by George Gibbs
*CHAPTER III*
*THE GOOSE*
Jim Horton had had a narrow escape from discovery. But in spite of hisprecarious position and the pitfalls that seemed to lay to right andleft, he had become, if anything, more determined than ever to followthe fate to which he had committed himself. There now seemed no doubtthat Moira was in all innocence involved in some way in the blackmailingscheme which had been the main source of livelihood for the Quinlevinfamily for many years. And Moira did not know, for the Duc de Vautrin,of course, was the source of the Irish rents to which she had alluded.And now he was refusing to pay.
It was clear that something unpleasant hung in the air, an ill wind forthe Duc de Vautrin and for the plotters, Moira's father and Jim Horton'sprecious brother. And it seemed quite necessary in the interests ofhonesty that he, Jim Horton, should remain for the present in the gameand divert if possible the currents of evil which encompassed hisinteresting sister-in-law.
One thing he had learned--that by taking refuge behind the barriers ofhis failing memory, it might be possible to keep up the deception, atleast until he was out of the hospital and a crisis of some sort came torelieve him of his responsibility. Indeed there was something mostagreeable in the friendly regard of his brother's loveless wife, andunder other circumstances, the calls of this charming person would havebeen the source of unalloyed delight. For as the days passed, more andmore she threw off the restraint of her earlier visits and they had nowreached a relationship of understanding and good-fellowship, mostdelightful and unusual in its informality.
Jim Horton was progressing rapidly and except for occasional lapses ofmemory, easily explained and perfectly understood by his visitors,gained health and strength until it was no longer a question of weeksbut of days when he should be able to leave the hospital and accept theinvitation of his newly discovered relatives to visit the studioapartment. He had made further efforts through the hospital authoritiesto find some trace of the missing man but without success, and indefault of any definite plan of action chose to follow the line of leastresistance until something should happen. Barry Quinlevin visited himtwice, but spoke little of the affair of the Duc de Vautrin which itseemed was being held in abeyance for the moment, preferring to waituntil the brain and body of the injured man could help him to plan andto execute. And Jim Horton, finding that safety lay in silence orfatigue, did little further to encourage his confidences.
Thus it was that after several weeks he impatiently awaited Moiraoutside the hospital. It was a gorgeous afternoon of blue and gold withthe haze of Indian Summer hanging lazily over the peaceful autumnlandscape. An aromatic odor of burning leaves was in the air and abouthim aged men and women worked in road and garden as though the alarms ofwar had never come to their ears. The signing of the armistice, whichhad taken place while Horton was still in his bed, had been the cause ofmuch quiet joy throughout the hospital. But with the return of health,Jim Horton had begun wondering what effect the peace was to have uponhis strange fortunes--and upon Harry's. He knew that for the present hehad been granted a furlough which he was to spend with the Quinlevins inParis, but after that, what was to happen? He was a little dubious tooabout his relations with Moira.... But when he saw her coming down thepath to the open air pavilion with Nurse Newberry, all flushed with theprospect of carrying him off in triumph in the ancient fiacre from whichshe had descended, he could not deny a thrill of pleasure that was notall fraternal.
"Behold, _mon ami_," she cried in greeting, "I've come to take youprisoner."
He laughed gayly as he took her hand.
"And there's a goose in the pantry, bought at a fabulous price, justwaiting for the pan----"
"Be sure you don't kill your prisoner with kindness," put in NurseNewberry.
"I'll take that risk," said Horton genially.
"Sure and he must," put in Moira. "It isn't every day one brings aconquering hero home."
"Especially when he's your husband," said the artless Miss Newberrywistfully.
Jim Horton had a glimpse of the color that ran like a flame up Moira'sthroat to her brow but he glanced quickly away and busied himself with abuckle at his belt.
"I want to thank you, Miss Newberry," he said soberly, "for all thatyou've done for me. I'll never forget."
"Nor I, Lieutenant Horton. But you're in better hands than mine now. Aweek or so and you'll be as strong as ever."
"I've never felt better in my life," he replied.
They moved toward the conveyance, shook hands with the nurse, and withHarry's baggage (which had just been sent down from regimentalheadquarters) upon the box beside the rubicund and rotund cocher, theydrove out of the gates and toward the long finger of the Eiffel Towerwhich seemed to be beckoning to them across the blue haze above the rooftops.
Neither of them spoke for a moment. In the ward, in the convalescentrooms or even in the grounds of the hospital, Moira had been a visitorwith a mission of charity and cheer. Here in the _fiacre_ the basis oftheir relationship seemed suddenly and quite mysteriously to change.Whether Moira felt it or not he did not know, for she looked out of herwindow at the passing scene and her partly averted profile revealednothing of her thoughts. But the fact that they were for the first timereally alone and driving to Moira's Paris apartment gave him a qualm ofguilt on account of the impossible situation that he had created. Hehad, he thought, shown her deep gratitude and respect--and had succeededin winning the friendship that Harry had perhaps taken too much forgranted. It had given Jim Horton pleasure to think that Moira nowreally liked him for himself alone, and the whole-heartedness of hergood fellowship had given him every token of her spirit of conciliation.She had had her moods of reserve before, like the one of her presentsilence, but the abundance of her vitality and sense of humor hadresponded unconsciously to his own and they had drawn closer with theartless grace of two children thrown upon their own resources. And now,here in the ramshackle vehicle, for the first time alone, Jim Hortonwould have very much liked to take her by the hand (which lay mosttemptingly upon the seat beside him) and tell her the truth. But thatmeant Harry's disgrace--the anguish of her discovering that such afriendship as this with her own husband could never be; for in her eyesJim Horton had seen her own courage and a contempt for all things thatHarry was or could ever hope to be. And so, with an effort he foldedhis arms resolutely and stared out of his window.
It was then that her voice recalled him.
"Can't you smell that goose, Harry dear?" she said.
He flashed a quick smile at her.
"Just can't I!" he laughed.
"And you're to help me cook it--and vegetables and coffee. Youknow"--she finished, "nothing ever tastes quite so good as when you cookit yourself."
"And you do all the cooking----?" he asked thoughtfully.
"Sometimes--but more often we go to a cafe. Sometimes Madame Toupinhelps, the _concierge_--but father thinks my cooking is the best."
"I don't doubt it. I shall, too." And then, "where is your fatherto-day?"
She looked at him, eyes wide as though suddenly reminded.
"I forgot," she gasped. "He asked me to tell you that he was obliged tobe leaving for Ireland--about the Irish rents. Isn't it tiresome?"
"Oh," said Horton quietly. "I see."
He turned his thoughtful gaze out of the carriage window into the Avenuede Neuilly. The situation had its charm, but he had counted on thepresence of Barry Quinlevin.
"How long will he be gone?" he asked.
"I don't know," she replied, "a week or more perhaps. But I'll try tomake you comfortable. I've wanted so to have everything nice."
He smiled at her warmth. "You forget that--that I've learned to be asoldier, Moira. A blanket on the floor of the studio and I'll be ashappy as a king----"
"No. You shall have the best that there is--the very best--_monami_----"
"I don't propose to let you work for me, Moira. I can
get some money.I can find a _pension_ somewhere near and----"
She turned toward him suddenly, her eyes very close to tears. "Do youwish to make me unhappy--when I've tried so hard to--to----"
"Moira!" He caught her hand to his lips and kissed it gently, "I didn'tmean----"
"I've wanted so for you to forget how unkind I had been to you--to makethis seem like a real homecoming after all you've been through. And nowto hear you talking of going to a _pension_----"
"Moira--I thought it might be inconvenient--that it might be morepleasant for you----"
He broke down miserably. She released her fingers gently and turnedaway. "Sure Alanah, and I think that I should be the judge of that,"she said.
"We'll say no more about it," he muttered. "But I--I'm very grateful."
Moira's lips wreathed into an adorable smile.
"I've been thinking the war has done something to you, Harry. And nowI'm sure of it. You've been learning to think of somebody besideyourself."
"I'd be pretty rotten if I hadn't learned to do some thinking about_you_," he said, as he looked into her eyes with more hardihood thanwisdom.
She met his gaze for the fraction of a minute and then raised her chinand laughed merrily up at the broad back of the cocher.
"Yes, you've changed, Harry dear. God knows how or why--but you'vechanged. You'll be paying me some compliments upon my pulchritude andheavenly virtues by and by."
"Why shouldn't I?" he insisted soberly when her laughter subsided."Your loveliness is only the outward and visible sign of the inward andspiritual grace. I'm so sure of it that I don't care whether you laughor not."
"Am I lovely? You think so? Well--it's nice to hear even if it onlymakes conversation. Also that my nose is not so bad, even if it doesturn piously to Heaven--but there's a deep dent in my chin which meansthat I've got a bit of the devil in me--bad cess to him--so that you'dbetter do just what I want you to--or we'll have a falling out. Andthat would be a pity--because of the goose."
He laughed as gayly as she had done.
"I've a notion, Moira," he said, "that it's my goose you're going tocook."
"And I've a notion," she said poising a slim gloved finger for a secondupon his knee, "I've a notion that we're both going to cook him."
It seemed too much like a prophecy to be quite to his liking. Her moodswere Protean and her rapid transitions bewildered. And yet, under themall, he realized how sane she was, how honest with him and with herselfand how free from any guile. She trusted him entirely as one goodfriend would trust another and the thought of any evil coming to herthrough his strange venture into Harry's shoes made him most unhappy.But her pretty dream of a husband with whom she could at least be onterms of friendship must some day come to an end ... And yet ... supposethe report that Harry was missing meant that he was dead. A bit ofshrapnel--a bullet--he didn't wish it--but that chance was within therange of the possible.
They had passed down the avenue of the Grande Armee, into the place del'Etoile, and were now in the magnificent reaches of the Champs Elysees.Jim Horton had only been in Paris for five hours between trains, littlemore than long enough to open an account at a bank, but Moira chatteredon gayly with the point of view of an _intime_, showing him the placeswhich they must visit together, throwing in a word of history here, anincident or adventure there, giving the places they passed, thepersonality of her point of view, highly tinged with the artist'sidealism. From her talk he gathered that she had lived much in Parisduring all her student days and except for the little corner in Irelandwhere she had been born and which she had visited from time to time,loved it better than any place in the world.
"And I shall teach you to speak French, Harry--the real _argot_ of the_Quartier_--and you shall love it as I do----"
"I do speak it a little already," he ventured.
"Really! And who was your instructress?"
The dropping intonation was sudden and very direct.
Jim Horton looked out of the window. He was sure that Harry wouldn'thave been able to meet her gaze.
"No one," he muttered, "at least no girl. That's the truth. We hadbooks and things."
"Oh," she finished dryly.
Her attitude in this matter was a revelation. The incident seemed toclarify their relations and in a new way, for in a moment she wasconversing again in a manner most unconcerned. Friendly she might bewith Harry for the sake of the things that he had accomplished,companionable and kind for the sake of the things he had suffered, butas for any deeper feeling---that was another matter. Moira was no fool.
But at least she trusted him now. She dared to trust him. Otherwise,why did she conduct him with such an air of unconcern to the apartmentin the Rue de Tavennes? But he couldn't be unaware of the alertness inher unconcern, an occasional quick and furtive side glance which showedthat, however friendly, she was still on her guard. Perhaps she wantedto study this newly-discovered Harry at closer range. But why had shechosen the venture? He had given her her chance. Why had she refusedto take it?
The answers to these questions were still puzzling him when they droveup the hill by the Boulevard St. Michel--_Boul' Miche_ she calledit--reached the Luxembourg Gardens and then turning into a smallerstreet were presently deposited at their _porte cochere_. Her air ofgayety was infectious and she presented him to the good Madame Toupin,who came out to meet them with the air of one greeting an ambassador.
"Welcome, _Monsieur le Lieutenant_. Madame Horton has promised us thisvisit since a long time."
"_Merci, Madame._"
"Enter, Monsieur--this house is honored. Thank the _bon Dieu_ for theAmericans."
Jim Horton bowed and followed Moira into the small court and up thestairway, experiencing a new sense of guilt at having his name coupledso familiarly with Moira's. Harry's name too--. And yet thecircumstances of the marriage were so strange, the facts as to heractual relations with her husband so patent, that he found himselfresenting Moira's placid acceptance of the appellation. There wassomething back of it all that he did not know.... But Moira gave him notime to think of the matter, conducting him into the large studio andshowing him through the bedroom and kitchen, where she proudly exhibitedher goose (and Jim Horton's) that she was to cook. And after he haddeposited his luggage in a room nearby which he was to occupy, sheremoved her gloves in a business-like manner, took off her hat and coat,and invited him into the kitchen.
"_Allons_, Monsieur," she said gayly in French, as she rolled up hersleeves.
"We shall now cook a goose, in this modern apparatus so kindly furnishedby the _Compagnie de Gaz_. There's a large knife in the drawer. Youwill now help me to cut up the potatoes--Julienne,--and the carrotswhich we shall stew. Then some lettuce and a beautiful dessert from the_patisserie_--and a _demi-tasse_. What more can the soul of mandesire?"
"_Rien_," he replied with a triumphant grin of understanding from behindthe dish pan. "_Absolument rien_."
"Ah, you do understand," she cried in English. "Was she a_blonde--cendree_? Or dark with sloe-eyes? Or red-haired? If she wasred-haired, Harry, I'll be scratching her eyes out. No?"
He shook his head and laughed.
"She was black and white and her name was Ollendorff."
"You'll still persist in that deception?"
"I do."
"You're almost too proficient."
"You had better not try me too far."
She smiled brightly at him over the fowl which she was getting ready forthe pan, stuffing it with a dressing already prepared.
"I wonder how far I might be trying you, Harry dear," she saidmischievously.
He glanced at her.
"I don't know," he said quietly "but I think I've learned something ofthe meaning of patience in the army."
"Then God be praised!" she ejaculated with air of piety, putting thefowl into the pan.
"Here. Cut. Slice to your heart's content, thin--like jack-straws.But spare your fingers."
She sat
him in a chair and saw him begin while she prepared the salad.
"Patience is by way of being a virtue," she resumed quizzically, herpink fingers weaving among the lettuce-leaves. And then, "so they taughtyou that in the Army?"
"They did."
"And did you never get tired of being patient, Harry dear?"
He met the issue squarely. "You may try me as far as you like, Moira,"he said quietly, "I owe you that."
She hadn't bargained for such a counter.
"Oh," she muttered, and diligently examined a doubtful lettuce leaf bythe fading light of the small window, while Horton sliced scrupulouslyat his potato. And when the goose was safely over the flame she quicklydisappeared into the studio.
He couldn't make her out. It seemed that a devil was in her, amischievous, beautiful, tantalizing, little Irish she-devil, bent onpsychological investigation. Also he had never before seen her with herhat off and he discovered that he liked her hair. It had bluish tintsthat precisely matched her eyes. He finished his last potato withmeticulous diligence and then quickly rose and followed her into thestudio where a transformation had already taken place. A table overwhich a white cloth had been thrown, had been drawn out near the bigeasel and upon it were plates, glasses, knives and forks and candleswith rose-colored shades, and there was even a bowl of flowers. In thehearth fagots were crackling and warmed the cool shadows from the bignorth light, already violet with the falling dusk.
"_Voila_, Monsieur--we are now _chez nous_. Is it not pleasant?"
It was, and he said so.
"You like my studio?"
"It's great. And the portrait--may I see?"
"No--it doesn't go--_on sent le souffle_--a French dowager who bravedthe Fokkers when all her family were _froussards_--fled in terror. Shedeserves immortality."
"And you--were you not afraid of the bombardments?"
"Hardly--not after all the trouble we had getting here--Horrors!" shebroke off suddenly and catching him by the hand dashed for the kitchenwhence came an appetizing odor--"The goose! we've forgotten the goose,"she cried, and proceeded to baste it skillfully. She commended hispotatoes and bade him stir them in the pan while she made the saladdressing--much oil, a little vinegar, paprika, salt in a bowl with apiece of ice at the end of a fork.
He watched her curiously with the eyes of inexperience as she broughtall the various operations neatly to a focus.
"_Allons_! It is done," she said finally--in French. "Go thou and sitat the table and I will serve."
But he wouldn't do that and helped her to dish the dinner, bringing itin and placing it on the table.
And at last they were seated _vis-a-vis_, Horton with his back to thefire, the glow of which played a pretty game of hide and seek with theshadows of her face. He let her carve the goose, and she did itskillfully, while he served the vegetables. They ate and drank to eachother in _vin ordinaire_ which was all that Moira could afford--afterthe prodigal expenditure for the _piece de resistance_. Moira, her facea little flushed, talked gayly, while the spurious husband opposite satwatching her and grinning comfortably. He couldn't remember when he hadbeen quite so happy in his life, or quite so conscience-stricken. And sohe fell silent after a while, every impulse urging confession and yetnot daring it.
MOIRA TALKED GAYLY]
They took their coffee by the embers of the fire. The light from thegreat north window had long since expired and the mellow glow of thecandles flickered softly on polished surfaces.
Suddenly Moira stopped talking and realized that as she did so silencehad fallen. Her companion had sunk deep into his chair, his gaze on thegallery above, a frown tangling his forehead. She glanced at himquickly and then looked away. Something was required of him and so,
"Why have you done all this for me?" he asked gently.
She smiled and their glances met.
"Because--because----"
"Because you thought it a duty?"
"No----," easily, "it wasn't really that. Duty is such a tiresome word.To do one's duty is to do something one does not want to do. Don't Iseem to be having a good time?"
"I hope you are. I'm not likely to forget your charity--your----"
"Charity! I don't like that word."
"It _is_ charity, Moira. I don't deserve it."
The words were casual but they seemed to illumine the path ahead, forshe broke out impetuously.
"I didn't think you did--I pitied you--over there--for what you had beenand almost if not quite loathed you, for the hold you seemed to have onfather. I don't know what the secret was, or how much he owed you, butI know that he was miserable. I think I must have been hating you agreat deal, Harry dear--and yet I married you."
"Why did you?" he muttered. "I had no right to ask--even a warmarriage."
"God knows," she said with a quick gasp as she bowed her head, "you hadmade good at the Camp. I think it was the regimental band at Yaphankthat brought me around. And then you seemed so pathetic and wishful, Igot to thinking you might be killed. Father wanted it. And so----" shepaused and sighed deeply. "Well--I did it.... It was the most that Icould 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. Idid not love, could not honor, had no intention of obeying you...." Shestopped suddenly, and hid her face in her hands. He thought that shewas in tears but he did not dare to touch her, though he leaned towardher, his fingers groping. Presently she took her hands down and threwthem out in a wild gesture. "It is merciless--what I am saying toyou--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 toher 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 indeep 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 thatI should be thinking so differently about you, but I do. You see, if Ihadn'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 withdrawthem at once.
"Sure and maybe it was the blarney."
"I've meant what I've said," he whispered in spite of himself, "you'rethe loveliest girl in all the world."
There was a moment of silence in which her hand fluttered uneasily inhis, 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 thiswas just what was in his heart.
"Come," she laughed, "we've got all the dishes to wash. And then you'reto 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, hefollowed her into the kitchen with the dishes. But a restraint hadfallen between them. Moira worked with a business-like air, ratheroverdoing it. And Jim Horton, sure that he was a blackguard of sorts,wiped the dishes she handed to him and then obediently followed her tothe 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-m
orrow 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 thelatch and the faint firm tap of her high heels diminishing along thehall--then the closing of the studio door. For a long while he stoodthere, not moving, and then mechanically took out a cigarette, tappingit against the back of his hand. Only the urge of a light for hiscigarette from the candle at last made him turn away. Then he sank uponthe edge of the bed and smoked for awhile, his brows furrowed inthought. Nothing that Harry had ever done seemed more despicable thanthe part that he had chosen to play. He was winning her friendship, heresteem, 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 beensmoother. But she was making it very difficult for him.
He paced the floor again for awhile, until his cigarette burnt hisfingers, then he walked to the window, opened it and looked out. It wasearly yet--only eleven o'clock. The thought of sleep annoyed him. So hetook up his cap, blew out the candle and went quietly out into the halland down the stairs.
He wanted to be alone with his thoughts away from the associations ofthe studio, to assume his true guise as an alien and an enemy to thisgirl who had learned to trust him. The cool air of the court-yardseemed to clear his thoughts. In all honor--in all decency, he mustdiscover some way of finding his brother Harry, expose the ugly intrigueand then take Harry's place and go out into the darkness of ignominy anddisgrace. That would require some courage, he could see, more than ithad taken to go out against the Boche machine gunners in the darkness ofBoissiere Wood, but there didn't seem to be anything else to do, if hewanted to preserve his own self-respect....
But of what value was self-respect to a man publicly disgraced? Andunless he could devise some miracle that would enable him to come backfrom the dead, a miracle that would stand the test of a rigid armyinvestigation, the penalty of his action was death--or at the least along term of imprisonment in a Federal prison, from which he wouldemerge a broken and ruined man of middle age. This alternative was notcheering 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 cochere_ of the _concierge_ and turned thoughtfully down thedarkened street outside, a man in a battered slouch hat and civilianclothes approached from the angle of a wall and faced him.
"What the H---- are you doing at No. 7 Rue de Tavennes?" said a voicegruffly.
Jim Horton started back at the sound, now aware that Fortune hadpresented him with his alternative. For the man in the slouch hat washis brother, Harry!
