XII
A Motor Car Was Met by a Special Train
Whatever distress animated the bosoms of humanity on that fateful Sunday afternoon and evening there were two people riotously and supremely happy, though the car which Alphonso Blaxton drove was an old one and badly sprung and though every hill it met reduced the two young adventurers to breathless apprehension for the car had a trick of stopping with its goal in sight and refusing to budge any farther.
They were happy though no word of love had been spoken between them from the moment she had drawn from his arms. And their happiness was such that even a faulty cylinder and a choked carburettor were matters of little moment.
They had eaten a very bad luncheon in Maidstone without noticing the fact. They had encountered perils innumerable (the steering gear had gone wrong and temporary repairs had to be effected without the aid of a tool chest) and were yet cheerful. They had been bumped and shaken and jarred but they had had compensation. They had seen the uprising ridges of the Kentish Rag green and white and starred with flowers. They had looked through a golden haze across mysterious valleys. They had heard the songs of birds and had tasted the joys which come only to those who love youth and young things.
If the clouds were banking up in the west and an occasional puff of cold wind came to remind them of May’s treachery they, for their part, saw no cloud in their sky, felt no chill winds in their rosy world.
They reached the top of a particularly trying hill and Alphonso stopped the car and got down. Before them the road dipped straightly down to a level crossing. A mile beyond the railway there was a little hill which promised no distress of mind.
“Wouldn’t this be a lovely place to paint!” said the girl.
“Don’t let’s talk about art,” he begged with a wry face, “let us talk of beautiful things—such as tea and shrimps.”
She shrieked with merriment at his feeble jest.
“I wonder what is going to happen,” said the girl becoming grave.
“Happen, how, where?” he asked in surprise.
“About us,” she said.
He took her two hands in his.
“I am going to be tremendously rich.”
“Did I tell you I was engaged?” she asked timidly after a long silence.
It was nothing less than an act of heroism for her to ask this question.
“I have a dim idea you said something about it a long time ago,” he said.
“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 motorcar. 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 woebegone 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 motorcar,” 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 crisscrossed 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.
“Of course I am going to marry him,” said the girl wrathfully. “I didn’t expect that you would disapprove.”
“Disapprove?” he chuckled and catching her up in his strong arms he kissed her.
“We will all go along and have some grub,” he said; “dash home and make yourself respectable, Moya. I see your father has left his car for you. Meet me at Sebo’s in an hour’s time.”