Read Ebook: The sporting chance by Askew Alice Askew Claude

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Ebook has 1108 lines and 77640 words, and 23 pages

Mostyn felt in the seventh heaven, a privileged being, all the more so since envious eyes were upon him. It was all he could do to hold himself with becoming gravity. His great desire was to pose as a man of experience, but, at the same time, there were so many questions he wished to ask. And at last his evil genius impelled him to an ineptitude, one of those blunders that seemed to come so easily to his tongue: he wanted to know Hipponous's age! Something in the jockey's stare as he made answer warned Mostyn of danger, and he moved away as soon as he dared.

"That's 'Ipponous, ain't it?" An ungrammatical stranger, who, in spite of his horsey attire, was evidently but poorly informed, pushed his way to Mostyn's side. "A fine horse--what?"

"I should think so," responded the young man heartily. "An Irish horse; comes from Sir Roderick Macphane's stables in Ulster. Trained by Joseph Dean here at Epsom." Mostyn felt on safe ground in giving this information.

"Ah!" The stranger leered out of the corner of his eye. "I dessay you know a bit, what? I see you talking to Martin just now. What does Martin think of his mount?"

"Why, he says"--Mostyn got no further, for luckily at that moment Anthony Royce appeared, and, laying his hand upon his young friend's arm gently led him away, very much to the annoyance of the stranger.

"Be careful of affable folk who try to get into conversation with you on the race-course," was all the reproach that Royce uttered; but Mostyn felt that he had been about to blunder, and once more anathematised himself for a fool.

Royce's sides shook with silent laughter. "Never mind," he said. "You'll know better next time." Then he went on to explain about betting, and how easily the market may be affected. "If you want to have a bet," he added, "I'll introduce you in the right quarter. You can't do better than back Hipponous to win and a place. He'll start at four to one. I don't believe in the favourite, though it's money on."

But Mostyn shook his head. "I don't want to bet," he said. "Gambling doesn't attract me a bit. It's just the sport of the thing."

And so the time had passed until the course was cleared for the big race. Mostyn had remained in the Paddock almost to the last minute, and then Royce had hurried him back to the coach. They had remained close to the railings, however, to see the preliminary canter.

"I don't fancy the favourite," Royce repeated. "Lochiel may have won the Guineas, but he's got a devilish uncertain temper. He'll either win in a walk or come in with the ruck. But there's a lot of good stuff," he continued, as the horses galloped down the course, followed by the comments of the crowd, "and it promises to be an uncommonly open race."

Anthony Royce's prophecy was correct. The race proved an extremely open one, and moreover it was full of surprises, notably the early defeat of the favourite and the prowess of a rank outsider. Lochiel made a bad start and dropped out long before the horses had come into the straight, while Peveril, who had hardly been considered at all and who stood fifty to one in the betting, got away ahead and maintained his lead almost to the finish. At Tattenham Corner Peveril, a lanky, ungainly horse, bestridden by an American jockey who bore the colours of an unpopular financier, was still, though almost imperceptibly, in advance. The jockey, craning forward and sitting almost upon the horse's neck, was making liberal use of his whip.

Royce took the field-glasses from Mostyn's unconscious hand. "Peveril, by all that's holy!" he muttered. "A dark horse. Is this one of Isaacson's tricks?" The next moment he was yelling "Hipponous! Come along, Hipponous!" for he had caught the glitter of the silver as Sir Roderick's horse, almost neck to neck with another, swept into view.

And now a moment of palpitating silence fell. Four of the horses were almost abreast, and another couple only a few paces behind. Mostyn, standing up upon the coach and straining his eyes, felt his heart thumping against his chest and his knees knocking together because of the thrill that ran down his spine. He wanted to shout, but he, too, was affected by the spell that had fallen upon that great throbbing mass of humanity; his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth; his lips were numb, paralysed. In a few moments he knew that he would lend his voice to the great cry that must go up from the multitude; then would come relief from a strain that was near the breaking point.

He had no bet upon the race, save for a couple of shares in a sweepstake that had been organised on the way down; yet, perhaps, none in that vast throng, however interested, however deeply involved, felt the emotion of the moment as keenly as Mostyn Clithero. It was the awakening of a new sensation, the rousing of a new passion, something that had been crushed down and was asserting itself with the greater strength now that it had at last obtained the mastery. It was the love of sport for its own sake; Anthony Royce had seen quite enough of his new friend during the day to realise that.

The silence broke. Like an oncoming billow a low mutter, gradually swelling and rising, went up from the crowd. Mostyn had the impression of two vast waves facing each other, arrested in their onward rush and leaving a clear space between. He felt himself an atom amid a myriad of atoms in a turbulent sea: he had been in the depths, unable to breathe, oppressed by a great weight, but now, as he rose to the surface, the tension was relaxed, the strain broken. He could see, he could hear, he was shouting with the rest, alternately clapping his hands and lifting his hat in the air, yielding himself absolutely to an excitement which was as new to him as it was delightful. Never before had his pulses throbbed so quickly, his nerves felt so completely on the stretch.

The horses swept by. It was a fine, a memorable race, a race to live in the annals of great sporting events. There was every excuse for Mostyn's excitement. His was not the only heart to beat quickly that day.

Three horses, almost abreast, approached the winning-post. They were Peveril, Black Diamond, and Hipponous; a fourth, Beppo, had dropped a little behind, evidently done. Peveril was not in favour with the crowd; it was mainly for Hipponous that the cry went up. Mostyn yelled the name of Sir Roderick's colt till he was hoarse.

"Come on Hipponous! Hip--Hip--Hipponous!"

And at the last moment, just as it seemed that Sir Roderick's hopes were to be dashed to the ground, Hipponous made a brave spurt. He was placed between the other two, his flanks just visible behind them. Suddenly these flanks were no longer seen; the three horses appeared a compact mass, a mass of blended and harmonised colour. Mostyn seemed to see the silver and scarlet through a yellow mist, for the sun's rays fell slantingly over the course; they caught the gold, the pink and the mauve which distinguished the jockeys upon Peveril and Black Diamond, as well as the silver and scarlet of Hipponous, blending the whole into a scintillating gold, all the more vivid for the black background of humanity rising tier upon tier to the highest level of the Grand Stand.

Which horse, if any, had the lead? It was impossible to say.

They flashed past the winning post, a gleaming mass of colour. Three horses, neck to neck as it seemed to the crowd. Which had won? Was it--could it be--a tie for the three of them? There was a note of doubt in the yelling of the mob.

"Peveril--no, Black Diamond!" "I tell yer it was 'Ippernous! Wait till the numbers go up!"

Beppo and the other horses which had been well in the running, sped by in their turn; then came the stragglers with the favourite, Lochiel, last but one. A groan of derision went up as he passed; it was a bad day for his jockey, who happened to be Martin's chief rival.

After that the course became a sea of black, rushing humanity; the two great waves had broken and the space between them was annihilated. And presently there was another roar from the crowd, no longer of doubt. The numbers had gone up, and, a little later, the "all right" was cried. Hipponous first; Black Diamond and Peveril tied for second place. Bravo, Hipponous! Hurrah for Sir Roderick Macphane!

Another Derby had been won, and the victory was to the best horse. Sir Roderick Macphane had realised the ambition of his life, and Mostyn Clithero had caught the infection of a great passion. The latter, no doubt, was but a small event in itself, but the young man felt vaguely, as he stood there gazing straight before him, though the race was over, that he had somehow reached a turning point in his life.

MOSTYN ACCEPTS A CHALLENGE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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