But the name of his brother made him rush on the more blindly, the echoes following him down into the court and past the open gate of Madame Toupin. He hadn't any definite idea of what he was going to do. The only thing that he was sure of was that he must get away—anywhere—away from Moira ... from the reproach of her innocent eyes, of her confessions, of her tributes of submission and surrender. On he plunged blindly down the street toward the Luxembourg Gardens, into the outer darkness where he must lose himself away from her—to-night, to-morrow,—for all time.
He had failed. He had trusted himself too far—trusted her too far. Fool that he was not to have seen that love, begun by trivial happenings, had been gathering strength and momentum and like an avalanche had swept down and engulfed them both. In a moment of reaction, of guilty triumph, he rejoiced, defiant of the conscience that drove him forth, that it was him that she loved—not Harry; his lips that had taken tribute—his ears that had received her confessions, meant for them alone.
But reason returned after awhile ... and with it the sense of his dishonor. The thing was over, definitely. There would be scorn enough in her eyes for him to-morrow, when he told her all the truth. He comforted himself with that thought and yet it brought him a pang too, for he knew that it was Moira who was to suffer most.
He seemed to be the only person in the gardens, for the night was chill and a thin mist of rain was falling. From time to time there were footsteps here and there, and the murmur of voices, and through the turmoil of his thoughts he was conscious of them vaguely. But they meant nothing to him. He went on into the darkness, his head bowed, in the conflict of his happiness and his remorse, reaching a dimly lighted spot near the Rue d'Assas, when he heard quick footsteps behind him. He turned just in time to dodge the blow of a stick aimed at his head, which fell heavily on his shoulder. He struck out but another man caught him around the waist, bearing him to the ground. He struggled to one knee, striking viciously, but they were too many for him. He got a glimpse of an automatic pistol which flashed before his eyes and then something heavy struck him on the head. The last thing he noted before losing consciousness was the pale face of the man with the automatic. It was his brother—Harry.
CHAPTER VII
AWAKENING
Moira moved about in a daze, attempting in the commonplaces of the daily routine to forget the thought of the revelation which she knew could not be long delayed. She had lain all night on the divan in the studio, listening and waiting for the return of the soldier, and at last, toward daylight, from sheer exhaustion of mind and body, had fallen asleep. When she awoke, her first impulse was to go to the room in the hallway and knock. She opened the door. The bed had not been occupied.
Slowly, thoughtfully, she went back to the studio and the business of preparing the coffee—for herself—and for Harry—when he should arrive. Her mind was filled with strange doubts,—not of him, because she had learned to have a complete, a perfect faith in this soldier that she had married, who had left New York under a cloud of uncertainties and suspicions and had come back to her spiritually reborn. The doubts in her mind were those that he had purposely created in it, and fragments of phrases that he had uttered in their moments of tenderness came back to alarm and disturb her, because if he hadn't thought it necessary to alarm and disturb her, he would have remained silent and permitted himself to enjoy with her the hours that had been theirs together. Yes ... there was something that had come to thrust itself between them—some impediment to their union. She smiled softly at the memory of the restraint in his caresses, the purity of his smile and the gentleness of his abnegation.... He had underestimated the quality of her new faith in him.
Was this shadow out of the past? Perhaps. But it wouldn't matter. Together they would exorcise it. Only the future mattered now—their future together.
She stopped for a moment in her work of putting the studio to rights and listened. She thought that she heard a step upon the stair. She waited a while and then went to the door and peered out. No one. It was a little cruel that he had not sent her a message—a note, a petit bleu even, telling when she must expect him, whatever his appearance might bring. For this, she realized, was the "to-morrow" of which he had spoken yesterday ... the day of revelations....