IThey stood at the window of her boudoir in the new house whichStephen Cheswardine had recently bought at Sneyd. The stars werepursuing their orbits overhead in a clear dark velvet sky, exceptto the north, where the industrial fires and smoke of the FiveTowns had completely put them out. But even these distant signs ofrude labour had a romantic aspect, and did not impair the generalromance of the scene. Charlie had loved her; he loved her still;and she gave him odd minutes of herself when she could, just tokeep him alive. Moreover, there was the log fire richly cracklingin the well-grate of the boudoir; there was the feminineness of theboudoir (dimly lit), and the soft splendour of her gown, and behindall that, pervading the house, the gay rumour of the party. And infront of them the window-panes, and beyond the window-panes thestars in their orbits. Doubtless it was such influences which,despite several degrees of frost outside, gave to CharlieWoodruff's thoughts an Italian, or Spanish, turn. He said: "Stephen ought to have this window turned into a French window,and build you a balcony. It could easily be done. Just the view fora balcony. You can see Sneyd Lake from here." (You could. Peoplewere skating on it.) He did not add that you could see the Sneyd Golf Links fromthere, and vice versa. I doubt if the idea occurred to him,but as he was an active member of the Sneyd Golf Club it wouldcertainly have presented itself to him in due season. "What a lovely scheme!" Vera exclaimed enthusiastically. It appealed to her. It appealed to all that was romantic in herbird-like soul. She did not see the links; she did not see thelake; she just saw herself in exquisite frocks, lightly lounging onthe balcony in high summer, and dreaming of her own beauty. "And have a striped awning," she said. "Yes," he said. "Make Stephen do it." "I will," she said. At that moment Stephen came in, with his bald head and his fortyyears. "I say!" he demanded. "What are you up to?" "We were just watching the skaters," said Vera. "And the wonders of the night," said Charlie, chucklingcharacteristically. He always laughed at himself. He was aphilosopher. He and Stephen had been fast friends from infancy. "Well, you'd just better skate downstairs," said Stephen. (Noromance in Stephen! He was netting a couple of thousand a year outof the manufacture of toilet-sets, in all that smoke to the north.How could you expect him to be romantic?) "Charlie was saying how nice it would be for me to have a Frenchwindow here, and a marble balcony," Vera remarked. It had not takenher long to think of marble. "You must do it for me, Steve." "Bosh!" said Stephen. "That's just like you, Charlie. What anass you are!" "Oh, but you must!" said Vera, in that tone which meantbusiness, and which also meant trouble for Stephen. "She's come," Stephen announced curtly, determined to puttrouble off. "Oh, has she?" cried Vera. "I thought you said shewouldn't." "She hesitated, because she was afraid. But she's come afterall," Stephen answered. "What fun!" Vera murmured. And ran off downstairs back again into the midst of the blackcoats and the white toilettes and the holly-clad electricity of herChristmas gathering.II The news that she had come was all over the noisy housein a minute, and it had the astonishing effect of producing whatmight roughly be described as a silence. It stopped the recklesswaltzing of the piano in the drawing-room; it stopped the cackleincident to cork-pool in the billiard-room; it even stopped a gooddeal of the whispering under the Chinese lanterns beneath thestairs and in the alcove at the top of the stairs. What it did notstop was the consumption of mince-pies and claret-cup in the smallbreakfast-room; people mumbled about her betweenmunches. She, having been sustained with turkey and beer in thekitchen, was led by the backstairs up to Vera's very boudoir, thatbeing the only suitable room. And there she waited. She was a womanof about forty-five; fat, unfair (in the physical sense), anduntidy. Of her hands the less said the better. She had probablynever visited a professional coiffeur in her life. Her form wasstraitly confined in an atrocious dress of linsey-woolsey, and shewore an apron that was neither white nor black. Her boots werecommodious. After her meal she was putting a hat-pin to a purposewhich hat-pins do not usually serve. She gained an honest living bypainting green leaves on yellow wash-basins in Stephen's renownedearthenware manufactory. She spoke the dialect of the people. Shehad probably never heard of Christian Science, bridge, Paquin,Panhard, Father Vaughan, the fall of consols, osprey plumes, northe new theology. Nobody in the house knew her name; even Stephenhad forgotten it. And yet the whole house was agog concerningher. The fact was that in the painting-shops of the variousmanufactories where she had painted green leaves on yellowwash-basins (for in all her life she had done little else) shepossessed a reputation as a prophet, seer, oracle,fortune-teller--what you will. Polite persons would perhaps neverhave heard of her reputation, the toiling millions of the FiveTowns being of a rather secretive nature in such matters, had notthe subject of fortune-telling been made prominent in the districtby the celebrated incident of the fashionable palmist. Thefashionable palmist, having thriven enormously in Bond Street, hadundertaken a tour through the provinces and had stopped severaldays at Hanbridge (our metropolis), where he had an immense vogueuntil the Hanbridge police hit on the singular idea of prosecutinghim for an unlawful vagabond. Stripped of twenty pounds odd in theguise of a fine and costs, and having narrowly missed the rigoursof our county jail, that fashionable palmist and soothsayer hadreturned to Bond Street full of hate and respect for Midlandjustice, which fears not and has a fist like a navvy's. Theattention of the Five Towns had thus been naturally drawn tofortune-telling in general. And it was deemed that in securing alocal celebrity (quite an amateur, and therefore, it wasuncertainly hoped, on the windy side of the law) for the diversionof his Christmas party Stephen Cheswardine had done a stylish andoriginal thing. Of course no one in the house believed in fortune-telling. Ohno! But as an amusement it was amusing. As fun, it was fun. She didher business with tea-leaves: so the tale ran. This was notconsidered to be very distinguished. A crystal, or even cards, orthe anatomy of a sacrificed fowl, would have been better thantea-leaves; tea-leaves were decidedly lower class. And yet, despitethese drawbacks, when the question arose who should first visit thewitch 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 bemarried for exactly three days, should make the first call. Theyascended, blushing and brave. In a moment Jack Hall descendedalone, nervously playingwith the silk handkerchief that was lodgedin his beautiful white waistcoat. The witch of Endor had informedhim that she never received the two sexes together, and hadexpelled him. This incident greatly enhanced the witch'sreputation. Then Stephen happened to mention that he had heard thatthe woman's mother, and her grandmother before her, had beenfortune-tellers. Somehow that statement seemed to strike everybodyfull in the face; it set a seal on the authority of the witch, madeher genuine. And an uncanny feeling seemed to spread through thehouse as the house waited for Cissy to reappear. "She's very good," said Cissy, on emerging. "She told meall 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 fewdays, and much would depend on it, and next year there will be abig removal, and a large lumbering piece of furniture, and I shallgo a journey over water. It's quite right, you know. I suppose theletter's from grandma; I hope it is, anyway. And if we go toFrance--" Thenceforward the witch without a name held continuousreceptions in the boudoir, and the boudoir gradually grew into anabode of mystery and strangeness, hypnotizing the entire house.People went thither; people came back; and those who had not beenpictured to themselves something very incantatory, and little bylittle they made up their minds to go. Some thought the womanexcellent, others said it was all rot. But none denied that it wasinteresting. None could possibly deny that the fortune-telling hadkilled every other diversion provided by the hospitable Stephen andVera (except the refreshments). The most scornful scoffers made aconcession and kindly consented to go to the boudoir. Stephen went.Charlie went. Even the Mayor of Hanbridge went (not being on theborough Bench that night). But Vera would not go. A genuine fear was upon her. Christmaseshad always been unlucky for her peace of mind. And she was highlysuperstitious. Yet she wanted to go; she was burning to go, all thewhile assuring her guests that nothing would induce her to go. Theparty drew to a close, and pair by pair the revellers drove off, orwalked, into the romantic night. Then Stephen told Vera to give thewoman half-a-sovereign and let her depart, for it was late. And inpaying the half-sovereign to the woman Vera was suddenly overcomeby temptation and asked for her fortune. The woman's grimysimplicity, her smiling face, the commonness of her teapot, herutter unlikeness to anything in the first act of Macbeth,encouraged Vera to believe in her magic powers. Vera's handtrembled as, under instructions, she tipped the tea-leaves into thesaucer. "Ay!" said the witch, in broadest Staffordshire, running herobjectionable hand up and down the buttons of her linsey-woolseybodice, 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 atalligram--" Vera wouldn't hear any more. Her one fear in life was the fearof Stephen's death (though she did console Charlie with nicesmiles and lots of tete-a-tete), and here was this fiendishwitch directly foreseeing the dreadful event. III Every day for many days Stephen expected to have to take part ina pitched battle about the proposed balcony. The sweet enemy,however, did not seem to be in fighting form. It is true that shementioned the balcony, but she mentioned it in quite a reasonablespirit. Astounding as the statement may appear to any personalacquaintance of Vera's, Vera showed a capacity to perceive thatthere were two sides to the question. When Stephen pointed out thatbalconies were unsuited to the English climate, she almost agreed.When he said that balconies were dangerous and that to have a safeone would necessitate the strengthening of the wall, she merelyreplied, withwonderful meekness, that she only weighed seven stonetwelve. When he informed her that the breakfast-room, already nottoo light, was underneath the proposed balcony, which would furtherdarken it, she kept an angelic silence. And when he showed her thatthe view from the proposed balcony would in any case be marred bythe immense pall of Five Towns smoke to the south, she still keptan angelic silence. Stephen could not understand it. Nor was this all. She became extraordinarily solicitous for hiswelfare, especially in the matter of health. She wrapped him upwhen he went out, and unpacked him when he came in. She cautionedhim against draughts, overwork, microbes, and dietaryindiscretions. Thanks to regular boxing exercise, his old dyspepsiahad almost entirely disappeared, but this did not prevent her fromwatching every mouthful that vanished under the portals of hismoustache. And she superintended his boxing too. She made a pointof being present whenever he and Charlie boxed, and she would forceCharlie to cease fighting at the oddest moments. She was flatagainst having a motor-car; she compelled Stephen to drive to thestation in the four-wheeler instead of in the high dogcart. Indeed,from the way she guarded him, he might have been the one frail lifethat stood between England and anarchy. And she was always so kind, in a rather melancholy, resigned,wistful fashion. No. Stephen could not understand it. There came a time when Stephen could neither understand it norstand it. And he tried to worm out of her her secret. But he couldnot. The fascinating little liar stoutly stuck to it that nothingwas the matter with her, and that she had nothing on her mind.Stephen knew differently. He consulted Charlie Woodruff. She hadnot made a confidant of Charlie. Charlie was exactly as much in thedark as Stephen. Then Stephen (I regret to have to say it) took toswearing. For instance, he swore when she hid all his thin socksand so obliged him to continue with his thick ones. And one day heswore when, in answer to his query why she was pale, she said shedidn't know. He thus, without expecting to do so, achieved a definiteclimax. For she broke out. She ceased in half a second to be pale. Shegave him with cutting candour all that had been bottled up in herentrancing bosom. She told him that the witch had foreseen her awidow (which was the same thing as prophesying his death), and thatshe had done, and was doing, all that the ingenuity of a lovingheart could suggest to keep him alive in spite of the prediction,but that, in face of his infamous brutality, she should do no more;that if he chose to die and leave her a widow he might die andleave her a widow for all she cared; in brief, that she had donewith him. When she had become relatively calm Stephen addressed hercalmly, and even ingratiatingly. "I'm sorry," he said, and added, "but you know you did say thatyou were hiding nothing from me." "Of course," she retorted, "because I was." Her argumentswere usually on this high plane of logic. "And you ought not to be so superstitious," Stephenproceeded. "Well," said she, with truth, "one never knows." And she wipedaway a tear and showed the least hint of an inclination to kisshim. "And anyhow my only anxiety was for you." "Do you really believe what that woman said?" Stephen asked. "Well," she repeated, "one never knows." "Because if you do, I'll tell you something." "What?" Vera demanded.At this juncture Stephen committed an error of tactics. He mighthave let her continue in the fear of his death, and thus remainedon velvet (subject to occasional outbreaks) for the rest of hislife. But he gave himself utterly away. "She told me I should live till I was ninety," said he."So you can't be a widow for quite half a century, and you'll beeighty yourself then." IV Within twenty-four hours she was at him about the balcony. "The summer will be lovely," she said, in reply to his argumentabout climate. "Rubbish," she said, in reply to his argument about safety. "Who cares for your old breakfast-room?" she said, in reply tohis argument about darkness at breakfast. "We will have trees planted on that side--big elms," she said,in reply to his argument about the smoke of the Five Towns spoilingthe view. Whereupon Stephen definitely and clearly enunciated that heshould not build a balcony. "Oh, but you must!" she protested. "A balcony is quite impossible," said Stephen, with his firmestmasculinity. "You'll see if it's impossible," said she, "when I'm thatwidow." The curious may be interested to know that she has already begunto plant trees.