Part 9

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 _you_ by."

Helen liked that; she was just as vain as a peacock, and thought no little of herself. "Who'll begin?" asked she.

"Begin yourself, Helen," said Tod. "It's sure to be something good."

So she shuffled and cut the cards as directed: and the old woman, sitting at the table, spread them out before her, talking a little bit to herself, and pointing with her finger here and there.

"You've been upon a journey lately," she said, "and you'll soon be going upon another." I give only the substance of what the old lady said, but it was interspersed freely with her own remarks. "You'll have a present before many days is gone; and you'll--stay, there's that black card--you'll hear of somebody that's sick. And--dear me! there's an offer for you--an offer of marriage,--but it won't come to anything. Well, now, shuffle and cut again, please."

Helen did so. This was repeated three times in all. But, so far as we could understand it, her future seemed to be very uneventful--to have nothing in it--something like Miss Deveen's.

"It's a brave fortune, as I thought, young lady," cried Mrs. Ness. "No trouble or care in store for you."

"But there's _nothing_," said Helen, too intently earnest to mind any of us. "When am I to be married?"

"Well, my dear, the cards haven't told so much this time. There'll be an offer, as I said--and I think a bit of trouble over it; but----"

"But you said it would not come to anything," interrupted Helen.

"Well, and no more it won't: leastways, it seemed so by the cards; and it seemed to bring a bother with it--old folks pulling one way maybe, and young 'uns the other. You'll have to wait a bit for the right gentleman, my pretty miss."

"What stupid cards they are!" cried Helen, in dudgeon. "I dare say it's all rubbish."

"Any ways, you've had nothing bad," said the old woman. "And that's a priceless consolation."

"It's your turn now, Anna."

"I won't have mine told," said Anna. "I'm afraid."

"Oh, you senseless donkey!" cried Bill. "Afraid of a pack of cards!" So Anna laughed, and began.

"Ah, there's more here," said the old woman as she laid them out. "You are going through some great ceremony not long first. See here--crowds of people--and show. Is it a great ball, I wonder?"

"It may be my presentation," said Anna.

"And here's the wedding-ring!--and there's the gentleman! See! he's turning towards you; a dark man it is; and he'll be very fond of you, too!--and----"

"Oh, don't go on," cried Anna, in terrible confusion as she heard all this, and caught Tod's eye, and saw Bill on the broad laugh. "Don't, pray don't; it must be all nonsense," she went on, blushing redder than a rose.

"But it's true," steadily urged the old lady. "There the wedding is. I don't say it'll be soon; perhaps not for some years; but come it will in its proper time. And you'll live in a fine big house; and--stay a bit--you'll----"

Anna, half laughing, half crying, pushed the cards together. "I won't be told any more," she said; "it must be all a pack of nonsense."

"Of course it is," added Helen decisively. "And why couldn't you have told me all that, Mrs. Ness?"

"Why, my dear, sweet young lady, it isn't me that tells; it's the cards."

"I don't believe it. But it does to while away a wet and wretched afternoon. Now, Miss Carey."

Miss Carey looked up from her book with a start. "Oh, not me! Please, not me!"

"Not you!--the idea!" cried Helen. "Why, of course you must. I and my sister have had our turn, and you must take yours."

As if further objection were out of the question, Miss Carey stood timidly up by the table and shuffled the cards that Dame Ness handed to her. When they were spread out, the old woman looked at the cards longer than she had looked for either Helen or Anna, then at the girl, then at the cards again.

"There has been sickness and trouble;--and distress," she said at length, "And--and--'tain't over yet. I see a dark lady and a fair man: they've been in it, somehow. Seems to ha' been a great trouble"--putting the tips of her forefingers upon two cards. "Here you are, you see, right among it,"--pointing to the Queen of Hearts. "I don't like the look of it. And there's money mixed up in the sorrow----"

A low, shuddering cry. I happened to be looking from the window at the moment, and turned to see Janet Carey with hands uplifted and a face of imploring terror. The cry came from her.

"Oh don't, don't! don't tell any more!" she implored. "I--was--not--guilty."

Down went her voice by little and little, down fell her hands; and down dropped she on the chair behind her. The next moment she was crying and sobbing. We stood round like so many helpless simpletons, quite put down by this unexpected interlude. Old Dame Ness stared, slowly shuffling the cards from hand to hand, and could not make it out.

"Here, I'll have my fortune told next, Mother Ness," said Bill Whitney, really out of good nature to the girl, that she might be left unobserved to recover herself. "Mind you promise me a good one."

"And so I will then, young gentleman, if the cards 'll let me," was the hearty answer. "Please shuffle 'em well, sir, and then cut 'em into three."

Bill was shuffling with all his might when we heard the front-door open, and Cattledon's voice in the hall. "Oh, by George, I say, what's to be done?" cried he. "She'll be fit to smother us. That old parson can't have given them a sermon."

Fortunately she stayed on the door-mat to take off her clogs. Dame Ness was smuggled down the kitchen stairs, and Bill hid the cards away in his pocket.

And until then it had not occurred to us that it might not be quite the right thing to go in for fortune-telling on Good Friday.

II.

On Easter Tuesday William Whitney and Tod went off to Whitney Hall for a few days: Sir John wrote for them. In the afternoon Miss Deveen took Helen in the carriage to make calls; and the rest of us went to the Colosseum, in the Regent's Park. Cattledon rather fought against the expedition, but Miss Deveen did not listen to her. None of us--except herself--had seen it before: and I know that I, for one, was delighted with it.

The last scene of the performance was over. If I remember rightly, at this distance of time, it was the representation of the falling of an avalanche on a Swiss village, to bury it for ever in the snow; and we saw the little lighted church to which the terrified inhabitants were flying for succour, and heard the tinkling of its alarm bell. As we pushed out with the crowd, a policeman appeared in our way, facing us, a tall, big, fierce-looking man; not to impede the advance of the throng, but to direct its movements. Janet Carey seized my arm, and I turned to look at her. She stood something like a block of stone; her face white with terror, her eyes fixed on the policeman. I could not get her on, and we were stopping those behind. Naturally the man's eyes fell on her; and with evident recognition.

"Oh, it's you here, is it, Miss Carey!"

The tone was not exactly insolent: but it was cool and significant, wanting in respect. When I would have asked him how he dared so to address a young lady, the words were arrested by Janet. I thought she had gone mad.

"Oh, get me away, Mr. Ludlow, for Heaven's sake! Don't let him take me! Oh what shall I do? what shall I do?"

"What you've got to do is to get for'ard out o' this here passage and not block up the way," struck in the policeman. "I bain't after you now; so you've no call to be afeared this time. Pass on that way, sir."

I drew her onwards, and in half-a-minute we were in the open air, clear of the throng. Cattledon, who seemed to have understood nothing, except that we had stopped the way, shook Janet by the arm in anger, and asked what had come to her.

"It was the same man, aunt, that Mrs. Knox called in," she gasped. "I thought he had come to London to look for me."

Miss Cattledon's answer was to keep hold of her arm, and whirl her along towards the outer gates. Anna and I followed in wonder.

"What is it all, Johnny?" she whispered.

"Goodness knows, Anna. I----"

Cattledon turned her head, asking me to go on and secure a cab. Janet was helped into it and sat back with her eyes closed, a shiver taking her every now and then.

Janet appeared at dinner, and seemed as well as usual. In the evening Helen tore the skirt of her thin dress: and before she was aware, the girl was kneeling by the side of her chair with a needle and thread, beginning to mend it.

"You are very kind," said Helen heartily, when she saw what Janet was doing.

"Oh no," answered Janet, with an upward, humble glance from her nice eyes.

But soon after that, when we were describing to Helen and Miss Deveen the sights at the Colosseum, and the silence of the buried village after the avalanche had fallen, Janet was taken with an ague fit. The very chair shook; it seemed that she must fall out of it. Anna ran to hold her. Miss Deveen got up in consternation.

"That Colosseum has been too much for her: there's nothing so fatiguing as sightseeing. I did wrong in letting Janet go, as she is still weak from her illness. Perhaps she has taken cold."

Ringing the bell, Miss Deveen told George to make some hot wine and water. When it was brought in, she made Janet drink it, and sent her upstairs to bed, marshalled by Cattledon.

The next morning, Wednesday, I was dressing in the sunshine that streamed in at the bedroom windows, when a loud hulla-balloo was set up below, enough to startle the king and all his men.

"Thieves! robbers! murder!"

Dashing to the door, I looked over the balustrades. The shrieks and calls came from Lettice Lane, who was stumbling up the stairs from the hall. Cattledon opened her door in her night-cap, saw me, and shut it again with a bang.

"Murder! robbers! thieves!" shrieked Lettice.

"But what is it, Lettice?" I cried, leaping down.

"Oh, Mr. Johnny, the house is robbed!--and we might just as well all have been murdered in our beds!"

Every one was appearing on the scene. Miss Deveen came fully dressed--she was often up before other people; Cattledon arrived in a white petticoat and shawl. The servants were running up from the kitchen.

Thieves had broken in during the night. The (so-called) breakfast-room at the back presented a scene of indescribable confusion. Everything in it was turned topsy-turvy, the secretary had been ransacked; the glass-doors stood open to the garden.

It seemed that Lettice, in pursuance of her morning's duties, had gone to the room, and found it in this state. Lettice was of the excitable order, and went into shrieks. She stood now, sobbing and shaking, as she gave her explanation.

"When I opened the door and saw the room in this pickle, the window standing open, my very blood seemed to curdle within me. For all I knew the thieves might have done murder. Just look at the place, ma'am!--look at your secretary!"

It's what we were all looking at. The sight was as good as moving house. Chairs and footstools lay upside down, their chintz covers untied and flung off; the hearthrug was under the table; books were open, periodicals scattered about; two pictures had been taken from the wall and lay face downwards; every ornament was moved from the mantelpiece. The secretary stood open; all its papers had been taken out, opened, and lay in a heap on the floor; and Janet Carey's well-stocked work-box was turned bottom upwards, its contents having rolled anywhere.

"This must be your work, George," said Miss Cattledon, turning on the servant-man with a grim frown.

"Mine, ma'am!" he answered, amazed at the charge.

"Yes, yours," repeated Cattledon. "You could not have fastened the shutters last night; and that is how the thieves have got in."

"But I did, ma'am. I fastened them just as usual."

"Couldn't be," said Cattledon decisively, who had been making her way over the _débris_ to examine the shutters. "They have not been forced in any way: they have simply been opened. The window also."

"And neither window nor shutters could be opened from the outside without force," remarked Miss Deveen. "I fear, George, you must have forgotten this room when you shut up last night."

"Indeed, ma'am, I did not forget it," was the respectful answer. "I assure you I bolted the window and barred the shutters as I always do."

Janet Carey, standing in mute wonder like the rest of us, testified to this. "When I came in here last night to get a needle and thread to mend Miss Whitney's dress, I am sure the shutters were shut: I noticed that they were."

Cattledon would not listen. She had taken up her own opinion of George's neglect, and sharply told Janet not to be so positive. Janet looked frightfully white and wan this morning, worse than a ghost.

"Oh, goodness!" cried Helen Whitney, appearing on the scene. "If ever I saw such a thing!"

"I never did--in all my life," cried Cattledon.

"Have you lost any valuables from the secretary, Miss Deveen?"

"My dear Helen, there were no valuables in the secretary to lose," was Miss Deveen's answer. "Sometimes I keep money in it--a little: but last night there happened to be none. Of course the thieves could not know that, and must have been greatly disappointed. If they did not come in through the window--why, they must have got in elsewhere."

Miss Deveen spoke in a dubious tone, that too plainly showed her own doubts on the point. George felt himself and his word reflected upon.

"If I had indeed forgotten this window last night, ma'am--though for me to do such a thing seems next door to impossible--I would confess to it at once. I can be upon my oath, ma'am, if put to it, that I made all secure here at dusk."

"Then, George, you had better look to your other doors and windows," was the reply of his mistress.

The other doors and windows were looked to: but no trace could be found of how the thieves got in. After breakfast, we succeeded in putting the room tolerably straight. The letters and bills took most time, for every one was lying open. And after it was all done, Miss Deveen came to the conclusion that nothing had been taken.

"Their object must have been money," she observed. "It is a good thing I happened to carry my cash-box upstairs yesterday. Sometimes I leave it here in the secretary."

"And was much in it?" one of us asked.

"Not very much. More, though, than one cares to lose: a little gold and a bank-note."

"A bank-note!" echoed Janet, repeating the words quickly. "_Is_ it safe?--are you sure, ma'am, the note is safe?"

"Well, I conclude it is," answered Miss Deveen with composure. "I saw the cash-box before I came down this morning. I did not look inside it."

"Oh, but you had better look," urged Janet, betraying some excitement. "Suppose it should be gone! Can _I_ look, ma'am?"

"What nonsense!" exclaimed Helen. "If the cash-box is safe, the money must be safe inside it. The thieves did not go into Miss Deveen's room, Janet Carey."

The servants wanted the police called in; but their mistress saw no necessity for it. Nothing had been carried off, she said, and therefore she should take no further trouble. Her private opinion was that George, in spite of his assertions, must have forgotten the window.

It seemed a curious thing that the thieves had not visited other rooms. Unless, indeed, the door of this one had been locked on the outside, and they were afraid to risk the noise of forcing it: and no one could tell whether the key had been turned, or not. George had the plate-basket in his bed-chamber; but on the sideboard in the dining-room stood a silver tea-caddy and a small silver waiter: how was it they had not walked off with these two articles? Or, as the cook said, why didn't they rifle her larder? She had various tempting things in it, including a fresh-boiled ham.

"Janet Carey has been ill all the afternoon," observed Anna, when I and Helen got home before dinner, for we had been out with Miss Deveen. "I think she feels frightened about the thieves, for one thing."

"Ill for nothing!" returned Helen slightingly. "Why should she be frightened any more than we are? The thieves did not hurt her. I might just as well say I am ill."

"But she has been really ill, Helen. She has a shivering-fit one minute and is sick the next. Cattledon says she must have caught cold yesterday, and is cross with her for catching it."

"Listen," said Helen, lowering her voice. "I can't get it out of my head that that old fortune-teller must have had to do with it. She must have seen the secretary and may have taken note of the window fastenings. I am in a state over it: as you both know, it was I who had her up."

Janet did not come down until after dinner. She was pale and quiet, but not less ready than ever to do what she could for every one. Helen had brought home some ferns to--transfer, I think she called it. Janet at once offered to help her. The process involved a large hand-basin full of water, and Miss Deveen sent the two girls into the breakfast-parlour, not to make a mess in the drawing-room.

"Well, my dears," said Miss Deveen, when she had read the chapter before bed-time, "I hope you will all sleep well to-night, and that we shall be undisturbed by thieves. Not that they disturbed us last night," she added, laughing. "Considering all things, I'm sure they were as polite and considerate thieves as we could wish to have to do with."

Whether the others slept well I cannot say: I know I did. So well that I never woke at all until the same cries from Lettice disturbed the house as on the previous morning. The thieves had been in again.

Downstairs we went, as quickly as some degree of dressing allowed, and found the breakfast-room all confusion, the servants all consternation: the window open as before; the furniture turned about, the ornaments and pictures moved from their places, the books scattered, the papers of the secretary lying unfolded in a heap on the carpet, and a pair of embroidered slippers of Helen Whitney's lying in the basin of water.

"What an extraordinary thing!" exclaimed Miss Deveen, while the rest of us stood in silent amazement.

Lettice's tale was the same as the previous one. Upon proceeding to the room to put it to rights, she found it thus, and its shutters and glass-doors wide open. There was no trace, except here, of the possible entrance or exit of thieves: all other fastenings were secure as they had been left over-night; other rooms had not been disturbed; and, more singular than all, nothing appeared to have been taken. What could the thieves be seeking?

"Shall you call in the police now, ma'am?" asked Cattledon, her tone implying that they ought to have been called in before.

"Yes, I shall," emphatically replied Miss Deveen.

"Oh!" shrieked Helen, darting in, after making a hasty and impromptu toilet, "look at my new slippers!"

After finishing the ferns last night they had neglected to send the basin away. The slippers were rose-coloured, worked with white flowers in floss silk; and the bits of loose green from the ferns floated over them like green weeds on a pond. Helen had bought them when we were out yesterday.

"My beautiful slippers!" lamented Helen. "I wish to goodness I had not forgotten to take them upstairs. What wicked thieves they must be! They ought to be hung."

"It's to know, mum, whether it _was_ thieves," spoke the cook.

"Why, what else can it have been, cook?" asked Miss Deveen.

"Mum, I don't pretend to say. I've knowed cats do queer things. We've two on 'em--the old cat and her kitten."

"Did you ever know cats unlock a secretary and take out the papers, cook?" returned Miss Deveen.

"Well, no, mum. But, on the other hand, I never knowed thieves break into a house two nights running, and both times go away empty-handed."

The argument was unanswerable. Unless the thieves had been disturbed on each night, how was it they had taken nothing?

Miss Deveen locked the door upon the room just as it was; and after breakfast sent George to the nearest police-station. Whilst he was gone I was alone in the dining-room, stooping down to hunt for a book in the lowest shelf of the book-case, when Janet Carey came in followed by Cattledon. I suppose the table-cover hid me from them, for Cattledon began to blow her up.

"One would think you were a troubled ghost, shaking and shivering in that way, first upstairs and then down! The police coming!--what if they are? They are not coming after you this time. There's no money missing now."

Janet burst into tears. "Oh, aunt, why do you speak so to me? It is as though you believe me guilty!"

"Don't be a simpleton, Janet," rebuked Cattledon, in softer tones. "If I did not know you were not, and could not, be guilty, should I have brought you here under Miss Deveen's roof? What vexes me so much is to see you look as though you were guilty--with your white face, and your hysterics, and your trembling hands and lips. Get a little spirit into yourself, child: the police won't harm you."

Catching up the keys from the table, she went out again, leaving Janet sobbing. I stood forward. She started when she saw me, and tried to dry her eyes.

"I am sorry, Miss Carey, that all this bother is affecting you. Why are you so sad?"

"I--have gone through a great deal of trouble lately;--and been ill," she answered, with hesitation, arresting her tears.

"Can I do anything for you?--help you in any way?"