Gibbs George
The Splendid Outcast

CHAPTER XI
CONFESSIONS

It all seemed like a horrible dream to Moira – the revelation of Harry's vileness – the prison by the river, the police, the escape of Jim Horton with the unknown woman, the homeward ride with the police officer, and the night in the studio-apartment with locked doors, waiting – listening for Harry's return, until at last through sheer exhaustion of mind and body she had fallen asleep. And then, the visit the next day of the police officer, the questions that she had to answer. But he got nothing from her beyond the mere skeleton of the tale which she had given the night before. She wouldn't tell how she got to the Rue Charron, some instinct still sealing her lips as to her husband's share in the adventure, and inventing a tale that seemed to satisfy the requirements of the interview. No crime had been actually committed though all the circumstances were suspicious. The officer told her that a search would be made for the man named Tricot and that Madame Horton should hold herself in readiness to appear against him, if necessary, at some future time.

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

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

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

Moira clenched her hands and stared long into the gray cinders of the fireplace. If it was to be war, she would fight. She had married Harry in a moment of pity because her father had wished it, but the understanding had been definite. And now she would rather run away – even from her father – than to fulfill the terrible vows she had taken. Jim Horton – she wanted to hear his side of the story. Reviving faith in him made her sure that if he were alive he would come to her and 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, unable to 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 uniform she 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 to know – some facts in extenuation of my conduct, that may make you think less bitterly of me – "

"You look ill," she said, staring at him. "It is all too horrible to think 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 passed through – "

"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 had happened."

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 the door-sill – like a model. If you've much to say you'd better say it sitting, Jim Horton."

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

"You know – the truth?"

She shrugged. "What Harry – what my husband – has told me, no more – no less."

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

"I have come to speak the truth," he began, his voice deep, resonant and trembling with his emotion. "A visit of confession and renunciation – "

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

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

She nodded and sat. And so, quietly, neglecting no detail, he told her of Harry, from the moment of their meeting on the battlefield until they had met outside in the Rue de Tavennes. He heard Moira gasp at the mention 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 to tell them the truth in the hospital. I said I wasn't Harry Horton. They didn't believe me. They thought I was still out of my head. And so I lay 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 I did. A letter from you to him – about your marriage – showing what a farce it was. A letter from Barry Quinlevin – " He paused and frowned. "It was an invasion of your privacy – and his – but you were nothing to me – then. I was sure that I would never meet you. I thought that I would wait a few days before I tried to tell the officers of the hospital who I was. It was a hard thing to do – because it meant that I would have to pay the penalty of a military crime."

"But sure, after what you'd done," Moira's voice broke in clearly, "they couldn't be punishing you – "

"Disgraceful imprisonment – and for Harry – the penalty of desertion in the 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 deep murmur and he bent his head. "It was a moment for a decision. I hadn't it. I was weak. I let you believe that I was your husband. It – it seemed the easiest way just then. God knows I meant you no harm. And God 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. "And there'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 of the Duc de Vautrin?" he asked.

"Yes," she uttered in bewildered tone, "the name is familiar to me. But what – ?"

"Mr. Quinlevin – has mentioned him?"

"Yes, I think so. A man he met many years ago in Ireland. But why do you 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 had thought 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 I slept, are the two letters that I read in my bed in the hospital – the one from you – the one from Barry Quinlevin. I left them there when I went away. Unless some one has removed them, they should be there now – "

In obedience to the suggestion, she rose and went quickly out into the hall and into the deserted room. Harry had not entered it nor had she even told him of the valises containing his impedimenta that had been sent down from headquarters. The letters were there. Trembling with uncertainty she found them and glanced at the familiar handwriting, her own 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 Horton stood as she had left him, leaning upon the mantel-shelf, his gaze upon the extinguished fire. It seemed that lost in his own gloomy reverie he had already forgotten her. Never in all the weeks that she had known him, not even when he had lain in his hospital bed – had he seemed a more pitiful figure than now – needing her as she – God help her – needed him. What did it matter what this letter contained? In her heart she knew that the only thing that mattered to her was the love that this man bore her. She had recognized it in the deep tones of his voice, which had thrilled her again, and in the attitude of submission which had anticipated the change in her sentiments.

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

She glanced over the stair and then entering the studio quietly, slowly approached 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 Barry Quinlevin's letter. For a long while there was no sound but the rustle of the paper in her fingers. At last he heard her stir slightly and glanced up at her. Her face was deathly pale.

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

"It means that Barry Quinlevin is – is blackmailing the Duc de Vautrin – 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 the hospital – thinking I was Harry – "

She raised the letter again and read.

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

His heart was full of tenderness and pity for her and he caught her by the hand. "Moira, dear," he murmured, "I wouldn't have spoken of this – 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 you don't even know the meaning of the words – it's too hideous!"

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

He led her to her chair again and made her sit. "Listen," he said gently, "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 first discovered our dual identity in the Café Javet – a friend of Harry's – who took 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 knocked me out, she guessed the truth, found out where they had put me and went in through the passage from the river. It was she who took me back to her apartment and nursed me."

"Oh," she faltered. "I – I see. But what reason have you to believe that she speaks the truth?"

He had taken his place by the mantel again. "Unfortunately – I had already proved it by the mouth of Harry himself." He broke off and met her piteous eyes squarely. "Oh, I wouldn't have cared what they did, if they – if you hadn't been a part of the plan. I would have told you who I was the other night and gone – away… But it was too cruel. Barry Quinlevin is a strange man. He loves you – perhaps. He wants to see you rich – happy – but he became desperate when the source of his income was cut off – "

"The Irish rents – ?"

"There were no Irish rents, Moira. The source of his income, all these years – and yours – has been – the Duc de Vautrin – hush money paid to keep a 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, the story is this. Twenty-five years ago the Duc de Vautrin married an Irish heiress from Athlone in Galway named Mary Callonby, receiving with her her immense dot, with the provision from her father's will that if any child was born, the fortune should go to that child in the event of the mother's death."

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

"The Duc de Vautrin was a beast and mistreated his wife, so that she ran away from him into Ireland, where a daughter was born to her – Mary Callonby 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 around the world, enjoying himself with her money for two years, and unaware of the death of his wife or of the birth of his little daughter, who was cared for and nursed by a woman named Nora Burke – "

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

"You remember her – " he said.

"My old nurse – !"

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

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

Jim Horton turned away again.

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

"Holy Virgin! You mean that Nora – ?"

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

"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 of the Duc, and mourning his own child that had died, had brought the little 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, and that 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 Vautrin returned to Paris, he was met by Barry Quinlevin with proofs of his daughter's existence. It was to the Duc's interest to keep the matter secret, since the income from the Callonby fortune which he enjoyed would of course go to the child. And from that day to this the matter has been kept a secret and Barry Quinlevin has been paid for keeping it."

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. "I must 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 Barry Quinlevin'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 make things easier – "

"What shall I do? What can I – " She halted again, intimidated at the thought of her father. And then —

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

"There's no hurry. You must think it over. Verify my statements, when you 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 in this intrigue – "

"No, of course – I must be finding out – speaking to – to him – to my father – " 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. Her trouble 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. I tried – "

"You poor child – "

"But in spite of myself – in spite of everything – my faith in you is just the 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's wrong – all wrong – "

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

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

"It's wrong – all wrong," she repeated. And then with a sigh, "Its very sweetness – 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 and mine. 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 you said you would?"

"No, dear – not – not if you need me – not if you want me. But I'm a nondescript 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. The very 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 thinking of that. I'm not afraid of him – nor of my father. But – they can't be disgracing you. You must keep in hiding. I see it all now. But you won'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's wrong. I don't care about the wrong to Harry, but I do think of the wrong I do myself and you. My love for you has been so clean – so beautiful, 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't be making it more difficult – don't be pleading with me for that – it's impossible. I'd like to be going with you – away – somewhere just you and I – but I can't – "

"I'll have patience. Some day – "

"No, dear. That's the worst of it. It can't be, ever. I have sworn – "

She stopped and they both listened, Moira started – frightened. From somewhere down the stairway outside came the sounds of a laugh and of voices 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 – . They mustn't find you here."

"Yes," said Jim coolly. "I think we'd better have this thing out – here and 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 the arm 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 the other rooms."

"But, Moira – "

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