The Thirteenth Man

It was the habit of Mrs. Barrimore and Mr. Robert Burns to put off what they called their summer holiday until September. They hated to leave the beautiful garden at Hawk’s Nest, till the dahlias came. They loved the gathering of young folks about them for tennis and croquet, and devoted one afternoon a week to this entertainment, going in turn to the garden-parties of their friends.

Phyllis Lane had gone about always under the wing of Mrs. Barrimore since she had been left motherless, and had always been as the daughter of the house on Mrs. Barrimore’s “Wednesdays,” pouring out tea, entertaining less familiar guests, playing tennis or croquet when one more was needed to make up a “set,” but standing out if enough players could be found without her. Altogether Phyllis was a very useful as well as attractive presence on these occasions.

Now it had been on a Wednesday that Phyllis had ridden over to Gissing, so on her way home she resolved to call at Hawk’s Nest and make her apologies and explanations. She so timed her visit as to arrive at about six-thirty, when usually the last guest had departed.

She was slightly vexed as she approached the gate to see several smart young officers from the camp just leaving. She had missed some fun by her escapade, and her escapade could have waited.

On the croquet lawn Mrs. Barrimore was standing; very sweet she looked in her pearl-grey crêpe dress, with touches of coral pink in it, and the shady grey hat. But the girl thought there was a wistful look in her friend’s kind eyes.

“Phyllis! you naughty truant!” Mrs. Barrimore said in her low musical voice, as the girl approached her. “Where have You been? We have missed you dreadfully.”

Phyllis clasped both arms around Mrs. Barrimore’s slender waist and looked up into her kind face with roguish contrition.

“I ran away to pay a visit to Philip,” she said frankly. “Dad was as cross as two sticks, so I just made up my mind to let him eat his luncheon alone. Did he come?”

“No, dear; but you should not have gone to the bungalow without me,” said Mrs. Barrimore in gentle chiding.

Uncle Robert and Dan Webster suddenly appeared from between the trees which divided that part of the garden from the tennis lawn.

“Hallo! Phyllis! a day behind the fair—eh, what?” Uncle Robert called.

Phyllis scarcely heeded Uncle Robert, she was so astonished at the appearance of Dan Webster. His eyes were no longer shaded, and she saw for the first time how merry and bright they were. He carried a racket and was wearing flannels.

A feeling of acute annoyance succeeded to that of surprise in the mind of Phyllis.

This was the first real view Dan had had of her, and she was hot and dishevelled from her long cycle ride in dusty lanes.

Phyllis never at any time deceived herself regarding her looks. She knew that she was not, strictly speaking, pretty; but she knew that she usually gave other people the impression that she was so. She had a good skin, good eyes, and a wonderful play of expression. She knew how to make the very most of every point she had; and in the matter of dress had coquetry which was never vulgar.

But now poor Phyllis was conscious of her dusty serge skirt, her crumpled muslin blouse, her damp, disarranged hair. She had also more than a suspicion that her face was smeared with dust. It was hot and damp from cycling, and, of course, the dust would stick. She remembered in a flash that a motor-car had covered her with such a cloud of dust that she had nearly choked.

Dan Webster came up smiling, with hand extended.

“Congratulate me, Miss Lane,” he said gaily, “I am no longer blind.”

“I almost wish you were!” laughed Phyllis a little hysterically, “for then you wouldn’t be able to see how untidy I am.”

Dan laughed. “I am a cyclist myself,” he told her, “and I have often reached home looking like a tramp. But you look quite fresh.”

Poor Phyllis winced under this palpable untruth.

“I must hurry home,” she said, “or dad will be anxious. But I am glad, really, Mr. Webster, that you can do without a shade.”

“I am glad,” said Dan; “but I am sorry too, for it means the end of a delightful holiday. It means going back to work.”

“‘Who first invented work, and bound the free and holiday-rejoicing spirit down?’” quoted Uncle Robert. “It was Charles Lamb who wrote that, I think. Refuse to be bound down, Dan! Stay and enjoy a little longer! You ought to, you know, for now you can really take pleasure in things.”

Mrs. Barrimore stood twisting a long velvet hat-string in her slim fingers. She spoke now, adding her word of inducement.

“It would not be fair to us or to yourself, Dan, to run away just when your eyes are better. Stay on at least a few days!”

“I want you to put my handsome face on record before you go, too,” put in Uncle Robert.

“You ought to have a portrait with a bathing-towel round your neck,” laughed Mrs. Barrimore.

“A good idea! a very good idea, my dear Annie!” cried Uncle Robert with a hearty laugh.

“I really must go,” Phyllis broke in, “I shall be prettily scolded! Good-bye, dear Mrs. Barrimore. Good-bye, Mr. Burns—good-bye, Mr. Webster.”

She ran across the lawn and took her bicycle, the three following to see her ride away.

“I think I shall go round and make the Colonel come in. He has forsaken us of late,” said Uncle Robert.

That faint, girlish pink came and went in Mrs. Barrimore’s face as her brother spoke, but she said nothing.

“Dinner is at eight to-night, isn’t it?” asked Mr. Burns.

“Yes, dear,” answered his sister.

“Then I shall go round at once and bring the Colonel to dine, and little Phil too, if I can get them. Let the servants know, Annie.”

Mrs. Barrimore and Dan Webster were watching from the terrace from which they had a view of the drive gate.

It was not till a quarter to eight that Uncle Robert’s voice made itself heard to herald the advent of the trio. Yes, both Colonel Lane and Phyllis were with him. It was observable that Phyllis had made a very careful toilet. She had evidently resolved to remove the impression she had made an hour or two earlier.

Colonel Lane looked tired and less alert than was his wont. His eyes searched the face of Mrs. Barrimore with an appeal like that in the eyes of a dog. This dear woman had always sympathized, had always understood.

A very lonely man was this grizzled soldier, a man who had outlived relatives—and comrades whom he had loved. Phyllis, the child he adored now, as all left to him, was a continual thorn in the flesh. She was flighty, and thoughtless, and she flirted with every man she met. Her father was in a continual ferment about her. His anxiety made him appear harsh, whereas he had the tenderest heart in the world.

Mrs. Barrimore had refused to marry him, but she had promised to be his dearest friend. A poor pittance he had thought it at the time, when he had longed to call her wife.

But to-night he felt he must have a talk with this dear woman, a close talk, that he might find a little comfort. He was glad enough when Mr. Burns had come to ask him to dine.

Mrs. Barrimore saw and understood the look in the Colonel’s eyes, and she answered by a kindly, comprehending glance. She would give him a chance to unburden his mind.

The chance came without her making it.

After dinner Uncle Robert suggested that he, Dan and Phyllis should go down to the Parade and listen to the band, and that Mrs. Barrimore should entertain the Colonel, who was tired.

Uncle Robert’s eyes twinkled with delight as he departed with the young folks in tow. He felt himself an arch plotter.

“‘And what a noble plot was crossed!
And what a brave design was lost!’”

he quoted later on, when he found that his dear Annie had no secret to confide.

Uncle Robert, who was quite sure that his sister’s heart was in the Colonel’s keeping, wondered exceedingly that she should not take the chance to change her mind, which he felt sure would be offered to her on this evening. He was very irate with that nephew of his for domineering over his mother. Was not Annie Barrimore still young and beautiful?—and had she not been defrauded of love?

Even Philip, whom she had worshiped, had given her but little return. She had been a devoted mother, unselfish beyond belief, and Philip, of course, loved her. But he was “down” on her. He resented her extreme youthfulness of appearance, and though no art helped the illusion, still in some unexplainable way he seemed to consider it her fault.

He had a fixed idea that it was indecent for the mother of a grown-up son to be other than soberly middle-aged, and that romance at her time of life was a levity to be firmly put down.

And his mother knew quite well her boy’s attitude of mind, and bowed to his will, as she had bowed to his father’s while he was alive.