Johnny Ludlow, Third Series. Henry Wood

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СКАЧАТЬ my singing is so poor, so different from other people’s. Where I have been living they say it is not worth listening to.”

      She spoke in a meek, deprecating manner. I had heard of self-depreciation: this was an instance of it. Janet Carey was one of the humble ones.

      The next day was Good Friday. We went to church under lowering clouds, and came home again to luncheon. Cattledon’s face was all vinegar when we sat down to it.

      “There’s that woman downstairs again!—that Ness!” she exclaimed with acrimony. “Making herself at home with the servants!”

      “I’m glad to hear it,” smiled Miss Deveen. “She’ll get some dinner, poor thing.”

      Cattledon sniffed. “It’s not a month since she was here before.”

      “And I’m sure if she came every week she’d be welcome to a meal,” spoke Miss Deveen. “Ah now, young ladies,” she went on in a joking tone, “if you wanted your fortunes told, Mrs. Ness is the one to do it.”

      “Does she tell truth?” asked Helen eagerly.

      “Oh, very true, of course,” laughed Miss Deveen. “She’ll promise you a rich husband apiece. Dame Ness is a good woman, and has had many misfortunes. I have known her through all of them.”

      “And helped her too,” resentfully put in Cattledon.

      “But does she really tell fortunes?” pursued Helen.

      “She thinks she does,” laughed Miss Deveen. “She told mine once—many a year ago.”

      “And did it come true?”

      “Well, as far as I remember, she candidly confessed that there was not much to tell—that my life would be prosperous but uneventful.”

      “I don’t think, begging your pardon, Miss Deveen, that it is quite a proper subject for young people,” struck in Cattledon, drawing up her thin red neck.

      “Dear me, no,” replied Miss Deveen, still laughing a little. And the subject dropped, and we finished luncheon.

      The rain had come on, a regular downpour. We went into the breakfast-room: though why it was called that, I don’t know, since breakfast was never taken there. It was a fair-sized, square room, built out at the back, and gained by a few stairs down from the hall and a passage. Somehow people prefer plain rooms to grand ones for everyday use: perhaps that was why we all took a liking to this room, for it was plain enough. An old carpet on the floor, chairs covered with tumbled chintz, and always a good blazing fire in the grate. Miss Deveen would go in there to write her business letters—when she had any to write; or to cut out sewing with Cattledon for the housemaids. An old-fashioned secretary stood against the wall, in which receipts and other papers were kept. The French window opened to the garden.

      “Pour, pour, pour! It’s going to be wet for the rest of the day,” said Tod gloomily.

      Cattledon came in, equipped for church in a long brown cloak, a pair of clogs in her hand. Did none of us intend to go, she asked. Nobody answered. The weather outside was not tempting.

      “You must come, Janet Carey,” she said very tartly, angry with us all, I expect. “Go and put on your things.”

      “No,” interposed Miss Deveen. “It would not be prudent for your niece to venture out in this rain, Jemima.”

      “The church is only over the way.”

      “But consider the illness she has only just recovered from. Let her stay indoors.”

      Cattledon went off without further opposition, Janet kneeling down unasked, to put on her clogs, and then opening her umbrella for her in the hall. Janet did not come in again. Miss Deveen went out to sit with a sick neighbour: so we were alone.

      “What a cranky old thing that Cattledon is!” cried Bill, throwing down his newspaper. “She’d have walked that girl off in the wet, you see.”

      “How old is Cattledon?” asked Tod. “Sixty?”

      “Oh, you stupid fellow!” exclaimed Helen, looking up from the stool on the hearthrug, where she was sitting, nursing her knees. “Cattledon sixty! Why, she can’t be above forty-five.”

      It was disrespectful no doubt, but we all called her plain “Cattledon” behind her back.

      “That’s rather a queer girl, that niece,” said Tod. “She won’t speak to one: she’s like a frightened hare.”

      “I like her,” said Anna. “I feel very sorry for her. She gives one the idea of having been always put upon: and she looks dreadfully ill.”

      “I should say she has been kept in some Blue Beard’s cupboard, amongst a lot of hanging wives that have permanently scared her,” remarked Bill.

      “It’s Cattledon,” said Tod; “it’s not the wives. She puts upon the girl and frightens her senses out of her. Cattledon’s a cross-grained, two-edged–”

      He had to shut up: Janet Carey was coming in again. For about five minutes no one spoke. There seemed to be nothing to say. Bill played at ball with Miss Deveen’s red penwiper: Anna began turning over the periodicals: Helen gave the cat a box when it would have jumped on her knee.

      “Well, this is lively!” cried Tod. “Nothing on earth to do; I wonder why the rain couldn’t have kept off till to-morrow?”

      “I say,” whispered Helen, treason sparkling from her bright eyes, “let us have up that old fortune-teller! I’ll go and ask Lettice.”

      She whirled out of the room, shutting the tail of her black silk dress in the door, and called Lettice. A few minutes, and Mrs. Ness came in, curtsying. A stout old lady in a cotton shawl and broad-bordered cap with a big red bow tied in front.

      “I say, Mrs. Ness, can you tell our fortunes?” cried Bill.

      “Bless you, young gentlefolks, I’ve told a many in my time. I’ll tell yours, if you like to bid me, sir.”

      “Do the cards tell true?”

      “I believe they does, sir. I’ve knowed ’em to tell over true now and again—more’s the pity!”

      “Why do you say more’s the pity?” asked Anna.

      “When they’ve fortelled bad things, my sweet, pretty young lady. Death, and what not.”

      “But how it must frighten the people who are having them told!” cried Anna.

      “Well, to speak the truth, young gentlefolks, when it’s very bad, I generally softens it over to ’em—say the cards is cloudy, or some’at o’ that,” was the old woman’s candid answer. “It don’t do to make folks uneasy.”

      “Look here,” said Helen, who had been to find the cards, “I should not like to hear it if it’s anything bad.”

      “Ah, my dear young lady, I don’t think you need fear any but a good fortune, with that handsome face and them bright eyes of yours,” returned the old dame—who really seemed to speak, not in flattery, but from the bottom of her heart. “I don’t know what the young lords ’ud be about, to pass СКАЧАТЬ