The Splendid Outcast. Gibbs George

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СКАЧАТЬ thing that Harry had been guilty of. A coward…

      There was another letter, of a much later date, in a masculine hand. Jim Horton hesitated for a moment! and then took it out of its envelope.

      "Harry boy," he read, "so far as I can see at this writing the whole thing has gone to the demnition bow-wows. Suddenly, without a by-your-leave, the money stopped coming. I wrote de V. and cabled, but the devil of a reply did he give. So I'm coming to Paris with Moira at once and it looks as though we'd have to put the screws on. But I'd be feeling better if the papers were all ship-shape and Bristol fashion. You'll have to help. Maybe the uniform will turn the odd trick. If it don't we'll find some way.

      "I feel guilty as Hell about Moira. If you ever make her unhappy I'll have the blood of your heart. But I'm hoping that the love will come if you play the game straight with her.

      "Meanwhile we'll feather the nest if we can. He's got to 'come across.' There's some agency working against us – and I've got to be on the scene to ferret —instanter. Moira got some portraits to do or we wouldn't have had the wherewithal for the passage. As it is, I'll be having to make the move with considerable skill, leaving some obligations behind. But it can't be helped, and Moira won't know. The world is but a poor place for the man who doesn't make it give him a living. Mine has been wretched enough, God knows, and the whisky one buys over the bar in New York is an insult to an Irishman's intelligence, to say nothing of being a plague upon his vitals.

      "Enough of this. Come to the Rue de Tavennes, No. 7, in your next furlough, and we'll make a move. By that time I'll have a plan. Moira sends her love.

      "Yours very faithfully,

      "BARRY QUINLEVIN.

      P. S. There was a pretty squall brewing over the Stamford affair, but I reefed sail and weathered it. So you can sleep in peace.

      B. Q."

      Jim Horton lay for a while thinking and then read the two letters again. The masculine correspondent was the girl's father. Barry Quinlevin, it seemed, was a scoundrel of sorts – and the girl adored him. Many of the passages in the letter were mystifying. Who was de V – ? And what was Harry's connection with this affair? It was none of Jim Horton's business, but in spite of himself he began feeling an intense sympathy for the girl Moira, who was wrapped in the coils of what seemed on its face to be an ugly intrigue, if it wasn't something worse.

      Strange name, Quinlevin. It was Moira's name too, Irish. The phrase about having Harry's heart's blood showed that Barry Quinlevin wasn't beyond compunctions about the girl. But why had he connived at this loveless marriage? There must have been a reason for that.

      Jim Morton put the letters in the drawer and gave the problem up. It wasn't his business whom Harry had married or why. The main thing was to get well and out of the hospital so that he could find his brother and set the tangle straight.

      He couldn't imagine just how the substitution was to be accomplished, but if Harry had played the game there was a chance that it might yet be done. He didn't want Harry's job. And he silently cursed himself for the unfortunate impetuous moment that had brought about all the trouble. But how had he known that he was going to be hit? If he had only succeeded in getting back to the spot where Harry was waiting for him, no one would ever have been the wiser. No one knew now, but of course the masquerade couldn't last forever. The situation was impossible.

      Meanwhile what was Harry doing? Had he succeeded in playing out the game during Jim Horton's sickness, or had he found himself in a tight place and quit? It would have been easy enough. Horton shivered slightly. Desertion, flight, ignominy, disgrace. And it wasn't Harry Horton's good name that would be in question, but his own, that of Jim Horton, Corporal of Engineers. As a name, it didn't stand for much yet, even out in Kansas City, but he had never done anything to dishonor it and he didn't want the few friends he had to think of him as a quitter. Nobody had ever accused him of being that. What a fool he had been to take such a chance for a man like Harry!

      In the midst of these troublesome meditations, he was aware of Nurse Newberry approaching from the end of the ward. Following her were two people who stopped at his bed, a man and a girl. The man was strong, with grizzled hair, a bobbed Imperial and a waxed mustache. The girl had black hair and slate-blue eyes. And even as Jim Horton stared at them, he was aware of the man confidently approaching and taking his hand.

      "Well, Harry, don't you know me?" a voice said. "Rather hazy, eh? I don't wonder…"

      Who the devil were these people? There must be a mistake. Jim Horton mumbled something. The visitor's eyes were very dark brown shot with tiny streaks of yellow and he looked like an amiable satyr.

      "I've brought Moira – thought ye'd like to see her."

      The patient started – then recovered himself. He had forgotten the lapse of time since the letters had been written.

      "Moira," he muttered.

      The girl advanced slowly as the man made place. Her expression had been serious, but as she came forward she smiled softly.

      "Harry," she was whispering, as he stared at her loveliness, "don't you know me?"

      "Moira!" he muttered weakly. "I'm not – " But his hands made no movement toward her and a warm flush spread over the part of his face that was visible.

      "You've been very sick, Harry. But we came as soon as they'd let us. And you're going to get well, thank the Holy Virgin, and then – "

      "I'm not – " the words stuck in Jim Horton's throat. And he couldn't utter them.

      "You're not what?" she questioned anxiously.

      Another pause of uncertainty.

      "I – I'm not – very strong yet," he muttered weakly, turning his head to one side.

      And as he said it, he knew that in sheer weakness of fiber, spiritual as well as physical, he had made a decision.

      The Satyr behind her laughed softly.

      "Naturally," he said, "but ye're going to be well very soon."

      They were both looking at him and something seemed to be required of him. So with an effort,

      "How long – how long have you been in France?" he asked.

      "Only three weeks," said Quinlevin, "watching the bulletins daily for news of you. I found out a week ago, but they wouldn't let us in until to-day. And we can stay only five minutes."

      Then Moira spoke again, with a different note in her voice.

      "Are you glad that I came?" she asked. "It was the least I could do."

      "Glad!"

      The word seemed sufficient. Jim Horton seemed glad to utter it. If she would only recognize the imposture and relieve him of the terrible moment of confession. But she didn't. She had accepted him as Quinlevin, as all the others had done, for his face value, without a sign of doubt.

      And Barry Quinlevin stood beaming upon them both, his bright eyes snapping benevolence.

      "If ye get the V.C., Harry boy, she'll sure be worshiping ye."

      Jim Horton's gaze, fixed as though fascinated upon the quiet slate-blue eyes, saw them close for a moment in trouble, while a quick little frown puckered the white forehead. And when she spoke again, her voice uttered the truth that was in her heart.

      "One СКАЧАТЬ