*THE SPLENDID OUTCAST*
*CHAPTER I*
*THE CONVALESCENT*
Jim Horton awoke in high fever and great pain but the operation upon his
skull had been successful and it was believed that he would recover.
Something as to the facts of the exploit of the wounded man had come to
the hospital and he was an object of especial solicitude by both
surgeons and nurses. They had worked hard to save him that he might be
alive for the decoration that was sure to come and the night had brought
a distinct improvement in his condition. The nurse still watched his
breathing eagerly and wrote down the new and favorable record upon the
chart by his bedside. Miss Newberry was not in the least sentimental
and the war had blunted her sensibilities, but there was no denying the
fact that when the dressing was removed from his head the patient was
extremely good to look at. He rewarded her on the morrow with a smile.
"How long have I been here?" he murmured hazily.
"Six days," she replied; "but you mustn't talk."
"Six--? Wounded----"
"Sh--. In the head, shoulder and leg, but you're doing nicely."
"Won't you tell me----?" he began.
But she soothed him gently. "Not now--later perhaps. You must sleep
again. Drink this--please."
Horton obeyed, for he found himself too weak to oppose her. It was very
restful here; he wriggled his toes luxuriously against the soft sheets
for a moment. If things would only stop whirling around.... And the
pain ... but that seemed to cease again and he slept. Indeed his
awakening was only to half-consciousness. Other days and nights
followed when he lay in a sort of doze, aware of much suffering and a
great confusion of thought. But slowly, as he grew stronger, the facts
of his present position emerged from the dimness and with them a mild
curiosity, scarcely lucid as yet, as to how he had gotten there. At
last there came a morning when the fog upon his memory seemed to roll
aside and he began to recall one by one the incidents that had preceded
his unconsciousness.
There had been a fight. Some fight that was. Huns all over the
place--in a ring around the rocks, up in the branches of the
trees--everywhere. But he had held on until the Boches had started to
run when the American line advanced. He remembered that the Engineers
could do other things besides build saps and bridges. Good old
Engineers! Something was wrong--somewhere.
Out of his clouded brain, slowly, the facts came to him--things that had
happened before the fight--just before. Harry--his twin brother Harry,
lying in the ditch just behind Jim's squad of Engineers, a coward, in a
blue funk--afraid to carry out his Major's orders to go forward and
investigate. A coward, of course! Harry would be. He had always been
a coward.
Jim Horton sighed, his mind, ambling weakly into vacancy, suddenly
arrested by a query.
_What else?_--What else had happened? Something to do with the
remarkable likeness between himself and Harry? The likeness,--so strong
that only their own mother had been able to tell them apart.
Memory came to him with a rush. He remembered now what had happened in
the darkness, what he had done. Taken Harry's lieutenant's uniform,
giving the coward his own corporal's outfit. Then he, Jim Horton, had
gone on and carried out the Major's orders, leaving the coward writhing
in the ditch.
By George!----the fight--he, Jim Horton, had won the victory at
Boissiere Wood for the --th Infantry--_for Harry!--as Harry_!
Perhaps, he was really Harry and not Jim Horton at all? He glanced
around him curiously, as though somewhat amused at the metempyschosis.
And then thoughtfully shook his head.
No. He was Jim Horton, all right--Jim Horton. There was no mistake
about that.
But Harry! Imagine meeting Harry in a situation like that after all
these years! A coward! Not that that was a very surprising thing.
Harry had always been a quitter. There was nothing that Harry could do
or be that wasn't utterly despicable in the eyes of his brother Jim, and
after having spent the best part of five years trying to live the memory
of Harry down----
The nurse appeared silently and looked into Jim Horton's eyes. He
closed them a moment and then smiled at her.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"Better--lots better," he answered; "you see, I can really think----"
"I wouldn't try to do that--not yet."
"Oh, I'm all right." And the nurse was ready for the first time to
believe that her patient was to remain this side of the border line of
the dim realm into which she had seen so many go, for his eyes were
clear and he spoke with definite assurance. But the question that he
asked made her dubious again.
"I say, nurse, would you mind telling me what my name is?"
She gazed at him a moment as though a little disappointed and then
replied quietly: "Lieutenant Henry G. Horton, of the --th Infantry."
"Oh," said the patient, "I see."
"I think you'd better sleep a while, then I want the Major to see you."
"Oh, don't bother; I'm coming through all right, now. I'm sure of it.
But I want to tell you----"
The nurse silenced him gently, then felt his pulse and after another
glance at him moved to the next bed. It had been a wonderful operation,
but then they couldn't expect the impossible.
Jim Horton closed his eyes, but he didn't sleep. With the shadow of
death still hovering over him, he was trying to think charitably of
Harry, of the man who had worked such havoc in the lives of those
nearest him. The five years that had passed since the death of their
mother--poor, tired soul who until the end believed the whole thing a
mistake--could not have been fruitful in anything but evil in the life
of the reprobate twin-brother who had robbed the family of what had been
left of the estate and then fled away from the small town where they
lived to the gay lights of New York. And now here he was--an officer of
the United States Army where commissions do not come without merit.
What did it mean? Harry was always clever enough, too clever by half.
Had he quit drinking? Was he living straight? There seemed but one
answer to these questions, or he could not have held his job in the
army. His job! His commission wouldn't last long if his commanding
officer knew what Jim Horton did.
They all thought that the patient in the hospital bed was Harry Horton,
a Lieutenant of the --th Infantry, The corporal had won the lieutenant
some glory, it seemed, instead of the ruin that awaited the discovery of
the cowardice and disobedience of orders. But the substitution would be
discovered unless Jim Horton could find his brother Harry. And how was
he going to manage that from his hospital bed?
A gentle perspiration exuded from Jim Horton's pores. Being surrounded
by Boches in the wood was distinctly less hazardous than this. And so
when the nurse returned with the Major, he did his best to straighten
out the tangle. The Major was much pleased at the patient's progress,
made a suggestion or two about a change in the treatment and was on the
point of turning away when Horton spoke.
"Would you mind, sir--just a word?"
"Of course. Something bothering you?"
"Yes. You see----" the patient hesitated again, his lip twisting, "this
whole thing is a mistake."
The doctor eyed the sick man narrowly.
"A mistake?" And then kindly, "I don't understand."
Horton frowned at the bed-rail. "You see, sir, I'm not Henry G. Horton.
I--I'm somebody else."
He saw the nurse and the doctor exchange glances,
"Ah, well," said the medical man with a smile, "I wouldn't bother about
it."
"But I _do_ bother about it, sir. I've got to tell you. I'm another
man. I changed uniforms with--with another fellow in the dark," he
finished uneasily.
The same look passed between nurse and surgeon and then he saw Miss
Newberry's head move slightly from left to right. The doctor rose.
"Oh, very well. Don't let it bother you, my man. We'll get you all
untangled presently. Just try not to think; you're doing nicely."
And the Major moved slowly down the ward.
Jim Horton frowned at the medical officer's broad back.
"Thinks I'm nutty," he muttered to himself, and then grinned. The story
_was_ a little wild.
When the Major had left the ward, the nurse came back and smoothed
Horton's pillow. "You're to be very quiet," she said gently, "and sleep
all you can."
"But, nurse," he protested, "I don't want to sleep any more. I told him
the truth. I've taken another man's place."
"You did it very well, from all accounts," she said with a smile; "and
you'll take another man's before long, they say."
"What do you mean?"
"Promotion," she laughed; "but you won't get it if you have a relapse."
"I'm not going to have a relapse. I'm all right. Better every day, and
I'd like you to understand that I know exactly what I'm saying. I took
another man's job. He was--was sick and I took his place. I'm not
Lieutenant Horton, nurse."
"You may be whatever you please, if you'll only go to sleep."
"Bless your heart! That isn't going to change my identity."
His positiveness rather startled her and made her pause and stare at him
soberly. But in a moment her lips curved into a smile, rather tender
and sympathetic. It wouldn't do to let this illusion grow, so gently
she said: "Your authenticity is well vouched for. The report of your
company Captain--the Sergeant-Major of your battalion. You see, you've
become rather a famous person in the --th. I've seen some of your
papers, they're all quite regular. Even your identification disk. It's
here in the drawer with some other things that were in your pockets, so
please relax and sleep again, won't you? I mustn't talk to you. It's
contrary to orders."
"But nurse----"
She patted him gently on the arm, put a warning finger to her lips, and
silently stole away. His gaze followed her the length of the room until
she disappeared through the door when he sank back on his pillows with a
groan.
"Nutty!" he muttered to himself; "wonder if I am." He touched the
bandage and realized that his head was beginning to throb again. "No,
I'm Jim Horton all right, there's no doubt about that, but how I'm going
to make these seraphic idiots believe it is more than I can see. That
Sergeant! And the men.... By George! And the Sergeant-Major. Probably
looked me over at the dressing station. Oh, Lord, what a mess!"
Things began whirling around and Jim Horton closed his eyes; he wasn't
quite as strong as he thought he was, and after a while he slept again.
Downstairs in the Major's office two surgeons and the nurse in charge
were discussing the case.
"Queer obsession that. Thinks he's another man. There may be some
pressure there yet. It ought to have cleared up by this."
"It's shock, sir, I think. He'll come out of it. He's coming on, Miss
Newberry?"
"Splendidly. That's what I can't understand. He _looks_ as though he
knew what he was saying."
"Any chance of there being a mistake?"
"None at all, sir. Doctor Rawson came down with him in the ambulance,
his own company captain was there when the patient was given first aid.
He would have known his own lieutenant, sir. There can't be any
mistake, but he has scarcely any fever----"
"Never mind, keep an extra eye on him. The wound is healing nicely.
He'll come through all right."
So Nurse Newberry returned to the ward, somewhat gratified to find her
charge again peacefully asleep.
The next day the patient did not revert to his obsession, but lay very
quiet looking out of the window. His failure to reveal his secret left
him moody and thoughtful. But his temperature was normal and he was
without pain.
"You say there were some things in the pockets of--of my blouse," he
asked of the nurse.
"Yes, would you like to have them?" The patient nodded and she gave
them to him, the identification disk, a wrist watch, some money, a
note-book and some papers. He looked them over in an abstracted way,
sinking back on his pillow at last, holding the letters in his hand.
Then at last as though coming to a difficult decision, he took one of
the letters out of its envelope and began reading.
It was in a feminine hand and added more heavily to the burden of his
responsibilities.
"Dear Harry" (it ran):
"I'm just back to my room, a wife of three hours with a honeymoon in a
railway station! It all seems such a mistake--without even an old shoe
to bless myself with. If I've helped you I'm glad of it. But I'm not
going to lie just to square us two with the Almighty for the mockery
I've been through. I don't love you, Harry, and you know that. I did
what Dad asked me to do and I'd do it again if he asked me.
"He seems restless to-night, and talks about going back to Paris. I
suppose I could do something over there for I've lost all impulse for my
work. Perhaps we'll come and then you could run up and see us. I'll
try to be nice to you, Harry, I will really. You know there's always
been something lacking in me. I seem to have given everything to my
painting, so there's very little left for you, which is the Irish in me
saying I'm a heartless hussy.
"Soon I'll be sending you the pair of gray socks which I knitted with my
own hands. They're bunchy in spots and there's a knot or two here and
there, but I hope you can wear them--for the Deil's own time I had
making them. Good-night. I suppose that I should be feeling proud at my
sacrifice; I don't, somehow, but I'll be feeling glad if you have
another bar to your shoulder. That might make me proud, knowing that
I'd helped.