'the Library Window' From the Selected Works of Margaret Oliphant, Part III

7/29/2019 'the Library Window' From the Selected Works of Margaret Oliphant, Part III

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265

THE LIBRARY WINDOW

Te Library Window: A Story o the Seen and the Unseen,Blackwoods Magazine,159 ( January 1896), pp. 130.

First published inBlackwoods Magazine in January 1896, this is almost, but notquite, the last o MOWOs short stories, and is deservedly one o the most popu-lar. Although it was unusual or her to respond to reviews o her work, she did

write anonymously to the Spectator soon aerwards, in answer to a critic whosaid that her revelations rom the unseen were tired and unediying. Her letter

was published on 1 February 1896 under the heading Te Seen and Unseen,and is included in Volume 5, p. 335:

Sir, I the signature given beneath does not deter you, you will allow me to suggestto your readers some reections on your article in the Spectatoro January 25th with

this title, reections which I shall put most conveniently in the orm o questions?(1) Is the evidence or a continuity o our existence, here or hereaer, a superuouscontribution to a theory o another lie? And do the reports o endeavours to meddle

with the things which are seen and temporary, as beore, but with much less success,contribute nothing towards such evidence? (2) Is a vain endeavour to rectiy someinjustice unrectifed at death, an unnatural Purgatory or the spirit o man? Is thebelie that the spirits o men and women begin their invisible lie by wild and moreor less unsuccessul attempts to do with their disembodied spirits much the same sorto things as they had been accustomed to do with their embodied spirits, one whichis devoid either o warning or o encouragement or the meaning o the lie whichis, or that which is to come? And fnally, is the conviction that it is possible aer theevent we call death, or men to meddle with a world in which they ought to havecompleted their relations beore they passed into the world o spirits, unlike the expe-rience o manhood looking back to boyhood, o old age looking back to manhood?

Does it not rather ft in with all our experience in a world where the spirit walks oevery day deceased? I am Sir, &c., A Medium.1

She was obviously deeply interested in deending the philosophy behind hersupernatural stories. Te fgure who is glimpsed through the library window hasnot yet quite detached himsel rom his lie on earth.


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266 Te Selected Works o Margaret Oliphant, Volume 12

St Rules, where the action takes place, is based on the ancient universitycity o St Andrews, where MOWO had oen stayed, especially in summer, to benear her riends, Principal John ulloch and his wie. Legend has it that Rule orRegulus was a monk who brought the bones o St Andrew to Scotland, and StRules tower is a prominent building in the cathedral grounds.

She revered Sir Walter Scott, the Great Unknown, and the germ o this storycan be ound in a well-known passage in LockhartsLie:

Happening to pass through Edinburgh in June, 1814 the weather being hot, weadjourned to a library which had one large window looking northwards. Aer carous-ing here or an hour or more, I observed that a shade had come over the aspect o my

riend, who happened to be placed immediately opposite to mysel, and said some-thing that intimated a ear o his being unwell. No, said he, I shall be well enoughpresently, i you will only let me sit where you are, and take my chair; or there is aconounded hand in sight o me here, which has oen bothered me beore, and nowit wont let me fll my glass with a good will. I rose to change places with him accord-ingly, and he pointed out to me this hand which, like the writing on Belshazzars wall,disturbed his hour o hilarity. Since we sat down, he said, I have been watching it itascinates my eye it never stops page aer page is fnished and thrown on thatheap o MS., and still it goes on unwearied and so it will be till candles are broughtin, and God knows how long aer that. It is the same every night I cant stand a sighto it when I am not at my books. Some stupid, dogged, engrossing clerk, probably,exclaimed mysel, or some other giddy youth in our society. No, boys, said our host, I

well know what hand it is tis Walter Scotts. Tis was the hand that, in the eveningso three summer weeks, wrote the two last volumes o Waverley.2

Te last section, in which the narrator tells how she returned to England, a widowwith children, with nobody to welcome me, recalls MOWOs own experience whenshe came home rom Italy aer her husbands death, a very helpless party, the babytwo months old and three other children, and was le to get ashore as I could.3

Te action takes place in the white nights o a northern summer; Jenni Calderpoints out that it is dominated by light just as Te Open Door is dominated bydarkness, and that in these stories a child and a young woman can see what otherscannot.4 Penny Fielding suggests that the unnamed girl is a representative fgure othe woman writer.5 Esther H. Schor believes that this last supernatural tale fndsOliphant veering away rom aith in a Christian God, toward an entirely secularaith in what we might call ( in an age in which authors are wanted more dead than

alive) the aerlie o the author Tough the panes o the window prove fcti-tious, the girl clings to her aith in the real pains o the writerly apparition.6 Whilethere is absolutely no sign that MOWO ever ceased to be a Christian, this is onestory which has nothing to say about orthodox religion.

Included in Stories o the Seen and the Unseen (Edinburgh and London:William Blackwood & Sons, 1902); Great Short Stories o Detection, Mysteryand Horror, ed. D. L. Sayers, second series (London: Victor Gollancz, 1931);


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Te Library Window 267

Fify Years o Ghost Stories (London: Hutchinson, n.d.); Les Oeuvres Libres(Paris: Librarie Arthme Fayard, 1957), French translation, La Fentre de laBibliothque by Marguerite Faguer; Scottish Short Stories 18001900, ed. D.Giord (London: Calder & Boyars, 1971); Walk in Dread, ed. D. omlinson(New York: aplinger Publishing Co., 1972); Gray (1985); Williams (1988);Calder (2000).

Notes1. Letter to the Spectator, 1 February 1896, pp. 1656. Volume 5, p. 335.2. J. G. Lockhart,Memoirs o the Lie o Sir Walter Scott (18378), ch. 7 in the abridged

1848 edition.

3. Jay (1990), p. 87.4. Calder (2003).5. P. Fielding , Writing and Orality: Nationality, Culture and Nineteenth-Century Scottish

Fiction (Oxord: Clarendon Press, 1996), p. 225.6. E. H. Schor, Te Haunted Interpreter in Oliphants Supernatural Fiction, in rela, pp.

1078.


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269

THE LIBRARY WINDOW

A Story of the Seen and the Unseen

I

I was not aware at frst o the many discussions which had gone on about thatwindow. It was almost opposite one o the windows o the large old-ashioneddrawing-room o the house in which I spent that summer, which was o so muchimportance in my lie. Our house and the library were on opposite sides o thebroad High Street o St Rules,1 which is a fne street, wide and ample, and veryquiet, as strangers think who come rom noisier places; but in a summer eveningthere is much coming and going, and the stillness is ull o sound the sound oootsteps and pleasant voices, soened by the summer air. Tere are even excep-

tional moments when it is noisy: the time o the air,2

and on Saturday nightssometimes, and when there are excursion trains. Ten even the soest sunny airo the evening will not smooth the harsh tones and the stumbling steps; but atthese unlovely moments we shut the windows, and even I, who am so ond othat deep recess where I can take reuge rom all that is going on inside, and makemysel a spectator o all the varied story out o doors, withdraw rom my watch-tower. o tell the truth, there never was very much going on inside. Te housebelonged to my aunt, to whom (she says, Tank God!) nothing ever happens. Ibelieve that many things have happened to her in her time; but that was all overat the period o which I am speaking, and she was old, and very quiet. Her lie

went on in a routine never broken. She got up at the same hour every day, anddid 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 o salvation. Itmay be so; but it is a very dull salvation, and I used to eel that I would ratherhave incident, whatever kind o incident it might be. But then at that time I wasnot old, which makes all the dierence.

At the time o which I speak the deep recess o the drawing-room windowwas a great comort to me. Tough she was an old lady (perhaps because she wasso old) she was very tolerant, and had a kind o eeling or me. She never said a


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word, but oen gave me a smile when she saw how I had built mysel up, withmy books and my basket o work. I did very little work, I ear now and then aew stitches when the spirit moved me, or when I had got well aoat in a dream,and was no more tempted to ollow it out than to read my book, as sometimeshappened. At other times, and i the book were interesting, I used to get through

volume aer volume sitting there, paying no attention to anybody. And yet I didpay a kind o attention. Aunt Marys old ladies came in to call, and I heard themtalk, though I very seldom listened; but or all that, i they had anything to saythat was interesting, it is curious how I ound it in my mind aerwards, as i theair had blown it to me. Tey came and went, and I had the sensation o their oldbonnets 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 aer my papaand mamma. Ten Aunt Mary would give me a little smile again, and I slippedback to my window. She never seemed to mind. My mother would not have letme do it, I know. She would have remembered dozens o things there were todo. She would have sent me upstairs to etch something which I was quite sureshe did not want, or downstairs to carry some quite unnecessary message to thehousemaid. She liked to keep me running about. Perhaps that was one reason whyI was so ond o Aunt Marys drawing-room, and the deep recess o the window,and the curtain that ell hal over it, and the broad window-seat, where one couldcollect so many things without being ound ault with or untidiness. Whenever

we had anything the matter with us in these days, we were sent to St Rules to get

up our strength. And this was my case at the time o which I am going to speak.Everybody had said, since ever I learned to speak, that I was antastic andanciul and dreamy, and all the other words with which a girl who may hap-

pen to like poetry, and to be ond o thinking, is so oen made uncomortable.People dont know what they mean when they say antastic. It sounds like Madge

Wildfre3 or something o that sort. My mother thought I should always be busy,to keep nonsense out o my head. But really I was not at all ond o nonsense. I

was rather serious than otherwise. I would have been no trouble to anybody iI had been le to mysel. It was only that I had a sort o second-sight, and wasconscious o things to which I paid no attention. Even when reading the mostinteresting book, the things that were being talked about blew in to me; and Iheard what the people were saying in the streets as they passed under the win-

dow. Aunt Mary always said I could do two or indeed three things at once bothread and listen, and see. I am sure that I did not listen much, and seldom lookedout, o set purpose as some people do who notice what bonnets the ladies inthe street have on; but I did hear what I couldnt help hearing, even when I wasreading my book, and I did see all sorts o things, though oen or a whole hal-hour I might never li my eyes.


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Tis does not explain what I said at the beginning, that there were manydiscussions about that window. It was, and still is, the last window in the row, othe College Library,4 which is opposite my aunts house in the High Street. Yetit is not exactly opposite, but a little to the west, so that I could see it best romthe le side o my recess. I took it calmly or granted that it was a window likeany other till I frst heard the talk about it which was going on in the drawing-room. 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 Balcarres and he was always called Mr Pitmilly, Morton: which was the name o his place.

I am never sure o it, to tell the truth, said Aunt Mary, all these years.Bless me! said one o the old ladies, and what window may that be?Mr Pitmilly had a way o laughing as he spoke, which did not please me; but

it was true that he was not perhaps desirous o pleasing me. He said, Oh, justthe window opposite, with his laugh running through his words; our riend cannever 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! Dearme, what should it be but a window? up at that height it could not be a door.

Te question is, said my aunt, i it is a real window with glass in it, or i itis merely painted, or i it once was a window, and has been built up. And theoener people look at it, the less they are able to say.

Let me see this window, said old Lady Carnbee, who was very active andstrong-minded; and then they all came crowding upon me three or our old

ladies, very eager, and Mr Pitmillys white hair appearing over their heads, andmy aunt sitting quiet and smiling behind.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 notbeen cleaned, I should say, in the memory o man.

I see what ye mean, said one o the others. It is just a very dead thing with-out any reection in it; but Ive seen as bad beore.

Ay, its dead enough, said another, but thats no rule; or these hizzies5 owomen-servants in this ill age

Nay, the women are well enough, said the soest voice o all, which wasAunt Marys. I will never let them risk their lives cleaning the outside o mine.And there are no women-servants in the Old Library: there is maybe something

more in it than that.Tey were all pressing into my recess, pressing upon me, a row o old aces,

peering into something they could not understand. I had a sense in my mindhow curious it was, the wall o old ladies in their old satin gowns all glazed withage, Lady Carnbee with her lace about her head. Nobody was looking at me orthinking o me; but I elt unconsciously the contrast o my youngness to theiroldness, and stared at them as they stared over my head at the Library window. I


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had given it no attention up to this time. I was more taken up with the old ladiesthan with the thing they were looking at.

Te ramework is all right at least, I can see that, and pented black And the panes are pented black too. Its no window, Mrs Balcarres. It has

been flled in, in the days o the window duties:6 you will mind, Leddy Carnbee.Mind! said that oldest lady. I mind when your mother was marriet, Jeanie:

and thats neither the day nor yesterday. But as or the window, its just a delu-sion: and that is my opinion o the matter, i you ask me.

Teres a great want o light in that muckle7 room at the college, saidanother. I it was a window, the Leebrary would have more light.

One thing is clear, said one o the younger ones, it cannot be a window to seethrough. It may be flled in or it may be built up, but it is not a window to give light.

And who ever heard o a window that was no to see through? Lady Carnbeesaid. I was ascinated by the look on her ace, which was a curious scornul lookas o one who knew more than she chose to say: and then my wandering ancy

was caught by her hand as she held it up, throwing back the lace that droopedover it. Lady Carnbees lace was the chie thing about her heavy black Spanishlace with large owers. Everything she wore was trimmed with it. A large veil oit hung over her old bonnet. But her hand coming out o this heavy lace was acurious thing to see. She had very long fngers, very taper, which had been muchadmired 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 fne rings, among others a big diamond in an ugly old clawsetting. Tey were too big or her, and were wound round and round with yel-low silk to make them keep on: and this little cushion o silk, turned brown withlong wearing, had twisted round so that it was more conspicuous than the jewels;

while the big diamond blazed underneath in the hollow o her hand, like somedangerous thing hiding and sending out darts o light. Te hand, which seemedto come almost to a point, with this strange ornament underneath, clutched atmy hal-terrifed imagination. It too seemed to mean ar more than was said. Ielt as i it might clutch me with sharp claws, and the lurking, dazzling creaturebite with a sting that would go to the heart.

Presently, however, the circle o the old aces broke up, the old ladies returnedto their seats, and Mr Pitmilly, small but very erect, stood up in the midst o

them, talking with mild authority like a little oracle among the ladies. Only LadyCarnbee always contradicted the neat, little, old gentleman. She gesticulated,

when she talked, like a Frenchwoman, and darted orth that hand o hers withthe lace hanging over it, so that I always caught a glimpse o the lurking diamond.I thought she looked like a witch among the comortable little group which gavesuch attention to everything Mr Pitmilly said.


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For my part, it is my opinion there is no window there at all, he said. Itsvery like the thing thats called in scienteefc language an optical illusion. It arisesgenerally, i I may use such a word in the presence o ladies, rom a liver that isnot just in the perftt order and balance that organ demands and then you willsee things a blue dog, I remember, was the thing in one case, and in another

Te man has gane gyte,8 said Lady Carnbee; I mind the windows in theAuld Leebrary as long as I mind anything. Is the Leebrary itsel an optical illu-sion too?

Na, na, and No, no, said the old ladies; a blue dogue would be a strangevagary: but the Library we have all kent rom our youth, said one. And I mindwhen the Assemblies were held there one year when the own Hall was build-ing, another said.

It is just a great divert to me, said Aunt Mary: but what was strange wasthat she paused there, and said in a low tone, now: and then went on again,or whoever comes to my house, there are aye discussions about that window. Ihave never just made up my mind about it mysel. Sometimes I think its a case othese wicked window duties, as you said, Miss Jeanie, when hal the windows inour houses were blocked up to save the tax. And then, I think, it may be due tothat blank kind o building like the great new buildings on the Earthen Moundin Edinburgh,9 where the windows are just ornaments. And then whiles I amsure I can see the glass shining when the sun catches it in the aernoon.

You could so easily satisy yoursel, Mrs Balcarres, i you were to

Give a laddie a penny to cast a stone, and see what happens, said Lady Carn-bee.But I am not sure that I have any desire to satisy mysel, Aunt Mary said. And

then there was a stir in the room, and I had to come out rom my recess and openthe door or the old ladies and see them down-stairs, as they all went away ollow-ing one another. Mr Pitmilly gave his arm to Lady Carnbee, though she was alwayscontradicting him; and so the tea party dispersed. Aunt Mary came to the head othe stairs with her guests in an old-ashioned gracious way, while I went down withthem to see that the maid was ready at the door. When I came back Aunt Mary wasstill standing in the recess looking out. Returning to my seat she said, with a kind o

wistul look, Well, honey: and what is your opinion?I have no opinion. I was reading my book all the time, I said.

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


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II

It was a night in June; dinner was long over, and had it been winter the maidswould have been shutting up the house, and my Aunt Mary preparing to goupstairs to her room. But it was still clear daylight, that daylight out o whichthe sun has been long gone, and which has no longer any rose reections, but allhas sunk into a pearly neutral tint a light which is daylight yet is not day. Wehad taken a turn in the garden aer dinner, and now we had returned to what wecalled our usual occupations. My aunt was reading. Te English post had comein, and she had got her imes, which was her great diversion. Te Scotsman

was her morning reading, but she liked her imes at night.

As or me, I too was at my usual occupation, which at that time was doingnothing. I had a book as usual, and was absorbed in it: but I was conscious oall that was going on all the same. Te people strolled along the broad pave-ment, making remarks as they passed under the open window which came upinto my story or my dream, and sometimes made me laugh. Te tone and theaint sing-song, or rather chant, o the accent, which was a wee Fifsh, 10 wasnovel to me, and associated with holiday, and pleasant; and sometimes they saidto each other something that was amusing, and oen something that suggesteda whole story ; but presently they began to drop o, the ootsteps slackened, the

voices died away. It was getting late, though the clear so daylight went on andon. All through the lingering evening, which seemed to consist o interminablehours, long but not weary, drawn out as i the spell o the light and the out-

door lie might never end, I had now and then, quite unawares, cast a glance atthe mysterious window which my aunt and her riends had discussed, as I elt,though I dared not say it even to mysel, rather oolishly. It caught my eye with-out any intention on my part, as I paused, as it were, to take breath, in the owingand current o undistinguishable thoughts and things rom without and within

which carried me along. First it occurred to me, with a little sensation o discov-ery, 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 olk? I saw as I looked up suddenlythe aint greyness as o visible space within a room behind, certainly dim, asit was natural a room should be on the other side o the street quite indefnite:

yet so clear that i some one were to come to the window there would be nothingsurprising in it. For certainly there was a eeling o space behind the panes whichthese old hal-blind ladies had disputed about whether they were glass or onlyfctitious panes marked on the wall. How silly! when eyes that could see couldmake it out in a minute. It was only a greyness at present, but it was unmistak-able, a space that went back into gloom, as every room does when you look intoit across a street. Tere were no curtains to show whether it was inhabited ornot; but a room oh, as distinctly as ever room was! I was pleased with mysel,


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but said nothing, while Aunt Mary rustled her paper, waiting or a avourablemoment to announce a discovery which settled her problem at once. Ten I wascarried away upon the stream again, and orgot the window, till somebody threwunawares a word rom the outer world, I m goin hame; itll soon be dark. Dark!

what was the ool thinking o? it never would be dark i one waited out, wander-ing in the so air or hours longer; and then my eyes, acquiring easily that newhabit, looked across the way again.

Ah, now! nobody indeed had come to the window; and no light had beenlighted, seeing it was still beautiul to read by a still, clear, colourless light;but the room inside had certainly widened. I could see the grey space and aira little deeper, and a sort o vision, very dim, o a wall, and something againstit; something dark, with the blackness that a solid article, however indistinctlyseen, takes in the lighter darkness that is only space a large, black, dark thingcoming out into the grey. I looked more intently, and made sure it was a piece ourniture, either a writing-table or perhaps a large bookcase. No doubt it mustbe the last, since this was part o the old library. I never visited the old CollegeLibrary, but I had seen such places beore, and I could well imagine it to mysel.How curious that or all the time these old people had looked at it, they hadnever seen this beore!

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 thebell, my dear? I must have my lamp.

Your lamp? I cried, When it is still daylight. But then I gave another lookat my window, and perceived with a start that the light had indeed changed: ornow I saw nothing. It was still light, but there was so much change in the lightthat my room, with the grey space and the large shadowy bookcase, had goneout, and I saw them no more: or even a Scotch night in June, though it looks asi it would never end, does darken at the last. I had almost cried out, but checkedmysel, and rang the bell or Aunt Mary, and made up my mind I would say noth-ing till next morning, when to be sure naturally it would be more clear.

Next morning I rather think I orgot all about it or was busy: or was moreidle than usual: the two things meant nearly the same. At all events I thought nomore o the window, though I still sat in my own, opposite to it, but occupied withsome other ancy. Aunt Marys visitors came as usual in the aernoon; but their

talk was o other things, and or a day or two nothing at all happened to bringback my thoughts into this channel. It might be nearly a week beore the subjectcame back, and once more it was old Lady Carnbee who set me thinking; not thatshe said anything upon that particular theme. But she was the last o my auntsaernoon 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 aith!said she, there is that bairn there still like a dream. Is the creature bewitched, Mary


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Balcarres? and is she bound to sit there by night and by day or the rest o her days?You should mind that theres things about, uncanny or women o our blood.

I was too much startled at frst to recognise that it was o me she was speak-ing. She was like a fgure in a picture, with her pale ace the colour o ashes, andthe big pattern o the Spanish lace hanging hal over it, and her hand held up,

with the big diamond blazing at me rom the inside o her uplied palm. It washeld up in surprise, but it looked as i it were raised in malediction; and thediamond threw out darts o light and glared and twinkled at me. I it had beenin its right place it would not have mattered; but there, in the open o the hand!I started up, hal in terror, hal in wrath. And then the old lady laughed, and herhand dropped. Ive wakened you to lie, and broke the spell, she said, noddingher old head at me, while the large black silk owers o the lace waved and threat-ened. And she took my arm to go down-stairs, 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 girl-ish rame quivered I was a support to virtue, like Pamela,11 in my time.

Aunt Mary, Lady Carnbee is a witch! I cried, when I came back.Is that what you think, honey? well: maybe she once was, said Aunt Mary,

whom nothing surprised.And it was that night once more aer dinner, and aer the post came in, and

the imes, that I suddenly saw the Library window again. I had seen it everyday and noticed nothing; but to-night, still in a little tumult o mind over

Lady Carnbee and her wicked diamond which wished me harm, and her lacewhich waved threats and warnings at me, I looked across the street, and there Isaw quite plainly the room opposite, ar more clear than beore. I saw dimly thatit must be a large room, and that the big piece o urniture against the wall wasa writing-desk. Tat in a moment, when frst my eyes rested upon it, was quiteclear: a large old-ashioned escritoire,12 standing out into the room: and I knewby the shape o it that it had a great many pigeon-holes and little drawers in theback, and a large table or writing. Tere was one just like it in my athers libraryat home. It was such a surprise to see it all so clearly that I closed my eyes, or themoment almost giddy, wondering how papas desk could have come here andthen when I reminded mysel that this was nonsense, and that there were manysuch writing-tables besides papas, and looked again lo! it had all become quite

vague and indistinct as it was at frst; and I saw nothing but the blank window,o which the old ladies could never be certain whether it was flled up to avoidthe window-tax, or whether it had ever been a window at all.

Tis 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 o the day; but then thatis natural: you can never see into a place rom outside, whether it is an empty roomor a looking-glass, or peoples eyes, or anything else that is mysterious, in the day. It


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has, I suppose, something to do with the light. But in the evening in June in Scotland then 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 clear, as i every object was a reection o itsel.I used to see more and more o the room as the days went on. Te large escri-

toire stood out more and more into the space: with sometimes white glimmeringthings, which looked like papers, lying on it: and once or twice I was sure I saw a

pile o books on the oor close to the writing-table, as i they had gilding uponthem in broken specks, like old books. It was always about the time when thelads in the street began to call to each other that they were going home, andsometimes a shriller voice would come rom one o the doors, bidding somebodyto cry upon the laddies to come back to their suppers. Tat was always the timeI saw best, though it was close upon the moment when the veil seemed to all andthe clear radiance became less living, and all the sounds died out o the street,and Aunt Mary said in her so voice, Honey! will you ring or the lamp? Shesaid honey as people say darling: and I think it is a prettier word.

Ten fnally, while I sat one evening with my book in my hand, lookingstraight across the street, not distracted by anything, I saw a little movement

within. It was not any one visible but everybody must know what it is to seethe stir in the air, the little disturbance you cannot tell what it is, but that itindicates some one there, even though you can see no one. Perhaps it is a shadowmaking just one icker in the still place. You may look at an empty room andthe urniture in it or hours, and then suddenly there will be the icker, and you

know that something has come into it. It might only be a dog or a cat; it mightbe, i that were possible, a bird ying across; but it is some one, something liv-ing, which is so dierent, so completely dierent, in a moment rom the thingsthat are not living. It seemed to strike quite through me, and I gave a little cry.Ten Aunt Mary stirred a little, and put down the huge newspaper that almostcovered her rom sight, and said, What is it, honey? I cried Nothing, with alittle gasp, quickly, or I did not want to be disturbed just at this moment whensomebody was coming! But I suppose she was not satisfed, or she got up andstood behind to see what it was, putting her hand on my shoulder. It was thesoest touch in the world, but I could have ung it o angrily: or that momenteverything was still again, and the place grew grey and I saw no more.

Nothing, I repeated, but I was so vexed I could have cried. I told you it was

nothing, Aunt Mary. Dont you believe me, that you come to look and spoil it all!I did not mean o course to say these last words; they were orced out o me.

I was so much annoyed to see it all melt away like a dream: or it was no dream,but as real as as real as mysel or anything I ever saw.

She gave my shoulder a little pat with her hand. Honey, she said, were youlooking at something? Ist that? ist that? Is it what? I wanted to say, shakingo her hand, but something in me stopped me: or I said nothing at all, and she


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went quietly back to her place. I suppose she must have rung the bell hersel, orimmediately I elt the so ood o the light behind me, and the evening outsidedimmed down, as it did every night, and I saw nothing more.

It was next day, I think, in the aernoon that I spoke. It was brought on bysomething she said about her fne work. I get a mist beore my eyes, she said;you will have to learn my old lace stitches, honey or I soon will not see todraw the threads.

Oh, I hope you will keep your sight, I cried, without thinking what I was say-ing. I was then young and very matter o-act. I had not ound out that one maymean something, yet not hal or a hundredth part o what one seems to mean:and even then probably hoping to be contradicted i it is anyhow against ones sel.

My sight! she said, looking up at me with a look that was almost angry; there isno question o losing my sight on the contrary, my eyes are very strong. I may notsee to draw fne threads, but I see at a distance as well as ever I did as well as you do.

I did not mean any harm, Aunt Mary, I said. I thought you said But howcan your sight be as good as ever when you are in doubt about that window? Ican see into the room as clear as My voice wavered, or I had just looked upand across the street, and I could have sworn that there was no window at all, butonly a alse image o one painted on the wall.

Ah! she said, with a little tone o keenness and o surprise: and she halrose up, throwing down her work hastily, as i she meant to come to me: then,

perhaps seeing the bewildered look on my ace, she paused and hesitated Ay,

honey! she said, have you got so ar ben13

as that?What did she mean? O course I knew all the old Scotch phrases as well as Iknew mysel; but it is a comort to take reuge in a little ignorance, and I knowI pretended not to understand whenever I was put out. I dont know what youmean by ar ben, I cried out, very impatient. I dont know what might haveollowed, but some one just then came to call, and she could only give me a lookbeore she went orward, putting out her hand to her visitor. It was a very solook, but anxious, and as i she did not know what to do: and she shook her heada very little, and I thought, though there was a smile on her ace, there was some-thing wet about her eyes. I retired into my recess, and nothing more was said.

But it was very tantalising that it should uctuate so; or sometimes I saw thatroom quite plain and clear quite as clear as I could see papas library, or example,

when I shut my eyes. I compared it naturally to my athers study, because o theshape o the writing-table, which, as I tell you, was the same as his. At times I sawthe papers on the table quite plain, just as I had seen his papers many a day. Andthe little pile o books on the oor at the oot not ranged regularly in order, but

put down one above the other, with all their angles going dierent ways, and aspeck o the old gilding shining here and there. And then again at other times Isaw nothing, absolutely nothing, and was no better than the old ladies who had


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peered over my head, drawing their eyelids together, and arguing that the windowhad been shut up because o the old long-abolished window tax, or else that it hadnever been a window at all. It annoyed me very much at those dull moments to eelthat I too puckered up my eyelids and saw no better than they.

Aunt Marys old ladies came and went day aer day while June went on. Iwas to go back in July, and I elt that I should be very unwilling indeed to leaveuntil I had quite cleared up as I was indeed in the way o doing the mysteryo that window which changed so strangely and appeared quite a dierent thing,not only to dierent people, but to the same eyes at dierent times. O courseI said to mysel it must simply be an eect o the light. And yet I did not quitelike that explanation either, but would have been better pleased to make out tomysel that it was some superiority in me which made it so clear to me, i it wereonly the great superiority o young eyes over old though that was not quiteenough to satisy me, seeing it was a superiority which I shared with every littlelass 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 sight which was a mostimpertinent assumption, but really did not mean hal 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 rame hanging on the arther wall, and many other pieceso solid urniture making a blackness here and there, besides the great escritoireagainst the wall, which had evidently been placed near the window or the sake

o the light. One thing became visible to me aer another, till I almost thoughtI should end by being able to read the old lettering on one o the big volumeswhich projected rom the others and caught the light; but this was all prelimi-nary to the great event which happened about Midsummer Day the day o St

John,14 which was once so much thought o as a estival, but now means nothingat all in Scotland any more than any other o the saints days: which I shall alwaysthink a great pity and loss to Scotland, whatever Aunt Mary may say.

III

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 timewith that large dim room. Not only the escritoire, which was very plain to menow, with the papers upon it, and the books at its oot, but the great picturethat hung against the arther wall, and various other shadowy pieces o urni-ture, especially a chair which one evening I saw had been moved into the spacebeore the escritoire, a little change which made my heart beat, or it spoke sodistinctly o some one who must have been there, the some one who had alreadymade me start, two or three times beore, by some vague shadow o him or thrill


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o him which made a sort o movement in the silent space: a movement whichmade me sure that next minute I must see something or hear something which

would explain the whole i it were not that something always happened out-side to stop it, at the very moment o its accomplishment. I had no warning thistime o movement or shadow. I had been looking into the room very attentivelya little while beore, and had made out everything almost clearer than ever; andthen had bent my attention again on my book, and read a chapter or two at amost exciting period o the story: and consequently had quite le St Rules, andthe High Street, and the College Library, and was really in a South Americanorest, almost throttled by the owery creepers, and treading soly lest I should

put my oot on a scorpion or a dangerous snake. At this moment something sud-denly calling my attention to the outside, I looked across, and then, with a start,sprang up, or I could not contain mysel. I dont know what I said, but enoughto startle the people in the room, one o whom was old Mr Pitmilly. Tey alllooked round upon me to ask what was the matter. And when I gave my usualanswer o Nothing, sitting down again shameaced but very much excited, MrPitmilly got up and came orward, and looked out, apparently to see what wasthe cause. He saw nothing, or he went back again, and I could hear him tellingAunt Mary not to be alarmed, or Missy had allen into a doze with the heat, andhad startled hersel waking up, at which they all laughed: another time I couldhave killed him or his impertinence, but my mind was too much taken up nowto pay any attention. My head was throbbing and my heart beating. I was in

such high excitement, however, that to restrain mysel completely, to be perectlysilent, was more easy to me then than at any other time o my lie. I waited untilthe 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 waswhat I had been looking or all the time that I had known he was there, andhad been waiting or him, every time there was that icker o movement in theroom him and no one else. And there at last, just as I had expected, he was. Idont know that in reality I ever had expected him, or any one: but this was whatI elt when, suddenly looking into that curious dim room, I saw him there.

He was sitting in the chair, which he must have placed or himsel, or whichsome one else in the dead o night when nobody was looking must have set orhim, in ront o the escritoire with the back o his head towards me, writing.

Te light ell upon him rom the le hand, and thereore upon his shouldersand the side o his head, which, however, was too much turned away to showanything o his ace. Oh, how strange that there should be some one staring athim as I was doing, and he never to turn his head, to make a movement! I anyone stood and looked at me, were I in the soundest sleep that ever was, I would

wake, I would jump up, I would eel it through everything. But there he sat andnever moved. You are not to suppose, though I said the light ell upon him rom


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the le hand, that there was very much light. Tere never is in a room you arelooking into like that across the street; but there was enough to see him by theoutline o his fgure dark and solid, seated in the chair, and the airness o hishead visible aintly, a clear spot against the dimness. I saw this outline againstthe dim gilding o the rame o the large picture which hung on the arther wall.

I sat all the time the visitors were there, in a sort o rapture, gazing at this fg-ure. I knew no reason why I should be so much moved. In an ordinary way, to seea student at an opposite window quietly doing his work might have interestedme a little, but certainly it would not have moved me in any such way. It is alwaysinteresting to have a glimpse like this o an unknown lie to see so much and yetknow so little, and to wonder, perhaps, what the man is doing, and why he neverturns his head. One would go to the window but not too close, lest he shouldsee you and think you were spying upon him and one would ask, Is he stillthere? is he writing, writing always? I wonder what he is writing! And it wouldbe a great amusement: but no more. Tis was not my eeling at all in the presentcase. It was a sort o breathless watch, an absorption. I did not eel that I hadeyes or anything else, or any room in my mind or another thought. I no longerheard, as I generally did, the stories and the wise remarks (or oolish) o AuntMarys old ladies or Mr Pitmilly. I heard only a murmur behind me, the inter-change o voices, one soer, one sharper; but it was not as in the time when I satreading and heard every word, till the story in my book, and the stories they weretelling (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 likelyheroine) o them all. But I took no notice o what they were saying now. And itwas not that there was anything very interesting to look at, except the act that hewas there. He did nothing to keep up the absorption o my thoughts. He movedjust so much as a man will do when he is very busily writing, thinking o nothingelse. Tere was a aint turn o his head as he went rom one side to another o the

page he was writing; but it appeared to be a long long page which never wantedturning. Just a little inclination when he was at the end o the line, outward, andthen a little inclination inward when he began the next. Tat was little enough tokeep one gazing. But I suppose it was the gradual course o events leading up tothis, the fnding out o one thing aer another as the eyes got accustomed to the

vague light: frst the room itsel, and then the writing-table, and then the other

urniture, and last o all the human inhabitant who gave it all meaning. Tis wasall so interesting that it was like a country which one had discovered. And thenthe extraordinary blindness o the other people who disputed among themselves

whether it was a window at all! I did not, I am sure, wish to be disrespectul, andI was very ond o my Aunt Mary, and I liked Mr Pitmilly well enough, and I

was araid o Lady Carnbee. But yet to think o the I know I ought not to saystupidity the blindness o them, the oolishness, the insensibility! discussing


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it as i a thing that your eyes could see was a thing to discuss! It would have beenunkind to think it was because they were old and their aculties dimmed. It isso sad to think that the aculties grow dim, that such a woman as my Aunt Maryshould ail in seeing, or hearing, or eeling, that I would not have dwelt on it or amoment, it would have seemed so cruel! And then such a clever old lady as LadyCarnbee, who could see through a millstone, people said and Mr Pitmilly, suchan old man o the world. It did indeed bring tears to my eyes to think that all thoseclever people, solely by reason o being no longer young as I was, should have thesimplest things shut out rom them; and or all their wisdom and their knowledgebe unable to see what a girl like me could see so easily. I was too much grieved orthem to dwell upon that thought, and hal ashamed, though perhaps hal proudtoo, to be so much better o than they.

All those thoughts itted through my mind as I sat and gazed across thestreet. And I elt there was so much going on in that room across the street!He was so absorbed in his writing, never looked up, never paused or a word,never turned round in his chair, or got up and walked about the room as myather 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 fngers on the pane,he would have watched a y and helped it over a di culty, and played with theringe o the curtain, and done a dozen other nice, pleasant, oolish things, tillthe next sentence took shape. My dear, I am waiting or a word, he would say tomy 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 writing-table. But Heover there never stopped at all. It was like a ascination. I could not take my eyesrom 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 hisfnished sheet on the oor, as somebody looking into a window like me once sawSir Walter15 do, sheet aer sheet. I should have cried out i this Unknown had donethat. I should not have been able to help mysel, whoever had been present; andgradually I got into such a state o suspense waiting or it to be done that my headgrew hot and my hands cold. And then, just when there was a little movement ohis elbow, as i he were about to do this, to be called away by Aunt Mary to see LadyCarnbee to the door! I believe I did not hear her till she had called me three times,and then I stumbled up, all ushed and hot, and nearly crying. When I came out

rom the recess to give the old lady my arm (Mr Pitmilly had gone away some timebeore), she put up her hand and stroked my cheek. What ails the bairn? she said;shes evered. You must not let her sit her lane16 in the window, Mary Balcarres.You and me know what comes o that. Her old fngers had a strange touch, coldlike something not living, and I elt that dreadul diamond sting me on the cheek.

I do not say that this was not just a part o my excitement and suspense; andI know it is enough to make any one laugh when the excitement was all about an


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unknown man writing in a room on the other side o the way, and my impatiencebecause he never came to an end o the page. I you think I was not quite as wellaware o this as any one could be! but the worst was that this dreadul old ladyelt my heart beating against her arm that was within mine. You are just in adream, she said to me, with her old voice close at my ear as we went downstairs.I dont know who it is about, but its bound to be some man that is not worth it.I you were wise you would think o him no more.

I am thinking o no man! I said, hal crying. It is very unkind and dreadulo you to say so, Lady Carnbee. I never thought o any man, in all my lie!I cried in a passion o indignation. Te old lady clung tighter to my arm, and

pressed it to her, not unkindly.Poor little bird, she said, how its strugglin and utterin! Im not saying but

what its more dangerous when its all or a dream.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 rom her carriagewindow when I had helped her in. I was angry with her, and I was araid othe diamond, which looked up rom under her fnger as i it saw through andthrough me; and whether you believe me or not, I am certain that it stung meagain a sharp malignant prick, oh ull o meaning! She never wore gloves, butonly black lace mittens, through which that horrible diamond gleamed.

I ran upstairs she had been the last to go and Aunt Mary too had goneto get ready or dinner, or 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 fnishedsheet lying white upon the oor. But what I gazed at was only the dim blank othat window which they said was no window. Te light had changed in some

wonderul way during that fve minutes I had been gone, and there was nothing,nothing, not a reection, not a glimmer. It looked exactly as they all said, theblank orm o a window painted on the wall. It was too much: I sat down in myexcitement and cried as i my heart would break. I elt that they had done some-thing to it, that it was not natural, that I could not bear their unkindness evenAunt Mary. Tey thought it not good or me! not good or me! and they haddone something even Aunt Mary hersel and that wicked diamond that hiditsel in Lady Carnbees hand. O 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 eelings, and I could not bear it. It was more strong than I.I was late or dinner, and naturally there were some traces in my eyes that

I had been crying when I came into the ull light in the dining-room, whereAunt 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 o your moth-ers should be made to shed tears in my house.


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I have not been made to shed tears, cried I ; and then, to save mysel anotherft o crying, I burst out laughing and said, I am araid o that dreadul diamondon old Lady Carnbees hand. It bites I am sure it bites! Aunt Mary, look here.

You oolish lassie, Aunt Mary said; but she looked at my cheek under thelight o the lamp, and then she gave it a little pat with her so hand. Go away

with you, you silly bairn. Tere is no bite; but a ushed cheek, my honey, and awet eye. You must just read out my paper to me aer dinner when the post is in:and well have no more thinking and no more dreaming or tonight.

Yes, Aunt Mary, said I. But I knew what would happen; or when sheopens up her imes, all ull o the news o the world, and the speeches andthings which she takes an interest in, though I cannot tell why she orgets.And as I kept very quiet and made not a sound, she orgot tonight what she hadsaid, and the curtain hung a little more over me than usual, and I sat down in myrecess as i I had been a hundred miles away. And my heart gave a great jump, asi it would have come out o my breast; or he was there. But not as he had beenin the morning I suppose the light, perhaps, was not good enough to go on

with his work without a lamp or candles or he had turned away rom the tableand was ronting the window, sitting leaning back in his chair, and turning hishead to me. Not to me he knew nothing about me. I thought he was not look-ing at anything; but with his ace turned my way. My heart was in my mouth:it was so unexpected, so strange! though why it should have seemed strange Iknow not, or 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 o hiswork, and eeling the want perhaps o more light, and yet that it was not darkenough to light a lamp, should turn round in his own chair, and rest a little, andthink perhaps o nothing at all? Papa always says he is thinking o nothing atall. He says things blow through his mind as i the doors were open, and he hasno responsibility. What sort o things were blowing through this mans mind? or

was he thinking, still thinking, o what he had been writing and going on with itstill? Te thing that troubled me most was that I could not make out his ace. Itis very di cult to do so when you see a person only through two windows, yourown and his. I wanted very much to recognise him aerwards i I should chanceto meet him in the street. I he had only stood up and moved about the room, Ishould have made out the rest o his fgure, and then I should have known him

again; or i he had only come to the window (as papa always did), then I shouldhave seen his ace clearly enough to have recognised him. But, to be sure, he didnot see any need to do anything in order that I might recognise him, or he didnot know I existed; and probably i he had known I was watching him, he wouldhave been annoyed and gone away.

But he was as immovable there acing the window as he had been seated atthe desk. Sometimes he made a little aint stir with a hand or a oot, and I held


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my breath, hoping he was about to rise rom his chair but he never did it. Andwith all the eorts I made I could not be sure o his ace. I puckered my eye-lids together as old Miss Jeanie did who was shortsighted, and I put my handson each side o my ace to concentrate the light on him: but it was all in vain.Either the ace changed as I sat staring, or else it was the light that was not goodenough, or I dont know what it was. His hair seemed to me light certainlythere was no dark line about his head, as there would have been had it been verydark and I saw, where it came across the old gilt rame on the wall behind, thatit must be air: and I am almost sure he had no beard. Indeed I am sure that hehad no beard, or the outline o his ace was distinct enough; and the daylight

was still quite clear out o doors, so that I recognised perectly a bakers boy whowas on the pavement opposite, and whom I should have known again when-ever I had met him: as i it was o the least importance to recognise a bakersboy! Tere was one thing, however, rather curious about this boy. He had beenthrowing stones at something or somebody. In St Rules they have a great way othrowing stones at each other, and I suppose there had been a battle. I supposealso that he had one stone in his hand le over rom the battle, and his roving eyetook in all the incidents o the street to judge where he could throw it with mosteect and mischie. But apparently he ound nothing worthy o it in the street,or he suddenly turned round with a ick 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 o glass, and ell straight down on

the pavement. But I took no notice o this even in my mind, so intently was Iwatching the fgure within, which moved not nor took the slightest notice, andremained just as dimly clear, as perectly seen, yet as indistinguishable, as beore.And then the light began to ail a little, not diminishing the prospect within, butmaking it still less distinct that it had been.

Ten I jumped up, eeling Aunt Marys hand upon my shoulder. Honey, shesaid, I asked you twice to ring the bell; but you did not hear me.

Oh, Aunt Mary! I cried in great penitence, but turning again to the windowin spite o mysel.

You must come away rom there: you must come away rom there, she said,almost as i she were angry: and then her so voice grew soer, and she gave mea kiss: never mind about the lamp, honey; I have rung mysel, and it is coming;

but, silly bairn, you must not aye be dreaming your little head will turn.All the answer I made, or I could scarcely speak, was to give a little wave with

my hand to the window on the other side o the street.She stood there patting me soly on the shoulder or a whole minute or

more, murmuring something that sounded like, She must go away, she must goaway. Ten she said, always with her hand so on my shoulder, Like a dream


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when one awaketh.17 And when I looked again, I saw the blank o an opaquesurace and nothing more.

Aunt Mary asked me no more questions. She made me come into the roomand sit in the light and read something to her. But I did not know what I wasreading, or there suddenly came into my mind and took possession o it, thethud o the stone upon the window, and its descent straight down, as i romsome hard substance that threw it o: though I had mysel seen it strike upon theglass o the panes across the way.

IV

I am araid I continued in a state o great exaltation and commotion o mind orsome 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 anyone, and I never said a word about my own questions and wonderings. I won-dered 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 belongedin which he sat. It seemed to orm a portion o the old College Library, as Ihave oen said. Te window was one o the line o windows which I understoodlighted the large hall; but whether this room belonged to the library itsel, orhow its occupant gained access to it, I could not tell. I made up my mind that itmust open out o the hall, and that the gentleman must be the Librarian or oneo his assistants, perhaps kept busy all the day in his o cial duties, and only able

to get to his desk and do his own private work in the evening. One has heard oso many things like that a man who had to take up some other kind o work orhis living, and then when his leisure-time came, gave it all up to something he reallyloved some study or some book he was writing. My ather himsel at one timehad been like that. He had been in the reasury all day, and then in the evening

wrote his books, which made him amous. His daughter, however little she mightknow o 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 whowore a wig and took a great deal o snu, and said, Tats the Librarian o the oldCollege. It gave me a great shock or a moment; but then I remembered that an oldgentleman has generally assistants, and that it must be one o them.

Gradually I became quite sure o this. Tere was another small windowabove, which twinkled very much when the sun shone, and looked a very kindlybright little window, above that dullness o the other which hid so much. I madeup my mind this was the window o his other room, and that these two chambersat the end o the beautiul hall were really beautiul or him to live in, so nearall the books, and so retired and quiet, that nobody knew o them. What a fnething or him! and you could see what use he made o his good ortune as he sat


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there, so constant at his writing or hours together. Was it a book he was writing,or could it be perhaps Poems? Tis was a thought which made my heart beat; butI concluded with much regret that it could not be Poems, because no one could

possibly write Poems like that, straight o, without pausing or a word or a rhyme.Had they been Poems he must have risen up, he must have paced about the roomor come to the window as papa did not that papa wrote Poems: he always said,I am not worthy even to speak o such prevailing mysteries, shaking his head

which gave me a wonderul admiration and almost awe o a Poet, who was thusmuch greater even than papa. But I could not believe that a poet could have keptstill or 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 tostride up and down, or look out upon the sky and the wonderul 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 acetowards it, and sit there or a long time musing when the light had begun to ail,and the world was ull o that strange day which was night, that light withoutcolour, in which everything was so clearly visible, and there were no shadows.It was between the night and the day, when the airy olk have power. Tis wasthe aer-light o the wonderul, long, long summer evening, the light withoutshadows. It had a spell in it, and sometimes it made me araid: and all manner ostrange thoughts seemed to come in, and I always elt that i only we had a littlemore vision in our eyes we might see beautiul olk walking about in it, who were

not o our world. I thought most likely he saw them, rom the way he sat therelooking out: and this made my heart expand with the most curious sensation, asi o pride that, though I could not see, he did, and did not even require to cometo the window, as I did, sitting close in the depth o the recess, with my eyes uponhim, and almost seeing things through his eyes.

I was so much absorbed in these thoughts and in watching him every even-ing or now he never missed an evening, but was always there that peoplebegan to remark that I was looking pale and that I could not be well, or I paidno attention when they talked to me, and did not care to go out, nor to join theother girls or their tennis, nor to do anything that others did; and some said toAunt Mary that I was quickly losing all the ground I had gained, and that shecould never send me back to my mother with a white ace like that. Aunt Mary

had begun to look at me anxiously or some time beore that, and, I am sure, heldsecret consultations over me, sometimes with the doctor, and sometimes withher old ladies, who thought they knew more about young girls than even thedoctors. And I could hear them saying to her that I wanted diversion, that I mustbe diverted, and that she must take me out more, and give a party, and that whenthe summer visitors began to come there would perhaps be a ball or two, or LadyCarnbee would get up a picnic. And theres my young lord coming home, said


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the old lady whom they called Miss Jeanie, and I never knew the young lassie yetthat would not cock up her bonnet at the sight o a young lord.

But Aunt Mary shook her head. I would not lippen 18 much to the younglord, she said. His mother is sore set upon siller19 or him; and my poor bithoney has no ortune to speak o. No, we must not y 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 her up a little.And i that does not answer we must think o something else, the old lady

said.I heard them perhaps that day because they were talking o me, which is

always so eective a way o making you hear or latterly I had not been payingany attention to what they were saying; and I thought to mysel how little theyknew, and how little I cared about even the old castles and curious houses, havingsomething else in my mind. But just about that time Mr Pitmilly came in, who

was always a riend to me, and, when he heard them talking, he managed to stopthem and turn the conversation into another channel. And aer a while, whenthe ladies were gone away, he came up to my recess, and gave a glance right overmy head. And then he asked my Aunt Mary i ever she had settled her questionabout the window opposite, that you thought was a window sometimes, andthen not a window, and many curious things, the old gentleman said.

My Aunt Mary gave me another very wistul 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, or I see her many a time lookingacross 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 scornul, as

one is when one is very young. I have no opinion. Tere is not only a windowbut there is a room, and I could show you I was going to say, show you thegentleman who sits and writes in it, but I stopped, not knowing what they mightsay, and looked rom one to another. I could tell you all the urniture that is init, I said. And then I elt something like a ame that went over my ace, and thatall at once my cheeks were burning. I thought they gave a little glance at eachother, but that may have been olly. Tere is a great picture, in a big dim rame, Isaid, eeling a little breathless, on the wall opposite the window-

Is there so? said Mr Pitmilly, with a little laugh. And he said, Now I will tell

you what well do. You know that there is a conversation party, or whatever theycall it, in the big room tonight, and it will be all open and lighted up. And it isa handsome room, and two-three things well worth looking at. I will just stepalong aer we have all got our dinner, and take you over to the pairty, madam -Missy and you -


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Dear me! said Aunt Mary. I have not gone to a pairty or more years thanI would like to say and never once to the Library Hall. Ten she gave a littleshiver, and said quite low, I could not go there.

Ten you will just begin again to-night, madam, said Mr Pitmilly, taking nonotice o this, and a proud man will I be leading in Mistress Balcarres that wasonce the pride o the ball.

Ah, once! said Aunt Mary, with a low little laugh and then a sigh. And wellnot say how long ago; and aer that she made a pause, looking always at me: andthen she said, I accept your oer, and well put on our braws;20 and I hope you

will have no occasion to think shame o us. But why not take your dinner here?Tat was how it was settled, and the old gentleman went away to dress, look-

ing quite pleased. But I came to Aunt Mary as soon as he was gone, and besoughther not to make me go. I like the long bonnie night and the light that lasts solong. And I cannot bear to dress up and go out, wasting it all in a stupid party. Ihate parties, Aunt Mary! I cried, and I would ar rather stay here.

My honey, she said, taking both my hands, I know it will maybe be a blowto you, but its better so.

How could it be a blow to me? I cried; but I would ar rather not go.Youll just go with me, honey, just this once: it is not oen I go out. You will

go with me this one night, just this one night, my honey sweet.I am sure there were tears in Aunt Marys eyes, and she kissed me between the

words. Tere 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 nobodyto make conversation!), instead o my enchanted hour at my window and theso strange light, and the dim ace looking out, which kept me wondering and

wondering what was he thinking o, what was he looking or, who was he? all onewonder and mystery and question, through the long, long , slowly ading night!

It occurred to me, however, when I was dressing though I was so sure thathe would preer his solitude to everything that he might perhaps, it was just

possible, be there. And when I thought o that, I took out my white rock though Janet had laid out my blue one and my little pearl necklace which I hadthought was too good to wear. Tey were not very largepearls, but they wererealpearl s, and very even and lustrous though they were small; and though Idid not think much o my appearance then, there must have been something

about me pale 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 pleasantto look at: or even old Mr Pitmilly had a strange look in his eyes, as i he wasnot only pleased but sorry too, perhaps thinking me a creature that would havetroubles in this lie, though I was so young and knew them not. And when AuntMary looked at me, there was a little quiver about her mouth. She hersel hadon her pretty lace and her white hair very nicely done, and looking her best. As


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or Mr Pitmilly, he had a beautiul fne French cambric rill to his shirt, plaitedin the most minute plaits, and with a diamond pin in it which sparkled as muchas Lady Carnbees ring; but this was a fne rank kindly stone, that looked youstraight in the ace and sparkled, with the light dancing in it as i it were pleasedto see you, and to be shining on that old gentlemans honest and aithul breast:or he had been one o Aunt Marys lovers in their early days, and still thoughtthere was nobody like her in the world.

I had got into quite a happy commotion o mind by the time we set outacross the street in the so light o the evening to the Library Hall. Perhaps, aerall, I should see him, and see the room which I was so well acquainted with, andfnd out why he sat there so constantly and never was seen abroad. I thought Imight even hear what he was working at, which would be such a pleasant thingto tell papa when I went home. A riend o mine at St Rules oh, ar, ar morebusy than you ever were, papa! and then my ather would laugh as he alwaysdid, and say he was but an idler and never busy at all.

Te room was all light and bright, owers wherever owers could be, and thelong lines o the books that went along the walls on each side, lighting up wher-ever there was a line o gilding or an ornament, with a little response. It dazzledme at frst all that light: but I was very eager, though I kept very quiet, lookinground to see i perhaps in any corner, in the middle o any group, he would bethere. 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 circle o grey heads at

the upper end o the room perhaps No: I am not sure that it was not hal a pleasure to me to make quite sure thatthere was not one whom I could take or him, who was at all like my vague imageo him. No: it was absurd to think that he would be here, amid all that sound o

voices, under the glare o that light. I elt a little proud to think that he was in hisroom as usual, doing his work, or thinking so deeply over it, as when he turnedround in his chair with his ace to the light.

I was thus getting a little composed and quiet in my mind, or now that theexpectation o seeing him was over, though it was a disappointment, it was a sat-isaction too when Mr Pitmilly came up to me, holding out his arm. Now, hesaid, I am going to take you to see the curiosities. I thought to mysel that aerI 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 or the curiosities. Something,however, struck me strangely as we walked up the room. It was the air, rather reshand strong, rom an open window at the east end o the hall. How should there bea window there? I hardly saw what it meant or the frst moment, but it blew in myace as i there was some meaning in it, and I elt very uneasy without seeing why.

Ten there was another thing that startled me. On that side o the wall whichwas to the street there seemed no windows at all. A long line o bookcases flled


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it rom end to end. I could not see what that meant either, but it conused me. Iwas altogether conused. I elt as i I was in a strange country, not knowing whereI was going, not knowing what I might fnd out next. I there were no windowson the wall to the street, where was my window? My heart, which had been

jumping up and calming down again all the time, gave a great leap at this, as i itwould have come out o me but I did not know what it could mean.

Ten we stopped beore a glass case, and Mr Pitmilly showed me some thingsin it. I could not pay much attention to them. My head was goingroundandround. I heard his voice going on, and then mysel speaking with a queer soundthat was hollow in my ears; but I did not know what I was saying or what he

was saying. Ten he took me to the very end o the room, the east end, sayingsomething that I caught that I was pale, that the air would do me good. Teair was blowing ull on me, liing the lace o my dress, liing my hair, almostchilly. Te window opened into the pale daylight, into the little lane that ran bythe end o the building. Mr Pitmilly went on talking, but I could not make out a

word he said. Ten I heard my own voice speaking through it, though I did notseem to be aware that I was speaking. Where is my window? where, then, ismy window? I seemed to be saying, and I turned right round, dragging him withme, still holding his arm. As I did this my eye ell upon something at last whichI knew. It was a large picture in a broad rame, hanging against the arther wall.

What did it mean? Oh, what did it mean? I turned round again to the openwindow 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. Te real place was the room I knew, in whichthat picture was hanging, where the writing-table was, and where he sat with hisace to the light. But where was the light and the window through which it came?I think my senses must have le me. I went up to the picture which I knew, andthen I walked straight across the room, always dragging Mr Pitmilly, whose ace

was pale, but who did not struggle butallowedmetoleadhim, straight across towhere the window was where the window was not; where there was no sign oit. Where is my window? where is my window? I said. And all the time I wassure that I was in a dream, and these lights were all some theatrical illusion, andthe people talking; and nothing real but the pale, pale, watching, lingering daystanding by to wait until that oolish bubble should burst.

My dear, said Mr Pitmilly, my dear! Mind that you are in public. Mindwhere you are. You must not make an outcry and righten your Aunt Mary.Come away with me. Come away, my dear young lady! and youll take a seat ora minute or two and compose yoursel; and Ill get you an ice or a little wine. Hekept patting my hand, which was on his arm, and looking at me very anxiously.Bless me! bless me! I never thought it would have this eect, he said.


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But I would not allow him to take me away in that direction. I went to thepicture again and looked at it without seeing it: and then I went across the roomagain, with some kind o wild thought that i I insisted I should fnd it. My win-dow my window! I said.

Tere was one o the proessors standing there, and he heard me. Te win-dow! said he. Ah, youve been taken in with what appears outside. It was putthere to be in uniormity 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 rom somewhere ar away, and as i it would go

on or ever; and the hall swam in a dazzle o shining and o noises round me; andthe daylight through the open window grew greyer, waiting till it should be over,and the bubble burst.

V

It was Mr Pitmilly who took me home; or rather it was I who took him, pushinghim on a little in ront o me, holding ast by his arm, not waiting or Aunt Maryor any one. We came out into the daylight again outside, I, without even a cloakor a shawl, with my bare arms, and uncovered head, and the pearls round myneck. Tere was a rush o the people about, and a bakers boy, that bakers boy,stood right in my way and cried, Heres a braw ane!21 shouting to the others:the words struck me somehow, as his stone had struck the window, without anyreason. But I did not mind the people staring, and hurried across the street, with

Mr Pitmilly hal a step in advance. Te door was open, and Janet standing at it,looking out to see what she could see o the ladies in their grand dresses. She gavea 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, whereI threw mysel down on the seat, eeling as i I could not have gone anotherstep arther, and waved my hand across to the window. Tere! there! I cried.Ah! there it was not that senseless mob not the theatre and the gas, and the

people all in a murmur and clang o talking. Never in all these days had I seenthat room so clearly. Tere was a aint tone o light behind, as i it might havebeen a reection romsomeothosevulgarlightsinthe hall, and he sat against it,calm, wrapped in his thoughts, with his ace turned to the window. Nobody butmust have seen him. Janet could have seen him had I called her upstairs. It was likea picture, all the things I knew, and the same attitude, and the atmosphere, ull oquietness, not disturbed by anything. I pulled Mr Pitmillys arm beore I let himgo, You see, you see! I cried. He gave me the most bewildered look, as i he

would have liked to cry. He saw nothing! I was sure o that rom his eyes. He wasan old man, and there was no vision in him. I I had called up Janet, she would haveseen it all. My dear! he said. My dear! waving his hands in a helpless way.


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He has been there all these nights, I cried, and I thought you could tell mewho he was and what he was doing; and that he might have taken me in to thatroom, and showed me, that I might tell papa. Papa would understand, he wouldlike to hear. Oh, cant you tell me what work he is doing, Mr Pitmilly ? He neverlis his head as long as the light throws a shadow, and then when it is like this heturns round and thinks, and takes a rest!

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 lady my dear and thenstopped and looked at me as i he were going to cry. Its peetiul, its peetiul, hesaid; and then in another voice, I am going across there again to bring your AuntMary home; do you understand, my poor little thing, my I am going to bringher home you 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, butquite clear light a 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 iit 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 olderthan 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 ootat her, in my indignation that she would not come, and she ed beore me witha rustle and swing o haste, as i she were araid. None o them, none o them!

not even a girl like mysel, with the sight in her eyes, would understand. I turnedback again, and held out my hands to him sitting there, who was the only onethat knew. Oh, I said, say something to me! I dont know who you are, or what

you are: but youre lonely and so am I ; and I only eel or you. Say somethingto me! I neither hoped that he would hear, nor expected any answer. How couldhe hear, with the street between us, and his window shut, and all the murmuringo the voices and the people standing about? But or one moment it seemed tome that there was only him and me in the whole world.

But I gasped with my breath, that had almost gone rom me, when I saw himmove in his chair! He had heard me, though I knew not how. He rose up, and Irose too, speechless, incapable o anything but this mechanical movement. Heseemed to draw me as i I were a puppet moved by his will. He came orward

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 ound out that somebody, though only agirl, was watching him, looking or him, believing in him. I was in such troubleand commotion o mind and trembling, that I could not keep on my eet, butdropped kneeling on the window-seat, supporting mysel against the window,eeling as i my heart were being drawn out o me. I cannot describe his ace. It

was all dim, yet there was a light on it: I think it must have been a smile; and as


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closely as I looked at him he looked at me. His hair was air, and there was a littlequiver about his lips. Ten he put his hands upon the window to open it. It wassti and hard to move; but at last he orced it open with a sound that echoed allalong the street. I saw that the people heard it, and several looked up. As or me,I put my hands together, leaning with my ace against the glass, drawn to him asi I could have gone out o mysel, my heart out o my bosom, my eyes out o myhead. He opened the window with a noise that was heard rom the West Port tothe Abbey. Could any one doubt that?

And then he leaned orward out o the window, looking out. Tere was notone in the street but must have seen him. He looked at me frst, with a little waveo his hand, as i it were a salutation yet not exactly that either, or I thought he

waved me away; and then he looked up and down in the dim shining o the end-ing day, frst to the east, to the old Abbey towers, and then to the west, along thebroad line o the street where so many people were coming and going, but so lit-tle noise, all like enchanted olk in an enchanted place. I watched him with sucha melting heart, with such a deep satisaction as words could not say; or nobodycould tell me now that he was not there, nobody could say I was dreaming anymore. I watched him as i I could not breathe my heart in my throat, my eyesupon him. He looked up and down, and then he looked back to me. I was thefrst, and I was the last, though it was not or long: he did know, he did see, whoit was that had recognised him and sympathised with him all the time. I was ina kind o rapture, yet stupor too; my look went with his look, ollowing it as i I

were his shadow; and then suddenly he was gone, and I saw him no more.I dropped back again upon my seat, seeking something to support me, some-thing to lean upon. He had lied his hand and waved it once again to me. Howhe went I cannot tell, nor where he went I cannot tell; but in a moment he wasaway, and the window standing open, and the room ading into stillness anddimness, yet so clear, with all its space, and the great picture in its gilded rameupon the wall. It gave me no pain to see him go away. My heart was so content,and I was so worn out and satisfed or what doubt or question could there beabout him now? As I was lying back as weak as water, Aunt Mary came in behindme, and ew to me with a little rustle as i she had come on wings, and put herarms 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. o lean upon her, and

eel her so so, so kind, gave me a pleasure I cannot describe, and her arms roundme, and her voice saying Honey, my honey! as i she were nearly crying too.Lying there I came back to mysel, quite sweetly, glad o everything. But I wantedsome assurance rom 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 intothe aint dark. Tis 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


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Te Library Window

'the Library Window' From the Selected Works of Margaret Oliphant, Part III

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Transcript of 'the Library Window' From the Selected Works of Margaret Oliphant, Part III