The Thirteenth Man

After Philip Barrimore and Dan Webster had quitted the garden at the White House, Mrs. Le Breton slipped her arm through Eweretta’s and led her to a sequestered spot, where a wooden seat was hidden by thick, tall bushes.

“My darling!” she whispered. “How hard for you! how cruelly hard!” Tears were in the elder woman’s eyes.

Eweretta turned her beautiful face towards her companion. Her dark blue eyes had no tears in them.

“Mother,” she said (she always called Mrs. Le Breton “mother” now), “you must not pity me. I am fortunate. I saw to-day how completely I had gone out of Philip Barrimore’s life. If we had married, and this had happened, then, indeed, you might have pitied me! No, we are each destined to some good life-work. I have found mine. I can be a comfort to you and to Uncle Thomas. I have thought much of you both lately. Your life has been a tragedy, dear mother, and that of Uncle Thomas scarcely less so. He has lived under an imagined curse, which became real, because he and everyone else believed in it. I myself have escaped a real tragedy, the tragedy of finding out that I had married a man whose love is not lasting. I do not blame Philip. No one ought to be blamed for ceasing to love. Love’s coming and going is independent of our will.”

“But, dearest,” said Mrs. Le Breton, “do you still love Philip?”

“The Philip I loved is dead,” she answered a little mournfully. “This Philip I can meet without pain from to-day.”

Mrs. Le Breton thought silently for a few moments, during which time she held one of Eweretta’s soft hands between her own, which were hardened and knotted from the rough work she had done in Canada, mending shoes.

At last she said: “You ought to have friends of your own age, dear. It is not right that you should be shut up with two middle-aged people. We ought to move away somewhere where nothing is known about us, to give you a chance.”

Eweretta’s brows were suddenly drawn together, as if she were in pain. “No—never think of it,” she pleaded. “I love the White House and its solitude. I could not make friends with girls of my own age. I have grown so old. But I am happy. Never think I am not happy!”

While the two women talked together, Thomas Alvin was within the house, writing a letter. Every now and then he smiled. What a reparation it would be for the wrong he had done his niece, if by his help the lovers became reunited.

Philip had appeared to get on so well with “Miss Le Breton.” In his hopefulness, Alvin quite lost sight of the fact that the supposed mental taint might prove an insurmountable obstacle to the girl’s marriage with anyone. Knowing as he did that Eweretta was both intellectual and well educated, he saw no reason why she should not be a good wife for anyone. But to other people Eweretta was “Aimée Le Breton,” and he, Alvin, had spread the report of her being mentally deficient. This report had gained weight by the appearance of the girl herself; for while under the constant influence of drugs she had not appeared herself. Also, she had had wild, hysterical moods from the same cause, when she would sing wild, mournful songs which had been heard and commented upon. The sudden restoration to a normal condition might be looked upon with suspicion by the Gissing and Hastings folk.

Alvin was writing a note, which he meant to leave at the bungalow. He chuckled over the cleverness which had given him the idea.

He reminded Philip that he had expressed a wish to be of use to the half-sister of Eweretta, and suggested that as Aimée had seemed to be so interested in the new novel, Philip should read her a little of it at any time when he had leisure. “If you and your friend Mr. Webster would give us the pleasure of your company some night at dinner—any night of your own choosing—we should think it very kind of you,” Alvin wrote. “I have not seen Aimée so interested before, as she was in talking with you.”

Having finished the letter, Alvin took it to the bungalow, and gave it to Davis, for Philip was at that time on his way to Ore with Dan.

In this way Alvin tried to play Providence, and to bring together two young people who no longer desired each other.

Philip, on his return to the bungalow, was highly flattered by the request that he should read some of his new book aloud. He had been longing to try the effect of it on someone.

In consequence, the next morning, Soda’s hock being now all right, he rode over to Hawk’s Nest to tell Dan of the invitation, and to get him to fix a date for them to accept it.

He found that his mother and Phyllis had gone into Robertson Street to do some shopping, and Dan was at work on Uncle Robert’s portrait.

Dan threw down his brushes in an ecstasy of delight when he heard the news.

“Of course I will go!” he cried. “What do you think! The chance of my lifetime! I shall get Miss Le Breton for my Madonna yet!”

Uncle Robert got up and stretched himself, yawning noisily.

“Of course you will paint her!” he said to Dan, “and get a thumping sum for the work too. Old Alvin is as rich as a Jew.”

“I would not take one penny for that picture,” affirmed Dan. “Mrs. Barrimore knows why; and the picture is to be mine, if, indeed, Miss Le Breton will consent to sit to me. Oh, why should I make a secret of it? I want to give it to a church.”

“I understand,” said Uncle Robert, who really did not understand at all.

But Philip understood, and, oddly enough, sympathized.

“I’ll work it for you,” he said to Dan. “Old Alvin seems to have taken a fancy to me. Would Wednesday evening suit you to dine at the White House? You could sleep at the bungalow, you know. There is a spare room.”

“Delighted, old man!” exclaimed Dan. “Are we to dress?”

“Oh, no, I think not,” said Philip. “You see, Alvin is a rough and ready Colonial. I doubt if he has ever possessed a dress-suit. His brother was quite different. He liked to pose as the fine gentleman.”

How easily Philip seemed able to allude to that past! To Uncle Robert there was something nauseating in the fact. If his wound were healed, he at least need not advertise the fact quite so much. Uncle Robert did not take Mrs. Barrimore’s view of the case. She believed Philip talked as he did to hide his wound. But the uncle remembered that at the time of Eweretta’s supposed death Philip had shouted his grief from the house-tops. He had rushed off to Canada to see the grave, and had talked loudly about the monastic life he should henceforth lead.

Sudden changes of front are usually resented by the onlooker.

If Mrs. Barrimore took a too affectionate and prejudiced view of Philip’s actions, Mr. Burns was, without intending it, a little unjust.

Philip had felt the death of his sweetheart acutely, and if he had more quickly than seemed altogether decent reconciled himself to the inevitable, it was surely a less selfish course than to have continued to “shout his grief from the house-tops.”

If the dead past could not bury its dead, life would be impossible.

The gardener had taken Soda round to the stables. There were stables at Hawk’s Nest, though no horses were kept. Mr. Burns preferred to hire when they needed to drive.

Philip would, of course, remain to luncheon.

Mrs. Barrimore and Phyllis, returning from their shopping expedition, saw the marks of the horse’s feet on the gravel, and both cried simultaneously:

“Philip is here!”

Philip saw his mother from the window and came out to meet her. She was radiant, till her son spoiled it all by saying: “Why, mother! Have you borrowed a hat and frock from Phyllis?”

He spoke banteringly, but all the same, the underlying displeasure in his voice was sufficiently apparent.

Tears sprang to Mrs. Barrimore’s eyes, but she squeezed them back and smiled bravely.

“Oh, this surely is not too youthful a costume,” she asserted.

Philip eyed her over.

The light grey coat and skirt were plain enough, but the dainty white waistcoat and muslin chemisette offended Philip. The trim neatness of the fit gave him the idea of a tightly-laced corset underneath. No woman who was the mother of a grown-up son ought to have a figure like that!

The black hat—neither large nor small—with its chiffon trimmings, could not well be condemned. But the angle at which it was pinned on the bright hair was distinctly too coquettish.

“Your hat has got on one side,” Philip remarked.

“Has it?” exclaimed Mrs. Barrimore, putting up her well-gloved hands to feel it. “I think not.”

“Don’t you believe him!” cried Phyllis. “It is quite right. Philip, you are simply horrid! and you have a coffee stain on your shirt-front.”

Philip flushed angrily. Phyllis had touched him “on the raw.” He was most particular about the appearance of his linen, and he had discovered with no little annoyance this particular coffee-stain since his arrival at Hawk’s Nest.

“Never mind, Philip,” said Mrs. Barrimore soothingly. “You have left some shirts here and can change.”

Philip had not remembered this fortunate circumstance, and rushed off at once to his old room, which was at present occupied by Dan.

“There is a letter from Colonel Lane for you, Annie,” Uncle Robert called from the doorstep.