The news that _she_ had come was all over the noisy house in a minute,
and it had the astonishing effect of producing what might roughly be
described as a silence. It stopped the reckless waltzing of the piano in
the drawing-room; it stopped the cackle incident to cork-pool in the
billiard-room; it even stopped a good deal of the whispering under the
Chinese lanterns beneath the stairs and in the alcove at the top of the
stairs. What it did not stop was the consumption of mince-pies and
claret-cup in the small breakfast-room; people mumbled about _her_
between munches.
_She_, having been sustained with turkey and beer in the kitchen, was
led by the backstairs up to Vera's very boudoir, that being the only
suitable room. And there she waited. She was a woman of about
forty-five; fat, unfair (in the physical sense), and untidy. Of her
hands the less said the better. She had probably never visited a
professional coiffeur in her life. Her form was straitly confined in an
atrocious dress of linsey-woolsey, and she wore an apron that was
neither white nor black. Her boots were commodious. After her meal she
was putting a hat-pin to a purpose which hat-pins do not usually serve.
She gained an honest living by painting green leaves on yellow
wash-basins in Stephen's renowned earthenware manufactory. She spoke the
dialect of the people. She had probably never heard of Christian
Science, bridge, Paquin, Panhard, Father Vaughan, the fall of consols,
osprey plumes, nor the new theology. Nobody in the house knew her name;
even Stephen had forgotten it. And yet the whole house was agog
concerning her.
The fact was that in the painting-shops of the various manufactories
where she had painted green leaves on yellow wash-basins (for in all her
life she had done little else) she possessed a reputation as a prophet,
seer, oracle, fortune-teller--what you will. Polite persons would
perhaps never have heard of her reputation, the toiling millions of the
Five Towns being of a rather secretive nature in such matters, had not
the subject of fortune-telling been made prominent in the district by
the celebrated incident of the fashionable palmist. The fashionable
palmist, having thriven enormously in Bond Street, had undertaken a tour
through the provinces and had stopped several days at Hanbridge (our
metropolis), where he had an immense vogue until the Hanbridge police
hit on the singular idea of prosecuting him for an unlawful vagabond.
Stripped of twenty pounds odd in the guise of a fine and costs, and
having narrowly missed the rigours of our county jail, that fashionable
palmist and soothsayer had returned to Bond Street full of hate and
respect for Midland justice, which fears not and has a fist like a
navvy's. The attention of the Five Towns had thus been naturally drawn
to fortune-telling in general. And it was deemed that in securing a
local celebrity (quite an amateur, and therefore, it was uncertainly
hoped, on the windy side of the law) for the diversion of his Christmas
party Stephen Cheswardine had done a stylish and original thing.
Of course no one in the house believed in fortune-telling. Oh no! But as
an amusement it was amusing. As fun, it was fun. She did her business
with tea-leaves: so the tale ran. This was not considered to be very
distinguished. A crystal, or even cards, or the anatomy of a sacrificed
fowl, would have been better than tea-leaves; tea-leaves were decidedly
lower class. And yet, despite these drawbacks, when the question arose
who should first visit the witch of Endor, there was a certain
hesitation.
"You go!"
"No, _you_ go."
"Oh! _I'm_ not going," (a superior laugh), etc.
At last it was decided that Jack Hall and Cissy Woodruff (Charlie's much
younger sister), the pair having been engaged to be married for exactly
three days, should make the first call. They ascended, blushing and
brave. In a moment Jack Hall descended alone, nervously playing with the
silk handkerchief that was lodged in his beautiful white waistcoat. The
witch of Endor had informed him that she never received the two sexes
together, and had expelled him. This incident greatly enhanced the
witch's reputation. Then Stephen happened to mention that he had heard
that the woman's mother, and her grandmother before her, had been
fortune-tellers. Somehow that statement seemed to strike everybody full
in the face; it set a seal on the authority of the witch, made her
genuine. And an uncanny feeling seemed to spread through the house as
the house waited for Cissy to reappear.
"She's very _good_," said Cissy, on emerging. "She told me all sorts of
things."
A group formed at the foot of the stairs.
"What did she tell you?"
"Well, she said I must expect a very important letter in a few days, and
much would depend on it, and next year there will be a big removal, and
a large lumbering piece of furniture, and I shall go a journey over
water. It's quite right, you know. I suppose the letter's from grandma;
I hope it is, anyway. And if we go to France--"
Thenceforward the witch without a name held continuous receptions in
the boudoir, and the boudoir gradually grew into an abode of mystery and
strangeness, hypnotizing the entire house. People went thither; people
came back; and those who had not been pictured to themselves something
very incantatory, and little by little they made up their minds to go.
Some thought the woman excellent, others said it was all rot. But none
denied that it was interesting. None could possibly deny that the
fortune-telling had killed every other diversion provided by the
hospitable Stephen and Vera (except the refreshments). The most scornful
scoffers made a concession and kindly consented to go to the boudoir.
Stephen went. Charlie went. Even the Mayor of Hanbridge went (not being
on the borough Bench that night).
But Vera would not go. A genuine fear was upon her. Christmases had
always been unlucky for her peace of mind. And she was highly
superstitious. Yet she wanted to go; she was burning to go, all the
while assuring her guests that nothing would induce her to go. The party
drew to a close, and pair by pair the revellers drove off, or walked,
into the romantic night. Then Stephen told Vera to give the woman
half-a-sovereign and let her depart, for it was late. And in paying the
half-sovereign to the woman Vera was suddenly overcome by temptation and
asked for her fortune. The woman's grimy simplicity, her smiling face,
the commonness of her teapot, her utter unlikeness to anything in the
first act of _Macbeth_, encouraged Vera to believe in her magic powers.
Vera's hand trembled as, under instructions, she tipped the tea-leaves
into the saucer.
"Ay!" said the witch, in broadest Staffordshire, running her
objectionable hand up and down the buttons of her linsey-woolsey bodice,
and gently agitating the saucer. "Theer's a widder theer." [There's a
widow there.] "Yo'll be havin' a letter, or it mit be a talligram--"
Vera wouldn't hear any more. Her one fear in life was the fear of
Stephen's death (though she _did_ console Charlie with nice smiles and
lots of _tête-à-tête)_, and here was this fiendish witch directly
foreseeing the dreadful event.