Jim Horton lay for a while thinking and then read the two letters again.
The masculine correspondent was the girl's father. Barry Quinlevin, it
seemed, was a scoundrel of sorts--and the girl adored him. Many of the
passages in the letter were mystifying. Who was de V----? And what was
Harry's connection with this affair? It was none of Jim Horton's
business, but in spite of himself he began feeling an intense sympathy
for the girl Moira, who was wrapped in the coils of what seemed on its
face to be an ugly intrigue, if it wasn't something worse.
Strange name, Quinlevin. It was Moira's name too, Irish. The phrase
about having Harry's heart's blood showed that Barry Quinlevin wasn't
beyond compunctions about the girl. But why had he connived at this
loveless marriage? There must have been a reason for that.
Jim Morton put the letters in the drawer and gave the problem up. It
wasn't his business whom Harry had married or why. The main thing was
to get well and out of the hospital so that he could find his brother
and set the tangle straight.
He couldn't imagine just how the substitution was to be accomplished,
but if Harry had played the game there was a chance that it might yet be
done. He didn't want Harry's job. And he silently cursed himself for
the unfortunate impetuous moment that had brought about all the trouble.
But how had he known that he was going to be hit? If he had only
succeeded in getting back to the spot where Harry was waiting for him,
no one would ever have been the wiser. No one knew now, but of course
the masquerade couldn't last forever. The situation was impossible.
Meanwhile what was Harry doing? Had he succeeded in playing out the
game during Jim Horton's sickness, or had he found himself in a tight
place and quit? It would have been easy enough. Horton shivered
slightly. Desertion, flight, ignominy, disgrace. And it wasn't Harry
Horton's good name that would be in question, but his own, that of Jim
Horton, Corporal of Engineers. As a name, it didn't stand for much yet,
even out in Kansas City, but he had never done anything to dishonor it
and he didn't want the few friends he had to think of him as a quitter.
Nobody had ever accused him of being that. What a fool he had been to
take such a chance for a man like Harry!
In the midst of these troublesome meditations, he was aware of Nurse
Newberry approaching from the end of the ward. Following her were two
people who stopped at his bed, a man and a girl. The man was strong,
with grizzled hair, a bobbed Imperial and a waxed mustache. The girl had
black hair and slate-blue eyes. And even as Jim Horton stared at them,
he was aware of the man confidently approaching and taking his hand.
"Well, Harry, don't you know me?" a voice said. "Rather hazy, eh? I
don't wonder...."
Who the devil were these people? There must be a mistake. Jim Horton
mumbled something. The visitor's eyes were very dark brown shot with
tiny streaks of yellow and he looked like an amiable satyr.
"I've brought Moira--thought ye'd like to see her."
The patient started--then recovered himself. He had forgotten the lapse
of time since the letters had been written.
"Moira," he muttered.
The girl advanced slowly as the man made place. Her expression had been
serious, but as she came forward she smiled softly.
"Harry," she was whispering, as he stared at her loveliness, "don't you
know me?"
"Moira!" he muttered weakly. "I'm not----" But his hands made no
movement toward her and a warm flush spread over the part of his face
that was visible.
"You've been very sick, Harry. But we came as soon as they'd let us.
And you're going to get well, thank the Holy Virgin, and then----"
"I'm not----" the words stuck in Jim Horton's throat. And he couldn't
utter them.
"You're not what?" she questioned anxiously.
Another pause of uncertainty.
"I--I'm not--very strong yet," he muttered weakly, turning his head to
one side.
And as he said it, he knew that in sheer weakness of fiber, spiritual as
well as physical, he had made a decision.
The Satyr behind her laughed softly.
"Naturally," he said, "but ye're going to be well very soon."
They were both looking at him and something seemed to be required of
him. So with an effort,
"How long--how long have you been in France?" he asked.
"Only three weeks," said Quinlevin, "watching the bulletins daily for
news of you. I found out a week ago, but they wouldn't let us in until
to-day. And we can stay only five minutes."
Then Moira spoke again, with a different note in her voice.
"Are you glad that I came?" she asked. "It was the least I could do."
"Glad!"
The word seemed sufficient. Jim Horton seemed glad to utter it. If she
would only recognize the imposture and relieve him of the terrible
moment of confession. But she didn't. She had accepted him as
Quinlevin, as all the others had done, for his face value, without a
sign of doubt.
And Barry Quinlevin stood beaming upon them both, his bright eyes
snapping benevolence.
"If ye get the V.C., Harry boy, she'll sure be worshiping ye."
Jim Horton's gaze, fixed as though fascinated upon the quiet slate-blue
eyes, saw them close for a moment in trouble, while a quick little frown
puckered the white forehead. And when she spoke again, her voice
uttered the truth that was in her heart.
"One cannot deny valor," she said coolly. "It is the greatest thing in
the world."
She wanted no misunderstandings. She only wanted Harry Horton to know
that love was not for her or for him. The fakir under the bed clothes
understood. She preferred to speak of valor. Valor! If she only knew!
Jim Horton gathered courage. If he wasn't to tell the truth he would
have to play his part.
"Everybody is brave--out there," he said, with a gesture.
"But not brave enough for mention," said Quinlevin genially. "It won't
do, Harry boy. A hero ye were and a hero ye'll remain."
Horton felt the girl's calm gaze upon his face.
"I'm so glad you've made good, Harry. I am. And I want you to believe
it."
"Thanks," he muttered.
Why did she gaze at him so steadily? It almost seemed as though she had
read his secret. He hoped that she had. It would have simplified
things enormously. But she turned away with a smile.
"You're to come to us, of course, as soon as they let you out," she said
quietly.
"Well, rather," laughed Quinlevin.
The nurse had approached and the girl Moira had moved to the foot of the
bed. Barry Quinlevin paused a moment, putting a slip of paper in
Horton's hand.
"Well, _au revoir_, old lad. In a few days again----"
The wounded man's gaze followed the girl. She smiled back once at him
and then followed the nurse down the ward. Jim Horton sank back into
his pillows with a gasp.
"Well--now you've done it. Now you _have_ gone and done it," he
muttered.
*CHAPTER II*
*THE MYSTERY DEEPENS*
In a courageous moment, a day or so later, the patient requested Nurse
Newberry to try to get what information she could as to the whereabouts
of his cousin, Corporal James Horton, B Company, --th Engineers, and
waited with some impatience and anxiety the result of her inquiries.
She discovered that Corporal James Horton had been last seen in the
fight for Boissiere Wood, but was now reported as missing.
Missing!
The blank expression on the face of her patient was rather pitiful.
"It probably means that he's a prisoner. He may be all right. H.Q. is
pretty cold-blooded with its information."
But the patient knew that Corporal Horton wasn't a prisoner. If he was
missing, it was because he had gone to the rear--nothing less than a
deserter. Nevertheless the information, even indefinite as it was,
brought him comfort. He clung rather greedily to its very
indefiniteness. In the eyes of the army or of the world "missing" meant
"dead" or "prisoner," and until Harry revealed himself, the good name of
the corporal of Engineers was safe. That was something.
And the information brought the wounded man abruptly to the point of
realizing that he was now definitely committed to play the role he had
unwittingly chosen. He had done his best to explain, but they hadn't
listened to him. And when confronted with the only witnesses whose
opinions seemed to matter (always excepting Harry himself), he had
miserably failed in carrying out his first intentions. He tried to
think of the whole thing as a joke, but he found himself confronted with
possibilities which were far from amusing.
The slate-blue Irish eyes of Harry's war-bride haunted him. They were
eyes meant to be tender and yet were not. Her fine lips were meant for
the full throated laughter of happiness, and yet had only wreathed in
faint uncertain smiles.
Barry Quinlevin was a less agreeable figure to contemplate. If Jim
Horton hadn't read his letter to Harry he would have found it easier to
be beguiled by the man's genial air of good fellowship and sympathy, but
he couldn't forget the incautious phrases of that communication, and
having first formed an unfavorable impression, found no desire to
correct it.
To his surprise it was Moira who came the following week to the hospital
at Neuilly on visitors' day. Jim Horton had decided on a course of
action, but when she approached his bed, all redolent with the joy of
out of doors, he quite forgot what he meant to say to her. In Moira,
too, he seemed to feel an effort to do her duty to him with a good
grace, which almost if not quite effaced the impression of her earlier
visit. She took his thin hand in her own for a moment while she
examined him with a kindly interest, which he repaid with a fraternal
smile.
"Father sent me in his place," she said. "I've put him to bed with a
cold."
"I'm so glad----" said Horton, and then stopped with a short laugh. "I
mean--I'm glad you're here. I'm sorry he's ill. Nothing serious?"
"Oh, no. He's a bit run down, that's all. And you--you're feeling
better?"
He liked the soft way she slithered over the last syllable.
"Oh, yes--of course."
All the while he felt her level gaze upon him, cool and intensely
serious.
"You are out of danger entirely, they tell me. I see they've taken the
bandage off."
"Yesterday," he said. "I'm coming along very fast."
"I'm glad."
"They promise before long that I can get out into the air in a
wheel-chair."
"That will do you all the good in the world."
In spite of himself, he knew that his eyes were regarding her too
intently, noting the well modeled nose, the short upper lip, firm red
mouth and resolute chin, all tempered with the softness of youth and
exquisite femininity. He saw her chin lowered slightly as her gaze
dropped and turned aside while the slightest possible compression of her
lips indicated a thought in which he could have no share.
"I have brought you some roses," she said quietly.
"They are very beautiful. They will remind me of you until you come
again."
The sudden raising of her eyes as she looked at him over the blossoms
was something of a revelation, for they smiled at him with splendid
directness.
"You _are_ improving," she laughed, "or you've a Blarney Stone under the
pillow. I can't remember when you've said anything so nice as that at
all."
He was thoughtful for a moment.
"Perhaps I have a new vision," he said at last. "The bullet in my head
may have helped. It has probably affected my optic nerve."
She smiled with him.
"You really do seem different, somehow," she broke in. "I can't exactly
explain it. Perhaps it's the pallor that makes the eyes look dark and
your voice--it's softer--entirely."
"Really----!" he muttered, uncomfortably, his gaze on the gray blanket.
"Well, you see, I suppose it's what I've been through. My eyes _would_
seem darker, wouldn't they, against white, and then my voice--er--it
isn't very strong yet."
"Yes, that's it," she replied.
Her eyes daunted him from his purpose a little, and he knew that he
would have to use extreme caution, but he had resolved whatever came to
see the game through. After all, if she discovered his secret, it was
only what he had tried in vain to tell her.
"I'm sure of it," he went on. "When a fellow comes as near death as
I've been, it makes him different. I seem to think in a new way about a
lot of things--you, for instance."
"Me----?" He fancied that there was a hard note in her voice, a little
toss, scarcely perceptible, of the rounded chin.
"Yes. You see, you oughtn't ever to have married me. You're too good
for me. I'm just a plain rotter and you--oh, what's the use?"
He paused, hoping that she would speak. She did, after a silence and a
shrug.
"Father wanted it. It was one way of paying what he owed you. I don't
know how much that was, but I'm still thinking I went pretty cheap."
She halted abruptly and then went on coolly, "I didn't come here to be
thinking unpleasant thoughts--or to be uttering them. So long as we
understand each other----"
"We do," he put in eagerly, almost appealingly. "I want you to believe
that I have no claim upon you--that my--my relations with Barry
Quinlevin will have nothing to do with you."
"And if I fell in love with another man-- That never seems to have
occurred to either of you----"
He laughed her soberness aside. "As far as I'm concerned, divorce or
suicide. I'll leave the choice to you."
He gained his purpose, which was to bring the smile to her lips again.
"Your wounds have inoculated you with a sense of humor, at any rate,"
she said, fingering the roses. "You've always been lacking in that, you
know."
"I feel that I can laugh at them now. But it might have been better for
you if I hadn't come out of the ether."
"No. I don't like your saying that. I haven't the slightest intention
of falling in love with any man at all. I shan't be wanting to
marry--really marry----" she added, coloring a little. "I've begun my
work. It needed Paris again. And I'm going to succeed. You'll see."
"I haven't a doubt of it. You were made for success--and for
happiness."
"Sure and I think that I was--now that you mention it," she put in
quaintly.
"I won't bother you. You can be certain of that," he finished
positively. And then cautiously, "Things have not gone
well--financially, I mean?"
"No. And of course father's worried about it. Our income from Ireland
has stopped coming--something about repairs, he says. But then, I
suppose we will get it again some day. Dad never did tell me anything,
you know."
Horton thought for a moment.
"He doesn't want to worry you, of course. And you oughtn't to be
worried. Things will come out all right."
"I intend that they shall. Father always gave me the best when he had
it. I'll see that he doesn't suffer now."
"But that's my job, Moira. We'll get some money together--some
way--when I get out."
"Thanks. But I'm hoping to do a lot of painting. I've got one portrait
to begin on--and it doesn't cost much in the Quartier."
Horton sat up in bed and looked out of the window.
"I'll get money," he said. "Don't you worry."
He saw her eyes studying him quietly and he sank back at once in bed out
of the glare of the sunlight. He wondered if he had gone too far. But
he had found out one of the things that he had wanted to know. She knew
nothing of what Barry Quinlevin was doing.
Her next remark was disquieting.
"It's very strange, the way I'm thinking about you. You've grown
different in the army--or is it the sickness? There's a sweeter look to
your mouth, and a firmer turn to your jaw. Your gaze is wider and your
heart has grown soft, with the suffering. It's like another man, I'm
seeing somehow, Harry, and I'm glad."
"Suffering--yes, perhaps," he muttered.
She leaned forward impulsively and put her hand over his, smiling
brightly at him.
"We'll be good friends now, alanah. I'm sure of it."
"You like me a little better----?"
"Sure and I wouldn't be sitting here holding hands if I didn't," she
laughed. Then with a quick glance at her wrist watch she rose. "And
now I must be going back to father. Here is the nurse. Time is up."
"You will come soon again?" he asked slowly.
"Yes--with better news, I hope. _Au revoir, mon brave_."
And she was gone.
The visit gave him more food for thought. But he hadn't learned much.
What he did know now was that the girl Moira trusted Barry Quinlevin
implicitly and that he had managed to keep her in ignorance as to the
real sources of his livelihood. The Irish rents had failed to reach
them! Were there any Irish rents? And if so, what had "de V" to do
with them? He took Quinlevin's letter from under the pillow and re-read
it carefully. Nothing about Irish rents there. Perhaps other letters
had followed, that Harry had destroyed. In any case he would have to
play the game carefully with the girl's father or Quinlevin would find
him out before Horton discovered what he wanted to know. The quiet eyes
of the girl Moira disturbed him. Her eyes, her intuitions, were shrewd,
yet he had succeeded so far. If he could pass muster with the daughter,
why shouldn't he succeed with the father? The weakness, the failing
memory of a sick man, could be trusted to bridge difficulties. If there
had only been a few more letters he would have been better equipped for
the interview with Barry Quinlevin, which must soon follow. He inquired
of Miss Newberry, but she had given him everything that had been found
in his uniform. He scrutinized the notebook carefully, which contained
only an expense account, some addresses in Paris, and a few military
notes, and so he discarded it. It seemed that until Quinlevin came to
the hospital "de V" must remain one of the unsolved mysteries of his
versatile brother.
But Moira's innocence, while it failed to enlighten him as to the
mystery, made him more certain that her loveless marriage with Harry had
something to do with the suspected intrigue. Did Harry love the girl?
It seemed scarcely possible that any man who was half a man could be
much with her without loving her. It wasn't like Harry to marry any
girl unless he had something to gain by it. The conversation he had
just had with Moira showed exactly the relationship between them, if he
had needed any further evidence than her letter.
As to his own personal relations with Moira, he found it necessary to
fortify himself against a more than strictly fraternal interest in her
personality. She was extremely agreeable to look at and he had to admit
that her very presence had cheered up his particular part of the
hospital ward amazingly. Her quaintness, her quiet directness and her
modest demeanor, were inherent characteristics, but they could not
disguise the overflowing vitality and humor that struggled against the
limitations she had imposed. Her roses, which Nurse Newberry had
arranged in a bowl by the bedside, were unnecessary reminders of the
giver. Like them, she was fragrant, pristine and beautiful--altogether
a much-to-be-desired sister-in-law.
The visit of Barry Quinlevin was not long delayed and Jim Horton
received him in his wheel chair by an open window in the convalescent
ward. He came in with a white silk handkerchief tied about his neck,
but barring a husky voice showed no ill effects of his indisposition. He
was an amiable looking rogue, and if the shade of Whistler will forgive
me, resembled much that illustrious person in all the physical graces.
It would be quite easy to imagine that Barry Quinlevin could be quite as
dangerous an enemy.
"Well, Harry boy, here I am," he announced, throwing open his coat with
something of an air, and loosening his scarf. "No worse than the devil
made me. And ye're well again, they tell me, or so near it that ye're
no longer interesting."
"Stronger every day," replied Horton cautiously.
"Then we can have a talk, maybe, without danger of it breaking the
spring in yer belfry?"
"Ah, yes,--but I'm a bit hazy at times," added Horton.
"Well, when the fog comes down, say the word and I'll be going."
"Don't worry. I want to hear the news."
Quinlevin frowned at his walking stick. "It's little enough, God
knows." Then glanced toward the invalid at the next window and lowered
his voice a trifle.
"The spalpeen says not a word--or he's afflicted with pen-paralysis, for
I've written him three times--twice since I reached Paris, giving him
the address. So we'll have to make a move."
"What will you do?"
"Go to see him--or you can. At first, ye see, I thought maybe he'd gone
away or died or something. But I watched the Hotel de Vautrin in the
Rue de Bac until I saw him with my own eyes. That's how I took this
bronchitis--in the night air with devil a drink within a mile of me. I
saw him, I tell you, as hale and hearty as ye please, and debonair like
a new laid egg, with me, Barry Quinlevin, in the rain, not four paces
from the carriage way."
The visitor paused as though for a comment, and Horton offered it.
"He didn't see you?"
"Devil a one of me. For the moment I thought of bracing him then and
there. But I didn't--though I was reduced to a small matter of a
hundred francs or so."
"Things are as bad as that----?"
Quinlevin shrugged. "I bettered myself a bit the next night and I'll
find a way----"
He broke off with a shrug.
"But I'm not going to be wasting my talents on the little officer-boys
in Guillaume's. Besides, 'twould be most unpatriotic. I'm out for
bigger game, me son, that spells itself in seven figures. Nothing less
than a _coup d'etat_ will satisfy the ambitions of Barry Quinlevin!"
"Well?" asked Horton shrewdly.
"For the present ye're to stay where ye are, till yer head is as tight
as a drum, giving me the benefit of yer sage advice. We'll worry along.
The rent of the apartment and studio is a meager two hundred francs and
the food--well, we will eat enough. And Moira has some work to do. But
we can't be letting the Duc forget I've ever existed. A man with a
reputation in jeopardy and twenty millions of francs, you'll admit, is
not to be found growing on every mulberry bush."