I
It was Lady Windermereâs last reception before Easter, and Bentinck House was even more crowded than usual. Six Cabinet Ministers had come on from the Speakerâs Levee in their stars and ribands, all the pretty women wore their smartest dresses, and at the end of the picture-gallery stood the Princess Sophia of Carlsruhe, a heavy Tartar-looking lady, with tiny black eyes and wonderful emeralds, talking bad French at the top of her voice, and laughing immoderately at everything that was said to her. It was certainly a wonderful medley of people. Gorgeous peeresses chatted affably to violent Radicals, popular preachers brushed coat-tails with eminent sceptics, a perfect bevy of bishops kept following a stout prima donna from room to room, on the staircase stood several Royal Academicians, disguised as artists, and it was said that at one time the supper-room was absolutely crammed with geniuses. In fact, it was one of Lady Windermereâs best nights, and the Princess stayed till nearly half-past eleven.
As soon as she had gone, Lady Windermere returned to the picture-gallery, where a celebrated political economist was solemnly explaining the scientific theory of music to an indignant virtuoso from Hungary, and began to talk to the Duchess of Paisley. She looked wonderfully beautiful with her grand ivory throat, her large blue forget-me-not eyes, and her heavy coils of golden hair. Or pur they were â not that pale straw colour that nowadays usurps the gracious name of gold, but such gold as is woven into sunbeams or hidden in strange amber; and they gave to her face something of the frame of a saint, with not a little of the fascination of a sinner. She was a curious psychological study. Early in life she had discovered the important truth that nothing looks so like innocence as an indiscretion; and by a series of reckless escapades, half of them quite harmless, she had acquired all the privileges of a personality. She had more than once changed her husband; indeed, Debrett credits her with three marriages; but as she had never changed her lover, the world had long ago ceased to talk scandal about her. She was now forty years of age, childless, and with that inordinate passion for pleasure which is the secret of remaining young.
Suddenly she looked eagerly round the room, and said, in her clear contralto voice, âWhere is my cheiromantist?â
âYour what, Gladys?â exclaimed the Duchess, giving an involuntary start.
âMy cheiromantist, Duchess; I canât live without him at present.â
âDear Gladys! you are always so original,â murmured the Duchess, trying to remember what a cheiromantist really was, and hoping it was not the same as a cheiropodist.
âHe comes to see my hand twice a week regularly,â continued Lady Windermere, âand is most interesting about it.â
âGood heavens!â said the Duchess to herself, âhe is a sort of cheiropodist after all. How very dreadful. I hope he is a foreigner at any rate. It wouldnât be quite so bad then.â
âI must certainly introduce him to you.â
âIntroduce him!â cried the Duchess; âyou donât mean to say he is here?â and she began looking about for a small tortoiseshell fan and a very tattered lace shawl, so as to be ready to go at a momentâs notice.
âOf course he is here; I would not dream of giving a party without him. He tells me I have a pure psychic hand, and that if my thumb had been the least little bit shorter, I should have been a confirmed pessimist, and gone into a convent.â
âOh, I see!â said the Duchess, feeling very much relieved; âhe tells fortunes, I suppose?â
âAnd misfortunes, too,â answered Lady Windermere, âany amount of them. Next year, for instance, I am in great danger, both by land and sea, so I am going to live in a balloon, and draw up my dinner in a basket every evening. It is all written down on my little finger, or on the palm of my hand, I forget which.â
âBut surely that is tempting Providence, Gladys.â
âMy dear Duchess, surely Providence can resist temptation by this time. I think everyone should have their hands told once a month, so as to know what not to do. Of course, one does it all the same, but it is so pleasant to be warned. Now if someone doesnât go and fetch Mr Podgers at once, I shall have to go myself.â
âLet me go, Lady Windermere,â said a tall handsome young man, who was standing by, listening to the conversation with an amused smile.
âThanks so much, Lord Arthur; but I am afraid you wouldnât recognise him.â
âIf he is as wonderful as you say, Lady Windermere, I couldnât well miss him. Tell me what he is like, and Iâll bring him to you at once.â
âWell, he is not a bit like a cheiromantist. I mean he is not mysterious, or esoteric, or romantic-looking. He is a little, stout man, with a funny, bald head, and great gold-rimmed spectacles; something between a family doctor and a country attorney. Iâm really very sorry, but it is not my fault. People are so annoying. All my pianists look exactly like poets, and all my poets look exactly like pianists; and I remember last season asking a most dreadful conspirator to dinner, a man who had blown up ever so many people, and always wore a coat of mail, and carried a dagger up his shirt-sleeve; and do you know that when he came he looked just like a nice old clergyman, and cracked jokes all the evening? Of course, he was very amusing, and all that, but I was awfully disappointed; and when I asked him about the coat of mail, he only laughed, and said it was far too cold to wear in England. Ah, here is Mr Podgers! Now, Mr Podgers, I want you to tell the Duchess of Paisleyâs hand. Duchess, you must take your glove off. No, not the left hand, the other.â
âDear Gladys, I really donât think it is quite right,â said the Duchess, feebly unbuttoning a rather soiled kid glove.
âNothing interesting ever is,â said Lady Windermere: âon a fait le monde ainsi. But I must introduce you. Duchess, this is Mr Podgers, my pet cheiromantist. Mr Podgers, this is the Duchess of Paisley, and if you say that she has a larger mountain of the moon than I have, I will never believe in you again.â
âI am sure, Gladys, there is nothing of the kind in my hand,â said the Duchess gravely.
âYour Grace is quite right,â said Mr Podgers, glancing at the little fat hand with its short square fingers, âthe mountain of the moon is not developed. The line of life, however, is excellent. Kindly bend the wrist. Thank you. Three distinct lines on the rascette! You will live to a great age, Duchess, and be extremely happy. Ambition â very moderate, line of intellect not exaggerated, line of heart ââ
âNow, do be indiscreet, Mr Podgers,â cried Lady Windermere.
âNothing would give me greater pleasure,â said Mr Podgers, bowing, âif the Duchess ever had been, but I am sorry to say that I see great permanence of affection, combined with a strong sense of duty.â
âPray go on, Mr Podgers,â said the Duchess, looking quite pleased.
âEconomy is not the least of your Graceâs virtues,â continued Mr Podgers, and Lady Windermere went off into fits of laughter.
âEconomy is a very good thing,â remarked the Duchess complacently; âwhen I married Paisley he had eleven castles, and not a single house fit to live in.â
âAnd now he has twelve houses, and not a single castle,â cried Lady Windermere.
âWell, my dear,â said the Duchess, âI like ââ
âComfort,â said Mr Podgers, âand modern improvements, and hot water laid on in every bedroom. Your Grace is quite right. Comfort is the only thing our civilisation can give us.
âYou have told the Duchessâ character admirably, Mr Podgers, and now you must tell Lady Floraâsâ; and in answer to a nod from the smiling hostess, a tall girl, with sandy Scotch hair, and high shoulder-blades, stepped awkwardly from behind the sofa, and held out a long, bony hand with spatulate fingers.
âAh, a pianist! I see,â said Mr Podgers, âan excellent pianist, but perhaps hardly a musician. Very reserved, very honest, and with a great love of animals.â
âQuite true!â exclaimed the Duchess, turning to Lady Windermere, âabsolutely true! Flora keeps two dozen collie dogs at Macloskie, and would turn our town house into a menagerie if her father would let her.â
âWell, that is just what I do with my house every Thursday evening,â cried Lady Windermere, laughing, âonly I like lions better than collie dogs.â
âYour one mistake, Lady Windermere,â said Mr Podgers, with a pompous bow.
âIf a woman canât make her mistakes charming, she is only a female,â was the answer. âBut you must read some more hands for us. Come, Sir Thomas, show Mr Podgers yoursâ; and a genial-looking old gentleman, in a white waistcoat, came forward, and held out a thick rugged hand, with a very long third finger.
âAn adventurous nature; four long voyages in the past, and one to come. Been ship-wrecked three times. No, only twice, but in danger of a shipwreck your next journey. A strong Conservative, very punctual, and with a passion for collecting curiosities. Had a severe illness between the ages sixteen and eighteen. Was left a fortune when about thirty. Great aversion to cats and Radicals.â
âExtraordinary!â exclaimed Sir Thomas; âyou must really tell my wifeâs hand, too.â
âYour second wifeâs,â said Mr Podgers quietly, still keeping Sir Thomasâ hand in his. âYour second wifeâs. I shall be charmedâ; but Lady Marvel, a melancholy-looking woman, with brown hair and sentimental eyelashes, entirely declined to have her past or her future exposed; and nothing that Lady Windermere could do would induce Monsieur de Koloff, the Russian Ambassador, even to take his gloves off. In fact, many people seemed afraid to face the odd little man with his stereotyped smile, his gold spectacles, and his bright, beady eyes; and when he told poor Lady Fermor, right out before everyone, that she did not care a bit for music, but was extremely fond of musicians, it was generally felt that cheiromancy was a most dangerous science, and one that ought not to be encouraged, except in a tĂȘte-Ă -tĂȘte.
Lord Arthur Savile, however, who did not know anything about Lady Fermorâs unfortunate story, and who had been watching Mr Podgers with a great deal of interest, was filled with an immense curiosity to have his own hand read, and feeling somewhat shy about putting himself forward, crossed over the room to where Lady Windermere was sitting, and, with a charming blush, asked her if she thought Mr Podgers would mind.
âOf course, he wonât mind,â said Lady Windermere, âthat is what he is here for. All my lions, Lord Arthur, are performing lions, and jump through hoops whenever I ask them. But I must warn you beforehand that I shall tell Sybil everything. She is coming to lunch with me tomorrow, to talk about bonnets, and if Mr Podgers finds out that you have a bad temper, or a tendency to gout, or a wife living in Bayswater, I shall certainly let her know all about it.â
Lord Arthur smiled, and shook his head. âI am not afraid,â he answered. âSybil knows me as well as I know her.â
âAh! I am a little sorry to hear you say that. The proper basis for marriage is a mutual misunderstanding. No, I am not at all cynical, I have merely got experience, which, however, is very much the same thing. Mr Podgers, Lord Arthur Savile is dying to have his hand read. Donât tell him that he is engaged to one of the most beautiful girls in London, because that appeared in the Morning Post a month ago.
âDear Lady Windermere,â cried the Marchioness of Jedburgh, âdo let Mr Podgers stay here a little longer. He has just told me I should go on the stage, and I am so interested.â
âIf he has told you that, Lady Jedburgh, I shall certainly take him away. Come over at once, Mr Podgers, and read Lord Arthurâs hand.â
âWell,â said Lady Jedburgh, making a little moue as she rose from the sofa, âif I am not to be allowed to go on the stage, I must be allowed to be part of the audience at any rate.â
âOf course; we are all going to be part of the audience,â said Lady Windermere; âand now, Mr Podgers, be sure and tell us something nice. Lord Arthur is one of my special favourites.â
But when Mr Podgers saw Lord Arthurâs hand he grew curiously pale, and said nothing. A shudder seemed to pass through him, and his great bushy eyebrows twitched convulsively, in an odd, irritating way they had when he was puzzled. Then some huge beads of perspiration broke out on his yellow forehead, like a poisonous dew, and his fat fingers grew cold and clammy.
Lord Arthur did not fail to notice these strange signs of agitation, and, for the first time in his life, he himself felt fear. His impulse was to rush from the room, but he restrained himself. It was better to know the worst, whatever it was, than to be left in this hideous uncertainty.
âI am waiting, Mr Podgers,â he said.
âWe are all waiting,â cried Lady Windermere, in her quick, impatient manner, but the cheiromantist made no reply.
âI believe Arthur is going on the stage,â said Lady Jedburgh, âand that, after your scolding, Mr Podgers is afraid to tell him so.â
Suddenly Mr Podgers dropped Lord Arthurâs right hand, and seized hold of his left, bending down so low to examine it that the gold rims of his spectacles seemed almost to touch the palm. For a moment his face became a white mask of horror, but he soon recovered his sangfroid, and looking up at Lady Windermere, said with a forced smile, âIt is the hand of a charming young man.â
âOf course it is!â answered Lady Windermere, âbut will he be a charming husband? That is what I want to know.â
âAll charming young men are,â said Mr Podgers.
âI donât think a husband should be too fascinating,â murmured Lady Jedburgh pensively, âit is so dangerous.â
âMy dear child, they never are too fascinating,â cried Lady Windermere. âBut what I want are details. Details are the only things that interest. What is going to happen to Lord Arthur?â
âWell, within the next few months Lord Arthur will go on a voyage ââ
âOh yes, his honeymoon, of course!â
âAnd lose a relative.â
âNot his sister, I hope?â said Lady Jedburgh, in a piteous tone of voice.
âCertainly not his sister,â answered Mr Podgers, with a deprecating wave of the hand, âa distant relative merely.â
âWell, I am dreadfully disappointed,â said Lady Windermere. âI have absolutely nothing to tell Sybil tomorrow. No one cares about distant relatives nowadays. They went out of fashion years ago. However, I suppose she had better have a black silk by her; it always does for church, you know. And now let us go to supper. They are sure to have eaten everything up, but we may find some hot soup. François used to make excellent soup once, but he is so agitated about politics at present, that I never feel quite certain about him. I do wish General Boulanger would keep quiet. Duchess, I am sure you are tired?â
âNot at all, dear Gladys,â answered the Duchess, waddling towards the door. âI have enjoyed myself immensely, and the cheiropodist, I mean the cheiromantist, is most interesting. Flora, where can my tortoiseshell fan be? Oh, thank you, Sir Thomas, so much. And my lace shawl, Flora? Oh, thank you, Sir Thomas, very kind, Iâm sureâ; and the worthy creature finally managed to get downstairs without dropping her scent-bottle more than twice.
All this time Lord Arthur Savile had remained standing by the fireplace, with the same feeling of dread over him, the same sickening sense of coming evil. He smi...