The sporting chance

CHAPTER XIII.

MOSTYN PREPARES FOR BATTLE.

"Well, my boy, I'm glad to have seen you, and to have heard all about this curious business from your own lips. Gad, I could hardly believe it, when Pierce first told me, but thought he was trying to pull my leg! The young dog, it's just the sort of thing he might have been capable of."

Genial "Old Rory" smiled indulgently at his nephew, and then turned again to Mostyn, to whom he had been addressing himself.

"Anyway, you may depend upon me to do all I can to help you. It's about the finest sporting event I've ever come across in my life, and there's humour in it, too"—Sir Roderick's broad features reflected his appreciation of this—"just the sort of humour that I should have expected of my poor old friend, Anthony Royce. To give a man—one who knows nothing about racing—forgive me Clithero, but that's true, isn't it?—a big capital, and oblige him, if he's going to win a still bigger legacy at the end of it, to steep himself in racing, just because there's an old grudge to be paid off against the legatee's father, who abhors racing as he abhors the devil—well, there's something that appeals to me in that, and I wouldn't miss the fun of watching your progress for the next year, no, not if I never won another race in my life. Here's luck to you, Clithero!"—the old man lifted a foaming glass of champagne to his lips as he spoke—"may you do justice to yourself, to Royce's memory, and to your father."

"Old Rory" laughed again as he spoke the last words. He was picturing to himself the expression of John Clithero's face when the latter came to learn that his son was becoming a prominent figure upon the turf.

"He'll moan about the sins of the children being visited upon the fathers," Sir Roderick muttered to himself, then continued: "But don't you let out your secret, my boy, not to a living soul except those who are already in the know. It's a good thing your solicitors could keep it quiet for you. If anything of the truth leaked out before you had carried the job through, the difficulties of your task would be magnified a hundred-fold. You may take that from me, and I know what I'm talking about."

Mostyn and Pierce had been dining, as Sir Roderick's guests, at the Imperial Club. Mostyn had only arrived in town the day before, and Pierce, who had been impatiently awaiting him, was not prepared to allow the grass to grow under their feet. He was as keenly interested in Mostyn's success as was the latter himself. The dinner with Sir Roderick had been arranged at his suggestion.

"'Old Rory' is the best fellow in the world," he had told Mostyn, "and he can do more for you than any man I know of in London—introduce you to the right sort of people, and all that kind of thing. If we can get him really interested in our struggle, why, the battle will be more than half won before it has commenced."

Mostyn had been anxious at first that nothing should be said to Sir Roderick MacPhane about the unsatisfactory deal he had made over the colt Castor; he was very shy of any allusion to Rada, and the whole story of Captain Armitage's duplicity could hardly have been touched upon without some reference to the girl.

Besides, after all, so Mostyn had argued with himself, Captain Armitage might be a disreputable and altogether unscrupulous old man, but, nevertheless, he was Rada's father, and so a privileged person in Mostyn's eyes. However, Pierce had advised that the truth should be told, although, of course, it was not necessary to mention by what means Rada had succeeded in paying for the colt. It was quite enough to explain that, after having purchased Castor, Mostyn had discovered his mistake and, out of consideration for Rada, had consented to the whole transaction being annulled.

To Pierce, Mostyn had unbosomed himself, making a clean breast of everything; not even keeping back the incidents of that passionate moment when he had held Rada in his arms, and, goaded on by some impulse that he hardly understood himself, had told her of his love. As a consequence he had been forced to listen to what Pierce was pleased to call a lecture upon worldly wisdom. He had indeed been rather severely taken to task.

"Look here, Mostyn," Pierce had concluded by saying, "you've got a stiff job before you, a task which is far more difficult than you seem to think; well, if you're going to win you must put all thoughts of love-making and suchlike nonsense out of your head. I know it's jolly hard when a man gets taken that way—I ought to know, oughtn't I? but I've got my year's probation, and now you've got yours as well. Look at it in that light. You've got to think of horses for the next year, and horses only. You'll come to grief if you go running after the petticoats as well. As for Rada, she is like an untrained filly, and you will have your work cut out for you if you think of breaking her in. Do as you like in a year, old man; but you can't stand a handicap yet."

"You needn't worry about Rada, Pierce," Mostyn returned, without any loss of temper. "There's not going to be any more love scenes between her and myself. Why, she said she hated me, and we've never met yet without quarrelling."

"That's all right, then." Pierce had glanced sharply at his friend's face as if to convince himself that Mostyn was quite serious. The innocent! Why, according to his own tale, Rada had allowed him to kiss her; she had rested for a few moments in his arms before she had torn herself away, crying and protesting, just as Pierce would have expected of her, wayward little creature that she was; and yet Mostyn did not seem to realise that the game was in his own hands! He had taken Rada quite seriously!

Such was, indeed, the case, for Mostyn had left Partinborough without seeing Rada again, quite convinced that his company was odious to her.

Well, this was all for the best—so argued Pierce to himself, and, as a wise man, with Mostyn's best interest at heart, it would be folly for him to point out any possibility of mistake.

After dinner was concluded that evening the three men retired to the club smoking-room, in order seriously to discuss Mostyn's projects for the future, and, of course, Sir Roderick MacPhane was allowed to be spokesman.

"Well, Mostyn," he said—he had easily dropped into the way of calling the young man by his Christian name—"since you've lost Castor, I expect you'll have to give up all hopes of doing anything in next year's Derby. You're not likely to find another colt worth the buying—certainly not one that could hold a candle to Castor—or to my Pollux, for the matter of that. But, of course, if I have correctly grasped the situation, the Derby is not a race that you need consider seriously just yet. You have plenty of other chances to win your money, and it is over those that you had better lay yourself out. You've got to earn your legacy first, and then you'll be in the position to direct all your attention to the Derby—that is, if you're still anxious to make good what you said upon my coach at Epsom a week or so back—that you would win the classic race in five years' time."

Sir Roderick laughed heartily as he recalled the scene. "I didn't know what to make of you that day, Mostyn," he continued, "but I understand now, that it was Royce who instigated you to that quixotic speech of yours. You were being laughed at. Oh, my dear boy, how you flushed! and how angry you looked with that little spitfire, Rada Armitage!"

Mostyn flushed now as if to prove that he had not yet lost the habit. "I didn't understand what Mr. Royce meant either," he replied, "but I just said what he told me. In fact, I said I would win the Derby in five years' time instead of ten, as he suggested in my ear. Of course, I was an arrant fool, and didn't know what I was talking about."

"Well, you stand a very good chance, thanks to our friend, Royce, of carrying your words into effect," said Sir Roderick, "but, as I was saying, unless you are absolutely pushed to it, I wouldn't worry my head too much over next year's Derby. If you should fail in all the other races that are open to you, then, of course, we must see what is to be done—for the Derby is the last chance you've got, isn't it? The year granted you by the terms of the will terminates with the Epsom Summer Meeting next year?"

"That is so," acquiesced Mostyn. "The Oaks will be absolutely my last chance."

"I understand." The old sportsman was silent for a few moments, leaning forward, his elbows resting upon his knees, as if in thought. Once, a club friend, passing close to him, addressed him by name, but "Old Rory" only looked up and grunted, immediately afterwards resuming his attitude of profound thought. The man passed on with a smile—"Old Rory" and his quaint habits were well known and understood by every member of the club.

On his side Mostyn was in no hurry to interrupt the silence. Everything that Sir Roderick had said so far quite coincided with his own ideas. He had no wish whatever to run a horse for the next year's Derby unless he was absolutely compelled by the circumstance of forces to do so. The fact was that he did not wish to oppose Rada, Rada who had set her heart upon winning that race. True, she had in a way challenged him—he remembered the words quite well, for she had spoken them on the first occasion of their meeting at Partinborough Grange: "I'm only a girl, but I'll back myself to win the Derby before you." That's what she had said, and later on, when she found that he had purchased Castor she had jumped to the conclusion that he had done so for the purpose of avenging himself upon her—she, like everyone else, being ignorant of his real motive.

For a little while he had felt that it would be pleasant to enter into competition with her and to beat her upon her own ground, but that was before he had become convinced that he loved her; now things appeared differently to him, and he desired nothing more than that Rada should win her cherished ambition; for himself he had to concentrate his attention upon realising his legacy by winning one of the other races that were open to him, and, that done, he would still have four years left him in which to find a Derby winner—no light thing, of course—but then, his means would be almost unlimited. He felt that he owed it to Royce's memory to attain this end, quite as much as for the gratification of his own self-esteem.

But he would not hurt Rada if he could help it—that was the one thing upon which his mind was made up. There was no reason whatever, as he looked at the position now, why they should be opposed to each other. The only rivalry between them lay in the undoubted fact that she had defied him to win the Derby within five years, and he had quite made up his mind to do so.

Sir Roderick looked up at last, and turned his attention to his coffee, which had been growing cold in front of him. He began to stir it slowly and reflectively with a long cigar cutter, which he had taken up in mistake for his spoon, a mistake over which he laughed heartily when Pierce hastened to rectify it.

"It's not only in my speeches that I blunder, apparently. That's just what I am always doing in the House," he pronounced, "stirring up things with the wrong sort of spoon. But the stirring gets done all right, which is the main thing. But now to business," he went on, "and this is my advice to you, Mostyn. You tell me you are going to have a shot for the Royal Hunt Cup, the first race open to you; well, of course, you can do so if you like, and there's no harm whatever in trying your stride, but I can tell you right away that you can't expect to do anything either for the Hunt Cup or at Goodwood. The time is much too short. After Goodwood I see you have the Leger—" Sir Roderick was inspecting, by means of one of the circular magnifying glasses provided by the club, a written list of the races which had been scheduled in Anthony Royce's will. "Well, as to the Leger," he continued, "I really don't see that I can hold out any hope for you there either. You are not likely to get a three-year-old capable of beating either Hipponous or Peveril, and they are both bound to run if fit. So it's as clear as a pike-staff to me that your best chance will be for the Cesarewitch or the Cambridgeshire, and with luck you might pull one of those races off. Anyway I'll do what I can for you if you really think my advice and assistance of any use—in fact, I've already got an idea that I may be able to secure a horse for you for the Cesarewitch; I won't tell you its name just yet, however, but you can take it from me that it will be a good thing."

Mostyn was loud in his thanks, and before the little party broke up that evening, he was as confident of winning his legacy as if the money were already in his pocket.

"Well, good-bye, my boy," Sir Roderick said, when he rose to go—he always observed early hours on those occasions when he was not sitting late in Parliament. "You've been set a task that I envy you. Go straight at it for all you are worth, and don't be afraid of spending your money—that's the safest way of putting it in your pocket."

Of course, both Pierce and Mostyn laughed heartily over this characteristic bull, an inversion of ideas that had a sound basis of truth as far as Mostyn was concerned. It was perhaps significant of the real interest that "Old Rory" was taking in his subject that he had only perpetrated one bull in the course of that evening.

Left alone, the two young men ordered whisky and soda, and then they fell to discussing their own more intimate affairs. It may be assumed that the names of Cicely and Rada—this in spite of Pierce's eloquent discourse on worldly wisdom—were repeated many times before the sitting came to an end. For now that Mostyn had come to town there was no reason why he should not see his sister; of course, he could not go to Bryanston Square, but they might easily meet by appointment somewhere else—say at Mostyn's rooms in Jermyn Street. And naturally, since Pierce was forbidden to see Cicely, he was eager to hear all about her from her brother.

"I don't see why you should scold me about Rada," Mostyn smiled, when, a little before midnight, he parted from his friend at the corner of Jermyn Street, "you have spoken of nothing but Cicely for the last hour, and I haven't been able to get in a word edgeways."

"Cicely and I love each other," returned Pierce thoughtlessly.

Mostyn reflected upon those words rather bitterly as he walked slowly down Jermyn Street. Yes, of course, it was different—very different. Pierce and Cicely had been engaged, were presumably engaged still, in spite of the year's probation that had been imposed upon them. At the end of that year, whether further opposition were offered on the part of John Clithero or not, the two young people would come together again, and all would be well between them.

How different it was with himself! How extraordinary that he should have fixed his affections upon a girl with whom he could do nothing but quarrel, who had made sport of him in public, and who had declared that she hated him. What a fool he was, and how he wished he could get the vision of Rada—Rada, with her glossy and rebellious hair, and with her piercing black eyes—out of his brain. Rada, who had called herself a devil when he had insisted that she was an angel!

Well, it was a good thing that he had so much to occupy his thoughts. Pierce was right, and he must give himself up wholly to the task before him—he must leave Rada to Jack Treves, if it could really be possible that she cared for the trainer's son. Rada was not for him.

He sighed heavily as he entered his room and switched on the electric light. A little pile of letters awaited him upon the table, and topmost of all was one addressed in a rather straggling, feminine handwriting; Mostyn, taking it up curiously, perceived that it bore the Partinborough postmark.

He knew at once, instinctively, that the letter was from Rada herself—from Rada, whom he was trying his best to forget.

CHAPTER XIV.

MOSTYN MAKES AN ENEMY.

"I don't hate you!" Rada's letter began quite abruptly. "Indeed I don't, Mr. Clithero, and I was a little beast to say I did, and I am writing to you now because my conscience pricks me. You were very good—awfully good—to me about Castor, and I am grateful to you, I really am. I know how you insisted on giving the colt back to my father, and the terms you exacted from him. I don't believe you bought Castor out of any malice towards me, and I only said so because I was in a temper and couldn't control my tongue. Then you would insist upon my being an angel, a paragon of virtue, when I was feeling myself a wicked little devil—and that was silly of you, you know—you ought to understand women better.

"But I feel I want to be friends with you, Mr. Clithero, and that is why I am writing. I haven't got so many that I can afford to part with one. We are rivals in a way, and since I have got Castor back, I do think I stand the best chance of winning the Derby first. As far as that part of our bet goes—since you will insist upon looking at it as a bet—I have the advantage. But, then, it wasn't fair to you from the start. I spoke, knowing that I had got Castor, while you didn't even know that I had registered my colours. That was just like me, so I won't attempt to excuse myself.

"But since you are so eager to win a Derby, and prove me wrong in what I said upon the coach, I do hope you will be successful. You gave yourself five years, you remember, so you need not grudge me Castor next June. Only I don't want you to go on spending a lot of money over what was only, after all, a silly speech. Wouldn't it be better for me to retract every word I said, and for us both to forget all about it?"

"Poor Rada!" mused Mostyn, smiling as he read. "She little knows, she little guesses why I have taken up racing so keenly. I wonder what she'll say later on when she sees me throwing my money about right and left—in order to put it in my pocket, as 'Old Rory' would say. She'll think I'm doing it only out of bravado, and just because I want to get even with her. She'll think me a silly young fool," he added, rather ruefully, "but I can't help it if she does. I won't tell the truth, even to her, until I've succeeded in my task. Then I don't mind who knows."

A few minutes ago Mostyn had been telling himself that he must put Rada out of mind altogether; now, as a consequence of her letter, he found himself half unconsciously contemplating what he should say to her upon their next meeting.

Their ways were not to lie so far apart, after all. The girl did not hate him, and it was only his colossal innocence which had made him think she did. Mostyn was beginning to learn his lesson.

But there was Jack Treves. Did she say anything in her letter about Jack Treves? With fingers that trembled a little, he turned over the page, and there, about half-way down, he espied the name of the trainer's son. After that he resumed his reading of the letter at the place where he had left off, his heart fluttering foolishly, the written words upon the page dancing before his eyes.

"And now, just a few words on another subject," so the letter went on. "It's a thing that I can write better than I can speak—it's about Jack Treves and that thousand pounds. It's true I got the money from him, and that there's a sort of promise of marriage between us. It's not only because he helped me to buy back Castor, but there has been a vague kind of understanding, for the last year or two, that I am to marry him some day. My father wants it. You'll respect my confidence, I know, so I will tell you that there's a considerable debt, and it must be paid off somehow."

"The old blackguard!" commented Mostyn forcibly, when he reached this point. "He's selling his daughter to pay off his debts—that's just what it means. But to sell her to a low-down bounder like young Treves—it's cruel and disgusting. And she, I don't believe she cares for Treves a bit, really, and she's probably angry with herself now because she's bound the fetters all the tighter about her by going to him in one of those tempestuous tempers of hers and borrowing a thousand pounds. A curse upon the money—if only Rada had taken it back!"

Mostyn had thrust the notes away in his safe at the Grange that night, and there they had remained. It was a foolish thing to have done, no doubt, but he could not bring himself to touch the money—it was like fire to his fingers.

Mostyn continued his reading. "The truth is, that I don't love anyone—at least, I don't think I do. It did not seem to me to matter if I married Jack Treves or not. He would do as well as another—since I had to marry some day. And just now my mind is far too full of other matters—of Castor, for instance, whom I think I love better than any man upon earth—to think of marriage, or anything of the sort. Jack understands that, and he's promised not to bother me till after the Derby next year. I like him for that; it's nice of him, don't you think so?

"Now, Mr. Clithero, I think I've explained everything as well as I can. You'll come back to the Grange soon, won't you? We'll be friends, and try not to quarrel again."

It was with mingled feelings that Mostyn, having read and re-read the letter, folded it up and thrust it in his pocket. The one point that stood out clearly in his mind was that Rada did not really love Jack Treves, although she had allowed herself to drift into a sort of engagement with him. Mostyn could not flatter himself, from anything she said in her letter, that she had any deeper feeling towards himself; but, after all, there was no saying what might happen in the course of the next year. It was very clear that, till after Castor had run in the Derby, Rada did not want to be bothered—that was her own expression—with questions of love from him or from anyone else.

Well, no doubt it was all for the best. He, himself, had quite enough to occupy his attention till after the next Derby was raced and won; in the meanwhile, it was an excellent arrangement that he and Rada should be good friends, and he would willingly undertake, as Jack Treves had evidently undertaken, not to "bother" her with any further suggestion of his affection. Ultimately, if she should care for him better than for Jack—his lip curled derisively at the mere idea of the comparison—well, there was very little doubt that Captain Armitage would not mind who married his daughter as long as his debts were paid.

"I shall be something like a millionaire by then, I hope," Mostyn muttered to himself, "so Master Jack, if it's a question of money, I think I shall stand a better chance than you."

With which reflection and a satisfied smile upon his lips, Mostyn retired to bed.

"Well, all I can say is I hope you'll stick to the arrangement of being just friends," Pierce grumbled when, the next day, Mostyn told him of the letter he had received, and how he had answered it—answered it, perhaps, with a little more enthusiasm than Pierce altogether cared for, explaining that he was looking forward to the day when he could return to Partinborough Grange. This, however, could not be for a week or so, Mostyn had added, at any rate not till after Goodwood. But the Cesarewitch was bound to bring him to Newmarket. "Just the race that's going to mean so much for us," Pierce commented with a sigh.

"Don't be afraid, old man," laughed Mostyn, who was happier that day than Pierce had seen him since his arrival in London—a bad omen, the latter argued. "I give you my word that I'll put the Cesarewitch before everything else. Rada doesn't want to be bothered, and I won't bother her."

And with this promise Pierce was constrained to be content.

The days passed, and, as they had anticipated, their first essay—for the Royal Hunt Cup—met with most indifferent success; they had, indeed, been quite confident of failure long before the day of the race.

The same fate befell them, just as "Old Rory" had predicted, at Goodwood, and later on, at the St. Leger. The latter race cost Mostyn a good deal of money. The only animal that he had been able to secure was a dark horse from the Manton stables, which, for various reasons, could not be trained earlier in the year, and was thought to have some chance. He proved an expensive bargain, and came in with the ruck. The actual race was, as had been foretold, a struggle between Hipponous and Peveril. These two horses fought out their battle a second time, and the Doncaster course suited the chestnut even better than that of Epsom. Once more Sir Roderick MacPhane secured a victory.

These defeats having been anticipated, neither Mostyn nor Pierce were in any way discouraged; on the contrary, they were all agog with excitement, for the day of the Cesarewitch was approaching, and for this race they had secured a horse through the kind offices of Sir Roderick, who had remembered his promise, with which they hoped to do wonders.

Gulliver, the horse in question, came of an irreproachable pedigree, and could already boast of a good record. He had run third the previous year, and was only carrying seven pounds more than on the former occasion. Indeed, under the training of old Treves, to whom Mostyn had naturally sent him, Gulliver soon become a hot favourite for the Cesarewitch.

Of course, by this time Mostyn and Rada had met again, not once but many times. Gulliver being in the charge of Treves at Partinborough, there was nothing to be wondered at in Mostyn running up and down between London and his country home. Certainly his visits to the Grange were brief, but then Pierce was always at his elbow to hurry him away. Mostyn sighed but obeyed. His life seemed to be compounded of long railway journeys all over the country; he had even been dragged to Dublin for the Horse Show, and on another occasion he had journeyed to Paris to view some horses which had been particularly recommended to him.

He was beginning to be talked about; the sporting papers were taking notice of his name. His face had become a familiar one upon the racecourse. A little later, unless he attained his object either at the Cesarewitch or Cambridgeshire, he knew quite well that he was bound to become an object of general curiosity, a young man who was throwing himself wildly into the track of the spendthrift, the way many had gone before him, those who foolishly dissipated fortunes on the Turf. But then, of course, the world did not know, and, after all, it mattered very little to him what the world should say. Let it be clearly stated here that, apart from his genuine love of sport, Mostyn took no pleasure in the apparently reckless course to which he was pledged. He did not bet. His object was to achieve the task which had been set him as quickly as possible, and then to take up the position of the man who went in for racing reasonably, with discretion and without the inordinate passion of the gambler.

That John Clithero was already raging and fuming over his son's growing notoriety, so much Mostyn already knew. He had seen Cicely on several occasions soon after his first return to London from Partinborough. These meetings had been a great pleasure to himself as well as to the girl, as long as they could be continued, but eventually, by some misfortune, John Clithero obtained an inkling of them, and summarily brought them to a conclusion by denying his daughter the liberty which she had till then enjoyed.

Poor Cicely! Mostyn thought her sadly changed in those days. She had always been a little shy and nervous in manner, not very strong physically, but now these peculiarities were so markedly increased that Mostyn had asked her anxiously, more than once, if she were sure that she were not ill?

She had replied that there was nothing amiss with her health, only that she was not happy. Could it be expected that she should be happy? Prevented from seeing her lover, she was always torturing herself as to what the end of it all would be. Her father was constantly telling her that she should never marry Pierce, that he would see her in her coffin first, and though Pierce had declared to her, taking all his gods to witness that he spoke the truth, that as soon as the year's probation imposed upon him by his father had passed, he would take her away from home and cheerfully set John Clithero at defiance; although over and over again Mostyn, inspired by Pierce himself, would repeat this statement to her, yet she always shook her fair head, nervously clasping and unclasping her fingers, a bright spot of colour rising ominously to the centre of each pale cheek.

"Who can say what will happen in a year's time?" she would murmur half under her breath. "Our father is a strong man, Mostyn, and he has always had his way. I feel that he will have his way with me."

No arguments that Mostyn could adduce had any effect upon her, nor would she consent to his suggestion that she should leave her home and settle with him. His idea was that he could easily have installed her at Partinborough Grange.

But again Cicely shook her head, though her eyes glistened and became wet with tears at her inability to accept. The truth was that she was afraid, and perhaps not without reason, for, if she were free from her father's yoke, living under her brother's care—her brother, who was so constantly in the company of Pierce—well, then, the temptation that both she herself and her lover would have to endure might be more than their strength could withstand. They might meet, the probability was that they would meet, and then Pierce would want to set not only Mr. Clithero but his own father as well at defiance. And to do this would mean his ruin: Cicely quite understood that, and she was not going to allow him to run the risk. It was wiser, far wiser, for her to endure her life at home, almost unbearable though it was becoming because of her father's ill-temper so often directed against herself, and because of the overbearing manner which both James and Charles had adopted towards her: it was better for her to put a brave face upon all this and to wait till the year's probation had expired, hoping against hope that all might be well in the end.

Mostyn, concerned as he was for his sister, had seen the reason of her arguments, and he had comforted her as best he could, assuring her of Pierce's fidelity, and pointing out, adopting a tone of levity that he did not feel, that some months of the year had already passed, and that the rest would go by quickly enough. But all the same, his heart bled for his sister, and he would have liked nothing better than to have had a few minutes uninterrupted conversation with those brothers of his, James the Prig and Charles the Sneak; it was against them that his animosity was chiefly directed, for he knew that his father acted rightly according to his lights; but as for the two younger men—well, Mostyn had good reason to mistrust them both.

He had explained to Cicely that his sudden accession to wealth was due to a legacy bequeathed to him by Anthony Royce; beyond this he had entered into no particulars. Let John Clithero believe, as undoubtedly he would believe, that his son had thrown himself into the world of sport by his own inclination; Mostyn did not care very much what interpretation might be put upon his acts. He had, indeed, been more amused than annoyed when he was approached by his father's solicitors with the request that, if he must go racing and squander good money, he should adopt another name for the purpose. This was only evidence of the fact that Anthony Royce's subtle revenge was already taking effect, and that John Clithero was raging impotently at the fancied degradation of his family honour. Yet what had happened so far was nothing to what might be expected in the future: so Mostyn, a little irritated by the tone adopted by the solicitors, had felt bound to tell them. His father had cast him off cruelly and unjustly, and now Mostyn was his own master, at liberty to face the world as seemed best to him.

When Pierce learnt that the meetings of Mostyn and Cicely had been prohibited he was furiously angry, and it was all that Mostyn could do to keep him from there and then proceeding to Bryanston Square and summarily carrying Cicely off. But he calmed down after a time, and admitted that the girl was right, that it was best not to precipitate matters, nor to incur the anger of old Mr. Trelawny.

"Although I must say," Pierce grumbled, "as I have said before, that I can't make my governor out. He was loud in his praises of you for having struck out your own course, but if I went and did the same thing—well"—Pierce shrugged his shoulders disconsolately—"I believe that Cicely and I might beg our bread for all that he'd care."

So matters stood when Mostyn and Pierce took up their residence at Partinborough Grange some ten days before the Newmarket meeting. The house had been thoroughly put in order, and was now as comfortable a residence as anyone could desire. As for the garden, this had become, under the careful auspices of Willis—who had now someone to work for—a very floral paradise. Perhaps it was for the sake of Rada that Mostyn had given special care to the cultivation of roses; he knew how she loved the flower, and how they had attracted her to the Grange before he came.

Mostyn and Rada met almost daily, but they met as good friends, nothing more. Pierce could have had no possible reasons for grumbling. Mostyn had quite made up his mind that the girl must not be bothered by his attentions, and she herself seemed to appreciate his decision, for she never referred in any way to that explanatory letter which she had written to London.

Mostyn had no particular reason to be jealous of Jack Treves, in spite of the understanding which he knew existed between the girl and the trainer's son. Rada showed herself, as far as she could, to be impartial, and her one desire during these days seemed to be to avoid, as far as she could, any reference to love or marriage: Castor was her one care.

Certainly Mostyn was not jealous, nor did he ever attempt, by word or deed, to belittle Jack Treves in Rada's eyes—this though not infrequently she would appeal to him for his opinion as to this or that in the behaviour of Jack. He had fully made up his mind that he would hold himself quite neutral and await events—the crisis that would have to come after the following year's Derby.

But as for Jack Treves, he did not look upon matters quite in the same light, and when trouble came it was due wholly to his jealousy, for he had quite decided that he had cause to be jealous. Thus it was that he was the first to break the stipulation about not bothering Rada, and she, in revenge, retaliated by cutting him for days together and allowing herself to be more than ever in the company of Mostyn. Of all this the latter knew nothing until, as was to be expected, the storm broke.

It was two or three days before the Cesarewitch and Mostyn had strolled over to the stables to have a look at Gulliver after he was brought in from exercise. He was strolling leisurely across the stretch of open country towards the gates when he was suddenly confronted by Rada, emerging flushed and excited, her lips pursed angrily together, her eyes glittering with that look of irresponsible defiance which Mostyn had already grown to recognise, though of late it had not been directed against himself.

Nor could it be so on the present occasion; he was quite sure of that, for it was more than a fortnight since he and Rada had had anything approaching a quarrel, and then it had been merely over some trivial matter quickly forgotten. The girl would have passed him with a little quick nod of her head, but he held out his arm and impeded her.

"What's up, Rada; what's wrong?" he asked.

At first she would give him no explanation at all; she begged him to let her go; her father was expecting her at home, and she was in a hurry. But Mostyn, although he knew it was at some risk to himself, took her by the arm and quietly demanded particulars. He had grown in daring of late.

"You must tell me, Rada," he said, "you really must. I insist."

She looked at him, startled. It was the first time that he had adopted a tone of command towards her. Perhaps in her heart she was not altogether displeased, although for a few moments she was inclined to resent his interference.

But the truth came out in the end. She had just had a scene with Jack Treves, and she was furious with him, so she asserted, perfectly furious. He had been worrying her, making her life wretched, and now matters had come to a climax.

Mostyn did not guess that he was in any way the cause of this, nor did Rada care to admit the fact. The trouble, however, on the present occasion was more deeply seated.

It was due, in a great measure, to Daisy Simpson. Jack had refused to break off his intimacy with this young woman, even after his semi-engagement to Rada had become generally known, with the very natural result that tongues had wagged and scandal been hinted at. Daisy had finally put an end to all this by taking her departure for London with the avowed intention of going upon the stage.

Jack had raged furiously and unreasonably, nor had he made any secret of his annoyance. Since there was no definite engagement, he argued, between himself and Rada he was clearly justified in maintaining his old friendship; if there was any scandal about the matter it was the fault of Rada and her ridiculous decree, a decree which placed him in an absurd and quite anomalous position. He therefore demanded that the girl should consent to her engagement to him being officially announced.

Such had been the cause of the trouble, and Jack Treves had just been treated to a touch of Rada's temper. And, no doubt, to judge from her flashing eyes and the contemptuous curve of her lips, he had been badly worsted in the encounter.

Rada appeared somewhat relieved when she had unbosomed herself of her troubles. It was something new for her to find a confidant; under ordinary circumstances she would have gone straight home, and there, never having been accustomed to give way before her father or to tell him anything of her doings, she would have shut herself up in her own room to brood for hours together, or she might have saddled her mare and ridden away, just for the mere want of sympathy, as she often did when Captain Armitage happened to be in a particularly obnoxious frame of mind, or muddled from drink, now more often than ever the case.

These ideas flashed quickly through Mostyn's brain as, awkwardly enough, he attempted to speak words of consolation. All his heart went out in sympathy to the wayward girl. How could it be expected that Rada should be anything than just what she had become?

"I won't have it announced to all the world that some day I am going to be married to Jack," Rada cried, petulantly tapping the turf with an impatient little foot. "When I have said a thing I mean to abide by it, and I told Jack that there was to be no mention of any engagement between us till after next June. It's bad enough to think that I've got to be married at all——"

"Rada, do you really care for Jack?" The words were upon Mostyn's tongue, but he did not speak them. He was quite certain that Rada did not really care for Jack, but at the same time he had no reason to believe that she cared any better for himself. And what danger of harming himself in her eyes might he not be running if he suggested anything of the sort? Rada would only have two men bothering her, as she expressed it, instead of one. Far better for him to bide his time and let matters take their own course.

Rada, of her own accord, made answer to the unspoken question. "I think I'm beginning to hate him," she asserted.

Mostyn turned his head away and, despite himself, his lips parted in a smile, for he understood the words were spoken in temper and bore no real significance. Had she not said the same to him? And for the time being he had been fool enough to believe it.

The truth was, so he told himself a little sadly, after Rada had left him, that she cared for no one at all. It was the truth that she had written in her letter. But could she not grow to care? She had had so little of love in her life that, as yet, she hardly knew the meaning of the word.

"You are very good to me," so she had said when she left him that morning, refusing his company on her way home: not that she would not have been pleased to have it, but because she knew his time was valuable. "I'm glad that we are friends, Mostyn"—she had come to call him by his Christian name by now—"though I can't see what there is in me for you to trouble yourself about."

Mostyn would have liked to have told her there and then, but once more discretion urged silence.

His adventures of that morning were, however, not yet concluded, for before he turned in at the stable gates he met Jack Treves himself lounging heavily out, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his breeches, his cap tilted to one side of his head, a cigarette thrust between his lips and carried at an aggressive upward angle.

"Good morning, Treves," said Mostyn. He was always on terms of armed neutrality with the trainer's son, and he affected to take no notice of the scowls with which the latter usually met him, and the scarcely veiled impertinence of the tone which he was wont to adopt. Mostyn had no wish to quarrel with Jack Treves, mainly for Rada's sake, but also because he had a sincere respect for Jack's father, the rough, simple-minded, and uneducated old trainer whom, nevertheless, he recognised as a straightforward and honest man, one who was serving him faithfully, and who was doing his utmost to ensure Gulliver's victory.

Jack came to a halt, standing aggressively between Mostyn and the stable gates. He drew his hands from his pockets, removed the cigarette from between his lips and blew out a cloud of smoke—smoke the odour of which fell offensively upon Mostyn's nostrils. Jack's fancy in tobacco was not of the most refined order.

"I saw you talkin' to Rada just now," he said. "Been tryin' to comfort her, I suppose, because I thought it time to have my say? A nice sort of comforter you are!" There was a vicious sneer upon his lips. "Look here," he went on, taking a menacing step forward and dropping the tone of sarcasm which he had not the wit to maintain, "what do you mean by it?"

"Please explain yourself." Mostyn spoke very quietly; on such occasions he never lost his temper, and always held himself under complete control. His calmness galled his adversary.

"You know jolly well what I mean. You're always hanging about Rada, and ever since you've been here you've tried to make mischief between us. Well, I'm not going to have it; I tell you that straight."

The young man's words were liberally intersected with oaths.

"You're labouring under a delusion," Mostyn said; then he too advanced a step, as if to indicate that he had had enough of Jack's company.

But the latter, already goaded into a passion by Rada, appeared anxious to vent some of it upon Mostyn. He was not lacking in pluck, so much can be said for him, for he was in truth the smaller and sparer man of the two. Mostyn, with his splendid physique, might well have warned him to think twice before he ventured, as he actually did, to break out with a string of invectives and foul words. He had quite a remarkable vocabulary at his disposition.

Even then Mostyn did not lose his temper, recognising that Jack Treves was in a rage and not responsible for what he said.

"You're a silly fellow, Treves," he remarked with perfect composure, "and a foul-mouthed one at that. Just stand out of my way, please, and let me pass. I've some business to talk over with your father."

As he spoke he raised his arm to thrust Jack aside. But this was too much for the latter; the idea that he should be treated with this calm disdain, his protest simply ignored, and he himself pushed aside as if he were of no account whatever, all this caused him completely to lose control of himself.. He threw himself blindly upon Mostyn and struck out wildly, not as he would have done in calmer moments, for, as a matter of fact, lie rather fancied himself upon his pugilistic powers.

The next moment the natural result came about. Mostyn, forced to it against his will, retaliated with a well-directed blow, and Jack Treves measured his length upon the ground. The fight, if fight it could be called, was very soon at an end, for Jack showed no further inclination to renew the combat.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you, Treves," Mostyn remarked, as his late adversary sat up and dabbed a handkerchief to his damaged face. "But really, you know, if you have anything to say you should be a little more careful in the way you say it." With which Mostyn passed on. The matter was concluded as far as he was concerned.

But Jack Treves, behind him, scrambled to his feet. His lip was cut and the blood was trickling down his chin. There was blood in his mouth too, and he spat it out as once more a volume of oaths escaped him.

"D—— you, Mostyn Clithero!" he cried, safely now, for the object of his hatred was well out of ear-shot. "You haven't downed me for nothing, I can tell you that. I'll be even with you some day, you mark my words!"

CHAPTER XV.

MOSTYN FACES DEFEAT.

"Pierce, old man, I'm afraid we are going to be beaten." Mostyn pushed his chair back from the dinner table, lit a cigarette and disconsolately watched the little rings of smoke which he blew in quick succession from his lips.

The two friends were seated in the dining-room of the Grange, and they had just partaken of a good dinner, which had been well served up by a quiet man-servant, who had been in Mostyn's service for the last eight months.

The winter, following a series of reverses, had come and gone, and now, though the prescribed year had nearly elapsed, Mostyn found himself apparently as far as ever from successfully carrying out the terms of his bequest.

On the following day the Two Thousand Guineas would be run, then there was the Thousand; after that there remained the Derby and the Oaks—and that was all.

Pierce stared straight at the wine-glass which he had just filled with fine old port, of which Mostyn had found a good supply in his cellar. He had little to say by way of comfort.

"I am afraid Asmodeus will go down, like the rest of them," he muttered. "He hasn't an earthly chance against Don Quixote. And then there's Bouncing Boy."

"Bouncing Boy won't win either," commented Mostyn. He was very proficient in racing by now, an excellent judge of winning form. He had formulated quite a theory in his own mind of horses for courses, but whenever he tried to buy a good horse that had already won a big handicap he was always met by difficulties in the way of refusal to sell. "Don Quixote will win, and win easily. Asmodeus may be second, but what's the use of that to me?" he added. "I'm sick of horses that are placed second."

Herein, indeed, was disclosed much of the irony of the whole position. Three times in quick succession on the flat Mostyn's horses had been accorded the second place, which was palpably no use to him whatever. The Lincolnshire, the Chester Cup, and the City and Suburban—in all three of these races Mostyn's horses had come in second.

"We've done our best," commented Pierce, after a moment's pause; "at least there's that to be said. But it was too hard a task, Mostyn: Anthony Royce made it too stiff for you."

"At any rate he obtained what he wanted." Mostyn looked up with a quaint smile. "He steeped me in racing and he made my father wild; he got his revenge right enough. The papers are always advertising my name. It is 'Mr. Clithero, that ubiquitous young sportsman, has purchased so and so'; or 'Mr. Clithero, the irrepressible, will run so and so for such a race.' They write articles about me, comment on my not betting, on my personal appearance, and all the rest of it. I've seen my portrait in the papers till I'm sick of the sight of it. Some call me plucky; others laugh at me for my folly and think I'm just a wild young spendthrift. My father sees all those papers; Cicely tells me in her letters that he has them sent to him. He must simply rage with fury. That's just what Royce wanted. You remember how my father tried, through the solicitors, to put a stop to my racing under my own name?"

Pierce nodded. The mention of Cicely had set up a new train of thought in his mind; he heard what was said without paying particular heed to it.

"Of course I couldn't do that," Mostyn went on; "and my refusal must have made the poor old man more angry than ever, and I expect the very idea that I had been left money by Anthony Royce, his enemy, must have driven him half crazy."

"He's making things almost impossible at home," put in Pierce, following his own thoughts. "You know how Cicely, poor child, writes of him. His temper is abominable, and she always has to bear the brunt of it. Cicely hardly dare send you a letter now because she is accused of abetting you in your misdeeds." Pierce frowned and kicked viciously at the leg of the table. "And then, hasn't he threatened to turn her out of the house unless she will consent to promise never to marry me? Oh! I tell you, Mostyn, her life must be a hell, a hell!" He rose and promenaded the room with long strides.

Cicely's relations with her father were perhaps even worse than Pierce was aware of. She had written long letters to Mostyn—though of late he had guessed, from the rarity with which she wrote, that her correspondence had been placed under surveillance—and had poured out her heart to him. She had begged him, however, to observe discretion with Pierce, fearing to cause the latter unnecessary trouble. She was still convinced that she must hold out till the end of the year, but it was hard, very hard, to do so.

The chief cause of offence was her constancy to her lover. She steadily refused to give him up, even though, day after day, John Clithero poured out upon her the vials of his wrath. The smallest word would lead to a scene, and she had no one to turn to for comfort, for both her brothers were united against her.

"Go and join Mostyn, the profligate," John Clithero would cry, lifting his fists in impotent rage. "You are children of Belial, chaff for the burning. My sin is upon me, that I have begotten such as you!"

Knowing of these scenes, Pierce had gone to his father and again begged to be allowed to take Cicely away at once; but the old man had relented nothing of his stubbornness, though when he spoke of the year's probation which he had imposed upon his son, there was always that queer look upon his face which Pierce could not understand.

"Don't let's worry our heads over these things to-night, old chap," Mostyn said at last. "To-morrow's the Guineas—another step in my progress. Come and sit down, and let's talk over our chances."

After a few more rapid strides up and down, Pierce adopted the suggestion, and soon, for the time being, he had forgotten his own troubles in fighting anew with Mostyn their past battles, in preparing a brave face for what was still to come.

There was not one race out of all those scheduled in the will which Mostyn had neglected. He had thrown himself, heart and soul, into his task. Pierce, with his better knowledge of the Turf, had ably advised and seconded him.

In so many instances they had come near to victory—that was the heart-rending part of it all. Success had seemed within their grasp, only to be snatched away at the last moment.

The Cesarewitch—that had perhaps been the greatest disappointment of all. A horse like Gulliver, with his pedigree and his record, hot favourite, too, as he had been made—Mostyn and Pierce had indeed been justified in their belief that with Gulliver their great object would be achieved.

But Gulliver failed, and that apparently by sheer ill-luck. How clearly all the particulars were engraved upon Mostyn's brain! The bad news had come to him—the news that forecasted the failure that was to follow—a couple of days before the race, and almost immediately after the short, sharp tussle which he had had with Jack Treves outside the gates of the stables. He had found the trainer awaiting him, an ominous yellow paper in his hand, an expression of keen anxiety upon his honest face.

"I'm sorry, sir, upon my word, I'm as sorry as if the affair were my own." Thus had spoken the blunt old man.

"What's up, Treves?" Mostyn had asked, a sense of misgiving seizing upon him. Old Treves would not have looked so worried without a real cause.

The latter handed over the telegram without another word, and Mostyn realised what had happened. The jockey who was to have ridden Gulliver—none other than the redoubtable Fred Martin himself, the same who had steered Hipponous to victory at the Derby—Fred Martin had been taken ill, was lying in hospital, and had been forced now, at the eleventh hour, to throw up the sponge.

"It's all true, sir," Treves said, as if he had an idea that Mostyn might have doubted the genuineness of the story. "I'd stake my life that Fred Martin wouldn't give up unless he was forced—the lad's as straight as they make 'em."

The blow was irreparable, and Mostyn realised it at once. At such short notice it was practically impossible to find an adequate substitute, and the jockey who finally rode Gulliver, a mere boy, proved himself unequal to the task. The horse was bad-tempered, and realised at once that a stranger was on his back. He made a bad start, and, though he picked up afterwards, only succeeded in running into third place.

Mostyn, who had felt that with Gulliver the game was in his hands, was terribly cast down; but there was, luckily perhaps, no time for serious reflection. The Cambridgeshire followed on so quickly, and here again, all his plans having been carefully laid, he stood a very fair chance.

When the weights for the Cambridgeshire had been announced, it was found that Silver Star, the property of a well-known nobleman, had been treated most leniently by the handicappers. The mare at once became a raging-hot favourite, and Mostyn spared no expense in his endeavours to purchase her. The noble owner was by no means inclined to sell, but, finally—and here again Mostyn had to thank Sir Roderick for his good offices—the deal was carried through, though it made a terrible inroad into Mostyn's diminishing capital.

But the day before the race, just when she was about to be transferred from Treves's stables to Newmarket, Silver Star was found to be ailing. There were suspicious circumstances about the case, too, for the horse's illness was so very sudden and unexpected, also it appeared difficult to diagnose the actual cause of the trouble. On the other hand, it was impossible to throw suspicion upon anyone. Had Jack Treves been at home, Mostyn might have felt interested in his movements at that time, but Jack had been sent away by his father to purchase horses in another part of the country, and so, as far as Silver Star was concerned, he seemed beyond suspicion.

It was due to the discretion of old Treves himself that Jack had been sent away. The trainer had learnt of the assault upon Mostyn, and had immediately taken vigorous and characteristic action. He had not spared his son, but had rebuked him in round and unmeasured terms, both for his treatment of Rada—having regard to his philandering with Daisy Simpson—and for his utter folly in risking the making of bad blood between his father and his father's best client.

Old Mr. Treves had every wish to see the engagement between Jack and Rada a settled thing; having made money himself, he was now anxious that his son should raise himself in the social scale. But, from his point of view, Jack was busily engaged in spoiling his best chances.

"Mark my words," he said, "you will lose the girl altogether if ye don't treat her as a real lady—which she is. Daisy Simpson, indeed!"—the old man sniffed indignantly—"carrying on with a drab like that! Why, you are just askin' to get the chuck, that's what you're doin'—askin' for it." Here his indignation almost overpowered him. "It's a good thing you caught it from Mr. Clithero," he went on, "an' wot you got served you right. If you hadn't been punished already, I've a mind to hide you myself—yes, to take the stick to you, as I did when you was a lad—what's more, I could do it, too!"