*CHAPTER XV*
*GREEN EYES*
For a moment after Jim Horton's departure Moira sat in her arm-chair,her head buried in her arms, more than half stupefied. One horriblerevelation had followed another with such rapidity that she was aghastat the complete disruption of all the ties that had made her life. Andthis last tie--the strongest and the weakest of all--that too had beenbroken as relentlessly as the others.
She straightened slowly, her face haggard with her suffering, but shedid not move from her chair and her fingers clutched its arms fiercely.Her eyes, staring blankly past Quinlevin, were following Jim out intothe darkness of the Rue de Tavennes, but her fingers still clung to thechair-arms and her body did not move. It seemed that her limbs refusedto obey her will to follow. Then after a moment, she sank down again,crushed, bruised and nerveless.
She felt the touch of Quinlevin's hand upon her shoulder and his voicewhispering at her ear.
"There, acushla! I'll be explaining it all to you in the morning. Goto your room now, child, and rest."
She obeyed him silently, mechanically, not replying or looking at him orat Harry. Her throat like her eyes was dry, and parched, as though withfever, but her hands, like her heart, were ice cold. In the sanctuaryof her own room with the doors closed, she threw herself headlong uponthe bed, racked for a while by shuddering soundless sobs--and then aftera while merciful tears came.
"Jim," she whispered hopelessly into the darkness. "Jim, forgive me!"
Her fingers groped for her crucifix and clung to it, seeking strengthand courage. And after a long while the spasm of weeping stopped andshe lay motionless and soundless, scarcely breathing. She knew in herheart that what she had done was best for Jim's soul's good and her own,but her heart cried out against the cruelty of it. And yet she was surethat if she had followed him beyond the studio door, she would have goneout with him into the world, glorying in her shame. She had chosen.Her one brief, gorgeous, pitiful romance was over.
And what was there left for her here at the studio but the shatteredfragments of ruined affections? She had lived a lie--was living itnow--like her father.... She started up at the horror that she hadforgotten and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to collect herthoughts; then she rose with an effort, groped for the matches andlighted her candle. Her father? By his own admission--her father nolonger. Who was she then? A waif? The daughter of de Vautrin? Hermirror sent her back a haggard reflection, pale, somber, but withblue-black eyes that gazed steadily from their swollen lids. Strengthshe had prayed for, and courage to do what was right to do, and sheneeded them both now....
THE MIRROR SENT HER BACK A HAGGARD REFLECTION, PALE ANDSOMBER]
There was no sound from the studio. She glanced at her clock. Forhours it seemed she had lain upon her bed of pain.
With a new resolution she bathed her face and wrists in cold water, thenwent through the kitchenette into the studio to find Barry Quinlevin.He was not there, but her husband was,--crouched in the armchair by thetable and the whisky bottle was empty.
She shuddered a little but approached him resolutely. He tried to risebut, with a dull laugh and fumbling the arm of the chair, fell sidewaysinto a grotesque attitude.
"Where is----?" she began, and halted.
"Gone out," he mumbled, struggling into a straighter posture, "backsoon."
"Where has he gone?"
He shook his head. "Dunno. Asked me to stay--take care of you,m'dear."
She turned away from him, in disgust.
"Oh--don' worry," he went on--"not goin' bother you. After t'morr'--won'see me, y'know----"
She turned quickly and he laughed again.
"Goin' join m'regimen'. Furlough up t'morr'."
She whispered a "Thank God" below her breath as she stood looking athim. And then aloud, gently, in a new kind of pity for him.
"You'd better lie down, Harry, and get some sleep," she said, "or you'llbe in no condition to go on duty."
"Thanks. Ought to sleep. Haven' slep' f'r weeks, seems to me. Don'seem to care though."
"You'd better. There's a room outside. Your baggage is there too."
"Um--that's nice of you, Moira. R'turnin' good for evil. Baggage._He_ brought it--didn' he?"
"Yes, Harry."
He paused a moment and then leaned forward in his chair while shewatched him curiously.
"Rotten mess! What?" he mumbled.
She didn't reply. And he went on, concentrating thought withdifficulty. "He told you I tried--kill him--didn' he?" He wagged hishead comically. "I couldn' do that--not kill 'im--wouldn't doy'know--m'own brother--no--not that----"
He put his hands to his eyes a moment and swayed, but Moira steadied himby the shoulder.
"Harry--come. I'll help you. You must go to bed."
"Not yet--in a minute. Somethin'--say."
He groped for her hand on his shoulder, found and clung to it.
"Shame I'm such rotter, Moira. Beas'ly shame. I'm not half bad sort ifleave me 'lone. I was sick--out there. Head of Levinski--grinned at me.Gold tooth--grinned at me--in wheatfield----"
"Come, Harry," she broke in again, "lean on me. I'll help you to bed."
"Ah, I was sick awright----" he shuddered, oblivious of her. "Makes mesick now--think of it. Jus' a head, Moira, nothin' else. But God!What a head!"
"It won't do you any good now to think about that," she put in quickly,for he was shivering as though with a chill.
"No. No goo' now. Awf' rotter, ain't I?"
"Come----"
He stumbled to his feet and she helped him to support himself.
"Will you forgive me, Moira?"
"Of course."
And as she urged him out of the door toward the vacant room, "Knewy'would," he mumbled. And then, "Goo' ol' Moira!"
In the room she helped him off with his coat, puttees and shoes and thenpulling a blanket over him left him to his own devices and went back tothe studio to wait for Barry Quinlevin.
But she wasn't weary now. From the same reserve force from which shedrew the strength to stand for hours and paint even when her sitterswere weary, she gained new courage and resolution for the return ofQuinlevin. But for a moment she was tempted again. The way was clear.What was to prevent her from going and finding Jim? For a moment only.Then she sank, into the chair by the fireplace--to fight her battle withherself and wait. Her glance restlessly passed from one familiar objectto another, the portrait on the easel, the lay figure in the corner inits fantastic pose and heterogeneous costume, the draperies for herbackgrounds, hanging just as they had hung this afternoon, and yet allso strangely changed. The door of the closet where Jim had been hiddenremained open, exhibiting its untidy interior. Instinctively she roseand closed it, her sense of order triumphant even over her mentalsufferings. Then she went back and sat down to think. There was muchthat she and her--that she and Barry Quinlevin would have to say to eachother.
He came at last, expecting to find Harry and not the straight figure ofthe woman who faced him like a pale fury. The shadows of pain at hereyes were gone, lost in deeper shadows of anger and determination.
"You! Moira," he said in surprise.
"Yes, I----"
"Where's Harry?"
"I put him to bed. He was drunk," she said shortly.
"The devil he was!" He frowned darkly and then seemed as ever, quitethe master of himself. If the glance he cast at her discovered herstate of mind, he gave no sign of uneasiness. He approached her withhis easy air as if nothing unusual had happened, but when he spoke againhis voice was pitched low and his eyes were soft.
"I thought you'd be in bed, child----"
"I've something to say to you----" she cut in quickly.
"Oh, very well,--say on, my dear. You don't mind if I smoke acigarette?"
As she made no reply he lighted one and sank into the most comfortablechair with a sigh of content.
r /> "At least you owe me something, Barry Quinlevin," she began tensely,trying to keep her voice under control, and announcing her _leit motif_,so to speak, in her first phrase. "I'm no chattel of yours, no infantany longer, to be bandied about as a dupe in your wild plans for thefuture. It's _my_ future you're dealing with just as you've dealt withmy past----"
"Have ye had any cause to complain of my treatment of ye?" he broke incalmly.
"You've cheated me--lied to me all my life--isn't that enough? Kept mein ignorance of the source of our livelihood--God knows what else--mademe a partner in a crime--without my knowledge--made me help you to getdishonest money----"
"Hardly," he said. "It was yer own money."
"I don't believe you," she said icily, "if it was my money you wouldhave gotten it for me--all of it--long ago."
"And lost yerself, my dear, to the Duc de Vautrin," he counteredquickly.
She started slightly. That possibility hadn't occurred to her. But shewent on rapidly.
"You forget that I heard what you said to Harry--That I know what hasbeen in your heart all these years. I was your decoy and you used me asyou pleased, glad of my working, which kept me busy so that I couldn'tbe inquiring what was going on. You forget that I heard why you wantedme to marry Harry, but _I_ can't forget it--would to God I could--andyou'd dare to ask me if I have anything to complain of, knowing all thatand knowing that _I_ know it. Do you think I'm a mere piece offurniture without a soul, not to care what my heritage is, not tocherish my traditions----? You've built my life on a lie, destroyed myvery identity in a breath, torn down all the sacred idols of my girlhoodand young womanhood and ground them under your feet. You!"
She caught at her heart and took a step nearer him.
"My mother--who was my mother?" she gasped.
He shrugged. "Mary Callonby--the Duchesse de Vautrin," he said easily."And you are Patricia Madeline Aulnoy de Vautrin."
"Impossible. I'm no longer credulous."
"You'll have to believe the truth!"
"And who are you to ask me to believe? You who dared to speak to me ofthe sanctity of motherhood, who taught me that I was your owndaughter--and that my mother, your wife----"
She broke off with a sob, quickly controlled.
"It was because I loved ye, Moira dear," he said very quietly.
She halted, aghast at this tenderness, the familiar tones of which madeher wonder for a moment whether she weren't dreaming all the dreadfulaccusations on her tongue's end. But a pain shot through her heart toremind her of her sufferings.
"And was it because you loved me that you dared obliterate me, sneeredat my pitiful love affair--the only passion I've had in my life or willhave--and even tried to murder in cold blood--the--the object--of it?Answer me that--Barry Quinlevin!"
The Irishman's manner now changed. His brows drew together in a tightknot and the long fingers upon the chair-arm clenched until the knuckleswere white.
"I'll answer ye that," he said abruptly. "And more. I've heard what yehad to say with patience and chagrin. I'll take the blame for me sins ofomission where blame is due, trusting to yer conscience to be forgivingme presently for yer harsh tones to one who sinned for the very love ofye. But when ye speak of this other man who by a trick forces his wayinto yer lodgings and yer affections, learns yer family secrets andmine, reads yer letters and mine, makes love to his own brother's wifebehind his back,--yer own brother-in-law, mind ye--and then tells onelie after another to make his story good, its time there was a man aboutthe place to protect ye, if ye can't protect yerself----"
"Stop----!"
"No. I've heard _you_. Now ye'll be listening to me. If Harry isn'tman enough to be looking out fer what belongs to him, then I _am_.Ye've given this man yer heart, acknowledged yer affections before usall. God be praised that's all it amounts to! But when ye hear me out,ye'll be wishing yer tongue had rotted before ye'd made such anadmission."
He saw her shrink and he rose from his chair, following up his advantagequickly. "There--there my dear, Ye've almost had enough of trouble forone night----"
"Go on," she murmured stanchly, "but if you're going to speak ill of JimHorton I won't believe you."
"Ye can do as ye please about that, but I'll be telling ye what I knowof him just the same. And when I tell ye I wish I'd shot him deadbefore yer eyes, I'd only be satisfying the conscience of yer life-longguardian and protector----"
"Conscience! _You_!" she laughed hysterically. "Go on."
"I will, little as ye'll like it. When I went from here where d'yesuppose I went? To Pochard. And I wrung from him the truth about yerfriend Jim Horton. It was Piquette Morin who helped him from the housein the Rue Charron----"
"I know it. I thank God for it."
"It was Piquette Morin who took him back to her apartment in theBoulevard Clichy and kept him there until he recovered."
"I know that too. Go on----"
"But ye didn't know that Piquette Morin was a woman without a shred ofconscience or morals, a woman of the streets, who glories in herinfidelities to the Duc de Vautrin, whose mistress she is----"
"I care nothing for that," stammered Moira.
"Ye may not care, since Jim Horton has lied about that too, but ye_will_ care about the relations that exist between the two of them."
"I won't listen," said Moira, making for the door. But he barred herway.
"Oh, yes, ye'll listen, Moira dear, and I'll be giving ye all the proofsye need before I'm through."
"Proofs! I dare you."
"All in good time. If ye'll be patient. Where do ye think I went fromPochard's? To the Boulevard Clichy, where yer precious friend hadreturned to the arms of Madame Morin----"
She waved a hand in protest.
"I watched the door of the apartment. He came out. I followed, andwhere do you suppose he went? To the ticket office where he booked acompartment for two--on the twelve o'clock train to-morrow forMarseilles."
"And what of that?" she stammered.
"Merely that yer friend Jim Horton, failing of success with hisbrother's wife, has decided upon a honeymoon to the Riviera with a ladywho is more _complaisante_ than yerself."
"I don't believe it."
"Ye'd find it less difficult to believe if ye guessed how mad she wasfor him, how handsome she is and how skilled in the wily arts of her sexand trade," he said keenly. "Oh," he said, with a shrug, "it could onlyhave been a great passion that would have dared the rescue from thehouse in the Rue Charron. And no man remains long ungrateful for suchan act of unselfishness."
Moira leaned against the mantel-shelf, staring at him wide-eyed, but hemet her look with one more steady than hers, hardy, indignant, butinjured and grieved too at her attitude. Skillfully he had baited hishook with a truth that she knew. He saw the fleeting question in hereyes and answered it quickly.
"If ye want the proofs----go to the Boulevard Clichy now." He paused togive the suggestion weight, "Or if ye've no heart to-night for such abrutal encounter--to-morrow--on the train to Marseilles."
He had caught her ear. He knew it by the sudden shutting of her teethover her words, the proud lift of her chin, the hard look that came intoher eyes. And though she answered him still defiantly, her tone had nobody in it and trembled with the new uncertainty.
"I don't believe you."
"I don't ask ye to. But ye will believe in the evidence of yer eyes,and I'll be providing ye with that, my dear."
"How you hate him!" she gasped.
He shrugged and turned half toward her.
"Hate? Hardly. I merely despise him. I would have killed him to-nightwith a clean conscience, knowing what I do." He dropped the cigarettehe had taken up and approached her a pace or two. "Oh, Moira, alanah,won't ye see? Is it blind ye are to the truth that lies before yer veryeyes----? Can't ye see that it's the love of ye that drives me toprotect yer happiness? Have I ever failed ye, all these years? Haven'tI given ye yer share of all I had? Answer me that--a
ye--even when therewas not too much for the both of us?"
"I--I've heard enough--to-night," she said wearily.
"I'm sorry. I--I've done what I thought was the best. I'm still yerguardian--until ye come into yer own----"
"I can't listen to that," she shuddered. "De Vautrin--my father!"
He bowed his head with tragic grace.
"The same--bad cess to him."
She sank into a chair, bewildered and helpless.
"I want nothing--only to go away somewhere alone. I've heard enough."
"That you shall do presently, alanah," he said, touching her gently, thefamiliar voice close at her ear. "But now you must be going to bed andtrying to sleep. 'Tis a cruel day ye've had--cruel! But to-morrow whenye've had some rest----"
"To-morrow----?" she raised a despairing face.
"Ye've got to be facing it. But no more to-night. Come."
She let him take her by the arm to the door.
"Forgive me, acushla," he whispered.
But she made no reply and left him standing there. And Quinlevin watchedher merge into the darkness within, then turned and picked up thecigarette he had dropped, lighted it with great care, and sat andsmoked, ruminating over the ashes in the fireplace.
But he had played his cards with the true gambler's knowledge, of thepsychology of his victim. Jealousy! Such a weapon at his very hand. Itwas almost a pity to use it. Poor child. As if she hadn't alreadysuffered enough! But there was no choice. And she would get over it.Love never killed--only hate ... only hate. He finished one cigaretteand then glanced toward the door through which Moira had passed. Thenlighted another and composed himself for awhile longer.
It was not until he was near the end of this cigarette that a slightsound caused him to look up over his shoulder. Framed against the blackopening Moira stood, pale, dark eyed, her black hair streaming over herflimsy dressing-gown, and then came forward noiselessly.
"Moira, child----!" he cried, rising, with an air of surprise.
"You must show me the proof----," she stammered, "what yousaid--to-morrow."
"Yes. If ye insist----"
"I do. It's a test--of the truth--between you and--and him----"
"I'll provide it. Ye'll leave with me on the twelve o'clock train forMarseilles?"
"Yes--anything."
"Very well," he muttered. "I'll arrange for it. I've some business inNice. It's just as well if you come along."
"Anything----," she whispered, shivering and still protesting, "but Idon't believe--I don't believe----"
"Go to bed again, child. I'll call ye in the morning."
As she disappeared he turned toward the mantel, hiding the smile oftriumph that crossed his lips. Then he leaned for a long while lookinginto the hearth.
"Poor child!" he whispered. "'Tis a cruel pity, but--" He paused andthen turned toward the bottle upon the table, which he raised andexamined carefully, then set down with an air of disgust. "The drunkenscut!" he muttered, then swore softly below his breath.
* * * * *
What remained of Quinlevin's task was not difficult, for he had alreadyanticipated his success with Moira by making arrangements with NoraBurke and Tricot, Nora to face de Vautrin with her confession and herevidence, Tricot to help him in keeping Jim Horton from reaching theDuke.
By the expression of Moira's face when they met in the studio in themorning, he discovered that his poison had worked its slow coursethrough her veins. Irish she was--all Irish now--slow to love and quickto jealousy--proud to the quick, and capable of a fine hatred when theproofs were brought as Barry Quinlevin intended to bring them. Shelistened with an abstracted air as he told her that her old nurse, NoraBurke, and a man, a friend of his, were to be the other members of theirparty. She showed some surprise and then a mild interest, but he couldsee that to Moira her companions meant very little. She was thinking,brooding somberly over what he had told her, and his air of confidencein his undertaking did nothing to give her courage for her decision. Andyet he knew that she would abide by it--a choice between Jim Horton andhimself. And he knew already what that choice was to be. For reasonsof his own it was important that Jim Horton and Piquette should not seehim on the train; nor that Moira should be presented merely with theevidence of the two of them entering the train. The evidence must becondemnatory. He would wait and trust to circumstances.
The thing was simplicity itself. The window into the corridor was likea dispensation. He passed the compartment once or twice to make surethat the shade of the little window had not been drawn and then when itgrew dark saw that Piquette had gone fast asleep with her head onHorton's shoulder. Then he acted quickly.
"Come," he said to Moira. "It is time I showed you who is the liar."
And resolutely she followed him, looked--and saw.
* * * * *
Nothing seemed to matter to her after that. Incredulity, surprise andthen guilt, all expressed so clearly in Jim Horton's face in the briefmoment when their glances had met. The pretty painted face upon hisshoulder, the arm that he withdrew from around the woman's waist, hersudden awakening as he started--all these brief impressions so vivid, soterrible in their significance, armed her with new strength and courageto hide her pain from Nora Burke and Barry Quinlevin. He watched herwith admiration. Her heart might be breaking but she'd never whimpernow. He knew her.
"Are ye satisfied, my dear?" he asked.
"Yes. Quite," she gasped.
"And you'll be listening to Nora while she tells ye the truth?"
"I will."
"Good. I must be leaving ye for a while to talk with my friend. Anddon't be distrusting me again, alanah."
Moira was silent and gazed out of the window into the darkness untilNora came. And she listened to the tale that Nora Burke told, or seemedto listen, and thus Quinlevin found them later, the girl's hand in thatof her old nurse.
The announcement that they were to get out of the train at St. Etiennecreated no astonishment. Moira moved as in a dream, obeying blindly asshe had always been accustomed to obey the suggestions of her protector,caring nothing for their significance and reassured as to the integrityof his intentions with regard to herself. There was no doubting that heloved her in his strange way. And the fury he had expended upon JimHorton seemed scarcely less than that she now felt for him. A man couldkill--but a woman could only despise.
She was at least thankful when she saw the train bearing the couple passout of her sight into the darkness, and followed Quinlevin where heled--to a hotel for the night--to another train in the morning, toMarseilles, to Nice, and the Hotel Ruhl, where in the privacy of a roomof her own, she threw herself upon the bed and gazed dry-eyed at theceiling.