The Splendid Outcast

But she was already turning to Horton again.

"A 'ero. The world is full of 'eros to-day, but not one like my 'Arry 'Orton. Allons! I mus' 'ave a talk with you alone. Lucien," she said sharply, turning to Valcourt, "I will come to de studio to-morrow. Monsieur le Duc t'inks I am gone away, but now I would be a poor creature not to give my brave soldier a welcome."

"If Monsieur will excuse me – " said Valcourt, offering his hand.

Jim Horton took it, wondering where the adventure was to lead. She was a very remarkable person and her élan had already carried him off his feet. Taking his hand in hers, with a charming simplicity, she led him into the room at the rear, now occupied by a number of persons of both sexes, and bade Monsieur Javet himself serve them. And when they were seated at a table, her hand still in his, she examined him with a new interest.

"It is indeed you," she said gayly, "and yet you seem different – more calm, more silent. What is it?"

"I've had two months in the hospital."

"And you're quite strong again?"

"Oh yes. And you have been well – Piquette?"

"Well – but so ennuyée. It is why I come back here to de Quartier to get a breath of fresh air. I've been posing for Monsieur Valcourt —La Liberté. He says my figure is better than ever. And Valcourt knows."

"I'm sure you are very lovely."

"La, la, mon vieux, but you are the grand serieux. Of course I am lovely. It is my business. But you do not show me 'ow lovely I am, for you are so quiet – so cool – "

Jim Horton laughed and caught her fingers to his lips.

"You are – Piquette. That is enough."

"C'est mieux. But you are change'. One does not look deat' in de eyes wit'out feeling its col' touch. Oh, but I am glad that you are come back to me. You s'all be 'ere long?"

"I don't know – when I shall get my orders."

"But until then – t'ings s'all be as dey were wit' us two, eh, my little one? An' I s'all 'elp you now in de great affair? But Monsieur de Vautrin becomes more onpleasant. He is a very tiresome ol' man…"

Jim Horton started unconsciously. Then remembered that it was in connection with de Vautrin that Quinlevin had mentioned this very girl Piquette. He understood better now the reason for Harry's gesture from the outer darkness. The meeting had been a stroke of Fate. Perhaps she held the key to the riddle.

"Tiresome, yes," he said slowly, "all old men are tiresome – "

"And difficile," she mused, sipping at her glass. "While I am pretty he likes to have me nearby. But I know. He cares not'ing. He will leave me not'ing. I am not content. So I say I want to help in de great affair. You have planned somet'ing in the hospital – you and Monsieur Quinlevin?"

"Er – nothing definite."

"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 embêtant! 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 – ?"

"№ 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.

"Méchant!" 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."