Kate plus 10
“Did I really?” she asked relieved. “I had a feeling--”
“If you didn’t tell me I saw your ring,” he said and she went red
because she had removed that ring after their second meeting and had
never worn it again.
“I think I have told you that I had £300 a year,” he went on; “now
that we are confessing our handicaps I might as well own up to mine.”
“You told me you were absolutely penniless,” she said severely. “£300
a year is a fortune.”
“£300 a year is only a fortune to the immensely rich, to the poor it
is worse than poverty.”
“You can do a lot with £300 a year,” she said thoughtfully, “and what
shall I do with my money? I can’t throw it away.”
“You will do nothing with it,” he said firmly; “when my £300 a year
has become £10,000 a year we can do things.”
She laughed happily, twisting his watch guard round her finger.
“I cannot understand myself,” she said. “I have been such a selfish
mercenary pig. I didn’t know there was any happiness in the world.”
For the second time that day he slipped his arm around her, raised her
face to his and kissed her.
“Tea,” he said practically, started the engine and climbed into the
driver’s seat, stretching out his hand to assist her to his side.
The car started with a jerk but ran smoothly down the hill.
“It is rather lucky that gate is open,” he said as the machine
gathered speed. “It would be rather comic if we couldn’t stop the
car.”
A piercing shriek of an engine brought his head round.
“That must be another line,” he said uneasily and put his hand on the
brake; “anyway, the gate is open,” he said relieved.
Again came the frenzied scream of the engine and he heard the thunder
of its wheels. He was fifty yards from the crossing when he saw the
gates begin to move. He pressed on the foot brake without producing
any diminution of speed, gripped the hand brake, pulled it back until
he felt the snap of the rotten handle as it broke. There was nothing
for it but to take a risk. He pushed over the accelerator and the car
leaped forward.…
Car and gate and train seemed to reach the spot simultaneously.
The girl found herself flung headlong into a ditch, fortunately
landing in the soft mud at the bottom. Alphonso’s fall was broken by
the quick-set hedge which ripped his clothes to ribbons and scarred
his face and hands. He picked himself up and went in search of the
girl and found her as she was climbing unsteadily on to the permanent
way.
The train had pulled up with a jerk amidst a chaos of smashed gate and
mangled motor-car. Fortunately, it was slowing at the closed gate at
the time the collision occurred, otherwise these two young people
presenting a fantastic appearance might have ended their promising
careers.
“Are you hurt?” were the first words she asked.
His face was scratched and his clothes were torn but though he had by
far the worse experience his was not the woe-begone appearance which
the girl presented. She was caked with mud, a dab of mud was on her
cheek, her hat was gone and her long brown hair was flying in all
directions.
The passengers of the “special” were perhaps more perturbed than its
victims.
“It is an accident. We have run into a motor-car,” reported the
conductor.
“Is anybody killed?” asked Sir Ralph in alarm.
“No, sir, a young man and a young woman who are more frightened than
hurt.”
“Let us go and look at them,” said Lord Flanborough and stepped down
to the permanent way.
It is a truism that there is no such thing as a paternal instinct and
he would have indeed been a wise father who recognized his child in
such disarray.
He was speechless for a moment.
“Moya,” he gasped hollowly. “Moya! Great Heavens! What were you doing
here?”
He stared round at the scarecrow by her side and at sight of the young
man, Sir Ralph, who had been struck dumb by the apparition, found his
voice.
“I see, I see,” he said bitterly.
“You have the advantage of me,” said the young man, “for I have got a
little piece of Hampshire in my eye.”
The girl swung round to him fumbling for her handkerchief.
“It is nothing, dear,” said the young man, blissfully unconscious of
the identity of the well-fed gentleman who was regarding him so
sternly.
“But, darling, you might be blinded,” pleaded the girl; “please let
me.”
“Moya,” said Lord Flanborough in a pained tone, “may I ask what is the
meaning of this?”
“Oh, I want you to meet Mr. Blaxton,” said the girl going red and
white. “Fonso, this is papa.”
“I should be glad to see you,” said Fonso, groping wildly on the blind
side of him.
“‘Fonso’?” repeated the enraged Flanborough, “and who, may I ask, is
Fonso?”
She fastened back her unruly hair and rubbed her mud-stained cheek
with her handkerchief before she replied.
“I suppose it will come as a shock to you and a greater shock to Sir
Ralph, but Fonso and I are going to be married,” she said.
Alphonso Blaxton blinked at her.
“I haven’t asked you yet,” he said.
“That doesn’t matter,” she replied calmly, “you do want me, don’t
you?” And before her horrified father and her promised husband,
Alphonso took her in his arms and hugged her.
It was an awkward journey back to town. Sir Ralph sat by himself and
rejected all Lord Flanborough’s attempts to discuss the matter. He was
hurt in his pride and, if the truth be told, hurt in his pocket
because an alliance with the family meant a considerable addition to
his fortune.
It is a mistake to believe that rich people do not care for money or
that a man with two millions is wholly indifferent as to whether he
has two or three. Indeed, the reverse is the case. The man who thinks
in thousands is indifferent to a figure or two, the man who counts his
fortune in shillings seldom knows the number of shillings he has. Only
your two-millionaire realizes the full value of money. The thrift of
the millionaire might well serve as an example to the improvident
poor.
“I shall speak to Moya when we get home,” said Lord Flanborough. “I
have never been so distressed at anything so much in my life. It is
disgraceful, Ralph.”
But Ralph did not encourage sympathy.
As a matter of fact, his lordship spoke to the girl before the special
ran into London Street Station. It required some courage on his part,
for it meant intruding upon the couple in the little stateroom which
ordinarily served as a sleeping apartment when Sir Ralph’s private
coach carried him on night journeys.
He found them a picture of decorum sitting rigidly bolt upright, one
on either side of the carriage, looking out of the window with fine
unconcern; but this attitude was probably due to the fact that the
door of the compartment made a very loud rattling noise when the
handle was turned.
“I want to speak to you alone, Moya.”
“Run away, Fonso,” said the girl with a gaiety out of harmony with her
rigidity of attitude.
Alphonso stepped out of the saloon and closed the sliding door behind
him.
“Now, Moya,” said his lordship with a badly simulated air of
friendliness, “perhaps you will explain?”
“Why I am going to marry Fonso?” she asked, “because I love him. Why
do you think that I should be marrying him?”
“This sounds very much like Michael. It is the way he would talk,”
said Lord Flanborough bitterly. “This shows the danger of letting your
children associate with irregular people. You know very well that you
are engaged to Sir Ralph.”
“I know he gave me a ring and we agreed to get married,” she said,
“but I have changed my mind.”
“But you _can’t_ change your mind,” stormed her father; “it is
impossible that my daughter should marry a wretched artist.”
“He’s not wretched and he is not an artist,” said the girl; “we have
both agreed that he is not an artist and he is going to find something
useful to do.”
“If you marry this man,” he pointed a trembling finger at her, “I will
not receive you as my daughter.”
“I don’t want to be received at all. You married whom you wanted to
marry, didn’t you?”
“I married,” said Lord Flanborough virtuously, “in accordance with the
wishes of my parents.”
“Do you mean to say,” said the girl incredulously, “that you had no
voice in it? I cannot imagine it. My dear daddy, it is preposterous to
suggest that a person of your strong character accepted the wife that
somebody else found for him!”
“Well, I admit,” said her father somewhat mollified, “that I had a say
in the matter but I had the sense to choose the right person.”
“That is just what I am doing,” she cried in triumph, “choosing the
right person! And, Daddy, if you are rude to Fonso, I shall be very
rude to Ralph.”
“The man of course is a fortune hunter,” said Lord Flanborough
savagely. “He knows that you have money in your own right and that I
cannot save you from the consequences of your folly.”
“What is Ralph?” she asked tartly.
“Sir Ralph is a very rich man,” said her father with emphasis.
“What does he get with me?” she asked again.
This was the question which Lord Flanborough did not find it
convenient to answer. He knew that marriage with his daughter would
bring to Sir Ralph a much greater fortune than she possessed in her
own right.
“Go and ask your disinterested friend if he will take me without a
_dot_, and if I were to give my own income to found a hospital for
women.”
“I am sure Sir Ralph would answer in the affirmative,” replied Lord
Flanborough.
“Ask him,” she challenged.
He passed out of the compartment scowling at the offending Fonso and
made his way to Sir Ralph. He had not intended putting the question,
but some chance remark of the baronet’s just before the train reached
London gave him an opportunity of introducing the subject.
“Would you care to marry Moya without the settlement we agreed,
Ralph?”
“What on earth do you mean?” asked Sir Ralph, astonished out of his
sulks. Money was a subject which invariably aroused him from the
deepest lethargy.
“I mean,” said his future father-in-law, “suppose I say ‘You love Moya
and all that sort of thing. You are a very rich man, you can afford to
keep her, take her without a settlement,’ what would you answer?”
“Certainly not!” said Sir Ralph furiously, “certainly not! I don’t
understand this business at all, Flanborough, I really don’t
understand it. We made an arrangement and now, it seems, you want to
back out of it. What is the objection to the settlement?”
“I have no objection at all,” admitted Lord Flanborough uncomfortably,
“but Moya thinks that money is a big factor in your choice of her.”
“Of course it is,” said Sir Ralph with brutal directness. “I was very
fond of Moya, but the settlement was a big consideration.”
“I see,” said Lord Flanborough incoherently, “Moya’s idea of course.…”
Michael met them at the station and noticed the constraint of the
party. He understood the reason when a bedraggled Moya and a young
man, whose face was criss-crossed with scratches and whose clothes
were in threads, made their appearance. There was no explanation
possible and Michael wisely asked for none. He handed over Lord
Flanborough and his friend to the care of the city detective officer
in charge of the case and when they had gone he turned to Moya.
“Have you two people been fighting?” he asked.
“Father’s horribly angry with me,” she said, “because I am going to
marry Fonso.”
He stared at her in amazement.
“Do you mean to tell me that you are not going to marry Ralph?”
“I am not,” she said resolutely.
“And this is Fonso?”
The girl nodded.
Michael threw back his head and filled the station with laughter.
“You don’t know Fonso, do you?” she said. “He’s horribly poor. Aren’t
you, dear?”
“Horribly,” admitted the young man but did not seem unhappy.
“And you are going to marry him?” said Michael.