The Thirteenth Man

Dan Webster had never found Vine Cottage, Dulwich, quite so depressing as after he returned there from his last visit to Hastings. He had not gone straight home, but had made a short stay in London on his way.

The house was as usual, clean, and oh! most terribly tidy!

“A place for everything, and everything in its place,” ought to have been put up as a motto over the front door, Dan often remarked.

Mrs. Webster, in plain black cashmere gown, a white ice-wool shawl, and an immaculate widow’s cap, sat in her accustomed corner in the fireplace, knitting socks. Miss Linkin, her elder sister, sat bolt upright near the window, sewing. The two women were as much in their places as the furniture, Dan always said.

The yellow and white cat, too, was exactly in its own place on the hearthrug, opposite the middle ornament of the fender.

The Church Times lay upon a small table near Mrs. Webster’s elbow, together with the familiar big smelling bottle which had a collection of round balls in it in some mysterious liquid.

The family at Vine Cottage used the same room to eat in and sit in. It was larger than the small drawing-room behind, which only commanded a view of the vegetable garden and Dan’s studio.

From the dining-room there was a view of the road, which Miss Linkin appreciated, because she elected to sit by the window in the afternoon. Her mornings were consecrated to domestic affairs. Mrs. Webster, in her capacity of invalid, did nothing but sit and knit, except on her “better days,” when she would go as far as the Dulwich picture gallery—or if it were a Sunday, to church. Isabel usually lent her mother an arm to church, and Mrs. Webster never failed to remark in an injured voice: “My son ought to be doing this. Never make a mixed marriage, Isabel; it is so inconvenient to have your children brought up in different religions. I did think that perhaps, after your father died, Dan would change over and become Protestant.”

And Isabel would invariably reply: “I don’t see that the Catholic faith is any worse than the Protestant; moreover, I should have thought less of Dan if he had ‘changed over.’”

It was twilight when Dan reached home, but the lamp in the dining-room had not yet been lit.

Dan, entering at the small wooden gate, saw the familiar face of Miss Linkin at the window. He had known that he should see it, just as certainly as he should see the cottage.

He came into the dining-room in his usual breezy fashion, flinging down a coat and a bag, and kissing his mother affectionately and asking after her health, then giving a “duty” kiss to Miss Linkin, who observed that his moustache was all wet with dew, and afterwards, with the air of protest, removed the coat and the bag to the passage outside.

“Oh, Aunt Lizzie!” exclaimed Dan a moment too late, “why didn’t you let me do that?”

“It is no good expecting you to be tidy, Dan,” she answered with a sigh which bore a strong resemblance to a groan.

“I am an untidy beggar,” acknowledged Dan cheerfully, “I am incurable, I fear. But, oh, I am so hungry!”

“The meal will be ready at half-past six,” said Miss Linkin, with an air of finality.

“But if the dear boy is hungry—” put in Mrs. Webster plaintively.

“And if he is, he will make a raid on the pantry, Aunt Lizzie,” Dan said with a comically solemn air.

This was not to be endured. Dan’s raids upon the pantry were not unknown experiences in the term of years Miss Linkin had officiated in the capacity of housekeeper.

Miss Linkin instantly “made tracks,” as Dan expressed it, for the kitchen, where a middle-aged, expressionless servant was putting plates and dishes on the rack to warm.

“Mr. Dan would like supper hurried on,” Miss Linkin explained, as she drew a jug of beer from a small barrel and carried it herself to the dining-room.

“Good for you, auntie!” exclaimed Dan, reaching a tumbler out of the sideboard. “This will keep me going till supper.”

“Isabel is dining with the head mistress of the James Allen School to-night, Dan,” Mrs. Webster remarked as Dan set down his tumbler. “You might fetch her home if you are not too tired. You know the house in Rosendale Road?”

Yes, of course Dan knew it, and he would be delighted to fetch Isabel.

Mary Ann, the old servant, appeared to lay the table, and Dan went out to his studio, where he lit the gas fire. He had had gas laid on, though lamps were chiefly used at Vine Cottage.

The studio was constructed of wood, which was done over with brown Stockholm tar, and there was a brick recess at one end for the gas stove, and a chimney to carry off fumes.

This studio looked inviting, in spite of its untidiness. There was an air of comfort about it, though everything in it was shabby. The wicker lounge-chairs were roomy and softly cushioned. The big, faded Eastern rug before the fire was still a charming bit of color, as were the leopard skins. The walls were covered with pictures and sketches. Easels, quaint old tables, and a book-case completed the furniture, except for an old divan, which Dan had picked up at a sale, and on which he not unfrequently passed the night.

An agreeable (to Dan) odor of stale tobacco and turpentine permeated the atmosphere.

Dan listened for the cart that was to bring his remaining luggage. It was his “Madonna” he was most anxious to get, and unpack. He had made up his mind to make a copy of it for himself before sending the original to the church.

He would have a free fortnight before he went to a friend’s studio in Chelsea to paint the portrait of a society woman, who was not a beauty, but who was immensely rich. Stanley Browne always allowed Dan to share his studio, for they had been fellow-students in old Paris days and had kept up a close friendship.

Miss Linkin put her head in at the door. It was a remarkable head. The face was long, narrow, and faded, and the grey hair was parted in the middle and brushed flat on the temples, where it suddenly became two stiff corkscrew curls. These two curls on either side, bobbed up and down when she nodded, which she did very often, being given to that mode of emphasis.

The pale blue eyes were still bright and looked almost out of place in the wrinkled setting. The mob cap, stiff and ornamented with stiff bows of lavender ribbon, completed the picture the firelight revealed.

“Your luggage is come, Dan,” she said; “but I beg of you don’t begin to unpack now, I have arranged for supper to be earlier.”

Dan rushed out to receive his beloved picture, and having seen it deposited in the studio, went in to supper.

“A Colonel Lane called here this morning, to know if you were back,” said Mrs. Webster over supper. “Who is he?”

“A great friend of the Barrimores,” said Dan. “He is a real good sort.”

“A Catholic, I suppose?” said Miss Linkin disagreeably.

“No, he is a Protestant,” answered Dan.

“I am glad to hear that you number a man who is a Protestant among your friends,” said his aunt.

Dan laughed. “Why, really, aunt,” he exclaimed, “nearly all my friends are Protestants! I have been painting a portrait, however, of the most beautiful woman the world holds, and she is a Catholic.”

The sisters exchanged alarmed glances.

If Dan had fallen in love! This would indeed be a blow! It had been bad enough that he had taken up painting as a profession, when he might have done something that would have given them all a decent income; but to fall in love—possibly to marry!—that was a calamity indeed!

“Beauty is only skin deep,” said Miss Linkin.

“Oh, but such a skin!” ejaculated Dan aggravatingly.

Miss Linkin sniffed.

Mrs. Webster sighed.

“Such eyes!” went on Dan; “such hair!—and above all, such a divine expression!”

“Don’t you be taken in by all that, Dan!” broke out Miss Linkin. “I dare say she is a designing young minx!”

“And such a figure!” went on Dan teasingly.

“Squeezed in, I suppose,” said Miss Linkin. “Men always admire thin waists; why, I can’t think!”

“Her waist isn’t thin,” said Dan.

“What is her name?” demanded Miss Linkin.

“Aimée Le Breton,” replied Dan.

“Oh! a Frenchwoman!” cried Miss Linkin. “They are the worst of all.”

“She is of French Canadian stock,” said Dan, “but she is to all intents and purposes an Englishwoman.”

“She can’t be!” contradicted Miss Linkin. “Don’t you talk such rubbish, Daniel.”

“You always say I can talk nothing else, auntie,” Dan reminded her, “and now, if mother and you will excuse me, I will hurry up and unpack my picture before going to meet Isabel; and, Aunt Lizzie, you can let me have all the bills to-morrow morning. I am as rich as a Jew!—anyway, I feel so. I have done uncommonly well, and everyone of you must have new frocks.”

“Thank you, Daniel,” said Miss Linkin freezingly; “but I pray you not to include me. I have my own income.”

Poor Miss Linkin! she possessed a pound a week, all her own, left to her by an old school friend.

“Oh! I forgot for the moment, auntie, that you were the moneyed member of the family. But anyway, you must let me give you a present.”

“Save your money, Daniel,” said Miss Linkin, with big emphasis on the verb. “Your eyes may go wrong again.”

This was too much for Dan. He fled to unpack his picture, lest he should say something he might regret.

Miss Linkin nodded at the closed door, and her corkscrew curls wobbled.

“That boy always lets his money burn holes in his pocket,” she remarked to her sister.