Chapter III: Part 3

"Monsieur le Duc still pays?"

Horton meditated for a moment.

"No," he said, "he has stopped paying."

Piquette Morin leaned further over the table, frowning.

"Ah! Since when?"

"For--er--three months or more."

"Then you t'ink he suspects somet'ing?"

"I don't know. It looks so, doesn't it?"

"Yes, perhaps." She paused a moment and then, "I make him talk about de past, as you ask' me to. I am no saint and de _bon Dieu_ has taught me to look out for myself. I shall continue. If he tries to get rid of me de way he did wit' his wife, he will find me troublesome."

Horton laughed. "I don't doubt it." And then, carefully, "You heard how he got rid of her?" he questioned.

"It was 'er riches, of course. 'E spent 'er '_dot_' in a few month gambling at Monte Carlo, and den when 'e came to 'er for more 'e abuse and beat 'er." She paused and her dark eyes snapped viciously. "'E would not have beaten me," she finished.

"And then?" he asked, wondering whither the conversation was leading.

"And den, as you know, she ran away to Ireland----"

"To Ireland----" he muttered eagerly.

"Of course," she said with a glance at him. "And when 'e got enough money 'e sail 'round de worl' enjoying himself. Even now sometimes 'e is a beast. It is den I come back to de _Quartier_ where I am born and bred--to be merry again." She sighed and then laughed gayly. "But to-night we mus' not talk of dis tiresome matter. It is your night, _mon vieux_, and we s'all make it 'appy."

He kissed the rosy palm she thrust to his lips, with difficulty concealing his curiosity.

"But the child of Monsieur the Duc----" he urged after the moment of _badinage_. "He said nothing----?"

He paused as though in doubt.

She shrugged carelessly and lighted a cigarette.

"Monsieur is cautious. 'E spoke not'ing of de child, except to say dat it died wit' de mother. De money came to 'im. Dat was all 'e cared about, _mon_ 'Arry."

To Jim Horton no light seemed to dawn. And how to question without arousing the girl's suspicions was more that he could plan. But he remembered Quinlevin's uncertainty in the hospital--his thought that Harry might have talked to this girl. So he took a chance.

"You asked the Duc no questions that might have aroused his suspicions?"

"No. I t'ink not. And yet I remember once 'e ask' me if I know Monsieur Quinlevin."

"And what did you reply?"

"Of course, dat I never heard of 'im."

He frowned at the cigarette in his fingers as Harry would have frowned and imitated as nearly as possible the sullen mood of his brother.

"The money has stopped coming to Quinlevin. We've got to do something."

"_Parfaitement_," said Piquette carelessly. "De time 'as come to produce de girl Moira and de papers."

Her glance was not upon his face or she would have seen the look of bewilderment and surprise suddenly distend his eyes. But she heard him gasp and turned again toward him. But by this time the missing pieces of the puzzle were at his fingers' ends and he gathered them quickly. It was Moira who all these years had unconsciously impersonated the dead child who would have inherited. And Quinlevin had bled the Duc for years with promises of silence. Harry had connived at the plot and now the coup they planned meant a sum of not less than "seven figures." And Piquette knew all. Blackmail it was--of the blackest.

For a moment he did not dare to speak for fear of betraying himself. And then only assented safely to her suggestion.

"Yes; it is the only thing to be done."

"It mus' be manage' carefully. You are sure de papers are all correct?"

"It is as to that Monsieur Quinlevin has gone to Ireland."

"Ah, I see--we mus' wait until 'e comes back. But I s'all 'elp you, _mon ami_. You will rely upon me, _n'est ce pas_?"

"Yes, I will."

His mind was so full of this astonishing revelation that he sat silent and motionless while she changed the subject and chattered on. The charm of the chance encounter was gone. _Gamine_ she might be, and irresponsible like others of her kind in Paris or elsewhere, but she was not for him. He had a standard to measure her by.

"You are so _triste_, 'Arry," she broke in suddenly. "I do not t'ink I like you so _triste_. What s'all we care, you and I, for Monsieur le Duc an' 'is money? To be young an' in love----"

She caught both of his hands across the table and held them. "You are not yet well, 'Arry. I can see. It is dat for so long you do not know comfort an' 'appiness. _Allons_! I s'all make you laugh again, until de _triste_ look come no more into your eyes."

He was about to give some token of his appreciation that would satisfy her when he saw her glance past his shoulder toward the door which led into the bar.

"Your frien' who was wit' you--'e 'as come back again," she whispered.

"Ah----" he turned and saw Harry peering through the door.

"'E wants you to come? _C'est embetant_! Sen' 'im away."

"I'm afraid I----" He rose uncertainly and turned. "Wait," he said, "I'll see." And then walked out into the bar where Harry obstinately awaited him.

"I've had enough of this," growled his brother. "You come out of here with me or I'll----"

"Don't be a fool. You could see that I couldn't help it."

"You can help it now----"

"All right. We'll have this thing out, you and I--to-night. You meet me at the corner toward the Boulevard in twenty minutes. I'll get rid of her."

And without waiting for a reply he returned to Piquette, his mind made up.

"I'm sorry," he said to her, "but I've some urgent business with this man. It can't be put off. But I must see you soon----"

She pouted and rose.

"I can't explain--not now. You won't be cross----"

"It is not--anodder woman----?" she asked shrewdly.

"Another----? How can you ask? No. There are no other women in Paris, Piquette."

"You are cruel," she muttered in a low tone, her dark eyes flashing.

"No. It is a matter of importance. Will you let me have your address----?"

"No 82 Boulevard Clichy--de same place."

"Good. To-morrow I will write you."

Without a word she gathered up her cloak and led the way out, looking about curiously for her enemy of the evening. But Harry had disappeared. She said nothing and they went out into the street where Jim Horton found a cab and put her into it.

"Mechant!" she whispered softly.

"It is not my fault, Piquette. Soon----"

He gave the address to the _cocher_ and she was gone.

Jim Horton stood for a moment listening to the sounds of the retreating _fiacre_ as it rattled away over the cobblestones and then turned slowly back, his anger at his discoveries, long repressed by the necessities of his masquerade, suddenly bursting the barriers of his self-control. Moira--innocent--the catspaw, the stool-pigeon for these two rascals! How much did she know? How could Quinlevin have carried the deception out all these years without de Vautrin suspecting something? And if, as it seemed, he was suspicious of them now, who had told? His own duty seemed very clear. Every impulse of honor and decency urged that he find this Duc de Vautrin and tell the whole truth. But there was Moira ... his first duty was to her. But telling her meant revealing the secret of Harry's disgrace and his own part in it. That would be a difficult thing to do, but he would have to do it. He would tell her to-morrow.

As for Harry--he would make short work of _him_. He went with long determined strides to the appointed spot and Harry met him with a threatening air.

"What the Hell has she been saying?" he muttered.

Jim Horton was angry, but he kept himself well in hand, aware of his own physical superiority to this blustering shell of intrigue, deceit and cowardice, built in his own image. If earlier in the evening he had had his moments of pity for his brother's misfortunes, if he had planned to make restitution for the imprudence that had resulted in their undoing, he had no such gentle feeling or purpose now.

As he didn't reply, his brother continued angrily. "You've gone about your limit, I tell you. What did she tell you?"

"Everything. I've got the whole story. And I'd like to tell you before we go any further that you're just about the crookedest----" He broke off with a shrug.

"What's the use? The worst thing I could say would be a compliment. But you've come to the end of your tether. I don't know why I hoped there might be a chance of getting you to go straight--for her--but I did. The interesting revelations of this charming lady have removed the impression. The money you took from the estate, your questionable deals in America, your habits, put you outside the pale of decency, but the blackmail of the Duc with your own wife as stool-pigeon----"

Harry in a sudden blind fury that took no thought of consequences struck viciously, but Jim, who had been watching for the blow, warded it, tripped his brother neatly and sent him spinning against the wall where he fell and lay motionless. But he was unhurt--only bewildered by the result of his own incapacity.

"Get up!" Jim ordered. "Somebody will be coming along in a moment and we'll both be going with the police."

Harry saw reason in that and slowly got to his feet, pale, still trembling with rage, rubbing his hip joint, but subdued. The place they had chosen was in the shadow and the hour was late, and no one was about, but Jim Horton took a glance up and down the deserted street before he resumed his interrupted remarks.

"I don't want any man's uniform when it's been defiled. You ought to have known that. I'm going to take it off and give it back to you."

He saw the eager surprised look that came into Harry's face and raised his hand in warning--"But not yet. First I'm going to tell your wife the truth and then I'm going to warn the Duc de Vautrin."

Harry started back as though to dodge another blow, the reaction of his venture setting in with the terror of this information.

"Jim!" he whispered, clutching at his arm. "You wouldn't do that, Jim. My God! It's ruin to me--and you too."

"I'm prepared for that----"

"Don't, for God's sake don't! Wait. I've met you half way, haven't I? I'll do anything you say. I'll steer Quinlevin off and drop the thing. It was his idea--not mine. And he wouldn't have thought of it if the old man hadn't shut off the allowance----"

"Tell me the truth," Jim broke in sternly. "How much money did Quinlevin owe you?"

"Twenty thousand dollars----"

"And that was Moira's price----" contemptuously.

"I wanted her. I loved her. I swear to God I did. I love her now. I'd give anything to be able to go to her to-night----"

"You----! You forget what I know."

"It's the truth."

"How much were you to get of this money of the Duc's?"

Harry halted, mumbling, "That wasn't settled."

"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.

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_?"

Harry Horton started. "The other----?"

"The other--who was here with me yesterday, who was ill in the hospital at Neuilly, wounded--the hero of Boissiere wood?"

"Moira," he said, rising, "this is serious. There has been no other here."

"Yes," she repeated doggedly, "the other has been here--your twin----" The word seemed born of her necessity. "Your twin," she repeated.

He winced at the word and she saw the change in his expression.

"Tell me the truth of this thing," she went on quickly, "_he_ said yesterday that something was to come between us. It was _you_." And then, as he made no reply, "For God's sake, speak----"

He turned away from the light.