CHAPTER XXXIII. LITTLE MOTHER
The two women, both so young still, but each of them with a mark ofsorrow already indelibly graven in her heart, were clinging to oneanother, bound together by the strong bond of sympathy. And but forthe sadness of it all it were difficult to conjure up a more beautifulpicture than that which they presented as they stood side by side;Marguerite, tall and stately as an exquisite lily, with the crown ofher ardent hair and the glory of her deep blue eyes, and Jeanne Lange,dainty and delicate, with the brown curls and the child-like droop ofthe soft, moist lips.
Thus Armand saw them when, a moment or two later, entered unannounced.He had pushed open the door and looked on the two women silently for asecond or two; on the girl whom he loved so dearly, for whose sakehe had committed the great, the unpardonable sin which would send himforever henceforth, Cain-like, a wanderer on the face of the earth;and the other, his sister, her whom a Judas act would condemn to lonelysorrow and widowhood.
He could have cried out in an agony of remorse, and it was the groanof acute soul anguish which escaped his lips that drew Marguerite'sattention to his presence.
Even though many things that Jeanne Lange had said had prepared her fora change in her brother, she was immeasurably shocked by his appearance.He had always been slim and rather below the average in height, butnow his usually upright and trim figure seemed to have shrunken withinitself; his clothes hung baggy on his shoulders, his hands appearedwaxen and emaciated, but the greatest change was in his face, in thewide circles round the eyes, that spoke of wakeful nights, in the hollowcheeks, and the mouth that had wholly forgotten how to smile.
Percy after a week's misery immured in a dark and miserable prison,deprived of food and rest, did not look such a physical wreck as didArmand St. Just, who was free.
Marguerite's heart reproached her for what she felt had been neglect,callousness on her part. Mutely, within herself, she craved hisforgiveness for the appearance of that phantom which should never havecome forth from out that chaotic hell which had engendered it.
"Armand!" she cried.
And the loving arms that had guided his baby footsteps long ago, thetender hands that had wiped his boyish tears, were stretched out withunalterable love toward him.
"I have a message for you, dear," she said gently--"a letter from him.Mademoiselle Jeanne allowed me to wait here for you until you came."
Silently, like a little shy mouse, Jeanne had slipped out of the room.Her pure love for Armand had ennobled every one of her thoughts, and herinnate kindliness and refinement had already suggested that brotherand sister would wish to be alone. At the door she had turned and metArmand's look. That look had satisfied her; she felt that in it shehad read the expression of his love, and to it she had responded with aglance that spoke of hope for a future meeting.
As soon as the door had closed on Jeanne Lange, Armand, with an impulsethat refused to be checked, threw himself into his sister's arms. Thepresent, with all its sorrows, its remorse and its shame, had sunk away;only the past remained--the unforgettable past, when Margueritewas "little mother"--the soother, the comforter, the healer, theever-willing receptacle wherein he had been wont to pour the burden ofhis childish griefs, of his boyish escapades.
Conscious that she could not know everything--not yet, at any rate--hegave himself over to the rapture of this pure embrace, the lasttime, mayhap, that those fond arms would close round him in unmixedtenderness, the last time that those fond lips would murmur words ofaffection and of comfort.
To-morrow those same lips would, perhaps, curse the traitor, and thesmall hand be raised in wrath, pointing an avenging finger on the Judas.
"Little mother," he whispered, babbling like a child, "it is good to seeyou again."
"And I have brought you a message from Percy," she said, "a letter whichhe begged me to give you as soon as may be."
"You have seen him?" he asked.
She nodded silently, unable to speak. Not now, not when her nerves werestrung to breaking pitch, would she trust herself to speak of that awfulyesterday. She groped in the folds of her gown and took the packet whichPercy had given her for Armand. It felt quite bulky in her hand.
"There is quite a good deal there for you to read, dear," she said."Percy begged me to give you this, and then to let you read it when youwere alone."
She pressed the packet into his hand. Armand's face was ashen pale. Heclung to her with strange, nervous tenacity; the paper which he held inone hand seemed to sear his fingers as with a branding-iron.
"I will slip away now," she said, for strangely enough since Percy'smessage had been in Armand's hands she was once again conscious ofthat awful feeling of iciness round her heart, a sense of numbness thatparalysed her very thoughts.
"You will make my excuses to Mademoiselle Lange," she said, trying tosmile. "When you have read, you will wish to see her alone."
Gently she disengaged herself from Armand's grasp and made for the door.He appeared dazed, staring down at that paper which was scorching hisfingers. Only when her hand was on the latch did he seem to realise thatshe was going.
"Little mother," came involuntarily to his lips.
She came straight back to him and took both his wrists in her smallhands. She was taller than he, and his head was slightly bent forward.Thus she towered over him, loving but strong, her great, earnest eyessearching his soul.
"When shall I see you again, little mother?" he asked.
"Read your letter, dear," she replied, "and when you have read it, ifyou care to impart its contents to me, come to-night to my lodgings,Quai de la Ferraille, above the saddler's shop. But if there is aughtin it that you do not wish me to know, then do not come; I shallunderstand. Good-bye, dear."
She took his head between her two cold hands, and as it was still bowedshe placed a tender kiss, as of a long farewell, upon his hair.
Then she went out of the room.
CHAPTER XXXIV. THE LETTER
Armand sat in the armchair in front of the fire. His head rested againstone hand; in the other he held the letter written by the friend whom hehad betrayed.
Twice he had read it now, and already was every word of that minute,clear writing graven upon the innermost fibres of his body, upon themost secret cells of his brain.