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Title: Collected Stories
Author: Margaret Oliphant
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0606171.txt
Language: English
Date first posted: August 2006
Date most recently updated: October 2009

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Collected Stories
Margaret Oliphant




Table of Contents

The Library Window
The Secret Chamber




THE LIBRARY WINDOW



Chapter I


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 old-fashioned drawing-room 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 sound--the 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
watch-tower. 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, 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 drawing-room 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 fear--now 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 up-stairs to fetch something which I was
quite sure she did not want, or down-stairs 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
drawing-room, and the deep recess of the window, and the curtain that
fell half over it, and the broad window-seat 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 second-
sight, 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 once--both read and listen, and
see. I am sure that I did not listen much, and seldom looked out, of
set purpose--as 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 half-hour I might never lift my eyes.

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
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 of his place.

"I am never sure of it, to tell the truth," said Aunt Mary, "all these
years."

"Bless me!" said one of the old ladies, "and what window may that be?"

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 window? up at that height it could
not be a door."

"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 strong-minded; and then they all came crowding upon me--three or
four old ladies, very eager, and Mr Pitmilly's white hair appearing
over their heads, and my 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 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 seen as bad before."

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

"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 women-servants in the Old Library:
there is maybe something more in it than that."

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 with
the old ladies than with the thing they were looking at.

"The framework is all right at least, I can see that, and pented
black--"

"And the panes are pented black too. It's no window, Mrs Balcarres. It
has been filled in, in the days of the window duties: you will mind,
Leddy Carnbee."

"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 Leebrary would have more
light."

"One thing is clear," said one of the younger ones, "it cannot be a
window to see through. It may be filled in or it may be built up, but
it is not a window to give light."

"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 her--heavy 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 half-terrified 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 bite--with a
sting that would go to the heart.

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 group which gave such attention to everything Mr Pitmilly said.

"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 demands--and then you will see things--a
blue dog, I remember, was the thing in one case, and in another--"

"The man has gane gyte," said Lady Carnbee; "I mind the windows in the
Auld Leebrary as long as I mind anything. Is the Leebrary itself an
optical illusion too?"

"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
Town Hall was building," another said.

"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 glass shining when the sun catches
it in the afternoon."

"You could so easily satisfy yourself, Mrs Balcarres, if you were to--
"

"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
down-stairs, 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 tea-party dispersed. Aunt Mary came to the head of the
stairs with her guests in an old-fashioned 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 said, with a kind of wistful 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 you heard every word we said."



Chapter II



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
tint--a 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 morning reading, but she liked her 'Times' at
night.

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 sing-song, 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 within--a room behind,
certainly dim, as it was natural a room should be on the other side of
the street--quite 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 half-blind 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 room--oh,
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 by--a 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 space--a large, black, dark thing
coming out into the grey. I looked more intently, and made sure it was
a piece of furniture, either a writing-table or perhaps a large book-
case. 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 never
seen this before!

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 it--or 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 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 girlish frame quivered--"I was a support to
virtue, like Pamela, 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 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 to-night, 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
writing-desk. That in a moment, when first my eyes rested upon it, was
quite clear: a large old-fashioned escritoire, standing out into the
room: and I knew by the shape of it that it had a great many pigeon-
holes 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 here--
and then when I reminded myself that this was nonsense, and that there
were many such writing-tables besides papa's, and looked again--lo! 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 window-tax, or
whether it had ever been a window at all.

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 looking-glass, 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 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 if every object was a reflection of itself.

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 writing-table, 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 lamp?" She said honey
as people say darling: and I think it is a prettier word.

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 visible--but everybody must know
what it is to see the stir in the air, the little disturbance--you
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 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. Don't you believe me, that you come to
look--and spoil it all!"

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 as--as real as--myself 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 night, and I saw nothing more.

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, honey--for I soon will not see to draw the threads."

"Oh, I hope you will keep your sight," I cried, without thinking what
I was saying. I was then young and very matter-of-fact. 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 sight--on the contrary, my
eyes are very strong. I may not see to draw fine 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
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 only a false image of one painted on
the wall.

"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 hesitated--"Ay, honey!" she said, "have you got so far ben
as that?"

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 eyes. I retired into my
recess, and nothing more was said.

But it was very tantalising that it should fluctuate so; for sometimes
I saw that room quite plain and clear--quite 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 writing-
table, 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 foot--not 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 long-abolished 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 up--as I was indeed in the
way of doing--the 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
old--though 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 sight--which 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 Day--the 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 and loss to Scotland, whatever Aunt Mary may
say.



Chapter 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 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
whole--if 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 time--that I had known he was there, and had been waiting
for him, every time there was that flicker of movement in the room--
him 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 looking into that curious dim
room, I saw him there.

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 escritoire--with 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 by--the 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 life--to 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 window--but not too
close, lest he should see you and think you were spying upon him--and
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 writing-table, 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 the--I know I ought not to say
stupidity--the 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 said--
and 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, though perhaps half proud too, to be so much better off than
they.

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 writing-table. 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 the cheek.

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
down-stairs. "I don't know who it is about, but it's bound to be some
man that is not worth it. If you were wise you would think of him no
more."

"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 of--any man,
in all my life!" I cried in a passion of indignation. The old lady
clung tighter to my arm, and pressed it to her, not unkindly.

"Poor little bird," she said, "how it's strugglin' and flutterin'! I'm
not saying but what it's more dangerous when it's all for 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 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 again--a sharp malignant prick, oh full of
meaning! She never wore gloves, but only black lace mittens, through
which that horrible diamond gleamed.

I ran up-stairs--she 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 unkindness--even Aunt Mary. They thought it not
good for me! not good for me! and they had done something--even Aunt
Mary herself--and 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 strong than I.

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 dining-
room, 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 made to shed tears
in my house."

"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 bites--
I am sure it bites! Aunt Mary, look here."

"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 we'll have no more
thinking and no more dreaming for tonight."

"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 why--she forgets. And as I kept very quiet and made not a sound,
she forgot to-night 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 morning--I suppose the light, perhaps, was not good enough to
go on with his work without a lamp or candles--for 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 me--he 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 think--perhaps 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, he would have been annoyed and gone
away.

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
chair--but 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
light--certainly there was no dark line about his head, as there would
have been had it been very dark--and 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 the bell; but you did not hear
me."

"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 dreaming--your 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 the other side of the
street.

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 and nothing more.

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.



Chapter IV



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 that--a man who had to take up some other
kind of work for his living, and then when his leisure-time came, gave
it all up to something he really loved--some 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 did--not that papa wrote Poems: he always said,
"I am not worthy even to speak of such prevailing mysteries," shaking
his head--which 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 after-light
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
evening--for now he never missed an evening, but was always there--
that 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 that would not cock up her bonnet at the sight of a young
lord."

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 her up a little."

"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 hear--for 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 you--all 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, feeling 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 we'll do. You know that there is a
conversation party, or whatever they call it, in the big room to-
night, and it will be all open and lighted up. And it is a handsome
room, and two-three things well worth looking at. I will just step
along after we have all got our dinner, and take you over to the
pairty, madam--Missy and you--"

"Dear me!" said Aunt Mary. "I have not gone to a pairty for more years
than I would like to say--and 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 to-night, 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, Aunt Mary!" I
cried, "and I would far rather stay here."

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

"How could it be a blow to me?" I cried; "but I would far rather not
go."

"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 this one night, my honey
sweet."

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, slowly fading night!

It occurred to me, however, when I was dressing--though I was so sure
that he would prefer his solitude to everything--that 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 one--and 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 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 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's--oh, far, far more
busy than you ever were, papa!--and then my father would laugh as he
always did, and say he was but an idler and never busy at all.

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 circle
of grey heads at the upper end of the room--perhaps--

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 the light.

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 too--when 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 meaning in it, and I felt very uneasy without seeing why.

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
this, as if it would have come out of me--but I did not know what it
could mean.

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 caught--
that 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, hanging against
the farther wall.

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 writing-table 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 was--
where 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 wait until that foolish bubble
should burst.

"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 would have this effect," he said.

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 should find it. "My window--my window!" I said.

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 till it should be over, and the bubble burst.



Chapter V



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 was--not that senseless mob--not 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 up-stairs. 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 turns 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 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, I am going to bring her 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, but quite 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 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 only--
feel 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 seemed to me that
there was only him and me in the whole world.

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 window-seat, 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 heard from the West Port to the
Abbey. Could any one doubt that?

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 salutation--yet 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 breathe--my 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 no more.

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 satisfied--for 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 to-night, at least not to-night!" 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 wonder--breathless, 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 to me!" I cried.

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 it--and 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 go."

"Oh speak, speak!" I cried; "answer them and tell them! you saw that
window opened, and the gentleman look out and wave his hand?"

"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 at?"

"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?"

"You are telling a pack of lies, laddie," Mr Pitmilly said.

"I'm tellin' nae lees--it was standin' open just like ony ither windy.
It's as sure's death. I couldna believe it mysel'; but it's true."

"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 upon the wall.

I was treated like an invalid all that evening, and taken up-stairs 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 never have let you be there!"

"Aunt Mary, Aunt Mary, you have seen him too?"

"Oh whisht, whisht, honey!" Aunt Mary said: her eyes were shining--
there 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 more--"

"Oh honey, rest, and try to sleep! It is just--how can I tell you?--a
dream, a dream! Did you not hear what Lady Carnbee said?--the women of
our blood--"

"What? what? Aunt Mary, oh Aunt Mary--"

"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 after--it is a looking--for what never comes."

"He will come," I cried. "I shall see him to-morrow--that I know, I
know!"

She kissed me and cried over me, her cheek hot and wet like mine. "My
honey, try if you can sleep--try if you can sleep: and we'll wait to
see what to-morrow brings."

"I have no fear," said I; and then I suppose, though it is strange to
think of, I must have fallen asleep--I was so worn-out, 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 down again in her shelter like a
bird in its nest.

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 confidence,--not as if I wanted that kind of demonstration every
night.

I did not come down in the afternoon, but kept at my own window up-
stairs alone, till the tea-party 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 half-past 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 was nothing, nothing 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 it--if I had but known you were of that kind! They say--that
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 brought all this on you!"

"He was a Scholar?" I cried.

"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 waved--
till at last her brothers heard of it, that were stirring men; and
then--oh, my honey, let us speak of it no more!"

"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 eyes--when I saw him only last night: and he
as living as I am, and as young!"

"My honey, my honey!" Aunt Mary said.

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 night--if 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 down-stairs, though there was one board on the landing-
place that creaked--and 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 the day.

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, honey--are 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 somewhere--the soft, deep dark that would
cover you over and hide you--but I could not tell from what. The
dreadful thing was that there was nothing, nothing to look for,
nothing to hide from--only the silence and the light.

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, honey--the 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 should have been contented, and it would
not have mattered any more.

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 died--an old,
old woman--and 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
sandal-wood box in the lumber-room in the little old country-house
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 St
Rule's.



THE SECRET CHAMBER



Chapter I



CASTLE GOWRIE is one of the most famous and interesting in all
Scotland. It is a beautiful old house, to start with,--perfect in old
feudal grandeur, with its clustered turrets and walls that could
withstand an army,--its labyrinths, its hidden stairs, its long
mysterious passages--passages that seem in many cases to lead to
nothing, but of which no one can be too sure what they lead to. The
front, with its fine gateway and flanking towers, is approached now by
velvet lawns, and a peaceful, beautiful old avenue, with double rows
of trees, like a cathedral; and the woods out of which these grey
towers rise, look as soft and rich in foliage, if not so lofty in
growth, as the groves of the South. But this softness of aspect is all
new to the place,--that is, new within the century or two which count
for but little in the history of a dwelling-place, some part of which,
at least, has been standing since the days when the Saxon Athelings
brought such share of the arts as belonged to them to solidify and
regulate the original Celtic art which reared incised stones upon rude
burial-places, and twined mystic knots on its crosses, before historic
days. Even of this primitive decoration there are relics at Gowrie,
where the twistings and twinings of Runic cords appear still on some
bits of ancient wall, solid as rocks, and almost as everlasting. From
these to the graceful French turrets, which recall many a grey
chateau, what a long interval of years! But these are filled with
stirring chronicles enough, besides the dim, not always decipherable
records, which different developments of architecture have left on the
old house. The Earls of Gowrie had been in the heat of every commotion
that took place on or about the Highland line for more generations
than any but a Celtic pen could record. Rebellions, revenges,
insurrections, conspiracies, nothing in which blood was shed and lands
lost, took place in Scotland, in which they had not had a share; and
the annals of the house are very full, and not without many a stain.
They had been a bold and vigorous race--with much evil in them, and
some good; never insignificant, whatever else they might be. It could
not be said, however, that they are remarkable nowadays. Since the
first Stuart rising, known in Scotland as "the Fifteen," they have not
done much that has been worth recording; but yet their family history
has always been of an unusual kind. The Randolphs could not be called
eccentric in themselves: on the contrary, when you knew them, they
were at bottom a respectable race, full of all the country-gentleman
virtues; and yet their public career, such as it was, had been marked
by the strange leaps and jerks of vicissitude. You would have said an
impulsive, fanciful family--now making a grasp at some visionary
advantage, now rushing into some wild speculation, now making a sudden
sally into public life--but soon falling back into mediocrity, not
able apparently, even when the impulse was purely selfish and
mercenary, to keep it up. But this would not have been at all a true
conception of the family character; their actual virtues were not of
the imaginative order, and their freaks were a mystery to their
friends. Nevertheless these freaks were what the general world was
most aware of in the Randolph race. The late Earl had been a
representative peer of Scotland (they had no English title), and had
made quite a wonderful start, and for a year or two had seemed about
to attain a very eminent place in Scotch affairs; but his ambition was
found to have made use of some very equivocal modes of gaining
influence, and he dropped accordingly at once and for ever from the
political firmament. This was quite a common circumstance in the
family. An apparently brilliant beginning, a discovery of evil means
adopted for ambitious ends, a sudden subsidence, and the curious
conclusion at the end of everything that this schemer, this
unscrupulous speculator or politician, was a dull, good man after
all--unambitious, contented, full of domestic kindness and
benevolence. This family peculiarity made the history of the Randolphs
a very strange one, broken by the oddest interruptions, and with no
consistency in it. There was another circumstance, however, which
attracted still more the wonder and observation of the public. For one
who can appreciate such a recondite matter as family character, there
are hundreds who are interested in a family secret, and this the house
of Randolph possessed in perfection. It was a mystery which piqued the
imagination and excited the interest of the entire country. The story
went, that somewhere hid amid the massive walls and tortuous passages
there was a secret chamber in Gowrie Castle. Everybody knew of its
existence; but save the Earl, his heir, and one other person, not of
the family, but filling a confidential post in their service, no
mortal knew where this mysterious hiding-place was. There had been
countless guesses made at it, and expedients of all kinds invented to
find it out. Every visitor who ever entered the old gateway, nay, even
passing travellers who saw the turrets from the road, searched keenly
for some trace of this mysterious chamber. But all guesses and
researches were equally in vain.

I was about to say that no ghost-story I ever heard of has been so
steadily and long believed. But this would be a mistake, for nobody
knew even with any certainty that there was a ghost connected with it.
A secret chamber was nothing wonderful in so old a house. No doubt
they exist in many such old houses, and are always curious and
interesting--strange relics, more moving than any history, of the time
when a man was not safe in his own house, and when it might be
necessary to secure a refuge beyond the reach of spies or traitors at
a moment's notice. Such a refuge was a necessity of life to a great
medieval noble. The peculiarity about this secret chamber, however,
was that some secret connected with the very existence of the family
was always understood to be involved in it. It was not only the secret
hiding-place for an emergency, a kind of historical possession
presupposing the importance of his race, of which a man might be
honestly proud; but there was something hidden in it of which
assuredly the race could not be proud. It is wonderful how easily a
family learns to pique itself upon any distinctive possession. A ghost
is a sign of importance not to be despised; a haunted room is worth as
much as a small farm to the complacency of the family that owns it.
And no doubt the younger branches of the Gowrie family--the
lightminded portion of the race--felt this, and were proud of their
unfathomable secret, and felt a thrill of agreeable awe and piquant
suggestion go through them, when they remembered the mysterious
something which they did not know in their familiar home. That thrill
ran through the entire circle of visitors, and children, and servants,
when the Earl peremptorily forbade a projected improvement, or stopped
a reckless exploration. They looked at each other with a pleasurable
shiver. "Did you hear?" they said. "He will not let Lady Gowrie have
that closet she wants so much in that bit of wall. He sent the workmen
about their business before they could touch it, though the wall is
twenty feet thick if it is an inch; ah!" said the visitors, looking at
each other; and this lively suggestion sent tinglings of excitement to
their very finger-points; but even to his wife, mourning the
commodious closet she had intended, the Earl made no explanations. For
anything she knew, it might be there, next to her room, this
mysterious lurking-place; and it may be supposed that this suggestion
conveyed to Lady Gowrie's veins a thrill more keen and strange,
perhaps too vivid to be pleasant. But she was not in the favoured or
unfortunate number of those to whom the truth could be revealed.

I need not say what the different theories on the subject were. Some
thought there had been a treacherous massacre there, and that the
secret chamber was blocked by the skeletons of murdered guests,--a
treachery no doubt covering the family with shame in its day, but so
condoned by long softening of years as to have all the shame taken out
of it. The Randolphs could not have felt their character affected by
any such interesting historical record. They were not so morbidly
sensitive. Some said, on the other hand, that Earl Robert, the wicked
Earl, was shut up there in everlasting penance, playing cards with the
devil for his soul. But it would have been too great a feather in the
family cap to have thus got the devil, or even one of his angels,
bottled up, as it were, and safely in hand, to make it possible that
any lasting stigma could be connected with such a fact as this. What a
thing it would be to know where to lay one's hand upon the Prince of
Darkness, and prove him once for all, cloven foot and everything else,
to the confusion of gainsayers!

So this was not to be received as a satisfactory solution, nor could
any other be suggested which was more to the purpose. The popular mind
gave it up, and yet never gave it up; and still everybody who visits
Gowrie, be it as a guest, be it as a tourist, be it only as a gazer
from a passing carriage, or from the flying railway train which just
glimpses its turrets in the distance, daily and yearly spends a
certain amount of curiosity, wonderment, and conjecture about the
Secret Chamber--the most piquant and undiscoverable wonder which has
endured unguessed and undeciphered to modern times.

This was how the matter stood when young John Randolph, Lord Lindores,
came of age. He was a young man of great character and energy, not
like the usual Randolph strain--for, as we have said, the type of
character common in this romantically-situated family, notwithstanding
the erratic incidents common to them, was that of dullness and
honesty, especially in their early days. But young Lindores was not
so. He was honest and honourable, but not dull. He had gone through
almost a remarkable course at school and at the university--not
perhaps in quite the ordinary way of scholarship, but enough to
attract men's eyes to him. He had made more than one great speech at
the Union. He was full of ambition, and force, and life, intending all
sorts of great things, and meaning to make his position a stepping-
stone to all that was excellent in public life. Not for him the
country-gentleman existence which was congenial to his father. The idea
of succeeding to the family honours and becoming a Scotch peer, either
represented or representative, filled him with horror; and filial
piety in his case was made warm by all the energy of personal hopes
when he prayed that his father might live, if not for ever, yet longer
than any Lord Gowrie had lived for the last century or two. He was as
sure of his election for the county the next time there was a chance,
as anybody can be certain of anything; and in the meantime he meant to
travel, to go to America, to go no one could tell where, seeking for
instruction and experience, as is the manner of high-spirited young
men with parliamentary tendencies in the present day. In former times
he would have gone "to the wars in the Hie Germanie," or on a crusade
to the Holy Land; but the days of the crusaders and of the soldiers of
fortune being over, Lindores followed the fashion of his time. He had
made all his arrangements for his tour, which his father did not
oppose. On the contrary, Lord Gowrie encouraged all those plans,
though with an air of melancholy indulgence which his son could not
understand. "It will do you good," he said, with a sigh. "Yes, yes, my
boy; the best thing for you." This, no doubt, was true enough; but
there was an implied feeling that the young man would require
something to do him good--that he would want the soothing of change
and the gratification of his wishes, as one might speak of a
convalescent or the victim of some calamity. This tone puzzled
Lindores, who, though he thought it a fine thing to travel and acquire
information, was as scornful of the idea of being done good to as is
natural to any fine young fellow fresh from Oxford and the triumphs of
the Union. But he reflected that the old school had its own way of
treating things, and was satisfied. All was settled accordingly for
this journey, before he came home to go through the ceremonial
performances of the coming of age, the dinner of the tenantry, the
speeches, the congratulations, his father's banquet, his mother's
ball. It was in summer, and the country was as gay as all the
entertainments that were to be given in his honour. His friend who was
going to accompany him on his tour, as he had accompanied him through
a considerable portion of his life--Almeric Ffarrington, a young man
of the same aspirations--came up to Scotland with him for these
festivities. And as they rushed through the night on the Great
Northern Railway, in the intervals of two naps, they had a scrap of
conversation as to these birthday glories. "It will be a bore, but it
will not last long," said Lindores. They were both of the opinion that
anything that did not produce information or promote culture was a
bore.

"But is there not a revelation to be made to you, among all the other
things you have to go through?" said Ffarrington. "Have not you to be
introduced to the secret chamber, and all that sort of thing? I should
like to be of the party there, Lindores."

"Ah," said the heir, "I had forgotten that part of it," which,
however, was not the case. "Indeed I don't know if I am to be told.
Even family dogmas are shaken nowadays."

"Oh, I should insist on that," said Ffarrington, lightly. "It is not
many who have the chance of paying such a visit--better than Home and
all the mediums. I should insist upon that."

"I have no reason to suppose that it has any connection with Home or
the mediums," said Lindores, slightly nettled. He was himself an
esprit fort; but a mystery in one's own family is not like vulgar
mysteries. He liked it to be respected.

"Oh, no offence," said his companion. "I have always thought that a
railway train would be a great chance for the spirits. If one was to
show suddenly in that vacant seat beside you, what a triumphant proof
of their existence that would be! but they don't take advantage of
their opportunities."

Lindores could not tell what it was that made him think at that moment
of a portrait he had seen in a back room at the castle of old Earl
Robert, the wicked Earl. It was a bad portrait--a daub--a copy made by
an amateur of the genuine portrait, which, out of horror of Earl
Robert and his wicked ways, had been removed by some intermediate lord
from its place in the gallery. Lindores had never seen the original--
nothing but this daub of a copy. Yet somehow this face occurred to him
by some strange link of association--seemed to come into his eyes as
his friend spoke. A slight shiver ran over him. It was strange. He
made no reply to Ffarrington, but he set himself to think how it could
be that the latent presence in his mind of some anticipation of this
approaching disclosure, touched into life by his friend's suggestion,
should have called out of his memory a momentary realisation of the
acknowledged magician of the family. This sentence is full of long
words; but unfortunately long words are required in such a case. And
the process was very simple when you traced it out. It was the
clearest case of unconscious cerebration. He shut his eyes by way of
securing privacy while he thought it out; and being tired, and not at
all alarmed by his unconscious cerebration, before he opened them
again fell fast asleep.

And his birthday, which was the day following his arrival at Glenlyon,
was a very busy day. He had not time to think of anything but the
immediate occupations of the moment. Public and private greetings,
congratulations, offerings, poured upon him. The Gowries were popular
in this generation, which was far from being usual in the family. Lady
Gowrie was kind and generous, with that kindness which comes from the
heart, and which is the only kindness likely to impress the keen-
sighted popular judgment; and Lord Gowrie had but little of the
equivocal reputation of his predecessors. They could be splendid now
and then on great occasions, though in general they were homely
enough; all which the public likes. It was a bore, Lindores said; but
yet the young man did not dislike the honours, and the adulation, and
all the hearty speeches and good wishes. It is sweet to a young man to
feel himself the centre of all hopes. It seemed very reasonable to
him--very natural--that he should be so, and that the farmers should
feel a pride of anticipation in thinking of his future speeches in
Parliament. He promised to them with the sincerest good faith that he
would not disappoint their expectations--that he would feel their
interest in him an additional spur. What so natural as that interest
and these expectations? He was almost solemnised by his own position--
so young, looked up to by so many people--so many hopes depending on
him; and yet it was quite natural. His father, however, was still more
solemnised than Lindores--and this was strange, to say the least. His
face grew graver and graver as the day went on, till it almost seemed
as if he were dissatisfied with his son's popularity, or had some
painful thought weighing on his mind. He was restless and eager for
the termination of the dinner, and to get rid of his guests; and as
soon as they were gone, showed an equal anxiety that his son should
retire too. "Go to bed at once, as a favour to me," Lord Gowrie said.
"You will have a great deal of fatigue--to-morrow." "You need not be
afraid for me, sir," said Lindores, half affronted; but he obeyed,
being tired. He had not once thought of the secret to be disclosed to
him, through all that long day. But when he woke suddenly with a start
in the middle of the night, to find the candles all lighted in his
room, and his father standing by his bedside, Lindores instantly
thought of it, and in a moment felt that the leading event--the chief
incident of all that had happened--was going to take place now.



Chapter II



LORD GOWRIE was very grave, and very pale. He was standing with his
hand on his son's shoulder to wake him; his dress was unchanged from
the moment they had parted. And the sight of this formal costume was
very bewildering to the young man as he started up in his bed. But
next moment he seemed to know exactly how it was, and, more than that,
to have known it all his life. Explanation seemed unnecessary. At any
other moment, in any other place, a man would be startled to be
suddenly woke up in the middle of the night. But Lindores had no such
feeling; he did not even ask a question, but sprang up, and fixed his
eyes, taking in all the strange circumstances, on his father's face.

"Get up, my boy," said Lord Gowrie, "and dress as quickly as you can;
it is full time. I have lighted your candles, and your things are all
ready. You have had a good long sleep."

Even now he did not ask, What is it? as under any other circumstances
he would have done. He got up without a word, with an impulse of
nervous speed and rapidity of movement such as only excitement can
give, and dressed himself, his father helping him silently. It was a
curious scene: the room gleaming with lights, the silence, the hurried
toilet, the stillness of deep night all around. The house, though so
full, and with the echoes of festivity but just over, was quiet as if
there was not a creature within it--more quiet, indeed, for the
stillness of vacancy is not half so impressive as the stillness of
hushed and slumbering life.

Lord Gowrie went to the table when this first step was over, and
poured out a glass of wine from a bottle which stood there,--a rich,
golden-coloured, perfumy wine, which sent its scent through the room.
"You will want all your strength," he said; "take this before you go.
It is the famous Imperial Tokay; there is only a little left, and you
will want all your strength."

Lindores took the wine; he had never drunk any like it before, and the
peculiar fragrance remained in his mind, as perfumes so often do, with
a whole world of association in them. His father's eyes dwelt upon him
with a melancholy sympathy. "You are going to encounter the greatest
trial of your life," he said; and taking the young man's hand into
his, felt his pulse. "It is quick, but it is quite firm, and you have
had a good long sleep." Then he did what it needs a great deal of
pressure to induce an Englishman to do,--he kissed his son on the
cheek. "God bless you!" he said, faltering. "Come, now, everything is
ready, Lindores."

He took up in his hand a small lamp, which he had apparently brought
with him, and led the way. By this time Lindores began to feel himself
again, and to wake to the consciousness of all his own superiorities
and enlightenments. The simple sense that he was one of the members of
a family with a mystery, and that the moment of his personal encounter
with this special power of darkness had come, had been the first
thrilling, overwhelming thought. But now as he followed his father,
Lindores began to remember that he himself was not altogether like
other men; that there was that in him which would make it natural that
he should throw some light, hitherto unthought of, upon this
carefully-preserved darkness. What secret even there might be in it--
secret of hereditary tendency, of psychic force, of mental
conformation, or of some curious combination of circumstances at once
more and less potent than these--it was for him to find out. He
gathered all his forces about him, reminded himself of modern
enlightenment, and bade his nerves be steel to all vulgar horrors. He,
too, felt his own pulse as he followed his father. To spend the night
perhaps amongst the skeletons of that old-world massacre, and to
repent the sins of his ancestors--to be brought within the range of
some optical illusion believed in hitherto by all the generations, and
which, no doubt, was of a startling kind, or his father would not look
so serious,--any of these he felt himself quite strong to encounter.
His heart and spirit rose. A young man has but seldom the opportunity
of distinguishing himself so early in his career; and his was such a
chance as occurs to very few. No doubt it was something that would be
extremely trying to the nerves and imagination. He called up all his
powers to vanquish both. And along with this call upon himself to
exertion, there was the less serious impulse of curiosity: he would
see at last what the Secret Chamber was, where it was, how it fitted
into the labyrinths of the old house. This he tried to put in its due
place as a most interesting object. He said to himself that he would
willingly have gone a long journey at any time to be present at such
an exploration; and there is no doubt that in other circumstances a
secret chamber, with probably some unthought-of historical interest in
it, would have been a very fascinating discovery. He tried very hard
to excite himself about this; but it was curious how fictitious he
felt the interest, and how conscious he was that it was an effort to
feel any curiosity at all on the subject. The fact was, that the
Secret Chamber was entirely secondary--thrown back, as all accessories
are, by a more pressing interest. The overpowering thought of what was
in it drove aside all healthy, natural curiosity about itself.

It must not be supposed, however, that the father and son had a long
way to go to have time for all these thoughts. Thoughts travel at
lightning speed, and there was abundant leisure for this between the
time they had left the door of Lindores' room and gone down the
corridor, no further off than to Lord Gowrie's own chamber, naturally
one of the chief rooms of the house. Nearly opposite this, a few steps
further on, was a little neglected room devoted to lumber, with which
Lindores had been familiar all his life. Why this nest of old rubbish,
dust, and cob-webs should be so near the bedroom of the head of the
house had been a matter of surprise to many people--to the guests who
saw it while exploring, and to each new servant in succession who
planned an attack upon its ancient stores, scandalised by finding it
to have been neglected by their predecessors. All their attempts to
clear it out had, however, been resisted, nobody could tell how, or
indeed thought it worth while to inquire. As for Lindores, he had been
used to the place from his childhood, and therefore accepted it as the
most natural thing in the world. He had been in and out a hundred
times in his play. And it was here, he remembered suddenly, that he
had seen the bad picture of Earl Robert which had so curiously come
into his eyes on his journeying here, by a mental movement which he
had identified at once as unconscious cerebration. The first feeling
in his mind, as his father went to the open door of this lumber-room,
was a mixture of amusement and surprise. What was he going to pick up
there? some old pentacle, some amulet or scrap of antiquated magic to
act as armour against the evil one? But Lord Gowrie, going on and
setting down the lamp on the table, turned round upon his son with a
face of agitation and pain which barred all further amusement: he
grasped him by the hand, crushing it between his own. "Now my boy, my
dear son," he said, in tones that were scarcely audible. His
countenance was full of the dreary pain of a looker-on--one who has no
share in the excitement of personal danger, but has the more terrible
part of watching those who are in deadliest peril. He was a powerful
man, and his large form shook with emotion; great beads of moisture
stood upon his forehead. An old sword with a cross handle lay upon a
dusty chair among other dusty and battered relics. "Take this with
you," he said, in the same inaudible, breathless way--whether as a
weapon, whether as a religious symbol, Lindores could not guess. The
young man took it mechanically. His father pushed open a door which it
seemed to him he had never seen before, and led him into another
vaulted chamber. Here even the limited powers of speech Lord Gowrie
had retained seemed to forsake him, and his voice became a mere hoarse
murmur in his throat. For want of speech he pointed to another door in
the further corner of this small vacant room, gave him to understand
by a gesture that he was to knock there, and then went back into the
lumber-room. The door into this was left open, and a faint glimmer of
the lamp shed light into this little intermediate place--this
debatable land between the seen and the unseen. In spite of himself,
Lindores' heart began to beat. He made a breathless pause, feeling his
head go round. He held the old sword in his hand, not knowing what it
was. Then, summoning all his courage, he went forward and knocked at
the closed door. His knock was not loud, but it seemed to echo all
over the silent house. Would everybody hear and wake, and rush to see
what had happened? This caprice of imagination seized upon him,
ousting all the firmer thoughts, the steadfast calm of mind with which
he ought to have encountered the mystery. Would they all rush in, in
wild déshabille, in terror and dismay, before the door opened? How
long it was of opening! He touched the panel with his hand again.--
This time there was no delay. In a moment, as if thrown suddenly open
by some one within, the door moved. It opened just wide enough to let
him enter, stopping half-way as if some one invisible held it, wide
enough for welcome, but no more. Lindores stepped across the threshold
with a beating heart. What was he about to see? the skeletons of the
murdered victims? a ghostly charnel-house full of bloody traces of
crime? He seemed to be hurried and pushed in as he made that step.
What was this world of mystery into which he was plunged--what was it
he saw?

He saw--nothing--except what was agreeable enough to behold,--an
antiquated room hung with tapestry, very old tapestry of rude design,
its colours faded into softness and harmony; between its folds here
and there a panel of carved wood, rude too in design, with traces of
half-worn gilding; a table covered with strange instruments,
parchments, chemical tubes, and curious machinery, all with a
quaintness of form and dimness of material that spoke of age. A heavy
old velvet cover, thick with embroidery faded almost out of all
colour, was on the table; on the wall above it, something that looked
like a very old Venetian mirror, the glass so dim and crusted that it
scarcely reflected at all, on the floor an old soft Persian carpet,
worn into a vague blending of all colours. This was all that he
thought he saw. His heart, which had been thumping so loud as almost
to choke him, stopped that tremendous upward and downward motion like
a steam piston; and he grew calm. Perfectly still, dim, unoccupied:
yet not so dim either; there was no apparent source of light, no
windows, curtains of tapestry drawn everywhere--no lamp visible, no
fire--and yet a kind of strange light which made everything quite
clear. He looked round, trying to smile at his terrors, trying to say
to himself that it was the most curious place he had ever seen--that
he must show Ffarrington some of that tapestry--that he must really
bring away a panel of that carving,--when he suddenly saw that the
door was shut by which he had entered--nay, more than shut,
undiscernible, covered like all the rest of the walls by that strange
tapestry. At this his heart began to beat again in spite of him. He
looked round once more, and woke up to more vivid being with a sudden
start. Had his eyes been incapable of vision on his first entrance?
Unoccupied? Who was that in the great chair?

It seemed to Lindores that he had seen neither the chair nor the man
when he came in. There they were, however, solid and unmistakable; the
chair carved like the panels, the man seated in front of the table. He
looked at Lindores with a calm and open gaze, inspecting him. The
young man's heart seemed in his throat fluttering like a bird, but he
was brave, and his mind made one final effort to break this spell. He
tried to speak, labouring with a voice that would not sound, and with
lips too parched to form a word. "I see how it is," was what he wanted
to say. It was Earl Robert's face that was looking at him; and
startled as he was, he dragged forth his philosophy to support him.
What could it be but optical delusions, unconscious cerebration,
occult seizure by the impressed and struggling mind of this one
countenance? But he could not hear himself speak any word as he stood
convulsed, struggling with dry lips and choking voice.

The Appearance smiled, as if knowing his thoughts--not unkindly, not
malignly--with a certain amusement mingled with scorn. Then he spoke,
and the sound seemed to breathe through the room not like any voice
that Lindores had ever heard, a kind of utterance of the place, like
the rustle of the air or the ripple of the sea. "You will learn better
tonight: this is no phantom of your brain; it is I."

"In God's name," cried the young man in his soul; he did not know
whether the words ever got into the air or not, if there was any
air;--"in God's name, who are you?"

The figure rose as if coming to him to reply; and Lindores, overcome
by the apparent approach, struggled into utterance. A cry came from
him--he heard it this time--and even in his extremity felt a pang the
more to hear the terror in his own voice. But he did not flinch, he
stood desperate, all his strength concentrated in the act; he neither
turned nor recoiled. Vaguely gleaming through his mind came the
thought that to be thus brought in contact with the unseen was the
experiment to be most desired on earth, the final settlement of a
hundred questions; but his faculties were not sufficiently under
command to entertain it. He only stood firm, that was all.

And the figure did not approach him; after a moment it subsided back
again into the chair--subsided, for no sound, not the faintest,
accompanied its movements. It was the form of a man of middle age, the
hair white, but the beard only crisped with grey, the features those
of the picture--a familiar face, more or less like all the Randolphs,
but with an air of domination and power altogether unlike that of the
race. He was dressed in a long robe of dark colour, embroidered with
strange lines and angles. There was nothing repellent or terrible in
his air--nothing except the noiselessness, the calm, the absolute
stillness, which was as much in the place as in him, to keep up the
involuntary trembling of the beholder. His expression was full of
dignity and thoughtfulness, and not malignant or unkind. He might have
been the kindly patriarch of the house, watching over its fortunes in
a seclusion that he had chosen. The pulses that had been beating in
Lindores were stilled. What was his panic for? A gleam even of self-
ridicule took possession of him, to be standing there like an absurd
hero of antiquated romance with the rusty, dusty sword--good for
nothing, surely not adapted for use against this noble old magician--
in his hand---

"You are right," said the voice, once more answering his thoughts;
"what could you do with that sword against me, young Lindores? Put it
by. Why should my children meet me like an enemy? You are my flesh and
blood. Give me your hand."

A shiver ran through the young man's frame. The hand that was held out
to him was large and shapely and white, with a straight line across
the palm--a family token upon which the Randolphs prided themselves--a
friendly hand; and the face smiled upon him, fixing him with those
calm, profound, blue eyes. "Come," said the voice. The word seemed to
fill the place, melting upon him from every corner, whispering round
him with softest persuasion. He was lulled and calmed in spite of
himself. Spirit or no spirit, why should not he accept this proferred
courtesy? What harm could come of it? The chief thing that retained
him was the dragging of the old sword, heavy and useless, which he
held mechanically, but which some internal feeling--he could not tell
what--prevented him from putting down. Superstitition, was it?

"Yes, that is superstition," said his ancestor, serenely; "put it down
and come."

"You know my thoughts," said Lindores; "I did not speak."

"Your mind spoke, and spoke justly. Put down that emblem of brute
force and superstition together. Here it is the intelligence that is
supreme. Come."

Lindores stood doubtful. He was calm; the power of thought was
restored to him. If this benevolent venerable patriarch was all he
seemed, why his father's terror? why the secrecy in which his being
was involved? His own mind, though calm, did not seem to act in the
usual way. Thoughts seemed to be driven across it as by a wind. One of
these came to him suddenly now---

"How there looked him in the face, An angel beautiful and bright, And
how he knew it was a fiend."

The words were not ended, when Earl Robert replied suddenly with
impatience in his voice, "Fiends are of the fancy of men; like angels
and other follies. I am your father. You know me; and you are mine,
Lindores. I have power beyond what you can understand; but I want
flesh and blood to reign and to enjoy. Come, Lindores!"

He put out his other hand. The action, the look, were those of
kindness, almost of longing, and the face was familiar, the voice was
that of the race. Supernatural! was it supernatural that this man
should live here shut up for ages? and why? and how? Was there any
explanation of it? The young man's brain began to reel. He could not
tell which was real--the life he had left half an hour ago, or this.
He tried to look round him, but could not; his eyes were caught by
those other kindred eyes, which seemed to dilate and deepen as he
looked at them, and drew him with a strange compulsion. He felt
himself yielding, swaying towards the strange being who thus invited
him. What might happen if he yielded? And he could not turn away, he
could not tear himself from the fascination of those eyes. With a
sudden strange impulse which was half despair and half a bewildering
half-conscious desire to try one potency against another, he thrust
forward the cross of the old sword between him and those appealing
hands. "In the name of God!" he said.

Lindores never could tell whether it was that he himself grew faint,
and that the dimness of swooning came into his eyes after this
violence and strain of emotion, or if it was his spell that worked.
But there was an instantaneous change. Everything swam around him for
the moment, a giddiness and blindness seized him, and he saw nothing
but the vague outlines of the room, empty as when he entered it. But
gradually his consciousness came back, and he found himself standing
on the same spot as before, clutching the old sword, and gradually, as
though a dream, recognised the same figure emerging out of the mist
which--was it solely in his own eyes?--had enveloped everything. But
it was no longer in the same attitude. The hands which had been
stretched out to him were busy now with some of the strange
instruments on the table, moving about, now in the action of writing,
now as if managing the keys of a telegraph. Lindores felt that his
brain was all atwist and set wrong; but he was still a human being of
his century. He thought of the telegraph with a keen thrill of
curiosity in the midst of his reviving sensations. What communication
was this which was going on before his eyes? The magician worked on.
He had his face turned towards his victim, but his hands moved with
unceasing activity. And Lindores, as he grew accustomed to the
position, began to weary--to feel like a neglected suitor waiting for
an audience. To be wound up to such a strain of feeling, then left to
wait, was intolerable; impatience seized upon him. What circumstances
can exist, however horrible, in which a human being will not feel
impatience? He made a great many efforts to speak before he could
succeed. It seemed to him that his body felt more fear than he did--
that his muscles were contracted, his throat parched, his tongue
refusing its office, although his mind was unaffected and undismayed.
At last he found an utterance in spite of all resistance of his flesh
and blood.

"Who are you?" he said hoarsely. "You that live here and oppress this
house?"

The vision raised its eyes full upon him, with again that strange
shadow of a smile, mocking yet not unkind. "Do you remember me," he
said, "on your journey here?"

"That was--a delusion." The young man gasped for breath.

"More like that you are a delusion. You have lasted but one-and-twenty
years, and I--for centuries."

"How? For centuries--and why? Answer me--are you man or demon?" cried
Lindores, tearing the words as he felt out of his own throat. "Are you
living or dead?"

The magician looked at him with the same intense gaze as before. "Be
on my side, and you shall know everything, Lindores. I want one of my
own race. Others I could have in plenty; but I want you. A Randolph, a
Randolph! and you. Dead! do I seem dead? You shall have everything--
more than dreams can give--if you will be on my side."

Can he give what he has not? was the thought that ran through the mind
of Lindores. But he could not speak it. Something that choked and
stifled him was in his throat.

"Can I give what I have not? I have everything--power, the one thing
worth having; and you shall have more than power, for you are young--
my son! Lindores!"

To argue was natural, and gave the young man strength. "Is this life,"
he said, "here? What is all your power worth--here? To sit for ages,
and make a race unhappy?"

A momentary convulsion came across the still face. "You scorn me," he
cried, with an appearance of emotion, "because you do not understand
how I move the world. Power! 'Tis more than fancy can grasp. And you
shall have it!" said the wizard, with what looked like a show of
enthusiasm. He seemed to come nearer, to grow larger. He put forth his
hand again, this time so close that it seemed impossible to escape.
And a crowd of wishes seemed to rush upon the mind of Lindores. What
harm to try if this might be true? To try what it meant--perhaps
nothing, delusions, vain show, and then there could be no harm; or
perhaps there was knowledge to be had, which was power. Try, try, try!
the air buzzed about him. The room seemed full of voices urging him.
His bodily frame rose into a tremendous whirl of excitement, his veins
seemed to swell to bursting, his lips seemed to force a yes, in spite
of him, quivering as they came apart. The hiss of the s seemed in his
ears. He changed it into the name which was a spell too, and cried,
"Help me, God!" not knowing why.

Then there came another pause--he felt as if he had been dropped from
something that had held him, and had fallen, and was faint. The
excitement had been more than he could bear. Once more everything swam
around him, and he did not know where he was. Had he escaped
altogether? was the first waking wonder of consciousness in his mind.
But when he could think and see again, he was still in the same spot,
surrounded by the old curtains and the carved panels--but alone. He
felt, too, that he was able to move, but the strangest dual
consciousness was in him throughout all the rest of his trial. His
body felt to him as a frightened horse feels to a traveller at night--
a thing separate from him, more frightened than he was--starting aside
at every step, seeing more than its master. His limbs shook with fear
and weakness, almost refusing to obey the action of his will,
trembling under him with jerks aside when he compelled himself to
move. The hair stood upright on his head--every finger trembled as
with palsy--his lips, his eyelids, quivered with nervous agitation.
But his mind was strong, stimulated to a desperate calm. He dragged
himself round the room, he crossed the very spot where the magician
had been--all was vacant, silent, clear. Had he vanquished the enemy?
This thought came into his mind with an involuntary triumph. The old
strain of feeling came back. Such efforts might be produced, perhaps,
only by imagination, by excitement, by delusion---

Lindores looked up, by a sudden attraction he could not tell what: and
the blood suddenly froze in his veins that had been so boiling and
fermenting. Some one was looking at him from the old mirror on the
wall. A face not human and life-like, like that of the inhabitant of
this place, but ghostly and terrible, like one of the dead; and while
he looked, a crowd of other faces came behind, all looking at him,
some mournfully, some with a menace in their terrible eyes. The mirror
did not change, but within its small dim space seemed to contain an
innumerable company, crowded above and below, all with one gaze at
him. His lips dropped apart with a gasp of horror. More and more and
more! He was standing close by the table when this crowd came. Then
all at once there was laid upon him a cold hand. He turned; close to
his side, brushing him with his robe, holding him fast by the arm, sat
Earl Robert in his great chair. A shriek came from the young man's
lips. He seemed to hear it echoing away into unfathomable distance.
The cold touch penetrated to his very soul.

"Do you try spells upon me, Lindores? That is a tool of the past. You
shall have something better to work with. And are you so sure of whom
you call upon? If there is such a one, why should He help you who
never called on Him before?"

Lindores could not tell if these words were spoken; it was a
communication rapid as the thoughts in the mind. And he felt as if
something answered that was not all himself. He seemed to stand
passive and hear the argument. "Does God reckon with a man in trouble,
whether he has ever called to Him before? I call now" (now he felt it
was himself that said): "go, evil spirit!--go, dead and cursed!--go,
in the name of God!"

He felt himself flung violently against the wall. A faint laugh,
stifled in the throat, and followed by a groan, rolled round the room;
the old curtains seemed to open here and there, and flutter, as if
with comings and goings. Lindores leaned with his back against the
wall, and all his senses restored to him. He felt blood trickle down
his neck; and in this contact once more with the physical, his body,
in its madness of fright, grew manageable. For the first time he felt
wholly master of himself. Though the magician was standing in his
place, a great, majestic, appalling figure, he did not shrink. "Liar!"
he cried, in a voice that rang and echoed as in natural air--"clinging
to miserable life like a worm--like a reptile; promising all things,
having nothing, but this den, unvisited by the light of day. Is this
your power--your superiority to men who die? is it for this that you
oppress a race, and make a house unhappy? I vow, in God's name, your
reign is over! You and your secret shall last no more."

There was no reply. But Lindores felt his terrible ancestor's eyes
getting once more that mesmeric mastery over him which had already
almost overcome his powers. He must withdraw his own, or perish. He
had a human horror of turning his back upon that watchful adversary:
to face him seemed the only safety; but to face him was to be
conquered. Slowly, with a pang indescribable, he tore himself from
that gaze: it seemed to drag his eyes out of their sockets, his heart
out of his bosom. Resolutely, with the daring of desperation, he
turned round to the spot where he entered--the spot where no door
was,--hearing already in anticipation the step after him--feeling the
grip that would crush and smother his exhausted life--but too
desperate to care.



Chapter III



HOW wonderful is the blue dawning of the new day before the sun! not
rosy-fingered, like that Aurora of the Greeks who comes later with all
her wealth; but still, dreamy, wonderful, stealing out of the unseen,
abashed by the solemnity of the new birth. When anxious watchers see
that first brightness come stealing upon the waiting skies, what
mingled relief and renewal of misery is in it! another long day to
toil through--yet another sad night over! Lord Gowrie sat among the
dust and cobwebs, his lamp flaring idly into the blue morning. He had
heard his son's human voice, though nothing more; and he expected to
have him brought out by invisible hands, as had happened to himself,
and left lying in long deathly swoon outside that mystic door. This
was how it had happened to heir after heir, as told from father to
son, one after another, as the secret came down. One or two bearers of
the name Lindores had never recovered; most of them had been saddened
and subdued for life. He remembered sadly the freshness of existence
which had never come back to himself; the hopes that had never
blossomed again; the assurance with which never more he had been able
to go about the world. And now his son would be as himself--the glory
gone out of his living--his ambitions, his aspirations wrecked. He had
not been endowed as his boy was--he had been a plain, honest man, and
nothing more; but experience and life had given him wisdom enough to
smile by times at the coquetries of mind in which Lindores indulged.
Were they all over now, those freaks of young intelligence, those
enthusiasms of the soul? The curse of the house had come upon him--the
magnetism of that strange presence, ever living, ever watchful,
present in all the family history. His heart was sore for his son; and
yet along with this there was a certain consolation to him in having
henceforward a partner in the secret--some one to whom he could talk
of it as he had not been able to talk since his own father died.
Almost all the mental struggles which Gowrie had known had been
connected with this mystery; and he had been obliged to hide them in
his bosom--to conceal them even when they rent him in two. Now he had
a partner in his trouble. This was what he was thinking as he sat
through the night. How slowly the moments passed! He was not aware of
the daylight coming in. After a while even thought got suspended in
listening. Was not the time nearly over? He rose and began to pace
about the encumbered space, which was but a step or two in extent.
There was an old cupboard in the wall, in which there were
restoratives--pungent essences and cordials, and fresh water which he
had himself brought--everything was ready; presently the ghastly body
of his boy, half dead, would be thrust forth into his care.

But this was not how it happened. While he waited, so intent that his
whole frame seemed to be capable of hearing, he heard the closing of
the door, boldly shut with a sound that rose in muffled echoes through
the house, and Lindores himself appeared, ghastly indeed as a dead
man, but walking upright and firmly, the lines of his face drawn, and
his eyes staring. Lord Gowrie uttered a cry. He was more alarmed by
this unexpected return than by the helpless prostration of the swoon
which he had expected. He recoiled from his son as if he too had been
a spirit. "Lindores!" he cried; was it Lindores, or some one else in
his place? The boy seemed as if he did not see him. He went straight
forward to where the water stood on the dusty table, and took a great
draught, then turned to the door. "Lindores!" said his father, in
miserable anxiety; "don't you know me?" Even then the young man only
half looked at him, and put out a hand almost as cold as the hand that
had clutched himself in the Secret Chamber; a faint smile came upon
his face. "Don't stay here," he whispered; "come! come!"

Lord Gowrie drew his son's arm within his own, and felt the thrill
through and through him of nerves strained beyond mortal strength. He
could scarcely keep up with him as he stalked along the corridor to
his room, stumbling as if he could not see, yet swift as an arrow.
When they reached his room he turned and closed and locked the door,
then laughed as he staggered to the bed. "That will not keep him out,
will it?" he said.

"Lindores," said his father, "I expected to find you unconscious. I am
almost more frightened to find you like this. I need not ask if you
have seen him---"

"Oh, I have seen him. The old liar! Father, promise to expose him, to
turn him out--promise to clear out that accursed old nest! It is our
own fault. Why have we left such a place shut out from the eye of day?
Isn't there something in the Bible about those who do evil hating the
light?"

"Lindores! you don't often quote the Bible."

"No, I suppose not; but there is more truth in--many things than we
thought."

"Lie down," said the anxious father. "Take some of this wine--try to
sleep."

"Take it away; give me no more of that devil's drink. Talk to me--
that's better. Did you go through it all the same, poor papa?--and
hold me fast. You are warm--you are honest!" he cried. He put forth
his hands over his father's, warming them with the contact. He put his
cheek like a child against his father's arm. He gave a faint laugh,
with the tears in his eyes. "Warm and honest," he repeated. "Kind
flesh and blood! and did you go through it all the same?"

"My boy!" cried the father, feeling his heart glow and swell over the
son who had been parted from him for years by that development of
young manhood and ripening intellect which so often severs and loosens
the ties of home. Lord Gowrie had felt that Lindores half despised his
simple mind and duller imagination; but this childlike clinging
overcame him, and tears stood in his eyes. "I fainted, I suppose. I
never knew how it ended. They made what they liked of me. But you, my
brave boy, you came out of your own will."

Lindores shivered. "I fled!" he said. "No honour in that. I had not
courage to face him longer. I will tell you by-and-by. But I want to
know about you."

What an ease it was to the father to speak! For years and years this
had been shut up in his breast. It had made him lonely in the midst of
his friends.

"Thank God," he said, "that I can speak to you, Lindores. Often and
often I have been tempted to tell your mother. But why should I make
her miserable? She knows there is something; she knows when I see him,
but she knows no more."

"When you see him?" Lindores raised himself, with a return of his
first ghastly look, in his bed. Then he raised his clenched fist
wildly, and shook it in the air. "Vile devil, coward, deceiver!"

"Oh hush, hush, hush, Lindores! God help us! what troubles you may
bring!"

"And God help me, whatever troubles I bring," said the young man. "I
defy him, father. An accursed being like that must be less, not more
powerful, than we are--with God to back us. Only stand by me: stand by
me---"

"Hush, Lindores! You don't feel it yet--never to get out of hearing of
him all your life! He will make you pay for it--if not now, after;
when you remember he is there; whatever happens, knowing everything!
But I hope it will not be so bad with you as with me, my poor boy. God
help you indeed if it is, for you have more imagination and more mind.
I am able to forget him sometimes when I am occupied--when in the
hunting-field, going across country. But you are not a hunting man, my
poor boy," said Lord Gowrie, with a curious mixture of a regret, which
was less serious than the other. Then he lowered his voice. "Lindores,
this is what has happened to me since the moment I gave him my hand."

"I did not give him my hand."

"You did not give him your hand? God bless you, my boy! You stood
out?" he cried, with tears again rushing to his eyes; "and they say--
they say--but I don't know if there is any truth in it." Lord Gowrie
got up from his son's side, and walked up and down with excited steps.
"If there should be truth in it! Many people think the whole thing is
a fancy. If there should be truth in it, Lindores!"

"In what, father?"

"They say, if he is once resisted his power is broken--once refused.
You could stand against him--you! Forgive me, my boy, as I hope God
will forgive me, to have thought so little of His best gifts," cried
Lord Gowrie, coming back with wet eyes; and stooping, he kissed his
son's hand. "I thought you would be more shaken by being more mind
than body," he said, humbly. "I thought if I could but have saved you
from the trial; and you are the conqueror!"

"Am I the conqueror? I think all my bones are broken, father--out of
their sockets," said the young man, in a low voice. "I think I shall
go to sleep."

"Yes, rest, my boy. It is the best thing for you," said the father,
though with a pang of momentary disappointment.

Lindores fell back upon the pillow. He was so pale that there were
moments when the anxious watcher thought him not sleeping but dead. He
put his hand out feebly, and grasped his father's hand. "Warm--
honest," he said, with a feeble smile about his lips, and fell asleep.

The daylight was full in the room, breaking through shutters and
curtains and mocking at the lamp that still flared on the table. It
seemed an emblem of the disorders, mental and material, of this
strange night; and, as such, it affected the plain imagination of Lord
Gowrie, who would have fain got up to extinguish it, and whose mind
returned again and again, in spite of him, to this symptom of
disturbance. By-and-by, when Lindores' grasp relaxed, and he got his
hand free, he got up from his son's bedside, and put out the lamp,
putting it carefully out of the way. With equal care he put away the
wine from the table, and gave the room its ordinary aspect, softly
opening a window to let in the fresh air of the morning. The park lay
fresh in the early sunshine, still, except for the twittering of the
birds, refreshed with dews, and shining in that soft radiance of the
morning which is over before mortal cares are stirring. Never,
perhaps, had Gowrie looked out upon the beautiful world around his
house without a thought of the weird existence which was going on so
near to him, which had gone on for centuries, shut up out of sight of
the sunshine. The Secret Chamber had been present with him since ever
he saw it. He had never been able to get free of the spell of it. He
had felt himself watched, surrounded, spied upon, day after day, since
he was of the age of Lindores, and that was thirty years ago. He
turned it all over in his mind, as he stood there and his son slept.
It had been on his lips to tell it all to his boy, who had now come to
inherit the enlightenment of his race. And it was a disappointment to
him to have it all forced back again, and silence imposed upon him
once more. Would he care to hear it when he woke? would he not rather,
as Lord Gowrie remembered to have done himself, thrust the thought as
far as he could away from him, and endeavour to forget for the
moment--until the time came when he would not be permitted to forget?
He had been like that himself, he recollected now. He had not wished
to hear his own father's tale. "I remember," he said to himself; "I
remember"--turning over everything in his mind--if Lindores might only
be willing to hear the story when he woke! But then he himself had not
been willing when he was Lindores, and he could understand his son,
and could not blame him; but it would be a disappointment. He was
thinking this when he heard Lindores' voice calling him. He went back
hastily to his bedside. It was strange to see him in his evening dress
with his worn face, in the fresh light of the morning, which poured in
at every crevice. "Does my mother know?" said Lindores; "what will she
think?"

"She knows something; she knows you have some trial to go through.
Most likely she will be praying for us both; that's the way of women,"
said Lord Gowrie, with the tremulous tenderness which comes into a
man's voice sometimes when he speaks of a good wife. "I'll go and ease
her mind, and tell her all is well over---"

"Not yet. Tell me first," said the young man, putting his hand upon
his father's arm.

What an ease it was! "I was not so good to my father," he thought to
himself, with sudden penitence for the long-past, long-forgotten
fault, which, indeed, he had never realised as a fault before. And
then he told his son what had been the story of his life--how he had
scarcely ever sat alone without feeling, from some corner of the room,
from behind some curtain, those eyes upon him; and how, in the
difficulties of his life, that secret inhabitant of the house had been
present, sitting by him and advising him. "Whenever there has been
anything to do: when there has been a question between two ways, all
in a moment I have seen him by me: I feel when he is coming. It does
not matter where I am--here or anywhere--as soon as ever there is a
question of family business; and always he persuades me to the wrong
way, Lindores. Sometimes I yield to him, how can I help it? He makes
everything so clear; he makes wrong seem right. If I have done unjust
things in my day---"

"You have not, father."

"I have: there were these Highland people I turned out. I did not mean
to do it, Lindores; but he showed me that it would be better for the
family. And my poor sister that married Tweedside and was wretched all
her life. It was his doing, that marriage; he said she would be rich,
and so she was, poor thing, poor thing! and died of it. And old
Macalister's lease----Lindores, Lindores! when there is any business
it makes my heart sick. I know he will come, and advise wrong, and
tell me--something I will repent after."

"The thing to do is to decide beforehand, that, good or bad, you will
not take his advice."

Lord Gowrie shivered. "I am not strong like you, or clever; I cannot
resist. Sometimes I repent in time and don't do it; and then! But for
your mother and you children, there is many a day I would not have
given a farthing for my life."

"Father," said Lindores, springing from his bed, "two of us together
can do many things. Give me your word to clear out this cursed den of
darkness this very day."

"Lindores, hush, hush, for the sake of heaven!"

"I will not, for the sake of heaven! Throw it open--let everybody who
likes see it--make an end of the secret--pull down everything,
curtains, walls. What do you say?--sprinkle holy water? Are you
laughing at me?"

"I did not speak," said Earl Gowrie, growing very pale, and grasping
his son's arm with both his hands. "Hush, boy; do you think he does
not hear?"

And then there was a low laugh close to them--so close that both
shrank; a laugh no louder than a breath.

"Did you laugh--father?"

"No, Lindores." Lord Gowrie had his eyes fixed. He was as pale as the
dead. He held his son tight for a moment; then his gaze and his grasp
relaxed, and he fell back feebly in a chair.

"You see!" he said; "whatever we do it will be the same; we are under
his power."

And then there ensued the blank pause with which baffled men confront
a hopeless situation. But at that moment the first faint stirrings of
the house--a window being opened, a bar undone, a movement of feet,
and subdued voices--became audible in the stillness of the morning.
Lord Gowrie roused himself at once. "We must not be found like this,"
he said; "we must not show how we have spent the night. It is over,
thank God! and oh, my boy, forgive me! I am thankful there are two of
us to bear it; it makes the burden lighter--though I ask your pardon
humbly for saying so. I would have saved you if I could, Lindores."

"I don't wish to have been saved; but I will not bear it. I will end
it," the young man said, with an oath out of which his emotion took
all profanity. His father said, "Hush, hush." With a look of terror
and pain, he left him; and yet there was a thrill of tender pride in
his mind. How brave the boy was! even after he had been there. Could
it be that this would all come to nothing, as every other attempt to
resist had done before?

"I suppose you know all about it now, Lindores," said his friend
Ffarrington, after breakfast; "luckily for us who are going over the
house. What a glorious old place it is!"

"I don't think that Lindores enjoys the glorious old place today,"
said another of the guests under his breath. "How pale he is! He
doesn't look as if he had slept."

"I will take you over every nook where I have ever been," said
Lindores. He looked at his father with almost command in his eyes.
"Come with me, all of you. We shall have no more secrets here."

"Are you mad?" said his father in his ear.

"Never mind," cried the young man. "Oh, trust me; I will do it with
judgment. Is everybody ready?" There was an excitement about him that
half frightened, half roused the party. They all rose, eager, yet
doubtful. His mother came to him and took his arm.

"Lindores! you will do nothing to vex your father; don't make him
unhappy. I don't know your secrets, you two; but look, he has enough
to bear."

"I want you to know our secrets, mother. Why should we have secrets
from you?"

"Why, indeed?" she said, with tears in her eyes. "But, Lindores, my
dearest boy, don't make it worse for him."

"I give you my word, I will be wary," he said; and she left him to go
to his father, who followed the party, with an anxious look upon his
face.

"Are you coming, too?" he asked.

"I? No; I will not go: but trust him--trust the boy, John."

"He can do nothing; he will not be able to do anything," he said.

And thus the guests set out on their round--the son in advance,
excited and tremulous, the father anxious and watchful behind. They
began in the usual way, with the old state-rooms and picture-gallery;
and in a short time the party had half forgotten that there was
anything unusual in the inspection. When, however, they were half-way
down the gallery, Lindores stopped short with an air of wonder. "You
have had it put back then?" he said. He was standing in front of the
vacant space where Earl Robert's portrait ought to have been. "What is
it?" they all cried, crowding upon him, ready for any marvel. But as
there was nothing to be seen, the strangers smiled among themselves.
"Yes, to be sure, there is nothing so suggestive as a vacant place,"
said a lady who was of the party. "Whose portrait ought to be there,
Lord Lindores?"

He looked at his father, who made a slight assenting gesture, then
shook his head drearily.

"Who put it there?" Lindores said, in a whisper.

"It is not there; but you and I see it," said Lord Gowrie, with a
sigh.

Then the strangers perceived that something had moved the father and
the son, and, notwithstanding their eager curiosity, obeyed the
dictates of politeness, and dispersed into groups looking at the other
pictures. Lindores set his teeth and clenched his hands. Fury was
growing upon him--not the awe that filled his father's mind. "We will
leave the rest of this to another time," he cried, turning to the
others, almost fiercely. "Come, I will show you something more
striking now." He made no further pretence of going systematically
over the house. He turned and went straight up-stairs, and along the
corridor. "Are we going over the bedrooms?" some one said. Lindores
led the way straight to the old lumber-room, a strange place for such
a gay party. The ladies drew their dresses about them. There was not
room for half of them. Those who could get in began to handle the
strange things that lay about, touching them with dainty fingers,
exclaiming how dusty they were. The window was half blocked up by old
armour and rusty weapons; but this did not hinder the full summer
daylight from penetrating in a flood of light. Lindores went in with
fiery determination on his face. He went straight to the wall, as if
he would go through, then paused with a blank gaze. "Where is the
door?" he said.

"You are forgetting yourself," said Lord Gowrie, speaking over the
heads of the others. "Lindores! you know very well there never was any
door there; the wall is very thick; you can see by the depth of the
window. There is no door there."

The young man felt it over with his hand. The wall was smooth, and
covered with the dust of ages. With a groan he turned away. At this
moment a suppressed laugh, low, yet distinct, sounded close by him.
"You laughed?" he said, fiercely, to Ffarrington, striking his hand
upon his shoulder.

"I--laughed! Nothing was farther from my thoughts," said his friend,
who was curiously examining something that lay upon an old carved
chair. "Look here! what a wonderful sword, cross-hilted! Is it an
Andrea? What's the matter, Lindores?"

Lindores had seized it from his hands; he dashed it against the wall
with a suppressed oath. The two or three people in the room stood
aghast.

"Lindores!" his father said, in a tone of warning. The young man
dropped the useless weapon with a groan. "Then God help us!" he said;
"but I will find another way."

"There is a very interesting room close by," said Lord Gowrie,
hastily--"this way! Lindores has been put out by--some changes that
have been made without his knowledge," he said, calmly. "You must not
mind him. He is disappointed. He is perhaps too much accustomed to
have his own way."

But Lord Gowrie knew that no one believed him. He took them to the
adjoining room, and told them some easy story of an apparition that
was supposed to haunt it. "Have you ever seen it?" the guests said,
pretending interest. "Not I; but we don't mind ghosts in this house,"
he answered, with a smile. And then they resumed their round of the
old noble mystic house.

I cannot tell the reader what young Lindores has done to carry out his
pledged word and redeem his family. It may not be known, perhaps, for
another generation, and it will not be for me to write that concluding
chapter: but when, in the ripeness of time, it can be narrated, no one
will say that the mystery of Gowrie Castle has been a vulgar horror,
though there are some who are disposed to think so now.


THE END



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