Chapter III: Mostyn Accepts a Challenge

"You enjoyed it?" Anthony Royce laid his hand on Mostyn's arm and looked smilingly into his face. It was palpably a superfluous question, for Mostyn's appreciation was plainly writ upon every feature. He was flushed and his lips were quivering, nor could he give an immediate answer, finding it hard to struggle back from the new world in which he had been revelling to the commonplaces of life.

Yet he felt that he was being keenly scrutinised; that those sharp grey eyes were fixed upon him, taking in every detail of his appearance, reading him like a book, gauging his emotions, studying, not only his face but his very soul. He wondered if he appeared a fool, and grew hot at the thought.

"It's my first Derby," he said apologetically, taking refuge in a self-evident fact. "I have never seen a race before."

"And you enjoyed it?" Royce repeated his question, rather for the sake of opening conversation than for any other reason.

"Enjoyed it!" Mostyn placed a heavy accent upon the first word. "Why, I don't think I have ever enjoyed anything so much in all my life. I haven't been alive till to-day. Oh!" he cried, clasping his hands together, and yet half ashamed of giving utterance to such a sentiment, "how I should like to win a Derby myself!"

Royce laughed, aloud this time. "Who knows?" he, remarked; "the future is on the knees of the gods." Once more his grey eyes appeared to be reading the young man's face, taking in every detail of his appearance.

Mostyn Clithero was good to look at, or so the older man was telling himself, as he wondered if it could be possible that an idea which had come into his head earlier in the day, might have foundation in fact; that reminiscent look, that semblance of gazing back into the past, had returned to Royce's eyes, and for the moment he seemed to have forgotten all else.

"There is something in the boy's face that reminds me of her," he was muttering to himself. "It's about the eyes or about the mouth--I'm not quite sure which. Anyway, if I should turn out to be right, the lad's got nothing of his father about him, and I'm glad of that; I'm glad of that."

Mostyn was indeed a young man whose personal appearance might attract attention. He was tall, standing well over six foot, and broad of shoulder in proportion. His athletic training had done much for him, and he was in every way, physically as well as mentally, a contrast to his two brothers. He had often been told, indeed, that he resembled his mother, who in her younger days had been stately and handsome, a recognised beauty in London society, while James and Charles were always supposed to take after their father. Mostyn had fair hair, which he wore cut short, striving thereby to overcome its tendency to curl, an attempt at which he was not always quite successful; his eyes were blue, very large and gentle, though they could be stern at times, as could his lips, which were otherwise prone to smile.

Anthony Royce, who had a keen insight into the minds of men, and who had observed the boy very carefully almost from the first moment of their meeting, was pleased with what he had seen, and, for more reasons than one, felt well disposed towards Mostyn Clithero.

He glanced at his watch. "I guess we'll stop here awhile," he said; "it's restful. Besides, I want to have a quiet chat with you." He took a bulky cigar-case from his pocket, extracted a large and dark cigar, which he proceeded to light up. Then he offered the case to his young friend.

Mostyn shook his head. He did not smoke; it was one of those things to which his father objected.

They had been standing upon the box of the coach, and it was here that they seated themselves, Royce occupying the driver's place. He puffed thoughtfully at the cigar before breaking the silence. Mostyn sat silent too, wondering what this new friend of his would have to say, and why Anthony Royce, the American millionaire, should have apparently taken so much interest in him. Mostyn had hardly given a thought to the matter before, but now he was more collected, more himself, and the things seemed strange to him.

"I have a curious idea," so Royce began at last, "that though you and I have never met before, Clithero, I was once acquainted both with your mother and with your father. I thought so from the first moment we met in Eaton Square, and I have been watching you and have noticed all manner of little tricks of expression which remind me of Mary Clithero--Mary Willoughby as she was, she who I fancy must be your mother." He was gazing straight before him, blowing out great clouds of smoke.

"Yes, my mother's name was Willoughby!" cried Mostyn, surprised. "How strange to think that you should have known her all those years ago! And you never saw her after her marriage? She is dead now, you know."

Royce nodded his head gravely. "She'd have been alive to-day"--he began, then broke off suddenly. "I never met your mother as Mrs. Clithero," he continued after a pause. "It would not have been well for either of us. We loved each other once: Mary Willoughby is the only woman who has ever influenced my life. We were to have been married."

"I never heard of this; I was never told." Mostyn opened wondering eyes and stared at his companion with new interest.

"No, it is hardly likely that you would have been told." A great bitterness had come into Royce's tone. "The whole affair was a discreditable one. Your mother was not to blame; pray understand that at once." The words were called for because Mostyn had flushed and glanced up quickly. "I think as dearly of your mother to-day as ever in the past, and it is for her sake, Mostyn--for I must call you Mostyn--that I have been taking such an interest in you. She was deceived, and so I lost her."

He paused; for a second Mostyn could hardly see his face, because of the volume of smoke that he emitted from his lips.

"Do you wish to speak to me of this?" Mostyn asked, a slight frown wrinkling his brow. He felt instinctively that the whole story might be one that it would be better for him not to know.

Royce shrugged his shoulders. "No," he said slowly; "the subject is painful to me even after all these years, and it might be painful to you to hear it. I only wanted to know that you are really the son of the woman I loved. Your father dealt badly with me, Mostyn, and I have never forgiven him. I suppose he feels just the same towards me. John Clithero was always a hard man, the sort of man who would never forgive anyone whom he has injured." The words were spoken with bitter sarcasm. Mostyn looked away and shuffled with his feet, for he knew that they were true, and yet, since they were spoken of his father, he felt vaguely that he was called upon to resent them.

"That brings me to my point," Royce went on, after a moment's pause. "I think I am right in believing that you have come to the Derby to-day without your father's knowledge, and if he knows there will be the devil to pay. I don't suppose Clithero has changed much, and, according to his ideas, a man who ventures upon a race-course is travelling the devil's high road. It's wonderful what some men's minds are capable of!" Royce took his cigar from his mouth and gazed at Mostyn from under his heavy brows. "I wonder you've turned out so well," he commented.

"I expect I'm all in the wrong for being here at all," Mostyn said, the colour flushing his face. He could never rid himself of that disposition to blush. "But I couldn't help it," he went on; "I wanted to come, the desire of it was in my blood." He laughed awkwardly. "I suppose I am different somehow to the rest of my people."

"I am very glad you are. You take after your mother, Mostyn, for she came of a healthy-minded stock. But now, tell me, what will happen when you get home? Or do you propose to keep this little jaunt a secret?" The grey eyes fixed upon Mostyn were searching.

"I shall tell my father that I went to the Derby," Mostyn replied with some defiance in his tone, for he hated the suggestion of underhand dealing. "I have made no secret of it to anyone. My father is not at home just now, but I shall tell him when he returns."

"Good!" Anthony Royce knocked the ash from his cigar, an ash which he had allowed to grow to inordinate length. "I like a man who acts straight and isn't ashamed of what he does. But there will be a row?"

"I expect so." Mostyn nodded. What was the use of denying the obvious?

"A serious row?"

"Very possibly." Mostyn fidgeted. What was the good of all these questions? He had put aside the evil day, determined to live in the present. He was enjoying himself; why spoil his pleasure? A bell rang and the police could be seen clearing the course. Another race was about to be run. Mostyn fumbled with his programme. "Who's going to win this event?" he asked.

"A devil of a row, if I'm not mistaken," Anthony Royce said reflectively, ignoring the question. "John Clithero would sacrifice his flesh and blood upon the altar of his principles. I'm afraid you will get into trouble, my boy. Well, what I want to say is this. Come to me if things go badly with you. Don't let any silly pride stand in your way. I've got an idea in my head, and you can help me work it out. You will be doing me a favour, far more than the other way about. You needn't think it a matter of charity--I'm not that kind of man. Furthermore, it's nothing mean or underhand that I shall ask you--to that you have my word." Royce had evidently read the young man's character very well. "Now--supposing your father shows you the door--he may, you know--will you come to me?"

"I will," Mostyn stretched out his hand, a strong, well-made hand, and the elder man took it in his, holding it a moment, and looking the boy squarely in the eyes.

"That's a deal," he said, heartily; "I shall expect to see you, Mostyn."

After the next race, a race over which Mostyn's enthusiasm was again roused, though not to the same pitch as before, the guests upon Sir Roderick's coach returned in little straggling groups to partake of tea. Sir Roderick himself, flushed with his victory, did the honours, and received the congratulations of all his friends. He was bubbling over with good spirits, perpetrated innumerable verbal blunders, at which he was the first to laugh, and distributed "largesse" freely among the hangers-on about the coach--this, until such a crowd of minstrels, gipsies, and such like had collected that it was all the grooms could do to disperse them; but it was a good-natured, cheering crowd, and Sir Roderick was distinctly enjoying himself.

Captain Armitage, his white beard and moustache contrasting forcibly with his rubicund complexion, disdained tea, and appropriated a champagne bottle to himself. He was less excitable than he had been on the journey down, but then, as he would say himself, he was the kind of man whom drink sobered. Lady Lempiere and Major Molyneux were conspicuous by their absence, but all the other guests had put in an appearance. Lord Caldershot was still assiduous in his attentions to Rada, who, for her part, was in a state of delight at having won the coach sweepstake, as well as several pounds, the proceeds of her own investment upon Hipponous, plus many pairs of gloves which she had apparently won off her cavalier.

She was a distinctly pretty girl; Mostyn, who had had some opportunities of talking to her during the day, was constrained to admit the fact. He was attracted by her, and yet, at the same time, in some peculiar manner, repelled. She was unlike any girl he had ever met. She had no reserve of manner, she spoke as freely as a man might speak, and yet her whole appearance was distinctly feminine.

"Rada Armitage is a little savage," so Royce had explained her to Mostyn. "She has lived all her life with that wretched old scapegrace, her father, for her mother died when she was an infant. She has never known a controlling hand. Heaven knows how they exist--Armitage's cottage at Partingborough is a disgrace to a civilised man. Rada's like an untrained filly, and you must take her at that. She was called after a horse, too, one upon which the captain won a lot of money the year she was born."

The girl was small in stature, although she was slim and perfectly proportioned, giving, perhaps, an impression of inches which she really did not possess. Her hair was deep black, glossy, and inclined to be rebellious; her eyes, too, were black, very bright, piercing, and particularly expressive. They seemed to change in some peculiar way with every emotion that swayed her; one moment they would be soft, the next they would flash with humour, and then again they would be scornfully defiant. As with her eyes, so it was with her mouth and with her face generally; to Mostyn she was a puzzle, and he wondered what her real nature could be.

He took the opportunity of dispensing tea to improve his acquaintance. He felt that the girl watched him surreptitiously, and, self-conscious as he always was, he had an idea that there was a rather derisive curl upon her lips. Probably she had not forgotten his _faux pas_ of the morning.

Unfortunately he found it more difficult than he had anticipated to take part in the conversation. Sir Roderick was telling of the merits of a two-year-old, named Pollux, which he had in his Irish stables, and which he had entered for next year's Derby.

"If Hipponous hadn't won to-day," he remarked enthusiastically, "I feel that I should have had a dead cert with Pollux. That's saying a lot, of course, but you never saw such a perfect colt. Sired by Jupiter, with Stella for dam--you can't have better breeding than that."

"Ah--ah," laughed Captain Armitage, lifting his glass to his lips with shaking hand. "That's all very well, 'Rory,' my boy, but what about Castor? His sire was Jupiter, too, and his dam Swandown; she was a perfect mare, though I never had much luck with her, and she died after the foal was born. Still--there's Castor----" He broke into one of his cackling laughs. "It'll be a race between Castor and Pollux for the Derby next year." He stood up, then realising a certain unsteadiness of his limbs, sat down again.

Sir Roderick smiled benignly, and proceeded to explain to the company that this rivalry between Castor and Pollux was no new thing. The two colts had been born within a week of each other, and had been named, not so much according to their parentage as because they resembled each other so minutely. They were both perfect animals, and there was little to choose between them.

Mostyn listened attentively to the conversation, gathering up scraps of knowledge, and storing them in his brain. He talked when he could, but he would have been wiser to have kept silent, for, towards the close of the day, and when preparations for departure were being made, he committed a _faux pas_ which quite eclipsed his other efforts.

He had allowed his enthusiasm to master him once more, and had lost guard of his tongue--as ill-luck would have it, in the presence of Rada. He could quite understand how it might be the height of anyone's ambition to own a Derby winner, so he exclaimed; then he added--as a little while earlier to Royce--"How I should love to win a Derby!" Immediately after which he turned and enquired of Sir Roderick if Hipponous was not entered for the Oaks as well.

He bitterly regretted that speech, for even Anthony Royce and Pierce were constrained to laugh, while as for Captain Armitage, he simply rolled in his seat. But it was not that so much that Mostyn minded, though he stammered and blushed crimson, and began muttering some excuse. What hurt him was the look of scorn and derision that flashed into Rada's eyes.

"You win a Derby!" she cried disdainfully. "Are you sure you know a horse from a cow? Why, you silly boy, you couldn't win a Derby if you lived to a hundred! I'd stake my life on that."

Poor Mostyn choked with indignation, the insult was so deliberate and spoken so openly. How he wished it was a man with whom he had to deal!

"I----" he began hesitatingly, then paused, for Rada interrupted him.

"Would you like to have a bet on it?" she asked mockingly.

Mostyn looked round. He saw Captain Armitage's red face suffused and congested with laughter; he caught a supercilious sneer on the lips of Lord Caldershot. He was boiling over with suppressed rage.

Suddenly he felt a nudge from the elbow of Anthony Royce, who was sitting next to him, and a whisper in his ear.

"Say yes. In ten years."

Mostyn did not understand. The whisper was repeated.

"Bet anything you like you win a Derby in ten years."

The little diversion had passed unnoticed. Rada repeated her mocking question.

Mostyn pulled himself together. He had no time to think, to weigh his words. He did not even realise the import of them. The wrath of his heart dictated his answer.

"I never bet. But all the same I'll undertake to win a Derby within reasonable time: ten years--five years," he added recklessly, in spite of the protesting nudge of Royce's elbow.

"Jove, what a brave man!" drawled Caldershot. His languid tone exasperated Mostyn to fury.

"In five years," he repeated. "I'd stake my life upon it, too. I call you all to witness."

"Whatever's the boy saying?" It was good-natured Sir Roderick who intervened. "I'm not going to have anybody staking their life upon my coach. We can't go upsetting the market like that."

In the laugh that followed Pierce deftly turned the conversation, and soon, with the bustle of departure, the whole incident was more or less forgotten. Mostyn, however, sat silent and absorbed.

What had appeared a farce to others was to him very real. What was this that he had undertaken to do? To win a Derby, and in five years--he who was utterly inexperienced and who possessed no resources whatever?

What had Anthony Royce meant by inciting him to such a speech? He wanted to put the question, but the American imposed silence upon him.

"We can't talk now. Don't worry yourself; it will be all right. You shall hear from me first thing to-morrow. It's no longer a matter of waiting for the row at home: you've got to be a racing man, Mostyn, whether your father approves or no." He smiled his enigmatical smile, and his shoulders shook with inward laughter. During the whole of the return journey he led the conversation, and would not allow it to depart from general topics.

But at parting he pressed Mostyn's hand meaningly. "You are a sportsman from to-day, my boy," he said. "Don't forget that. It's all part of the scheme, and you have pledged your word. To-morrow you shall hear from me and you'll understand."

Pierce walked with Mostyn a few paces, then hailed a cab. "I'm going to dine at the club," he said. "What do you say to joining me?" But Mostyn shook his head; his one desire now was to return home, to be alone to think things out. He, too, called a hansom and drove to his father's house in Bryanston Square.

A surprise awaited him there. His sister Cicely came running down to the hall to meet him, her hands outstretched, her face pale. At the same time Mostyn fancied that he caught sight of the pasty face of his brother Charles peering through the half-closed dining-room door.

"Oh, Mostyn!" cried the girl. "Father's come back. He left by an earlier boat and reached London to-day. He knows all about the Derby, and he is furiously angry; he is in his study and wants to see you at once."