Chapter XVIII: Mostyn Meets with an Accident

It was early afternoon of the first day of the Epsom Summer Meeting. Mostyn had just finished lunch, of which he had partaken in the solitude of his Jermyn Street chambers. He had not been tempted down to Epsom that day, for he had had a hard week's work, and he wished to keep all his strength in reserve for the morrow, the great Derby Day that was to decide his fate.

Pollux, of course, was at Epsom, in the charge of Joseph Dean, the trainer who had had the care of him from the first. Pollux was to be ridden by Fred Martin, now completely recovered, who, upon this occasion, would sport the puce and black of Mostyn's colours instead of the scarlet and silver of Sir Roderick's.

Never, perhaps, in the history of the great race had so much popular interest been aroused. There was no first favourite, but, instead, there were two horses who would both go to the post with unbroken records, and between which, upon form, there was not a line to choose. As a result, the two horses naturally stood even in the betting; it was two to one against either of them, and there was a considerable drop between this and the betting upon the next horse, Pendragon, who was third in popular estimation.

Then, not only did Castor and Pollux stand level in the betting, but the similarity of the two animals, even their names, which betokened kinship, could not fail to arouse interest. Those who had seen them together at Epsom--now that they had actually met for the first time--reported them as being so exactly alike that they could hardly be recognised apart. They were both tall, black horses, and there was nothing to choose between them as regarded height or breadth or muscle.

Perhaps, just as much as the horses, the owners excited attention. Castor was the property of a girl, and one so young as to seem totally out of place in the racing world. Pollux, which everyone knew to have belonged to popular and genial "Old Rory," had been suddenly transferred, little more than three weeks ago, to Mostyn Clithero, that meteoric young man whose prowess upon the race-course was so remarkable, and who had been buying horses wildly and madly all over the country, and who seemed bent, for no explicable reason, upon making a name for himself upon the Turf.

Mostyn sat musing over the events of the past few weeks, as well as on those which were still concealed by the obscurity of the future. Whatever the result might be, at least this could be said--he had had his sporting chance, and he had taken it like a sportsman. If he failed, it was through the chance of war, not through any fault of his. The morrow might see him a vastly wealthy man or a pauper. Had it not been for Sir Roderick, there would have been no doubt as to the issue weeks ago, for Mostyn had indeed lost his last chance when Asmodeus failed for the Guineas. It had taken all the kind-hearted baronet's eloquence, as it was, to induce Mostyn to accept Pollux, and in the end the young man would only yield by striking a particularly hard bargain for himself in the event of the colt winning. "Old Rory" had been forced to take up a selfish line. "Heavenly powers, lad!" he had cried at last, testily, "aren't your millions worth more than the blessed Derby stakes?" And Mostyn had been constrained to see it in this light.

The worst of it was that he was thrown into such direct antagonism to Rada. The race lay between him and her--there was no doubt about that.

He would have liked to tell her the whole truth, so that she should not misunderstand his motives, as she was bound to do. But it was impossible for him to speak now--for the girl's own sake he saw that it was impossible. To win the Derby with Castor was her dream, her ambition, the one thing she asked of life. Why should he make her unhappy, as she was bound to be if she knew how great a loss he would suffer from her success? She could not help him in any way--she could not scratch Castor even if she wished to do so--there was far too much money already involved upon the colt.

Of course, she had misunderstood, "So you have bought Pollux!" she had cried. "It makes no difference to my chances, of course, but I didn't think that you"--there was a world of reproach in her tone--"would have fought me to the end. I shall hate you if Pollux wins--I shall really hate you." There was something of the old defiance in her tone.

"Rada," he had said, striving hard to give her a hint, "remember our wager. It was your life or my life. If Pollux wins----" If Pollux won, he could claim his reward, he could ask Rada to marry him; if Pollux failed, she was lost to him for ever--he would be a beggar.

But Rada interrupted him. She would not understand. She bit her lip and stamped her foot. "So you are still thinking of that foolish challenge?" she cried. "You are still fighting to win a Derby before me? I think you are mean, mean and cowardly. I--I----" She had broken off and run away from him, but he was certain that there were tears in her eyes, and he had hated himself for the pain he gave her. But there was nothing to be done. He must wait, bear her disdain, till after the Derby, and then if Pollux won he could explain. If Pollux lost, why, then, everything must go. It didn't matter.

He left for London the next day, and did not see Rada again. But he was bound to meet her at Epsom--he thought of the meeting with mingled feelings.

It was as he mused thus, that visitors, who turned out to be Pierce and Cicely, were announced. They had been married now for some three weeks, and they had but just returned to London from a visit which they had been paying to Pierce's father in Worcestershire. They had gone down in fear and trepidation as to the manner in which they would be received by the bluff and rather choleric old squire.

The latter had made no sign when the news reached him of his son's intention to disobey the strict injunctions laid upon him. The marriage had taken place just as Pierce had schemed it out, and the two young people had gone to Paris for a brief honeymoon. While there, Pierce had received a summons, worded with characteristic brevity, to return to England with his wife, and to present himself at the parental domain. So much Mostyn knew; of the result of their visit he had not yet heard a word.

Evidently nothing very tragic had occurred, for Pierce and Cicely entered laughing, and palpably in the best of spirits. Mostyn kissed his sister affectionately; she looked charming as a young bride, and there was colour in her cheeks such as he had not seen there for many a long day. Pierce, too, scrupulously dressed as ever, seemed particularly well satisfied with himself and with the world at large.

"Well, how is it?" asked Mostyn. "Have you been forgiven and taken back to the fold?"

Pierce sank down into a chair, his sides shaking with laughter. "You will hardly believe it, Mostyn," he said as soon as he could find his breath, "but the sly old boy was having a joke with me all the time! He wanted me to run off with Cicely against his express will. He wanted to see if I would have the pluck to do it! Think of that--there's a facetious old sportsman for you! You remember how he threatened me, how he gave me to understand that all sorts of penalties would fall upon my unhappy head if I disobeyed him; of course, I imagined that I should be cut off with the proverbial shilling, and all the rest of it, and the old chap knew that I would think so. All the time he was laughing in his sleeve and simply pining to be disobeyed--just wanted to prove my mettle--that's what he said himself, roaring with laughter, and as pleased as Punch about it all. Oh, what an idiot I was to have waited all those months without so much as seeing Cicely, and I verily believe that if I had conscientiously allowed the year to pass the old governor would have disinherited me for that!"

Cicely, too, joined in the laughter that Pierce's story gave rise to; she was looking very happy, a little bashful, but her eyes were soft and gentle, and Mostyn went over and kissed her again, congratulating her now from the bottom of his heart, as well as Pierce, for the happy issue out of their troubles. All was well with them, at least, and, doubtful as he was as to his own position, he would not grudge them a fraction of their happiness.

After a little while, however, a slight cloud crossed Cicely's face. "We've so much to say about ourselves," she remarked penitently, "that we are quite forgetting about you, Mostyn, and about another matter--a very serious matter, too, which is troubling us, and which will trouble you when you hear of it."

"Never mind me," said Mostyn, "I'm all right. I stand as good a chance to win to-morrow as to lose, and what more than that can any man expect? We'll discuss my affairs later on. Tell me the trouble."

"It's about father," said Cicely gravely. "But perhaps you've heard, Mostyn?"

Mostyn shook his head. He had heard no news as to his father for several months. His time had been so wholly taken up that he had been unable to give his attention to anything except the matter in hand. "Is anything wrong?" he asked a little anxiously.

"Very, very wrong, I'm afraid," replied the girl, shaking her head ominously. "I shouldn't have heard anything about it any more than you have, only it came to my ears in a roundabout way when we were in Worcestershire. There was a man staying with the Pentons, who are neighbours of the Trelawnys, you know, and he knew James and Charles very well--I think he had some sort of connection with the bank; he told me all about the misfortunes which have suddenly befallen our father."

"Misfortunes?" queried Mostyn, puzzled. "I hadn't an idea that there was anything wrong. I should have thought that father was the very last man on earth to have got into any sort of trouble, and the bank--why, the bank must be as stable as any in London."

"Oh! it's not the bank, and it's nothing for which father is to blame," Cicely went on hurriedly. "It's James and Charles who've turned out wrong. Oh, isn't it sad?" she went on, "for you know how absolutely he believed in them; you and I were the black sheep, Mostyn, but they were everything that they should be."

"That's why they've gone wrong," put in Pierce, with a grunt of disapprobation. "A couple of beastly prigs. I always hated them, though they are your brothers, Sis. Well, there's one consolation, which is that your father must have found out his mistake by now, and recognised that he blundered when he turned you and Mostyn out of doors. It ought to have been the other two."

"What have they done?" asked Mostyn.

"Charles has run away with a ballet girl or some terribly impossible person," Cicely explained. "He induced father to make over a large sum of money to him, professing that he wanted it for that charitable work he pretended to be so interested in. I don't believe there was ever anything of the sort," she added indignantly; "it was only an excuse of Charles's to get a little more liberty while he was living at home."

Mostyn said nothing, but smiled to himself. He knew that Cicely was right.

"As soon as he had got his money," the girl went on, "he showed himself in his true colours. He laughed at father, and called him a pious old fraud, or something of the sort, which was wicked and cruel of him, for whatever he may be, our father is at least no hypocrite. Then Charles threw up his position at the bank, announced that he was going to marry the impossible person, and disappeared from home."

"So much for Charles," said Mostyn. He had very little sympathy with Charles. "What about James?"

"Ah! that's worse still, very much worse," Cicely continued, a little quiver at the sides of her lips proving that she was really moved. "James has been getting into money troubles, though how he can have managed it, I haven't the remotest idea. For, of course, he didn't gamble or bet or anything of that sort."

"Stock Exchange," interjected Pierce, his upper lip curving. "It's a deadly sin to back a race-horse, but you may stand to lose or win your thousands upon the rise or fall of stock. That's one of those things which your father may be able to explain, but which knocks the ordinary man silly."

"I suppose it was on the Stock Exchange," Cicely went on. "Anyhow, he lost a great deal of money, and at last it is supposed that he must have contrived to tamper with the books at the bank. Of course, he meant to put everything right, but, as usual, when the time came, he could not do so, and so he forged father's name to a bill, or whatever you call those dreadful things, for a large sum of money, and the worst of it is, that that bill has got into the hands of a man who knows the signature to be a forgery. You can see what terrible trouble there is, and father--I saw him yesterday--is nearly off his head with anxiety. He's all alone in that great house in Bryanston Square, for James, mean coward that he is, has absconded to America, and Charles hasn't been anywhere near the house."

"Is the sum so large," asked Mostyn, "that father is unable to settle with this man? I suppose, after all, it's only a question of money, and that if the bill is met, nothing will be said about the forged signature. If that's the case---well, if Pollux wins to-morrow--there won't be much difficulty in pulling father out of this hole."

Cicely shook her head. "No, it isn't only a matter of money," she explained. "That's just the horrible part of it. It was because we thought that money might settle it that Pierce and I went to Bryanston Square last night. Then we learnt that the man who holds the bill is a bitter enemy of father's, and he vows that he'll show the whole thing up; it's no good offering to pay him, to meet the bill at maturity, or anything of that sort; he is a very rich man, and doesn't care what he loses. His one wish is to make things uncomfortable for the Clithero family, and he'll do it, too, for he's hard and cruel--a Jew."

"Who is this man?" asked Mostyn. "Do I know him?"

"Yes." It was Pierce who volunteered the information. "It's Isaacson, the fellow who owns Don Quixote."

"Isaacson!" Mostyn wrinkled his brows. "Isaacson is a hard nut to crack, and, as you say, money doesn't mean much to him. He's on the way to becoming a millionaire as it is, and if he's got a private spite--

"It's both a private and a business spite, I believe," Cicely declared. "I heard father speak of him, I remember, about a year ago, and of a row there had been between them in the City. And then, after that, they met at some dinner-party or other, and there was a scene. Father expressed his opinion in his usual forcible way, and I expect Mr. Isaacson did so, too. Anyway, they have never forgiven each other, and this is the result. Isaacson will show James up for what he is, and the whole family will be discredited."

"According to father, we have already disgraced the family," remarked Mostyn with some bitterness.

"Ah!" Cicely lifted her fair head, and a tear glistened in her eye. "He is a changed man now, Mostyn. You would be sorry for him if you saw him, indeed you would. I believe he realises the mistakes he made. He asked me after you, and his voice shook as he spoke--he is just a poor, broken-down old man, and I think his health is giving way. The wheels of time have ground our revenge for us, Mostyn."

Mostyn sat for a moment, thinking deeply. "You are right, Cicely," he said. "He is our father, and he acted justly according to his lights. It's not for us to bear malice. I'll tell you what I'll do----" He started up from his chair. "I'll go and see Isaacson at once. He lives in Portman Square, I believe, and if he's not at Epsom it's very likely that I shall find him. I'm bound to see him at the Derby to-morrow if I miss him to-day, but one can't talk 'shop' down there. Of course, I don't know that I can do anything, but I'll have a try."

"And go to father afterwards, will you, Mostyn?" Cicely rested her hand upon her brother's arm. "He will see you, I'm sure of it. His eyes were quite wistful when he spoke of you, though he did not ask me to bring about a meeting. And he will be grateful when he knows that you have tried to help him. He's never needed to turn to anyone for help and comfort before, and it's that, I think, more than anything else, that has broken him."

And so it was decided, and, after making their arrangements for the following day, Pierce and Cicely took their departure. Cicely was to spend the whole day with her father, while Pierce was to meet Mostyn in Eaton Square, whence, as the year before, they were to go down to Epsom on Sir Roderick's coach.

Mostyn drove without any delay to David Isaacson's house, and he was lucky enough to find the financier at home. As he had expected, he found the house a particularly luxurious one. The door was swung open by two liveried and powdered flunkeys, while a grave butler appeared to enquire his business. The hall was lavishly decorated in marble, and the room into which Mostyn was shown, although not on a large scale, was suggestive, even to the very smallest item, of ostentatious wealth. Yet it was not so many years, as Mostyn knew, since David Isaacson had occupied humble little offices somewhere off Regent Street, living and sleeping in a couple of dingy rooms just over them.

"Ah! Mr. Clithero, I'm glad to see you." Isaacson, attired in a resplendent afternoon lounge suit, entered the room, a large cigar held in the corner of his mouth. He appeared a strange figure in the midst of the almost feminine luxury of his apartment, and yet there was something about the man which rather appealed to Mostyn. There was a good-humoured twinkle in his dark eyes, and a certain sincerity about his lips which rather belied his reputation for hardness. A sharp man of business, one who would insist upon his pound of flesh, but honest withal--so Mostyn summed him up. "Nice little place I've got here, eh?" The Jew gazed complacently round the ornate apartment, fully conscious of the immense value of the draperies, of the pictures, and of the various objects of art. There was hardly anything that was not a _chef d'oeuvre_ in its way. "I am glad you have come to see me. But why not at Epsom? I should have thought that you would have been down for the first day's racing." He offered Mostyn a cigar, and then proceeded to discuss the prospects for the morrow's Derby.

"Fancy!" he said, as Mostyn, in obedience to his invitation, seated himself and lit the cigar which he had accepted. "When I heard there was a Clithero to see me, I fancied it was someone else altogether. It was lucky you gave my man your Christian name as well as your surname, for I shouldn't have been at home to any other Clithero. By the way, it never struck me before, and I hope you won't be insulted by the question--you're no relation to that blatant, conceited, self-righteous prig, old John Clithero, the banker, are you? But of course, it's not likely, a sportsman like you----"

"I am John Clithero's son," Mostyn said quietly.

"God of my fathers!" Isaacson muttered another exclamation under his breath, which Mostyn failed to understand, but which he took to be a Hebrew oath. "You the son of John Clithero? Well, I'd never have believed it--never! I'm sorry--I'm downright sorry, if I've offended you, but really, upon my word, you know, I never associated you with that lot. Now I come to think of it, though, I believe I did see something in the paper--but I forgot all about it, and I didn't know you then. There's no friendship between your father and me, Mr. Clithero," he went on, "but you--well, that's a different matter. I admire your pluck; a true sportsman always appeals to me." He had begun his apology awkwardly, but he ended it with candour, stretching out his hand, which Mostyn took readily enough.

"To think that you're a son of John Clithero!" the Jew repeated. "Well, that beats everything."

Mostyn took advantage of the opening thus offered him, to explain the object of his visit. He had nothing to say in defence of his brother, nor, very wisely perhaps, did he attempt to say much for his father, for it was palpable that Isaacson felt very strongly upon the subject of his supposed wrongs at the hands of John Clithero. He stated his case in simple words, and pleaded as though it were a personal favour that he was asking.

Isaacson did not allow Mostyn to conclude. He sat listening for a few minutes, chewing at his big cigar; then he started to his feet, crossed the room quickly, and rang the bell.

For a moment Mostyn fancied this to be an indication that the interview was terminated, that Isaacson would hear no more, but he was quickly undeceived by the smile upon the man's face and by his genial tone.

"Say no more about it, my boy," Isaacson cried heartily. "I've rung the bell for my secretary, and I'll ask him to look out the bill and hand it over to you. It's a different thing altogether now that I know you're concerned in the business. We are both of us sportsmen, what? and one sportsman isn't going to round on a friend or play a shabby trick. Old John's been taken down a peg or two as it is, I expect, and he'll feel it all the more when he knows that it's you who've pulled him out of the mire. You shall have the bill here and now."

"But----" faltered Mostyn, taken aback by Isaacson's generosity, "I'm not prepared to take up the bill immediately. It's for a large sum, and----"

"Oh, never mind taking up the bill! I'll trust you for that," responded the other. "Get the thing in your hands while you can, that's the best plan. This brother of yours has bolted to America, I understand. Well, let him stick there, for he's a good riddance to the country, and as to old John, I hope he'll learn his lesson, and show a little more charity in his dealings with the world."

As Isaacson spoke, the secretary entered the room in response to the bell, was given his instructions, and retired.

Isaacson seated himself once more by Mostyn's side, leaning forward and tapping him familiarly upon the knee. "Folks say I'm a hard man," he went on, "and perhaps I shouldn't be here if I hadn't refused to listen sometimes to the appeals that are made to me; but when it comes from you, Clithero, there's no thinking twice. You're straight as they make them, and I should be very sore if I felt I'd hurt you. I happen to know," he went on, lowering his voice, "that that infernal little jockey of mine, that rascal Wilson, tried to make a bit off you by promising to pull Don Quixote. That came to my ears through the same individual who gave Wilson away--also that you refused, and kicked the little scoundrel out. Well, though I never thought you would have been a party to such a trick, I liked you all the better for it, for, after all, you'd have run no danger, and you must be jolly keen on winning a big race, judging by the number of horses you've run in the course of a year. There, my boy, now you know all about it, and why it's a pleasure to me to hand you over the bill."

It was news to Mostyn to learn that Isaacson knew all about Wilson's proposal to him, and he flushed a little to think that, even for a moment, the Jew might have thought it possible for him to yield; but at the same time he remembered how he had been tempted, and the thought of this heightened the colour in his cheeks.

Wilson, he knew, had lost his licence as a consequence of Isaacson's complaint against him. The case had been clearly proved, and evidently there had been no necessity to bring Mostyn's name into the matter. Of Wilson himself, he had seen nothing more since the day of the Two Thousand Guineas, nor, indeed, had he had word with Jack Treves. The latter had studiously avoided him, even when the two men had met, as they were bound to meet, upon the day of the One Thousand Guineas, when Mostyn's filly had proved, as he expected, quite unequal to the task of even running into a place. If Wilson and Treves still thought of avenging themselves against Mostyn, they had, so far, made no move.

A quarter of an hour later, refusing the hearty invitation to return and dine, the incriminating document safely in his possession, Mostyn took his departure. He was anxious to proceed straight to his father's house, and to set the mind of John Clithero at rest. It would be strange to meet his father again, and he wondered how he would be received.

He stood on the doorstep while one of the gorgeously liveried men servants whistled sharply for a hansom. The house stood at the corner of the square, and presently Mostyn could hear the sound of rapidly approaching wheels, though he could not see the vehicle itself. It sounded to him, however, as if two hansoms were racing each other in answer to the summons.

At that moment a little child, a fair-haired baby girl, escaped from her nursemaid, whose attention had been distracted by the extravagant golden livery of the footman, and toddled into the road just as the two hansoms swept round the corner.

Mostyn saw the danger. With a shout he sprang forward and seized the little girl almost from under the horses' hoofs. He regained the curb, escaping almost by a miracle, but so quick had been his movements that, once out of danger, he slipped and fell, rolling over, his arm bent at an awkward angle beneath him.

The nursemaid, wailing with fear, gathered the little child into her arms, but Mostyn lay where he had fallen till the two footmen and a policeman came to his assistance.

He was not unconscious, and presently he moved and sat up. But his arm hung limply at his side and he realised a ghastly pain close to the shoulder.

Yet he tried to smile reassuringly into the faces of those who were bending over him. "It's all right," he murmured. "I'm quite safe, but--but I think I've broken my arm."

With which he promptly fainted away. They carried him back carefully into the house of David Isaacson.