Mostyn sat musing over the events of the past few weeks, as well as on those which were still concealed by the obscurity of the future. Whatever the result might be, at least this could be said—he had had his sporting chance, and he had taken it like a sportsman. If he failed, it was through the chance of war, not through any fault of his. The morrow might see him a vastly wealthy man or a pauper. Had it not been for Sir Roderick, there would have been no doubt as to the issue weeks ago, for Mostyn had indeed lost his last chance when Asmodeus failed for the Guineas. It had taken all the kind-hearted baronet's eloquence, as it was, to induce Mostyn to accept Pollux, and in the end the young man would only yield by striking a particularly hard bargain for himself in the event of the colt winning. "Old Rory" had been forced to take up a selfish line. "Heavenly powers, lad!" he had cried at last, testily, "aren't your millions worth more than the blessed Derby stakes?" And Mostyn had been constrained to see it in this light.
The worst of it was that he was thrown into such direct antagonism to Rada. The race lay between him and her—there was no doubt about that.
He would have liked to tell her the whole truth, so that she should not misunderstand his motives, as she was bound to do. But it was impossible for him to speak now—for the girl's own sake he saw that it was impossible. To win the Derby with Castor was her dream, her ambition, the one thing she asked of life. Why should he make her unhappy, as she was bound to be if she knew how great a loss he would suffer from her success? She could not help him in any way—she could not scratch Castor even if she wished to do so—there was far too much money already involved upon the colt.
Of course, she had misunderstood, "So you have bought Pollux!" she had cried. "It makes no difference to my chances, of course, but I didn't think that you"—there was a world of reproach in her tone—"would have fought me to the end. I shall hate you if Pollux wins—I shall really hate you." There was something of the old defiance in her tone.
"Rada," he had said, striving hard to give her a hint, "remember our wager. It was your life or my life. If Pollux wins——" If Pollux won, he could claim his reward, he could ask Rada to marry him; if Pollux failed, she was lost to him for ever—he would be a beggar.
But Rada interrupted him. She would not understand. She bit her lip and stamped her foot. "So you are still thinking of that foolish challenge?" she cried. "You are still fighting to win a Derby before me? I think you are mean, mean and cowardly. I—I——" She had broken off and run away from him, but he was certain that there were tears in her eyes, and he had hated himself for the pain he gave her. But there was nothing to be done. He must wait, bear her disdain, till after the Derby, and then if Pollux won he could explain. If Pollux lost, why, then, everything must go. It didn't matter.
He left for London the next day, and did not see Rada again. But he was bound to meet her at Epsom—he thought of the meeting with mingled feelings.
It was as he mused thus, that visitors, who turned out to be Pierce and Cicely, were announced. They had been married now for some three weeks, and they had but just returned to London from a visit which they had been paying to Pierce's father in Worcestershire. They had gone down in fear and trepidation as to the manner in which they would be received by the bluff and rather choleric old squire.
The latter had made no sign when the news reached him of his son's intention to disobey the strict injunctions laid upon him. The marriage had taken place just as Pierce had schemed it out, and the two young people had gone to Paris for a brief honeymoon. While there, Pierce had received a summons, worded with characteristic brevity, to return to England with his wife, and to present himself at the parental domain. So much Mostyn knew; of the result of their visit he had not yet heard a word.
Evidently nothing very tragic had occurred, for Pierce and Cicely entered laughing, and palpably in the best of spirits. Mostyn kissed his sister affectionately; she looked charming as a young bride, and there was colour in her cheeks such as he had not seen there for many a long day. Pierce, too, scrupulously dressed as ever, seemed particularly well satisfied with himself and with the world at large.