ALVIN TRIES ARTFULLY TO BRING OLD LOVERS TOGETHER
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.