The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne Part 21

"I wanted mamma to write, but she would come," said Dora, in her hearty voice. I murmured polite mendacities and offered chairs. Dora preferred to stand and gaze about her with feminine curiosity. Women always seem to sniff for Bluebeardism in a bachelor's apartment.

"Why, what two beautiful rooms you have. And the books! There isn't an inch of wall-s.p.a.ce!"

She went on a voyage of discovery round the shelves while my aunt explained the object of their visit. Somebody, I forget who, had lent them a yacht. They were making up a party for a summer cruise in Norwegian fiords. The Thingummies and the So and So's and Lord This and Miss That had promised to come, but they were sadly in need of a man to play host--I was to fancy three lone women at the mercy of the skipper.

I did, and I didn't envy the skipper. What more natural, gushed my aunt, than that they should turn to me, the head of the house, in their difficulty?

"I am afraid, my dear aunt," said I, "that my acquaintance with skipper-terrorising hosts is nil. I can't suggest any one."

"But who asked you to suggest any one?" she laughed. "It is you yourself that we want to persuade to have pity on us."

"I have--much pity," said I, "for if it's rough, you'll all be horribly seasick."

Dora ran across the room from the book-case she was inspecting.

"I would like to shake him! He is only pretending he doesn't understand.

I don't know what we shall do if you won't come with us."

"You can't refuse, Marcus. It will be an ideal trip--and such a comfortable yacht--and the deep blue fiords--and we've got a French chef. You will be doing us such a favour."

"Come, say 'Yes,'" said Dora.

I wish she were not such a bouncing Juno of a girl. Large, athletic women with hearty voices are difficult for one to deal with. I am a match for my aunt, whom I can obfuscate with words. But Dora doesn't understand my satire; she gives a great, healthy laugh, and says, "Oh, rot!" which scatters my intellectual armoury.

"It is exceedingly kind of you to think of me," I said to my aunt, "and the proposal is tempting--the prospect is indeed fascinating--but--"

"But what?"

"I have so many engagements," I answered feebly.

My Aunt Jessica rose, smiling indulgently upon me, as if I were a spoilt little boy, and took me on to the balcony, while Dora demurely retired to the bookshelves in the farther room. "Can't you manage to throw them aside? Poor Dora will be inconsolable."

I stared at her for a moment and then at Dora's broad back and st.u.r.dy hips. Inconsolable? I can't make out what the good lady is driving at.

If she were a vulgar woman trying to squeeze her way into society and needed the lubricant of the family baronetcy, I could understand her eagerness to parade me as her appanage. But t.i.tles in her drawing-room are as common as tea-cups. And the inconsolability of Dora--

"If I did come she would be bored to death," said I.

"She is willing to risk it."

"But why should she seek martyrdom?"

"There is another reason," said my aunt, ignoring my pertinent question, but glancing at me rea.s.suringly "there is another reason why it would be well for you to come on this cruise with us." She sank her voice. "You met Miss Gascoigne in the park last week--"

"A very charming and kind young lady," said I.

"I am afraid you have been a little indiscreet. People have been talking."

"Then theirs, not mine, is the indiscretion."

"But, my dear Marcus, when you spring a good-looking young person, whom you introduce as your Mohammedan ward, upon London society, and she makes a scene in public--why--what else have people got to talk about?"

"They might fall back upon the doctrine of predestination or the price of fish," I replied urbanely.

"But I a.s.sure you, Marcus, that there is a hint of scandal abroad. It is actually said that she is living here."

"People will say anything, true or untrue," said I.

My aunt sighfully acquiesced, and for a while we discussed the depravity of human nature.

"I have been thinking," she said at last, "that if you brought your ward to see us, and she could accompany us on this cruise to Norway, the scandal would be scotched outright."

She glanced at me very keenly, and beneath her indulgent smile I saw the hardness of the old campaigner. It was a clever trap she had prepared for me.

I took her hand and in my n.o.blest manner, like the exiled vicomte in costume drama, bent over it and kissed her finger-tips.

"I thank you, my dear aunt, for your generous faith in my integrity," I said, "and I a.s.sure you your confidence is well founded."

A loud, gay laugh from the other room interrupted me.

"Are you two rehearsing private theatricals?" cried Dora. As I was attired in a remarkably old college blazer and a pair of yellow Moorish slippers bought a couple of years ago in Tangier, and as my hair was straight on end, owing to a habit of pa.s.sing my fingers through it while I work, my att.i.tude perhaps did not strike a spectator as being so n.o.ble as I had imagined. I took advantage of the anti-climax, however, to bring my aunt from the balcony to the centre of the room, where Dora joined us.

"Well, has mother prevailed?"

"My dear Dora," said I, politely, "how can you imagine it could possibly be a question of persuasion?"

"That might be taken two ways," said Dora. "Like Palmerston's 'Dear Sir, I'll lose no time in reading your book.'" Dora is a minx.

"I fear," said I, "that my pedantic historical sense must venture to correct you. It was Lord Beaconsfield."

"Well, he got it from Palmerston," insisted Dora.

"You children must not quarrel," interposed my aunt, in the fond, maternal tone which I find peculiarly unpleasant. "Marcus will see how his engagements stand, and let us know in a day or two."

"When do you propose to start?" I asked.

"Quite soon. On the 20th.

"I will let you know finally in good time," said I.

As I accompanied them downstairs, I heard a door at the end of the pa.s.sage open, and turning I saw Carlotta's pretty head thrust past the jamb, and her eyes fixed on the visitors. I motioned her back, sharply, and my aunt and Dora made an unsuspecting exit. The noise of their departing chariot wheels was music to my ears.

Carlotta came rushing out of her sitting-room followed by Miss Griggs, protesting.

"Who those fine ladies?" she cried, with her hands on my sleeve.

"Who _are_ those ladies?" I corrected.

"Who _are_ those ladies?" Carlotta repeated, like a demure parrot.