PHYLLIS THROWS A BOMB
Philip Barrimore, in a penitent mood regarding grieving his sweet
mother by going from under her roof, also regarding his irritability
towards his good uncle, laid himself out to follow their wishes in the
last days before he finally installed himself with his man Davis at the
bungalow. August had come in, and the weather being ideal, there had
been little excursions to places of interest round Hastings--a form of
amusement dear to the heart of Mrs. Barrimore.
Colonel Lane and Phyllis had sometimes been with them, as well as Dan
Webster, who had arrived.
Philip had put aside his work entirely, knowing that he would soon be
without interruptions, and he was a little annoyed with himself that he
was rather enjoying this sacrifice of time.
Having discovered Aimée, and having found her inaccessible, he had
reconciled himself to the inevitable. After all, what could he do that
could really help a demented girl? And would not the sight of her keep
alive his old sorrow?
His neighbors of the White House kept to themselves. He was not likely
to see anything of them.
The bungalow was furnished to his liking, and Davis, who had been a
soldier, would make an excellent servant. Philip felt more reconciled
to life than he had done for a long while.
Dan Webster’s cheerfulness under his affliction was not without its
influence on Philip.
To have the eyes go wrong, for a young painter of such promise, was
nothing less than a catastrophe, yet Dan never played the part of a wet
blanket.
True, he was petted and made much of all round. Phyllis Lane was
particularly sweet to him.
Phyllis, who was under her father’s displeasure because she had refused
the offer of Herbert Langridge the second time, saw with some relief
that her kindness to Dan did not meet with parental reproof. But Philip
rather quenched her spirits by speaking a warning word.
After dinner Mrs. Barrimore, Uncle Robert, Dan and Philip had gone to
the sea-front to listen to the band and watch the gay pedestrians, when
they encountered Colonel Lane and his daughter. Phyllis at once allied
herself to Dan.
Chairs for all the party could not be found together, so Phyllis and
Dan were at some distance from the others.
Philip, who found himself alone with Uncle Robert, watched Phyllis
furtively, while his uncle poured out quotations.
Phyllis was apparently fascinating the susceptible Dan, to judge from
the smile on his face and from the way his head bent towards her.
Phyllis’s small, piquant face, veiled illusively with white tulle,
which covered the enormous hat, confining the sprays of pink roses, was
lifted to Dan.
Luckily Dan was perforce wearing a shade.
But Phyllis’s voice was low and musical, and Dan had ears intact.
Moreover, Philip observed, Phyllis’s little delicately-gloved hand now
and again rested on Dan’s coat-sleeve as she emphasized some remark.
No! Philip decided. This would not do.
It was seemingly a necessity to Phyllis to have a male appendage--to
have a man to flirt with, innocently but foolishly.
Dan, poor unfortunate Dan, with his shaded eyes, was better than no one.
Philip could think of only one means of keeping silly, giddy little
Phyllis--who was a dear baby, all the same--within bounds. Philip must
attach himself to her, keep her always in tow, and thus guard her. No
harm could come to him, as he knew she was married; and there was a
much stronger reason, too, why she could never hurt him. No harm could
come to her, if she chose to mildly flirt with him. Though Philip was
actually only a few years older than Phyllis, his interest in the
alluring little woman was paternal.
The warning word which Philip took the opportunity of saying to Phyllis
was spoken when the two young people were on their way back to Hawk’s
Nest. The others had chosen to take a tram from the Memorial.
The clock on Blacklands Church chimed the half-hour as the actual
warning was spoken. They had all left the sea-front at ten o’clock when
the band played “God save the King” (and the Colonel had been a little
annoyed even with his dear Mrs. Barrimore for begging him to come back
with them for an hour, at a moment when he was “standing at attention,”
like a good soldier, to honor the King).
It had taken just half an hour for Philip to screw up his courage to
quench the flow of Phyllis’s inconsequent chatter.
“Phyllis, you must be more discreet in your intercourse with Mr.
Webster,” he said, as the clock struck.
“What do you mean?” inquired Phyllis, as if greatly mystified, though
she perfectly understood. “Do you think I tire him? He _seemed_ to like
to hear me talk.”
“You must not let poor Dan get fond of you, Phyllis,” Philip told her
with a fine assumption of sternness.
“But everyone _does_, you know,” Phyllis answered, as if stating an
everyday fact of no particular importance.
“You don’t know Dan as I do,” Philip hammered away. “He is apt to
become very much in earnest. He thinks you are free. It is not fair to
him, Phyllis.”
“You always lecture me,” Phyllis said; “yet I like you, and it is to
you I bring my worries.”
Philip laughed. Worries? What did this small person--this captivating
little bride of weeks--know of worries? It struck him that she did not
worry a great deal about her absent husband.
“I wish you would tell your father like a brave girl, and face the
music,” he said, as the outcome of his thought about the absent
bridegroom.
“Tell him now he is so cross with me about that horrid Mr. Langridge?”
broke out Phyllis indignantly. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she added,
pulling his arm and tip-toeing. “I believe father wants to marry again
_himself_, and he wants me settled and out of the way. And I know who
it is, but I daren’t tell _you_, of all people.”
Philip felt a strange stiffness come into his facial muscles. A strange
pain gripped his heart.
“Don’t tell me! I won’t listen to this, Phyllis. You have no right to
discuss your father in this way.”
“Cross-patch!” cried Miss Phyllis. “You wait and see, that’s all!”
They had reached the gate of Hawk’s Nest.
It was evident that the rest of the party were home before them.
Two figures--a tall, soldierly man and a slight, graceful woman--were
pacing the croquet lawn in the moonlight. It was so moonlight that the
shadows of the big oak-trees had etched themselves upon the lawn.
Philip, forgetful of his companion, strode across the rustic bridge
that spanned a brook, and up the terrace at big bounds, to the open
French window of the dining-room, where the electric light showed Dan
with his green shade and Uncle Robert with his coat off.
“‘Satire should, like a polished razor keen, Wound with a touch that’s
scarcely felt or seen,’” came in Uncle Robert’s stentorian tones.
“Where’s the mater?” asked Philip, though he knew very well.
“In the garden with Colonel Lane, my boy,” answered Uncle Robert. “I
should have thought you could not have come in without seeing them--a
moonlight night like this, when--”
“_Surgit post nubila Phœbus_,” completed Dan mischievously.
“Ha! ha!” laughed Uncle Robert. “Motto of London Coachmakers’ Company.”
Philip did not join in the laugh. He sat down, frowning, and refused a
cigar when Uncle Robert passed the box within reach.
Uncle Robert winked at Dan, which signal was lost upon the young man
owing to his eyes being covered.
Uncle Robert had meant to indicate his opinion that Phyllis and Philip
had had a “tiff.”
Phyllis peeped in at the open door, presenting a roguish face, in which
were set two adorable dimples. “Mr. Burns,” she called softly, “what
time is it?”
“A quarter to eleven, my dear,” said Uncle Robert.
“Dad!” shouted Phyllis. “It is a quarter to eleven.”
After that she skipped daintily into the room with a flutter of frills,
and coming up to the table on which Dan was leaning stooped quite close
and said: “How sad you can’t see the moonlight to-night, Mr. Webster.
It is a perfect, perfect night!”
Mrs. Barrimore came in just then. The electric light tried her eyes
evidently, for she held her hand up to shade them.
Philip watched her critically. His face was set and pale.
Colonel Lane, who had followed Mrs. Barrimore, called his daughter,
bade a hasty good-night to his friends, and went away hurriedly.
“H’m!” said Uncle Robert. “There seems to be a good deal of grumpiness
in the air to-night.”
Philip waited till he heard the click of the gate, then he took up his
hat and went out.
“Gone to make up the ‘tiff,’ I suppose,” commented Uncle Robert. “Have
a whisky, Dan?”
But Philip had gone out to walk alone on the West Hill. His mind was in
a tumult.