Chapter XVII: Mostyn Is Given Another Chance

The following morning Pierce Trelawny appeared at breakfast with a pale face and a look of determination about his lips.

Mostyn, who was already seated at the table, glanced up, mystified at his friend's unwonted appearance.

"What's wrong, old chap?" he asked. "You look worried."

Pierce poured himself out a cup of coffee before he responded, Mostyn watching him the while with increasing anxiety. "You haven't got bad news, have you?" he asked.

"It's about Cicely," Pierce explained at last. There was a heavy frown upon his brow. "Look here, Mostyn, I can't stand this sort of thing any longer--something has got to be done. Cicely has written to me. Oh, it's the first letter she has written." He laughed hoarsely. "We have kept to our promise right enough up till now, but matters have come to a crisis."

"Tell me," said Mostyn, drawing his chair nearer to that of his friend with that display of sympathy which was with him so charming a characteristic. "But I can guess," he added with a melancholy shake of the head. "Cicely finds it impossible to get on at home, even for the month or two that remain."

"That's just it," said Pierce, tossing the letter over to his friend. "Read what she says for yourself. It makes one's blood boil, that any girl can be treated in such a fashion, and I tell you I've made up my mind to take matters into my own hands."

Mostyn read the letter through carefully, the frown deepening on his brow as he came to the end. Cicely had penned the epistle under the stress of deep emotion, and the page was blotted here and there where her tears had fallen upon it. The gist of her letter was that she could stay no longer at home--that her father's insults and cruelty had become unbearable--that he had even raised his hand against her. It was in her very misery of spirit that she had at last yielded to the temptation to write to Pierce, whom she loved so utterly, so devotedly. She had been seized by a terrible fear, too, a fear which had haunted her for weeks and months, that his love for her was on the wane; she could bear it no longer, and so in her misery she had broken her promise. Would he come to her? The request was repeated over and over again, in the course of the letter. She wanted his comfort--his support--his kiss--and if she were denied these any longer, she feared her health would break down.

"I'm going to her--I'm going to her to-day!" Pierce rose from the table, having swallowed his coffee almost at a gulp, and eaten nothing. He pushed his chair back viciously and began parading the room with long, angry strides. "I'm not going to be kept from Cicely another day, and I don't care a hang what my father, or anybody else, may do. It was a shame--an infernal shame--to keep us apart, and I've suffered more than you can guess, Mostyn. We love each other, and what do you think it has been to me to know that she has been left with that infernal old---- I beg your pardon, Mostyn," he added hastily, "but I'm so upset I hardly know what I'm saying."

"Why shouldn't Cicely come to me?" suggested Mostyn, who was trying to keep his head cool. "She could stay here at the Grange till after her twenty-first birthday. Wouldn't that satisfy your father?"

Pierce wheeled round sharply and indignantly. "And I not see her all the time," he exclaimed, "just because of a silly fad of a silly old man! And how could you and I go about together, Mostyn, if she were with you? No, that won't do either. I've made up my mind. I'm going straight to London; yes, to-day, in spite of the race, in spite of everything, and I'm going to beard the lion in his den. I'm going to take Cicely out of his clutches--carry her off by force if needs be. She can stay with my aunt, Lady Fenton, who knows her and is fond of her, and who will do anything for me. Cicely shall stay there till we can be married, and that shall be just as soon as ever I can get the licence."

"But the Squire--your father?" protested Mostyn.

"He must do as he pleases," was the tempestuous reply. "I'm not going to worry myself about him. He can cut me off if he likes, just as yours did you. I've got a little money of my own, thank God! enough to live on quietly somewhere in the suburbs." He made a wry face as he spoke. "It'll be a bit of a change, but I shall have to lump that, and I daresay Cicely won't mind. There, Mostyn, old chap"--he came and stood by his friend's side--"You must forgive me if I'm excited, but you can see how it is and understand what I feel. I'm sorry that I shan't be with you at the races, but I should be a shockingly poor companion for you if I were. I can't be of any service, either, there's that at least to be said."

And so at last matters were settled, though it was not without further parley. Mostyn succeeded in calming his friend after a while, and they sat down together and talked the matter out seriously and reasonably. Their deliberations, however, brought them to no new conclusion. Pierce's mind was made up, and he was quite prepared to defy his father and to bear the consequences.

"You'll come for the wedding, Mostyn, won't you?" he asked, when the sitting came to an end. "It'll have to be an absolutely quiet affair. Lady Fenton and yourself will be the only two to be present. Cicely will be my wife long before Cipher wins the Derby for you."

"I can quite believe that," commented Mostyn drily, though he understood the sense in which the remark had been intended. "Anyway, Pierce, I wish you luck, and I'm glad that you are going to do something to make Cicely happy."

Thus it came about that, later that day, Mostyn found himself without his friend in the paddock of the Newmarket racecourse. He missed Pierce badly, for this was the first time that they had not been together when one of the races in which they were interested had been decided.

There were, however, many faces that he knew. Rada and Captain Armitage had been driven over by Jack Treves. The latter had been settled at Partinborough for the last month or two, and had done his best to monopolise Rada. He had not intruded his company upon Mostyn, though, of course, it was inevitable that the two men should meet now and then. On these occasions Jack was surly, his malice but thinly veiled. Of Rada herself Mostyn had lately seen but little. A sense of restraint had arisen between them, and half instinctively they had avoided each other. But now she came to his side, and slipped a little soft hand into his. Just as soft as the hand were the dark eyes he looked into, the smile that played about her lips, and the tone in which she addressed him.

"I do hope you'll win to-day, Mostyn," she murmured. "Asmodeus is a fine horse, and should make a fight for it. At any rate I wish you success, I do indeed."

There was something in the girl's expression, something beyond the softness and tenderness which he had already noticed, that made Mostyn scrutinise her face more carefully. There were black rims under her eyes, and he could have sworn that she had been crying and that quite recently.

He felt instinctively, too, that in this gentleness of demeanour, so unusual to the wayward girl, there was something of appeal, and of appeal directed to himself. It was as though she wanted him to understand more than she dared say.

He looked down pitifully into the girl's dark eyes. "Rada," he whispered, "you are not happy. I have been certain of it for a long time. Will you tell me what has happened? Oh"--he hesitated--"is it because----"

"Oh! I wish I could speak to you," she sighed. "I've wanted to ever so many times." She hung her head, evidently struggling with her pride. "Oh, you don't know," she cried at last, clasping her hands together, "what it has been like for me! There is no one that I can talk to--no one who can sympathise with me."

"Why not have come to me?" asked Mostyn reproachfully. "Are we not good friends?"

"Good friends, yes!" Her words were bitter. "But that it must be you to whom I have to come and admit that I have been a silly little fool--oh! the silliest little donkey ever born! Don't you understand how it hurts me--how it lowers me in my own eyes?"

"Never mind that," said Mostyn pitifully. "You poor little thing, don't you think that after all this time I have got to know you better, and that I can make allowance for your whims and all those wayward tricks of yours? Tell me the truth, Rada." He trembled as he spoke, for he felt that he had no right to put the question since Rada could not be for him. "You don't love Jack Treves; you don't want to marry him?"

Rada shook her head, and then fixed her eyes upon her race-card as though she were intensely interested in it. These two, who were talking of matters of such vital interest to them both, stood there in the midst of the pushing throng of the paddock. They spoke in lowered tones, and now and again, when anyone passed close to them or came to a halt by the railing where they stood, Mostyn would make some remark in a louder voice in order to make it appear that they were merely discussing the races.

"He has been a brute to me," she murmured, "a brute. Just now, driving to the course, he insulted me; he--he made me cry. Love him?" She stamped her little foot. "I hate him!" This time the words were genuine; they came from her heart.

"And it was all because of that wretched thousand pounds, and because of your pride. Oh, Rada! Rada! But it isn't too late," he went on. "Thank God for that. You are not bound to the man." Though he himself could never ask her to be his wife, Mostyn reflected quickly, yet she was not obliged to marry that scamp, that bounder, Jack.

"I'm not sure that he wants to marry me." She sighed wearily. "He's always comparing me to Daisy Simpson--think of that! He says she's so much smarter than I. But it's his father and my father who insist that we shall be married. Old Mr. Treves wants his son to marry a lady, you see, and my father--well, you know it's a question of money with him. Far more has been borrowed than we can ever repay." She flushed as she made the admission.

"I only know that you mustn't marry a man you don't love!" cried Mostyn heatedly. "Surely the money can be found. Castor will bring you in enough if he wins the Derby. Then there's that thousand pounds you paid me: I've never touched the wretched notes. They're still lying at the Grange in my safe--

"No, no, no!" interrupted Rada. "I couldn't accept any money from you; indeed I couldn't, not a single penny. I should never forgive myself, and it would be worse than the other. No," she repeated despairingly, "there is no help for it." She paused, then broke into a laugh that grated upon Mostyn's ears. "What does it matter after all?" She was choking down a sob. "There's no one who cares what becomes of me; it doesn't matter a scrap to anyone if I marry Jack or not----"

Mostyn clenched his fists. "You're wrong, Rada," he said with all the energy he could express. "I care. The fellow's not worthy of you. Besides, he's a bounder and a scamp----"

"Who's a bounder and a scamp?" Mostyn looked up quickly and Rada gave a little cry, for Jack Treves, who had approached unseen by either of them, was standing close by. He took Rada viciously by the arm; then turned scowling upon Mostyn. "Who's a scamp," he repeated, "and what were you two talking about?"

"It was nothing, Jack, nothing!" gasped Rada. "Mr. Clithero and I----"

"I've had enough of Mr. Clithero and you," said Jack roughly. "The sooner you both understand that, the better. I'm sick of Clithero hanging about you and making mischief between us. I'd lay any odds that's what he was doing when I came up." He turned again sharply upon Mostyn. "Who is the scamp you were talking about?" he asked again aggressively.

"You!" replied Mostyn with fine nonchalance. "I was talking about you. I just said what I thought."

Jack Treves took a step forward, his fists clenched. His face was purple and congested. But no blow fell; he had had his experience, and did not wish to repeat it.

Already the little scene had attracted some attention, although it was only among the immediate bystanders. But these, if they expected a fight, were doomed to disappointment. Jack stood scowling, then muttering "This isn't the place for a scrap; but I'll be even with you, for God I will!" he slipped his hand under Rada's arm and unceremoniously bustled her away.

The onlookers, robbed of their fun, growled disapproval and dispersed likewise. One of them, however, whom Mostyn had not noticed before, since he had kept himself well in the background, remained. Mostyn recognised the evil and malicious face of the jockey, Ted Wilson.

The little man was dressed as Mostyn had seen him the night before. He wore the same tightly-fitting covert coat with big shiny pearl buttons, but he had replaced the cap by a bowler hat, pressed down well on the back of his head.

"I wish 'e'd gone for yer!" Wilson muttered between his teeth, drawing a few steps nearer. "I wish 'e'd thrashed yer, Gawd 'elp me I do!"

This was a fresh attack, and one which Mostyn had not expected. He supposed the jockey was still incensed because his proposition had been refused, and, not desiring any further discussion on the subject, he turned away without deigning a reply. Wilson, however, followed at his heels, yapping and snarling like a mongrel cur. "A low down trick you played me," he muttered. "What did you want to do it for? The Lord knows I 'aven't done you no 'arm. But to give a chap away and get 'im the sack--why, you ought to be bloomin' well ashamed of yerself!"

Mostyn turned at this. "What on earth do you mean?" he asked.

"Why," screeched the indignant little man, "just listen to 'im! As if 'e didn't know! Wot should I 'av got the sack for if you 'adn't split to my boss? Given me the chuck without a word of explanation, 'e 'as, and not more'n a couple of hours ago. Why should 'e 'ave done it if you 'adn't rounded on me? D---- 'im for a dirty Jew! and d---- you too for----"

The jockey's language was charged with strange oaths, and there was a lurid monotony about his epithets. However, he appeared to have a grievance, and that being so, some explanation seemed due to him. The refinement of Mostyn's speech sounded almost ridiculous when taken in conjunction with that of the jockey.

"I assure you that you are absolutely mistaken if you think that I have had anything to do with your discharge, since I understand that you have been discharged. This is the first I have heard of it, and I have not the smallest idea why Mr. Isaacson should have acted so."

"You're a liar!" retorted Wilson. "Is it likely that Isaacson would have sacked me, an' put up a chap like Jones, who may lose the race for 'im, if 'e 'adn't thought that I might ride crook? Do yer think I don't see through yer little game?" His narrow eyes sparkled with spite and malice as he stared up into Mostyn's face. "Got me the chuck, yer did, so that Don Quixote might be handicapped and yer own 'orse 'ave a better charnce! Oh, you're a sharp 'un, you are, but, strike me pink! I'll be even with yer for it, Mr. Clithero, sir, if not to-day, then some other time. Ted Wilson ain't the man not to get a bit of 'is own back, you can bet your bottom dollar on that. My friend, Jack Treves"--he accented the words--"'as got 'is knife into yer, too, I see, and between the pair of us I'll lay you come off bad in the end."

He had been speaking so volubly that Mostyn had not been able to get a word in. Now, once more, and with all the patience he could muster, he sought to convince the angry jockey that he was quite innocent of the offence with which he was charged. But argument was futile, as he quickly found out. Wilson was convinced that he had Mostyn to thank for what had happened.

It was some time before Mostyn could throw off his adversary, and it was only with renewed threats of vengeance, and because he saw no less a person than Mr. Isaacson himself approaching, in the company of Sir Roderick Macphane, that Wilson at last took himself off, and disappeared in the direction of the nearest bar.

Mostyn reflected that he had another enemy to contend with, and one who was even more likely than Jack Treves to hit below the belt. Luckily, Asmodeus was quite safe in the charge of Stanhope, and Mostyn could not conceive of any other way by which he could be damaged; this since he was not afraid of personal attack. He did not worry himself, therefore, when, later in the day, he saw Wilson in the company of Jack, and realised that the jockey had spoken the truth when he mentioned Treves as his friend.

Mostyn looked up in response to a hearty slap on the back, and found himself confronted by the smiling face of Sir Roderick Macphane. It was a pleasure after the scowls with which he had been met that day to look upon the genial face of the old baronet. Behind Sir Roderick stood a tall man, of Jewish cast of features, whom Mostyn recognised at once, though he had never met the man, as David Isaacson, the owner of Don Quixote.

"Mr. Isaacson wished to be introduced to you, Mostyn," Sir Roderick said, "and so, as I caught sight of you ten minutes ago, I brought him up. You are opponents to-day, of course, but that's no reason why two sportsmen shouldn't know each other. I won't wish good luck to the best man," he added heartily, "but to the best horse, and as matters stand, it promises to be a good race."

The Jew extended his hand to Mostyn and smiled, showing a straight row of white teeth. He was not ill-looking, and there was very little to suggest the hardness with which he had been accredited as a money-lender. It was a little surprising to find him on such good terms with Sir Roderick, but then "Old Rory" was "hail fellow well met" with all the world.

"It's even money on the horses," Isaacson remarked; "I don't suppose one stands a better chance than the other." He turned to Mostyn, scrutinising him rather closely. His voice was not unpleasant, though it possessed the Jewish rasp. "You know, of course," he continued, "that I had to dismiss my jockey, Wilson, at a moment's notice this morning, and that I've put up Jones in his place. Jones is a smart man, but, of course, the handicap is a pretty severe one. You see, Mr. Clithero, I have reasons to believe that Wilson wished to pull my horse so that yours might win. I got my knowledge in rather a roundabout way. It appears that someone has backed Asmodeus pretty heavily, and when this person found that Don Quixote was the favourite he approached Wilson and offered to pay him to pull the horse. I understand that Wilson had consented to do so; so, as you may imagine, I fired him this morning, and I shall probably place the whole matter before the stewards. It was the intermediary who acted between the backer and Wilson who gave the story away to one of my own men, and that's how it came out. It's bad luck on me," he added, "but I shan't grudge you the race, Mr. Clithero, if luck comes your way."

Mostyn saw how it was. "The little skunk!" he muttered to himself as he thought of Wilson. "He was going to pull the horse whatever happened, but thought he might make a bit more out of me at the same time. But he over-reached himself, and has been given away by one of his pals. And he'll never believe that I didn't betray him; he'll loathe me none the less if the truth comes out."

Sir Roderick had a luncheon party that day, holding, as usual, open house to all the friends he might happen to meet. Here, among smiling, happy faces, Mostyn forgot some of his troubles of the morning; moreover, he was keenly excited about the race, for it seemed, indeed, that Asmodeus stood an excellent chance of winning. Don Quixote had naturally gone down in the betting.

Sir Roderick was keenly interested, and discussed the whole matter with the young man.

"By Jove! Mostyn," he opined, "you've got to win this time, or I don't know how you'll pocket your cash. Cipher's not going to win the Derby for you, you know"--he shook his head prophetically--"Cipher can't get away from Castor, to say nothing of my Pollux."

To this Mostyn agreed. He knew that it was true. Castor and Pollux were the two colts who gave real promise for the coming Derby. They had never met, and yet they were both unbeaten, each holding a record of some half-dozen victories in the course of the year.

"Jove! what an extraordinary Derby it'll be," Mostyn commented, trying to distract his thoughts from the excitement of the moment. "Two horses, Castor and Pollux, so exactly alike, as I understand them to be, both having the same sire, both boasting similar records, and not a line to go upon to show which is the better! It'll be a Derby worth seeing, Sir Roderick."

The baronet agreed. Nevertheless, as was only to be expected, he favoured his own horse. "Not that I care so much about winning," he observed with his broad, genial smile. "One Derby should be enough for any man. Hipponous pulled that off for me as well as the Leger. I'm far keener now," he added bluffly, "upon trying to drive sense into the noddles of all those Socialists, Radicals, Home Rulers, and agitators that grow up like weeds about us. A lot of disloyal fellows who are so blind that they can't hear sense when it's talked to them. They simply don't know upon which side their bread is feathered, and they are only playing to butter their own nests!"

It was a muddled metaphor worthy of "Old Rory" at his best. Mostyn could not refrain from laughing, as did Sir Roderick himself when he realised what he had said. He always roared over his own tangled speeches, even in Parliament, enjoying them quite as much as anyone else.

He had certainly been very much to the fore at Westminster of late, and his wild attacks upon the Government had added much to the enlivenment of a dull session. Yet "Old Rory" was more popular than ever, and that with all parties in the House.

Time passed pleasantly enough till the bell rang and the course was cleared for the big race. Mostyn remained in the paddock till Asmodeus, a fine bay, long of limb and strong of barrel, strode proudly out and was greeted by a cheer from the crowd as he galloped easily past the Grand Stand.

The puce and black diamonds of Mostyn's colours were quickly put in the shade by an aggressive vision of gold as Asmodeus was followed by Don Quixote, and now the crowd cheered again, though in a minor key. The horse had been heavily backed, and there was no little discontent at the fall in his price that morning; people were asking each other the reason for the sudden change of jockey. Isaacson was unpopular, and there was considerable prejudice against him, wholly without reason; whereas Mostyn, who in barely a year had become so prominent a figure upon racecourses, stood high in popular favour.

"It's a match between you and me, Clithero," Isaacson said as the two men took up their places to watch the race. "They're off," he added a moment later, levelling his glasses. "A good start, what?"

Mostyn remembered little of that race. He stood, indeed, his field-glasses raised, to all outward appearance as calm and placid as Isaacson himself. He followed the horses as they ran, he marked the failure of Bouncing Boy, he even commented upon the riding of the jockey who was up on Wisdom, a chestnut heavily backed for a place, and who was palpably giving the horse his head over much; but all the while he was staring through a mist: it was as though a fog had settled over the course, a fog which his eyes could penetrate but which made everything appear contorted, disproportionate, ridiculous. Somehow the thought came to him of that face which he had seen peering through the window at the Grange; every object he looked upon was disfigured in just the same way. There were men and women close by at whom he could have laughed, so absurd did they appear. And all the while there was a great thumping going on in his ears like the working of a vast machine; it was so loud that he could hardly hear the shouting of the crowd.

Asmodeus was leading; he knew that. Asmodeus had been leading for quite a long time. Don Quixote, with his glitter of gold, was several lengths behind, and there were two or three horses in between. Which were they? Mostyn tried to distinguish them but failed. What did it matter? Asmodeus was leading.

Suddenly the thumping that was the beating of his heart stopped. It was like the sudden cessation of work in a factory or the stopping of the engines on board a steamer. Mostyn swayed a little from side to side; he could imagine the rolling of a vessel. Asmodeus was no longer in the front. What did that matter? Stanhope was holding him in. There was time enough yet for a spurt.

There was a cold wind blowing that afternoon, and the sky was grey. A drizzling rain began to fall. Here and there umbrellas made their appearance till angry protests from the crowd compelled them to be lowered. Mostyn noticed all these minor events through the mist that rendered everything so grotesque to his view.

The horses were near by now, very near. They had swung round the bend and were nearly level with the Grand Stand. Asmodeus had dropped still further behind; there were several of his opponents who had caught up and passed him. The glitter of gold was to the fore. Don Quixote led.

How the crowd was roaring! As a rule this was music to Mostyn's ears, but to-day it was a fantastic discord. He could distinguish nothing, not a single articulate word. Why on earth did not Stanhope spurt? Surely, surely he was waiting too long?

Mostyn's brow was wet. He did not know if this was due to perspiration or to the rain; he could not say if he felt hot or cold. This was his last chance--literally his last chance--and still that spurt was delayed.

Ah! Stanhope is giving Asmodeus his head now! "Come on, Asmodeus--brave horse!--for the love of heaven, come!" The chestnut is passed; that is good: now another is held and left behind; now another. Asmodeus has forged into the second place, but the winning-post is close at hand, and Don Quixote of the maddening, aggressive gold is still foremost. Curse the gold!

It was a brave effort, but it failed, for Don Quixote, too, was capable of a spurt. All but overhauled, the horse seemed to gather his whole strength into that supreme moment. Once more he shot ahead--yellow, huge and grotesque to Mostyn's eyes--and passed the winning-post just a palpable length ahead.

It was over: Mostyn had played and lost!

He descended from the chair upon which he had been standing, quite forgetting that Isaacson was by his side, and strolled away. The rain beat in his face, his cheeks were dripping with moisture, but it did not occur to him to put up his umbrella. Now and then he collided with someone in the crowd and muttered an apology without looking round.

A heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder. He recognised the voice of Sir Roderick.

"Mostyn, my boy, this is a knock. I didn't expect it. With Jones up on Don Quixote I thought Asmodeus would win. But look here; you mustn't give in. I've got a plan for you: it isn't a cert, but it'll give you a sporting chance. Now, understand, I'll take no denial. Pollux shall run for you in the Derby--and Pollux is as good a horse as Castor. Come along and we'll talk it over."

He led Mostyn away. The latter was still too dazed to understand clearly what had been said to him.