"How can I give you my word, father?" Mostyn's voice was not raised, but he spoke with dogged determination. "I am not a child. I am old enough to see the world with my own eyes. What harm is there in a race meeting?" he went on, though he knew that it was useless to argue with such a man as his father. "If one is sensible and moderate——"
John Clithero waved his large fleshy hand with a commanding gesture. "I don't intend to discuss this matter with you, Mostyn," he interrupted, "or to consider the rights and the wrongs of racing. I disapprove of it, and that fact should be quite sufficient for you. You have grievously offended me by your conduct to-day, and all the more so since you had in mind to deceive me; you took advantage of my absence to do a thing which you knew I would not permit; you thought that I should be none the wiser."
"That is untrue!" Mostyn flashed out the words, resenting the imputation upon his honour. "I should have told you what I had done on your return to London. I made no secret of it."
John Clithero sneered. "I am at liberty to form my own conclusions," he remarked. "It is not usual for young men who disobey their parents to confess to their misdeeds. Luckily, though I cannot trust you, your brothers are to be relied upon."
A wave of anger passed over Mostyn, and his lips curved disdainfully. He had quite expected to be "given away" by his brothers unless he spoke first. Their minds were too narrow to give him credit for honesty of purpose. Probably the mischief-maker was the fat and unwholesome Charles, who had been addicted to sneaking ever since he was a little boy. What was more, he had always been listened to, at least by his father, who had never discouraged that sort of thing.
Mostyn kept his temper under control, however, and merely shrugged his shoulders. "I can only repeat I should have told you that I had been to the Derby, and that I see no ill whatever in what I did," he said stolidly.
John Clithero drew himself upright in his chair, and his hands, resting upon his knees, were trembling. It was just as if they were itching for the cane, to the use of which they had been accustomed. "So you absolutely refuse to make any promise?" he said sternly. "You will continue to walk the evil path?"
"I don't admit the evil path," replied Mostyn doggedly, "and so I can make no promise to keep from it."
"Very well." John Clithero's hands dropped from his knees and he rose to his feet, pushing his chair violently aside. "Then I cut you adrift, now and for ever! You are no longer son of mine. I wash my hands of you. Hell is your portion and the portion of your fellow-sinner!" As with all his kind, the word "hell" came glibly and sonorously to the man's lips. There were times when he revelled in biblical phrase, adopting it freely to the needs of the moment. He sought to do so now, but, confused by his rage, he lost himself in a maze of ambiguity. Once Mostyn, who stood quietly listening, supplied him with the word he needed, a course naturally calculated to aggravate the situation.
"Silence!" stammered John Clithero. "How dare you interrupt me, sir?" He came close to his son, his hands clenched as though it was with difficulty that he repressed a desire to strike. "Off with you!" he yelled, quite oblivious of the fact that he was standing between his son and the door; "and when you find yourself starving in the gutter don't come to me, or to your brothers, for help. The door shall be shut upon you, understand that, as if you were a beggar!" All unconsciously the man was betraying his disposition—for none was harder upon the beggar in the street than he.