CHAPTER XX.
MOSTYN COMPLETES HIS TASK.
"Three o'clock! The race should be starting in a few moments now, Clithero." David Isaacson bustled into the room where Mostyn lay upon an improvised bed. Isaacson had not gone to the Derby. An important piece of business had detained him in London, and when that was concluded he had devoted his time to his young friend.
Mostyn had been moved very tenderly and with the utmost care from the bed-chamber, which had at first been allotted him, to a room where Isaacson, some months before, had set up a tape machine. In this way, Mostyn would learn the result of the race with no delay at all.
His injury was a simple fracture of the upper arm, and when the bone had been well set by a skilful surgeon, called in at once, Mostyn had found himself fairly comfortable, though, of course, it was necessary for him to remain absolutely at rest. A message had been sent to his father, a letter written for Mostyn by Isaacson, with which the bill was enclosed, and John Clithero had come round at once, even to the house of the much-hated David Isaacson, and there, by Mostyn's bedside, the reconciliation between father and son had been complete.
"I have fallen low, Mostyn," the old man had muttered, "and it is I who have to crave your forgiveness."
He would have said much more, but Mostyn would not allow him to do so, and presently, Cicely coming in, John Clithero was able to realise that, though he had lost two of his sons, he had at least regained the son and daughter whom he had so ruthlessly turned from his door. These two had stood by him in his hour of need.
"I have learnt my lesson," he sighed. "And it is you, Mostyn, and you, Cicely, who have taught it to me."
Upon the following day—Derby Day—he was, perhaps, as keenly excited as anyone else in the result of the race, for he knew now all that depended upon it. He superintended the carrying down of his son to the room where they could watch the tape, and he would hardly consent to leave Mostyn's side even for his meals. When Isaacson arrived to announce the hour, it was as much as he could do to sit still.
He was sadly changed—there was no doubt as to that. All his arrogance had fallen from him, to give place to a kind of apologetic demeanour; it was as though he was asking pardon from one and all for the mistakes of his life, mistakes which must have been borne in on him by much solitary reflection, by a very agony of self-examination. He had been his own judge, and he was as hard in the verdict pronounced against himself as he had ever been against one whom, in his pharisaical self-righteousness, he had condemned as a sinner. All that John Clithero had endured was plainly writ on his face. He was a broken-down man—one who had lost faith in himself. Even David Isaacson had felt sorry for him and had treated him with rough kindness—for Mostyn's sake.