The Splendid Outcast

by George Gibbs

  *CHAPTER VII*

  *AWAKENING*

  Moira moved about in a daze, attempting in the commonplaces of the dailyroutine to forget the thought of the revelation which she knew could notbe 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, towarddaylight, from sheer exhaustion of mind and body, had fallen asleep.When she awoke, her first impulse was to go to the room in the hallwayand knock. She opened the door. The bed had not been occupied.

  Slowly, thoughtfully, she went back to the studio and the business ofpreparing the coffee--for herself--and for Harry--when he should arrive.Her mind was filled with strange doubts,--not of him, because she hadlearned to have a complete, a perfect faith in this soldier that she hadmarried, who had left New York under a cloud of uncertainties andsuspicions and had come back to her spiritually reborn. The doubts inher mind were those that he had purposely created in it, and fragmentsof phrases that he had uttered in their moments of tenderness came backto alarm and disturb her, because if he hadn't thought it necessary toalarm and disturb her, he would have remained silent and permittedhimself to enjoy with her the hours that had been theirs together. Yes... there was something that had come to thrust itself betweenthem--some impediment to their union. She smiled softly at the memoryof the restraint in his caresses, the purity of his smile and thegentleness of his abnegation.... He had underestimated the quality ofher 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--theirfuture together.

  She stopped for a moment in her work of putting the studio to rights andlistened. She thought that she heard a step upon the stair. She waiteda while and then went to the door and peered out. No one. It _was_ alittle cruel that he had not sent her a message--a note, a _petit bleu_even, telling when she must expect him, whatever his appearance mightbring. For this, she realized, was the "to-morrow" of which he hadspoken yesterday ... the day of revelations....

  She tried to sing at her work but the effort was a failure. A morbidfear of the thing that was to happen, if it hadn't already happened,obsessed and held her. Nine--ten o'clock--eleven.... With a courageborn of desperation she went into her room and put on her hat. It wasinsupportable, the suspense. There were some things to buy. She mustorder them. And leaving word with Madame Toupin that she would returnwithin the hour, she walked briskly forth, breasting the keen air andtrying to smile. But even her walk was a failure, and in a short whileshe was back, eagerly questioning Madame Toupin. No, Monsieur leLieutenant had not arrived. No doubt he was busy about the ceremony ofthe presentation of the medals. Moira inquired and Madame Toupin showedher an article in the paper about the honors to be given both French andAmerican officers next week in the Place de la Concord. There was hisname, "Henry G. Horton--Croix de Guerre." Madame Toupin let her havethe 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 hereverything. She must be patient--her faith in him unwavering. He wouldcome to her to-night again--and whatever he told her was to make nodifference in her love and faith in him--whatever he told her--she sworeit.

  * * * * *

  Late that night he came. She had built a fire of fagots against thechill of the night and was sitting in the big armchair by the hearthwhen she heard a knock at the studio door. With a cry of welcome sherose and rushed to greet him, throwing herself impulsively into hisarms.

  "Harry," she gasped happily, "at last!"

  She couldn't help noting the slight movement of recoil before hertenderness. 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 adaze, his brows frowning. The light was uncertain, but what she sawalarmed her.

  "Harry! What has happened to you?" she cried, catching him by the handsand holding them. "You're ill--your fingers are cold--you look asthough---- 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 inobedience 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 needmedicine."

  "No," he protested. "I'm just tired. A drink of whisky if you've gotone----"

  She went into Barry Quinlevin's room and brought forth a bottle, a glassand a pitcher of water. With a hand that trembled a little, he pouredhimself a drink and took it at a draught, and then gave a gasp ofrelief. She had sat down near him and was regarding him with anexpression of intentness and eagerness, though the pucker at her browsindicated a doubt and a fear. The gas light was at his back and shecould not clearly see his face, but there was something strange abouthim that she had missed at his first entrance, a brooding sullenness,remote, self-centered, that even the smile could not temper withsweetness. And even while she watched he poured out another glass ofwhisky.

  "What is it, Harry?" she asked. "Tell me."

  "It's nothing," he said. "I'm all in, I've had some worries. I'll beall 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'vegot to know. You told me that you'd tell me to-day--to-night, and nowyou must keep your promise. I've tried so hard not to worry and--andwhen you didn't come back to me last night, I--I was reallyfrightened----"

  "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 anymore."

  He put his hand over hers and leaned toward her. His words, which lastnight would have given her happiness, seemed somehow to mean nothing toher to-night. For his very presence in this condition was a threatagainst her peace of mind. And his fingers might have been wax for allthat their touch meant to her.

  "You--you're trying to make things seem better than they are," she saidsteadily, wondering at her own words. "I--I'm not easily deceived. Lastnight I knew that something had come between us. I know now that it'sstill 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 shesaw 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--tome.... You've been through something terrible--sinceyesterday--something that has burnt the soul of you. What is it? Whatis it? The touch of your fingers--your voice, they come from adistance-like, with nothing of you in them. Am I ill that I should bethinking of you so? Take me in your arms, Harry, and shield me fromthis 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 himby the hearth, pale as death. The look of bewilderment at her brows hadintensified into a steady gaze, almost of terror at the thought that hadsuddenly 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 shebroke away from him, and that confirmed her in her madness. She wasreading him keenly now from top to toe, missing nothing. And thethought that dominated
her was that the man with whom she had matedduring the past weeks, the man who had passed through the shadow ofdeath, reborn in body and spirit, the Harry that she had recentlylearned to love--was dead; and that this man who had come to take hisplace--this man--was what he might have been if God's grace had notfallen on him. Madness? Perhaps. And yet how otherwise would thetouch of his lips, which last night she had sought in tenderness, havebeen so repellent to her? Harry--her husband--unregenerate--the sameHarry 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 hadpassed since she found him in the hospital merely a dream, was yesterdaya dream--last night?

  "I--I don't know--what is the matter," she said at last, passing a handacross her brows. "I--I am not well, perhaps. But you--you're notthe--not the same. I know it. The thoughts that I have of you frightenme."

  He forced a laugh and sank into his chair again, lighting a cigarettewith an assumption of ease.

  "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

  She only stood staring at him, her deep blue eyes never wavering fromhis face, which was still averted from the light. He met that gazeonce--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 ofdaze.

  "Well, rather."

  She paused another long moment as though on the verge of a difficultdecision 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 hospitalat Neuilly, wounded--the hero of Boissiere wood?"

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

  "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_ saidyesterday that something was to come between us. It was _you_." Andthen, as he made no reply, "For God's sake, speak----"

  He turned away from the light.

  "I'm your husband," he muttered hoarsely.

  "Show me your wounds," she gasped suddenly, reasoning with singulardirectness.

  He glanced at her once, then bent forward. There upon the left side ofhis head in a shaved spot was a cross of adhesive tape. She touched itaimlessly with her fingers and then suddenly, before he could rise, witha quick deft movement tore it away from his skull. And quickly as hestraightened she had seen enough.

  There was no wound.

  "What's this deviltry?" he muttered, his face an angry red.

  But the look that he met in her eyes pierced all subterfuge.

  "You have not been wounded," she gasped.

  He leaned forward in his fury as though to strike her, but she stood upto him resolutely until the color faded from his face and hestraightened slowly.

  "Well," he muttered with a shrug, "I haven't." And then, folding hisarms he found her gaze. "What of it?" he asked shortly.

  She glanced down at the slips of adhesive tape and then let them fallthrough her fingers.

  "I'm glad," she said coolly, "that you've decided not to carry on thelie----"

  He laughed again. "Well, it looks as though it were hardly worthwhile."

  Already all her thoughts were beyond him.

  "Who--who is the other?" she asked at last, with a cold precision thatmight have come from a disembodied spirit.

  He waited a moment before replying and then his tone matched her own.

  "I can hardly wonder at your interest after the warmth of your greetingwhen I came in."

  The shot told and she colored painfully.

  "Who--who is he?" she repeated with an effort.

  He smiled. "There's no harm in your knowing, since you've guessed therest. He's my twin brother, Jim Horton."

  "Jim," she gasped below her breath.

  "We met in the confusion on the battlefield," he went on. "I had beenshell-shocked and he put on my uniform to lead my men----"

  "Shell--shock----"

  "Yes. He took my uniform. It was a fool proceeding. When I came to,everything was in confusion. He would have been courtmartialed and shotif I had turned up, so I went back to the lines and came to Paris----"

  "While he won you the Croix de Guerre. And you're going to step intohis shoes----"

  "They're _my_ shoes. It's not my fault----"

  "And he--what's to become of him?"

  "That's his lookout. He merely disappears from the scene."

  She leaned heavily against the mantel shelf, breathing fast. But shehad no reply, and so he went on unpleasantly.

  "Now, perhaps you would like to explain."

  "I have nothing to explain."

  "Not the joy in your eyes when I came in? The kisses you gave me thatyou thought were for him?"

  "I ask no forgiveness," she said in a hollow tone.

  "Of course you thought he was your husband. And he let you think so."

  "Yes. He let me think so," she repeated, parrot-like.

  And all the while her horror of her situation increased--her anger at"the other" who had dared to place her in this false position.

  She saw her husband's bony fingers clasp the chair arm.

  "You were easily deceived," he went on. "It's hardly flattering to me.I would like to know----"

  He stopped suddenly, his question in abeyance before the challenge inher eyes, aroused by the tone of his voice. She read his thought andanswered him.

  "He came here from the hospital night before last. He wanted to go to a_pension_ but I would not permit it----"

  "That was kind of you. But I'm not blind. And your kisses for him werewarm on your lips when you greeted me."

  She paled and drooped in her shame.

  "What have you to say about that?" he went on tensely. "Do you thinkthat I'm the kind to stand by idly and see a man take my wife's kisses?"

  "No. You're not," she answered slowly. "You've already answered me."And then, with a painful effort, "What have you done with him?"

  He sank into the armchair with a laugh. "With _him_? Nothing. He hasgone. That's all."

  "I don't believe you."

  "That's your privilege. He has gone. He thought he had gone about farenough. And I'm almost ready to believe that you agree with him."

  "No," she stammered, pleading against her own will, against her outragedpride. "There was a reason for what he did--an honorable reason. Theremust have been."

  "The marks of it are not very clear to me. If you can see anythinghonorable in trying to steal the love of one's brother's wife----"

  He paused, for he saw the danger signals flying in her eyes, and triedto shrug his anger off. "What's the use? I'm no fool. Whether he triedto win you or not, it's clear that neither of you was over-scrupulousabout me."

  She didn't reply at once and when she did speak her words came slowlyand with dignity.

  "I don't know why it is that he should have kept silent about you. Hehas done me a hurt--irreparable. When I visited him in the hospital, itwas _you_ that I visited, _you_ that I went to cheer, to take my placeby your side. I thanked God when I saw you that you had grown tobe--what you were, what I had wanted you to be. And I loved you forwhat you had suffered."

  He started up from his chair.

  "Moira----"

  "Wait a moment," she insisted, still struggling to give her thoughtsexpression. "I want you to understand. I thought that it was you whohad come back to me--as I wished you to come back--in honor and pride ofyour service of your country. And instead of you I find--another--withyour wounds, your honors--if it was your brother--in spite of the falseposition he's placed me in--I honor him
for those wounds as I would havehonored you--and I honor him still more--because he has thought enoughof his honor and of mine--to give up everything that he has won and goneout into the darkness--alone."

  At this, Harry Horton's fury relaxed in a laugh. He poured himself outanother drink.

  "You can spare him these new honors."

  She glanced at him keenly but he was too angry to notice.

  "He went--away--because he had to," he muttered.

  "What do you mean?"

  "What I say. It was getting too hot for him."

  The meaning under his words came to her slowly. She watched him for amoment curiously, leaning toward him, studying the ugly lines at lip andbrow that he no longer took pains to conceal. And then she guessed atthe truth.

  "What have you done with him?" she whispered.

  "N--nothing."

  "You lie." She knew no fear of him now, and leaned forward, clutchingat his shoulder. "You've dealt unfairly with him--you've----" Shehalted in terror of her thoughts.

  "He got what he deserved," he muttered sullenly.

  "What have you done?" she repeated.

  "Put him where he won't mess in _my_ affairs again. See here, Moira,"he caught her wrists and held her, "I'm just about fed up with this.I've been patient about long enough. You're my wife. And I'm going tokeep you. Do you think after all I've suffered I'm going to stand forthis kind of treatment now?"

  "Let go my wrists--you're hurting me----"

  "No----" Instead, he drew her closer to him. "I don't care about thisfoolishness with Jim. I think you can see that you've made a fool ofyourself and of me. But I'm willing to forget it, if you'll do thesquare thing. I'm back here and I'm back to stay--and I'm going to makeyou love me whether you want to or not."

  "Let me go, Harry."

  "Kiss me."

  "No." She struggled in his arms, but he only held her the more closely."Moira. I want you. You're mine. You belong to me by every law----"

  "No--no."

  But he mastered her, pressing her throat back and kissing her upon thelips. She lay quiet in his arms, weak from the struggle. He took herimmobility for acquiescence and caught her more tightly in his arms.

  "Let me go," she gasped. "Do you hear?"

  A saner man would have caught the warning note. But Harry Horton wasbeyond warnings. She fought with renewed strength and then, all elsefailing, struck him full in the face with her clenched fist.

  His arms relaxed in astonishment and she sprang away, putting a smalltable between them.

  Breathing rapidly, she saw him put his fingers to his cheek and thenlook at them in a bewildered way.

  "I see," she heard him muttering to himself, "so that's the way ofit----"

  The blow brought him to his senses, and he stared at her for a moment asthough at a person he had never seen before. Her eyes burned like ablue flame in the pallor of her face and the hand that clutched thetable trembled violently. And yet it was not the fear of him that madeher tremble, but the fear of herself and of the sudden dreadfulawakening at the edge of the chasm that yawned between them.