THE BLACK CLOUD.
I find I have arrived at an epoch in my story—an epoch from which I can
date a remarkable change in the character of my surroundings—I seemed to
have got on the black books of the entire household. In the first place,
Mr. Lovett had scarcely spoken to me since the day that I had extracted
the twenty-five francs from him wherewith to pay my debt to Mrs.
Carolus. Whether he considered my subsequent silence dangerous, or read
a determination in my eye which did not accord with his own intentions,
I know not; but he assumed a great distance towards me, and never
addressed me except it were absolutely necessary. He did not parade his
altered feelings before the others, but, all the same, they were evident
enough to me. The studied politeness of his manner and the increased
blandness of his tone, when we met in public, would have betrayed the
truth of themselves to my understanding, had not the ominous silence
that reigned between us, whenever we found ourselves alone together,
made it still more patent.
My guardian’s suspicions or distrust, however, did not seriously affect
me. I had a rod in pickle for the old gentleman, and thought it just as
well he should be a little prepared for what was coming. But I did think
it hard that Tessie should avoid me.
Since the day that we had visited the Fromards’ cottage together, I had
not breathed a word to her of the disclosures that had been made me
there. Poor Guillaume had been taken to his last home. And the funeral
_cortége_, followed by half the town, had passed our door without my
making the slightest reference to the unpleasant topic which the sight
brought to my mind. I had even listened with patience to the beautiful
and touching discourse which Mr. Lovett had given us on that occasion,
and in which he set forth the folly of the poor in not husbanding their
resources against a time of want and emergency.
Tessie had looked painfully shy and uneasy, whilst her father bade us
all pray for the bereaved widow and orphans, but I had stood the
exordium manfully, although I could have boxed Ange’s ears for dilating
her eyes as though she were gazing at a saint from heaven.
Yet Tessie shunned my company in the most evident manner, and was very
subdued, not to say melancholy, at all seasons. Why was it so? Did she
suspect me of treachery, and was afraid that, notwithstanding my
promise, I should enlighten Ange upon the subject? Or had her father
represented my conduct to her in his own light, and made her feel
resentment on his account? I could not tell. I only knew that something
had arisen between us, and we were not on the friendly terms we had been
hitherto. Mr. Charteris was another defaulter, though regarding his
temper I troubled myself but little. My rebuffs of him, trifling as they
were, had evidently upset his equanimity; and if a gentleman who omits
none of the common courtesies of society can be called rude, I should
have said that Cave Charteris’s behaviour to me amounted to rudeness.
Anyway, from that day he devoted himself to outdoor amusements, and
scarcely seemed to be in the house for ten minutes together. Last, but
not least, dear little Ange began to brood and be melancholy, in common
with the rest. The season was not a healthy one, and there was a great
deal of fever and sickness amongst the poor people. Perhaps this
somewhat accounted for the decrease of brilliancy in her eyes, and lack
of power in her limbs. Her slight delicate frame was weakened by the
long hot summer, and required the dry frost of winter to brace and set
it up again. There was too much feverish colour, I thought, in her
cheeks for health, and too much languor in her usually active body.
Tessie did not see it as I did. She said that St. Pucelle was always
considered to be rather enervating in the autumn months, and Ange looked
much the same as usual. From the ‘little maid’ herself I could get no
satisfactory information. She had become as shy of me as her sister, and
seemed quite nervous of being left in the same room.
I began to think I must be a species of Jonah, got aboard by haphazard
in this peaceful foreign ark, and that the sooner I was cast forth into
the sea the better. Even Monsieur de Nesselrode appeared to have been
frightened by my proposal to get him a wife, and to come less often to
the house than before.
My only resource was Charlie Sandilands, who had, of course, reappeared
upon the scene of action, faithful as ever. Charlie was just that sort
of man who might be counted upon to reappear, never mind how often he
was snubbed, always amiable and forgiving, and for that very reason he
was the sort of man that I never could have submitted my judgment to.
But he was an immense comfort to me at that period, and having once
thoroughly knocked the truth into his stupid old head that he could be
nothing more, we got on capitally together, and scarcely passed a day
without meeting, either in the house or out of it.
I had received an answer to my letter from Mr. Warrington; one that made
me feel both comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time. In it he
had enclosed a draft for twenty pounds, with the intimation that for the
next few weeks imperative business would keep him in London, but that as
soon as it was concluded he should run over to St. Pucelle, and inquire
into my money affairs himself.
Meanwhile, he trusted that what he sent would free me from any further
annoyance until his arrival. This was just what I had dreaded; and had
it not been for Charlie Sandilands, I should foolishly have written
back, and begged Mr. Warrington to try first what he could do by letter.
But my friend dissuaded me from interfering in the matter. In the first
place, he pointed out that the lawyer must know his own business best;
in the second, that an epistolary war between him and Mr. Lovett would
be none the pleasanter for me than a wordy one, and I should be
compelled to bear the brunt of it without the weight of Mr. Warrington’s
presence to back me.
There was much good sense in this advice, which I resolved to take, and
Charlie and I had many discussions as we trod the lonely environs of St.
Pucelle together, as to what future course of life it would be advisable
for me to adopt, for that I should be able to continue in any comfort
with the Lovetts after the exposure that must follow the solicitor’s
visit, I never for a moment anticipated.
Somewhere near Tessie and Ange I resolved if possible to stay, but not
under the same roof-tree. Charlie talked of Germany and Italy, and the
delight the art treasures of these countries would afford to my æsthetic
tastes, but somehow I could not make up my mind to leave St. Pucelle. It
was a stupid, pottering little town, true enough, and I knew every inch
of it by that time, and I had no ties to keep me there; still, whatever
the reason, I always came back to the same decision, that, for the
present at least, I did not fancy the idea of quitting it.
One day, on an unusually oppressive afternoon, about the middle of
October, I substituted a white cambric dressing-gown for the heavy
mourning robes I still wore, and sat down in my own room for a couple of
hours’ quiet reading. I had been thinking of all the disagreeable things
of which I have just written, and resolved to try and banish them from
my mind.
Charlie had brought over several cheap novels with him for the
nourishment of his mental appetite, and I had greedily pounced upon one
of Miss Braddon’s, and carried it off for my own delectation. I had met
Ange dressed for walking as I entered the corridor, on her way to the
kitchen to fetch the basket which she usually carried when visiting the
poor, and I had remonstrated with the child for exposing herself to such
heat, and prophesied all sorts of fevers and horrors for her if she
insisted upon being so obstinate.
But she had only shaken her head at me in reply, and I had considered my
good advice wasted, and made myself very comfortable in the society of
Miss Braddon. I had heard light steps traverse the corridor and leave
the house by way of the garden, and thought what a little saint of love
and charity the child was, and how far behind her I came in all things
worthy of praise, when the latch of my door was softly raised (all the
doors in St. Pucelle were latched instead of locked), and lo! the face
of St. Ange, not pale but feverishly red, like the opened heart of a
great crimson rose, was thrust silently into view.
‘Why, Ange! I thought you had left the house ten minutes ago.’
‘No, it was Tessie. I felt so tired that she took the basket from my
hands and went instead of me. How cool you look in here, Hilda! The sun
is glaring in on the other side of the house till it is like an oven.’
‘Come in then, dear, and sit with me. I have got one of the most
charming stories that was ever written, here, and if you like I will
read aloud to you.’
She almost dragged herself across the room to where I sat. I saw at once
that she was not well.
‘What is the matter, darling?’
‘Nothing in particular, Hilda. Only I have such a headache, and feel so
tired.’
‘Take my chair, Ange; you will catch the breeze from the hill-top as it
blows across the courtyard. It is deliciously cool.’
‘No, I would rather sit here,’ she answered, as she sunk down upon a
stool at my feet and rested her head against my knee.
I read aloud for a few minutes, but I soon found that even Miss Braddon
had not the power to-day to chain Ange’s wandering thoughts, which, it
was plain to see from the expression of her dreamy eyes, were far away
from the matter in hand.
‘Ange, you are very sad to-day. What makes you so?’
‘I _am_ a little sad. Jeanne Guillot’s little baby Fanchon is dead, and
I nursed her the very day she was born. Such a dear, fat little thing
she was, Hilda, and only just two years old. I feel almost as if she had
belonged to me.’
‘What did she die of?’
‘I don’t know—some kind of fever, I think. Several children in the town
are ill with it.’
‘Is it safe for you to go amongst them so constantly as you do, Ange?’
‘Why?’
‘The fever may be infectious—you might catch it yourself.’
‘What then, Hilda? One can die but once, you know, and I often think
those who die are much better off than those who are left in this
world.’
‘Perhaps so, but you are too young to believe it. You have all your life
before you, child, and should look forward to a sunny one. Why, what has
come to my light-hearted laughing Ange this afternoon?’
‘I have a headache,’ she repeated wearily.
I let her rest in peace then, though I could not help stealing an
occasional glance at the marvellously pretty face that was pillowed on
my knee. Was it my fancy, or had a look of greater age really come over
Ange’s childlike features during the last few weeks? I thought her nose
seemed longer and thinner than before, and that her brows were not quite
so smooth and open as they had been. But it must have been my fancy, or
the appearance was merely evanescent. No storm, domestic or otherwise,
had occurred to ruffle the even tenor of her life. The unusual look of
care must have been the effect of the headache only. It was she who
broke the silence between us.
‘Hilda, are you going to marry Mr. Sandilands?’
‘Marry Charlie Sandilands? certainly _not_, my dear Ange. Whatever can
have put such an idea into your head?’
‘Miss Markham said you were engaged to him.’
‘What rubbish! Pray don’t put faith in anything that woman tells you.
She has no authority for her assertions. I am not going to marry
anybody, Ange; rest sure of that.’
I was vexed at this retailed piece of scandal, nevertheless; though what
else could I have expected at the hands of a set of chattering old
women, who had seen me walking out every afternoon with the same
gentleman?
‘I suppose I have no right to be angry,’ I continued; ‘but it is always
vexatious to be talked about. I have known Charlie Sandilands for years,
Ange. He is younger than I am, and I look upon him as a brother. Don’t
let any one connect our names together again in your presence, will
you?’
‘No, I will not, Hilda. But I thought Mr. Charteris would be sure to
know.’
‘You said Sophy Markham had been your informant.’
‘So she was, but when I repeated it to Mr. Charteris, he said nothing
was more likely.’
‘Mr. Charteris ought to know me better,’ I returned, with ridiculous
heat, considering that I had not condescended to inform that gentleman
of any of my private affairs.
It seemed hopeless to engage in conversation that afternoon. Every
subject we started came to a dead-lock, and I returned to my novel with
an impatient sigh. Presently Madame Marmoret’s harsh voice rung out
across the courtyard in expostulation with some one unseen.
‘_Eh bien!_ you are there again, pig! Have you come to bring me what I
asked for?’
‘Madame sweetly singing, as usual!’ I remarked, as the tones reached us.
I suppose my words drowned the reply to the woman’s question, for she
continued rapidly:
‘Lies, as usual! I know you have it! I saw you borrow one hundred and
twenty-five francs from Monsieur Charteris this morning. It cannot be
gone already. _Pauvre homme!_ he has not yet found out what it is to
lend money to those that will never return it!’
‘_Tais toi!_’ responded the voice of my guardian; ‘mind your own
business. He will be repaid, never fear!’
‘Ah! yes, certainly, when the Lord comes to judgment,’ replied Madame,
sarcastically.
Ange had not appeared to hear the first two sentences as she lay with
her head upon my knee, her eyes closed and the deep crimson mantling on
her cheek. But when her father’s voice was heard in answer, I watched
her colour fade to a dull white, and she opened her eyes and knit her
brows as though she were listening with all her soul.
‘Hilda!’ she inquired eagerly, ‘is that papa’s voice?’
‘Yes, Ange, I think so.’
‘What was he saying?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t hear.’
She raised herself and looked at me in a scared, half-comprehending
manner.
‘You are deceiving me, Hilda! You must have heard! What is it? What does
it mean? Did Marmoret say that papa owed Mr. Charteris money?’
I remembered my promise to Tessie, and resolved that Ange should learn
the truth through any lips but mine.
‘I know nothing about it, Ange,’ I repeated firmly; ‘you heard what
passed just as well as I did. And if it were the case,’ I added, with
beautiful inconsistency, ‘it is no such great matter. Men borrow money
of one another constantly.’
‘_It is no such great matter!_’ she repeated slowly; ‘no matter that
dear papa should be so poor as to be obliged to borrow of Mr. Charteris:
papa, who holds such strict views on all money matters that he thinks
people should lie down and starve sooner than beg or borrow of their
friends. Oh! we must be very poor indeed—much poorer than I have ever
dreamed of—if papa has been obliged to do this thing.’
I saw the proud blood rush back again to her face, though only for a
moment, and thought, with a pang, what a blow the disclosure of the
truth, when it came, would be to her! At that moment the bedroom door
opened, and Tessie appeared. The sight of her sister seemed to rouse
Ange to action, for she leapt to her feet and rushed into her arms,
crying:
‘Tessie! Tessie! tell the truth. Does papa owe money to Mr. Charteris?’
Tessie looked over the child’s shoulder at me with a reproachful air,
which I read too well.
‘You wrong me,’ I said, in answer; ‘I am not the delinquent. Ange has
overheard your father and Madame squabbling in the courtyard.’
At these words Tessie’s face became as white as the ‘little maid’s.’
‘Why did I not tell Madame I was going to carry Ange’s basket to the
poor?’ she said, with a self-condemnatory air.
I knew what she meant. That if Madame had known that _petite_ Ange was
anywhere within hearing, she would have placed some restraint upon her
unruly tongue.
‘Well, it cannot be helped, Tessie; and, after all, Ange is making a
great fuss about a very little thing. She merely heard Madame say that
Mr. Lovett had borrowed a five-pound note of his boarder.’
‘Five pounds,Tessie; one hundred and twenty-five francs!’ said Ange,
with open eyes of horror; ‘and how will he ever pay it back again, so
poor as we are?’
‘Oh! leave papa to find out the ways and means, darling,’ replied
Tessie, cheerfully; ‘it is no concern of ours, you know, and he would
not like, perhaps, to think that we knew about his private concerns.’
‘That is just what I have been telling her, Tessie; but Ange is such a
little goose, she seems to think five pounds a perfect fortune.
Gentlemen constantly accommodate each other in such trifles. Mr.
Charteris is sure to have his money back in a day or two, and, for my
part, I think we have wasted too much time already in discussing the
business.’
So I said, in my desire to reassure them both, but Ange still continued
to look up in her sister’s face with wide, imploring eyes.
‘Tessie, how can he pay him back? I heard papa tell the _facteur_ this
morning that he must wait till to-morrow for the money for the unpaid
letter.’
‘That was because he had no change,’ I interposed quickly.
‘Tessie, how will he ever be able to pay back five pounds?’ continued
Ange, without heeding my interruption; ‘there are so many things to buy
each day, and Madame killed our best pair of pigeons this morning
because she had no money to go to market with.’
‘Oh, Ange! you do not understand such things. You have had no
experience. People may have very little money to-day and plenty
to-morrow. It _comes in_, you know. The richest are sometimes out of
pocket for a few days, aren’t they, Hilda?’
‘Of course,’ I answered stoutly. ‘I dare say the Duke of Westminster has
to borrow sometimes. The more we have, the more we spend. How very much
amused Mr. Charteris would be if he could hear the debate we are holding
over his stupid bank-note. By the way, is he home from shooting yet,
Tessie?’
‘I don’t know; I have not seen him,’ she replied, as she gently put her
sister from her, and, walking up to the mirror, removed her hat and
arranged her tumbled hair. Ange stood where she had left her for a few
seconds motionless, and then, with a deep sigh, walked out of the room.
‘Oh, Hilda! how could you let her hear it?’ exclaimed Tessie, as soon as
she was gone.
‘How could I help it, rather? If you will gag Madame Marmoret, or reduce
her brazen clarion of a voice to whispering music, I may be able to
avoid such things, but not before.’
‘How impudent of her to shout in that way across the yard, and why does
dear papa provoke her tongue by infringing on her premises? Why doesn’t
he keep out of her way?’
‘Don’t ask me. Why does everything in this world go by contraries? The
best thing we can do now is to try and make Ange forget what she
overheard as soon as possible.’
‘Oh! she is sure to forget it. After all, it is not much. The only thing
is to prevent its leading to more.’
‘You had better arrange that with Madame Marmoret, since she is at the
bottom of all the mischief.’
When we met at the dinner-table I thought that Ange had already
forgotten the little episode we had alluded to. The lovely damask colour
bloomed once more on her cheek; her soft eyes beamed with light, and her
manner to her father was even more tender and caressing than usual.
As soon as the meal was concluded, she perched herself upon his knee,
and kept on fondling him to an unusual degree as she stroked down his
silver locks, calling him ‘Poor dear papa,’ and ‘Poor darling old
father,’ accompanying each phrase of affection with a kiss.
I fancied that Mr. Lovett palled of this excess of filial devotion, but
the girl could not see it. Her little soft heart was full to the brim
with compassion for what she considered the deplorable condition to
which he had been brought, and she was powerless to perceive that his
did not beat in unison with hers.
At last he twitched his venerable head from under her smoothing hands to
turn it towards Madame Marmoret, who entered the _salle_ with a message
from Jean Marat, the cobbler; a humble message, delivered in the most
respectful manner, to the effect that if it were quite convenient to
Monsieur le Curé, would monsieur oblige Jean Marat with a few
francs—just a few francs—on account of his bill, because madame _sa
femme_ had laid-in that morning of the eighth little Marat, and money,
under the circumstances, would be very acceptable.
To listen to Madame’s oily voice at that moment, who would have dreamt
it could ever be so harsh and virulent as we had heard it at other
times!
She looked the personification of a respectable servant as she stood at
the open door with her hands rolled up in her apron; and with all my
dislike for the woman, I recognised something touching in the restraint
she put on her naturally evil nature for the sake of _petite_ Ange.
Mr. Lovett, however, saw nothing ‘touching’ about the matter. His brows
contracted as the message was delivered to him, and he put Ange off his
lap with a brusqueness that was almost rough.
‘What do you mean by bringing such a message in to me in the midst of
dinner?’ he demanded. ‘Tell Jean Marat to go——’
But there he remembered himself and came to a full stop. Whatever he may
have been in private, he was always very particular in keeping up the
name of his profession in public.
‘Tell Jean Marat that it is _not_ convenient, that I am occupied at
present—and he must wait,’ he continued, correcting the former sentence.
‘If monsieur could spare but five francs,’ pleaded Marmoret. ‘The Marats
are very poor.’
‘_Ciel!_’ exclaimed Mr. Lovett, losing his temper entirely. ‘What do you
mean by talking to me in that manner when I haven’t got a five-franc
piece in the house? Give it to them yourself if you are so anxious for
their comfort; but get out of this room, and leave me in peace to finish
my repast.’
Madame Marmoret immediately disappeared, and harmony was restored
amongst us. But an ominous silence succeeded her departure.
Tessie sat with eyes downcast upon her lap. Mr. Charteris whistled and
looked out of the window. Ange seemed restlessly miserable.
The cause of the disturbance tried to cheer up the spirits of his
family, but, finding his remonstrances of no avail, took his hat and
stick discontentedly and walked off to visit some of his friends.
The girls disappeared together, as I thought, to their garden or the
kitchen, and I retreated to the inner _salle_ to have another chat with
Miss Braddon. When it grew too dusk to read I went upstairs, intending
to finish some needlework or writing in my bedroom by the light of a
little lamp which I had purchased for my own use with some of the money
Mr. Warrington had sent me. But, passing the room occupied by the
sisters, my attention was arrested by the sound of a low sobbing, and I
entered it expecting to find my poor friend Tessie bewailing in secret
the troubles she had to bear. To my surprise, however, it was not Tessie
who was cast prostrate on the bed. It was Ange!
‘Ange, my child!’ I exclaimed. ‘What is the matter that you should weep
like this?’
‘Oh! don’t speak to me, Hilda,’ she said mournfully; ‘leave me to
myself. It seems as if a great black cloud had come down over
everything.’
Poor Ange! Dear, innocent Ange!
So the curse had begun to work here also, and her fresh young life was
to be involved in trouble like the rest.
[Illustration: [Fleuron]]