Chapter XV: Mostyn Faces Defeat

"Pierce, old man, I'm afraid we are going to be beaten." Mostyn pushed his chair back from the dinner table, lit a cigarette and disconsolately watched the little rings of smoke which he blew in quick succession from his lips.

The two friends were seated in the dining-room of the Grange, and they had just partaken of a good dinner, which had been well served up by a quiet man-servant, who had been in Mostyn's service for the last eight months.

The winter, following a series of reverses, had come and gone, and now, though the prescribed year had nearly elapsed, Mostyn found himself apparently as far as ever from successfully carrying out the terms of his bequest.

On the following day the Two Thousand Guineas would be run, then there was the Thousand; after that there remained the Derby and the Oaks--and that was all.

Pierce stared straight at the wine-glass which he had just filled with fine old port, of which Mostyn had found a good supply in his cellar. He had little to say by way of comfort.

"I am afraid Asmodeus will go down, like the rest of them," he muttered. "He hasn't an earthly chance against Don Quixote. And then there's Bouncing Boy."

"Bouncing Boy won't win either," commented Mostyn. He was very proficient in racing by now, an excellent judge of winning form. He had formulated quite a theory in his own mind of horses for courses, but whenever he tried to buy a good horse that had already won a big handicap he was always met by difficulties in the way of refusal to sell. "Don Quixote will win, and win easily. Asmodeus may be second, but what's the use of that to me?" he added. "I'm sick of horses that are placed second."

Herein, indeed, was disclosed much of the irony of the whole position. Three times in quick succession on the flat Mostyn's horses had been accorded the second place, which was palpably no use to him whatever. The Lincolnshire, the Chester Cup, and the City and Suburban--in all three of these races Mostyn's horses had come in second.

"We've done our best," commented Pierce, after a moment's pause; "at least there's that to be said. But it was too hard a task, Mostyn: Anthony Royce made it too stiff for you."

"At any rate he obtained what he wanted." Mostyn looked up with a quaint smile. "He steeped me in racing and he made my father wild; he got his revenge right enough. The papers are always advertising my name. It is 'Mr. Clithero, that ubiquitous young sportsman, has purchased so and so'; or 'Mr. Clithero, the irrepressible, will run so and so for such a race.' They write articles about me, comment on my not betting, on my personal appearance, and all the rest of it. I've seen my portrait in the papers till I'm sick of the sight of it. Some call me plucky; others laugh at me for my folly and think I'm just a wild young spendthrift. My father sees all those papers; Cicely tells me in her letters that he has them sent to him. He must simply rage with fury. That's just what Royce wanted. You remember how my father tried, through the solicitors, to put a stop to my racing under my own name?"

Pierce nodded. The mention of Cicely had set up a new train of thought in his mind; he heard what was said without paying particular heed to it.

"Of course I couldn't do that," Mostyn went on; "and my refusal must have made the poor old man more angry than ever, and I expect the very idea that I had been left money by Anthony Royce, his enemy, must have driven him half crazy."

"He's making things almost impossible at home," put in Pierce, following his own thoughts. "You know how Cicely, poor child, writes of him. His temper is abominable, and she always has to bear the brunt of it. Cicely hardly dare send you a letter now because she is accused of abetting you in your misdeeds." Pierce frowned and kicked viciously at the leg of the table. "And then, hasn't he threatened to turn her out of the house unless she will consent to promise never to marry me? Oh! I tell you, Mostyn, her life must be a hell, a hell!" He rose and promenaded the room with long strides.

Cicely's relations with her father were perhaps even worse than Pierce was aware of. She had written long letters to Mostyn--though of late he had guessed, from the rarity with which she wrote, that her correspondence had been placed under surveillance--and had poured out her heart to him. She had begged him, however, to observe discretion with Pierce, fearing to cause the latter unnecessary trouble. She was still convinced that she must hold out till the end of the year, but it was hard, very hard, to do so.

The chief cause of offence was her constancy to her lover. She steadily refused to give him up, even though, day after day, John Clithero poured out upon her the vials of his wrath. The smallest word would lead to a scene, and she had no one to turn to for comfort, for both her brothers were united against her.

"Go and join Mostyn, the profligate," John Clithero would cry, lifting his fists in impotent rage. "You are children of Belial, chaff for the burning. My sin is upon me, that I have begotten such as you!"

Knowing of these scenes, Pierce had gone to his father and again begged to be allowed to take Cicely away at once; but the old man had relented nothing of his stubbornness, though when he spoke of the year's probation which he had imposed upon his son, there was always that queer look upon his face which Pierce could not understand.

"Don't let's worry our heads over these things to-night, old chap," Mostyn said at last. "To-morrow's the Guineas--another step in my progress. Come and sit down, and let's talk over our chances."

After a few more rapid strides up and down, Pierce adopted the suggestion, and soon, for the time being, he had forgotten his own troubles in fighting anew with Mostyn their past battles, in preparing a brave face for what was still to come.

There was not one race out of all those scheduled in the will which Mostyn had neglected. He had thrown himself, heart and soul, into his task. Pierce, with his better knowledge of the Turf, had ably advised and seconded him.

In so many instances they had come near to victory--that was the heart-rending part of it all. Success had seemed within their grasp, only to be snatched away at the last moment.

The Cesarewitch--that had perhaps been the greatest disappointment of all. A horse like Gulliver, with his pedigree and his record, hot favourite, too, as he had been made--Mostyn and Pierce had indeed been justified in their belief that with Gulliver their great object would be achieved.

But Gulliver failed, and that apparently by sheer ill-luck. How clearly all the particulars were engraved upon Mostyn's brain! The bad news had come to him--the news that forecasted the failure that was to follow--a couple of days before the race, and almost immediately after the short, sharp tussle which he had had with Jack Treves outside the gates of the stables. He had found the trainer awaiting him, an ominous yellow paper in his hand, an expression of keen anxiety upon his honest face.

"I'm sorry, sir, upon my word, I'm as sorry as if the affair were my own." Thus had spoken the blunt old man.

"What's up, Treves?" Mostyn had asked, a sense of misgiving seizing upon him. Old Treves would not have looked so worried without a real cause.

The latter handed over the telegram without another word, and Mostyn realised what had happened. The jockey who was to have ridden Gulliver--none other than the redoubtable Fred Martin himself, the same who had steered Hipponous to victory at the Derby--Fred Martin had been taken ill, was lying in hospital, and had been forced now, at the eleventh hour, to throw up the sponge.

"It's all true, sir," Treves said, as if he had an idea that Mostyn might have doubted the genuineness of the story. "I'd stake my life that Fred Martin wouldn't give up unless he was forced--the lad's as straight as they make 'em."

The blow was irreparable, and Mostyn realised it at once. At such short notice it was practically impossible to find an adequate substitute, and the jockey who finally rode Gulliver, a mere boy, proved himself unequal to the task. The horse was bad-tempered, and realised at once that a stranger was on his back. He made a bad start, and, though he picked up afterwards, only succeeded in running into third place.

Mostyn, who had felt that with Gulliver the game was in his hands, was terribly cast down; but there was, luckily perhaps, no time for serious reflection. The Cambridgeshire followed on so quickly, and here again, all his plans having been carefully laid, he stood a very fair chance.

When the weights for the Cambridgeshire had been announced, it was found that Silver Star, the property of a well-known nobleman, had been treated most leniently by the handicappers. The mare at once became a raging-hot favourite, and Mostyn spared no expense in his endeavours to purchase her. The noble owner was by no means inclined to sell, but, finally--and here again Mostyn had to thank Sir Roderick for his good offices--the deal was carried through, though it made a terrible inroad into Mostyn's diminishing capital.

But the day before the race, just when she was about to be transferred from Treves's stables to Newmarket, Silver Star was found to be ailing. There were suspicious circumstances about the case, too, for the horse's illness was so very sudden and unexpected, also it appeared difficult to diagnose the actual cause of the trouble. On the other hand, it was impossible to throw suspicion upon anyone. Had Jack Treves been at home, Mostyn might have felt interested in his movements at that time, but Jack had been sent away by his father to purchase horses in another part of the country, and so, as far as Silver Star was concerned, he seemed beyond suspicion.

It was due to the discretion of old Treves himself that Jack had been sent away. The trainer had learnt of the assault upon Mostyn, and had immediately taken vigorous and characteristic action. He had not spared his son, but had rebuked him in round and unmeasured terms, both for his treatment of Rada--having regard to his philandering with Daisy Simpson--and for his utter folly in risking the making of bad blood between his father and his father's best client.

Old Mr. Treves had every wish to see the engagement between Jack and Rada a settled thing; having made money himself, he was now anxious that his son should raise himself in the social scale. But, from his point of view, Jack was busily engaged in spoiling his best chances.

"Mark my words," he said, "you will lose the girl altogether if ye don't treat her as a real lady--which she is. Daisy Simpson, indeed!"--the old man sniffed indignantly--"carrying on with a drab like that! Why, you are just askin' to get the chuck, that's what you're doin'--askin' for it." Here his indignation almost overpowered him. "It's a good thing you caught it from Mr. Clithero," he went on, "an' wot you got served you right. If you hadn't been punished already, I've a mind to hide you myself--yes, to take the stick to you, as I did when you was a lad--what's more, I could do it, too!"

Old Treves was bulky, broad of shoulder, and in rude health; as father and son stood there together it looked very much as if the elder man could easily have carried his words into effect.

"Anyway, you shan't be hangin' about the place, making a nuisance of yourself, more'n I can help till after next June. Miss Rada shall have the clear run she wants, and I expect the less she sees of you, in the meanwhile, the more she'll be likely to take to you in the end."

It was, as a consequence of this, that Jack, despite his grumbles and the consciousness that he was giving a clear field to his rival, was packed off from Partinborough, and troubled Mostyn and Rada very little more during the months that ensued.

Silver Star was scratched for the Cambridgeshire, and so Mostyn's last hope for that year expired. He had now some four months to wait in which to make his preparations for the big steeplechase in the following March, as well as for the Lincolnshire.

Mostyn had taken no advantage of Jack's summary dismissal from Partinborough. He was, indeed, only on and off at the Grange, finding that he had plenty to occupy him in London. He had taken up a definite position with regard to Rada, and he was resolved to adhere firmly to it. She knew he loved her; it was for her to choose, when the time came, between him and Jack. She could break off her semi-engagement to the latter if she pleased; should Castor win the Derby, she would certainly have the means of paying off her debt; besides, apart from this, she was already making money with her horse, whose record was as yet unbroken. Castor had won everything for which he had been entered. Then there was the thousand pounds still reposing in Mostyn's safe--this money was quite at her disposition if her pride would allow her to take it. All this Mostyn had told her. So it was for Rada to choose. Mostyn would not speak of his love, he would not "bother" her. They met constantly, they teased each other, they quarrelled now and then--always making peace very quickly--and there were times when Mostyn thought that the eyes of the girl were wistful, times when he could not help fancying that she would show no bitter resentment if he opened his arms to take her to them, as he had done once before.

In his way he was stubborn, stubborn in his determination to abide by the conditions he had imposed upon himself. It was true that he did not understand women, and Rada was, of course, a particularly complex study. "I'll wait till after the Derby," so he told himself over and over again. "Rada wants no talk of love till then; has she not said so?" He often wondered why Rada should sometimes be cross with him without a cause; and once--he remembered quite well--she had burst into tears and run away; it was just before he left Partinborough for a longer stay than usual in town.

All this while, although, so far, failure had befallen him, there was not the smallest doubt in his mind that he would ultimately be successful in carrying out the terms of Anthony Royce's bequest.

But a fresh series of failures awaited him at the opening of the season. The Lincolnshire--that was the first of the three races in which his horse had run into second place; then had followed the Grand National, and here, having successfully negotiated Beecher's Brook and Valentine's Brook on the first round, Mostyn's mare, Giralda, had come badly to grief upon the second round; both jockey and mare were injured, the latter so much so that she had then and there to be shot.

The Chester Cup--second again; and finally, the City and Suburban, with exactly the same result.

Now there remained Asmodeus, who was second favourite for the Two Thousand Guineas, and a filly for the Thousand, whose training, however, had been insufficient for Mostyn to place much reliance upon her. She might possibly do better for the Oaks--absolutely Mostyn's last chance--but even with regard to this he had little confidence. For a long while he had steadily refused to have anything to do with the Derby, and so valuable time had been lost. Now he had a colt named Cipher in training, but Cipher was not a patch upon either Castor or upon Sir Roger's Pollux, and could hardly be looked upon as standing a chance. Such was the present position, and, considering it squarely and without bias, both Mostyn and Pierce had to admit that it was a desperate one.

"That beast of a Jew, Isaacson, will carry off the Two Thousand," groaned Pierce. "Don Quixote is bound to win on his form. We shall be in for another second. The only thing is, that we've got a better man up. Stanhope is a fine jockey, while Wilson is a fellow whom I never trusted, and they speak badly of him in the ring. But I expect he's being well paid for his job."

Isaacson, the owner of Don Quixote, was the same man whose horse, Peveril, had so nearly won the Derby against Hipponous. He had only made his appearance upon the Turf within the last year or so, since some successful speculation had brought him a fortune. The only good point about him, so Pierce was wont to aver, was that he had not shown himself ashamed of his name, or of the method by which he had earned his living. He had been a bill discounter and money lender upon rather a large scale, and though he was reputed hard, no imputation had ever been made upon his honesty. Since wealth had come to him, he had given away large sums in charity, but this was probably in order that he might win the popularity which he coveted. He liked to make a big show, and his racing colours were all gold.

After a while Pierce rose, yawned, and expressed his determination to go to bed. The two young men had dined late, and their discussion had been a prolonged one. "Good-night, old chap," he said, "and don't worry your mind more than you can help. Things may come all right, after all. Asmodeus is a good horse, and there are a lot who fancy him."

Mostyn looked up brightly as he nodded good-night. "Oh, I'm not worrying!" he said, "the whole thing has been a gamble, hasn't it, Pierce? And he's a poor gambler who growls at his losses."