did you?" he muttered. "I had no right to ask – even a war marriage."
"God knows," she said with a quick gasp as she bowed her head, "you had made good at the Camp. I think it was the regimental band at Yaphank that brought me around. And then you seemed so pathetic and wishful, I got to thinking you might be killed. Father wanted it. And so – " she paused and sighed deeply. "Well – I did it… It was the most that I could give – for Liberty…"
She raised her head proudly, and stared into the glowing embers.
"For Liberty – you gave your own freedom – " he murmured.
"It was mad – Quixotic – " she broke in again, "a horrible sacrilege. I did not love, could not honor, had no intention of obeying you…" She stopped suddenly, and hid her face in her hands. He thought that she was in tears but he did not dare to touch her, though he leaned toward her, his fingers groping. Presently she took her hands down and threw them out in a wild gesture. "It is merciless – what I am saying to you – but you let loose the floodgates and I had to speak."
He leaned closer and laid his fingers over hers.
"It was a mistake – " he said. "I would do anything to repair it."
He meant what he said and the deep tones of his voice vibrated close to her ear. She did not turn to look at him and kept her gaze on the fire, but she breathed uneasily and then closed her eyes a moment as though in deep thought.
"Don't you believe me, Moira?"
She glanced at him and then leaned forward, away – toward the fire.
"I believe that I do," she replied slowly. "I don't know why it is that I should be thinking so differently about you, but I do. You see, if I hadn't trusted you we'd never have been sitting here this night."
"I gave you your chance to be alone – "
"Yes. You did that. But I couldn't let you be going to a pension, Harry. I think it was the pity for your pale face against the pillows."
"Nothing else?" he asked quietly.
His hand had taken the fingers on the chair arm and she did not withdraw them at once.
"Sure and maybe it was the blarney."
"I've meant what I've said," he whispered in spite of himself, "you're the loveliest girl in all the world."
There was a moment of silence in which her hand fluttered uneasily in his, while a gentle color came into her face.
Then abruptly she withdrew her fingers and sprang up, her face aflame.
"Go along with you! You'll be making love to me next."
He sank back into his chair, silent, perturbed, as he realized that this was just what was in his heart.
"Come," she laughed, "we've got all the dishes to wash. And then you're to be getting to bed, or your head will be aching in the morning. Allons!"
She brought him to himself with the clear, cool note of camaraderie, and with a short laugh and a shrug which hid a complexity of feeling, he followed her into the kitchen with the dishes. But a restraint had fallen between them. Moira worked with a business-like air, rather overdoing it. And Jim Horton, sure that he was a blackguard of sorts, wiped the dishes she handed to him and then obediently followed her to the room off the hall where his baggage had been carried.
She put the candle on the table and gave him her frankest smile.
"Sleep sound, my dear. For to-morrow I'll be showing you the sights."
"Good-night, Moira," he said gently.
"Dormez bien."
And she was gone.
He stood staring at the closed door, aware of the sharp click of the latch and the faint firm tap of her high heels diminishing along the hall – then the closing of the studio door. For a long while he stood there, not moving, and then mechanically took out a cigarette, tapping it against the back of his hand. Only the urge of a light for his cigarette from the candle at last made him turn away. Then he sank upon the edge of the bed and smoked for awhile, his brows furrowed in thought. Nothing that Harry had ever done seemed more despicable than the part that he had chosen to play. He was winning her friendship, her esteem, something even finer than these, perhaps – for Harry —as Harry, borrowing from their tragic marriage the right to this strange intimacy. If her dislike of him had only continued, if she had tolerated him, even, or if she had been other than she was, his path would have been smoother. But she was making it very difficult for him.
He paced the floor again for awhile, until his cigarette burnt his fingers, then he walked to the window, opened it and looked out. It was early yet – only eleven o'clock. The thought of sleep annoyed him. So he took up his cap, blew out the candle and went quietly out into the hall and down the stairs.
He wanted to be alone with his thoughts away from the associations of the studio, to assume his true guise as an alien and an enemy to this girl who had learned to trust him. The cool air of the court-yard seemed to clear his thoughts. In all honor – in all decency, he must discover some way of finding his brother Harry, expose the ugly intrigue and then take Harry's place and go out into the darkness of ignominy and disgrace. That would require some courage, he could see, more than it had taken to go out against the Boche machine gunners in the darkness of Boissière Wood, but there didn't seem to be anything else to do, if he wanted to preserve his own self-respect…
But of what value was self-respect to a man publicly disgraced? And unless he could devise some miracle that would enable him to come back from the dead, a miracle that would stand the test of a rigid army investigation, the penalty of his action was death – or at the least a long term of imprisonment in a Federal prison, from which he would emerge a broken and ruined man of middle age. This alternative was not cheering and yet he faced it bravely. He would have to find Harry.
The feat was not difficult, for as he emerged from the gate of the porte cochère of the concierge and turned thoughtfully down the darkened street outside, a man in a battered slouch hat and civilian clothes approached from the angle of a wall and faced him.
"What the H – are you doing at No. 7 Rue de Tavennes?" said a voice gruffly.
Jim Horton started back at the sound, now aware that Fortune had presented him with his alternative. For the man in the slouch hat was his brother, Harry!
CHAPTER IV
OUTCAST
When Jim Horton, Corporal of Engineers, took his twin brother's uniform and moved off into the darkness toward the German lines, Harry Horton remained as his brother had left him, bewildered, angry, and still very much afraid. The idea of taking Jim Horton's place with his squad nearby did not appeal to him. The danger of discovery was too obvious – and soon perhaps the squad would have to advance into the dreadful curtain of black that would spout fire and death. He was fed up with it. The baptism of fire in the afternoon had shaken him when they lay in the field. It was the grinning head of Levinski of the fourth squad that had done the business. He had found it staring at him in the wheat as the platoon crawled forward. It wasn't so much that it was an isolated head, as that it was the isolated head of Levinski, for he hadn't liked Levinski and he knew that the man had hated him. And now Levinski had had his revenge. Harry had been deathly ill at the stomach, and had not gone forward with the platoon. He had seen the whites of the eyes of his men as they had glanced aside at him – and spat.
Why the H – he had ever gone into the thing … And now … suppose Jim didn't come back! What should he do? Why had the Major picked him out for this duty! His thoughts wandered wildly from one fancied injury to another. And Jim – it was like him to turn up and plunge into this wild venture that would probably bring them both to court-martial. And if Jim was shot, what the devil was he to do? Go on through the service as Jim Horton, Corporal of Engineers? He cursed silently while he groveled in the gully waiting for the shots that were to decide his fate.
For a moment he gathered nerve enough to pick up Jim's rifle and accoutrement with the intention of joining the squad of engineers.