"Well, it's settled now," said Jim, with an air of finality, turning
aside.
"What are you going to do?"
"Tell her--in the morning."
"You can't, Jim. Why, she'd go right to Quinlevin."
"I expect her to--and the Duke."
Harry leaned back against the wall, his fingers working at his trouser
legs, but he was speechless.
"That's about all, I think," said Jim dryly. "Good-bye."
"Then you won't listen--not if I promise----"
"What----?"
"Anything. Why, you've got me, Jim. I can't do a thing with you ready
to tell Moira--even if I wanted to. What's the use? It only means ruin
for you. Wait a few days and we'll have another talk; just wait until
to-morrow night. Give me a chance to think. I'll even--I'll even get
out of France and go out West somewhere and make a fresh start. I will.
I mean it. I did you a dirty trick once, but I'll try to square myself.
Give me a chance. Think it over. Meet me to-morrow. I'm all in
to-night. Promise you won't speak."
"No," said Jim, after a moment of deliberation. "I'll promise nothing,
but I'll meet you to-morrow night at Javet's--at twelve--with the
money."
Harry gasped a sigh of relief and straightened, offering his hand.
"Thanks, Jim. To-morrow. And you won't tell her, I know. You
couldn't. It would be too cruel. She'll suffer--my God! You know her.
Can't you see how she'd suffer?"
"I--I didn't start this thing----"
"But you'll finish it, Jim. She believes in _him_, even if she doesn't
believe in me. It will kill her."
He saw that he had made an impression on his brother. Jim stood silent,
his head bowed.
"Don't tell her to-morrow, Jim," Harry pleaded. "Promise."
Jim shrugged and turned.
"All right," he said at last. "I'll sleep on it."
He turned away and walked slowly out into the dim light of the street,
moving toward the Rue de Tavennes. He did not even turn his head to see
what became of his brother. Already he had forgotten him. The heat of
his passion had suffered a strange reaction. To resolve to tell Moira
the truth, even to threaten to tell her was one thing, but to tell was
another. And curiously enough Harry's picture of the consequences,
drawn even in the stress of fear, was true enough--Jim knew it--was
true. He knew her pride, her spirit. The revelation would kill
them--and destroy her.
She was so dependent on him. She didn't know how greatly. And he had
been until the present moment so dependent upon her. He realized what
her visits had meant to him, how deep had been the joy of their evening
alone in the studio. He did not dare to think of her now as he had been
thinking of her then--for during the weeks of his convalescence and the
culmination of their friendship to-night Harry had seemed far off, vague
and impalpable. But their meeting had changed all this and he was
thankful that he had had enough manhood to keep his wits when he had
been alone with her. Moira--the pity of it--had given him signs (that
he might read and run) that the mockery of the marriage was a mockery no
longer. And it was her very confession of indifference and pity for
Harry as she had known him, that seemed to give Jim the right to care
for and protect her. He _did_ care for her, he was now willing to
confess in a way far from fraternal. He had always been too busy to
think about women, but Moira had crept into his life when he was ill and
unnerved, needing the touch of a friendly hand, and their peculiar
relationship had given him no chance of escape--nor her. She had
captured his imagination and he had succeeded where Harry had not in
winning her affection.
It was a dangerous situation and yet it fascinated him. The knowledge
that he must cause her suffering had weakened his resolve for a moment,
but as he walked into the Rue de Tavennes he saw it for the fool's
paradise that it was. He would spend to-morrow with her--just
to-morrow--that could do no harm and then--she should know everything.
He found his way into the court and up the stairs. The studio door was
closed, implacable as the destiny that barred him from her.
He went into his room, closed the door and slowly undressed. Then lay
on the bed, staring for a long while at the reflection of the
street-lamp upon the ceiling: Moira ... happiness ... reputation--and
dishonor. Or ... outcast ... but honorable.
*CHAPTER VI*
*YOUTH TRIUMPHANT*
But weariness and anxiety had to pay tribute at last and he slept. It
was broad daylight when he awoke to the sound of a loud hammering upon
the door and a high, clear, humorous voice calling his name.
"Lazy bones! Get up! Will you be lying abed all day?"
"A--all right----"
He opened his eyes with an effort and glanced at his wrist watch----
Eight o'clock.
"Coffee in the studio, Harry dear, in ten minutes."
"Oh! All right----"
The hammering stopped, foot-steps retreated and Jim Horton tumbled out,
rubbing his eyes and gazing at the golden lozenges of light upon the
wall. It was a most inspiriting _reveille_, arresting as the shrill
clarion of camp on a frosty morning; but sweeter far, joyous with
promise of the new day. It was only during the progress of his hasty
toilet that the douche of cold water over his head and face recalled to
him with unpleasant suddenness and distinctness the events of the night
before, and he emerged from vigorous rubbing exhilarated but sober.
There was a lot of thinking to be done and a difficult resolution to
make, and with Moira at his elbow it wasn't going to be easy. But by
the time he knocked at the door of the studio, the pleasure of the
immediate prospect made ready his good cheer for the morning greeting.
He heard her voice calling and entered. A new fire blazed on the
hearth, and an odor of coffee filled the air. She emerged from the door
of the small kitchen, a coffee-pot and a heaping plateful of _brioches_
in her hands.
"Good morning! I've been waiting for you an hour or more. You've been
developing amazing bad habits in the hospital."
"Why didn't you call me before?"
"Sure and I believed you might be thinking I was anxious to see you."
"And aren't you?"
"And do you think I'd be telling--even if I was?"
"You might."
"And I won't. Will you have your coffee with cream and sugar?"
"If you please."
It was real cream and real sugar--some magic of Madame Toupin's, she
explained, and the _brioches_ were unsurpassed. And so they sat and
ate, Moira chattering gayly of plans for the day, while the ancient
dowager upon the easel who had braved the Fokkers and the long-range
cannon looked down upon them benignly and with a little touch of pity,
too, as though she knew how much of their courage was to be required of
them.
Horton ate silently, putting in a word here and there, content to listen
to her plans, to watch the deft motions of her fingers and the changing
expressions upon her face. Once or twice he caught her looking at him
with a puzzled line at her brows, but he let his glance pass and spoke
of casual things, the location of the bank where he must get his money,
the excellence of the coffee, the kindness of Nurse Newberry, aware that
these topics were not the ones uppermost in his mind, or in hers.
"You're a bit subdued this morning, Harry dear," she said at last,
whimsically. "Maybe that goose was too much for you."
"Subdued!" he laughed.
"You have all the air of a man with something on his conscience. You
used to wear that look in America, and I let you be. But somehow things
seemed different with us two. Would you be willing to tell me?"
"There isn't a thing--except--except your kindness. I don't deserve
that, you know."
She looked at him seriously and then broke into laughter.
"Would it make you feel more comfortable if I laid you over the
shoulders with a mahl stick?"
"I think it would," he grinned.
"Sure and that is one of the few pleasant prerogatives of matrimony--in
Ireland."
"And elsewhere----" added Horton.
"But I do want to know if anything's troubling you. Are you still
worried----" she took a _brioche_ and smiled at it amiably, "because
we're not appropriately chaperoned?"
"No--not so much. I see you're quite able to look out for yourself."
"And you derive some comfort from the fact?" she asked.
He looked at her, their eyes met and they both burst into laughter.
"Moira--you witch! But you'd better not tempt me too far."
"Sure and I'm not afraid of you, alanah," she said, sedate again and
very cool, "or of any man," and then, mischievously, "But your doubts
needn't have kept you from kissing me a good morning."
"It's not too late now," said Horton, abruptly rising and spilling his
coffee. He passed the small table toward her but she held him off with
a hand.
"No. The essence is gone. You'll please pick up your coffee-cup and
pass the butter. Thanks. It's very nice butter, isn't it?"
"Excellent," he said gloomily.
"And now you're vexed. Is there no pleasing a man?"
"If you'd only stop pleasing--you'd make it easier for me to see a
way----"
She was all attention at once, listening. But he paused and set his
coffee-cup down with an air of finality.
"Stop pleasing! Sure and you must not ask the impossible," she said,
her mouth full.
But he wouldn't smile and only glowered into the fire. "I want you to
let me try to pay you what I owe you--to earn your respect and
affection----"
"Well, I'm letting you," she smiled over her coffee-cup.
"I--I've gotten you under false pretenses--under the spell of a--a
temporary emotion--a sense of duty," he rambled, saying partly what
Harry might say and partly what was in his own heart. "I want to win
the right to you, to show you that--that I'm not as rotten as you used
to think me----" He didn't know how far the thought was leading and in
fear of it, rose and walked away, suddenly silent.
"Well," he heard her saying, "I don't think you are."
Was she laughing at him? He turned toward her again but the back of her
dark head was very demure. He approached quite close, near enough to
touch her, but she held the coffee-cup to her lips, and then when she
had drunk, sprang up and away.
"What's the use of thinking about the past or the future, alanah, when
we have the present--with a gorgeous morning and happy Paris just at our
elbows. _Allons_! You shall wash the coffee-cups and the pot while I
put on my hat, for there's nothing like sticking something into a man's
hands to keep them out of mischief. And then we'll be wandering forth,
you and I, into the realms of delight."
He was glad at the thought of going out into the air, away from the
studio, for here within four walls she was too close to him, their
seclusion too intimate. If he only were Harry! He would have taken her
tantalizing moods as a husband might and conquered her by strength and
tenderness. But as it was, all he could feel beside tenderness was pity
for her innocence and helplessness, and contempt and not a little pity
for himself.
But the air of out-of-doors was to restore him to sanity. It was one of
those late November days of sunshine, warm and hazy, when outer wraps
are superfluous, and arm in arm, like two good comrades, and as the
custom was in the _Quartier_, they sauntered forth, in the direction she
indicated. There were to be no vehicles for them, she insisted, for
_fiacres_ cost much and money was scarce. Life seemed to be coursing
very strongly through her veins, and the more he felt the contagion of
her youth and joy, the more trying became the task he had set himself.
But sober though he was, within, he could not resist the spell of her
enthusiasms and he put the evil hour from him. This day at least should
be hers as nearly as he could make it, without a flaw. They turned down
the Boul' Miche' and into the Boulevard St. Germain, past the Beaux Arts
which she wished to show him, then over the Pont des Arts to the Right
Bank. They stopped on the quai for a moment to gaze down toward the
towers of Notre Dame, while Moira painted for him the glories that were
France. He had lived a busy life and had had little time for the
romances of great nations, but he remembered what he had read and,
through Moira's clear intelligence, the epic filtered, tinctured with
its color and idealism.
[Illustration: THROUGH MOIRA'S CLEAR INTELLIGENCE THE EPIC FILTERED]
Then under the arches of the Louvre to the Avenue de l'Opera, and toward
the banking district. All Paris smiled. The blue and brown mingled
fraternally and the streets were crowded. Except for the uniforms,
which were seen everywhere, it was difficult to believe that hardly a
month ago the most terrible war in history had been fought, almost at
the city's gates.
When he reached his bank, which was in the Boulevard des Italiens, near
the _Opera_, Jim Horton had to move with caution. But Moira fortunately
had some shopping to do and in her absence he contrived to get some
checks, and going into the Grand Hotel drew a check signed with his own
name, and payable to Henry G. Horton, and this he presented for payment.
There was some delay and a few questions, for the amount was
large--three thousand francs--but he showed the letters from Moira and
Quinlevin. It was with a sigh of relief that he went out and met Moira
near the _Opera_. With a grin he caught her by the arm, exhibiting a
large packet of bank-notes, and led the way down the avenue by which
they had come.
"And where now, Harry dear?"
"I'm hungry. To the most expensive restaurant in Paris for _dejeuner_.
If I'm not mistaken we passed it just here."
"But you must not--I won't permit----"
He only grinned and led her inside.
"For to-day at least, Moira, we shall live."
"But to see Paris, _en Anglais_, that is not to live----"
"We shall see."
The tempting meal that he ordered with her assistance, did much to
mollify her prudence and frugality and they breakfasted in state on the
best that the market provided.
Afternoon found them back in the Boulevard St. Germain again, after an
eventful interim which Jim Horton had filled, above her protests, in a
drive through the _Bois_ and a visit, much less expensive, to a _cinema_
show, during which she held his hand. And now a little weary of all the
world, but happy in each other, they drifted like the flotsam of all
lovers of the _Rive Gauche_ toward the Gardens of the Luxembourg. They
sat side by side on the balustrade overlooking the esplanade and lawn in
front of the Palace, watching the passers-by, always paired, _piou-piou_
and milliner, workman and _bonne_, _flaneur_ and _grisette_, for the
warm weather had brought them out. There was no military band playing,
but they needed no music in their hearts, which were already beating in
time to the most exquisite of interludes. Twilight was falling, the
Paris dusk, full of mystery and elusive charm; lights beyond the trees
flickered into being, and the roar of the city beyond their
breathing-spot diminished into a low murmur. For a while their
conversation had relapsed into short sentences and monosyllables, as
though the gayety of their talk was no longer sufficient to conceal
their thoughts, which, throwing off subterfuge, spoke in the silences.
At last Moira shivered slightly and rose.
"Come," she said gently, "we must be going," and led the way toward the
exit from the Gardens on the Boulevard St. Michel. Horton followed
silently--heavily, for the end of his perfect day was drawing near and
with it the duty which was to bring disillusionment and distress to
Moira and ostracism and hell to him.
But when they reached the studio Moira set with alacrity at putting
things to rights and preparing the evening meal.
"We shall be having cold goose and a bit of salad, you extravagant
person," she said. "I feel as though I had no right to be eating again
for a week."
And so they dined upon the remains of their feast, but warmed by the
cheerful blaze, both conscious of the imminent hour of seclusion and
affinity. Moira had little to say and in the silences Jim caught her
gaze upon him once or twice as though in inquiry or incomprehension, and
wondered whether in their long day together, he had said or done
anything which might have led her to suspect the truth. But he had been
cautious, following her leads in conversation, and playing his
discreditable role with rather creditable skill. The end was near. He
would see Harry to-night at Javet's and to-morrow he would tell her, but
it was like the thought of death to him--after to-day--and he failed to
hide from her the traces of his misery.
"I wish that you would tell me what worries you," she said gently, after
a long silence.
He started forward in his chair by the fire. "Er--nothing," he
stammered, "there's nothing."
"Yes, there is," she said, evenly. "I know. I've felt it all day--even
when you seemed most happy." And then quickly, "Is it me that you're
worrying about?"
"About you?" he asked to gain time, and then, grasping at the straw she
threw him, "about--you--yes--Moira," he said quietly.
It was the first definite return to the topic of the morning, which they
had both banished as though by an understanding. But Moira was
persistent.
"Why?" she asked.
"Because--because I don't deserve--all this--from you."
She smiled softly from her chair nearby.
"Don't you think I'm the best judge of that?"
"No," he said miserably. "No."
"You can't deny a woman the faith of her intuitions."
"And if I proved your intuitions false----"
"Sure and I'd never speak to you again," she put in quaintly.
"It might be better if you didn't," he muttered, half aloud.
She heard him, or seemed to, for she turned quickly and laid her hand
over his.
"Don't be spoiling our day, dear," she said earnestly. "God has been
good in bringing you back to me. Whatever happens I won't be regretting
it."
His fingers caught and pressed hers and then quickly relinquished them
as he rose, struggling for his composure.
"You _will_ regret it," he said fiercely. "I tell you you can't thank
God for me, because I'm not what you want to think me. I'm what the
Harry you knew in America was, only worse--a liar, a cheat----"
He paused as she rose, saving himself the revelation on the tip of his
tongue by the sight of her face in the firelight as she turned. It was
transfigured by her new faith in him, and in her joy in the possession.
She came to him quickly, and put her soft fingers over his lips, while
the other arm went around his shoulders.
"Hush, alanah," she said.
"No--you mustn't, Moira," he muttered, taking her hands down and
clasping them both in his. "You mustn't." And then, at the look of
disappointment that came into her eyes, caught both her hands to his
lips and covered them with kisses. Against the sweet allure of her he
struggled, sure that never mortal man had been so tried before, but
surer still that the love he bore for her was greater than all
temptation.
She looked at him, flushed at the warmth of this formal caress, which
left no doubt of him, but marveling at his renunciation of her lips,
which had been so near.
"I can't be listening when you call yourself such names."
"You don't understand--and I can't tell you--anything more just now. I
haven't--the will."
He noted the look of alarm which was a token of the suffering he must
cause her and he led her to his chair and made her sit.
"I can't make you unhappy--not to-night. I--I'm sorry you read my
thoughts. I shouldn't have let you see."
He had turned to the fire and leaned against the chimney piece. And
after a moment, clear and very tender, he heard her voice.
"You must tell me everything, alanah. I've got the right to it now."
He shook his head in silent misery.
"But you must."
"No. I can't."
"Yes. You see, things are different with us two. You've made me know
to-day how different. Last night I called to your mind the mockery we'd
been through, calling it marriage. But it _was_ a marriage, and the
dear God has willed that my heart should beat for you as gently as that
of any mother for its babe. It softened in the hospital, dear, when I
saw you lying there so pale and weak against the pillows, and I knew
that if God spared you for me I would make amends----"
"_You_--make amends----" he gasped.
"By giving you all that I had of faith, hope and charity. Whatever you
were, whatever you are, dear, you're mine, for better or for worse, and
I believe in you. And your troubles, whatever they are--I'll take my
half of them."
"You can't----" he groaned.
"Not if they concern me," she continued simply, "for they're mine
already."
He took a pace or two away from her.
"You mustn't speak to me like this."
"And why not? You're mine to speak to as I please. Is it that you don't
love me enough, alanah?"
He knew that she wouldn't have asked that question, if she hadn't
already seen the answer in his eyes.
"Love you----?" he began, his eyes shining like stars. And then
suddenly, as though their very glow had burned them out, they turned
away, dull and lusterless. She watched him anxiously for a moment and
then rose and faced him.
"Well----" she said softly, "I'm waiting for your answer."
"I--I can't give you an answer," he said in a colorless voice.
"Then I'll be giving the answer for you, my dear, for I'm not without
eyes in my head. I know you love me and I've been knowing it for many
days. And it's the kind of love that a woman wants, the love that gives
and asks nothing." She paused, breathing with difficulty, the warm
color rising to her temples, and then went on gently, proudly, as though
in joy of her confession. "And I--it is the same with me. I've tried to
make you understand.... It is not for you to give only...." She halted
in her speech a moment and then came close to him, her clear gaze
seeking his. "I love you, not for what you have suffered, dear----" she
whispered, "but for what you are to me--not because you are my husband,
but because you are _you_--the only one in all the world for me."
"Moira," he whispered, tensely, as his arms went about her. "God
forgive me--I worship you."
"God will forgive you that, alanah," he heard her say happily, "since I
do."
He touched his lips to her brow tenderly ... then her lips.
"You love me," he muttered. "_Me_? You're sure that it's _me_ that you
love?"
Her eyes opened, startled at his tone.
"If it isn't you that I love, then I'm sure that I can't be loving any
one at all."
"And you'll believe in me--whatever happens?"
"I will----" she repeated proudly. "Whatever happens--since _this_ has
happened to us both."
"Some day--you'll know," he muttered painfully, "that I--I'm not what I
seem to be. And then I want you to remember this hour, this moment,
Moira, as it is to me.... I want you to remember how you came into my
arms when I hadn't the strength to repel you, remember the touch of my
lips in tenderness--and in reverence--Moira ... that love was too strong
for me ... for it has made me false to myself ... false to you...."
She drew away from him a little, deeply perturbed. "You frighten me,
alanah."
"I--I don't want to. To-morrow----" he paused, searching for strength
to speak. But it did not come.
"To-morrow. What do you mean?"
The repetition of the word seemed like a confirmation of his resolution
and shocked him into action. Quietly he took her hands down from his
shoulders, kissed them in farewell, and turned away.
"What do you mean?" she repeated.
"That--that to-morrow--you shall judge me."
The tense expression of her anxiety relaxed and she smiled.
"You needn't fear what that will be."
He did not reply but stood staring fixedly into the fire. She came
around to him and laid her fingers over his. "Why should we bother
about to-morrow, dear? To-day was yesterday's to-morrow and see what's
happened to us."
"But it shouldn't have happened," he groaned, "it shouldn't have
happened."
"Then why should I thank God for it----?"
"Don't----"
"Yes. Everything will be right. A woman knows of these things."
He smiled at her tenderly, but he didn't attempt to take her in his
arms.
"Come," she said, "let us sit down by the fire near the blaze, and we
will not speak of to-morrow--just of to-day and yesterday and the day
before, when you and I were learning this wonderful thing."
But he did not dare.
"Moira, I--I've got to go out for awhile--a matter of duty----"
"Now?" she faltered.
"I must. An engagement. I'm in honor bound----"
Now really alarmed, she caught him by the elbows and looked into his
eyes.
"An engagement--to-night! And to-morrow----?"
His meaning seemed to come to her with a rush.
"Harry----! This engagement to-night has something to do with us--with
me. To-morrow----! What is it, Harry? Speak!"
"I can't. I've promised."
"I won't let you go, Harry. It is something that has come between
us----"
"It has always been--between us----" he muttered.
She clung to him and held him as he moved toward the door.
"Nothing--nothing shall come between us. Nothing can. I don't care
what it is. 'Until death us do part'--Don't you understand what that
means, Harry?"
The repetition of his brother's name, the phrase from the marriage
service, gave him resolution to avert his face from the piteous pleading
in her eyes.
"It is because I understand what it means that I have--the courage to
go--now--before you despise me."
"I have said that nothing makes any difference. I swear it. I love
you, dear. There's some mistake. You'll never be different in my eyes,
whatever happens--whatever has happened."
"Good-bye, Moira," he whispered, his hands clasping her arms.
"No, no. Not now--not to-night. I knew that to-day was too beautiful
to last. You--you've frightened me. Don't go--_please_ don't go."
"Yes," he said firmly. "I must."
But she was strong, and greater than her strength was her tenderness.
"Look me in the eyes, dear, while I'm pleading with you. If your love
were as great a thing as mine----"
To look in her eyes, he knew, was fatal. One brief struggle and then he
caught her in his arms and held her close for a long moment, while he
whispered in broken sentences.
"My love! ... if you hadn't said that! You've _got_ to know what my
love means ... sacrifice.... This moment ... is mine.... Remember it,
dear--as it is ... its terrible sweetness--its sanctity--remember that,
too ... because that's the essence of it ... sanctity. God bless you,
Moira--whatever happens----"
"Whatever happens?"
As in a daze he straightened and looked around. Then almost roughly
broke away from her and rushed to the door, taking up his cap and
overcoat on the way.
"Harry----!"
"Good-bye," he called hoarsely as he opened the door and went out.
She rushed after him but he was already running furiously down the
stairs into the dark.
"Harry," she called, "Harry--come back!"
But the name of his brother made him rush on the more blindly, the
echoes following him down into the court and past the open gate of
Madame Toupin. He hadn't any definite idea of what he was going to do.
The only thing that he was sure of was that he must get
away--anywhere--away from Moira ... from the reproach of her innocent
eyes, of her confessions, of her tributes of submission and surrender.
On he plunged blindly down the street toward the Luxembourg Gardens,
into the outer darkness where he must lose himself away from
her--to-night, to-morrow,--for all time.
He had failed. He had trusted himself too far--trusted her too far.
Fool that he was not to have seen that love, begun by trivial
happenings, had been gathering strength and momentum and like an
avalanche had swept down and engulfed them both. In a moment of
reaction, of guilty triumph, he rejoiced, defiant of the conscience that
drove him forth, that it was him that she loved--not Harry; his lips
that had taken tribute--his ears that had received her confessions,
meant for them alone.
But reason returned after awhile ... and with it the sense of his
dishonor. The thing was over, definitely. There would be scorn enough
in her eyes for him to-morrow, when he told her all the truth. He
comforted himself with that thought and yet it brought him a pang too,
for he knew that it was Moira who was to suffer most.
He seemed to be the only person in the gardens, for the night was chill
and a thin mist of rain was falling. From time to time there were
footsteps here and there, and the murmur of voices, and through the
turmoil of his thoughts he was conscious of them vaguely. But they
meant nothing to him. He went on into the darkness, his head bowed, in
the conflict of his happiness and his remorse, reaching a dimly lighted
spot near the Rue d'Assas, when he heard quick footsteps behind him. He
turned just in time to dodge the blow of a stick aimed at his head,
which fell heavily on his shoulder. He struck out but another man
caught him around the waist, bearing him to the ground. He struggled to
one knee, striking viciously, but they were too many for him. He got a
glimpse of an automatic pistol which flashed before his eyes and then
something heavy struck him on the head. The last thing he noted before
losing consciousness was the pale face of the man with the automatic.
It was his brother--Harry.
*CHAPTER VII*
*AWAKENING*
Moira moved about in a daze, attempting in the commonplaces of the daily
routine to forget the thought of the revelation which she knew could not
be long delayed. She had lain all night on the divan in the studio,
listening and waiting for the return of the soldier, and at last, toward
daylight, from sheer exhaustion of mind and body, had fallen asleep.
When she awoke, her first impulse was to go to the room in the hallway
and knock. She opened the door. The bed had not been occupied.
Slowly, thoughtfully, she went back to the studio and the business of
preparing the coffee--for herself--and for Harry--when he should arrive.
Her mind was filled with strange doubts,--not of him, because she had
learned to have a complete, a perfect faith in this soldier that she had
married, who had left New York under a cloud of uncertainties and
suspicions and had come back to her spiritually reborn. The doubts in
her mind were those that he had purposely created in it, and fragments
of phrases that he had uttered in their moments of tenderness came back
to alarm and disturb her, because if he hadn't thought it necessary to
alarm and disturb her, he would have remained silent and permitted
himself to enjoy with her the hours that had been theirs together. Yes
... there was something that had come to thrust itself between
them--some impediment to their union. She smiled softly at the memory
of the restraint in his caresses, the purity of his smile and the
gentleness of his abnegation.... He had underestimated the quality of
her new faith in him.
Was this shadow out of the past? Perhaps. But it wouldn't matter.
Together they would exorcise it. Only the future mattered now--their
future together.
She stopped for a moment in her work of putting the studio to rights and
listened. She thought that she heard a step upon the stair. She waited
a while and then went to the door and peered out. No one. It _was_ a
little cruel that he had not sent her a message--a note, a _petit bleu_
even, telling when she must expect him, whatever his appearance might
bring. For this, she realized, was the "to-morrow" of which he had
spoken yesterday ... the day of revelations....
She tried to sing at her work but the effort was a failure. A morbid
fear of the thing that was to happen, if it hadn't already happened,
obsessed and held her. Nine--ten o'clock--eleven.... With a courage
born of desperation she went into her room and put on her hat. It was
insupportable, the suspense. There were some things to buy. She must
order them. And leaving word with Madame Toupin that she would return
within the hour, she walked briskly forth, breasting the keen air and
trying to smile. But even her walk was a failure, and in a short while
she was back, eagerly questioning Madame Toupin. No, Monsieur le
Lieutenant had not arrived. No doubt he was busy about the ceremony of
the presentation of the medals. Moira inquired and Madame Toupin showed
her an article in the paper about the honors to be given both French and
American officers next week in the Place de la Concord. There was his
name, "Henry G. Horton--Croix de Guerre." Madame Toupin let her have
the paper and she ran up to the studio, where she read it eagerly,
thrilling with pride.
Of course he had his reasons for not coming to her and telling her
everything. She must be patient--her faith in him unwavering. He would
come to her to-night again--and whatever he told her was to make no
difference in her love and faith in him--whatever he told her--she swore
it.
* * * * *
Late that night he came. She had built a fire of fagots against the
chill of the night and was sitting in the big armchair by the hearth
when she heard a knock at the studio door. With a cry of welcome she
rose and rushed to greet him, throwing herself impulsively into his
arms.
"Harry," she gasped happily, "at last!"
She couldn't help noting the slight movement of recoil before her
tenderness. Then, bending his head,
"Hello, Moira," he muttered.
She helped him off with his overcoat and led him over to the fire,
making him sit in the big arm-chair. He obeyed awkwardly, as one in a
daze, his brows frowning. The light was uncertain, but what she saw
alarmed her.
"Harry! What has happened to you?" she cried, catching him by the hands
and holding them. "You're ill--your fingers are cold--you look as
though---- What has happened?"
"Nothing," he murmured with an attempt at a smile. "Nothing at all."
But even the smile was different, as though the muscles acted in
obedience to an effort.
She had struck a match to make a light.
"What--what are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm going to see what's the matter with you. You look sick. You need
medicine."
"No," he protested. "I'm just tired. A drink of whisky if you've got
one----"
She went into Barry Quinlevin's room and brought forth a bottle, a glass
and a pitcher of water. With a hand that trembled a little, he poured
himself a drink and took it at a draught, and then gave a gasp of
relief. She had sat down near him and was regarding him with an
expression of intentness and eagerness, though the pucker at her brows
indicated a doubt and a fear. The gas light was at his back and she
could not clearly see his face, but there was something strange about
him that she had missed at his first entrance, a brooding sullenness,
remote, self-centered, that even the smile could not temper with
sweetness. And even while she watched he poured out another glass of
whisky.
"What is it, Harry?" she asked. "Tell me."
"It's nothing," he said. "I'm all in, I've had some worries. I'll be
all right.'
"Have you had something to eat?"
"Yes. I'm not hungry."
His voice too ... thin, weary, somber.
Now greatly alarmed, she caught his hand in both of hers.
"You must tell me everything, Harry. I don't care what it is--I--I've
got to know. You told me that you'd tell me to-day--to-night, and now
you must keep your promise. I've tried so hard not to worry and--and
when you didn't come back to me last night, I--I was really
frightened----"
"Were you?" he said, with a frown. "I was all right."
"I'm glad. But it was cruel of you not to send me a message."
"I couldn't. But I'm here now, Moira. So there's no need worrying any
more."
He put his hand over hers and leaned toward her. His words, which last
night would have given her happiness, seemed somehow to mean nothing to
her to-night. For his very presence in this condition was a threat
against her peace of mind. And his fingers might have been wax for all
that their touch meant to her.
"You--you're trying to make things seem better than they are," she said
steadily, wondering at her own words. "I--I'm not easily deceived. Last
night I knew that something had come between us. I know now that it's
still between us, Harry, whatever you say."
He turned away toward the glass at his elbow,
"No," he murmured, "that difficulty--has been removed."
He couldn't repress the smile of triumph as he took his drink, and she
saw it. It wasn't a pleasant smile.
"Come," he went on more easily, "aren't you glad to see me?"
"I--God knows whether I am or not. Something has happened to you--to
me.... You've been through something terrible--since
yesterday--something that has burnt the soul of you. What is it? What
is it? The touch of your fingers--your voice, they come from a
distance-like, with nothing of you in them. Am I ill that I should be
thinking of you so? Take me in your arms, Harry, and shield me from
this terror that you're not yourself, but some one else."
He obeyed, putting his arms around her and holding her close to him.
But at the touch of his lips to hers, she struggled free and faced him
by the hearth, pale as death. The look of bewilderment at her brows had
intensified into a steady gaze, almost of terror at the thought that had
suddenly mastered her. And yet she did not dare give utterance to it.
It was so outlandish, so mad and incomprehensible.
She saw the frown of anger, quickly masked in a smile of patience as she
broke away from him, and that confirmed her in her madness. She was
reading him keenly now from top to toe, missing nothing. And the
thought that dominated her was that the man with whom she had mated
during the past weeks, the man who had passed through the shadow of
death, reborn in body and spirit, the Harry that she had recently
learned to love--was dead; and that this man who had come to take his
place--this man--was what he might have been if God's grace had not
fallen on him. Madness? Perhaps. And yet how otherwise would the
touch of his lips, which last night she had sought in tenderness, have
been so repellent to her? Harry--her husband--unregenerate--the same
Harry that....
She kept her gaze fixed upon him and she saw his look flicker and fade.
If this reality was Harry, her husband, then were all the weeks that had
passed since she found him in the hospital merely a dream, was yesterday
a dream--last night?
"I--I don't know--what is the matter," she said at last, passing a hand
across her brows. "I--I am not well, perhaps. But you--you're not
the--not the same. I know it. The thoughts that I have of you frighten
me."
He forced a laugh and sank into his chair again, lighting a cigarette
with an assumption of ease.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
She only stood staring at him, her deep blue eyes never wavering from
his face, which was still averted from the light. He met that gaze
once--a second time, and then looked away, but still they stared at him,
wide like a child's, but full of a dawning wisdom.
"You--you are Harry Horton--my--my husband?" she whispered in a kind of
daze.
"Well, rather."
She paused another long moment as though on the verge of a difficult
decision and then spoke searchingly.
"If you are Harry--my husband--then who--_who is the other_?"