The Third Window
Anne Douglas Sedgwick
eBook
(, March 2, 2013)
Excerpt:I“I LOVE this window,” said Antonia, walking down the drawing-room; “and this one. They both look over the moors, you see. This view is even lovelier.” She stopped at the end of the long room, and the young man with the pale face and the limping step followed and looked out of the third window with her. “But—I don’t know why—I hate it. I wish it weren’t here.”Captain Saltonhall looked out and said nothing.“I wonder if you see what I mean,” said Antonia.“No; I don’t. I like it.” The young man spoke gently and with something of a drawl, unimpressed, apparently, by her antipathy and putting up the back of a placid forefinger to stroke along the edge of his moustache.“One gets the hills, peaceful and silvery; one gets the walled garden and the cedar,” she enumerated.“The little pond with its fountain is as serene as a happy dream. It’s all like a happy dream. Yet—I wish there weren’t this window here.”“You could wall it up if you don’t like it,” Captain Saltonhall suggested, his eyes, as he stood behind her, turning from the walled garden beneath to fix themselves with a rather sad attentiveness upon the head of the young woman. Her dark hair was near him and the curve of her cheek; he thought that he felt against his the warmth of her shoulder in its thin black dress.She looked out, motionless, for a little while; then, turning suddenly, as if with impatience of her thoughts, found him so near, and his eyes on hers. She, too, was pale and tall; but all in her was soft, splendid, and almost opulent, while he was sharp-edged and wasted. He looked much the older, though they were of the same age; both, indeed, were very young.He did not move away as she faced him nor did his look alter. Sad and attentive, it merely remained attached upon her, and if he felt any nervousness it showed itself only in the slight gesture of his forefinger passing meditatively along the edge of his moustache. It was she who spoke. “Well, Bevis?” she said gravely. Her look asked: “Have you anything to tell me?”“Well, Tony,” he returned. He had, apparently, nothing to say.She studied him for a moment longer, and then, with an added impatience—if anything so soft could so be called—walking away to an easy-chair before the fire, she said, “You think me very silly, I suppose.”“Silly? Why?”“Because of the window. My hating it.”