Works of W. W. Jacobs

by Jacobs, W. W.

  MR. FOSS. But you are talking as if I was going to do it. I wish you’d go and have your fortune told. Go and see what she says about you. P’r’aps you won’t believe so much in fortune-telling, afterwards.

  MRS. DAWSON. She’s going to ‘ave her fortune told this very evening.

  MR. FOSS. Eh?

  MRS. DAWSON. She’s coming here to tell Flora’s fortune. My daughter ain’t afraid to hear the truth about herself. Give me half a crown, Father.

  MR. DAWSON (slowly). Is it wise?

  MRS. DAWSON (holding out her hand). Half a crown!

  (MR. DAWSON takes the money from his trouser pocket very slowly and hands it to her.)

  MR. DAWSON. Half a dollar — and p’r’aps only to be told a fortune as will make her miserable.

  FLORA. I’m not afraid.

  MR. FOSS (reproachfully). She can say what she likes about you, but I shan’t believe it.

  FLORA (sharply). I don’t suppose it’ll be anything to be ashamed of.

  MRS. DAWSON. Not bigamy, or anything like that. (She shivers.)

  MR. DAWSON (moving up to the street door). Well, I’m just going down the road for a minute. Coming, Charlie?

  MRS. DAWSON. Ain’t you going to stop and hear your own daughter’s fortune told?

  MR. DAWSON (uneasily). No. I don’t like this sort o’ thing. It makes my flesh creep. (Taking his hat from a peg.) Look what she told poor Charlie!

  MBS. DAWSON. This is very different.

  MR. DAWSON. I know. But she might tell her of some misfortune that is going to ‘appen to her. Same as she did — (He stops abruptly.)

  MRS. DAWSON. Same as she did what?

  MR. DAWSON. Nothing. I mean like she’s told other people.

  MRS. DAWSON. You stay here.

  MR. DAWSON (replacing his hat on the peg — shaking his head). I’ll stay in the kitchen and leave the door open. I shall hear all I want to ‘ear. More p’r’aps.

  MR. FOSS (rising). Well, I suppose I’d better be going. I hope she sees ten thousand a year for you, Flora.

  MBS. DAWSON. She’ll see something more sensible, I hope.

  (Messrs. DAWSON and Foss proceed to the street door. MR. FOSS opens it fairly wide.)

  MR. FOSS. Bit parky.

  MR. DAWSON. Yes.

  MR. FOSS. Nice and dry, though.

  (The ladies and MR. DAWSON show discomfort at the draught.)

  MR. DAWSON (shivering as he stands in the doorway). You’ll catch cold, Charlie.

  MR. FOSS. That’s what I’m trying to do; my death o’ cold. (Bitterly.) Then I shan’t get five years for bigamy. (He steps back into the room.) Can’t I stay in the kitchen with him, Mrs. Dawson? I’ll be quite quiet.

  MRS. DAWSON (after a moment’s reflection). Yes, if you like.

  (MR. DAWSON thankfully shuts the door. MR. FOSS goes, on tiptoes, conspirator-fashion, to the kitchen. MR. DAWSON, grinning, imitates him. They leave the door to the kitchen half-open.)

  (Whispering to FLORA.) Your father can make fun of it if he likes, but I’ve known too many things come true. FLORA. Fortune-telling?

  (MRS. DAWSON nods significantly.)

  Well, I hope she was wrong about Charlie.

  MRS. DAWSON (piously). Let us hope so. There’s no ‘arm in hoping.

  (A gentle knock is heard at the front door. MRS. DAWSON opens it and admits the GIPSY.)

  GIPSY. I hope I’m not late. I couldn’t get away. Some poor man whose fortune I told the other day came round to see me. It’s all come true — it always does, of course. He’s nearly out of his mind. Wanted to blame me — as if I could help it; I only told him what I saw. It’s no good me telling him lies — he doesn’t pay his money for that.

  (MR. DAWSON and MR. FOSS are seen peeping round the kitchen door.)

  MRS. DAWSON. Of course not. If people have their fortunes told they can’t expect ’em all to be good.

  FLORA. Well, if they’re bad, what’s the good of hearing them? No good taking up troubles before they come.

  GIPSY. Sometimes it helps people to avoid them, dearie. Often I’ve told people things and they was able to choose. I’ve been able to warn them.

  FLORA. How do you mean? If you see a thing that is going to happen, it must happen, mustn’t it?

  GIPSY. There’s things and things. I told a lady once that a dark man who was making love to her was a bad lot. What was the result? She turned him down and married another man. The dark man got seven years for burglary and she got seven beautiful children.

  FLORA (horrified). Seven! That was your fault. Poor thing!

  (MRS. DAWSON gives the GIPSY a chair. FLORA sits on one side of her and MRS. DAWSON on the other. The GIPSY takes FLORA S hand, FLORA snatches it away.)

  I haven’t made up my mind. Wait a moment.

  GIPSY. Trust the old gipsy, dearie. I haven’t crossed your palm yet, but I feel that there is a wonderful future for you. I can feel it in my bones.

  MRS. DAWSON. Don’t be silly, Flora.

  FLORA (brooding). But suppose she sees me run over by a motor-car, or murdered, or losing both my legs, or losing my hair, or —

  GIPSY (with a smile). If it’s anything dreadful, dearie, I won’t tell you.

  FLORA (sharply). Well, then I shan’t be getting my half-crown’s worth.

  (MRS. DAWSON and the GIPSY exchange sympathetic glances. MRS. DAWSON hands her the half-crown, and she takes FLORA S hand and crosses it. Then she takes a small bottle from her pocket and pours a little dark liquid into the girl’s left palm.)

  GIPSY (bending forward and peering intently). Left for the past; right for the future. (She mutters some gibberish and bends lower over the girl’s hand. She speaks in a rapt voice with great solemnity and deliberation.)

  I see a fair-haired infant — a beautiful child. Most wonderfully formed.

  (MR. FOSS leans forward, but catching the austere eye of FLORA, suddenly stiffens.)

  A-ah! She is now four years old — a little angel — racked with whooping-cough. She whoops all over the place. I see a man — her father. He avoids the little angel and sucks a lot of lozenges which he keeps in a little brass box.

  (The head of MR. DAWSON disappears.)

  MRS. DAWSON. He said he had to be careful in case he got it and gave it to the men in the warehouse.

  GIPSY. The scene changes. I see a bedroom. She is eight years old and in bed. Prettier than ever, but all over red spots — measles!

  (FLORA regards her open-mouthed.)

  MRS. DAWSON. Quite right. She had her eighth birthday in bed.

  (The head of MR. DAWSON reappears.)

  GIPSY. Yes, I see her birthday. Her father goes into the room with a present for her — a doll. He is holding something over his mouth and nose.

  MRS. DAWSON (sniffing). Handkerchief soaked in vinegar.

  GIPSY. She tries to kiss him.

  MRS. DAWSON. Can you see in her hand what he said about it?

  GIPSY. NO; I only see pictures.

  MRS. DAWSON. Well, that’s wonderful enough. How you do it beats me. It’s all just as it happened. Can you remember it, Flora?

  FLORA. Yes — and I remember what Father said, if she wants to know.

  (MR. DAWSON disappears again; MR. FOSS pulls him back.)

  GIPSY. Ah! The sea; a sandy beach and blue water. She has gone there to get strong again after the measles. I see her paddling; she falls into the water and spoils her frock; her mother ——

  FLORA (hastily, with a hostile glance at MR. FOSS.) Never mind about that. I was only eight then and Mother always was ready with her hands.

  GIPSY. People on the beach smile. They —

  FLORA (bitterly). It don’t take much to make some people laugh.

  GIPSY. Time moves on and the scene changes. She is fourteen and wears her hair in a pig-tail. She and a boy next door, but seven, both have the mumps.

  FLORA (with great warmth). And why not? People can’t help having the mumps, can they?

  GIPSY. I’m only readin
g what I see in your hand, dearie. Ha! An accident! She is knocked down by a boat-swing. A boy who lives opposite brings her home.

  FLORA (quickly). He happened to be passing at the time.

  GIPSY (studying her hand closely). Ah! Yes. His head is done up with sticking-plaster.

  MRS. DAWSON. I remember it as if it was yesterday.

  GIPSY. Time passes and she is apprenticed to the dressmaking. All goes well for a time, and then —

  FLORA (interrupting). What about my future? Aren’t you ever coming to it?

  GIPSY. All right, my pretty lady.

  (She pours a little liquid from the phial into the girl’s right hand.)

  FLORA (shrinking). Half a moment. If it’s anything dreadful, I don’t want to hear it. It — it ain’t natural.

  GIPSY (holding her hand). I can warn you of dangers to keep clear of. I can let you peep into the future and see what to do and what to avoid. Ah! (She utters little ejaculations of surprise and perplexity.) I see you moving in gay scenes surrounded by happy faces. You are much sought after. You have handsome presents and fine clothes. You will — ye-es, you will cross the sea. I see a dark young man and a fair young man. They will both influence your life. The fair young man works in his father’s shop. He will have great riches.

  FLORA (after a pause). What about the other; the dark one?

  GIPSY (shaking her head). He is his own worst enemy and he will drag down those he loves with him. You are going to marry one of them, but I can’t see clear — I can’t see which.

  FLORA (anxiously). Look again.

  GIPSY. I can’t see. That means it isn’t meant for me to see. It’s for you to choose. I can see them now as plain as I can see you. You are all three standing where two roads meet. The fair young man is beckoning to you and pointing to a big house, and a motor-car and a yacht.

  FLORA (surprised). And the other?

  GIPSY (doubtfully). He — he’s in funny clothes. What does that mean? Ah! I see. Poor fellow! FLORA. What’s the matter?

  GIPSY. He’s in prison clothes and he is pointing to a gaol. It’s all gone. I can see no more.

  (She drops the girl’s hand, draws her hand across her eyes and sinks back in her chair.)

  MRS. DAWSON (drawing a long breath). Well! Well! It fair takes your breath away.

  (They all rise and the heads at the kitchen door disappear suddenly. MRS. DAWSON and FLORA accompany the GIPSY to the front door.)

  GIPSY. Well, good night, my pretty lady. Ah! I wish the poor old gipsy had had your chances.

  (She goes. MRS. DAWSON closes the door and with FLORA turns and confronts the two men as they come in from behind the kitchen door. MR. DAWSON is looking extremely alarmed and miserable.)

  MRS. DAWSON. Did you hear?

  MR. DAWSON (groaning). Awful! Dreadful! It makes my flesh creep.

  MR. FOSS. Old fraud. I’ve a good mind to put the police on her.

  MRS. DAWSON. YOU mark my words: the fair young man is meant for Ben Lippet. It must be. It’s no use shutting your eyes to things.

  MR. DAWSON (groaning). It’s as plain as a pikestaff.

  First of all she tells Charlie he’s to ‘ave five years for bigamy, and when she’s telling Flora’s fortune she sees a dark young man in convict’s clothes.

  MR. FOSS (hotly). Meaning me?

  MR. DAWSON (shaking his head). No, Charlie. You ain’t the only dark young man in the world, you know.

  MR. FOSS. But you said —

  MR. DAWSON. Don’t worry me, Charlie. My head’s fair buzzing. How did she know all that about Flora? That’s what I can’t understand.

  MRS. DAWSON. It’s a gift, and I do hope Flora is going to act sensible. Anyway, she needn’t go upstairs with the toothache every time Ben Lippet comes to see her father.

  FLORA. He doesn’t come to see Father, and I can’t help having the toothache.

  MRS. DAWSON. YOU don’t try. Think of what you’ve heard this evening, too. Why don’t you take warning?

  MR. FOSS. Look here, Mrs. Dawson, do you think that old fraud meant me when she spoke of the dark young man?

  MRS. DAWSON. Yes, of course I do. Who else could she mean?

  MR. FOSS (to DAWSON). DO you think she meant me?

  MR. DAWSON. Well, in a manner o’ speaking, Charlie, I don’t see who else she could mean. I’ve got my own reasons for not wanting to believe in her, but I can’t go against my common sense.

  MR. FOSS (tenderly). Well, anyway, Flora don’t believe in such rubbish.

  FLORA. HOW should she know all the things I did when I was a little girl? Years and years ago.

  MRS. DAWSON. I believe every word she said. Perhaps you’d like to tell me I’m not sensible! And how did she know about Ben Lippet? How did she know he was in ‘is father’s shop?

  MR. DAWSON. And likely to come in for money? He’s got an uncle what’s rolling in it. (Shaking his head.) Keeps a fish-shop in London.

  MRS. DAWSON. And an aunt who lost her ‘usband in a railway accident and got a thousand pounds for ‘im.

  MR. DAWSON (impressively). And her second ‘usband is a commercial traveller.

  MR. FOSS. It’s all nonsense. She’s only in the town while the circus is here, so of course she can say anything she likes. She’ll be a hundred miles away before you find her out. Anybody can tell fortunes. I can.

  MRS. DAWSON. P-h-h.

  MR. FOSS. All right. You watch me. (Taking FLOEA’S hand and crossing it with a shilling.) A-ah! (He imitates the GIPSY.) Oh, what a long life, dearie. Ah! What is this? (He peers at her hand.) I see you coming out of church. You have just been married to a fair young man with ginger hair and great riches.

  MRS. DAWSON. When you’ve finished your nonsense —

  MR. FOSS. Time passes. I see you in a splendid motor-car with your husband driving. Ah! (He breaks off and puts his hand over his eyes.) The car overturns and catches fire. Your husband’s hair is all burnt off and never grows again. He buys a dark wig and looks much nicer.

  FLORA (giggling). Don’t be silly.

  MR. FOSS. I see you at sea — in his yacht. There is a storm. He is washed overboard. Time passes. I see a beautiful young widow sitting on the steps of the prison where the dark young man is, waiting for him to come out. (Very softly.) You will be very happy, my pretty lady, when he does.

  MRS. DAWSON (grimly). Have you finished?

  MR. DAWSON (shaking his head). You oughtn’t to make fun of serious things, Charlie. I don’t mind telling you, she’s put the wind up me. (He sighs heavily.)

  MR. FOSS. About me?

  MR. DAWSON. NO, about me. I ‘ad the same silly idea that you ‘ad about ‘er at first, but after what I’ve heard to-night, I don’t know what to think. All I can ‘ope is that she makes a mistake sometimes.

  MRS. DAWSON. Never.

  MR. DAWSON (entreatingly). Don’t say that, Mother.

  MRS. DAWSON. I do say it. What’s the matter with you? What are you looking like that for?

  MR. DAWSON (gulping). I’m miserable; but I ain’t going to believe her. I can’t.

  MRS. DAWSON (staring at him). You mean, you don’t want to. I believe every word she says. If she told me I was coming in for a fortune, I should believe her; and if she told me I was going to ‘ave misfortunes, I should believe her.

  MR. DAWSON (shouting). Don’t say that, Mother! Don’t say that!

  MRS. DAWSON. Why shouldn’t I?

  MR. DAWSON (in a sepulchral voice). Because that’s what she did say.

  MRS. DAWSON. What? What are you talking about?

  MR. DAWSON. I didn’t mean to tell you. Until I ‘eard her tell Flora’s fortune I thought it was all nonsense.

  MRS. DAWSON (with resignation). I — don’t know — what — you are talking about.

  MR. DAWSON (speaking slowly and desperately). I won ‘arf a dollar off of Bob Stevens last Tuesday. Eighteen-pence is ‘er price for telling the future only, and, being curious and feeling I’d like to know what’s going to ‘appen to me, I went
in and had eighteen penn’orth.

  MRS. DAWSON (hurriedly). Well, you’re upset. You get upstairs to bed and sleep it off.

  MR. DAWSON (silting with his hands between his knees). No, I’d sooner stay ‘ere; it seems more cheerful and lifelike. I wish I ‘adn’t gorn; that’s what I wish. What’s the good of knowing your troubles before they come?

  MR. FOSS. What did she tell you?

  MR. DAWSON (slowly). She says I’m to live to ninety, and I’m to travel to foreign parts — she didn’t mention a word about sea-sickness, MRS. DAWSON. YOU get to bed.

  MR. DAWSON (shaking his head doggedly). I’m to be rich; rich and loved. After my pore dear wife’s death, I’m to marry ag’in; a young woman with money and stormy brown eyes.

  MRS. DAWSON (springing up and quivering with passion). How dare you? You — you’ve been drinking.

  MR. DAWSON. I’ve ‘ad two ‘arf-pints — and they ain’t done me no good. I know I shan’t be ‘appy with a young woman.

  (MRS. DAWSON, past speech, sinks into her chair and glares at him.)

  MR. FOSS (in a kindly voice). I shouldn’t worry about it if I was you, Mrs. Dawson. Look what she said about me! That ought to show you she ain’t to be relied on.

  MR. DAWSON (musingly). Eyes like lamps; and I’m forty-nine. Well, they do say every eye ‘as its own idea of beauty.

  MRS. DAWSON (hysterically, but with a fierce glance at MR. FOSS). If she said it, it’ll come true. If, after my death, my ‘usband is going to marry a young woman with — with — (She chokes.)

  MR. FOSS (prompting). Stormy brown eyes.

  MRS. DAWSON (concluding). It’s his fate and it can’t be avoided.

  MR. FOSS (unctuously). Might be worse. Do you know any young woman with stormy brown eyes, Mr. Dawson?

  MR. DAWSON (shouting). No!

  MR. FOSS. I was just trying to think. What about the girl at the shop where you always get your tobacco, Mr. Dawson? She’s got brown eyes. Would you call them stormy?

  MR. DAWSON (scornfully). You don’t know what you are talking about. Why, she has got the gentlest brown eyes I ‘ave ever seen. Kind and dreamy, like. The sort of eyes — (He catches his wife’s eye, coughs and stops in confusion.)

  MRS. DAWSON (grimly). Yes?

  MR. DAWSON (stammeringly). Eyes — eyes —

  MRS. DAWSON. GO on.