The Splendid Outcast

  *CHAPTER XI*

  *CONFESSIONS*

  It all seemed like a horrible dream to Moira--the revelation of Harry'svileness--the prison by the river, the police, the escape of Jim Hortonwith the unknown woman, the homeward ride with the police officer, andthe night in the studio-apartment with locked doors, waiting--listeningfor Harry's return, until at last through sheer exhaustion of mind andbody she had fallen asleep. And then, the visit the next day of thepolice officer, the questions that she had to answer. But he gotnothing from her beyond the mere skeleton of the tale which she hadgiven the night before. She wouldn't tell how she got to the RueCharron, some instinct still sealing her lips as to her husband's sharein the adventure, and inventing a tale that seemed to satisfy therequirements of the interview. No crime had been actually committedthough all the circumstances were suspicious. The officer told her thata search would be made for the man named Tricot and that Madame Hortonshould hold herself in readiness to appear against him, if necessary, atsome future time.

  The return of Harry Horton, her husband, the next afternoon, contriteand humility itself, was unpleasant, but they reached an understanding,pending the return of Barry Quinlevin from Ireland. She kept the secretof her visit to the house in the Rue Charron and her knowledge of theescape of the prisoner. She saw that her husband was worried andfurtive and she had no difficulty in exacting from him a promise not tomolest her. In return she promised silence, and he departed with everyprotestation of friendship and good will, somewhat reassured as to herintentions.

  As to Jim Horton, the twin brother who had worked such havoc in herlife, Moira was very much troubled and disturbed. The hurt to her pridewas grievous but the joy she had in the very thought of him seemed toassuage all wounds. She knew now that if he had died in the house inthe Rue Charron that night she would have worshiped him all her life asa martyr to their unfortunate affection. And the memories of JimHorton's tenderness on the day of their parting, the gentleness of hisabnegation, his struggle against the temptation of her nearness--allthese thoughts of him obliterating the horrors that had followed,returned and engulfed her with pity. Their love had seemed so perfect athing! But now--a mockery!

  She felt very friendless in the big studio, very much alone. Andyet--could she confess to her father her love for this brother who hadcome in and taken Harry's place? The hurt to her pride burned againangrily. Her father, like herself, had been deceived by the brother atthe hospital and what sympathy could she expect from him? He would befurious at the deception that had been practiced upon them both, andwould perhaps take Harry's part against her.

  Moira clenched her hands and stared long into the gray cinders of thefireplace. If it was to be war, she would fight. She had married Harryin a moment of pity because her father had wished it, but theunderstanding had been definite. And now she would rather runaway--even from her father--than to fulfill the terrible vows she hadtaken. Jim Horton--she wanted to hear his side of the story. Revivingfaith in him made her sure that if he were alive he would come to herand tell her everything....

  A cautious step on the stair outside--a knock. She went over quickly,turned the key in the lock, opened the door, then stood staring, unableto speak.

  "It's I, Moira," said Jim Horton gently.

  "You--," she faltered.

  "I said that I would come back, but I--I was detained," he said coolly.

  If he had expected her to be surprised at his appearance out of uniformshe gave no sign of it. She opened wide the door and stood aside.

  "I--I know," she murmured.

  "I won't stay long, but there were some things I wanted you toknow--some facts in extenuation of my conduct, that may make you thinkless bitterly of me----"

  "You look ill," she said, staring at him. "It is all too horrible tothink about----"

  "Horrible, if you like," he said slowly, misinterpreting her meaning,"but done in a weak moment with a good motive----"

  "Oh, not that. I mean, what they did to you--the danger you passedthrough----"

  "You know of that?"

  "Yes. I followed Harry, and got the police----"

  "It was you? Good God!"

  "It was the least that I could do--after I found out--from him--what hadhappened."

  He stared at her in incomprehension.

  "You mean that he confessed to you?"

  She nodded and then laughed nervously.

  "I don't know why I should be keeping you standing on thedoor-sill--like a model. If you've much to say you'd better say itsitting, Jim Horton."

  He started and stared at her, but she had closed the door behind him andled the way with an assumption of carelessness to the chairs by the deadfire, as though aware of its symbolism.

  "You know--the truth?"

  She shrugged. "What Harry--what my husband--has told me, no more--noless."

  He marveled at her ease, at the cruelty of her chosen phrases. And yethe could not cavil at them. It was clear that she meant that there wereto be no further misunderstandings, that she was shifting the burden tohis shoulders where it belonged. The sense of his culpability weighedupon him and he did not look at her, and so he missed the quick, anxioussensitive glances that searched his face for the truth in his heart.But he bent his head forward and stared into the ashes that had glowedso warmly a few nights ago.

  "I have come to speak the truth," he began, his voice deep, resonant andtrembling with his emotion. "A visit of confession andrenunciation----"

  "It's rather late, isn't it?" she said in a hard little voice that hescarcely recognized as her own. He knew that he deserved this of herand more, but it cut him none the less.

  "I will tell you the truth," he went on firmly. "And then you shalljudge for yourself. I owe it to you to tell the facts, but I owe it tomyself, too."

  She nodded and sat. And so, quietly, neglecting no detail, he told herof Harry, from the moment of their meeting on the battlefield until theyhad met outside in the Rue de Tavennes. He heard Moira gasp at themention of Harry's cowardice, but he went on to the end, without pause.

  "Something of what followed, you know," he went on quietly. "I tried totell them the truth in the hospital. I said I wasn't Harry Horton. Theydidn't believe me. They thought I was still out of my head. And so Ilay there for a while, silent. I think I must have been pretty weak."

  He paused a moment to gather his thoughts.

  "There were some letters to Harry. I had no right to read them. But Idid. A letter from you to him--about your marriage--showing what afarce it was. A letter from Barry Quinlevin----" He paused andfrowned. "It was an invasion of your privacy--and his--but you werenothing to me--then. I was sure that I would never meet you. I thoughtthat I would wait a few days before I tried to tell the officers of thehospital who I was. It was a hard thing to do--because it meant that Iwould have to pay the penalty of a military crime."

  "But sure, after what you'd done," Moira's voice broke in clearly, "theycouldn't be punishing you----"

  "Disgraceful imprisonment--and for Harry--the penalty of desertion inthe face of the enemy. You see there were two of us to consider."

  "Yes, I understand."

  "Then you came--suddenly--without warning." His voice sank to a deepmurmur and he bent his head. "It was a moment for a decision. I hadn'tit. I was weak. I let you believe that I was your husband. It--itseemed the easiest way just then. God knows I meant you no harm. AndGod knows I've suffered for it."

  He rose and leaned upon the mantel, his face turned away from her,summoning courage for the harder thing that he still had to say. "Andthere's something else, that made me do what I did----" he began.

  "Something more?" he heard her question. "What do you mean?"

  He paused a moment.

  "It's hard to tell you--but I must." And then, "Have you ever heard ofthe Duc de Vautrin?" he asked.

  "Yes," she uttered in bewildered tone, "the name
is familiar to me. Butwhat----?"

  "Mr. Quinlevin--has mentioned him?"

  "Yes, I think so. A man he met many years ago in Ireland. But why doyou ask?"

  "Because his life and yours are bound up in each other----"

  "Mine?"

  He paused painfully.

  "Moira, perhaps I'm breaking all the ties in your life that you hadthought most sacred, but I've got to tell you what I know."

  "I don't understand--you frighten me----"

  "God knows I've given you pain enough already. I'm a bird of ill-omen.But I'm going to go on, if you'll let me."

  She sat motionless, her strained white hands gripping the chair arm.

  "Under the cover of the dressing table, in the room there, where Islept, are the two letters that I read in my bed in the hospital--theone from you--the one from Barry Quinlevin. I left them there when Iwent away. Unless some one has removed them, they should be therenow----"

  In obedience to the suggestion, she rose and went quickly out into thehall and into the deserted room. Harry had not entered it nor had sheeven told him of the valises containing his impedimenta that had beensent down from headquarters. The letters were there. Trembling withuncertainty she found them and glanced at the familiar handwriting, herown and her father's, and then came back to the door of the studio.There she stood a moment, weighing the letters in her hands. Jim Hortonstood as she had left him, leaning upon the mantel-shelf, his gaze uponthe extinguished fire. It seemed that lost in his own gloomy reverie hehad already forgotten her. Never in all the weeks that she had knownhim, not even when he had lain in his hospital bed--had he seemed a morepitiful figure than now--needing her as she--God help her--needed him.What did it matter what this letter contained? In her heart she knewthat the only thing that mattered to her was the love that this man boreher. She had recognized it in the deep tones of his voice, which hadthrilled her again, and in the attitude of submission which hadanticipated the change in her sentiments.

  It was a moment for decisions, like his moment in the hospital. She hadonly to tell him to go and she knew that he would have obeyed her. Butlike Jim Horton, she no longer had the strength. Some instinct told herthat here in this outcast soldier--this splendid outcast--was a rockthat she could cling to....

  She glanced over the stair and then entering the studio quietly, slowlyapproached him, letters in hand.

  "You wish me to read----?" she asked.

  "Yes, please, Moira."

  She glanced at him and then sank into the armchair and opened BarryQuinlevin's letter. For a long while there was no sound but the rustleof the paper in her fingers. At last he heard her stir slightly andglanced up at her. Her face was deathly pale.

  "My father--de V--'The money has stopped coming'--What does it allmean?" she asked. "And what are those papers? What is the agencyworking against him? And what does he mean by putting the screws on?"

  "It means that Barry Quinlevin is--is blackmailing the Duc deVautrin--has been doing so for years," he said in a suppressed tone.

  She rose and faced him, her breast heaving.

  "Blackmail! My father----"

  He bowed his head.

  "Unfortunately it's the truth. He spoke to me of it in thehospital--thinking I was Harry----"

  She raised the letter again and read.

  "I can't believe--I can't----," but her words trailed off into silenceas she read again the damning phrases.

  His heart was full of tenderness and pity for her and he caught her bythe hand. "Moira, dear," he murmured, "I wouldn't have spoken ofthis--but _you_ are involved--I couldn't understand for a long while.They're using you as a cat's-paw--a snare--a stool-pigeon. Perhaps youdon't even know the meaning of the words--it's too hideous!"

  "Using _me_?" She seemed unaware of her fingers still in his. "How canthey use _me_? I know nothing whatever of this affair."

  He led her to her chair again and made her sit. "Listen," he saidgently, "and I will tell you all that I've found out about it----"

  "I can't believe--Who has told you?"

  "Piquette Morin----"

  "Piquette--?" Her brows drew together----

  "A friend of--of your husband's," he said. "It was she who firstdiscovered our dual identity in the Cafe Javet--a friend of Harry's--whotook pity on me."

  "The woman--who--who--helped you to escape?" she gasped, awakening.

  "Yes. She shared the secrets of this intrigue. And when they knockedme out, she guessed the truth, found out where they had put me and wentin through the passage from the river. It was she who took me back toher apartment and nursed me."

  "Oh," she faltered. "I--I see. But what reason have you to believethat she speaks the truth?"

  He had taken his place by the mantel again. "Unfortunately--I hadalready proved it by the mouth of Harry himself." He broke off and mether piteous eyes squarely. "Oh, I wouldn't have cared what they did, ifthey--if you hadn't been a part of the plan. I would have told you whoI was the other night and gone--away.... But it was too cruel. BarryQuinlevin is a strange man. He loves you--perhaps. He wants to see yourich--happy--but he became desperate when the source of his income wascut off----"

  "The Irish rents----?"

  "There were no Irish rents, Moira. The source of his income, all theseyears--and yours--has been--the Duc de Vautrin--hush money paid to keepa secret----"

  "Holy Virgin--! Then I----?"

  She paused, bewildered by the very terror of her thoughts.

  "Listen, Moira. You must know it all. As nearly as I can get it, thestory is this. Twenty-five years ago the Duc de Vautrin married anIrish heiress from Athlone in Galway named Mary Callonby, receiving withher her immense _dot_, with the provision from her father's will that ifany child was born, the fortune should go to that child in the event ofthe mother's death."

  "Callonby!" whispered Moira half to herself. "Athlone!"

  "The Duc de Vautrin was a beast and mistreated his wife, so that she ranaway from him into Ireland, where a daughter was born to her--MaryCallonby dying in childbirth." And then softly, "Do you follow me,Moira? It's very important."

  "I'm trying--to follow you," she murmured painfully.

  "When Mary Callonby left the Duc, de Vautrin went upon a voyage aroundthe world, enjoying himself with her money for two years, and unaware ofthe death of his wife or of the birth of his little daughter, who wascared for and nursed by a woman named Nora Burke----"

  "Nora Burke!" Moira had started up suddenly in her chair, her eyes widewith sudden comprehension.

  "You remember her----" he said.

  "My old nurse----!"

  "Yes. It's here that the story involves your fortunes and--and BarryQuinlevin's. The infant daughter of the Duc de Vautrin died at the endof a few months, without his being aware of it--without his even beingaware that a daughter had been born. The death of this child was kept asecret----"

  "But why? Why?" pleaded Moira, a glimmering of the intrigue coming toher.

  Jim Horton turned away again.

  "Because it was necessary that the Duc de Vautrin should remain inignorance of it."

  "Holy Virgin! You mean that Nora----?"

  "Nora Burke and Barry Quinlevin. You were of the same age as the childof the Duc de Vautrin. There were few neighbors. Your mother had alsodied in childbirth. Nora Burke came into Barry Quinlevin's house asnurse."

  "Oh, it is impossible!" gasped Moira. "I can't--I can't believe it."

  "It is what I'm to help you to prove."

  "But there must be papers--birth certificates--witnesses----"

  "Perhaps. I don't know, Moira. All of these things seem uncertain.The idea is that Barry Quinlevin, taking pity on the fatherless child ofthe Duc, and mourning his own child that had died, had brought thelittle girl into his own house to keep her until the Duc's return----"

  "Oh! It is infamous!"

  "That was the way Nora Burke came into the house of Barry Quinlevin, andthat was the way
you became the daughter and heiress of Mary Callonby."

  "I--her heiress?"

  He nodded.

  "I do not know all the facts, but it seems that when the Duc de Vautrinreturned to Paris, he was met by Barry Quinlevin with proofs of hisdaughter's existence. It was to the Duc's interest to keep the mattersecret, since the income from the Callonby fortune which he enjoyedwould of course go to the child. And from that day to this the matterhas been kept a secret and Barry Quinlevin has been paid for keepingit."

  Moira had risen and was pacing up and down the length of the studio.

  "It is too horrible--it bewilders me. Who told you all this?"

  "Piquette Morin--Harry told her."

  "And--and Harry--?"

  "His interests and yours were the same."

  She buried her face in her hands for a moment. "Wait," she gasped. "Imust think--think."

  So Jim Horton was silent, watching her anguish with pity and anxiety.But at last she grew calmer and sank into the chair, reading BarryQuinlevin's letter to Harry again.

  "And yet this might refer to something--something else--" she pleaded,catching at any straw that would save her from this disgrace.

  He shook his head.

  "I wish I could reassure you--but I can't. The facts are too clear."

  She was silent a moment, breathing hard.

  "It was terrible for _you_ to have to tell me this."

  "Yes--but you understand that I had to, don't you?"

  She bowed her head and he went on.

  "And now I only want you to tell me how I can help you--how I can makethings easier----"

  "What shall I do? What can I----" She halted again, intimidated at thethought of her father. And then--

  "If I were only sure.... Of course the Duc de Vautrin must be told atonce."

  "There's no hurry. You must think it over. Verify my statements, whenyou can----"

  "Yes, yes. I must--or refute them. I see that."

  "I want to help you. I'll do anything----"

  "Yes. I know--" she paused again. "Whom can I trust now?"

  He caught her fingers and pressed them softly to his lips.

  "It is a terrible situation for you--but you can't go on as a partner inthis intrigue----"

  "No, of course--I must be finding out--speaking to--to him--to myfather--" and then, turning to him, "Whom can I trust--unless it's you!"

  He relinquished her fingers and turned away.

  "I deceived you, Moira--cheated you----"

  "That doesn't matter now--nothing matters----"

  "You mean--that you will forgive me?"

  He leaned forward toward her, searching her face eagerly.

  "Yes--yes," she whispered.

  "Moira!"

  "God help me! I've the need of you."

  He fell to his knees beside the chair and took her in his arms. Hertrouble was so great--the crisis in her life so tragic!

  "I've tried to make myself believe I didn't care--," she went on,whispering, "that everything should be as it was before you came. Itried----"

  "You poor child----"

  "But in spite of myself--in spite of everything--my faith in you is justthe same."

  "Thank God for that. We must find a way out----"

  But she shook her head.

  "No. There's no way out--I'm sure of that--for me--and you. It'swrong--all wrong----"

  But she did not refuse him her lips now and he held her close in hisarms.

  "Moira," he whispered. "It was meant to be."

  "It's wrong--all wrong," she repeated. And then with a sigh, "Its verysweetness--is--terrible----"

  He touched her brow tenderly with his lips and then gently released her.

  "Do you want me to go?"

  But her fingers still held him.

  "No--no--not yet--not just yet, Jim. This is our moment--yours andmine. And I've been wanting you so----"

  "You knew that I'd come back to you, didn't you, dear?"

  "I've been praying that you would--you won't be going, Jim--away--as yousaid you would?"

  "No, dear--not--not if you need me--not if you want me. But I'm anondescript now--a deserter--an outcast."

  "The cruelty of it! You!"

  "I got what I deserved," he said with a smile.

  "And Harry? I can't be staying here if he's going to be here, Jim. Thevery touch of his fingers ... the sight of him, knowing what I do----"

  "He won't dare--I would have him broken----"

  "And give yourself up to the Military Police. No. You can't be thinkingof that. I'm not afraid of him--nor of my father. But--they can't bedisgracing you. You must keep in hiding. I see it all now. But youwon't be going away, Jim. Promise me that you won't go away."

  "And you'll let me see you?"

  "Yes. I _must_ see you. I can't let you go--not yet, Jim. I know it'swrong. I don't care about the wrong to Harry, but I _do_ think of thewrong I do myself and you. My love for you has been so clean--sobeautiful, Jim. it can't be anything else--for either of us."

  "I love you, Moira dear. I needn't tell you how----"

  "Don't you suppose that I know already, Jim? But it's so hopeless----"

  "Your marriage--a joke! It means nothing----"

  "A hideous joke--but a marriage just the same!"

  "You can't be tied to this man always----"

  "I _am_ tied to him. Oh, Jim--!" she broke off in her despair. "Don'tbe making it more difficult--don't be pleading with me for that--it'simpossible. I'd like to be going with you--away--somewhere just you andI--but I can't----"

  "I'll have patience. Some day----"

  "No, dear. That's the worst of it. It can't be, ever. I havesworn----"

  She stopped and they both listened, Moira started--frightened. Fromsomewhere down the stairway outside came the sounds of a laugh and ofvoices in conversation.

  "Harry!" she gasped. And with quick presence of mind ran to the door,turned the key in the lock and then listened. "My father, too--. Theymustn't find you here."

  "Yes," said Jim coolly. "I think we'd better have this thing out--hereand now."

  "No--no," she whispered tensely. "It would be the end of all things.Not yet. I must have time to think----"

  Already there was a knock upon the door. Moira had caught Jim by thearm and was hurrying him toward a closet in the corner of the room.

  "In here, quickly," she whispered. "You must. My father will go in theother rooms."

  "But, Moira----"

  "As you love me--please--," she pleaded, pushing him in, shutting thedoor. Then breathless, she turned and faced the door into the hallway.