"You wrote that you had a plan," he said. "What is it?"
Barry Quinlevin waved a careless hand.
"Fair means, as one gentleman uses to another, if he explains his
negligence and remits the small balance due. Otherwise, we'll have to
squeeze him. A letter from a good lawyer--if it wasn't for the
testimony of Nora Burke!"
He was silent in a moment of puzzled retrospection and his glittering
generalities only piqued Jim Horton's curiosity, so that his eagerness
led him into an error that nearly undid him.
"Nora Burke----" he put in slowly.
"I wrote ye what happened----"
"I couldn't have received the letter----"
He stopped abruptly, for Quinlevin was staring at him in astonishment.
"Then how the devil could ye have answered it?"
Horton covered the awkward moment by closing his eyes and passing his
fingers across his brow.
"Answered it! Funny I don't remember."
The Irishman regarded him a moment soberly, and then smiled in
deprecation.
"Of course--ye've slipped a cog----"
Then suddenly he clapped a hand on Horton's knee.
"Why, man alive,--Nora Burke--the Irish nurse who provides the necessary
testimony--Moira's nurse, d'ye mind, when she was a baby, who saw the
Duc's child die--now do ye remember----?"
Horton ran his fingers over his hair thoughtfully and bent his head
again.
"Nora Burke--Moira's nurse--who saw the Duc's child die," he repeated
parrot-like, "and the Duc--de Vautrin----" he muttered and paused.
"Thinks his child by this early marriage is still alive----" said
Quinlevin, regarding him dubiously.
"Yes, yes," said Horton eagerly. "It's coming back to me now. And de
Vautrin's money----"
"He'll pay through the nose to keep the thing quiet--unless----"
Barry Quinlevin paused.
"Unless--what?"
There was a moment of silence in which the visitor frowned out of the
window.
"I don't like the look of things, I tell ye, Harry. Ye're in no fit
shape to help 'til the fog clears up, but I've a mind that somebody's
slipped a finger into the pie. Nora Burke wants more money--five hundred
pounds to tell a straight story and where I'm going to get it--the devil
himself only knows."
"Nora Burke--five hundred pounds!" muttered Horton vaguely, for he was
thinking deeply, "that's a lot of money."
"Ye're right--when ye haven't got it. And de Vautrin's shutting down at
the same time. It looks suspicious, I tell ye."
He broke off and fixed his iridescent gaze on Horton. "Ye're sure ye
said nothing to any one in Paris before ye went to the front?"
Of this at least Jim Horton was sure.
"Nothing," he replied.
"Not to Piquette Morin?"
Here was dangerous ground again.
"Nothing," he repeated slowly, "nothing."
"And ye wouldn't be remembering it if ye had," said Quinlevin peevishly
as he rose. "Oh, well--I'll have to raise this money some way or go to
Galway to put the gag on Nora Burke until we play the trick----"
"I--I'm sorry I can't help----" said Horton, "but you see--I'm not----"
"Oh, yes, I see," said Quinlevin more affably. "I shouldn't be
bothering ye so soon, but may the devil take me if I know which way to
turn."
"Will you see de Vautrin?"
"Perhaps. But I may go to Ireland first. I've got to do some
thinking--alone. Good bye. Ye're not up to the mark. Be careful when
Moira comes, or ye may let the cat out of the bag. D'ye hear?"
"Don't worry--I won't," said Horton soberly.
He watched the tall figure of Quinlevin until it disappeared into the
outer hall and then turned a frowning gaze out of the window.
*CHAPTER III*
*THE GOOSE*
Jim Horton had had a narrow escape from discovery. But in spite of his
precarious position and the pitfalls that seemed to lay to right and
left, he had become, if anything, more determined than ever to follow
the fate to which he had committed himself. There now seemed no doubt
that Moira was in all innocence involved in some way in the blackmailing
scheme which had been the main source of livelihood for the Quinlevin
family for many years. And Moira did not know, for the Duc de Vautrin,
of course, was the source of the Irish rents to which she had alluded.
And now he was refusing to pay.
It was clear that something unpleasant hung in the air, an ill wind for
the Duc de Vautrin and for the plotters, Moira's father and Jim Horton's
precious brother. And it seemed quite necessary in the interests of
honesty that he, Jim Horton, should remain for the present in the game
and divert if possible the currents of evil which encompassed his
interesting sister-in-law.
One thing he had learned--that by taking refuge behind the barriers of
his failing memory, it might be possible to keep up the deception, at
least until he was out of the hospital and a crisis of some sort came to
relieve him of his responsibility. Indeed there was something most
agreeable in the friendly regard of his brother's loveless wife, and
under other circumstances, the calls of this charming person would have
been the source of unalloyed delight. For as the days passed, more and
more she threw off the restraint of her earlier visits and they had now
reached a relationship of understanding and good-fellowship, most
delightful and unusual in its informality.
Jim Horton was progressing rapidly and except for occasional lapses of
memory, easily explained and perfectly understood by his visitors,
gained health and strength until it was no longer a question of weeks
but of days when he should be able to leave the hospital and accept the
invitation of his newly discovered relatives to visit the studio
apartment. He had made further efforts through the hospital authorities
to find some trace of the missing man but without success, and in
default of any definite plan of action chose to follow the line of least
resistance until something should happen. Barry Quinlevin visited him
twice, but spoke little of the affair of the Duc de Vautrin which it
seemed was being held in abeyance for the moment, preferring to wait
until the brain and body of the injured man could help him to plan and
to execute. And Jim Horton, finding that safety lay in silence or
fatigue, did little further to encourage his confidences.
Thus it was that after several weeks he impatiently awaited Moira
outside the hospital. It was a gorgeous afternoon of blue and gold with
the haze of Indian Summer hanging lazily over the peaceful autumn
landscape. An aromatic odor of burning leaves was in the air and about
him aged men and women worked in road and garden as though the alarms of
war had never come to their ears. The signing of the armistice, which
had taken place while Horton was still in his bed, had been the cause of
much quiet joy throughout the hospital. But with the return of health,
Jim Horton had begun wondering what effect the peace was to have upon
his strange fortunes--and upon Harry's. He knew that for the present he
had been granted a furlough which he was to spend with the Quinlevins in
Paris, but after that, what was to happen? He was a little dubious too
about his relations with Moira.... But when he saw her coming down the
path to the open air pavilion with Nurse Newberry, all flushed with the
prospect of carrying him off in triumph in the ancient fiacre from which
she had descended, he could not deny a thrill of pleasure that was not
all fraternal.
"Behold, _mon ami_," she cried in greeting, "I've come to take you
prisoner."
He laughed gayly as he took her hand.
"And there's a goose in the pantry, bought at a fabulous price, just
waiting for the pan----"
"Be sure you don't kill your prisoner with kindness," put in Nurse
Newberry.
"I'll take that risk," said Horton genially.
"Sure and he must," put in Moira. "It isn't every day one brings a
conquering hero home."
"Especially when he's your husband," said the artless Miss Newberry
wistfully.
Jim Horton had a glimpse of the color that ran like a flame up Moira's
throat to her brow but he glanced quickly away and busied himself with a
buckle at his belt.
"I want to thank you, Miss Newberry," he said soberly, "for all that
you've done for me. I'll never forget."
"Nor I, Lieutenant Horton. But you're in better hands than mine now. A
week or so and you'll be as strong as ever."
"I've never felt better in my life," he replied.
They moved toward the conveyance, shook hands with the nurse, and with
Harry's baggage (which had just been sent down from regimental
headquarters) upon the box beside the rubicund and rotund cocher, they
drove out of the gates and toward the long finger of the Eiffel Tower
which seemed to be beckoning to them across the blue haze above the roof
tops.
Neither of them spoke for a moment. In the ward, in the convalescent
rooms or even in the grounds of the hospital, Moira had been a visitor
with a mission of charity and cheer. Here in the _fiacre_ the basis of
their relationship seemed suddenly and quite mysteriously to change.
Whether Moira felt it or not he did not know, for she looked out of her
window at the passing scene and her partly averted profile revealed
nothing of her thoughts. But the fact that they were for the first time
really alone and driving to Moira's Paris apartment gave him a qualm of
guilt on account of the impossible situation that he had created. He
had, he thought, shown her deep gratitude and respect--and had succeeded
in winning the friendship that Harry had perhaps taken too much for
granted. It had given Jim Horton pleasure to think that Moira now
really liked him for himself alone, and the whole-heartedness of her
good fellowship had given him every token of her spirit of conciliation.
She had had her moods of reserve before, like the one of her present
silence, but the abundance of her vitality and sense of humor had
responded unconsciously to his own and they had drawn closer with the
artless grace of two children thrown upon their own resources. And now,
here in the ramshackle vehicle, for the first time alone, Jim Horton
would have very much liked to take her by the hand (which lay most
temptingly upon the seat beside him) and tell her the truth. But that
meant Harry's disgrace--the anguish of her discovering that such a
friendship as this with her own husband could never be; for in her eyes
Jim Horton had seen her own courage and a contempt for all things that
Harry was or could ever hope to be. And so, with an effort he folded
his arms resolutely and stared out of his window.
It was then that her voice recalled him.
"Can't you smell that goose, Harry dear?" she said.
He flashed a quick smile at her.
"Just can't I!" he laughed.
"And you're to help me cook it--and vegetables and coffee. You
know"--she finished, "nothing ever tastes quite so good as when you cook
it yourself."
"And you do all the cooking----?" he asked thoughtfully.
"Sometimes--but more often we go to a cafe. Sometimes Madame Toupin
helps, the _concierge_--but father thinks my cooking is the best."
"I don't doubt it. I shall, too." And then, "where is your father
to-day?"
She looked at him, eyes wide as though suddenly reminded.
"I forgot," she gasped. "He asked me to tell you that he was obliged to
be leaving for Ireland--about the Irish rents. Isn't it tiresome?"
"Oh," said Horton quietly. "I see."
He turned his thoughtful gaze out of the carriage window into the Avenue
de Neuilly. The situation had its charm, but he had counted on the
presence of Barry Quinlevin.
"How long will he be gone?" he asked.
"I don't know," she replied, "a week or more perhaps. But I'll try to
make you comfortable. I've wanted so to have everything nice."
He smiled at her warmth. "You forget that--that I've learned to be a
soldier, Moira. A blanket on the floor of the studio and I'll be as
happy as a king----"
"No. You shall have the best that there is--the very best--_mon
ami_----"
"I don't propose to let you work for me, Moira. I can get some money.
I can find a _pension_ somewhere near and----"
She turned toward him suddenly, her eyes very close to tears. "Do you
wish to make me unhappy--when I've tried so hard to--to----"
"Moira!" He caught her hand to his lips and kissed it gently, "I didn't
mean----"
"I've wanted so for you to forget how unkind I had been to you--to make
this seem like a real homecoming after all you've been through. And now
to hear you talking of going to a _pension_----"
"Moira--I thought it might be inconvenient--that it might be more
pleasant for you----"
He broke down miserably. She released her fingers gently and turned
away. "Sure Alanah, and I think that I should be the judge of that,"
she said.
"We'll say no more about it," he muttered. "But I--I'm very grateful."
Moira's lips wreathed into an adorable smile.
"I've been thinking the war has done something to you, Harry. And now
I'm sure of it. You've been learning to think of somebody beside
yourself."
"I'd be pretty rotten if I hadn't learned to do some thinking about
_you_," he said, as he looked into her eyes with more hardihood than
wisdom.
She met his gaze for the fraction of a minute and then raised her chin
and laughed merrily up at the broad back of the cocher.
"Yes, you've changed, Harry dear. God knows how or why--but you've
changed. You'll be paying me some compliments upon my pulchritude and
heavenly virtues by and by."
"Why shouldn't I?" he insisted soberly when her laughter subsided.
"Your loveliness is only the outward and visible sign of the inward and
spiritual grace. I'm so sure of it that I don't care whether you laugh
or not."
"Am I lovely? You think so? Well--it's nice to hear even if it only
makes conversation. Also that my nose is not so bad, even if it does
turn piously to Heaven--but there's a deep dent in my chin which means
that I've got a bit of the devil in me--bad cess to him--so that you'd
better do just what I want you to--or we'll have a falling out. And
that would be a pity--because of the goose."
He laughed as gayly as she had done.
"I've a notion, Moira," he said, "that it's my goose you're going to
cook."
"And I've a notion," she said poising a slim gloved finger for a second
upon his knee, "I've a notion that we're both going to cook him."
It seemed too much like a prophecy to be quite to his liking. Her moods
were Protean and her rapid transitions bewildered. And yet, under them
all, he realized how sane she was, how honest with him and with herself
and how free from any guile. She trusted him entirely as one good
friend would trust another and the thought of any evil coming to her
through his strange venture into Harry's shoes made him most unhappy.
But her pretty dream of a husband with whom she could at least be on
terms of friendship must some day come to an end ... And yet ... suppose
the report that Harry was missing meant that he was dead. A bit of
shrapnel--a bullet--he didn't wish it--but that chance was within the
range of the possible.
They had passed down the avenue of the Grande Armee, into the place de
l'Etoile, and were now in the magnificent reaches of the Champs Elysees.
Jim Horton had only been in Paris for five hours between trains, little
more than long enough to open an account at a bank, but Moira chattered
on gayly with the point of view of an _intime_, showing him the places
which they must visit together, throwing in a word of history here, an
incident or adventure there, giving the places they passed, the
personality of her point of view, highly tinged with the artist's
idealism. From her talk he gathered that she had lived much in Paris
during all her student days and except for the little corner in Ireland
where she had been born and which she had visited from time to time,
loved it better than any place in the world.
"And I shall teach you to speak French, Harry--the real _argot_ of the
_Quartier_--and you shall love it as I do----"
"I do speak it a little already," he ventured.
"Really! And who was your instructress?"
The dropping intonation was sudden and very direct.
Jim Horton looked out of the window. He was sure that Harry wouldn't
have been able to meet her gaze.
"No one," he muttered, "at least no girl. That's the truth. We had
books and things."
"Oh," she finished dryly.
Her attitude in this matter was a revelation. The incident seemed to
clarify their relations and in a new way, for in a moment she was
conversing again in a manner most unconcerned. Friendly she might be
with Harry for the sake of the things that he had accomplished,
companionable and kind for the sake of the things he had suffered, but
as for any deeper feeling---that was another matter. Moira was no fool.
But at least she trusted him now. She dared to trust him. Otherwise,
why did she conduct him with such an air of unconcern to the apartment
in the Rue de Tavennes? But he couldn't be unaware of the alertness in
her unconcern, an occasional quick and furtive side glance which showed
that, however friendly, she was still on her guard. Perhaps she wanted
to study this newly-discovered Harry at closer range. But why had she
chosen the venture? He had given her her chance. Why had she refused
to take it?
The answers to these questions were still puzzling him when they drove
up the hill by the Boulevard St. Michel--_Boul' Miche_ she called
it--reached the Luxembourg Gardens and then turning into a smaller
street were presently deposited at their _porte cochere_. Her air of
gayety was infectious and she presented him to the good Madame Toupin,
who came out to meet them with the air of one greeting an ambassador.
"Welcome, _Monsieur le Lieutenant_. Madame Horton has promised us this
visit since a long time."
"_Merci, Madame._"
"Enter, Monsieur--this house is honored. Thank the _bon Dieu_ for the
Americans."
Jim Horton bowed and followed Moira into the small court and up the
stairway, experiencing a new sense of guilt at having his name coupled
so familiarly with Moira's. Harry's name too--. And yet the
circumstances of the marriage were so strange, the facts as to her
actual relations with her husband so patent, that he found himself
resenting Moira's placid acceptance of the appellation. There was
something back of it all that he did not know.... But Moira gave him no
time to think of the matter, conducting him into the large studio and
showing him through the bedroom and kitchen, where she proudly exhibited
her goose (and Jim Horton's) that she was to cook. And after he had
deposited his luggage in a room nearby which he was to occupy, she
removed her gloves in a business-like manner, took off her hat and coat,
and invited him into the kitchen.
"_Allons_, Monsieur," she said gayly in French, as she rolled up her
sleeves.
"We shall now cook a goose, in this modern apparatus so kindly furnished
by the _Compagnie de Gaz_. There's a large knife in the drawer. You
will now help me to cut up the potatoes--Julienne,--and the carrots
which we shall stew. Then some lettuce and a beautiful dessert from the
_patisserie_--and a _demi-tasse_. What more can the soul of man
desire?"
"_Rien_," he replied with a triumphant grin of understanding from behind
the dish pan. "_Absolument rien_."
"Ah, you do understand," she cried in English. "Was she a
_blonde--cendree_? Or dark with sloe-eyes? Or red-haired? If she was
red-haired, Harry, I'll be scratching her eyes out. No?"
He shook his head and laughed.
"She was black and white and her name was Ollendorff."
"You'll still persist in that deception?"
"I do."
"You're almost too proficient."
"You had better not try me too far."
She smiled brightly at him over the fowl which she was getting ready for
the pan, stuffing it with a dressing already prepared.
"I wonder how far I might be trying you, Harry dear," she said
mischievously.
He glanced at her.
"I don't know," he said quietly "but I think I've learned something of
the meaning of patience in the army."
"Then God be praised!" she ejaculated with air of piety, putting the
fowl into the pan.
"Here. Cut. Slice to your heart's content, thin--like jack-straws.
But spare your fingers."
She sat him in a chair and saw him begin while she prepared the salad.
"Patience is by way of being a virtue," she resumed quizzically, her
pink fingers weaving among the lettuce-leaves. And then, "so they taught
you that in the Army?"
"They did."
"And did you never get tired of being patient, Harry dear?"
He met the issue squarely. "You may try me as far as you like, Moira,"
he said quietly, "I owe you that."
She hadn't bargained for such a counter.
"Oh," she muttered, and diligently examined a doubtful lettuce leaf by
the fading light of the small window, while Horton sliced scrupulously
at his potato. And when the goose was safely over the flame she quickly
disappeared into the studio.
He couldn't make her out. It seemed that a devil was in her, a
mischievous, beautiful, tantalizing, little Irish she-devil, bent on
psychological investigation. Also he had never before seen her with her
hat off and he discovered that he liked her hair. It had bluish tints
that precisely matched her eyes. He finished his last potato with
meticulous diligence and then quickly rose and followed her into the
studio where a transformation had already taken place. A table over
which a white cloth had been thrown, had been drawn out near the big
easel and upon it were plates, glasses, knives and forks and candles
with rose-colored shades, and there was even a bowl of flowers. In the
hearth fagots were crackling and warmed the cool shadows from the big
north light, already violet with the falling dusk.
"_Voila_, Monsieur--we are now _chez nous_. Is it not pleasant?"
It was, and he said so.
"You like my studio?"
"It's great. And the portrait--may I see?"
"No--it doesn't go--_on sent le souffle_--a French dowager who braved
the Fokkers when all her family were _froussards_--fled in terror. She
deserves immortality."
"And you--were you not afraid of the bombardments?"
"Hardly--not after all the trouble we had getting here--Horrors!" she
broke off suddenly and catching him by the hand dashed for the kitchen
whence came an appetizing odor--"The goose! we've forgotten the goose,"
she cried, and proceeded to baste it skillfully. She commended his
potatoes and bade him stir them in the pan while she made the salad
dressing--much oil, a little vinegar, paprika, salt in a bowl with a
piece of ice at the end of a fork.
He watched her curiously with the eyes of inexperience as she brought
all the various operations neatly to a focus.
"_Allons_! It is done," she said finally--in French. "Go thou and sit
at the table and I will serve."
But he wouldn't do that and helped her to dish the dinner, bringing it
in and placing it on the table.
And at last they were seated _vis-a-vis_, Horton with his back to the
fire, the glow of which played a pretty game of hide and seek with the
shadows of her face. He let her carve the goose, and she did it
skillfully, while he served the vegetables. They ate and drank to each
other in _vin ordinaire_ which was all that Moira could afford--after
the prodigal expenditure for the _piece de resistance_. Moira, her face
a little flushed, talked gayly, while the spurious husband opposite sat
watching her and grinning comfortably. He couldn't remember when he had
been quite so happy in his life, or quite so conscience-stricken. And so
he fell silent after a while, every impulse urging confession and yet
not daring it.
[Illustration: MOIRA TALKED GAYLY]
They took their coffee by the embers of the fire. The light from the
great north window had long since expired and the mellow glow of the
candles flickered softly on polished surfaces.
Suddenly Moira stopped talking and realized that as she did so silence
had fallen. Her companion had sunk deep into his chair, his gaze on the
gallery above, a frown tangling his forehead. She glanced at him
quickly and then looked away. Something was required of him and so,
"Why have you done all this for me?" he asked gently.
She smiled and their glances met.
"Because--because----"
"Because you thought it a duty?"
"No----," easily, "it wasn't really that. Duty is such a tiresome word.
To do one's duty is to do something one does not want to do. Don't I
seem to be having a good time?"
"I hope you are. I'm not likely to forget your charity--your----"
"Charity! I don't like that word."
"It _is_ charity, Moira. I don't deserve it."
The words were casual but they seemed to illumine the path ahead, for
she broke out impetuously.
"I didn't think you did--I pitied you--over there--for what you had been
and almost if not quite loathed you, for the hold you seemed to have on
father. I don't know what the secret was, or how much he owed you, but
I know that he was miserable. I think I must have been hating you a
great deal, Harry dear--and yet I married you."
"Why did you?" he muttered. "I had no right to ask--even a war
marriage."
"God knows," she said with a quick gasp as she bowed her head, "you had
made good at the Camp. I think it was the regimental band at Yaphank
that brought me around. And then you seemed so pathetic and wishful, I
got to thinking you might be killed. Father wanted it. And so----" she
paused and sighed deeply. "Well--I did it.... It was the most that I
could give--for Liberty...."
She raised her head proudly, and stared into the glowing embers.
"For Liberty--you gave your own freedom----" he murmured.
"It was mad--Quixotic----" she broke in again, "a horrible sacrilege. I
did not love, could not honor, had no intention of obeying you...." She
stopped suddenly, and hid her face in her hands. He thought that she
was in tears but he did not dare to touch her, though he leaned toward
her, his fingers groping. Presently she took her hands down and threw
them out in a wild gesture. "It is merciless--what I am saying to
you--but you let loose the floodgates and I had to speak."
He leaned closer and laid his fingers over hers.
"It was a mistake----" he said. "I would do anything to repair it."
He meant what he said and the deep tones of his voice vibrated close to
her ear. She did not turn to look at him and kept her gaze on the fire,
but she breathed uneasily and then closed her eyes a moment as though in
deep thought.
"Don't you believe me, Moira?"
She glanced at him and then leaned forward, away--toward the fire.
"I believe that I do," she replied slowly. "I don't know why it is that
I should be thinking so differently about you, but I do. You see, if I
hadn't trusted you we'd never have been sitting here this night."
"I gave you your chance to be alone----"
"Yes. You did that. But I couldn't let you be going to a _pension_,
Harry. I think it was the pity for your pale face against the pillows."
"Nothing else?" he asked quietly.
His hand had taken the fingers on the chair arm and she did not withdraw
them at once.
"Sure and maybe it was the blarney."
"I've meant what I've said," he whispered in spite of himself, "you're
the loveliest girl in all the world."
There was a moment of silence in which her hand fluttered uneasily in
his, while a gentle color came into her face.
Then abruptly she withdrew her fingers and sprang up, her face aflame.
"Go along with you! You'll be making love to me next."
He sank back into his chair, silent, perturbed, as he realized that this
was just what was in his heart.
"Come," she laughed, "we've got all the dishes to wash. And then you're
to be getting to bed, or your head will be aching in the morning.
_Allons_!"
She brought him to himself with the clear, cool note of _camaraderie_,
and with a short laugh and a shrug which hid a complexity of feeling, he
followed her into the kitchen with the dishes. But a restraint had
fallen between them. Moira worked with a business-like air, rather
overdoing it. And Jim Horton, sure that he was a blackguard of sorts,
wiped the dishes she handed to him and then obediently followed her to
the room off the hall where his baggage had been carried.
She put the candle on the table and gave him her frankest smile.
"Sleep sound, my dear. For to-morrow I'll be showing you the sights."
"Good-night, Moira," he said gently.
"_Dormez bien_."
And she was gone.
He stood staring at the closed door, aware of the sharp click of the
latch and the faint firm tap of her high heels diminishing along the
hall--then the closing of the studio door. For a long while he stood
there, not moving, and then mechanically took out a cigarette, tapping
it against the back of his hand. Only the urge of a light for his
cigarette from the candle at last made him turn away. Then he sank upon
the edge of the bed and smoked for awhile, his brows furrowed in
thought. Nothing that Harry had ever done seemed more despicable than
the part that he had chosen to play. He was winning her friendship, her
esteem, something even finer than these, perhaps--for Harry--_as_ Harry,
borrowing from their tragic marriage the right to this strange intimacy.
If her dislike of him had only continued, if she had tolerated him,
even, or if she had been other than she was, his path would have been
smoother. But she was making it very difficult for him.
He paced the floor again for awhile, until his cigarette burnt his
fingers, then he walked to the window, opened it and looked out. It was
early yet--only eleven o'clock. The thought of sleep annoyed him. So he
took up his cap, blew out the candle and went quietly out into the hall
and down the stairs.
He wanted to be alone with his thoughts away from the associations of
the studio, to assume his true guise as an alien and an enemy to this
girl who had learned to trust him. The cool air of the court-yard
seemed to clear his thoughts. In all honor--in all decency, he must
discover some way of finding his brother Harry, expose the ugly intrigue
and then take Harry's place and go out into the darkness of ignominy and
disgrace. That would require some courage, he could see, more than it
had taken to go out against the Boche machine gunners in the darkness of
Boissiere Wood, but there didn't seem to be anything else to do, if he
wanted to preserve his own self-respect....
But of what value was self-respect to a man publicly disgraced? And
unless he could devise some miracle that would enable him to come back
from the dead, a miracle that would stand the test of a rigid army
investigation, the penalty of his action was death--or at the least a
long term of imprisonment in a Federal prison, from which he would
emerge a broken and ruined man of middle age. This alternative was not
cheering and yet he faced it bravely. He would have to find Harry.
* * * * *
The feat was not difficult, for as he emerged from the gate of the
_porte cochere_ of the _concierge_ and turned thoughtfully down the
darkened street outside, a man in a battered slouch hat and civilian
clothes approached from the angle of a wall and faced him.
"What the H---- are you doing at No. 7 Rue de Tavennes?" said a voice
gruffly.
Jim Horton started back at the sound, now aware that Fortune had
presented him with his alternative. For the man in the slouch hat was
his brother, Harry!
*CHAPTER IV*
*OUTCAST*
When Jim Horton, Corporal of Engineers, took his twin brother's uniform
and moved off into the darkness toward the German lines, Harry Horton
remained as his brother had left him, bewildered, angry, and still very
much afraid. The idea of taking Jim Horton's place with his squad
nearby did not appeal to him. The danger of discovery was too
obvious--and soon perhaps the squad would have to advance into the
dreadful curtain of black that would spout fire and death. He was fed
up with it. The baptism of fire in the afternoon had shaken him when
they lay in the field. It was the grinning head of Levinski of the
fourth squad that had done the business. He had found it staring at him
in the wheat as the platoon crawled forward. It wasn't so much that it
was an isolated head, as that it was the isolated head of Levinski, for
he hadn't liked Levinski and he knew that the man had hated him. And now
Levinski had had his revenge. Harry had been deathly ill at the
stomach, and had not gone forward with the platoon. He had seen the
whites of the eyes of his men as they had glanced aside at him--and
spat.
Why the H---- he had ever gone into the thing ... And now ... suppose
Jim didn't come back! What should he do? Why had the Major picked him
out for this duty! His thoughts wandered wildly from one fancied injury
to another. And Jim--it was like him to turn up and plunge into this
wild venture that would probably bring them both to court-martial. And
if Jim was shot, what the devil was he to do? Go on through the service
as Jim Horton, Corporal of Engineers? He cursed silently while he
groveled in the gully waiting for the shots that were to decide his
fate.
For a moment he gathered nerve enough to pick up Jim's rifle and
accoutrement with the intention of joining the squad of engineers. But
just at that moment there were sounds of shots within the wood, followed
by others closer at hand, and then bullets ripped viciously through the
foliage just above him. By a movement just ahead of him he knew that
the line was advancing. He couldn't ... his knees refused him ... so he
crawled into the thicket along the gully and lay upon the ground among
the fallen leaves. More shots. Cries all about him. A grunt of pain
after a shrapnel burst nearby ... the rush of feet as the second wave
filtered through ... then the rapid crackle of the engagement in the
wood. Jim was there--in _his_ uniform. He'd be taking long chances
too. He had always been a fool....
From his cover he marked the dawn while the fighting raged--then
sunrise. The fire seemed to slacken and then move farther away. The
line was still advancing and only the wounded were coming in--some of
them walking cases, with bandaged heads and arms. He eyed them through
the bushes furtively--vengefully. Why couldn't he have gotten a wound
like that--in the afternoon in the wheat field--instead of finding the
head of Levinski and the terror that it had brought? Other wounded were
coming on stretchers now. The gully near him made an easy path to the
plain below and many of them passed near him ... but he lay very still
beneath the leaves. What if Jim came back on a stretcher...! What
should he do?
Then suddenly as though in answer to his question two men emerged from
the hollow above and approached, carrying something between them. There
was a man of Harry's own platoon and a sergeant of the company. He heard
their voices and at the sound of them he cowered lower.
"Some say he showed yellow yesterday in the wheat field," said the
private.
"Yellow! They'd better not let _me_ hear 'em sayin' it----"
They were talking about _him_--Harry Horton. And the figure, lying
awkwardly, a shapeless mass----?
At the risk of discovery, the coward straightened and peered down into
the white face ... Jim!
Harry Horton didn't remember anything very distinctly for a while after
that, for his thoughts were much confused. But out of the chaos emerged
the persistent instinct of self preservation. There was no use trying
to find Jim's squad now. He wouldn't know them if he saw them. And how
could he explain his absence with no wound to show? For a moment the
desperate expedient occurred to him of thrusting himself through the leg
with the bayonet. He even took Jim's weapon out of its scabbard. But
the blue steel gave him a touch of the nausea that had come over him in
the wheat field.... That wouldn't do. And what was the use? They had
Harry Horton lying near death on the stretcher. What mattered what
happened to the brother? There was no chance now to exchange
identities. Perhaps there was never to be a chance.
He sank down again into the thicket, pulling the leaves about him. He
would find a way. It could be managed. "Missing"--that was the safest
way out.
That night, limping slightly, he emerged and made his way to the rear.
It was ridiculously easy. Of the men he met he asked the way to the
billets of the --th Regiment. But he didn't go where they told him. He
followed their instructions until out of sight of them, and then went in
the opposite direction.
He managed at last to get some food at a small farm house and under the
pretext of having been sent to borrow peasant clothing for the
Intelligence department, managed to get a pair of trousers, shirt, coat
and hat. He had buried his rifle the night before and now when the
opportunity came he dropped the bundle of Jim Horton's corporal's
uniform, weighted by a stone, into deep water from a bridge over a
river. With the splash Corporal James Horton of the Engineers had
ceased to exist.
At the end of two weeks, thanks to some money that he had found in Jim's
uniform--and a great deal of good luck--he was safe in a quiet pastoral
country far from the battle line. Here he saw no uniforms--only old men
and women in blouses and sabots, occupying themselves with the harvest,
aware only that the Boches were in retreat and that their own fields
were forever safe from invasion. He represented himself as an American
art student of Paris, driven by poverty from the city, and offered to
work for board and lodging. They took him, and there he stayed for
awhile. There was a girl in the family. It was very pleasant. The
nearest town was St. Florentin, and Paris was a hundred miles away. But
after a few weeks he wearied of it, and of the girl, and having twenty
francs left in his pockets stole away in the middle of the night.
Paris was the place for him. There identities were not questioned. He
knew something of Paris. Piquette Morin! He could get her help without
telling any unnecessary facts. As to Barry Quinlevin and Moira--that
was different. It wouldn't be pleasant to fall completely in the power
of a man like Barry Quinlevin--even if he was now his father-in-law.
And Moira ... No. Moira mustn't ever know if he could prevent it. And
yet if Jim Horton in Harry's uniform had been killed Harry would be
officially dead. He was already dead, to Moira, if Jim Horton had
revived enough to tell the truth. It wasn't a pretty story to be spread
around. But if Jim were alive ... what then?
There were ways of getting along in Paris. He would find a way even if
... Moira! He would have liked to be able to go to Moira. She was the
one creature in the world whose opinion seemed to matter now. She would
have been his on the next furlough. He knew women. If you couldn't get
them one way you could another. Already her letters had been
gentler--more conciliatory. His wife--the wife of an outcast! God!
Why had he ever gone into the service? How had he known back there that
he wouldn't have been able to stand up under fire--that he would have
found the grinning head of the hated Levinski in the wheat field? Waves
of goose flesh went over him and left him cold and weak.... A sullen
mood followed, dull, embittered, and vengeful, against all the world,
with only one hope.... If Jim were alive--and silent!
That opened possibilities--to substitute with his brother and come back
to his own--with all the honors of the fool performance! It was _his_
name, _his_ job that Jim had taken, and his brother couldn't keep him
out of them. He could make Jim give them up--he'd _make_ him. If he
couldn't come back himself, he would drag Jim down with him--they would
be outcast together. In the dark that night he would have managed in
some way to carry out the Major's orders if Jim hadn't found him just at
the worst moment. What right had Jim to go butting in and making a fool
of them both! D--n him!
He found his way into Paris at the end of a dreary day of tramping. He
had a few francs left but he was tired and very hungry. With a lie
framed he went straight to the apartment of Piquette Morin. She had
gone out of town for a few days.
That failure baffled him. He had a deposit in a bank, but he dared not
draw it out. So he trudged the weary way up to Montmartre, saving his
sous, and hired a bed into which he dropped more dead than alive.
Thus it was that two nights later, unable yet to bring himself to the
point of begging from passersby, with scant hope indeed of success, his
weary feet brought him at last to the Rue de Tavennes. Hiding his face
under the shadow of his hat he inquired of the _concierge_ and found
that the apartment of Madame Horton was _au troisieme_. He strolled past
the _porte cochere_ and walked on, looking hungrily up at the lighted
windows of the studio. Moira was there--his wife, Barry Quinlevin
perhaps. Who else? He heard sounds of laughter from somewhere upstairs.
Laughter! The bitterness of it! But it didn't sound like Moira's
voice. He walked to and fro watching the lighted windows and the
entrance of the _concierge_, trying to keep up the circulation of his
blood, for the night was chill and his clothing thin. He had no
plan--but he was very hungry and his resolution to remain unknown was
weakening. A man couldn't let himself slowly starve, and yet to seek
out any one he knew meant discovery and the horrible publicity that must
follow. The lights of the _troisieme etage_ held a fascination for him,
like that of a flame for a moth. He saw a figure come to a window and
throw open the sash. He stared, unable to believe his eyes. It was a
man in the uniform of an officer of the United States Army--his own
uniform and the man who wore it was his brother Jim! Alive--well,
covered with honors perhaps--here--in Moira's apartment? What had
happened to bring his brother here? And Moira ...
His head whirled with weakness and he stood for a moment leaning against
the wall, but his strength came back to him in a moment, and he peered
up at the window again. The light had gone out. Jim masquerading in
his shoes--with Moira--as her husband--alone, perhaps, in the apartment!
And Moira? The words of conciliation in her last letters which had
seemed to promise so much for the future, had a different significance
here. Fury shook him like a leaf, the fury of desperation, that for the
moment drove from his craven heart all fear of an encounter with his
brother.
There was a sound of a door shutting and in a moment he saw the man in
uniform emerge by the gate of the _concierge_. He walked toward the
outcast, his head bent in deep meditation. There was no doubt about its
being Jim. With clenched fists Harry barred his way, the thought that
was uppermost in his mind finding utterance.
Jim Horton stopped, stepped back a pace and then peered at the man in
civilian clothing from beneath his broad army hat-brim.
"Harry!" he muttered, almost inaudibly.
"What are you doing here--in this house?" raged Harry in a voice thick
with passion. And then, as no reply came, "Answer me! Answer me!"
One of Harry's fists threatened but his brother caught him by the wrist
and with ridiculous ease twisted his arm aside. He was surprised as
Harry sank back weakly against the wall with a snarl of pain. "D--n
you," he groaned.
This wouldn't do. Any commotion would surely arouse the curiosity of
Madame Toupin, the _concierge_.
"Keep a civil tongue in your head, Harry," he muttered, "and I'll talk
to you."
He caught him firmly by the arm, but Harry still leaned against the
wall, muttering vaguely.
"A civil tongue--_me_? You--you dare ask me?"
"Yes," said Jim gently, "I've been trying to find you."
"Where?" leered Harry, "in my wife's studio?"
Jim Horton turned suddenly furious, but shocked into silence and inertia
by the terrible significance of the suspicion. But he pulled himself
together with an effort.
"Come," he said quietly. "Let's get away from here."
He felt Harry yield to the pressure of his fingers and slowly they moved
into the shadows down the street away from the gas lamps. A moment
later Harry was twitching at his arm.
"G-get me something to cat. I--I'm hungry," he gasped.
"Hungry! How long----?"
"Since yesterday morning--a crust of bread----"
And Jim had been eating goose----! The new sense of his own guilt
appalled him.
"Since yesterday----!" he muttered in a quick gush of compassion.
"We'll find something--a _cafe_----"
"There's a place in the Rue Berthe--Javet's," he said weakly.
Jim Horton caught his brother under an elbow and helped him down the
street, aware for the first time of the cause of his weakness. He
marked, too, the haggard lines in Harry's face, and the two weeks'
growth of beard that effectually concealed all evidence of
respectability. There seemed little danger of any one's discovering the
likeness between the neatly garbed lieutenant and the civilian who
accompanied him. But it was well to be careful. They passed a
brilliantly lighted restaurant, but in a nearby street after awhile they
came to a small _cafe_, not too brightly lighted, and they entered.
There was a polished zinc bar which ran the length of a room with low,
smoke-stained ceilings. At the bar were two cochers, in shirt sleeves,
their yellow-glazed hats on the backs of their heads, sipping grenadine.
There was a winding stair which led to the living quarters above, but
through a doorway beside it, there was a glimpse of an inner room with
tables unoccupied. They entered and Jim Horton ordered a substantial
meal which was presently set before the hungry man. The coffee revived
him and he ate greedily in moody silence while Jim Horton sat, frowning
at the opposite wall. For the present each was deeply engrossed--Jim in
the definite problem that had suddenly presented itself, and the
possible courses of action open to do what was to be required of him;
Harry in his food, beyond which life at present held no other interest.
But after a while, which seemed interminable to Jim, his brother gave a
gasp of satisfaction, and pushed back his dishes.
"Give me a cigarette," he demanded with something of an air.
Jim obeyed and even furnished a light, not missing the evidences of
Dutch courage Harry had acquired from the stimulation of food and
coffee.
It was curious what little difference the amenities seemed to matter.
They were purely mechanical--nor would it matter what Harry was to say
to him. The main thing was to try to think clearly, obliterating his
own animus against his brother and the contempt in which he held him.
Harry sank back into his chair for a moment, inhaling luxuriously.
"Well," he said at last, "maybe you've got a word to say about how the
devil you got here."
"Yes," said Jim quickly. "It's very simple. I was hit. I took your
identity in the hospital. There wasn't anything else to do."
Harry glowered at the ash of his cigarette and then shrugged heavily.
"I see. They think you're me. That was nice of you, Jim," he sneered,
"very decent indeed, very kind and brotherly----"
"You'd better 'can' the irony," Jim broke in briefly. "They'd have found
us out--both of us. And I reckon you know what that would have meant."
"H--m. Maybe I do, maybe I don't," he said shrewdly. "It was you who
found me--er--sick. Nobody else did."
"We needn't speak of that."
"We might as well. I'd have come around all right, if you hadn't butted
in."
"Oh, would you?"
"Yes," said Harry sullenly.
Jim Horton carefully lighted a cigarette from the butt of the other, and
then said coolly:
"We're not getting anywhere, Harry."
"I think we are. I'm trying to show you that you're in wrong on this
thing from start to finish. And it looks as though you might get just
what was coming to you."
"Meaning what?"
"That you'll take my place again. This----!" exhibiting with a grin his
worn garments. "You took mine without a by-your-leave. Now you'll give
it back to me."
An ugly look came into Jim Horton's jaw.
"I'm not so sure about that," he said in a tone dangerously quiet.
"What! You mean that----" The bluster trailed off into silence at the
warning fire in his brother's eyes. But he raised his head in a moment,
laughing disagreeably. "I see. The promotion has got into your head.
Some promotion--Lieutenant right off the reel--from Corporal, too.
Living soft in the hospital and now----" He paused and swallowed
uneasily. "How did you get to the Rue de Tavennes?"
"They came to the hospital--Mr. Quinlevin and--and your wife. I--I
fooled them. They don't suspect."
"How--how did you know Moira was my wife?"
"Some letters. I read them."
"Oh, I see. You read them," he frowned and then, "Barry Quinlevin's
too?"
"Yes--his too. I had to have facts. I got them--some I wasn't looking
for----"
"About----?"
"About the Duc de Vautrin," Jim broke in dryly. "That's one of the
reasons why I'm still Harry Horton and why I'm going to stay Harry
Horton--for the present."
If Jim had needed any assurance as to his brother's share in this
intrigue he had it now. For Harry went red and then pale, refusing to
meet his gaze.
"I see," he muttered, "Quinlevin's been talking."
"Yes," said Jim craftily, "he has. It's a pretty plan, but it won't
come off. You always were a rotter, Harry. But you're not going to hurt
Moira, if I can prevent."
It was a half-random shot but it hit the mark.
"Moira," muttered Harry somberly. "I see. You haven't been wasting any
time."
"I'm not wasting time when I can keep her--or even you--from getting
mixed up in dirty blackmail. That's my answer. And that's why I'm not
going to quit until I'm ready."
Harry Horton frowned at the soiled table cover, his fingers twitching at
his fork, and then reached for the coffee pot and quickly poured himself
another cup.
"Clever, Jim," he said with a cynical laugh. "I take off my hat to you.
I never would have thought you had it in you. But you'll admit that
living in my wife's apartment and impersonating her husband is going a
bit too far."
The laughter didn't serve to conceal either his fear or his fury. But
it stopped short as Jim's fingers suddenly closed over his wrist and
held it in a grip of iron.
"Don't bring _her_ into this," he whispered tensely. "Do you hear?"
And after a moment of struggle with himself as he withdrew his hand,
"You dared to think yourself worthy of her. _You_!"
"Be careful what you say to me," said Harry, trying bravado. "She's my
wife."
"She won't be your wife long, when I tell her what I know about you,"
finished Jim angrily.
He saw Harry's face go pale again as he tried to meet his gaze, saw the
fire flicker out of him, as he groped pitiably for Jim's hand.
"Jim! You--you wouldn't do that?" he muttered.
Jim released his hand, shrugged and leaned back in his chair.
"Not if you play straight with me--and with her. You want me to pay the
penalty of what I did for you--to go out into the world--an outcast in
your place. Perhaps I owe it to you. I don't know. But you owe me
something too--promotion--the _Croix de Guerre_----"
"The _Croix de Guerre_! Me----?"
"Lieutenant Harry G. Horton to be gazetted captain--me!" put in Jim,
with some pride. "Not you."
A brief silence in which Harry rubbed his scrawny beard with his long
fingers.
"That might be difficult to prove to my Company captain," he said at
last.
"You forget my wounds," laughed Jim. "Oh, they're _my_ wounds all
right." And then, with a shrug, "You see, Harry, it won't work. You're
helpless. If I chose to keep on the job, you'd be left out in the
cold."
"You won't dare----"
"I don't know what I'd dare. It depends on you."
"What do you mean?" broke in Harry with some spirit. "I couldn't be any
worse off than I am now, even if I told the truth."
Jim laughed. "_I_ tried to tell in the hospital and they thought I was
bug-house. Try it if you like."
Harry frowned and reached for another cigarette.