Margaret Oliphant ....................................................................................................................................1

I WAS not aware at first of the many discussions which had gone on about that window. It was almost

opposite one of the windows of the large oldfashioned drawingroom of the house in which I spent that

summer, which was of so much importance in my life. Our house and the library were on opposite sides of

the broad High Street of St Rule's, which is a fine street, wide and ample, and very quiet, as strangers think

who come from noisier places; but in a summer evening there is much coming and going, and the stillness is

full of soundthe sound of footsteps and pleasant voices, softened by the summer air. There are even

exceptional moments when it is noisy: the time of the fair, and on Saturday nights sometimes, and when there

are excursion trains. Then even the softest sunny air of the evening will not smooth the harsh tones and the

stumbling steps; but at these unlovely moments we shut the windows, and even I, who am so fond of that

deep recess where I can take refuge from all that is going on inside, and make myself a spectator of all the

varied story out of doors, withdraw from my watchtower. To tell the truth, there never was very much going

on inside. The house belonged to my aunt, to whom (she says, Thank God!) nothing ever happens. I believe

that many things have happened to her in her time; but that was all over at the period of which I am speaking,

and she was old, and very quiet. Her life went on in a routine never broken. She got up at the same hour every

day, and did the same things in the same rotation, day by day the same. She said that this was the greatest

support in the world, and that routine is a kind of salvation. It may be so; but it is a very dull salvation, and I

used to feel that I would rather have incident, I whatever kind of incident it might be. But then at that time I

was not old, which makes all the difference. At the time of which I speak the deep recess of the

drawingroom window was a great comfort to me. Though she was an old lady (perhaps because she was so

old) she was very tolerant, and had a kind of feeling for me. She never said a word, but often gave me a smile

when she saw how I had built myself up, with my books and my basket of work. I did very little work, I

fearnow and then a few stitches when the spirit moved me, or when I had got well afloat in a dream, and

was more tempted to follow it out than to read my book, as sometimes happened. At other times, and if the

book were interesting, I used to get through volume after volume sitting there, paying no attention to

anybody. And yet I did pay a kind of attention. Aunt Mary's old ladies came in to call, and I heard them talk,

though I very seldom listened; but for all that, if they had anything to say that was interesting, it is curious

how I found it in my mind afterwards, as if the air had blown it to me. They came and went, and I had the

sensation of their old bonnets gliding out and in, and their dresses rustling; and now and then had to jump up

and shake hands with some one who knew me, and asked after my papa and mamma. Then Aunt Mary would

give me a little smile again, and I slipped back to my window. She never seemed to mind. My mother would

not have let me do it, I know. She would have remembered dozens of things there were to do. She would

have sent me upstairs to fetch something which I was quite sure she did not want, or downstairs to carry

some quite unnecessary message to the housemaid. She liked to keep me running about. Perhaps that was one

reason why I was so fond of Aunt Mary's drawingroom, and the deep recess of the window, and the curtain

that fell half over it, and the broad windowseat where one could collect so many things without being found

fault with for untidiness. Whenever we had anything the matter with us in these days, we were sent to St

Rule's to get up our strength. And this was my case at the time of which I am going to speak.

Everybody had said, since ever I learned to speak, that I was fantastic and fanciful and dreamy, and all the

other words with which a girl who may happen to like poetry, and to be fond of thinking, is so often made

uncomfortable. People don't know what they mean when they say fantastic. It sounds like Madge Wildfire or

something of that sort. My mother thought I should always be busy, to keep nonsense out of my head. But

really I was not at all fond of nonsense. I was rather serious than otherwise. I would have been no trouble to

anybody if I had been left to myself. It was only that I had a sort of secondsight, and was conscious of

things to which I paid no attention. Even when reading the most interesting book, the things that were being

talked about blew in to me; and I heard what the people were saying in the streets as they passed under the

window. Aunt Mary always said I could do two or indeed three things at onceboth read and listen, and see.

I am sure that I did not listen much, and seldom looked out, of set purposeas some people do who notice

what bonnets the ladies in the street have on; but I did hear what I couldn't help hearing, even when I was

reading my book, and I did see all sorts of things, though often for a whole halfhour I might never lift my

This does not explain what I said at the beginning, that there were many discussions about that window. It

was, and still is, the last window in the row, of the College Library, which is opposite my aunt's house in the

High Street. Yet it is not exactly opposite, but a little to the west, so that I could see it best from the left side

of my recess. I took it calmly for granted that it was a window like any other till I first heard the talk about it

which was going on in the drawingroom. "Have you never made up your mind, Mrs Balcarres," said old Mr

Pitmilly, "whether that window opposite is a window or no?" He said Mistress Balcarresand he was always

Mr Pitmilly had a way of laughing as he spoke, which did not please me; but it was true that he was not

perhaps desirous of pleasing me. He said, "Oh, just the window opposite," with his laugh running through his

words; "our friend can never make up her mind about it, though she has been living opposite it since"

"You need never mind the date," said another; "the Leebrary window! Dear me, what should it be but a

"The question is," said my aunt, "if it is a real window with glass in it, or if it is merely painted, or if it once

was a window, and has been built up. And the oftener people look at it, the less they are able to say."

"Let me see this window," said old Lady Carnbee, who was very active and strongminded; and then they all

came crowding upon methree or four old ladies, very eager, and Mr Pitmilly's white hair appearing over

"I mind the window very well," said Lady Carnbee; "ay: and so do more than me. But in its present

appearance it is just like any other window; but has not been cleaned, I should say, in the memory of man."

"I see what ye mean," said one of the others. "It is just a very dead thing without any reflection in it; but I've

"Ay, it's dead enough," said another, "but that's no rule; for these hizzies of womenservants in this ill

"Nay, the women are well enough," said the softest voice of all, which was Aunt Mary's. "I will never let

them risk their lives cleaning the outside of mine. And there are no womenservants in the Old Library: there

They were all pressing into my recess, pressing upon me, a row of old faces, peering into something they

could not understand. I had a sense in my mind how curious it was, the wall of old ladies in their old satin

gowns all glazed with age, Lady Carnbee with her lace about her head. Nobody was looking at me or thinking

of me; but I felt unconsciously the contrast of my youngness to their oldness, and stared at them as they

stared over my head at the Library window. I had given it no attention up to this time. I was more taken up

"And the panes are pented black too. It's no window, Mrs Balcarres. It has been filled in, in the days of the

"Mind!" said that oldest lady. "I mind when your mother was marriet, Jeanie: and that's neither the day nor

yesterday. But as for the window, it's just a delusion: and that is my opinion of the matter, if you ask me."

"There's a great want of light in that muckle room at the college," said another. "If it was a window, the

"One thing is clear," said one of the younger ones, "it cannot be a window to see through. It may be filled in

"And who ever heard of a window that was no to see through?" Lady Carnbee said. I was fascinated by the

look on her face, which was a curious scornful look as of one who knew more than she chose to say: and then

my wandering fancy was caught by her hand as she held it up, throwing back the lace that dropped over it.

Lady Carnbee's lace was the chief thing about herheavy black Spanish lace with large flowers. Everything

she wore was trimmed with it. A large veil of it hung over her old bonnet. But her hand coming out of this

heavy lace was a curious thing to see. She had very long fingers, very taper, which had been much admired in

her youth; and her hand was very white, or rather more than white, pale, bleached, and bloodless, with large

blue veins standing up upon the back; and she wore some fine rings, among others a big diamond in an ugly

old claw setting. They were too big for her, and were wound round and round with yellow silk to make them

keep on: and this little cushion of silk, turned brown with long wearing, had twisted round so that it was more

conspicuous than the jewels; while the big diamond blazed underneath in the hollow of her hand, like some

dangerous thing hiding and sending out darts of light. The hand, which seemed to come almost to a point,

with this strange ornament underneath, clutched at my halfterrified imagination. It too seemed to mean far

more than was said. I felt as if it might clutch me with sharp claws, and the lurking, dazzling creature

Presently, however, the circle of the old faces broke up, the old ladies returned to their seats, and Mr Pitmilly,

small but very erect, stood up in the midst of them, talking with mild authority like a little oracle among the

ladies. Only Lady Carnbee always contradicted the neat, little, old gentleman. She gesticulated, when she

talked, like a Frenchwoman, and darted forth that hand of hers with the lace hanging over it, so that I always

caught a glimpse of the lurking diamond. I thought she looked like a witch among the comfortable little

"For my part, it is my opinion there is no window there at all," he said. "It's very like the thing that's called in

scientific language an optical illusion. It arises generally, if I may use such a word in the presence of ladies,

from a liver that is not just in the perfitt order and balance that organ demandsand then you will see

"The man has gane gyte," said Lady Carnbee; "I mind the windows in the Auld Leebrary as long as I mind

"Na, na," and "No, no," said the old ladies; "a blue dogue would be a strange vagary: but the Library we have

all kent from our youth," said one. "And I mind when the Assemblies were held there one year when the

"It is just a great divert to me," said Aunt Mary: but what was strange was that she paused there, and said in a

low tone, "now": and then went on again, "for whoever comes to my house, there are aye discussions about

that window. I have never just made up my mind about it myself. Sometimes I think it's a case of these

wicked window duties, as you said, Miss Jeanie, when half the windows in our houses were blocked up to

save the tax. And then, I think, it may be due to that blank kind of building like the great new buildings on the

Earthen Mound in Edinburgh, where the windows are just ornaments. And then whiles I am sure I can see the

"Give a laddie a penny to cast a stone, and see what happens," said Lady Carnbee.

"But I am not sure that I have any desire to satisfy myself," Aunt Mary said. And then there was a stir in the

room, and I had to come out from my recess and open the door for the old ladies and see them downstairs,

as they all went away following one another. Mr Pitmilly gave his arm to Lady Carnbee, though she was

always contradicting him; and so the teaparty dispersed. Aunt Mary came to the head of the stairs with her

guests in an oldfashioned gracious way, while I went down with them to see that the maid was ready at the

door. When I came back Aunt Mary was still standing in the recess looking out. Returning to my seat she

"And so you were, honey, and no' very civil; but all the same I ken well you heard every word we said."

IT was a night in June; dinner was long over, and had it been winter the maids would have been shutting up

the house, and my Aunt Mary preparing to go upstairs to her room. But it was still clear daylight, that

daylight out of which the sun has been long gone, and which has no longer any rose reflections, but all has

sunk into a pearly neutral tinta light which is daylight yet is not day. We had taken a turn in the garden

after dinner, and now we had returned to what we called our usual occupations. My aunt was reading. The

English post had come in, and she had got her 'Times,' which was her great diversion. The 'Scotsman' was her

As for me, I too was at my usual occupation, which at that time was doing nothing. I had a book as usual, and

was absorbed in it: but I was conscious of all that was going on all the same. The people strolled along the

broad pavement, making remarks as they passed under the open window which came up into my story or my

dream, and sometimes made me laugh. The tone and the faint singsong, or rather chant, of the accent, which

was "a wee Fifish," was novel to me, and associated with holiday, and pleasant; and sometimes they said to

each other something that was amusing, and often something that suggested a whole story; but presently they

began to drop off, the footsteps slackened, the voices died away. It was getting late, though the clear soft

daylight went on and on. All through the lingering evening, which seemed to consist of interminable hours,

long but not weary, drawn out as if the spell of the light and the outdoor life might never end, I had now and

then, quite unawares, cast a glance at the mysterious window which my aunt and her friends had discussed, as

I felt, though I dared not say it even to myself, rather foolishly. It caught my eye without any intention on my

part, as I paused, as it were, to take breath, in the flowing and current of undistinguishable thoughts and

things from without and within which carried me along. First it occurred to me, with a little sensation of

discovery, how absurd to say it was not a window, a living window, one to see through! Why, then, had they

never seen it, these old folk? I saw as I looked up suddenly the faint greyness as of visible space withina

room behind, certainly dim, as it was natural a room should be on the other side of the streetquite

indefinite: yet so clear that if some one were to come to the window there would be nothing surprising in it.

For certainly there was a feeling of space behind the panes which these old halfblind ladies had disputed

about whether they were glass or only fictitious panes marked on the wall. How silly! when eyes that could

see could make it out in a minute. It was only a greyness at present, but it was unmistakable, a space that

went back into gloom, as every room does when you look into it across a street. There were no curtains to

show whether it was inhabited or not; but a roomoh, as distinctly as ever room was! I was pleased with

myself, but said nothing, while Aunt Mary rustled her paper, waiting for a favourable moment to announce a

discovery which settled her problem at once. Then I was carried away upon the stream again, and forgot the

window, till somebody threw unawares a word from the outer world, "I'm goin' hame; it'll soon be dark."

Dark! what was the fool thinking of? it never would be dark if one waited out, wandering in the soft air for

hours longer; and then my eyes, acquiring easily that new habit, looked across the way again.

Ah, now! nobody indeed had come to the window; and no light had been lighted, seeing it was still beautiful

to read bya still, clear, colourless light; but the room inside had certainly widened. I could see the grey

space and air a little deeper, and a sort of vision, very dim, of a wall, and something against it; something

dark, with the blackness that a solid article, however indistinctly seen, takes in the lighter darkness that is

only spacea large, black, dark thing coming out into the grey. I looked more intently, and made sure it was

a piece of furniture, either a writingtable or perhaps a large bookcase. No doubt it must be the last, since

this was part of the old library. I never visited the old College Library, but I had seen such places before, and

I could well imagine it to myself. How curious that for all the time these old people had looked at it, they had

It was more silent now, and my eyes, I suppose, had grown dim with gazing, doing my best to make it out,

when suddenly Aunt Mary said, "Will you ring the bell, my dear? I must have my lamp."

"Your lamp?" I cried, "when it is still daylight." But then I gave another look at my window, and perceived

with a start that the light had indeed changed: for now I saw nothing. It was still light, but there was so much

change in the light that my room, with the grey space and the large shadowy bookcase, had gone out, and I

saw them no more: for even a Scotch night in June, though it looks as if it would never end, does darken at

the last. I had almost cried out, but checked myself, and rang the bell for Aunt Mary, and made up my mind I

would say nothing till next morning, when to be sure naturally it would be more clear.

Next morning I rather think I forgot all about itor was busy: or was more idle than usual: the two things

meant nearly the same. At all events I thought no more of the window, though I still sat in my own, opposite

to it, but occupied with some other fancy. Aunt Mary's visitors came as usual in the afternoon; but their talk

was of other things, and for a day or two nothing at all happened to bring back my thoughts into this channel.

It might be nearly a week before the subject came back, and once more it was old Lady Carnbee who set me

thinking; not that she said anything upon that particular theme. But she was the last of my aunt's afternoon

guests to go away, and when she rose to leave she threw up her hands, with those lively gesticulations which

so many old Scotch ladies have. "My faith!" said she, "there is that bairn there still like a dream. Is the

creature bewitched, Mary Balcarres? and is she bound to sit there by night and by day for the rest of her

days? You should mind that there's things about, uncanny for women of our blood."

I was too much startled at first to recognise that it was of me she was speaking. She was like a figure in a

picture, with her pale face the colour of ashes, and the big pattern of the Spanish lace hanging half over it,

and her hand held up, with the big diamond blazing at me from the inside of her uplifted palm. It was held up

in surprise, but it looked as if it were raised in malediction; and the diamond threw out darts of light and

glared and twinkled at me. If it had been in its right place it would not have mattered; but there, in the open of

the hand! I started up, half in terror, half in wrath. And then the old lady laughed, and her hand dropped. "I've

wakened you to life, and broke the spell," she said, nodding her old head at me, while the large black silk

flowers of the lace waved and threatened. And she took my arm to go downstairs, laughing and bidding me

be steady, and no' tremble and shake like a broken reed. "You should be as steady as a rock at your age. I was

like a young tree," she said, leaning so heavily that my willowy girlish frame quivered"I was a support to

"Is that what you think, honey? well: maybe she once was," said Aunt Mary, whom nothing surprised.

And it was that night once more after dinner, and after the post came in, and the 'Times,' that I suddenly saw

the Library window again. I had seen it every day and noticed nothing; but tonight, still in a little tumult of

mind over Lady Carnbee and her wicked diamond which wished me harm, and her lace which waved threats

and warnings at me, I looked across the street, and there I saw quite plainly the room opposite, far more clear

than before. I saw dimly that it must be a large room, and that the big piece of furniture against the wall was a

writingdesk. That in a moment, when first my eyes rested upon it, was quite clear: a large oldfashioned

escritoire, standing out into the room: and I knew by the shape of it that it had a great many pigeonholes and

little drawers in the back, and a large table for writing. There was one just like it in my father's library at

home. It was such a surprise to see it all so clearly that I closed my eyes, for the moment almost giddy,

wondering how papa's desk could have come hereand then when I reminded myself that this was nonsense,

and that there were many such writingtables besides papa's, and looked againlo! it had all become quite

vague and indistinct as it was at first; and I saw nothing but the blank window, of which the old ladies could

never be certain whether it was filled up to avoid the windowtax, or whether it had ever been a window at

This occupied my mind very much, and yet I did not say anything to Aunt Mary. For one thing, I rarely saw

anything at all in the early part of the day; but then that is natural: you can never see into a place from

outside, whether it is an empty room or a lookingglass, or people's eyes, or anything else that is mysterious,

in the day. It has, I suppose, something to do with the light. But in the evening in June in Scotlandthen is

the time to see. For it is daylight, yet it is not day, and there is a quality in it which I cannot describe, it is so

I used to see more and more of the room as the days went on. The large escritoire stood out more and more

into the space: with sometimes white glimmering things, which looked like papers, lying on it: and once or

twice I was sure I saw a pile of books on the floor close to the writingtable, as if they had gilding upon them

in broken specks, like old books. It was always about the time when the lads in the street began to call to each

other that they were going home, and sometimes a shriller voice would come from one of the doors, bidding

somebody to "cry upon the laddies" to come back to their suppers. That was always the time I saw best,

though it was close upon the moment when the veil seemed to fall and the clear radiance became less living,

and all the sounds died out of the street, and Aunt Mary said in her soft voice, "Honey! will you ring for the

Then finally, while I sat one evening with my book in my hand, looking straight across the street, not

distracted by anything, I saw a little movement within. It was not any one visiblebut everybody must know

what it is to see the stir in the air, the little disturbanceyou cannot tell what it is, but that it indicates some

one there, even though you can see no one. Perhaps it is a shadow making just one flicker in the still place.

You may look at an empty room and the furniture in it for hours, and then suddenly there will be the flicker,

and you know that something has come into it. It might only be a dog or a cat; it might be, if that were

possible, a bird flying across; but it is some one, something living, which is so different, so completely

different, in a moment from the things that are not living. It seemed to strike quite through me, and I gave a

little cry. Then Aunt Mary stirred a little, and put down the huge newspaper that almost covered her from

sight, and said, "What is it, honey?" I cried "Nothing," with a little gasp, quickly, for I did not want to be

disturbed just at this moment when somebody was coming! But I suppose she was not satisfied, for she got

up and stood behind to see what it was, putting her hand on my shoulder. It was the softest touch in the

world, but I could have flung it off angrily: for that moment everything was still again, and the place grew

"Nothing," I repeated, but I was so vexed I could have cried. "I told you it was nothing, Aunt Mary. Don't you

I did not mean of course to say these last words; they were forced out of me. I was so much annoyed to see it

all melt away like a dream: for it was no dream, but as real asas real asmyself or anything I ever saw.

She gave my shoulder a little pat with her hand. "Honey," she said, "were you looking at something? Is't that?

is't that?" "Is it what?" I wanted to say, shaking off her hand, but something in me stopped me: for I said

nothing at all, and she went quietly back to her place. I suppose she must have rung the bell herself, for

immediately I felt the soft flood of the light behind me, and the evening outside dimmed down, as it did every

It was next day, I think, in the afternoon that I spoke. It was brought on by something she said about her fine

work. "I get a mist before my eyes," she said; "you will have to learn my old lace stitches, honeyfor I soon

"Oh, I hope you will keep your sight," I cried, without thinking what I was saying. I was then young and very

matteroffact. I had not found out that one may mean something, yet not half or a hundredth part of what

one seems to mean: and even then probably hoping to be contradicted if it is anyhow against one's self.

"My sight!" she said, looking up at me with a look that was almost angry; "there is no question of losing my

sighton the contrary, my eyes are very strong. I may not see to draw fine threads, but I see at a distance as

"I did not mean any harm, Aunt Mary," I said. "I thought you saidBut how can your sight be as good as

ever when you are in doubt about that window? I can see into the room as clear as" My voice wavered,

for I had just looked up and across the street, and I could have sworn that there was no window at all, but

"Ah!" she said, with a little tone of keenness and of surprise: and she half rose up, throwing down her work

hastily, as if she meant to come to me: then, perhaps seeing the bewildered look on my face, she paused and

What did she mean? Of course I knew all the old Scotch phrases as well as I knew myself; but it is a comfort

to take refuge in a little ignorance, and I know I pretended not to understand whenever I was put out. "I don't

know what you mean by 'far ben,'" I cried out, very impatient. I don't know what might have followed, but

some one just then came to call, and she could only give me a look before she went forward, putting out her

hand to her visitor. It was a very soft look, but anxious, and as if she did not know what to do: and she shook

her head a very little, and I thought, though there was a smile on her face, there was something wet about her

But it was very tantalising that it should fluctuate so; for sometimes I saw that room quite plain and

clearquite as clear as I could see papa's library, for example, when I shut my eyes. I compared it naturally

to my father's study, because of the shape of the writingtable, which, as I tell you, was the same as his. At

times I saw the papers on the table quite plain, just as I had seen his papers many a day. And the little pile of

books on the floor at the footnot ranged regularly in order, but put down one above the other, with all their

angles going different ways, and a speck of the old gilding shining here and there. And then again at other

times I saw nothing, absolutely nothing, and was no better than the old ladies who had peered over my head,

drawing their eyelids together, and arguing that the window had been shut up because of the old

longabolished window tax, or else that it had never been a window at all. It annoyed me very much at those

dull moments to feel that I too puckered up my eyelids and saw no better than they.

Aunt Mary's old ladies came and went day after day while June went on. I was to go back in July, and I felt

that I should be very unwilling indeed to leave until I had quite cleared upas I was indeed in the way of

doingthe mystery of that window which changed so strangely and appeared quite a different thing, not

only to different people, but to the same eyes at different times. Of course I said to myself it must simply be

an effect of the light. And yet I did not quite like that explanation either, but would have been better pleased

to make out to myself that it was some superiority in me which made it so clear to me, if it were only the

great superiority of young eyes over oldthough that was not quite enough to satisfy me, seeing it was a

superiority which I shared with every little lass and lad in the street. I rather wanted, I believe, to think that

there was some particular insight in me which gave clearness to my sightwhich was a most impertinent

assumption, but really did not mean half the harm it seems to mean when it is put down here in black and

white. I had several times again, however, seen the room quite plain, and made out that it was a large room,

with a great picture in a dim gilded frame hanging on the farther wall, and many other pieces of solid

furniture making a blackness here and there, besides the great escritoire against the wall, which had evidently

been placed near the window for the sake of the light. One thing became visible to me after another, till I

almost thought I should end by being able to read the old lettering on one of the big volumes which projected

from the others and caught the light; but this was all preliminary to the great event which happened about

Midsummer Daythe day of St John, which was once so much thought of as a festival, but now means

nothing at all in Scotland any more than any other of the saints' days: which I shall always think a great pity

IT was about midsummer, I cannot say exactly to a day when, but near that time, when the great event

happened. I had grown very well acquainted by this time with that large dim room. Not only the escritoire,

which was very plain to me now, with the papers upon it, and the books at its foot, but the great picture that

hung against the farther wall, and various other shadowy pieces of furniture, especially a chair which one

evening I saw had been moved into the space before the escritoire,a little change which made my heart

beat, for it spoke so distinctly of some one who must have been there, the some one who had already made

me start, two or three times before, by some vague shadow of him or thrill of him which made a sort of

movement in the silent space: a movement which made me sure that next minute I must see something or

hear something which would explain the wholeif it were not that something always happened outside to

stop it, at the very moment of its accomplishment. I had no warning this time of movement or shadow. I had

been looking into the room very attentively a little while before, and had made out everything almost clearer

than ever; and then had bent my attention again on my book, and read a chapter or two at a most exciting

period of the story: and consequently had quite left St Rule's, and the High Street, and the College Library,

and was really in a South American forest, almost throttled by the flowery creepers, and treading softly lest I

should put my foot on a scorpion or a dangerous snake. At this moment something suddenly calling my

attention to the outside, I looked across, and then, with a start, sprang up, for I could not contain myself. I

don't know what I said, but enough to startle the people in the room, one of whom was old Mr Pitmilly. They

all looked round upon me to ask what was the matter. And when I gave my usual answer of "Nothing," sitting

down again shamefaced but very much excited, Mr Pitmilly got up and came forward, and looked out,

apparently to see what was the cause. He saw nothing, for he went back again, and I could hear him telling

Aunt Mary not to be alarmed, for Missy had fallen into a doze with the heat, and had startled herself waking

up, at which they all laughed: another time I could have killed him for his impertinence, but my mind was too

much taken up now to pay any attention. My head was throbbing and my heart beating. I was in such high

excitement, however, that to restrain myself completely, to be perfectly silent, was more easy to me then than

at any other time of my life. I waited until the old gentleman had taken his seat again, and then I looked back.

Yes, there he was! I had not been deceived. I knew then, when I looked across, that this was what I had been

looking for all the timethat I had known he was there, and had been waiting for him, every time there was

that flicker of movement in the roomhim and no one else. And there at last, just as I had expected, he was.

I don't know that in reality I ever had expected him, or any one: but this was what I felt when, suddenly

He was sitting in the chair, which he must have placed for himself, or which some one else in the dead of

night when nobody was looking must have set for him, in front of the escritoirewith the back of his head

towards me, writing. The light fell upon him from the left hand, and therefore upon his shoulders and the side

of his head, which, however, was too much turned away to show anything of his face. Oh, how strange that

there should be some one staring at him as I was doing, and he never to turn his head, to make a movement!

If any one stood and looked at me, were I in the soundest sleep that ever was, I would wake, I would jump up,

I would feel it through everything. But there he sat and never moved. You are not to suppose, though I said

the light fell upon him from the left hand, that there was very much light. There never is in a room you are

looking into like that across the street; but there was enough to see him bythe outline of his figure dark and

solid, seated in the chair, and the fairness of his head visible faintly, a clear spot against the dimness. I saw

this outline against the dim gilding of the frame of the large picture which hung on the farther wall.

I sat all the time the visitors were there, in a sort of rapture, gazing at this figure. I knew no reason why I

should be so much moved. In an ordinary way, to see a student at an opposite window quietly doing his work

might have interested me a little, but certainly it would not have moved me in any such way. It is always

interesting to have a glimpse like this of an unknown lifeto see so much and yet know so little, and to

wonder, perhaps, what the man is doing, and why he never turns his head. One would go to the windowbut

not too close, lest he should see you and think you were spying upon himand one would ask, Is he still

there? is he writing, writing always? I wonder what he is writing! And it would be a great amusement: but no

more. This was not my feeling at all in the present case. It was a sort of breathless watch, an absorption. I did

not feel that I had eyes for anything else, or any room in my mind for another thought. I no longer heard, as I

generally did, the stories and the wise remarks (or foolish) of Aunt Mary's old ladies or Mr Pitmilly. I heard

only a murmur behind me, the interchange of voices, one softer, one sharper; but it was not as in the time

when I sat reading and heard every word, till the story in my book, and the stories they were telling (what

they said almost always shaped into stories), were all mingled into each other, and the hero in the novel

became somehow the hero (or more likely heroine) of them all. But I took no notice of what they were saying

now. And it was not that there was anything very interesting to look at, except the fact that he was there. He

did nothing to keep up the absorption of my thoughts. He moved just so much as a man will do when he is

very busily writing, thinking of nothing else. There was a faint turn of his head as he went from one side to

another of the page he was writing; but it appeared to be a long long page which never wanted turning. Just a

little inclination when he was at the end of the line, outward, and then a little inclination inward when he

began the next. That was little enough to keep one gazing. But I suppose it was the gradual course of events

leading up to this, the finding out of one thing after another as the eyes got accustomed to the vague light:

first the room itself, and then the writingtable, and then the other furniture, and last of all the human

inhabitant who gave it all meaning. This was all so interesting that it was like a country which one had

discovered. And then the extraordinary blindness of the other people who disputed among themselves

whether it was a window at all! I did not, I am sure, wish to be disrespectful, and I was very fond of my Aunt

Mary, and I liked Mr Pitmilly well enough, and I was afraid of Lady Carnbee. But yet to think of theI

know I ought not to say stupiditythe blindness of them, the foolishness, the insensibility! discussing it as if

a thing that your eyes could see was a thing to discuss! It would have been unkind to think it was because

they were old and their faculties dimmed. It is so sad to think that the faculties grow dim, that such a woman

as my Aunt Mary should fail in seeing, or hearing, or feeling, that I would not have dwelt on it for a moment,

it would have seemed so cruel! And then such a clever old lady as Lady Carnbee, who could see through a

millstone, people saidand Mr Pitmilly, such an old man of the world. It did indeed bring tears to my eyes

to think that all those clever people, solely by reason of being no longer young as I was, should have the

simplest things shut out from them; and for all their wisdom and their knowledge be unable to see what a girl

like me could see so easily. I was too much grieved for them to dwell upon that thought, and half ashamed,

All those thoughts flitted through my mind as I sat and gazed across the street. And I felt there was so much

going on in that room across the street! He was so absorbed in his writing, never looked up, never paused for

a word, never turned round in his chair, or got up and walked about the room as my father did. Papa is a great

writer, everybody says: but he would have come to the window and looked out, he would have drummed with

his fingers on the pane, he would have watched a fly and helped it over a difficulty, and played with the

fringe of the curtain, and done a dozen other nice, pleasant, foolish things, till the next sentence took shape.

"My dear, I am waiting for a word," he would say to my mother when she looked at him, with a question why

he was so idle, in her eyes; and then he would laugh, and go back again to his writingtable. But He over

there never stopped at all. It was like a fascination. I could not take my eyes from him and that little scarcely

perceptible movement he made, turning his head. I trembled with impatience to see him turn the page, or

perhaps throw down his finished sheet on the floor, as somebody looking into a window like me once saw Sir

Walter do, sheet after sheet. I should have cried out if this Unknown had done that. I should not have been

able to help myself, whoever had been present; and gradually I got into such a state of suspense waiting for it

to be done that my head grew hot and my hands cold. And then, just when there was a little movement of his

elbow, as if he were about to do this, to be called away by Aunt Mary to see Lady Carnbee to the door! I

believe I did not hear her till she had called me three times, and then I stumbled up, all flushed and hot, and

nearly crying. When I came out from the recess to give the old lady my arm (Mr Pitmilly had gone away

some time before), she put up her hand and stroked my cheek. "What ails the bairn?" she said; "she's fevered.

You must not let her sit her lane in the window, Mary Balcarres. You and me know what comes of that." Her

old fingers had a strange touch, cold like something not living, and I felt that dreadful diamond sting me on

I do not say that this was not just a part of my excitement and suspense; and I know it is enough to make any

one laugh when the excitement was all about an unknown man writing in a room on the other side of the way,

and my impatience because he never came to an end of the page. If you think I was not quite as well aware of

this as any one could be! but the worst was that this dreadful old lady felt my heart beating against her arm

that was within mine. "You are just in a dream," she said to me, with her old voice close at my ear as we went

downstairs. "I don't know who it is about, but it's bound to be some man that is not worth it. If you were

"I am thinking of no man!" I said, half crying. "It is very unkind and dreadful of you to say so, Lady Carnbee.

I never thought ofany man, in all my life!" I cried in a passion of indignation. The old lady clung tighter

"Poor little bird," she said, "how it's strugglin' and flutterin'! I'm not saying but what it's more dangerous

She was not at all unkind; but I was very angry and excited, and would scarcely shake that old pale hand

which she put out to me from her carriage window when I had helped her in. I was angry with her, and I was

afraid of the diamond, which looked up from under her finger as if it saw through and through me; and

whether you believe me or not, I am certain that it stung me againa sharp malignant prick, oh full of

meaning! She never wore gloves, but only black lace mittens, through which that horrible diamond gleamed.

I ran upstairsshe had been the last to go and Aunt Mary too had gone to get ready for dinner, for it was

late. I hurried to my place, and looked across, with my heart beating more than ever. I made quite sure I

should see the finished sheet lying white upon the floor. But what I gazed at was only the dim blank of that

window which they said was no window. The light had changed in some wonderful way during that five

minutes I had been gone, and there was nothing, nothing, not a reflection, not a glimmer. It looked exactly as

they all said, the blank form of a window painted on the wall. It was too much: I sat down in my excitement

and cried as if my heart would break. I felt that they had done something to it, that it was not natural, that I

could not bear their unkindnesseven Aunt Mary. They thought it not good for me! not good for me! and

they had done somethingeven Aunt Mary herselfand that wicked diamond that hid itself in Lady

Carnbee's hand. Of course I knew all this was ridiculous as well as you could tell me; but I was exasperated

by the disappointment and the sudden stop to all my excited feelings, and I could not bear it. It was more

I was late for dinner, and naturally there were some traces in my eyes that I had been crying when I came into

the full light in the diningroom, where Aunt Mary could look at me at her pleasure, and I could not run

away. She said, "Honey, you have been shedding tears. I'm loth, loth that a bairn of your mother's should be

"I have not been made to shed tears," cried I; and then, to save myself another fit of crying, I burst out

laughing and said, "I am afraid of that dreadful diamond on old Lady Carnbee's hand. It bitesI am sure it

"You foolish lassie," Aunt Mary said; but she looked at my cheek under the light of the lamp, and then she

gave it a little pat with her soft hand. "Go away with you, you silly bairn. There is no bite; but a flushed

cheek, my honey, and a wet eye. You must just read out my paper to me after dinner when the post is in: and

"Yes, Aunt Mary," said I. But I knew what would happen; for when she opens up her 'Times,' all full of the

news of the world, and the speeches and things which she takes an interest in, though I cannot tell whyshe

forgets. And as I kept very quiet and made not a sound, she forgot tonight what she had said, and the curtain

hung a little more over me than usual, and I sat down in my recess as if I had been a hundred miles away.

And my heart gave a great jump, as if it would have come out of my breast; for he was there. But not as he

had been in the morningI suppose the light, perhaps, was not good enough to go on with his work without

a lamp or candlesfor he had turned away from the table and was fronting the window, sitting leaning back

in his chair, and turning his head to me. Not to mehe knew nothing about me. I thought he was not looking

at anything; but with his face turned my way. My heart was in my mouth: it was so unexpected, so strange!

though why it should have seemed strange I know not, for there was no communication between him and me

that it should have moved me; and what could be more natural than that a man, wearied of his work, and

feeling the want perhaps of more light, and yet that it was not dark enough to light a lamp, should turn round

in his own chair, and rest a little, and thinkperhaps of nothing at all? Papa always says he is thinking of

nothing at all. He says things blow through his mind as if the doors were open, and he has no responsibility.

What sort of things were blowing through this man's mind? or was he thinking, still thinking, of what he had

been writing and going on with it still? The thing that troubled me most was that I could not make out his

face. It is very difficult to do so when you see a person only through two windows, your own and his. I

wanted very much to recognise him afterwards if I should chance to meet him in the street. If he had only

stood up and moved about the room, I should have made out the rest of his figure, and then I should have

known him again; or if he had only come to the window (as papa always did), then I should have seen his

face clearly enough to have recognised him. But, to be sure, he did not see any need to do anything in order

that I might recognise him, for he did not know I existed; and probably if he had known I was watching him,

But he was as immovable there facing the window as he had been seated at the desk. Sometimes he made a

little faint stir with a hand or a foot, and I held my breath, hoping he was about to rise from his chairbut he

never did it. And with all the efforts I made I could not be sure of his face. I puckered my eyelids together as

old Miss Jeanie did who was shortsighted, and I put my hands on each side of my face to concentrate the light

on him: but it was all in vain. Either the face changed as I sat staring, or else it was the light that was not

good enough, or I don't know what it was. His hair seemed to me lightcertainly there was no dark line

about his head, as there would have been had it been very darkand I saw, where it came across the old gilt

frame on the wall behind, that it must be fair: and I am almost sure he had no beard. Indeed I am sure that he

had no beard, for the outline of his face was distinct enough; and the daylight was still quite clear out of

doors, so that I recognised perfectly a baker's boy who was on the pavement opposite, and whom I should

have known again whenever I had met him: as if it was of the least importance to recognise a baker's boy!

There was one thing, however, rather curious about this boy. He had been throwing stones at something or

somebody. In St Rule's they have a great way of throwing stones at each other, and I suppose there had been

a battle. I suppose also that he had one stone in his hand left over from the battle, and his roving eye took in

all the incidents of the street to judge where he could throw it with most effect and mischief. But apparently

he found nothing worthy of it in the street, for he suddenly turned round with a flick under his leg to show his

cleverness, and aimed it straight at the window. I remarked without remarking that it struck with a hard sound

and without any breaking of glass, and fell straight down on the pavement. But I took no notice of this even

in my mind, so intently was I watching the figure within, which moved not nor took the slightest notice, and

remained just as dimly clear, as perfectly seen, yet as indistinguishable, as before. And then the light began to

fail a little, not diminishing the prospect within, but making it still less distinct than it had been.

Then I jumped up, feeling Aunt Mary's hand upon my shoulder. "Honey," she said, "I asked you twice to ring

"Oh, Aunt Mary!" I cried in great penitence, but turning again to the window in spite of myself.

"You must come away from there: you must come away from there," she said, almost as if she were angry:

and then her soft voice grew softer, and she gave me a kiss: "never mind about the lamp, honey; I have rung

myself, and it is coming; but, silly bairn, you must not aye be dreamingyour little head will turn."

All the answer I made, for I could scarcely speak, was to give a little wave with my hand to the window on

She stood there patting me softly on the shoulder for a whole minute or more, murmuring something that

sounded like, "She must go away, she must go away." Then she said, always with her hand soft on my

shoulder, "Like a dream when one awaketh." And when I looked again, I saw the blank of an opaque surface

Aunt Mary asked me no more questions. She made me come into the room and sit in the light and read

something to her. But I did not know what I was reading, for there suddenly came into my mind and took

possession of it, the thud of the stone upon the window, and its descent straight down, as if from some hard

substance that threw it off: though I had myself seen it strike upon the glass of the panes across the way.

I AM afraid I continued in a state of great exaltation and commotion of mind for some time. I used to hurry

through the day till the evening came, when I could watch my neighbour through the window opposite. I did

not talk much to any one, and I never said a word about my own questions and wonderings. I wondered who

he was, what he was doing, and why he never came till the evening (or very rarely); and I also wondered

much to what house the room belonged in which he sat. It seemed to form a portion of the old College

Library, as I have often said. The window was one of the line of windows which I understood lighted the

large hall; but whether this room belonged to the library itself, or how its occupant gained access to it, I could

not tell. I made up my mind that it must open out of the hall, and that the gentleman must be the Librarian or

one of his assistants, perhaps kept busy all the day in his official duties, and only able to get to his desk and

do his own private work in the evening. One has heard of so many things like thata man who had to take

up some other kind of work for his living, and then when his leisuretime came, gave it all up to something

he really lovedsome study or some book he was writing. My father himself at one time had been like that.

He had been in the Treasury all day, and then in the evening wrote his books, which made him famous. His

daughter, however little she might know of other things, could not but know that! But it discouraged me very

much when somebody pointed out to me one day in the street an old gentleman who wore a wig and took a

great deal of snuff, and said, That's the Librarian of the old College. It gave me a great shock for a moment;

but then I remembered that an old gentleman has generally assistants, and that it must be one of them.

Gradually I became quite sure of this. There was another small window above, which twinkled very much

when the sun shone, and looked a very kindly bright little window, above that dullness of the other which hid

so much. I made up my mind this was the window of his other room, and that these two chambers at the end

of the beautiful hall were really beautiful for him to live in, so near all the books, and so retired and quiet, that

nobody knew of them. What a fine thing for him! and you could see what use he made of his good fortune as

he sat there, so constant at his writing for hours together. Was it a book he was writing, or could it be perhaps

Poems? This was a thought which made my heart beat; but I concluded with much regret that it could not be

Poems, because no one could possibly write Poems like that, straight off, without pausing for a word or a

rhyme. Had they been Poems he must have risen up, he must have paced about the room or come to the

window as papa didnot that papa wrote Poems: he always said, "I am not worthy even to speak of such

prevailing mysteries," shaking his headwhich gave me a wonderful admiration and almost awe of a Poet,

who was thus much greater even than papa. But I could not believe that a poet could have kept still for hours

and hours like that. What could it be then? perhaps it was history; that is a great thing to work at, but you

would not perhaps need to move nor to stride up and down, or look out upon the sky and the wonderful light.

He did move now and then, however, though he never came to the window. Sometimes, as I have said, he

would turn round in his chair and turn his face towards it, and sit there for a long time musing when the light

had begun to fail, and the world was full of that strange day which was night, that light without colour, in

which everything was so clearly visible, and there were no shadows. "It was between the night and the day,

when the fairy folk have power." This was the afterlight of the wonderful, long, long summer evening, the

light without shadows. It had a spell in it, and sometimes it made me afraid: and all manner of strange

thoughts seemed to come in, and I always felt that if only we had a little more vision in our eyes we might see

beautiful folk walking about in it, who were not of our world. I thought most likely he saw them, from the

way he sat there looking out: and this made my heart expand with the most curious sensation, as if of pride

that, though I could not see, he did, and did not even require to come to the window, as I did, sitting close in

the depth of the recess, with my eyes upon him, and almost seeing things through his eyes.

I was so much absorbed in these thoughts and in watching him every eveningfor now he never missed an

evening, but was always therethat people began to remark that I was looking pale and that I could not be

well, for I paid no attention when they talked to me, and did not care to go out, nor to join the other girls for

their tennis, nor to do anything that others did; and some said to Aunt Mary that I was quickly losing all the

ground I had gained, and that she could never send me back to my mother with a white face like that. Aunt

Mary had begun to look at me anxiously for some time before that, and, I am sure, held secret consultations

over me, sometimes with the doctor, and sometimes with her old ladies, who thought they knew more about

young girls than even the doctors. And I could hear them saying to her that I wanted diversion, that I must be

diverted, and that she must take me out more, and give a party, and that when the summer visitors began to

come there would perhaps be a ball or two, or Lady Carnbee would get up a picnic. "And there's my young

lord coming home," said the old lady whom they called Miss Jeanie, "and I never knew the young lassie yet

But Aunt Mary shook her head. "I would not lippen much to the young lord," she said. "His mother is sore set

upon siller for him; and my poor bit honey has no fortune to speak of. No, we must not fly so high as the

young lord; but I will gladly take her about the country to see the old castles and towers. It will perhaps rouse

"And if that does not answer we must think of something else," the old lady said.

I heard them perhaps that day because they were talking of me, which is always so effective a way of making

you hearfor latterly I had not been paying any attention to what they were saying; and I thought to myself

how little they knew, and how little I cared about even the old castles and curious houses, having something

else in my mind. But just about that time Mr Pitmilly came in, who was always a friend to me, and, when he

heard them talking, he managed to stop them and turn the conversation into another channel. And after a

while, when the ladies were gone away, he came up to my recess, and gave a glance right over my head. And

then he asked my Aunt Mary if ever she had settled her question about the window opposite, "that you

thought was a window sometimes, and then not a window, and many curious things," the old gentleman said.

My Aunt Mary gave me another very wistful look; and then she said, "Indeed, Mr Pitmilly, we are just where

we were, and I am quite as unsettled as ever; and I think my niece she has taken up my views, for I see her

many a time looking across and wondering, and I am not clear now what her opinion is."

"My opinion!" I said, "Aunt Mary." I could not help being a little scornful, as one is when one is very young.

"I have no opinion. There is not only a window but there is a room, and I could show you " I was going to

say, "show you the gentleman who sits and writes in it," but I stopped, not knowing what they might say, and

looked from one to another. "I could tell youall the furniture that is in it," I said. And then I felt something

like a flame that went over my face, and that all at once my cheeks were burning. I thought they gave a little

glance at each other, but that may have been folly. "There is a great picture, in a big dim frame," I said,

"Is there so?" said Mr Pitmilly, with a little laugh. And he said, "Now I will tell you what we'll do. You know

that there is a conversation party, or whatever they call it, in the big room tonight, and it will be all open and

lighted up. And it is a handsome room, and twothree things well worth looking at. I will just step along after

we have all got our dinner, and take you over to the pairty, madamMissy and you"

"Dear me!" said Aunt Mary. "I have not gone to a pairty for more years than I would like to sayand never

once to the Library Hall." Then she gave a little shiver, and said quite low, "I could not go there."

"Then you will just begin again tonight, madam," said Mr Pitmilly, taking no notice of this, "and a proud

man will I be leading in Mistress Balcarres that was once the pride of the ball!"

"Ah, once!" said Aunt Mary, with a low little laugh and then a sigh. "And we'll not say how long ago;" and

after that she made a pause, looking always at me: and then she said, "I accept your offer, and we'll put on our

braws; and I hope you will have no occasion to think shame of us. But why not take your dinner here?"

That was how it was settled, and the old gentleman went away to dress, looking quite pleased. But I came to

Aunt Mary as soon as he was gone, and besought her not to make me go. "I like the long bonnie night and the

light that lasts so long. And I cannot bear to dress up and go out, wasting it all in a stupid party. I hate parties,

"My honey," she said, taking both my hands, "I know it will maybe be a blow to you, but it's better so."

"You'll just go with me, honey, just this once: it is not often I go out. You will go with me this one night, just

I am sure there were tears in Aunt Mary's eyes, and she kissed me between the words. There was nothing

more that I could say; but how I grudged the evening! A mere party, a conversazione (when all the College

was away, too, and nobody to make conversation!), instead of my enchanted hour at my window and the soft

strange light, and the dim face looking out, which kept me wondering and wondering what was he thinking

of, what was he looking for, who was he? all one wonder and mystery and question, through the long, long,

It occurred to me, however, when I was dressingthough I was so sure that he would prefer his solitude to

everythingthat he might perhaps, it was just possible, be there. And when I thought of that, I took out my

white frock though Janet had laid out my blue oneand my little pearl necklace which I had thought was too

good to wear. They were not very large pearls, but they were real pearls, and very even and lustrous though

they were small; and though I did not think much of my appearance then, there must have been something

about mepale as I was but apt to colour in a moment, with my dress so white, and my pearls so white, and

my hair all shadowy perhaps, that was pleasant to look at: for even old Mr Pitmilly had a strange look in his

eyes, as if he was not only pleased but sorry too, perhaps thinking me a creature that would have troubles in

this life, though I was so young and knew them not. And when Aunt Mary looked at me, there was a little

quiver about her mouth. She herself had on her pretty lace and her white hair very nicely done, and looking

her best. As for Mr Pitmilly, he had a beautiful fine French cambrie frill to his shirt, plaited in the most

minute plaits, and with a diamond pin in it which sparkled as much as Lady Carnbee's ring; but this was a

fine frank kindly stone, that looked you straight in the face and sparkled, with the light dancing in it as if it

were pleased to see you, and to be shining on that old gentleman's honest and faithful breast: for he had been

one of Aunt Mary's lovers in their early days, and still thought there was nobody like her in the world.

I had got into quite a happy commotion of mind by the time we set out across the street in the soft light of the

evening to the Library Hall. Perhaps, after all, I should see him, and see the room which I was so well

acquainted with, and find out why he sat there so constantly and never was seen abroad. I thought I might

even hear what he was working at, which would be such a pleasant thing to tell papa when I went home. A

friend of mine at St Rule'soh, far, far more busy than you ever were, papa!and then my father would

The room was all light and bright, flowers wherever flowers could be, and the long lines of the books that

went along the walls on each side, lighting up wherever there was a line of gilding or an ornament, with a

little response. It dazzled me at first all that light: but I was very eager, though I kept very quiet, looking

round to see if perhaps in any corner, in the middle of any group, he would be there. I did not expect to see

him among the ladies. He would not be with them,he was too studious, too silent: but, perhaps among that

No: I am not sure that it was not half a pleasure to me to make quite sure that there was not one whom I could

take for him, who was at all like my vague image of him. No: it was absurd to think that he would be here,

amid all that sound of voices, under the glare of that light. I felt a little proud to think that he was in his room

as usual, doing his work, or thinking so deeply over it, as when he turned round in his chair with his face to

I was thus getting a little composed and quiet in my mind, for now that the expectation of seeing him was

over, though it was a disappointment, it was a satisfaction toowhen Mr Pitmilly came up to me, holding

out his arm. "Now," he said, "I am going to take you to see the curiosities." I thought to myself that after I

had seen them and spoken to everybody I knew, Aunt Mary would let me go home, so I went very willingly,

though I did not care for the curiosities. Something, however, struck me strangely as we walked up the room.

It was the air, rather fresh and strong, from an open window at the east end of the hall. How should there be a

window there? I hardly saw what it meant for the first moment, but it blew in my face as if there was some

Then there was another thing that startled me. On that side of the wall which was to the street there seemed

no windows at all. A long line of bookcases filled it from end to end. I could not see what that meant either,

but it confused me. I was altogether confused. I felt as if I was in a strange country, not knowing where I was

going, not knowing what I might find out next. If there were no windows on the wall to the street, where was

my window? My heart, which had been jumping up and calming down again all this time, gave a great leap at

Then we stopped before a glass case, and Mr Pitmilly showed me some things in it. I could not pay much

attention to them. My head was going round and round. I heard his voice going on, and then myself speaking

with a queer sound that was hollow in my ears; but I did not know what I was saying or what he was saying.

Then he took me to the very end of the room, the east end, saying something that I caughtthat I was pale,

that the air would do me good. The air was blowing full on me, lifting the lace of my dress, lifting my hair,

almost chilly. The window opened into the pale daylight, into the little lane that ran by the end of the

building. Mr Pitmilly went on talking, but I could not make out a word he said. Then I heard my own voice,

speaking through it, though I did not seem to be aware that I was speaking. "Where is my window?where,

then, is my window?" I seemed to be saying, and I turned right round, dragging him with me, still holding his

arm. As I did this my eye fell upon something at last which I knew. It was a large picture in a broad frame,

What did it mean? Oh, what did it mean? I turned round again to the open window at the east end, and to the

daylight, the strange light without any shadow, that was all round about this lighted hall, holding it like a

bubble that would burst, like something that was not real. The real place was the room I knew, in which that

picture was hanging, where the writingtable was, and where he sat with his face to the light. But where was

the light and the window through which it came? I think my senses must have left me. I went up to the

picture which I knew, and then I walked straight across the room, always dragging Mr Pitmilly, whose face

was pale, but who did not struggle but allowed me to lead him, straight across to where the window

waswhere the window was not;where there was no sign of it. "Where is my window? where is my

window?" I said. And all the time I was sure that I was in a dream, and these lights were all some theatrical

illusion, and the people talking; and nothing real but the pale, pale, watching, lingering day standing by to

"My dear," said Mr Pitmilly, "my dear! Mind that you are in public. Mind where you are. You must not make

an outcry and frighten your Aunt Mary. Come away with me. Come away, my dear young lady! and you'll

take a seat for a minute or two and compose yourself; and I'll get you an ice or a little wine." He kept patting

my hand, which was on his arm, and looking at me very anxiously. "Bless me! bless me! I never thought it

But I would not allow him to take me away in that direction. I went to the picture again and looked at it

without seeing it: and then I went across the room again, with some kind of wild thought that if I insisted I

There was one of the professors standing there, and he heard me. "The window!" said he. "Ah, you've been

taken in with what appears outside. It was put there to be in uniformity with the window on the stair. But it

never was a real window. It is just behind that bookcase. Many people are taken in by it," he said.

His voice seemed to sound from somewhere far away, and as if it would go on for ever; and the hall swam in

a dazzle of shining and of noises round me; and the daylight through the open window grew greyer, waiting

IT was Mr Pitmilly who took me home; or rather it was I who took him, pushing him on a little in front of

me, holding fast by his arm, not waiting for Aunt Mary or any one. We came out into the daylight again

outside, I, without even a cloak or a shawl, with my bare arms, and uncovered head, and the pearls round my

neck. There was a rush of the people about, and a baker's boy, that baker's boy, stood right in my way and

cried, "Here's a braw ane!" shouting to the others: the words struck me somehow, as his stone had struck the

window, without any reason. But I did not mind the people staring, and hurried across the street, with Mr

Pitmilly half a step in advance. The door was open, and Janet standing at it, looking out to see what she could

see of the ladies in their grand dresses. She gave a shriek when she saw me hurrying across the street; but I

brushed past her, and pushed Mr Pitmilly up the stairs, and took him breathless to the recess, where I threw

myself down on the seat, feeling as if I could not have gone another step farther, and waved my hand across

to the window. "There! there!" I cried. Ah! there it wasnot that senseless mobnot the theatre and the gas,

and the people all in a murmur and clang of talking. Never in all these days had I seen that room so clearly.

There was a faint tone of light behind, as if it might have been a reflection from some of those vulgar lights in

the hall, and he sat against it, calm, wrapped in his thoughts, with his face turned to the window. Nobody but

must have seen him. Janet could have seen him had I called her upstairs. It was like a picture, all the things I

knew, and the same attitude, and the atmosphere, full of quietness, not disturbed by anything. I pulled Mr

Pitmilly's arm before I let him go,"You see, you see!" I cried. He gave me the most bewildered look, as if

he would have liked to cry. He saw nothing! I was sure of that from his eyes. He was an old man, and there

was no vision in him. If I had called up Janet, she would have seen it all. "My dear!" he said. "My dear!"

waving his hands in a helpless way. "He has been there all these nights," I cried, "and I thought you could tell

me who he was and what he was doing; and that he might have taken me in to that room, and showed me, that

I might tell papa. Papa would understand, he would like to hear. Oh, can't you tell me what work he is doing,

Mr Pitmilly? He never lifts his head as long as the light throws a shadow, and then when it is like this he

Mr Pitmilly was trembling, whether it was with cold or I know not what. He said, with a shake in his voice,

"My dear young ladymy dear" and then stopped and looked at me as if he were going to cry. "It's

peetiful, it's peetiful," he said; and then in another voice, "I am going across there again to bring your Aunt

Mary home; do you understand, my poor little thing, my I am going to bring her homeyou will be better

when she is here." I was glad when he went away, as he could not see anything: and I sat alone in the dark

which was not dark, but quite clear lighta light like nothing I ever saw. How clear it was in that room! not

glaring like the gas and the voices, but so quiet, everything so visible, as if it were in another world. I heard a

little rustle behind me, and there was Janet, standing staring at me with two big eyes wide open. She was only

a little older than I was. I called to her, "Janet, come here, come here, and you will see him,come here and

see him!" impatient that she should be so shy and keep behind. "Oh, my bonnie young leddy!" she said, and

burst out crying. I stamped my foot at her, in my indignation that she would not come, and she fled before me

with a rustle and swing of haste, as if she were afraid. None of them, none of them! not even a girl like

myself, with the sight in her eyes, would understand. I turned back again, and held out my hands to him

sitting there, who was the only one that knew. "Oh," I said, "say something to me! I don't know who you are,

or what you are: but you're lonely and so am I; and I onlyfeel for you. Say something to me!" I neither

hoped that he would hear, nor expected any answer. How could he hear, with the street between us, and his

window shut, and all the murmuring of the voices and the people standing about? But for one moment it

But I gasped with my breath, that had almost gone from me, when I saw him move in his chair! He had heard

me, though I knew not how. He rose up, and I rose too, speechless, incapable of anything but this mechanical

movement. He seemed to draw me as if I were a puppet moved by his will. He came forward to the window,

and stood looking across at me. I was sure that he looked at me. At last he had seen me: at last he had found

out that somebody, though only a girl, was watching him, looking for him, believing in him. I was in such

trouble and commotion of mind and trembling, that I could not keep on my feet, but dropped kneeling on the

windowseat, supporting myself against the window, feeling as if my heart were being drawn out of me. I

cannot describe his face. It was all dim, yet there was a light on it: I think it must have been a smile; and as

closely as I looked at him he looked at me. His hair was fair, and there was a little quiver about his lips. Then

he put his hands upon the window to open it. It was stiff and hard to move; but at last he forced it open with a

sound that echoed all along the street. I saw that the people heard it, and several looked up. As for me, I put

my hands together, leaning with my face against the glass, drawn to him as if I could have gone out of

myself, my heart out of my bosom, my eyes out of my head. He opened the window with a noise that was

And then he leaned forward out of the window, looking out. There was not one in the street but must have

seen him. He looked at me first, with a little wave of his hand, as if it were a salutationyet not exactly that

either, for I thought he waved me away; and then he looked up and down in the dim shining of the ending

day, first to the east, to the old Abbey towers, and then to the west, along the broad line of the street where so

many people were coming and going, but so little noise, all like enchanted folk in an enchanted place. I

watched him with such a melting heart, with such a deep satisfaction as words could not say; for nobody

could tell me now that he was not there,nobody could say I was dreaming any more. I watched him as if I

could not breathemy heart in my throat, my eyes upon him. He looked up and down, and then he looked

back to me. I was the first, and I was the last, though it was not for long: he did know, he did see, who it was

that had recognised him and sympathised with him all the time. I was in a kind of rapture, yet stupor too; my

look went with his look, following it as if I were his shadow; and then suddenly he was gone, and I saw him

I dropped back again upon my seat, seeking something to support me, something to lean upon. He had lifted

his hand and waved it once again to me. How he went I cannot tell, nor where he went I cannot tell; but in a

moment he was away, and the window standing open, and the room fading into stillness and dimness, yet so

clear, with all its space, and the great picture in its gilded frame upon the wall. It gave me no pain to see him

go away. My heart was so content, and I was so worn out and satisfiedfor what doubt or question could

there be about him now? As I was lying back as weak as water, Aunt Mary came in behind me, and flew to

me with a little rustle as if she had come on wings, and put her arms round me, and drew my head on to her

breast. I had begun to cry a little, with sobs like a child. "You saw him, you saw him!" I said. To lean upon

her, and feel her so soft, so kind, gave me a pleasure I cannot describe, and her arms round me, and her voice

saying "Honey, my honey!"as if she were nearly crying too. Lying there I came back to myself, quite

sweetly, glad of everything. But I wanted some assurance from them that they had seen him too. I waved my

hand to the window that was still standing open, and the room that was stealing away into the faint dark.

"This time you saw it all?" I said, getting more eager. "My honey!" said Aunt Mary, giving me a kiss: and Mr

Pitmilly began to walk about the room with short little steps behind, as if he were out of patience. I sat

straight up and put away Aunt Mary's arms. "You cannot be so blind, so blind!" I cried. "Oh, not tonight, at

least not tonight!" But neither the one nor the other made any reply. I shook myself quite free, and raised

myself up. And there, in the middle of the street, stood the baker's boy like a statue, staring up at the open

window, with his mouth open and his face full of wonderbreathless, as if he could not believe what he saw.

I darted forward, calling to him, and beckoned him to come to me. "Oh, bring him up! bring him, bring him

Mr Pitmilly went out directly, and got the boy by the shoulder. He did not want to come. It was strange to see

the little old gentleman, with his beautiful frill and his diamond pin, standing out in the street, with his hand

upon the boy's shoulder, and the other boys round, all in a little crowd. And presently they came towards the

house, the others all following, gaping and wondering. He came in unwilling, almost resisting, looking as if

we meant him some harm. "Come away, my laddie, come and speak to the young lady," Mr Pitmilly was

saying. And Aunt Mary took my hands to keep me back. But I would not be kept back.

"Boy," I cried, "you saw it too: you saw it: tell them you saw it! It is that I want, and no more."

He looked at me as they all did, as if he thought I was mad. "What's she wantin' wi' me?" he said; and then, "I

did nae harm, even if I did throw a bit stane at itand it's nae sin to throw a stane.

"You rascal!" said Mr Pitmilly, giving him a shake; "have you been throwing stones? You'll kill somebody

some of these days with your stones." The old gentleman was confused and troubled, for he did not

understand what I wanted, nor anything that had happened. And then Aunt Mary, holding my hands and

drawing me close to her, spoke. "Laddie," she said, "answer the young lady, like a good lad. There's no

intention of finding fault with you. Answer her, my man, and then Janet will give ye your supper before you

"Oh speak, speak!" I cried; "answer them and tell them! you saw that window opened, and the gentleman

"I saw nae gentleman," he said, with his head down, "except this wee gentleman here."

"Listen, laddie," said Aunt Mary. "I saw ye standing in the middle of the street staring. What were ye looking

"It was naething to make a wark about. It was just yon windy yonder in the library that is nae windy. And it

was open as sure's death. You may laugh if you like. Is that a' she's wantin' wi' me?"

"I'm tellin' nae leesit was standin' open just like ony ither windy. It's as sure's death. I couldna believe it

"And there it is," I cried, turning round and pointing it out to them with great triumph in my heart. But the

light was all grey, it had faded, it had changed. The window was just as it had always been, a sombre break

I was treated like an invalid all that evening, and taken upstairs to bed, and Aunt Mary sat up in my room

the whole night through. Whenever I opened my eyes she was always sitting there close to me, watching.

And there never was in all my life so strange a night. When I would talk in my excitement, she kissed me and

hushed me like a child. "Oh, honey, you are not the only one!" she said. "Oh whisht, whisht, bairn! I should

"Oh whisht, whisht, honey!" Aunt Mary said: her eyes were shiningthere were tears in them. "Oh whisht,

whisht! Put it out of your mind, and try to sleep. I will not speak another word," she cried.

But I had my arms round her, and my mouth at her ear. "Who is he there?tell me that and I will ask no

"Oh honey, rest, and try to sleep! It is justhow can I tell you?a dream, a dream! Did you not hear what

"I canna tell you," she cried in her agitation, "I canna tell you! How can I tell you, when I know just what you

know and no more? It is a longing all your life afterit is a lookingfor what never comes."

She kissed me and cried over me, her cheek hot and wet like mine. "My honey, try if you can sleeptry if

"I have no fear," said I; and then I suppose, though it is strange to think of, I must have fallen asleepI was

so wornout, and young, and not used to lying in my bed awake. From time to time I opened my eyes, and

sometimes jumped up remembering everything: but Aunt Mary was always there to soothe me, and I lay

But I would not let them keep me in bed next day. I was in a kind of fever, not knowing what I did. The

window was quite opaque, without the least glimmer in it, flat and blank like a piece of wood. Never from the

first day had I seen it so little like a window. "It cannot be wondered at," I said to myself, "that seeing it like

that, and with eyes that are old, not so clear as mine, they should think what they do." And then I smiled to

myself to think of the evening and the long light, and whether he would look out again, or only give me a

signal with his hand. I decided I would like that best: not that he should take the trouble to come forward and

open it again, but just a turn of his head and a wave of his hand. It would be more friendly and show more

I did not come down in the afternoon, but kept at my own window upstairs alone, till the teaparty should

be over. I could hear them making a great talk; and I was sure they were all in the recess staring at the

window, and laughing at the silly lassie. Let them laugh! I felt above all that now. At dinner I was very

restless, hurrying to get it over; and I think Aunt Mary was restless too. I doubt whether she read her 'Times'

when it came; she opened it up so as to shield her, and watched from a corner. And I settled myself in the

recess, with my heart full of expectation. I wanted nothing more than to see him writing at his table, and to

turn his head and give me a little wave of his hand, just to show that he knew I was there. I sat from halfpast

seven o'clock to ten o'clock: and the daylight grew softer and softer, till at last it was as if it was shining

through a pearl, and not a shadow to be seen. But the window all the time was as black as night, and there

Well: but other nights it had been like that: he would not be there every night only to please me. There are

other things in a man's life, a great learned man like that. I said to myself I was not disappointed. Why should

I be disappointed? There had been other nights when he was not there. Aunt Mary watched me, every

movement I made, her eyes shining, often wet, with a pity in them that almost made me cry: but I felt as if I

were more sorry for her than for myself. And then I flung myself upon her, and asked her, again and again,

what it was, and who it was, imploring her to tell me if she knew? and when she had seen him, and what had

happened? and what it meant about the women of our blood? She told me that how it was she could not tell,

nor when: it was just at the time it had to be; and that we all saw him in our time"that is," she said, "the

ones that are like you and me." What was it that made her and me different from the rest? but she only shook

her head and would not tell me. "They say," she said, and then stopped short. "Oh, honey, try and forget all

about itif I had but known you were of that kind! They saythat once there was one that was a Scholar,

and liked his books more than any lady's love. Honey, do not look at me like that. To think I should have

"And one of us, that must have been a light woman, not like you and me But maybe it was just in innocence;

for who can tell? She waved to him and waved to him to come over: and yon ring was the token: but he

would not come. But still she sat at her window and waved and wavedtill at last her brothers heard of it,

"They killed him!" I cried, carried away. And then I grasped her with my hands, and gave her a shake, and

flung away from her. "You tell me that to throw dust in my eyeswhen I saw him only last night: and he as

After that I would not speak to her for a long time; but she kept close to me, never leaving me when she could

help it, and always with that pity in her eyes. For the next night it was the same; and the third night. That

third night I thought I could not bear it any longer. I would have to do something if only I knew what to do! If

it would ever get dark, quite dark, there might be something to be done. I had wild dreams of stealing out of

the house and getting a ladder, and mounting up to try if I could not open that window, in the middle of the

nightif perhaps I could get the baker's boy to help me; and then my mind got into a whirl, and it was as if I

had done it; and I could almost see the boy put the ladder to the window, and hear him cry out that there was

nothing there. Oh, how slow it was, the night! and how light it was, and everything so clear no darkness to

cover you, no shadow, whether on one side of the street or on the other side! I could not sleep, though I was

forced to go to bed. And in the deep midnight, when it is dark dark in every other place, I slipped very softly

downstairs, though there was one board on the landingplace that creakedand opened the door and

stepped out. There was not a soul to be seen, up or down, from the Abbey to the West Port: and the trees

stood like ghosts, and the silence was terrible, and everything as clear as day. You don't know what silence is

till you find it in the light like that, not morning but night, no sunrising, no shadow, but everything as clear as

It did not make any difference as the slow minutes went on: one o'clock, two o'clock. How strange it was to

hear the clocks striking in that dead light when there was nobody to hear them! But it made no difference.

The window was quite blank; even the marking of the panes seemed to have melted away. I stole up again

after a long time, through the silent house, in the clear light, cold and trembling, with despair in my heart.

I am sure Aunt Mary must have watched and seen me coming back, for after a while I heard faint sounds in

the house; and very early, when there had come a little sunshine into the air, she came to my bedside with a

cup of tea in her hand; and she, too, was looking like a ghost. "Are you warm, honeyare you comfortable?"

she said. "It doesn't matter," said I. I did not feel as if anything mattered; unless if one could get into the dark

somewherethe soft, deep dark that would cover you over and hide youbut I could not tell from what.

The dreadful thing was that there was nothing, nothing to look for, nothing to hide fromonly the silence

That day my mother came and took me home. I had not heard she was coming; she arrived quite

unexpectedly, and said she had no time to stay, but must start the same evening so as to be in London next

day, papa having settled to go abroad. At first I had a wild thought I would not go. But how can a girl say I

will not, when her mother has come for her, and there is no reason, no reason in the world, to resist, and no

right! I had to go, whatever I might wish or any one might say. Aunt Mary's dear eyes were wet; she went

about the house drying them quietly with her handkerchief, but she always said, "It is the best thing for you,

honeythe best thing for you!" Oh, how I hated to hear it said that it was the best thing, as if anything

mattered, one more than another! The old ladies were all there in the afternoon, Lady Carnbee looking at me

from under her black lace, and the diamond lurking, sending out darts from under her finger. She patted me

on the shoulder, and told me to be a good bairn. "And never lippen to what you see from the window," she

said. "The eye is deceitful as well as the heart." She kept patting me on the shoulder, and I felt again as if that

sharp wicked stone stung me. Was that what Aunt Mary meant when she said yon ring was the token? I

thought afterwards I saw the mark on my shoulder. You will say why? How can I tell why? If I had known, I

I never went back to St Rule's, and for years of my life I never again looked out of a window when any other

window was in sight. You ask me did I ever see him again? I cannot tell: the imagination is a great deceiver,

as Lady Carnbee said: and if he stayed there so long, only to punish the race that had wronged him, why

should I ever have seen him again? for I had received my share. But who can tell what happens in a heart that

often, often, and so long as that, comes back to do its errand? If it was he whom I have seen again, the anger

is gone from him, and he means good and no longer harm to the house of the woman that loved him. I have

seen his face looking at me from a crowd. There was one time when I came home a widow from India, very

sad, with my little children: I am certain I saw him there among all the people coming to welcome their

friends. There was nobody to welcome me,for I was not expected: and very sad was I, without a face I

knew: when all at once I saw him, and he waved his hand to me. My heart leaped up again: I had forgotten

who he was, but only that it was a face I knew, and I landed almost cheerfully, thinking here was some one

who would help me. But he had disappeared, as he did from the window, with that one wave of his hand.

And again I was reminded of it all when old Lady Carnbee diedan old, old womanand it was found in

her will that she had left me that diamond ring. I am afraid of it still. It is locked up in an old sandalwood

box in the lumberroom in the little old countryhouse which belongs to me, but where I never live. If any

one would steal it, it would be a relief to my mind. Yet I never knew what Aunt Mary meant when she said,

"Yon ring was the token," nor what it could have to do with that strange window in the old College Library of