REINSTATED
It was dinner time in one of the larger hotels at Lossiemouth--a soft
September evening, the windows stood wide, admitting the warm salt air,
and above the clattering of plates and voices, one occasionally caught
the murmuring of the North Atlantic, the creak of an oar, or the scream
of a seagull. At a table in one corner a party of three were seated--a
party that were, as a rule, accorded an unusual and flattering amount
of attention--a white-moustached soldier, a dignified, elderly lady
(whose grey hair was undoubtedly dressed by a maid), and a remarkably
pretty, dark-eyed girl. They were in mourning, but nothing so deep as
to suggest an overwhelming calamity; the young lady wore white, the
elder black crêpe-de-chine, the man black studs and a black tie, and
their names in the hotel register were “Major-General, Mrs., and Miss
Morven, London.”
Miss Parrett was no more; a sudden attack of “her bronchitis”--she
always spoke as if it were an exclusive possession--had hurried her out
of existence. She had, however, executed her will, and after elaborate
directions respecting her funeral, her monument, and her hatchment,
it was found that she had bequeathed all she possessed to her sister
Susan, with the exception of her automobile, which was left to her dear
friend, Mrs. Maria Wiggens; and whether this memento was instigated by
generosity or malice, is a debated question until the present hour.
There were no legacies to charities, or even the smallest souvenir
for her special little clique. The contents of the testament were a
sore disappointment to some, but few grudged Miss Susan independence
and fortune, for she knew how to make excellent use of both. Isabella
Parrett was no more, and Susan, her sister, reigned in her stead.
The Morven family, who were not real heart-and-soul golfers, were
beginning to weary of the one perpetual subject that surrounded them
from morning till night. The difficulties of the fifth tee, vivid
descriptions of the various approaches, bunkers, and greens, had palled
somewhat--even on the General. He secretly languished for the society
of some one who had been in the Service, and a chance of discussing
the late manœuvres as described in the daily Press. New arrivals
were always a matter of interest, and here came two--ushered by the
head waiter. There was a certain stir and a good deal of staring as
a little elderly gentleman, with very square shoulders, and a young
man--possibly his son--approached.
“I say!” ejaculated General Morven, laying down his spoon, “if here
isn’t old Dicky Wynyard!” and he rose from his seat and made signals.
“Yes--and his nephew.”
Aurea looked up with startled eyes, and became suddenly white. There
was Owen approaching in the wake of his uncle; he wore an air of
complete self-possession, the usual dinner-coat, and had undoubtedly
cast off the rôle of chauffeur.
“I say, this _is_ good luck!” exclaimed the General, extending a genial
hand. “Fancy meeting you up here, Sir Richard! I did not know you ever
came North! Hullo, Wynyard, glad to see you. I’ve not come across you
in the club for ages.”
“Yes; I’ve been recommended to Lossiemouth to get the real,
unadulterated air straight from the North Pole and to have a little
golf, and I’ve brought this young fellow along with me,” Sir Richard
answered, lying boldly and with ease; his nephew was positively
staggered by such fluent proficiency.
“I think you know my wife,” said the General. “Yes; let me introduce
you to my niece, Miss Morven.”
Sir Richard bowed, and said--
“And allow me to present my nephew, Mr. Wynyard--Mrs. Morven,” and,
accompanying his introduction with a sharp glance, “Miss Morven.”
“Mr. Wynyard and I have already met,” she announced, in a faint voice.
“That’s all right, then,” said her uncle heartily. “Now we all know one
another,” and he rubbed his hands. “Sir Richard, will you sit at our
table? There is lots of room for five.”
“Thanks, we shall be delighted.”
“How did you discover Lossiemouth?” inquired Mrs. Morven when the
newcomers were seated.
“Well, the fact is, I never heard of it till lately, and then a friend
strongly advised me to try it--he said it was just the place to suit
me.” He glanced complacently at his nephew, as much as to claim
approval. “I’m uncommonly glad to meet you, General; we can have some
rounds together. What’s your handicap?”
As the two older men talked, Mrs. Morven proceeded to cultivate the
younger, and Aurea for once felt herself out in the cold and--what was
more serious--indescribably ill at ease. She dropped her fork, helped
herself twice to salt, and crumbled her uncle’s bread.
It was evident that Owen, or, rather, Mr. Wynyard, had made his peace
and was reinstated in his proper niche in society. Why had he come
to Lossiemouth? Why was Sir Richard looking at her so keenly with
his little searching eyes? Why was Owen making himself so extremely
agreeable to her aunt?--listening, with reverent sympathy, to a
harrowing description of her neuralgia, and a still more harrowing
account of the death of her beautiful prize blue Persian--run over by a
motor in Eaton Place.
“Think of it! A motor--a motor going over a cat!”
“I’m afraid motors are no respecter of persons or cats. As to dogs,
they are killed by the dozen.”
Mrs. Morven shuddered, sipped her claret, and turned the subject to
books and fiction.
“I hope you have brought something fresh? Our stock is nearly
exhausted.”
“I’m afraid not, only a couple of magazines; I was reading a thriller
in the train. The worst of it is, that just as you become passionately
interested and something tremendous is going to happen, you are choked
off by a full-page advertisement of pills or boot polish. I like my
fiction undiluted; don’t you?”
Aurea was amazed at this flow of conversation from the monosyllabic
Owen. Evidently Owen was one individual, and Mr. Wynyard another. She
was even more impressed by the quiet confidence of his manner. Had he
noted her embarrassment and nervousness? Suddenly he turned to her, and
said--
“And how is Ottinge, Miss Morven?”
The question was so unexpected that for an instant she could not find
her voice; there seemed to be an obstruction in her throat, but she
managed to reply--
“It is much as usual.”
“What! no change in twelve months!” he exclaimed, in a key of surprise.
“Oh, but, of course, the world flows very deliberately in that sleepy
old village. And how is Mrs. Ramsay?”
“Very well; she generally has a houseful of nephews and nieces, very
Irish and lively.”
“And the Hogbens--are they flourishing?”
“Yes, old Mrs. Topham is dead; she left a great deal of money in
unexpected places. Tom and Dilly are comparatively rich, and have moved
into Claringsbold.”
“So Miss Susan will have to look out for another gardener?”
“Yes; but she keeps three and a boy. She has a beautiful Panhard
landaulet.”
“I say--you don’t mean it!”
“And she is talking of putting up a conservatory, and has begun to
build a cottage hospital.”
“I won’t recognise the place. Is the Drum still standing? Have you a
rink and a theatre?”
Aurea smiled.
“And how is my dear old pal, Joss?”
“Getting a little stout for want of exercise.”
“I’d no idea you knew Ottinge so well,” put in Mrs. Morven. “What a
memory you have!”
“For some things, my memory is like a rat-trap, and for others my mind
is a blank.”
“I suppose you stayed at Westmere for the shooting?” broke in the
General.
“No; but”--and he glanced at Aurea--“I’ve often been there. What has
become of Bertie Woolcock?”
“Oh, by Jove! didn’t you hear? He went off to India to shoot big game,
and got caught himself! A very pretty, smart American girl he met on
board ship--no money--so on this occasion Uncle Sam has scored as
regards the dollars.”
By this time dinner had been brought to a close with large cups of
milky coffee, and the Morven party rose and drifted into the hall.
It was Aurea’s custom to sit out on the verandah with her uncle
as he smoked; her aunt betook herself and her neuralgia into the
drawing-room and there sat knitting amidst an agreeable circle of
matrons--chiefly Scotch. To-night, she half expected Aurea to accompany
her, and the young lady herself was undecided. The two elder men were
lingering in the hall, lighting up, and had already commenced an
animated discussion.--Owen had not yet produced his cigar case.--She
was on the point of following her chaperon, much as she disliked
sitting indoors this exquisite September night, when he said--
“Will you come for a stroll with me?”
She nodded assent, and turned to reach for her wrap with a fast beating
heart. The door had already closed on Mrs. Morven’s stately form, and
the young couple walked out through the porch, with a matter of course
air, and crossed the road towards the golf links and the beach. Sir
Richard followed them with his keen little eyes, but General Morven was
far too much engrossed in a Service grievance to see beyond his nose.