Johnny Ludlow, Fifth Series. Henry Wood

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      “Assuredly.”

      “But we have no enemy. I’m sure we have not one in all the world.”

      He slightly shook his head. “You may not suspect it yet, though I should have said”—waving the pencil thoughtfully over some of the cards—“that he was already suspected—doubted.”

      Nancy took up the personal pronoun briskly. “He!—then the evil enemy must be a man? I assure you we do not know any man likely to be our enemy or to wish us harm. No, nor woman either. Perhaps your cards don’t tell true to-night, Signor Talcke?”

      “Perhaps not, madame; we will let it be so if you will,” he quietly said, and shuffled all the cards together.

      That ended the séance. As if determined not to tell any more fortunes, the signor hurriedly put up the cards and disappeared from the recess. Nancy did not appear to be in the least impressed.

      “What a curious ‘future’ it was!” she exclaimed lightly to Mary Carimon. “I might as well not have had it cast. He told me nothing.”

      They walked away together. I went back to the sofa and Anna Bosanquet followed me.

      “Mrs. Fennel calls it ‘curious,’” I said to her. “I call it more than that—strange; ominous. I wish I had not heard it.”

      “Dear Miss Preen, it is only nonsense,” she answered. “He will tell some one else the same next time.” But she only so spoke to console me.

      A wild wish flashed into my mind—that I should ask the man to tell my future. But had I not heard enough? Mine was blended with this of Ann’s. I was the other woman whom the dark fate was more relentlessly pursuing. There could be no doubt of that. There could be as little doubt that it was I who already suspected the author of the “evil.” What can the “dark fate” be that we are threatened with? Debt? Will his debts spring upon us and break up our home, and turn us out of it? Or will it be something worse? That card which followed me meant a coffin, they said. Ah me! Perhaps I am foolish to dwell upon such ideas. Certainly they are more fitting for the world’s dark ages than for this enlightened nineteenth century of it.

      Charley Palliser gallantly offered to see us home. I said no; as if we were not old enough to go by ourselves; but he would come with us. As we went along Ann began talking of the party, criticizing the dresses, and so on. Charley seemed to be unusually silent.

      “Was not mine a grand fortune?” she presently said with a laugh, as we crossed the Place Ronde.

      “Stunning,” said he.

      “As if there could be anything in it, you know! Does the man think we believe him, I wonder?”

      “Oh, these conjurers like to fancy they impose on us,” remarked Charley, shaking hands as we halted before the house of Madame Sauvage.

      And I have had a wretched night, for somehow the thing has frightened me. I never was superstitious; never; and I’m sure I never believed in conjurers, as Charles had it. If I should come across Signor Talcke again while he stays here, I would ask him– Here comes Nancy! and Flore behind her with the marketings. I’ll put up my diary.

      “I’ve bought such a lovely capon,” began Nancy, as Lavinia went into the kitchen. “Show it to madame, Flore.”

      It was one that even Lavinia could praise; they both understood poultry. “It really is a beauty,” said Lavinia. “And did you remember the salsifis? And, Ann, where have you left your husband?”

      “Oh, we met old Mr. Griffin, and Edwin has gone up to Drecques with him. My opinion is, Lavinia, that that poor old Griffin dare not go about far by himself since his attack. He had to see his landlord at Drecques to-day, and he asked Edwin to accompany him. They went by the eleven-o’clock train.”

      Lavinia felt it a relief. Even that little absence, part of a day, she felt thankful for, so much had she grown to dislike the presence in the house of Edwin Fennel.

      “Did you tell your husband about your ‘fortune’ Nancy?”

      “No; I was too sleepy last night to talk, and I was late in getting up this morning. I’m not sure that I shall tell him,” added Mrs. Fennel thoughtfully; “he might be angry with me for having had it done.”

      “That is more than likely,” replied Lavinia.

      Late in the afternoon, as they were sitting together in the salon, they saw the postman come marching up the yard. He brought two letters—one for Miss Preen, the other for her sister.

      “It is the remittance from William Selby,” said Lavinia as she opened hers. “He has sent it a day or two earlier than usual; it is not really due until Monday or Tuesday.”

      Seventeen pounds ten shillings each. Nancy, in a hasty sort of manner, put her cheque into the hands of Lavinia, almost as if she feared it would burn her own fingers. “You had better take it from me whilst you can,” she said in low tones.

      “Yes; for I must have it, Ann,” was the answer. “We are in debt—as you may readily conceive—with only half the usual amount to spend last quarter.”

      “It was not my fault; I was very sorry,” said Ann humbly; and she rose hastily to go to the kitchen, saying she was thirsty, and wanted a glass of water. But Lavinia thought she went to avoid being questioned.

      Lavinia carried the two cheques to her room and locked them up. After their five-o’clock dinner, each sister wrote a note to Colonel Selby, enclosing her receipt. Flore took them out to post when she left. The evening passed on. Lavinia worked; Nancy nodded over the fire: she was very sleepy, and went to bed early.

      It was past eleven o’clock when Captain Fennel came in, a little the worse for something or other. After returning from Drecques by the last train, he had gone home with Mr. Griffin to supper. He told Lavinia, in words running into one another, that the jolting train had made him giddy. Of course she believed as much of that as she liked, but did not contradict it. He went to the cupboard in the recess, unlocked it to get out the cognac, and then sat down with his pipe by the embers of the dying fire. Lavinia, unasked, brought in a decanter of water, put it on the table with a glass, and wished him good-night.

      All next day Captain Fennel lay in bed with a racking headache. His wife carried up a choice bit of the capon when they were dining after morning service, but he could not so much as look at it. Being a fairly cautious man as a rule, he had to pay for—for the jolting of the train.

      He was better on Monday morning, but not well, still shaky, and did not come down to breakfast. It was bitterly cold—a sort of black frost; but Lavinia, wrapping herself up warmly, went out as soon as breakfast was over.

      Her first errand was to the bank, where she paid in the cheques and received French money for them. Then she visited sundry shops; the butcher’s, the grocer’s, and others, settling the accounts due. Last of all, she made a call upon Madame Veuve Sauvage, and paid the rent for the past quarter. All this left her with exactly nineteen pounds, which was all the money she had to go on with for every purpose until the end of March—three whole months.

      Lunch was ready when she returned. Taking off her things upstairs and locking up her cash, she went down to it. Flore had made some delicious soupe maigre. Only those who have tried it know how good it is on a sharp winter’s day. Captain Fennel seemed to relish it much, though his appetite had not quite come back to him, and he turned from СКАЧАТЬ