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.