“What—old Charlie Morven! Why, I know him. I’ll go up there with you and see you through—and take him out of your way.”
“Do—it will be awfully decent of you; but Miss Morven may not have anything to do with me!”
“What! not marry my nephew with Wynyard at his back and a fine fat fortune! Nonsense, nonsense! Here, waiter, just fetch me a Bradshaw.” Then to his companion, “I’ll wire for rooms to-night, and we will make a start for Lossiemouth first thing to-morrow morning.”
CHAPTER XXXV
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.”