Chapter XIII: Mostyn Prepares for Battle

"Well, my boy, I'm glad to have seen you, and to have heard all about this curious business from your own lips. Gad, I could hardly believe it, when Pierce first told me, but thought he was trying to pull my leg! The young dog, it's just the sort of thing he might have been capable of."

Genial "Old Rory" smiled indulgently at his nephew, and then turned again to Mostyn, to whom he had been addressing himself.

"Anyway, you may depend upon me to do all I can to help you. It's about the finest sporting event I've ever come across in my life, and there's humour in it, too"--Sir Roderick's broad features reflected his appreciation of this--"just the sort of humour that I should have expected of my poor old friend, Anthony Royce. To give a man--one who knows nothing about racing--forgive me Clithero, but that's true, isn't it?--a big capital, and oblige him, if he's going to win a still bigger legacy at the end of it, to steep himself in racing, just because there's an old grudge to be paid off against the legatee's father, who abhors racing as he abhors the devil--well, there's something that appeals to me in that, and I wouldn't miss the fun of watching your progress for the next year, no, not if I never won another race in my life. Here's luck to you, Clithero!"--the old man lifted a foaming glass of champagne to his lips as he spoke--"may you do justice to yourself, to Royce's memory, and to your father."

"Old Rory" laughed again as he spoke the last words. He was picturing to himself the expression of John Clithero's face when the latter came to learn that his son was becoming a prominent figure upon the turf.

"He'll moan about the sins of the children being visited upon the fathers," Sir Roderick muttered to himself, then continued: "But don't you let out your secret, my boy, not to a living soul except those who are already in the know. It's a good thing your solicitors could keep it quiet for you. If anything of the truth leaked out before you had carried the job through, the difficulties of your task would be magnified a hundred-fold. You may take that from me, and I know what I'm talking about."

Mostyn and Pierce had been dining, as Sir Roderick's guests, at the Imperial Club. Mostyn had only arrived in town the day before, and Pierce, who had been impatiently awaiting him, was not prepared to allow the grass to grow under their feet. He was as keenly interested in Mostyn's success as was the latter himself. The dinner with Sir Roderick had been arranged at his suggestion.

"'Old Rory' is the best fellow in the world," he had told Mostyn, "and he can do more for you than any man I know of in London--introduce you to the right sort of people, and all that kind of thing. If we can get him really interested in our struggle, why, the battle will be more than half won before it has commenced."

Mostyn had been anxious at first that nothing should be said to Sir Roderick MacPhane about the unsatisfactory deal he had made over the colt Castor; he was very shy of any allusion to Rada, and the whole story of Captain Armitage's duplicity could hardly have been touched upon without some reference to the girl.

Besides, after all, so Mostyn had argued with himself, Captain Armitage might be a disreputable and altogether unscrupulous old man, but, nevertheless, he was Rada's father, and so a privileged person in Mostyn's eyes. However, Pierce had advised that the truth should be told, although, of course, it was not necessary to mention by what means Rada had succeeded in paying for the colt. It was quite enough to explain that, after having purchased Castor, Mostyn had discovered his mistake and, out of consideration for Rada, had consented to the whole transaction being annulled.

To Pierce, Mostyn had unbosomed himself, making a clean breast of everything; not even keeping back the incidents of that passionate moment when he had held Rada in his arms, and, goaded on by some impulse that he hardly understood himself, had told her of his love. As a consequence he had been forced to listen to what Pierce was pleased to call a lecture upon worldly wisdom. He had indeed been rather severely taken to task.

"Look here, Mostyn," Pierce had concluded by saying, "you've got a stiff job before you, a task which is far more difficult than you seem to think; well, if you're going to win you must put all thoughts of love-making and suchlike nonsense out of your head. I know it's jolly hard when a man gets taken that way--I ought to know, oughtn't I? but I've got my year's probation, and now you've got yours as well. Look at it in that light. You've got to think of horses for the next year, and horses only. You'll come to grief if you go running after the petticoats as well. As for Rada, she is like an untrained filly, and you will have your work cut out for you if you think of breaking her in. Do as you like in a year, old man; but you can't stand a handicap yet."

"You needn't worry about Rada, Pierce," Mostyn returned, without any loss of temper. "There's not going to be any more love scenes between her and myself. Why, she said she hated me, and we've never met yet without quarrelling."

"That's all right, then." Pierce had glanced sharply at his friend's face as if to convince himself that Mostyn was quite serious. The innocent! Why, according to his own tale, Rada had allowed him to kiss her; she had rested for a few moments in his arms before she had torn herself away, crying and protesting, just as Pierce would have expected of her, wayward little creature that she was; and yet Mostyn did not seem to realise that the game was in his own hands! He had taken Rada quite seriously!

Such was, indeed, the case, for Mostyn had left Partinborough without seeing Rada again, quite convinced that his company was odious to her.

Well, this was all for the best--so argued Pierce to himself, and, as a wise man, with Mostyn's best interest at heart, it would be folly for him to point out any possibility of mistake.

After dinner was concluded that evening the three men retired to the club smoking-room, in order seriously to discuss Mostyn's projects for the future, and, of course, Sir Roderick MacPhane was allowed to be spokesman.

"Well, Mostyn," he said--he had easily dropped into the way of calling the young man by his Christian name--"since you've lost Castor, I expect you'll have to give up all hopes of doing anything in next year's Derby. You're not likely to find another colt worth the buying--certainly not one that could hold a candle to Castor--or to my Pollux, for the matter of that. But, of course, if I have correctly grasped the situation, the Derby is not a race that you need consider seriously just yet. You have plenty of other chances to win your money, and it is over those that you had better lay yourself out. You've got to earn your legacy first, and then you'll be in the position to direct all your attention to the Derby--that is, if you're still anxious to make good what you said upon my coach at Epsom a week or so back--that you would win the classic race in five years' time."

Sir Roderick laughed heartily as he recalled the scene. "I didn't know what to make of you that day, Mostyn," he continued, "but I understand now, that it was Royce who instigated you to that quixotic speech of yours. You were being laughed at. Oh, my dear boy, how you flushed! and how angry you looked with that little spitfire, Rada Armitage!"

Mostyn flushed now as if to prove that he had not yet lost the habit. "I didn't understand what Mr. Royce meant either," he replied, "but I just said what he told me. In fact, I said I would win the Derby in five years' time instead of ten, as he suggested in my ear. Of course, I was an arrant fool, and didn't know what I was talking about."

"Well, you stand a very good chance, thanks to our friend, Royce, of carrying your words into effect," said Sir Roderick, "but, as I was saying, unless you are absolutely pushed to it, I wouldn't worry my head too much over next year's Derby. If you should fail in all the other races that are open to you, then, of course, we must see what is to be done--for the Derby is the last chance you've got, isn't it? The year granted you by the terms of the will terminates with the Epsom Summer Meeting next year?"

"That is so," acquiesced Mostyn. "The Oaks will be absolutely my last chance."

"I understand." The old sportsman was silent for a few moments, leaning forward, his elbows resting upon his knees, as if in thought. Once, a club friend, passing close to him, addressed him by name, but "Old Rory" only looked up and grunted, immediately afterwards resuming his attitude of profound thought. The man passed on with a smile--"Old Rory" and his quaint habits were well known and understood by every member of the club.

On his side Mostyn was in no hurry to interrupt the silence. Everything that Sir Roderick had said so far quite coincided with his own ideas. He had no wish whatever to run a horse for the next year's Derby unless he was absolutely compelled by the circumstance of forces to do so. The fact was that he did not wish to oppose Rada, Rada who had set her heart upon winning that race. True, she had in a way challenged him--he remembered the words quite well, for she had spoken them on the first occasion of their meeting at Partinborough Grange: "I'm only a girl, but I'll back myself to win the Derby before you." That's what she had said, and later on, when she found that he had purchased Castor she had jumped to the conclusion that he had done so for the purpose of avenging himself upon her--she, like everyone else, being ignorant of his real motive.

For a little while he had felt that it would be pleasant to enter into competition with her and to beat her upon her own ground, but that was before he had become convinced that he loved her; now things appeared differently to him, and he desired nothing more than that Rada should win her cherished ambition; for himself he had to concentrate his attention upon realising his legacy by winning one of the other races that were open to him, and, that done, he would still have four years left him in which to find a Derby winner--no light thing, of course--but then, his means would be almost unlimited. He felt that he owed it to Royce's memory to attain this end, quite as much as for the gratification of his own self-esteem.

But he would not hurt Rada if he could help it--that was the one thing upon which his mind was made up. There was no reason whatever, as he looked at the position now, why they should be opposed to each other. The only rivalry between them lay in the undoubted fact that she had defied him to win the Derby within five years, and he had quite made up his mind to do so.

Sir Roderick looked up at last, and turned his attention to his coffee, which had been growing cold in front of him. He began to stir it slowly and reflectively with a long cigar cutter, which he had taken up in mistake for his spoon, a mistake over which he laughed heartily when Pierce hastened to rectify it.

"It's not only in my speeches that I blunder, apparently. That's just what I am always doing in the House," he pronounced, "stirring up things with the wrong sort of spoon. But the stirring gets done all right, which is the main thing. But now to business," he went on, "and this is my advice to you, Mostyn. You tell me you are going to have a shot for the Royal Hunt Cup, the first race open to you; well, of course, you can do so if you like, and there's no harm whatever in trying your stride, but I can tell you right away that you can't expect to do anything either for the Hunt Cup or at Goodwood. The time is much too short. After Goodwood I see you have the Leger--" Sir Roderick was inspecting, by means of one of the circular magnifying glasses provided by the club, a written list of the races which had been scheduled in Anthony Royce's will. "Well, as to the Leger," he continued, "I really don't see that I can hold out any hope for you there either. You are not likely to get a three-year-old capable of beating either Hipponous or Peveril, and they are both bound to run if fit. So it's as clear as a pike-staff to me that your best chance will be for the Cesarewitch or the Cambridgeshire, and with luck you might pull one of those races off. Anyway I'll do what I can for you if you really think my advice and assistance of any use--in fact, I've already got an idea that I may be able to secure a horse for you for the Cesarewitch; I won't tell you its name just yet, however, but you can take it from me that it will be a good thing."

Mostyn was loud in his thanks, and before the little party broke up that evening, he was as confident of winning his legacy as if the money were already in his pocket.

"Well, good-bye, my boy," Sir Roderick said, when he rose to go--he always observed early hours on those occasions when he was not sitting late in Parliament. "You've been set a task that I envy you. Go straight at it for all you are worth, and don't be afraid of spending your money--that's the safest way of putting it in your pocket."

Of course, both Pierce and Mostyn laughed heartily over this characteristic bull, an inversion of ideas that had a sound basis of truth as far as Mostyn was concerned. It was perhaps significant of the real interest that "Old Rory" was taking in his subject that he had only perpetrated one bull in the course of that evening.

Left alone, the two young men ordered whisky and soda, and then they fell to discussing their own more intimate affairs. It may be assumed that the names of Cicely and Rada--this in spite of Pierce's eloquent discourse on worldly wisdom--were repeated many times before the sitting came to an end. For now that Mostyn had come to town there was no reason why he should not see his sister; of course, he could not go to Bryanston Square, but they might easily meet by appointment somewhere else--say at Mostyn's rooms in Jermyn Street. And naturally, since Pierce was forbidden to see Cicely, he was eager to hear all about her from her brother.

"I don't see why you should scold me about Rada," Mostyn smiled, when, a little before midnight, he parted from his friend at the corner of Jermyn Street, "you have spoken of nothing but Cicely for the last hour, and I haven't been able to get in a word edgeways."

"Cicely and I love each other," returned Pierce thoughtlessly.

Mostyn reflected upon those words rather bitterly as he walked slowly down Jermyn Street. Yes, of course, it was different--very different. Pierce and Cicely had been engaged, were presumably engaged still, in spite of the year's probation that had been imposed upon them. At the end of that year, whether further opposition were offered on the part of John Clithero or not, the two young people would come together again, and all would be well between them.

How different it was with himself! How extraordinary that he should have fixed his affections upon a girl with whom he could do nothing but quarrel, who had made sport of him in public, and who had declared that she hated him. What a fool he was, and how he wished he could get the vision of Rada--Rada, with her glossy and rebellious hair, and with her piercing black eyes--out of his brain. Rada, who had called herself a devil when he had insisted that she was an angel!

Well, it was a good thing that he had so much to occupy his thoughts. Pierce was right, and he must give himself up wholly to the task before him--he must leave Rada to Jack Treves, if it could really be possible that she cared for the trainer's son. Rada was not for him.

He sighed heavily as he entered his room and switched on the electric light. A little pile of letters awaited him upon the table, and topmost of all was one addressed in a rather straggling, feminine handwriting; Mostyn, taking it up curiously, perceived that it bore the Partinborough postmark.

He knew at once, instinctively, that the letter was from Rada herself--from Rada, whom he was trying his best to forget.