The Splendid Outcast. Gibbs George

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      "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 СКАЧАТЬ