Old Treves was bulky, broad of shoulder, and in rude health; as father and son stood there together it looked very much as if the elder man could easily have carried his words into effect.
"Anyway, you shan't be hangin' about the place, making a nuisance of yourself, more'n I can help till after next June. Miss Rada shall have the clear run she wants, and I expect the less she sees of you, in the meanwhile, the more she'll be likely to take to you in the end."
It was, as a consequence of this, that Jack, despite his grumbles and the consciousness that he was giving a clear field to his rival, was packed off from Partinborough, and troubled Mostyn and Rada very little more during the months that ensued.
Silver Star was scratched for the Cambridgeshire, and so Mostyn's last hope for that year expired. He had now some four months to wait in which to make his preparations for the big steeplechase in the following March, as well as for the Lincolnshire.
Mostyn had taken no advantage of Jack's summary dismissal from Partinborough. He was, indeed, only on and off at the Grange, finding that he had plenty to occupy him in London. He had taken up a definite position with regard to Rada, and he was resolved to adhere firmly to it. She knew he loved her; it was for her to choose, when the time came, between him and Jack. She could break off her semi-engagement to the latter if she pleased; should Castor win the Derby, she would certainly have the means of paying off her debt; besides, apart from this, she was already making money with her horse, whose record was as yet unbroken. Castor had won everything for which he had been entered. Then there was the thousand pounds still reposing in Mostyn's safe—this money was quite at her disposition if her pride would allow her to take it. All this Mostyn had told her. So it was for Rada to choose. Mostyn would not speak of his love, he would not "bother" her. They met constantly, they teased each other, they quarrelled now and then—always making peace very quickly—and there were times when Mostyn thought that the eyes of the girl were wistful, times when he could not help fancying that she would show no bitter resentment if he opened his arms to take her to them, as he had done once before.
In his way he was stubborn, stubborn in his determination to abide by the conditions he had imposed upon himself. It was true that he did not understand women, and Rada was, of course, a particularly complex study. "I'll wait till after the Derby," so he told himself over and over again. "Rada wants no talk of love till then; has she not said so?" He often wondered why Rada should sometimes be cross with him without a cause; and once—he remembered quite well—she had burst into tears and run away; it was just before he left Partinborough for a longer stay than usual in town.
All this while, although, so far, failure had befallen him, there was not the smallest doubt in his mind that he would ultimately be successful in carrying out the terms of Anthony Royce's bequest.
But a fresh series of failures awaited him at the opening of the season. The Lincolnshire—that was the first of the three races in which his horse had run into second place; then had followed the Grand National, and here, having successfully negotiated Beecher's Brook and Valentine's Brook on the first round, Mostyn's mare, Giralda, had come badly to grief upon the second round; both jockey and mare were injured, the latter so much so that she had then and there to be shot.
The Chester Cup—second again; and finally, the City and Suburban, with exactly the same result.
Now there remained Asmodeus, who was second favourite for the Two Thousand Guineas, and a filly for the Thousand, whose training, however, had been insufficient for Mostyn to place much reliance upon her. She might possibly do better for the Oaks—absolutely Mostyn's last chance—but even with regard to this he had little confidence. For a long while he had steadily refused to have anything to do with the Derby, and so valuable time had been lost. Now he had a colt named Cipher in training, but Cipher was not a patch upon either Castor or upon Sir Roger's Pollux, and could hardly be looked upon as standing a chance. Such was the present position, and, considering it squarely and without bias, both Mostyn and Pierce had to admit that it was a desperate one.
"That beast of a Jew, Isaacson, will carry off the Two Thousand," groaned Pierce. "Don Quixote is bound to win on his form. We shall be in for another second. The only thing is, that we've got a better man up. Stanhope is a fine jockey, while Wilson is a fellow whom I never trusted, and they speak badly of him in the ring. But I expect he's being well paid for his job."
Isaacson, the owner of Don Quixote, was the same man whose horse, Peveril, had so nearly won the Derby against Hipponous. He had only made his appearance upon the Turf within the last year or so, since some successful speculation had brought him a fortune. The only good point about him, so Pierce was wont to aver, was that he had not shown himself ashamed of his name, or of the method by which he had earned his living. He had been a bill discounter and money lender upon rather a large scale, and though he was reputed hard, no imputation had ever been made upon his honesty. Since wealth had come to him, he had given away large sums in charity, but this was probably in order that he might win the popularity which he coveted. He liked to make a big show, and his racing colours were all gold.
After a while Pierce rose, yawned, and expressed his determination to go to bed. The two young men had dined late, and their discussion had been a prolonged one. "Good-night, old chap," he said, "and don't worry your mind more than you can help. Things may come all right, after all. Asmodeus is a good horse, and there are a lot who fancy him."
Mostyn looked up brightly as he nodded good-night. "Oh, I'm not worrying!" he said, "the whole thing has been a gamble, hasn't it, Pierce? And he's a poor gambler who growls at his losses."
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!"
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.
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 achef d'oeuvrein 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.