MOSTYN COMPLETES HIS TASK.
"Three o'clock! The race should be starting in a few moments now,
Clithero." David Isaacson bustled into the room where Mostyn lay
upon an improvised bed. Isaacson had not gone to the Derby. An
important piece of business had detained him in London, and when that
was concluded he had devoted his time to his young friend.
Mostyn had been moved very tenderly and with the utmost care from the
bed-chamber, which had at first been allotted him, to a room where
Isaacson, some months before, had set up a tape machine. In this
way, Mostyn would learn the result of the race with no delay at all.
His injury was a simple fracture of the upper arm, and when the bone
had been well set by a skilful surgeon, called in at once, Mostyn had
found himself fairly comfortable, though, of course, it was necessary
for him to remain absolutely at rest. A message had been sent to his
father, a letter written for Mostyn by Isaacson, with which the bill
was enclosed, and John Clithero had come round at once, even to the
house of the much-hated David Isaacson, and there, by Mostyn's
bedside, the reconciliation between father and son had been complete.
"I have fallen low, Mostyn," the old man had muttered, "and it is I
who have to crave your forgiveness."
He would have said much more, but Mostyn would not allow him to do
so, and presently, Cicely coming in, John Clithero was able to
realise that, though he had lost two of his sons, he had at least
regained the son and daughter whom he had so ruthlessly turned from
his door. These two had stood by him in his hour of need.
"I have learnt my lesson," he sighed. "And it is you, Mostyn, and
you, Cicely, who have taught it to me."
Upon the following day--Derby Day--he was, perhaps, as keenly excited
as anyone else in the result of the race, for he knew now all that
depended upon it. He superintended the carrying down of his son to
the room where they could watch the tape, and he would hardly consent
to leave Mostyn's side even for his meals. When Isaacson arrived to
announce the hour, it was as much as he could do to sit still.
He was sadly changed--there was no doubt as to that. All his
arrogance had fallen from him, to give place to a kind of apologetic
demeanour; it was as though he was asking pardon from one and all for
the mistakes of his life, mistakes which must have been borne in on
him by much solitary reflection, by a very agony of self-examination.
He had been his own judge, and he was as hard in the verdict
pronounced against himself as he had ever been against one whom, in
his pharisaical self-righteousness, he had condemned as a sinner.
All that John Clithero had endured was plainly writ on his face. He
was a broken-down man--one who had lost faith in himself. Even David
Isaacson had felt sorry for him and had treated him with rough
kindness--for Mostyn's sake.
Three o'clock. How slowly the minutes passed! Mostyn lay, propped
up by his pillows, his free hand clasped in that of Cicely, and he
was trying to talk of all possible subjects except that which was
uppermost in his mind. Isaacson sat by the tape machine, and John
Clithero kept hovering backwards and forwards, his agitation
painfully apparent.
In his mind, Mostyn could see all that was happening. The horses had
left the paddock by now and had galloped down to the starting-post.
How the crowd must have cheered first Castor and then Pollux!--or,
perhaps, it was the other way about. He wondered if Rada was
watching the race from the coach; he thought she probably would be,
for Sir Roderick and Pierce would take care of her, and, if Castor
won, she would, of course, wait to lead her horse in.
He drew a deep sigh as he thought of Rada. How would she behave when
she learnt the truth? If Castor won, would he even have the courage
to tell her why he had thrown himself into such direct competition
with her? Would he not be afraid to do so because of the trouble
which such knowledge must necessarily bring to her? She would be
horrified to learn that her success meant his ruin. Mostyn was
inclined to think that he must leave her in ignorance, even at the
expense of never gaining her forgiveness.
The horses must have started by now. As he lay there, he could
almost hear the shouting of the crowd, that sound so familiar to him,
so musical in his ears. The noises in the square without blended and
harmonised with his fancy. A boy was whistling, further away an
organ was playing--then there came a sudden hush--yes, the horses
must be running! He wondered if they had got away at once; somehow
he had a strong impression of a false start.
The tape clicked out the information. It kept up a monotonous
tick-tick that was jarring to the nerves. "Off 3.15. Delay at
start!" Then followed a list of the starters and jockeys--a long
list--there were fully a dozen in all. Isaacson held out the tape,
and read them off one by one.
Then came a pause. It was a clock on the mantel-piece, an elaborate
affair of antique French china, that was ticking now. Mostyn had
hardly noticed it before, but it was extraordinary that he should not
have done so. Why, the sound was so loud and aggressive that it
seemed to be beating directly against the drums of his ears. He
pressed his left hand upon his ear, but it made no difference. The
noise went on just the same--if anything augmented in strength. How
fast his heart was beating, too--perhaps that had something to do
with it.
"Ah, here we are!" A cry from Isaacson, as the machine recommenced
its ticking. He almost dragged upon the tape. The Jew was as
excited as anyone else in the room--of them all, Mostyn was the
calmest. "Now we'll see. Pollux for ever! I don't mind betting----"
He broke off, the tape hanging in his hand. His jaw fell. Mostyn
noticed at that moment that his scarf-pin, a huge diamond, had nearly
worked its way out of his tie. It looked as if it must scratch his
chin.
"Well, let's have it. Is the result out?" Mostyn put the question
calmly, but he knew already that Pollux had lost.
"Clithero, my boy, I'm sorry--I'm damned sorry!" Isaacson stood up,
his eyes still fixed upon the tape that was now hanging in coils,
like a snake, about his fingers. The ticking went on cruelly,
remorselessly; it was like the needles of the weird sisters spinning
out the fate of man.
"Let's hear it!"
"Castor first, Pendragon second, Goliath third." The Jew's voice
sounded very far away as he spoke the words.
"And Pollux?"
"Blessed if I can make it out! Paragon was fourth. And here are the
names of the others." He tore the offending tape into shreds.
"Ah"--the machine was ticking again. "What's this? Pollux, one of
the favourites, fell at Tattenham Corner when leading. Horse and
jockey uninjured."
Mostyn broke into a laugh. "So that's the end of it," he exclaimed.
"Something was bound to happen to any horse that ran in my colours.
Well, the tension's over, anyway." He fell back upon his pillows.
He was quite calm; something seemed to have snapped, and with it had
come infinite relief. There would be no more harassing of his
nerves, no more blood on the boil. It was over and he had lost. At
any rate he could rest.
His father was leaning over him, pressing his hand. "It's all right,
Mostyn," the old man was urging in a voice thick with emotion.
"You've lost a big fortune, but what does it matter? You will come
back to me--my son: I've only got one son now--you, whom I drove from
my door."
Mostyn pressed the hand in return. On the other side of him Cicely
was whispering words of comfort, words such as only a woman can find.
"It will be all right with Rada, too, Mostyn. I'm as sure of that as
of my life. She will be so happy at winning that she will forget
everything else. And you're not a pauper now, remember that, since
you're friends with father again. You can just go to Rada and ask
her to be your wife: she'll say 'yes,' or I know nothing of my sex."
Isaacson, too, was voluble in sympathy. "It's not your fault that
you've come down, Clithero, my boy. You did your best, and no man
can do more. I admire you for your pluck, and every sportsman will
admire you as much as I do when the truth is known."
The starting prices were ticked out unheeded while Mostyn's friends
stood about his bed; the tape was falling in long coils upon the
floor. Outside, in the square, a newsboy could be heard shouting
"Winner!" at the top of his voice. The momentous news had been given
to London.
Isaacson stepped back to the machine and began once more to run the
tape through his fingers, reading out the starting prices as cheerily
as he could, as well as any other information that had come to hand.
Suddenly he was silent; he held a long strip before him, lifted close
to his eyes--for he was a trifle short-sighted--and he was apparently
reading the writing upon it over and over again. During these
moments his face expressed the most remarkable changes of emotion.
He had begun to read carelessly, then his attention had been
concentrated; finally, with a great wrench, he tore off the strip,
waved it in the air, and gave vent to an undignified and apparently
inappropriate shout.
"God of my fathers!" he cried, literally dancing across the floor,
"but who would have thought it? Why, the girl's a champion, a
heroine"--he could not find words to express his feelings--"a brick!"
"What are you driving at?" Mostyn dragged himself up again. For a
moment he wondered if Isaacson had taken leave of his senses.
"It's all right! That's what I'm driving at. Read for yourself;
read!" He held out the strip of paper before Mostyn's eyes. The
latter took it in his left hand, but presently let it fall. The
letters all seemed to run into each other, and the print was blurred.
"What does it mean?" he gasped.
"It means that at the very last minute Miss Armitage appears to have
transferred Castor from herself to you. The whole thing is very
vague at present, for Castor certainly ran in her colours. But, from
this, she seems to be no longer the owner of the horse. Castor is
yours, Mostyn, and won the Derby for you!"
Mostyn lifted his hand to his head. "It isn't possible," he
muttered. "There must be some mistake. It couldn't have been done."
"It's right, you mark my words!" cried Isaacson, whose exultation had
by no means passed away. "It will be explained before long. And you
owe it all to Miss Armitage, my boy! She must have found out why you
wanted so badly to win. There's a noble girl for you! I tell you
what it is, Clithero: it's your duty to fall in love with her and
marry her--yes, by Jove, it is!"
"Ah, if I could!" Mostyn sighed in answer. Nevertheless he
continued to express his disbelief, though the tape message was read
to him over and over again, and though it was confirmed by a later,
but still rather vague, announcement.
It was not till about a couple of hours later that everything was
cleared up by the arrival of Rada herself, who, in the company of
Pierce, had motored up to London from Epsom. Sir Roderick would have
liked to have accompanied them, but he had his coach and his guests
to attend to.
After the first excited greetings, Pierce told the story, while Rada
stood bashfully aside--yes, perhaps for the first time in her life
she showed symptoms of shyness.
"That scoundrel Jack Treves appears to have arranged with Ted Wilson,
the jockey--both enemies of yours, Mostyn--to play a dirty trick upon
Pollux. They got Benjamin Harris to do it. Ben Harris was one of
old Treves's stablemen once, and I expect it was he who doctored
Silver Star at Jack's orders, but that's by the way. I'm glad to say
he was caught by the police, and he's given the whole plot away.
Jack and Wilson will catch it hot, and serve them right, too! What
the scoundrel did was to hide, as he thought, behind a tree, and
shoot at Pollux with an air-gun, or a catapult or something of the
sort. No wonder the poor beast swerved and fell. Pollux was leading
at the time and was going to win."
"I'm not so sure of that," put in Rada, in spite of her shyness.
"Well, never mind. What is really of importance is that Miss
Armitage, just before the race, surprised a note written to Jack by
Wilson, which gave the whole game away. And, as it happened, Miss
Armitage knew just how you were situated, Mostyn. It was my fault,
for I let it all out, and I'm glad I did." He stared defiantly at
his friend, and laughed. "Don't scold me now, however--you can do
all that when I've finished my yarn. Well, as long as things were
straight and above board Miss Armitage would have let matters take
their course--you stood a good sporting chance to win. But when she
found out the plot she came to me--the race was just about to
start--and made me take her to the stewards. I didn't know what she
meant to do till we were in the presence of those august individuals.
Then she announced that she wanted to make Castor over to you. Of
course, there were all sorts of difficulties in the way, but Miss
Armitage got over them all. I think she must have fascinated the
gentlemen. Of course I don't know what they thought"--he glanced
slyly at Rada, who turned away blushing.
"Anyway," Pierce went on, "the stewards are omnipotent, you know. So
a transfer was signed and attested, countersigned by the stewards,
and a wire was sent to Weatherby's. It was all in order, I can
assure you, and quite legal. Of course, it was too late to make any
immediate announcement, so the race had to go on as it was, Castor
being ridden in Miss Armitage's colours. But Castor is your horse,
Mostyn; no one can dispute that, nor your right to Anthony Royce's
millions. I congratulate you a thousand times. There, now I've told
you everything."
It was when Pierce ceased speaking, and as Mostyn, his eyes fixed
upon Rada, could find no words to reply, that John Clithero stepped
across the room and took the girl's hand in his.
"Bless you for what you have done," he said. "My son has spoken to
me of you to-day, Miss Armitage--your name has been constantly on his
lips. He is afraid that he has offended you; but I don't think that
he can have done so, or you would not have sacrificed yourself for
his sake. But I am sure that he would like to hear you say he is
forgiven, and that he will want to thank you--alone."
He led the girl to Mostyn's bedside, then, followed by all the rest
of the party, stole out of the room.
* * * * * *
"Do you remember," Mostyn whispered, some time later, in Rada's ear,
when all had been explained between them and every difficulty
smoothed away, "do you remember, my darling, the terms of our
wonderful wager upon the coach last Derby Day?"
Rada needed no reflection. "I said I would wager my life that you
would never win a Derby," she murmured, "and I have lost."
"You staked your life, and I have won it," he replied. "That is a
finer thing than money. I am happy, Rada--so very happy! In a
single day I have won a big race--a huge fortune--and, best of all,
your life--the life of the girl I love."
His sound arm was resting on her shoulder. He drew her face to his,
and kissed her on the lips, and this time she did not repel him.
"Do you really love such a little vixen, such a little devil, as I?"
she asked wonderingly.
"You're a 'hangel,'" he answered, laughingly recalling the words of
Samuel Willis. "I always knew it, and to-day you've proved it. Kiss
me again, Rada, and then we'll summon the others and tell them the
news."
Smiling softly, she bent and obeyed. "This is better than winning a
Derby!" she sighed happily.
THE END.
London: Ward, Lock & Co., Limited.