The Philosopher's Window and other stories

Front matter

The Philosopher's Window and Other Stories. The Philosopher's Window and Other Stones BY LADY LINDSAY. LONDON AND EDINBURGH ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK i CONTENTS PAGE I. The Philosopher's Window . . . i 2. The Story of a Railway Journey . . 24 3. Poor Miss Brackenthorpe . . .96 4. Gracie . . . . . .114 5. Letitia's Long Day . . . .148 6. Miss Dairsie's Diary .... 168 7. The Rudiments of a Romance . . .191 8. 'When Poverty comes in' . . . 225 9. A London Story ..... 234 10. Mrs. Toovey's Red Book. . . . HE philosopher was a middle-aged man ; sad-looking, as are most philosophers. He had come to the country to enjoy his short holiday quite alone. He was a great scholar, who wrote lengthy and curious articles in severe reviews, and who had the right of tacking to his name an extraordinary number of the letters of the alphabet (being a fellow of many known and unknown societies), although his friends, when addressing him, mostly trans lated such hieroglyphics into the one short word : ' etc' It was easy to see that this was a learned man ; for, as he leaned out of the window as far as he could push himself (and it was a very narrow cottage -like lattice window), a big bald place on the top of his head shone startlingly in the afternoon light, and the furrows across his brow seemed very deep indeed.

He was contentedly taking a quiet and careful survey of the novel locality in which he found himself. An artist friend had recommended this quiet spot to him. ' I want to vegetate,' the philosopher had said, ' where I shall not hear the scream of a steam-engine ; where 1 shall not see any women in their distorted modern costumes ; where no one will expound political theories, nor trouble me with flippant questions concerning the apteryx or the megatherium.' 'I know the place,' replied the artist confidently; 'the very place for you.' And thereupon ensued an explanation which enabled our philosopher, after a short and hot journey from London, to find himself in this rural dwelling. From the lattice window, which jutted out at a height of some twenty feet above the ground, he looked down into a small courtyard which might almost have been termed a garden, for therein grew a profusion of rose-bushes and early summer flowers.

A garden almost, though sometimes treated like a drying -ground (as a cord stretched from the wall to a distant pear-tree bore witness) ; also considered a fit abode for the house-dog, whose kennel stood in full view, and, above all, as a convenient place of stowage — a corner for water-butts and household implements and the storing of fuel, of which there was a goodly quantity heaped up against the green blue palings. Assuredly, the whole effect was eminently picturesque. The house, which belonged to the miller, was quaint, gabled, and rambling ; from time immemorial it had formed part of the old mill. On one side stretched a long low tile-roofed barn, beyond which the big mill wheel, when put in motion, sent the water foaming and tumbling like the waters at Lodore : ' Rattling and battling And shaking and quaking And pouring and roaring And waving and raving.' But the wheel was quiet now, and a sense of deep The Philosopher s Window. 3 repose pervaded the scene.

Part I

In a strange land Such things, however trivial, reach the heart, And through the heart the head, clearing away The narrow notions that grow up at home. — Rogers. 1 HREE people, a large black box, and a small portman teau, were being conveyed with all possible haste from the Piazza to the railway station at Venice. This is a long distance, and Mr. Goodchild thought it necessary to say from time to time in the British-Italian of which he was so justly proud : ' Presto, presto, we must really get on. Andiami moltete presto, gondoliere t ' The chief gondolier, who was a handsome brown-faced fellow, gave a gracious bend of the head and a pitying smile. ' SI, si, Signore,' he said softly, then, raising a loud shout of ' Stall,' he exerted the muscles of his back and arms to their utmost extent, and the gondola shot swiftly and wonderfully round the next sharp bend of the canal, speeding on its way with increased velocity.

For reasons best known to themselves, but incomprehensible to Mr. Goodchild, the gondoliers had chosen to avoid the Grand Canal during a great part of the transit, persistently following a labyrinth of narrow and dirty places, where they steered clear of many threatening dangers with a dexterity that was simply marvellous. Skimming along the winding path of water, the travellers glided by majestic buildings with deserted stone steps and painted wooden piles ; they bent their heads and darted beneath innumerable little bridges that were built with arches un comfortably low, and, more wonderful than all, they found themselves mercifully freed from the contact of the huge barges and punts that cling together in a hope lessly inextricable mass in the narrowest thoroughfares of Venice. Every now and then, certainly, the gondola was pulled up with a tremendous rush of water against the oars, whilst a torrent of Venetian slang was rapidly interchanged be tween the angry gondoliers and some aggrieved old man who was baling out dirty water from one of the big wooden boats ; but after a moment's pause the little black craft, saved from imminent and deadly peril, flew on with new ardour towards its next hairbreadth escape.

Mr. Goodchild drew a long breath ; Mrs. Goodchild, who was stout, gasped nervously, and murmured repeatedly : ' O Lord, O Lord ! Really, Thomas, it can't be safe ; and — dear me, the smell ! ' ' It is low tide, and the smell is said to be wholesome,' replied Mr. Goodchild grimly. ' It seems to suit the crabs, at any rate.' Fanny Ward, his niece, laughed at this, and showed her pearly teeth through the ' complexion ' veil of black spotted net that made her cream-white face seem more creamy still. She enjoyed a slight sense of danger; besides, it amused her to see the agile little crabs, who were frightened at the approach of human beings, and went scurrying down the walls into the green slush. Presently the gondola emerged into purer waters and clearer atmosphere, and found itself in the wake of several other gondolas equally laden with luggage, and similarly bound for the railway station. 'We shall be late,' said Mrs. Goodchild. ' Corpo di Bacco ! ' exclaimed Mr. Goodchild, with thorough knowledge of the Italian language. '■Presto, presto, we shall be motto rilardo ! ' But the dark-faced sons of the Adriatic were on their mettle.

They strained every nerve to distance all other competitors. Over the dancing blue waters flew the Goodchilds' gondola with a motion so silent and steady that its swiftness was scarcely realised. Then, as they neared the station, there was much shouting, much pushing forward, much crowding and jostling of boats, and a great deal of laughing and ges ticulation. Every one was good-tempered and noisy. All but Mr. Goodchild ; he was not noisy, though he waved his hand with British pride as he stepped on shore, his gondola having been among the first to arrive ; neither was he particularly good-tempered, for he spoke hurriedly, and somewhat crossly, as he helped his stout wife to land. ' Come along, come along, my dear ; Fanny will miss her train for certain.' And this adjuration had the effect of causing Mrs. Goodchild to say ' Via, via,' (her one word of Italian) to the old man who stood armed with a hook at the end of a long pole, begging for a copper from the stony-hearted signora. 'You needn't hurry so much, after all,' remarked Fanny Ward quietly. ' There are plenty of other people evidently going by the same train as mine ; look at all the boxes and bags and portmanteaus ! ' She tripped daintily on shore as she spoke ; she pos sessed remarkably neat ankles, and walked with a light springy step as she proceeded to follow her uncle and aunt to the platform, Giuseppe, the gondolier, having undertaken to procure her ticket and book her luggage.

But, before entering the building, she turned to give one last look at beautiful Venice. She had been happy — moderately happy — with the Goodchilds; possibly hers was not a nature to make for itself nor yet to appreciate any great happiness ; as she looked back on the broad glittering canal, and the lofty palaces on either side, she felt a gentle pleasure, so to speak, in that she had been happy, that she had, in fact, thoroughly enjoyed her holiday. At any rate, it was quite certain that she had known no cause for unhappiness. There had been no great excitements ; she had met but few friends or acquaintances ; she did not care so much for Carpaccio and Bellini as many other people appeared to care ; still, life at Venice was certainly pleasant, bright, and new ; the music in the Piazza was charming, as well as the coffee, and the moonlight nights.

On the whole, Fanny Ward could carry home with her to the little house in Brompton many harmonious reveries and quiet half-toned reminiscences ; these were hers to keep and remember during the rest of her monotonous life, hers as much and as truly as the blue glass beads and the photographs that filled one-half of her portmanteau. Fanny heaved a sigh when, after a moment's contem- The Story oj a Railway Journey. 28 plation, she turned away, and walked slowly into the ugly modern building that is the station at Venice. She scarcely knew the meaning of her sigh ; it was not pain, it was barely regret. She began to wonder what it might be, for she had a strong love of self-analysis, but her cogitations were suddenly interrupted by the approach of Giuseppe with her ticket. This was no time for retro spection ; she hurriedly placed a little paper bank-note worth a few francs in the palm of the man's brown hand, whereupon he bent and kissed her slender gloved fingers with the deference of an Italian ; Mr. Goodchild called fiercely to her from the platform ; her aunt waved a parasol distractedly, and, with hasty farewells to Giuseppe and Venice at one and the same time, Fanny ran off to join her excited relatives. ' You really are a terrible dawdle ! ' cried Mr. Good child angrily. ' Don't scold her now, Thomas, when she is just leaving us,' said Mrs. Goodchild plaintively. 'Are you sure you have got all your things, Fanny, my dear ?

Your keys for the custom house ? Your book, your bag ? And don't forget to give my love to your mother when you get home, and tell her ' 'You had better get in and settle yourself, Fanny,' said her uncle authoritatively. 'The train will start in another minute. Every carriage is pretty well full, but I have got a place for you here ; good-bye, my dear, jump in.' He shook hands with her as he spoke, and Mrs. Goodchild fell upon her neck. Fanny did not much appreciate either the tears or the kisses which were pressed in quick damp succession on her cheeks, and which she carried, as relics, outside her veil for the next half-hour. The compartment, with the exception of a place near the furthest window reserved for Fanny, was indeed quite full, and she had some difficulty in getting to her seat, though several encouraging hands were held out to help her.

When she was finally settled, she found herself opposite to a burly red-faced Frenchman, whose long carefully-waxed moustache was a marvellous combination of nature and art. The centre of the compartment was occupied by an Italian family, and the window-seats near est the platform were filled by an officer dressed in the national uniform of blue and silver, and a tall but unobtrusive-looking Englishman, whose thin, spare, north country face was turned with an expressionless stare towards a little knot of Italians who were arguing and gesticulating on the platform. The blue-and-silver officer, who was also gazing out of the window, was curiously watching the Goodchilds, for they still remained near the door, burdening Fanny's memory with innumerable messages and injunctions. Possibly he understood something of the English language ; at any rate, he smiled slightly from time to time, and his brown eyes twinkled as they rested on Mrs. Goodchild's flushed face.

At last came a railway official, and Fanny and the rest of the travellers held out for his investigation the pink volumes that were by courtesy called tickets. ' Zondres,' murmured Fanny. ' Milano,' said the father of the family. ' Pour moi, Milan] quoth the Frenchman. ' Torino] muttered the officer, without removing the toothpick he was dexterously balancing between his lips. ' London,' said the Englishman defiantly. 'London,' repeated Fanny to herself; 'then we two shall be fellow-travellers all the way,' and she glanced furtively across the carriage. But her fellow-traveller was ensconcing himself comfortably in his corner, and his face was already hidden behind the last new number of Temple Bar. At this moment, the train began to puff itself out of the station slowly and in the dolce-far-niente style of Italian trains, with much deliberation starting on its way.

Fanny, for want of a better occupation, interested herself in the Milanese family. The father was deep in the study of the ' Fanfulla,' but the mother, a pinched dis appointed-looking woman, the daughter, a slight dark haired girl, and the son, a precocious little imp of nine or ten, with eyes and hair as black as ink, set up a lengthy conversation, which was carried on in shrill high-pitched voices, and with much unnecessary energy. At least so it seemed to Fanny ; yet it amused her to watch the artificial gestures of the small boy, who evidently aped the manners of the Italian gentlemen he had admired in the Corso. The road was laid upon a high and narrow bank ; on either side were tracts of shallow water and low mud hills. Every now and then Fanny, gazing out of the window, caught sight of a stray gondola, or a boat with a yellow sail that reminded her of Venice.

But soon Mestre was reached, and the lovely water-country was hidden away in the distance, whilst the train followed its straight course through the rich and sheltered plains of Lombardy. It was early autumn, and the peasants stood beneath the stripped mulberry-trees and wreathing clusters of green vines, holding great bunches of golden maize under their arms, and pausing in their work to watch the train go by. Men and women alike were browned by the sun, in spite of the huge straw hats they wore, and some tiny children, scantily clothed, and lying kicking about on the warm dry earth, were as bronzed and tanned as though they had been reared beneath the burning glare of Africa. For indeed, in Lombardy, the rays of Phœbus are exceedingly fierce, and, as the day wore on, the roof of the carriage seemed to press down on the travellers with a burden of intoler able heat.

Miss Ward took from her travelling-bag a small Japanese fan, and fanned herself gently ; the red faced Frenchman groaned and puffed, and murmured imprecations softly to himself in his native tongue ; the Milanese gentleman dexterously wound his pocket handkerchief round his neck, pushing it down beneath his shirt, so that his own high temperature should not take the stiffness out of the beautifully-starched white collar he wore, whilst his family chattered on, and looked as though, salamander-like, they absolutely enjoyed the heat. The officer leaned out of the window, presenting a view of his sky-blue back and grey legs to the assembled company, and the imperturbable Englishman, after a momentary glance of disapproval at the officer's attitude, quietly continued to read. And so the time wore slowly on.

Meanwhile, though Fanny's eyes were often intent upon the scenery through which she was journeying, and were sometimes equally occupied in gleaning amusement from the movements or conversation of her neighbours, she grew painfully conscious of the rude stare which the Frenchman bestowed on her with but little intermission. It was a stare of admiration certainly, but an admiration of so coarse and impertinent a kind that Fanny instinct ively turned from it, and felt her anger rising in a crimson glow to her pale cheeks. Fanny Ward was no longer in her first youth, and had been accustomed from time immemorial to go about and shift for herself in public thoroughfares, travelling under the safe protection of the natural innocence and self-possession of an English lady. Her mother, who was somewhat of an invalid, had fallen into what are called reduced circumstances ; she was poor, but considered herself and her daughter to be 'thoroughly genteel.' It had oftentimes been a grief to her that she was obliged to send that daughter unattended and unchaperoned into the wide world.

Fanny, as she felt the Frenchman's eyes riveted on her countenance, kept her own eyes fixed in the direction of the little Milanese boy, who was waving his hands with pretty emphasis, saying : ' Vede, mamma, ma vede, mamma ! " but finally, as she found this of no avail, she followed her countryman's example, and stowed her face safely away behind the pages of a book. It was a very dull book, one of those few French novels that are recommended for the special reading of young unmarried ladies. There was a great deal about monsieur le cure, much concerning a lovely young girl who ultimately became a nun, whilst another dwelt en province with an aged uncle who lived a miser and died a millionaire ; and last, not least, there was the narrative of a young officer who expired murmuring ' ma mire.' Once, bored by the extreme dulness of these stories, and forgetful that her book was doing double duty, as book and as screen, Fanny laid it for a moment on her knee. ' You like reading French, mademoiselle ? ' asked her neighbour in his own language.

Miss Ward bowed coldly. ' Permettez ! Shall I shut the windows for you ? The dust is very great.' ' No, thank you,' replied Fanny, seeking refuge once more in literature. As she did so, she fancied that she caught the glance of a pair of fierce eyes flashing from under their bushy eyebrows as they peered over the paper cover of Temple Bar. It was only the flash of a moment ; it might have been her own foolish fancy to suppose that the glance was directed towards her, and yet her fellow-countryman's presence comforted and reassured her, she scarcely knew why. She was possessed by a miserable feeling that even her French novel did not sufficiently shield her face ; she was conscious also of a desire to squeeze herself into the smallest possible space ; there seemed to be no room for her feet, which found themselves perpetually (however much she tried to stow them away) in the close vicinity of her opposite neighbour's pedal extremities.

As a reaction from her growing dislike to him, she felt herself disposed to be affectionate to the rest of her fellow-travellers, and, almost unconsciously, edged a little nearer to the stout Milanese gentleman, who was now, however, more regardless than ever of the family conversation, being peacefully plunged in quiet slumber. It was a great relief to Fanny when the train reached Padua, and every one got out. The Milanese gentleman woke, stretched and shook himself, and gave her his fat hand to help her down as she jumped lightly out of the carriage. She was very thirsty, and was about to follow the other travellers in the direction of the refreshment-room, when she found to her dismay that the Frenchman was in full pursuit. 'Will you allow me to conduct you?' he asked, unpleasantly smiling, and fixing his eyes with cool pertinacity upon her face. ' I am sure you are hungry, mademoiselle, and it is not amusing for you to be alone ; pray let me escort you.' ' No, thank you, monsieur,' replied Fanny with much decision, and, almost trembling from suppressed rage, she veered suddenly round, and retraced her steps, to walk with a firm determined aspect up and down the platform in front of the now empty carriages.

She paced backwards and forwards in this way for nearly ten minutes, and her anger was beginning to cool down into sullen resentment ; she was standing close to the door of her own compartment, uncertain whether to get in or not, when the Englishman who was her fellow traveller approached her. ' I have brought you some cake and a bottle of wine and water,' he said simply ; ' you can pay me back if you like ; it is only a franc' Fanny, startled, looked curiously at him. He was standing before her, quietly holding out two paper parcels. 'Thank you,' she stammered, with grateful but shy acceptance. ' I am very thirsty ! ' She opened her purse, and, as she gave a dirty paper franc into her new friend's hand, she was struck by the delicacy of the suggestion which, for her sake, had re moved from his little kindness the sense of obligation that must otherwise have burthened it. ' You are very kind,' she murmured, reddening as she spoke. ' You had better take my seat,' he said curtly, as though he had no wish to prolong the conversation ; then, getting into the carriage himself, he stretched out a gaunt white hand to help Fanny, and removed himself and his possessions to the place that had formerly been hers.

Fanny sat down obediently where he had sat before ; the Englishman resumed his magazine, and the two remained in absolute silence awaiting the return of the other travellers. Meanwhile, however, the girl could not help glancing from time to time towards her com panion. She had as yet found no opportunity of study ing his appearance ; now, she saw that he was not a very young man. He might be forty, he might be fifty, he might, yes, he might assuredly be fiftyfive, or there abouts. Such men, of hardy northern type, are very deceptive in their looks, thought Fanny. His hair was curly and slightly grizzled ; his face was long, somewhat narrow, and perfectly clean-shaven. He had keen eyes, bushy dark eyebrows, a good straight nose, a long upper lip and a thin mouth ; above all, a quiet canny expression that gave an air of inward and unobtrusive, yet peculiar meaning to the whole of his countenance.

He was tall, with long straggling limbs ; he was very plainly clad in a somewhat shabby suit of homespun, and there was about him no vestige of jewellery or ornament of any kind. As for Fanny, had her new friend but studied her appearance instead of the printed pages that so entirely absorbed his attention, he would have seen before him a pleasant pale face, clearly-cut delicate features distin guished by a thoughtful yet somewhat monotonous ex pression, brown eyes, brown hair that was crowned with a black straw hat, a long slender throat, encircled by a black velvet ribbon from which hung a very ugly silver locket. He would also have seen a staid and what is sometimes called a ' tidy ' figure ; that is to say, a figure neither fat nor thin, tall nor short, clad in sober black silk that was draped in accordance with the prevailing fashion, and yet by no means ultra-fashionably.

Fanny Ward was not exactly graceful, but she had a trim air of neatness that was pleasing to the eye ; every detail of her person and dress bore evidence to the precision and quiet self-possession of her character. She was thirty ; she had sighed a little over her last birthday ; nobody quite likes to be thirty. We are all glad to slip pleasantly out of our teens ; life widens and glorifies itself for us, as we do so ; but who cares to leave the twenties ? Thirty seems perilously on the road to forty, on the highway to wards middle age; where is the woman of thirty who does not begin to be uncomfortably conscious that the years which used to bear her slowly along in youth are quickening into a jog-trot now ? Yet, though Fanny had wept a few secret tears over her thirty years, she should have found comfort in the fact that she had but little altered in looks during her last decade.

To ordinary observers she was as yet a slender girl, and — though perhaps she did not know it — in the eyes of many, her fellow-traveller included, she seemed a mere child. Nor, had her vanity been of a nature to be easily gratified, could she have failed to appreciate the evident admiration expressed by the Frenchman's looks. When the train was about to start, the Milanese family re-entered the carriage ; the Frenchman followed, but, when he saw the change that had taken place, he grew first white, then crimson with anger. He glanced ironically at Fanny, then wrathfully at the Englishman, opposite whom he was fain to seat himself. 'Pardon, monsieur,' he began, ' mat's you have mis taken your place.' ' Pardon, monsieur,' replied the Englishman, raising his hat, and, without further explanation, quietly resum ing his reading.

There was nothing more to be said ; only the polite Milanese gazed somewhat surprisedly at each other. The whole party remained in silence until, as the train began slowly to move on, the Italian officer ran up, jumped into the carriage, slammed the door, and at once began an eager discourse with his countryman that filled up with echoing words and laughter the sullen quiet of the place. After this, nothing occurred worthy of mention ; hours passed by, and Fanny grew dull and sleepy. No one stared at her now ; no one spoke to her even; but, though she was relieved from advances that had been truly disagreeable, she suffered from an overpowering sense of loneliness that positively angered her against herself. Often there was a long pause at a station ; every one got out, chatted and sauntered about : every one except Fanny, who sat silent and morose in her corner.

Then, after what seemed an interminable waste of time, the travellers came back, the guard shouted ' Partenza ! ' or, as it seemed to Fanny's distorted imagination, 'PazienzaT and the calm progress of the journey recommenced. It was a matter of necessity to wait a long time at Milan, and nearly two hours at Turin, and Miss Ward was fain to occupy the second interval by a solitary dinner, followed by a lengthy meditation on life and other depressing items. But she cheered up as the hour of departure drew near ; the evening air was soft and balmy, even within the station, and she could not forbear to smile when, having resumed her place in the train as it was about to start, she found that the Englishman and herself were the only occupants of the compartment. Fanny was by no means a talkative person, but she had fasted from conversation during the whole day, a hard trial for any woman, and she was, besides, agreeably impressed by the reappearance of the Englishman.

He had bowed courteously as he entered, and deserved some gracious remark from her, surely, as a slight testimony of approval and good-will. 'We have a long journey still before us,' she re marked. ' Very,' replied her companion laconically. He had evidently employed the time at Turin in purchasing a new and soft travelling-cap, and he was much occupied with it, and apparently greatly pleased, for he put it on and took it off and patted it into shape every five minutes, with the interest of a child who has a new toy. As he did so, Fanny's feminine eyes discovered that his dark grizzled hair was thin on the top of his head, and that he was slightly bald. But, as she watched him, the girl felt a sense of pleasure and confidence in her countryman's companionship ; his face, though not handsome, was decidedly attractive ; here was a heaven-sent protector for her, a friend whose friendship might be counted on during the journey ; at any rate an interesting subject for analysis.

But the interesting subject himself did not seem disposed for conversation. ' You know this route well ? ' asked Fanny. ' Very well. It is the easiest gate into Italy, but also the ugliest.' ' I have never seen any other.' ' Indeed!' ' I think the mountains beautiful,' said Fanny, who was now gazing at the purple range of lovely Alps that rose beyond the plains. 'Yes, of course.' The more her companion withdrew from conversation, the more Fanny, woman-like, resolved to drag him into it. ' You are going to London ? ' she asked, in a tone of mild interest. 'Yes,' he replied, slightly arching his eyebrows. Surely she knew this before. Then he smiled. ' You are also bound for London ? ' he said. ' I have been staying with friends at Venice ; now I am going back to my mother in London.' ' Ah, indeed ! ' There was again a pause. ' How slow the Italian trains are ! ' exclaimed Fanny.