Matrimonial Openings” Page #3

"Matrimonial Openings" is a witty collection of short stories by W. W. Jacobs that explores the quirks and complexities of love and marriage. Set in early 20th-century England, the stories feature a blend of humor and social commentary, as Jacobs delves into the amusing entanglements and unexpected situations that arise in the pursuit of romantic relationships. With his signature blend of charm and cleverness, Jacobs paints a vivid picture of human relationships, making the book a delightful read for fans of light-hearted literature.

• Short story

								

easy is it to fall into habits of an agreeable nature that nearly every
evening saw him the happy guest of Mr. Dowson. A spirit of resignation,
fostered by a present or two and a visit to the theatre, descended upon
Miss Dowson. Fate and her mother combined were in a fair way to overcome
her inclinations, when Mr. Foss, who had been out of town on a job, came
in to hear the result of her visit to the fortune-teller, and found Mr.
Lippet installed in the seat that used to be his.

At first Mrs. Dowson turned a deaf ear to his request for information,
and it was only when his jocularity on the subject passed the bounds of
endurance that she consented to gratify his curiosity.

“I didn't want to tell you,” she said, when she had finished, “but you
asked for it, and now you've got it.”

“It's very amusing,” said Mr. Foss. “I wonder who the dark young man in
the fancy knickers is?”

“Ah, I daresay you'll know some day,” said Mrs. Dowson.

“Was the fair young man a good-looking chap?” inquired the inquisitive
Mr. Foss.

Mrs. Dowson hesitated. “Yes,” she said, defiantly.

“Wonder who it can be?” muttered Mr. Foss, in perplexity.

“You'll know that too some day, no doubt,” was the reply.

“I'm glad it's to be a good-looking chap,” he said; “not that I think
Flora believes in such rubbish as fortune-telling. She's too sensible.”

“I do,” said Flora. “How should she know all the things I did when I was
a little girl? Tell me that.”

“I believe in it, too,” said Mrs. Dowson. “P'r'aps you'll tell me I'm
not sensible!”

Mr. Foss quailed at the challenge and relapsed into moody silence. The
talk turned on an aunt of Mr. Lippet's, rumored to possess money, and an
uncle who was “rolling” in it. He began to feel in the way, and only his
native obstinacy prevented him from going.

It was a relief to him when the front door opened and the heavy step of
Mr. Dowson was heard in the tiny passage. If anything it seemed heavier
than usual, and Mr. Dowson's manner when he entered the room and greeted
his guests was singularly lacking in its usual cheerfulness. He drew
a chair to the fire, and putting his feet on the fender gazed moodily
between the bars.

“I've been wondering as I came along,” he said at last, with an obvious
attempt to speak carelessly, “whether this 'ere fortune-telling as we've
been hearing so much about lately always comes out true.”

“It depends on the fortune-teller,” said his wife.

“I mean,” said Mr. Dowson, slowly, “I mean that gypsy woman that Charlie
and Flora went to.”

“Of course it does,” snapped his wife. “I'd trust what she says afore
anything.”

“I know five or six that she has told,” said Mr. Lippet, plucking up
courage; “and they all believe 'er. They couldn't help themselves; they
said so.”

“Still, she might make a mistake sometimes,” said Mr. Dowson, faintly.
“Might get mixed up, so to speak.”

“Never!” said Mrs. Dowson, firmly.

“Never!” echoed Flora and Mr. Lippet.

Mr. Dowson heaved a big sigh, and his eye wandered round the room. It
lighted on Mr. Foss.

“She's an old humbug,” said that gentleman. “I've a good mind to put the
police on to her.”

Mr. Dowson reached over and gripped his hand. Then he sighed again.

“Of course, it suits Charlie Foss to say so,” said Mrs. Dowson;
“naturally he'd say so; he's got reasons. 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 have misfortunes I should believe her.”

“Don't say that,” shouted Mr. Dowson, with startling energy. “Don't say
that. That's what she did say!”

“What?” cried his wife, sharply. “What are you talking about?”

“I won eighteenpence off of Bob Stevens,” said her husband, staring at
the table. “Eighteenpence 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 eighteenpennorth.”

“Well, you're upset,” said Mrs. Dowson, with a quick glance at him. “You
get upstairs to bed.”

“I'd sooner stay 'ere,” said her husband, resuming his seat; “it seems
more cheerful and lifelike. I wish I 'adn't gorn, that's what I wish.”

“What did she tell you?” inquired Mr. Foss.

Mr. Dowson thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and spoke
desperately. “She says I'm to live to ninety, and I'm to travel to
foreign parts——”

“You get to bed,” said his wife. “Come along.”

Mr. Dowson shook his head doggedly. “I'm to be rich,” he continued,
slowly—“rich and loved. After my pore dear wife's death I'm to marry
again; a young woman with money and stormy brown eyes.”

Mrs. Dowson sprang from her chair and stood over him quivering with
passion. “How dare you?” she gasped. “You—you've been drinking.”

“I've 'ad two arf-pints,” said her husband, solemnly. “I shouldn't 'ave
'ad the second only I felt so miserable. I know I sha'n't be 'appy with
a young woman.”

Mrs. Dowson, past speech, sank back in her chair and stared at him.

“I shouldn't worry about it if I was you, Mrs. Dowson,” said Mr. Foss,
kindly. “Look what she said about me. That ought to show you she ain't
to be relied on.”

“Eyes like lamps,” said Mr. Dowson, musingly, “and I'm forty-nine next
month. Well, they do say every eye 'as its own idea of beauty.”

A strange sound, half laugh and half cry, broke from the lips of the
over-wrought Mrs. Dowson. She controlled herself by an effort.

“If she said it,” she said, doggedly, with a fierce glance at Mr. Foss,
“it'll come true. If, after my death, my 'usband is going to marry a
young woman with—with——”

“Stormy brown eyes,” interjected Mr. Foss, softly.

“It's his fate and it can't be avoided,” concluded Mrs. Dowson.

“But it's so soon,” said the unfortunate husband. “You're to die in
three weeks and I'm to be married three months after.”

Mrs. Dowson moistened her lips and tried, but in vain, to avoid the
glittering eye of Mr. Foss. “Three!” she said, mechanically, “three!
three weeks!”

“Don't be frightened,” said Mr. Foss, in a winning voice. “I don't
believe it; and, besides, we shall soon see! And if you don't die in
three weeks, perhaps I sha'n't get five years for bigamy, and perhaps
Flora won't marry a fair man with millions of money and motor-cars.”

“No; perhaps she is wrong after all, mother,” said Mr. Dowson,
hopefully.

Mrs. Dowson gave him a singularly unkind look for one about to leave him
so soon, and, afraid to trust herself to speech, left the room and went
up-stairs. As the door closed behind her, Mr. Foss took the chair which
Mr. Lippet had thoughtlessly vacated, and offered such consolations to
Flora as he considered suitable to the occasion.
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