Chapter XVI: Mostyn Is Tempted

Left alone, Mostyn drew his arm-chair nearer the fire, and settling himself comfortably, gave himself up to solitary reflection. The evenings were still fresh, for May had set in unseasonably, and a fire was by no means to be despised. It was, indeed, because the dining-room was the warmer of the two sitting-rooms that Mostyn had elected to occupy it that evening. Frazer, the man-servant, had long ago cleared the table, and so Mostyn did not expect to be disturbed.

Of course, as was only natural, his thoughts turned to Rada. And now, as he sat gazing into the fire, he knew that he had been very dense. That foolish stubbornness of his--it was there that the blame lay. He had made up his mind that Rada's injunction was to be obeyed strictly and to the letter, and so he had put temptation behind him, even when his common-sense, combined with his racing experience, told him that the time had come to force the pace.

He had refrained from speaking, although, over and over again, he had read invitation in Rada's eyes; he had given his word to her, he had given his word to Pierce; besides, Rada's semi-engagement to Jack Treves was still an accepted fact, and so Mostyn argued that until she, voluntarily and of her own accord, elected to break with Jack, he had no right to interfere. He had never doubted that she would do this after the Derby, when the question of a formal engagement was to be raised.

Of course, there was much overstraining at honour in all this, as well as a lamentable ignorance of the feminine nature; but then that was Mostyn all over. He did not--in this case, it was almost would not--take into account the possibility, the inherent probability, of a woman changing her mind. He was quite aware that Rada's moods were as variable as those of the proverbial April day, and yet he insisted upon taking her literally, with the natural result that his attitude was sorely misunderstood.

For Rada had come to the conclusion that his feelings towards her had undergone a change--that he no longer cared--and she was miserable in consequence. Mostyn had been aware of this fact for some little time past; he was now only too conscious of all that he had left undone. He would have asked nothing better than to go to Rada and speak out his love; it was no longer stubbornness and a straining at honour that hindered him. It was something more potent than that.

For, now that all might have been well, another factor in the case had arisen, another opponent had sprung into being, and poor Mostyn was beginning to realise that he was beaten all along the line. Rada was further away from him than ever just when she seemed to be most near.

Ruin stared him in the face--irrevocable ruin. He was a failure--Anthony Royce's millions would never be his. In another month's time he would be plunged back into poverty--he would have nothing left, nothing save the Grange, which he would not be able to keep up. All the ready money which had been handed over to him had been expended--he had even the possibility of debts to face.

For himself he did not care--he had had his sporting chance and fate had been against him. The world would say that there was another young spendthrift gone under; his father and his brothers, not knowing the truth, would have some excuse for pointing the finger of scorn at him; but these things troubled him little. He would fight for himself, as he had meant to fight before he had known of Royce's bequest.

If it were not for Rada--Rada whom he loved so passionately! How could he ask her to share his poverty? The thing was impossible--he had realised the impossibility of it for some weeks past--just as the truth of her love for him was filtering into his brain. How tragically ironical it all was!

"Asmodeus won't win the Guineas," he muttered to himself, disconsolately enough, since there was none present before whom he must keep up the farce of cheerfulness. "And as for the filly, she is quite hopeless. So what remains? Only the Derby, and that I should have to fight out against Rada. I don't know that I would win it from her, even if I could. But I can't, so there's an end of it. There's an end to everything, so far as I can see--to fortune, to ambition, to love--yes, jolly well an end to everything. That's what I see in the future."

He could see no brighter picture by staring into the dying fire, and presently he rose with a sigh and a yawn, preparatory to making his way upstairs to bed. It was at that moment that he heard the front door bell ring, and a minute or so later the sedate Frazer put in an appearance and announced that there was a man, who had not given his name but who looked like a stable-man, who wished to see Mostyn upon urgent business.

"It's not Stanhope, Frazer?" asked Mostyn anxiously.

"No, sir," Frazer shook his head decidedly; he knew Stanhope by sight quite well. "I've not seen the fellow before," he added. "He's never been to the house, I'm quite sure of that."

"Show him in here, Frazer," Mostyn commanded. "I'll see him, whoever he is."

Accordingly, after a brief interval, the stranger was admitted. He stood in the doorway fidgetting from one foot to the other, his cap in his hand, his tightly-fitting coat buttoned close over his chest. The buttons were big and flashy; the man's general appearance--his expression as well as his attire--was unprepossessing.

Mostyn recognised him at once, and wondered what on earth he had come for. He waited, however, till Frazer had withdrawn, till the door was closed upon them both.

"You are Wilson," he said then, "Ted Wilson, the jockey. Why do you want to see me, and at this hour of the night?"

"I couldn't come afore, sir," Wilson shifted from one foot to the other in an undecided sort of manner. He had little twinkling eyes, and sandy hair brushed over his forehead in a carefully oiled curl. He had yellow teeth, which protruded like a rabbit's, and a weak, receding chin; he was a clever jockey, which is about as much as could be said in his favour.

"I couldn't come afore becos the guv'nor wouldn't let me out of his sight. He's a jolly sharp 'un, is David Isaacson, I give you my word."

"Well, what's your object in coming to see me?" repeated Mostyn rather sharply. He neither liked the man himself, nor did he care for this intercourse with one of the servants of his rival.

Wilson took a few steps forward into the room and seated himself, without being invited to do so, upon the very edge of the most unpretentious-looking chair that he could pick out. "I want a word with you, private like," he said in a hoarse, throaty voice. His eyes rested nervously upon the spirit tantalus in its place on the sideboard. He had, perhaps wittingly, seated himself in close proximity to it.

"I've walked across from the Crathorn Stables," he said pleadingly, "an' I can tell you it's dry work." The Crathorn Stables were those at which Don Quixote had been lodged, and they were distant, as Mostyn knew, a good half-dozen miles in the direction of Newmarket.

"You can help yourself. You'll find a tumbler close beside you, and there's whisky in the stand." The jockey did not await a second invitation, but helped himself largely to the spirit, adding to it a very small quantity of water.

"That's better," he said, as he tossed off the spirit. "Now we can tork."

"I'm waiting," said Mostyn drily.

"Well, it's like this," said the jockey, fixing his little eyes upon Mostyn as though attempting to read his thoughts. "I've had a row with the guv'nor; he's a rotter, that's wot he is!" He paused meaningly.

Mostyn gave him no assistance. "Well?" was all he said.

"A rotter," repeated Wilson, "a low-down, measly Jew. I've never ridden for a Jew afore, an' I'm sorry I consented to this time."

"Well?" repeated Mostyn.

"Carn't you see wot I'm drivin' at, Mr. Clithero? Carn't you help a chap a bit?" protested Wilson, who thought that the object of his visit should have been guessed at once.

"Hadn't you better speak clearly, and come to the point?" suggested Mostyn, who had a pretty shrewd idea of what was about to be proposed to him.

Wilson accordingly made the plunge. "Don Quixote is goin' to win the Two Thousand," he said. "Asmodeus ain't. There's no getting round that to us as knows; that is, of course, if all goes normal like. Well, Mr. Clithero, sir, I guess you want to win this race, and that's why I've come to you, Mr. Clithero, sir."

Mostyn hated the constant repetition of his name, and he was boiling over with indignation at the suggestion made to him, though he kept his features under control, and allowed the little man to have his say.

To the jockey it seemed that the owner of Asmodeus must be particularly dense. He did not like to put his proposition into plain words. What was the necessity for it?

"Between man and man who understand each other," he began, "these little things can be arranged, you know." He rose from his chair, putting his empty glass aside, and sidled nearer to Mostyn. "I'm ready to strike a bargain with you, Mr. Clithero, sir, if so be ye're willing. It needn't be such a dead cert for Don Quixote, after all." Mostyn sat silent, staring straight before him, though he kept one elbow well out in order to prevent Wilson coming too near. Of course, he knew quite well what was meant--had understood all the time. This little rogue was willing to pull Don Quixote for a consideration--a consideration which, though no doubt it would be heavy, Mostyn was quite capable of providing, and, as far as he was concerned, there was no actual danger. If any objection were raised to the riding--which was most unlikely, for Wilson was clever at that sort of thing--it would all be put down to a manoeuvre on the part of Isaacson, or to spite on the part of the jockey--as far as Mostyn was concerned, it didn't matter which.

The boy's face was burning, the blood coursing quickly through his veins, his heart beating quickly. A few moments ago, when he had first realised what was being proposed to him, his inclination had been to get up, to take the jockey by the scruff of his neck, and throw him out without more ado; then, suddenly, and as if someone had whispered in his ear, a temptation, such as he had never known before in his life, had come upon him.

There was so much at stake for him--so vast a sum of money, which seemed about to slip through his fingers. And there was Rada, too. If Asmodeus should win this race, why, all might still be well. He would not be a beggar in another month's time, and then, what was there to prevent him going to Rada and saying: "You love me--you don't love Jack Treves--I want you, Rada, and mean to have you!" He was sure--at that moment--that she would fall into his arms, and that he had only to speak. All this--success, wealth, love--might be his, if Asmodeus won. At that moment, sharper than ever, he felt the bitter sting of defeat. "There is no other way," whispered the insinuating voice in his ear. "You'd much better accept a good offer when it's made to you."

"It's a fair deal I'm proposin' to you, Mr. Clithero, sir," muttered the jockey, his voice seeming to harmonise and blend with that of the imaginary tempter. "I can do it easy as easy, and who wants a beastly Jew to win? You can back Asmodeus for all you like--put your shirt on 'im--for if we get to understand each other he's bound to win, there ain't another horse in the race. It'll be worth your while, I tell you that straight."

Perhaps, all unconsciously, the jockey had made a mistake when he spoke of making money upon the horse's victory, which was the last thing that Mostyn, who never made a bet, cared about doing. In some insidious fashion, this new suggestion touched a cord in the boy's nature and made him realise the peril in which he stood. He, who had never in his life done an act which he could call dishonourable, what was he thinking of now? How could he have allowed himself, even for a moment, to listen to so vile a suggestion? His cheeks flushed with shame. With a mighty effort he thrust the temptation aside. He smote the table violently with his fist, and broke out with an oath--an oath that came strangely to his lips.

"D---- you, you dirty hound!" He pushed his chair bark, and stood trembling with wrath, towering huge over the wretched little man. "How dare you come to me with such a proposal? How dare you? how dare you? Get out of the room, and out of the house, and be sharp about it, or before God----" He raised his fist threateningly.

The little jockey slipped from his chair, nearly sliding on to the floor in his dismay, and held up his puny fists as if to ward off a blow. "Look 'ere, Mr. Clithero, sir," he whined, "what are you a-gettin' at? I came 'ere as a friend--for your good."

"Go!" thundered Mostyn, pointing a trembling forefinger at the door. "I told you to go."

"Very well, I'm goin'." The jockey, seeing that he stood in no danger of bodily hurt, pulled himself together and shuffled towards the door. "You ain't treated me fair, Mr. Clithero," he grumbled, as he went. His little eyes shot malice. He muttered something else under his breath--a remark that was evidently not intended for Mostyn's ears; nor did the latter, who had turned to ring the bell for Frazer, notice the clenched fists or the vindictive look.

At the door the jockey halted once more. "Look 'ere," he growled, "you're not a-goin' to say anythin' about this? I trust you as a gentleman."

"You may cheat your master, for all I care," said Mostyn, "as long as you don't do it for me. That's his own look out, not mine, but remember that I have nothing to do with you or with your dirty tricks. Now go!" Once more he pointed to the door, and the next moment, mouthing an ugly word under his breath, the jockey was gone.

As for Mostyn, he stood for a moment, breathing hard, his teeth tightly clenched together; then he threw himself down upon a chair, leaning his elbows upon the table, and pressing his hands to his forehead.

"My God!" he muttered to himself, "and there was a moment when I might have yielded!"