Chapter VI: Mostyn Is Put on His Mettle

Some four or five days later, Mostyn found himself in the private office of Mr. Gilbert Chester, head partner in the well-known firm of Chester and Smithers, solicitors. He had received a mysterious letter from the firm, requesting him to attend that day upon a matter of the utmost importance to himself--a matter which would be explained in full when he visited the office.

The letter had necessarily reached him in a round-about way, for it had originally been addressed to his father's house in Bryanston Square, and had then been sent on to him to his lodgings--for he had allowed no delay before settling himself in an unpretentious apartment--by Cicely, to whom he had confided his address, and who had seen to it that the rest of his personal belongings had been packed and delivered up to him. Mostyn had at first imagined that the solicitors may have had some communication to make to him on behalf of his father, but this would have been strange, for the latter had never employed the firm of Chester and Smithers.

As he sat with other waiting clients in the outer office, Mostyn reviewed the circumstances of the last few days. These had been anything but satisfactory, and, indeed, he had already made a great gap in that hundred pounds of his, for he had remembered certain debts to tradesmen which it was incumbent on him to pay since he wished to begin his new life with a clean sheet.

He was very disappointed--he had found that his journalist friend was not in London, having been sent to Scotland to report a big case at Edinburgh; it might be a week before he returned. In the meanwhile Mostyn, in his humble lodgings, was occupying himself by studying journalism according to the rules laid down in certain books which he had purchased, and which professed to give complete instruction in the art. He varied this by visits to the British Museum, which was close at hand, with some vague idea in his mind that this was a spot he would have to frequent in the future, and that it was well to get accustomed to it at once.

As he had feared, matters had gone wrong, too, with Cicely and Pierce. The latter had lost no time in visiting John Clithero. There had been an angry scene between the two men, and Pierce had been incontinently shown the door. Mr. Clithero had declared that he would never give his consent to his daughter's marriage with such a man as Pierce Trelawny while he had any say in the matter, and if Cicely chose to disobey him--well, it would be at her own risk.

Under these circumstances, Pierce had decided to go and see his father, who lived at Randor Park, in Worcestershire. What the result of this visit would be was an open question, and as yet Mostyn had received no news, though his friend had been gone a couple of days.

At last Mostyn was summoned to the presence of the great man. Mr. Chester received him with peculiar warmth.

"I am glad you have taken an early opportunity of seeing us, Mr. Clithero," so Mr. Chester began. He always spoke of himself as "we" or "us," though, indeed, Mr. Smithers, the other partner of the firm, had long since retired. "We have some very important intelligence for you." He cleared his throat with a little suggestive cough. "Very important indeed."

"Indeed?" said Mostyn interrogatively, seating himself in a chair indicated to him by the solicitor. "I am very much in the dark, Mr. Chester."

"The matter concerns the testamentary disposition"--Mr. Chester was very precise in speech--"of our late client, Mr. Anthony Royce." The solicitor toyed with his gold-mounted glasses as he spoke, and stared hard at his visitor.

"Mr. Royce?" Mostyn repeated the name in amazement. "Why, I only met Mr. Royce once," he stammered, "and that was on the day of his death."

"Nevertheless you have an interest--a very considerable interest indeed--in Mr. Royce's will, and this will, or, rather, codicil, I may inform you, appears to have been written hastily, although duly signed and witnessed, upon the day that ended so tragically for our client." The solicitor carefully polished his glasses with the border of a silk pocket-handkerchief.

"But this is extraordinary--inexplicable!" Mostyn could hardly believe his ears. It was true that Anthony Royce appeared to have taken a peculiar interest in him that Derby Day, and then, of course, there was the story about his having once been in love with Mostyn's mother, but that he should have gone straight home and made a new will, almost as though he had anticipated the tragedy that was to come--this was past understanding.

"Our client was always a man who acted immediately upon any resolution he may have taken," Mr. Chester explained. "He had evidently made up his mind that afternoon, the day upon which he met you, and, as usual, followed his impulse. Of course, poor man, he could not have anticipated that he was to meet his death that night; indeed, as we happen to know, all his preparations were made for a second expedition into the heart of Africa. A fine fellow, Mr. Clithero, a man of sterling merit, and no one regrets his loss more than we do. It was a shocking accident: you know all the particulars, of course?"

Mostyn nodded: the papers had been very full of the disaster on the day after it had happened. Anthony Royce, it appeared, had dined at his London house after his return from the Derby, and then, at a later hour of the evening, had left London in his motor-car for his country residence, which was in the neighbourhood of Ware; it was upon the road that the accident had happened. The night had been very dark, and Royce, who was driving himself, had apparently, through some accident to the machinery, lost control of the car upon one of the steep hills in the neighbourhood. The motor had dashed into a wall; Royce had been thrown out, receiving a terrible blow upon the head, the result of which had been almost immediately fatal.

"Let us come to business, Mr. Clithero," the solicitor resumed after a brief pause. "I have here a copy of the codicil to Mr. Royce's will--the codicil which affects yourself. You will observe that certain other legacies--legacies mainly to public bodies--are withdrawn in order to make room for yours. Mr. Royce was a bachelor, and apparently he has no relatives in the world, any whom he, at any rate, cared to benefit. This is perhaps lucky for you," Mr. Chester added meaningly, "for, as you will see, the will is a peculiar one, and might possibly have been contested."

Mostyn was gazing at the paper before him, but at the moment he could not make head nor tail of it--the words all seemed blurred and jumbled together. "What does it mean?" he asked helplessly.

"Mr. Royce bequeaths to you the sum of two and a half million dollars," Chester explained slowly, tapping the table with his knuckles as though to enforce the significance of his words. "But there are certain conditions--certain conditions," he added, "and you will, no doubt, find some difficulty in complying with them."

"Conditions?" Mostyn stared helplessly at the solicitor.

"Just so. The capital sum of which I have spoken is not to be handed over to you for the space of a year, though you may enjoy the interest upon it. Within this period it is incumbent upon you to win any one of certain races, the names of which are formally enumerated. Some dozen are mentioned, and they include the principal events of the year, together with the five classic races. A sum of one hundred thousand dollars, in addition to the interest upon the millions, is to be placed at your immediate disposal, so that as far as money goes, Mr. Clithero, you should be well equipped for your task. Finally, Mr. Royce leaves to you absolutely his property in Cambridgeshire known as Partinborough Grange." Mr. Chester ceased drumming on the desk with his finger, and adjusted his pince-nez upon his nose. "I trust you are already well conversant with sporting matters, Mr. Clithero?" he added.

"Good heavens, no!" Mostyn stared aghast, the corners of his lips drawn down. "I'm as ignorant of sport as the babe unborn! I don't even know what the classic events are. The whole thing is so extraordinary that I don't know what to say about it; you have dazed me--taken my breath away!"

"Of course we cannot say what actuated our client to make such a bequest," said the lawyer smoothly. "We have only to deal with facts, and there is no doubt in the present case everything is in order. It is a strange will, but it is not likely to be disputed. I presume, Mr. Clithero, ignorant of sport though you may be, that you will do your best to carry out Mr. Royce's wishes?"

"I--I suppose I shall." Mostyn had taken up the paper from the desk and was pretending to read it; this, however, was to hide his embarrassment, and to give him time for reflection. It was beginning to dawn upon him that the extraordinary legacy was a result of the scene upon the coach when he, Mostyn, prompted by Royce, had undertaken to win a Derby in five years' time. This eccentric friend of his had wished to give him a sporting chance of doing so. But that Royce should have executed a will that same day, containing, moreover, such drastic stipulations, that was the inexplicable part of the whole thing.

Of course there was no question, however, as to what he must do. He was put on his mettle; the means were given him of carrying out his own challenge. A sense of exhilaration seized him. Suddenly, and for no particular reason, Rada's derisive words flashed into his mind: "You silly boy, you couldn't win a Derby if you lived to a hundred." He had felt those words very deeply, they had stung and wounded him--but now, in an extraordinary manner, the means had been placed at his disposal, and Rada--not only Rada, but the whole world--should see what he was made of.

He pulled himself together and sat upright in his chair. "Mr. Royce wanted to make a sportsman of me," he said, "I can see that. Well, I shall do my best to realise his ambition."

Mr. Chester smiled, the smile that he reserved for his most important clients, to which number he hoped that Mostyn would be added. "Well, I'm sure we wish you all success, Mr. Clithero," he said. He rose and extended a white hand. "Come and see us again to-morrow--let me see--yes--at 11.15, and we will discuss the matter at length. By the way," he added, "since you will, no doubt, wish to visit your new property shortly, we'll write to the gardener, whose name is Willis, and who has the charge of it, to notify him that you may be expected at any time."

As Mostyn reached the door Mr. Chester, suddenly recollecting a duty omitted, called him back. He searched for a moment among the papers of his desk, and finally produced a sealed letter which he handed to Mostyn. "This was brought to us to-day, Mr. Clithero," he explained. "It was evidently written by Mr. Royce on the day of his death, and should have been posted in the ordinary way. You see it is stamped though it has not passed through the post. Mr. Royce may have intended to drop it in the box himself and accidentally omitted to do so. It appears to have been found in his study. At any rate, it is addressed to you, and perhaps it may throw further light upon the matter of your inheritance." With which Mr. Chester bowed Mostyn from the room, and called to his head clerk that he was ready to see the next client.

Mostyn returned to his humble lodgings, the spirit of elation still upon him. What an extraordinary twist had come into his life! There was no fear of poverty--no need to depend upon the charity of his friends--for a year, at least, he was rich and independent, and ultimately--unless he failed to carry out what was imposed upon him--the laugh would be with him and not with Rada. He wondered why he should think so much about Rada, but of course it was because she had insulted him, and he had conceived such an antipathy to the girl.

Alone in his own room he opened Anthony Royce's letter, a letter written, no doubt, when there was no thought in the writer's mind of the fate that awaited him.

"My dear Mostyn," so he read, "You have bound yourself to-day to win a Derby in five years. I suggested ten--but that is immaterial. Well, I have my own reasons for wishing to help you to do so. I am going out of town to-night, but I shall return to-morrow; come and see me the day after, and we will discuss ways and means. I have not the smallest doubt that when your father learns of your escapade to-day he will turn you out--cut you adrift--but if he does not do so, my offer may still be acceptable to you.

"You have the true instincts of the sportsman in you, I have seen that for myself. Besides, you are your mother's son and I took to you instinctively from the first. That is why I feel justified in helping you to a sporting career. I don't know what we may decide between ourselves, but since I am a man who takes no chances, I have this evening added a codicil to my will, and what I shall propose to you will be much upon the same lines."

Here followed a recapitulation of the codicil. "You will see from this," the letter continued, "that I have no intention of making things too easy for you. It is a hard task for any man--even with unlimited capital--to pull off one of these races in a year. But if you succeed, well--you will earn a big fortune, and you may be able to manage the Derby within the stipulated time. In any case it gives you a sporting chance.

"You will ask why I do this, and if it is only out of regard for yourself and for your mother's memory. It is not only that, Mostyn. I will confess that it is by way of revenge upon your father, whom I have good cause for hating. You will understand this when I tell you that he lied about me to the girl to whom I was engaged--your mother; that he took advantage of my absence from England to spread a calumny which he, better than anyone else, knew to be absolutely false. I returned to England to find my good name injured and the woman I loved the bride of the very man who had wrought me this wrong. I could do nothing at the time, there were reasons which made me helpless--I was driven from England, and became a naturalised American.

"But my hatred endured, and, through you, I may obtain the kind of revenge that is dear to my heart--no very bitter revenge perhaps, but one that appeals to my sense of humour. Narrow-minded Pharisee as is your father, nothing will gall him more than that a son of his should become known in the world of sport--and if you accept my offer you will have to steep yourself in racing. However, we will talk this over when we meet--it is not very likely that you will be bound by the terms of a will drawn up by a man in rude health like myself. I hope to live to see you win your Derby, my boy--and for many years after that. But, as a safeguard to yourself, it is just as well that the will is there."

A few words of friendship followed, and the letter closed with Anthony Royce's bold signature. Mostyn, having read it through several times, threw himself back in his armchair and gave himself up to reflection.

He realised that the plot was aimed against his father. He remembered how Royce's sides had shaken with silent laughter--the American was just the sort of man to devise so subtle a revenge. Had Royce been still alive--had John Clithero been kinder--Mostyn might have hesitated before accepting, but now he had no compunction.

"Anthony Royce loved my mother," he muttered to himself, "and she--my father killed her by his cruelty. Yes, I'll steep myself in racing--I'll do all that is desired of me. I'll keep my word to Rada, too, and win the Derby. She won't scoff at me again. Ah, Miss Rada, it will be my turn to laugh!"

Suddenly he sprang to his feet and clapped his hands boyishly together. "Castor!" he cried. "Captain Armitage's colt! The very thing--entered for the Derby and all! Rada thinks a lot of the horse--I heard her say so. So does Sir Roderick. And the captain wants to sell--fifteen hundred pounds--what's fifteen hundred pounds to me now?"

He thought intently for a moment. "Jove, how it all works out!" he cried. "The Armitages live at Partingborough, and now I'm a man of property in that neighbourhood. I'll go and take possession of the Grange--I'll go to-morrow. Then I'll make my first investment--I'll buy Castor. Oh, Rada"--he laughed aloud in his glee--"I wonder what you'll say if I win the Derby next year, and with the horse you think so much of?" His face grew reflective. "I can't make up my mind what I think of you really, Miss Rada Armitage," he said slowly, "I ought to hate you, but I'm not sure--I'm not sure. Yet I feel this; you have come into my life--you have influenced it--and we have not done with each other yet. You've put me on my mettle, Rada, and it's going to be a tussle between us."