that's how it came out. It's bad luck on me," he added,
"but I shan't grudge you the race, Mr. Clithero, if luck comes your
way."
Mostyn saw how it was. "The little skunk!" he muttered to himself as
he thought of Wilson. "He was going to pull the horse whatever
happened, but thought he might make a bit more out of me at the same
time. But he over-reached himself, and has been given away by one of
his pals. And he'll never believe that I didn't betray him; he'll
loathe me none the less if the truth comes out."
Sir Roderick had a luncheon party that day, holding, as usual, open
house to all the friends he might happen to meet. Here, among
smiling, happy faces, Mostyn forgot some of his troubles of the
morning; moreover, he was keenly excited about the race, for it
seemed, indeed, that Asmodeus stood an excellent chance of winning.
Don Quixote had naturally gone down in the betting.
Sir Roderick was keenly interested, and discussed the whole matter
with the young man.
"By Jove! Mostyn," he opined, "you've got to win this time, or I
don't know how you'll pocket your cash. Cipher's not going to win
the Derby for you, you know"--he shook his head
prophetically--"Cipher can't get away from Castor, to say nothing of
my Pollux."
To this Mostyn agreed. He knew that it was true. Castor and Pollux
were the two colts who gave real promise for the coming Derby. They
had never met, and yet they were both unbeaten, each holding a record
of some half-dozen victories in the course of the year.
"Jove! what an extraordinary Derby it'll be," Mostyn commented,
trying to distract his thoughts from the excitement of the moment.
"Two horses, Castor and Pollux, so exactly alike, as I understand
them to be, both having the same sire, both boasting similar records,
and not a line to go upon to show which is the better! It'll be a
Derby worth seeing, Sir Roderick."
The baronet agreed. Nevertheless, as was only to be expected, he
favoured his own horse. "Not that I care so much about winning," he
observed with his broad, genial smile. "One Derby should be enough
for any man. Hipponous pulled that off for me as well as the Leger.
I'm far keener now," he added bluffly, "upon trying to drive sense
into the noddles of all those Socialists, Radicals, Home Rulers, and
agitators that grow up like weeds about us. A lot of disloyal
fellows who are so blind that they can't hear sense when it's talked
to them. They simply don't know upon which side their bread is
feathered, and they are only playing to butter their own nests!"
It was a muddled metaphor worthy of "Old Rory" at his best. Mostyn
could not refrain from laughing, as did Sir Roderick himself when he
realised what he had said. He always roared over his own tangled
speeches, even in Parliament, enjoying them quite as much as anyone
else.
He had certainly been very much to the fore at Westminster of late,
and his wild attacks upon the Government had added much to the
enlivenment of a dull session. Yet "Old Rory" was more popular than
ever, and that with all parties in the House.
Time passed pleasantly enough till the bell rang and the course was
cleared for the big race. Mostyn remained in the paddock till
Asmodeus, a fine bay, long of limb and strong of barrel, strode
proudly out and was greeted by a cheer from the crowd as he galloped
easily past the Grand Stand.
The puce and black diamonds of Mostyn's colours were quickly put in
the shade by an aggressive vision of gold as Asmodeus was followed by
Don Quixote, and now the crowd cheered again, though in a minor key.
The horse had been heavily backed, and there was no little discontent
at the fall in his price that morning; people were asking each other
the reason for the sudden change of jockey. Isaacson was unpopular,
and there was considerable prejudice against him, wholly without
reason; whereas Mostyn, who in barely a year had become so prominent
a figure upon racecourses, stood high in popular favour.
"It's a match between you and me, Clithero," Isaacson said as the two
men took up their places to watch the race. "They're off," he added
a moment later, levelling his glasses. "A good start, what?"
Mostyn remembered little of that race. He stood, indeed, his
field-glasses raised, to all outward appearance as calm and placid as
Isaacson himself. He followed the horses as they ran, he marked the
failure of Bouncing Boy, he even commented upon the riding of the
jockey who was up on Wisdom, a chestnut heavily backed for a place,
and who was palpably giving the horse his head over much; but all the
while he was staring through a mist: it was as though a fog had
settled over the course, a fog which his eyes could penetrate but
which made everything appear contorted, disproportionate, ridiculous.
Somehow the thought came to him of that face which he had seen
peering through the window at the Grange; every object he looked upon
was disfigured in just the same way. There were men and women close
by at whom he could have laughed, so absurd did they appear. And all
the while there was a great thumping going on in his ears like the
working of a vast machine; it was so loud that he could hardly hear
the shouting of the crowd.
Asmodeus was leading; he knew that. Asmodeus had been leading for
quite a long time. Don Quixote, with his glitter of gold, was
several lengths behind, and there were two or three horses in
between. Which were they? Mostyn tried to distinguish them but
failed. What did it matter? Asmodeus was leading.
Suddenly the thumping that was the beating of his heart stopped. It
was like the sudden cessation of work in a factory or the stopping of
the engines on board a steamer. Mostyn swayed a little from side to
side; he could imagine the rolling of a vessel. Asmodeus was no
longer in the front. What did that matter? Stanhope was holding him
in. There was time enough yet for a spurt.
There was a cold wind blowing that afternoon, and the sky was grey.
A drizzling rain began to fall. Here and there umbrellas made their
appearance till angry protests from the crowd compelled them to be
lowered. Mostyn noticed all these minor events through the mist that
rendered everything so grotesque to his view.
The horses were near by now, very near. They had swung round the
bend and were nearly level with the Grand Stand. Asmodeus had
dropped still further behind; there were several of his opponents who
had caught up and passed him. The glitter of gold was to the fore.
Don Quixote led.
How the crowd was roaring! As a rule this was music to Mostyn's
ears, but to-day it was a fantastic discord. He could distinguish
nothing, not a single articulate word. Why on earth did not Stanhope
spurt? Surely, surely he was waiting too long?
Mostyn's brow was wet. He did not know if this was due to
perspiration or to the rain; he could not say if he felt hot or cold.
This was his last chance--literally his last chance--and still that
spurt was delayed.
Ah! Stanhope is giving Asmodeus his head now! "Come on,
Asmodeus--brave horse!--for the love of heaven, come!" The chestnut
is passed; that is good: now another is held and left behind; now
another. Asmodeus has forged into the second place, but the
winning-post is close at hand, and Don Quixote of the maddening,
aggressive gold is still foremost. Curse the gold!
It was a brave effort, but it failed, for Don Quixote, too, was
capable of a spurt. All but overhauled, the horse seemed to gather
his whole strength into that supreme moment. Once more he shot
ahead--yellow, huge and grotesque to Mostyn's eyes--and passed the
winning-post just a palpable length ahead.
It was over: Mostyn had played and lost!
He descended from the chair upon which he had been standing, quite
forgetting that Isaacson was by his side, and strolled away. The
rain beat in his face, his cheeks were dripping with moisture, but it
did not occur to him to put up his umbrella. Now and then he
collided with someone in the crowd and muttered an apology without
looking round.
A heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder. He recognised the voice of
Sir Roderick.
"Mostyn, my boy, this is a knock. I didn't expect it. With Jones up
on Don Quixote I thought Asmodeus would win. But look here; you
mustn't give in. I've got a plan for you: it isn't a cert, but it'll
give you a sporting chance. Now, understand, I'll take no denial.
Pollux shall run for you in the Derby--and Pollux is as good a horse
as Castor. Come along and we'll talk it over."
He led Mostyn away. The latter was still too dazed to understand
clearly what had been said to him.