CHAPTER V

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]]