MOSTYN MEETS WITH AN ACCIDENT.
It was early afternoon of the first day of the Epsom Summer Meeting.
Mostyn had just finished lunch, of which he had partaken in the
solitude of his Jermyn Street chambers. He had not been tempted down
to Epsom that day, for he had had a hard week's work, and he wished
to keep all his strength in reserve for the morrow, the great Derby
Day that was to decide his fate.
Pollux, of course, was at Epsom, in the charge of Joseph Dean, the
trainer who had had the care of him from the first. Pollux was to be
ridden by Fred Martin, now completely recovered, who, upon this
occasion, would sport the puce and black of Mostyn's colours instead
of the scarlet and silver of Sir Roderick's.
Never, perhaps, in the history of the great race had so much popular
interest been aroused. There was no first favourite, but, instead,
there were two horses who would both go to the post with unbroken
records, and between which, upon form, there was not a line to
choose. As a result, the two horses naturally stood even in the
betting; it was two to one against either of them, and there was a
considerable drop between this and the betting upon the next horse,
Pendragon, who was third in popular estimation.
Then, not only did Castor and Pollux stand level in the betting, but
the similarity of the two animals, even their names, which betokened
kinship, could not fail to arouse interest. Those who had seen them
together at Epsom--now that they had actually met for the first
time--reported them as being so exactly alike that they could hardly
be recognised apart. They were both tall, black horses, and there
was nothing to choose between them as regarded height or breadth or
muscle.
Perhaps, just as much as the horses, the owners excited attention.
Castor was the property of a girl, and one so young as to seem
totally out of place in the racing world. Pollux, which everyone
knew to have belonged to popular and genial "Old Rory," had been
suddenly transferred, little more than three weeks ago, to Mostyn
Clithero, that meteoric young man whose prowess upon the race-course
was so remarkable, and who had been buying horses wildly and madly
all over the country, and who seemed bent, for no explicable reason,
upon making a name for himself upon the Turf.
Mostyn sat musing over the events of the past few weeks, as well as
on those which were still concealed by the obscurity of the future.
Whatever the result might be, at least this could be said--he had had
his sporting chance, and he had taken it like a sportsman. If he
failed, it was through the chance of war, not through any fault of
his. The morrow might see him a vastly wealthy man or a pauper. Had
it not been for Sir Roderick, there would have been no doubt as to
the issue weeks ago, for Mostyn had indeed lost his last chance when
Asmodeus failed for the Guineas. It had taken all the kind-hearted
baronet's eloquence, as it was, to induce Mostyn to accept Pollux,
and in the end the young man would only yield by striking a
particularly hard bargain for himself in the event of the colt
winning. "Old Rory" had been forced to take up a selfish line.
"Heavenly powers, lad!" he had cried at last, testily, "aren't your
millions worth more than the blessed Derby stakes?" And Mostyn had
been constrained to see it in this light.
The worst of it was that he was thrown into such direct antagonism to
Rada. The race lay between him and her--there was no doubt about
that.
He would have liked to tell her the whole truth, so that she should
not misunderstand his motives, as she was bound to do. But it was
impossible for him to speak now--for the girl's own sake he saw that
it was impossible. To win the Derby with Castor was her dream, her
ambition, the one thing she asked of life. Why should he make her
unhappy, as she was bound to be if she knew how great a loss he would
suffer from her success? She could not help him in any way--she
could not scratch Castor even if she wished to do so--there was far
too much money already involved upon the colt.
Of course, she had misunderstood, "So you have bought Pollux!" she
had cried. "It makes no difference to my chances, of course, but I
didn't think that you"--there was a world of reproach in her
tone--"would have fought me to the end. I shall hate you if Pollux
wins--I shall really hate you." There was something of the old
defiance in her tone.
"Rada," he had said, striving hard to give her a hint, "remember our
wager. It was your life or my life. If Pollux wins----" If Pollux
won, he could claim his reward, he could ask Rada to marry him; if
Pollux failed, she was lost to him for ever--he would be a beggar.
But Rada interrupted him. She would not understand. She bit her lip
and stamped her foot. "So you are still thinking of that foolish
challenge?" she cried. "You are still fighting to win a Derby before
me? I think you are mean, mean and cowardly. I--I----" She had
broken off and run away from him, but he was certain that there were
tears in her eyes, and he had hated himself for the pain he gave her.
But there was nothing to be done. He must wait, bear her disdain,
till after the Derby, and then if Pollux won he could explain. If
Pollux lost, why, then, everything must go. It didn't matter.
He left for London the next day, and did not see Rada again. But he
was bound to meet her at Epsom--he thought of the meeting with
mingled feelings.
It was as he mused thus, that visitors, who turned out to be Pierce
and Cicely, were announced. They had been married now for some three
weeks, and they had but just returned to London from a visit which
they had been paying to Pierce's father in Worcestershire. They had
gone down in fear and trepidation as to the manner in which they
would be received by the bluff and rather choleric old squire.
The latter had made no sign when the news reached him of his son's
intention to disobey the strict injunctions laid upon him. The
marriage had taken place just as Pierce had schemed it out, and the
two young people had gone to Paris for a brief honeymoon. While
there, Pierce had received a summons, worded with characteristic
brevity, to return to England with his wife, and to present himself
at the parental domain. So much Mostyn knew; of the result of their
visit he had not yet heard a word.
Evidently nothing very tragic had occurred, for Pierce and Cicely
entered laughing, and palpably in the best of spirits. Mostyn kissed
his sister affectionately; she looked charming as a young bride, and
there was colour in her cheeks such as he had not seen there for many
a long day. Pierce, too, scrupulously dressed as ever, seemed
particularly well satisfied with himself and with the world at large.
"Well, how is it?" asked Mostyn. "Have you been forgiven and taken
back to the fold?"
Pierce sank down into a chair, his sides shaking with laughter. "You
will hardly believe it, Mostyn," he said as soon as he could find his
breath, "but the sly old boy was having a joke with me all the time!
He wanted me to run off with Cicely against his express will. He
wanted to see if I would have the pluck to do it! Think of
that--there's a facetious old sportsman for you! You remember how he
threatened me, how he gave me to understand that all sorts of
penalties would fall upon my unhappy head if I disobeyed him; of
course, I imagined that I should be cut off with the proverbial
shilling, and all the rest of it, and the old chap knew that I would
think so. All the time he was laughing in his sleeve and simply
pining to be disobeyed--just wanted to prove my mettle--that's what
he said himself, roaring with laughter, and as pleased as Punch about
it all. Oh, what an idiot I was to have waited all those months
without so much as seeing Cicely, and I verily believe that if I had
conscientiously allowed the year to pass the old governor would have
disinherited me for that!"
Cicely, too, joined in the laughter that Pierce's story gave rise to;
she was looking very happy, a little bashful, but her eyes were soft
and gentle, and Mostyn went over and kissed her again, congratulating
her now from the bottom of his heart, as well as Pierce, for the
happy issue out of their troubles. All was well with them, at least,
and, doubtful as he was as to his own position, he would not grudge
them a fraction of their happiness.
After a little while, however, a slight cloud crossed Cicely's face.
"We've so much to say about ourselves," she remarked penitently,
"that we are quite forgetting about you, Mostyn, and about another
matter--a very serious matter, too, which is troubling us, and which
will trouble you when you hear of it."
"Never mind me," said Mostyn, "I'm all right. I stand as good a
chance to win to-morrow as to lose, and what more than that can any
man expect? We'll discuss my affairs later on. Tell me the trouble."
"It's about father," said Cicely gravely. "But perhaps you've heard,
Mostyn?"
Mostyn shook his head. He had heard no news as to his father for
several months. His time had been so wholly taken up that he had
been unable to give his attention to anything except the matter in
hand. "Is anything wrong?" he asked a little anxiously.
"Very, very wrong, I'm afraid," replied the girl, shaking her head
ominously. "I shouldn't have heard anything about it any more than
you have, only it came to my ears in a roundabout way when we were in
Worcestershire. There was a man staying with the Pentons, who are
neighbours of the Trelawnys, you know, and he knew James and Charles
very well--I think he had some sort of connection with the bank; he
told me all about the misfortunes which have suddenly befallen our
father."
"Misfortunes?" queried Mostyn, puzzled. "I hadn't an idea that there
was anything wrong. I should have thought that father was the very
last man on earth to have got into any sort of trouble, and the
bank--why, the bank must be as stable as any in London."
"Oh! it's not the bank, and it's nothing for which father is to
blame," Cicely went on hurriedly. "It's James and Charles who've
turned out wrong. Oh, isn't it sad?" she went on, "for you know how
absolutely he believed in them; you and I were the black sheep,
Mostyn, but they were everything that they should be."
"That's why they've gone wrong," put in Pierce, with a grunt of
disapprobation. "A couple of beastly prigs. I always hated them,
though they are your brothers, Sis. Well, there's one consolation,
which is that your father must have found out his mistake by now, and
recognised that he blundered when he turned you and Mostyn out of
doors. It ought to have been the other two."
"What have they done?" asked Mostyn.
"Charles has run away with a ballet girl or some terribly impossible
person," Cicely explained. "He induced father to make over a large
sum of money to him, professing that he wanted it for that charitable
work he pretended to be so interested in. I don't believe there was
ever anything of the sort," she added indignantly; "it was only an
excuse of Charles's to get a little more liberty while he was living
at home."
Mostyn said nothing, but smiled to himself. He knew that Cicely was
right.
"As soon as he had got his money," the girl went on, "he showed
himself in his true colours. He laughed at father, and called him a
pious old fraud, or something of the sort, which was wicked and cruel
of him, for whatever he may be, our father is at least no hypocrite.
Then Charles threw up his position at the bank, announced that he was
going to marry the impossible person, and disappeared from home."
"So much for Charles," said Mostyn. He had very little sympathy with
Charles. "What about James?"
"Ah! that's worse still, very much worse," Cicely continued, a little
quiver at the sides of her lips proving that she was really moved.
"James has been getting into money troubles, though how he can have
managed it, I haven't the remotest idea. For, of course, he didn't
gamble or bet or anything of that sort."
"Stock Exchange," interjected Pierce, his upper lip curving. "It's a
deadly sin to back a race-horse, but you may stand to lose or win
your thousands upon the rise or fall of stock. That's one of those
things which your father may be able to explain, but which knocks the
ordinary man silly."
"I suppose it was on the Stock Exchange," Cicely went on. "Anyhow,
he lost a great deal of money, and at last it is supposed that he
must have contrived to tamper with the books at the bank. Of course,
he meant to put everything right, but, as usual, when the time came,
he could not do so, and so he forged father's name to a bill, or
whatever you call those dreadful things, for a large sum of money,
and the worst of it is, that that bill has got into the hands of a
man who knows the signature to be a forgery. You can see what
terrible trouble there is, and father--I saw him yesterday--is nearly
off his head with anxiety. He's all alone in that great house in
Bryanston Square, for James, mean coward that he is, has absconded to
America, and Charles hasn't been anywhere near the house."
"Is the sum so large," asked Mostyn, "that father is unable to settle
with this man? I suppose, after all, it's only a question of money,
and that if the bill is met, nothing will be said about the forged
signature. If that's the case---well, if Pollux wins
to-morrow--there won't be much difficulty in pulling father out of
this hole."
Cicely shook her head. "No, it isn't only a matter of money," she
explained. "That's just the horrible part of it. It was because we
thought that money might settle it that Pierce and I went to
Bryanston Square last night. Then we learnt that the man who holds
the bill is a bitter enemy of father's, and he vows that he'll show
the whole thing up; it's no good offering to pay him, to meet the
bill at maturity, or anything of that sort; he is a very rich man,
and doesn't care what he loses. His one wish is to make things
uncomfortable for the Clithero family, and he'll do it, too, for he's
hard and cruel--a Jew."
"Who is this man?" asked Mostyn. "Do I know him?"
"Yes." It was Pierce who volunteered the information. "It's
Isaacson, the fellow who owns Don Quixote."
"Isaacson!" Mostyn wrinkled his brows. "Isaacson is a hard nut to
crack, and, as you say, money doesn't mean much to him. He's on the
way to becoming a millionaire as it is, and if he's got a private
spite--
"It's both a private and a business spite, I believe," Cicely
declared. "I heard father speak of him, I remember, about a year
ago, and of a row there had been between them in the City. And then,
after that, they met at some dinner-party or other, and there was a
scene. Father expressed his opinion in his usual forcible way, and I
expect Mr. Isaacson did so, too. Anyway, they have never forgiven
each other, and this is the result. Isaacson will show James up for
what he is, and the whole family will be discredited."
"According to father, we have already disgraced the family," remarked
Mostyn with some bitterness.
"Ah!" Cicely lifted her fair head, and a tear glistened in her eye.
"He is a changed man now, Mostyn. You would be sorry for him if you
saw him, indeed you would. I believe he realises the mistakes he
made. He asked me after you, and his voice shook as he spoke--he is
just a poor, broken-down old man, and I think his health is giving
way. The wheels of time have ground our revenge for us, Mostyn."
Mostyn sat for a moment, thinking deeply. "You are right, Cicely,"
he said. "He is our father, and he acted justly according to his
lights. It's not for us to bear malice. I'll tell you what I'll
do----" He started up from his chair. "I'll go and see Isaacson at
once. He lives in Portman Square, I believe, and if he's not at
Epsom it's very likely that I shall find him. I'm bound to see him
at the Derby to-morrow if I miss him to-day, but one can't talk
'shop' down there. Of course, I don't know that I can do anything,
but I'll have a try."
"And go to father afterwards, will you, Mostyn?" Cicely rested her
hand upon her brother's arm. "He will see you, I'm sure of it. His
eyes were quite wistful when he spoke of you, though he did not ask
me to bring about a meeting. And he will be grateful when he knows
that you have tried to help him. He's never needed to turn to anyone
for help and comfort before, and it's that, I think, more than
anything else, that has broken him."
And so it was decided, and, after making their arrangements for the
following day, Pierce and Cicely took their departure. Cicely was to
spend the whole day with her father, while Pierce was to meet Mostyn
in Eaton Square, whence, as the year before, they were to go down to
Epsom on Sir Roderick's coach.
Mostyn drove without any delay to David Isaacson's house, and he was
lucky enough to find the financier at home. As he had expected, he
found the house a particularly luxurious one. The door was swung
open by two liveried and powdered flunkeys, while a grave butler
appeared to enquire his business. The hall was lavishly decorated in
marble, and the room into which Mostyn was shown, although not on a
large scale, was suggestive, even to the very smallest item, of
ostentatious wealth. Yet it was not so many years, as Mostyn knew,
since David Isaacson had occupied humble little offices somewhere off
Regent Street, living and sleeping in a couple of dingy rooms just
over them.
"Ah! Mr. Clithero, I'm glad to see you." Isaacson, attired in a
resplendent afternoon lounge suit, entered the room, a large cigar
held in the corner of his mouth. He appeared a strange figure in the
midst of the almost feminine luxury of his apartment, and yet there
was something about the man which rather appealed to Mostyn. There
was a good-humoured twinkle in his dark eyes, and a certain sincerity
about his lips which rather belied his reputation for hardness. A
sharp man of business, one who would insist upon his pound of flesh,
but honest withal--so Mostyn summed him up. "Nice little place I've
got here, eh?" The Jew gazed complacently round the ornate
apartment, fully conscious of the immense value of the draperies, of
the pictures, and of the various objects of art. There was hardly
anything that was not a _chef d'oeuvre_ in its way. "I am glad you
have come to see me. But why not at Epsom? I should have thought
that you would have been down for the first day's racing." He
offered Mostyn a cigar, and then proceeded to discuss the prospects
for the morrow's Derby.
"Fancy!" he said, as Mostyn, in obedience to his invitation, seated
himself and lit the cigar which he had accepted. "When I heard there
was a Clithero to see me, I fancied it was someone else altogether.
It was lucky you gave my man your Christian name as well as your
surname, for I shouldn't have been at home to any other Clithero. By
the way, it never struck me before, and I hope you won't be insulted
by the question--you're no relation to that blatant, conceited,
self-righteous prig, old John Clithero, the banker, are you? But of
course, it's not likely, a sportsman like you----"
"I am John Clithero's son," Mostyn said quietly.
"God of my fathers!" Isaacson muttered another exclamation under his
breath, which Mostyn failed to understand, but which he took to be a
Hebrew oath. "You the son of John Clithero? Well, I'd never have
believed it--never! I'm sorry--I'm downright sorry, if I've offended
you, but really, upon my word, you know, I never associated you with
that lot. Now I come to think of it, though, I believe I did see
something in the paper--but I forgot all about it, and I didn't know
you then. There's no friendship between your father and me, Mr.
Clithero," he went on, "but you--well, that's a different matter. I
admire your pluck; a true sportsman always appeals to me." He had
begun his apology awkwardly, but he ended it with candour, stretching
out his hand, which Mostyn took readily enough.
"To think that you're a son of John Clithero!" the Jew repeated.
"Well, that beats everything."
Mostyn took advantage of the opening thus offered him, to explain the
object of his visit. He had nothing to say in defence of his
brother, nor, very wisely perhaps, did he attempt to say much for his
father, for it was palpable that Isaacson felt very strongly upon the
subject of his supposed wrongs at the hands of John Clithero. He
stated his case in simple words, and pleaded as though it were a
personal favour that he was asking.
Isaacson did not allow Mostyn to conclude. He sat listening for a
few minutes, chewing at his big cigar; then he started to his feet,
crossed the room quickly, and rang the bell.
For a moment Mostyn fancied this to be an indication that the
interview was terminated, that Isaacson would hear no more, but he
was quickly undeceived by the smile upon the man's face and by his
genial tone.
"Say no more about it, my boy," Isaacson cried heartily. "I've rung
the bell for my secretary, and I'll ask him to look out the bill and
hand it over to you. It's a different thing altogether now that I
know you're concerned in the business. We are both of us sportsmen,
what? and one sportsman isn't going to round on a friend or play a
shabby trick. Old John's been taken down a peg or two as it is, I
expect, and he'll feel it all the more when he knows that it's you
who've pulled him out of the mire. You shall have the bill here and
now."
"But----" faltered Mostyn, taken aback by Isaacson's generosity, "I'm
not prepared to take up the bill immediately. It's for a large sum,
and----"
"Oh, never mind taking up the bill! I'll trust you for that,"
responded the other. "Get the thing in your hands while you can,
that's the best plan. This brother of yours has bolted to America, I
understand. Well, let him stick there, for he's a good riddance to
the country, and as to old John, I hope he'll learn his lesson, and
show a little more charity in his dealings with the world."
As Isaacson spoke, the secretary entered the room in response to the
bell, was given his instructions, and retired.
Isaacson seated himself once more by Mostyn's side, leaning forward
and tapping him familiarly upon the knee. "Folks say I'm a hard
man," he went on, "and perhaps I shouldn't be here if I hadn't
refused to listen sometimes to the appeals that are made to me; but
when it comes from you, Clithero, there's no thinking twice. You're
straight as they make them, and I should be very sore if I felt I'd
hurt you. I happen to know," he went on, lowering his voice, "that
that infernal little jockey of mine, that rascal Wilson, tried to
make a bit off you by promising to pull Don Quixote. That came to my
ears through the same individual who gave Wilson away--also that you
refused, and kicked the little scoundrel out. Well, though I never
thought you would have been a party to such a trick, I liked you all
the better for it, for, after all, you'd have run no danger, and you
must be jolly keen on winning a big race, judging by the number of
horses you've run in the course of a year. There, my boy, now you
know all about it, and why it's a pleasure to me to hand you over the
bill."
It was news to Mostyn to learn that Isaacson knew all about Wilson's
proposal to him, and he flushed a little to think that, even for a
moment, the Jew might have thought it possible for him to yield; but
at the same time he remembered how he had been tempted, and the
thought of this heightened the colour in his cheeks.
Wilson, he knew, had lost his licence as a consequence of Isaacson's
complaint against him. The case had been clearly proved, and
evidently there had been no necessity to bring Mostyn's name into the
matter. Of Wilson himself, he had seen nothing more since the day of
the Two Thousand Guineas, nor, indeed, had he had word with Jack
Treves. The latter had studiously avoided him, even when the two men
had met, as they were bound to meet, upon the day of the One Thousand
Guineas, when Mostyn's filly had proved, as he expected, quite
unequal to the task of even running into a place. If Wilson and
Treves still thought of avenging themselves against Mostyn, they had,
so far, made no move.
A quarter of an hour later, refusing the hearty invitation to return
and dine, the incriminating document safely in his possession, Mostyn
took his departure. He was anxious to proceed straight to his
father's house, and to set the mind of John Clithero at rest. It
would be strange to meet his father again, and he wondered how he
would be received.
He stood on the doorstep while one of the gorgeously liveried men
servants whistled sharply for a hansom. The house stood at the
corner of the square, and presently Mostyn could hear the sound of
rapidly approaching wheels, though he could not see the vehicle
itself. It sounded to him, however, as if two hansoms were racing
each other in answer to the summons.
At that moment a little child, a fair-haired baby girl, escaped from
her nursemaid, whose attention had been distracted by the extravagant
golden livery of the footman, and toddled into the road just as the
two hansoms swept round the corner.
Mostyn saw the danger. With a shout he sprang forward and seized the
little girl almost from under the horses' hoofs. He regained the
curb, escaping almost by a miracle, but so quick had been his
movements that, once out of danger, he slipped and fell, rolling
over, his arm bent at an awkward angle beneath him.
The nursemaid, wailing with fear, gathered the little child into her
arms, but Mostyn lay where he had fallen till the two footmen and a
policeman came to his assistance.
He was not unconscious, and presently he moved and sat up. But his
arm hung limply at his side and he realised a ghastly pain close to
the shoulder.
Yet he tried to smile reassuringly into the faces of those who were
bending over him. "It's all right," he murmured. "I'm quite safe,
but--but I think I've broken my arm."
With which he promptly fainted away. They carried him back carefully
into the house of David Isaacson.