Yet if I had not indulged, to prove there was nothing in it, in this review,I should have missed the two or three dim elements of comfort that still remained to me.I should not for instance have been able to asseverate to my friend that I was certain—which was so much to the good—that _I_ at least had not betrayed myself.I should not have been prompted, by stress of need,by desperation of mind—I scarce know what to call it—to invoke such further aid to intelligence as might spring from pushing my colleague fairly to the wall.She had told me, bit by bit, under pressure, a great deal;but a small shifty spot on the wrong side of it all still sometimes brushed my brow like the wing of a bat;and I remember how on this occasion—for the sleeping house and the concentration alike of our danger and our watch seemed to help—I felt the importance of giving the last jerk to the curtain. “I don’t believe anything so horrible,” I recollect saying; “no, let us put it definitely, my dear, that I don’t. But if I did, you know, there’s a thing I should require now, just without sparing you the least bit more—oh, not a scrap, come!—to get out of you. What was it you had in mind when, in our distress, before Miles came back,over the letter from his school, you said, under my insistence,that you didn’t pretend for him that he had not literally _ever_ been ‘bad’?He has _not_ literally ‘ever,’ in these weeks that I myself have lived with him and so closely watched him;he has been an imperturbable little prodigy of delightful, lovable goodness.Therefore you might perfectly have made the claim for him if you had not, as it happened,seen an exception to take. What was your exception,and to what passage in your personal observation of him did you refer?”
It was a dreadfully austere inquiry, but levity was not our note, and, at any rate,before the gray dawn admonished us to separate I had got my answer.What my friend had had in mind proved to be immensely to the purpose.It was neither more nor less than the circumstance that for a period of several months Quint and the boy had been perpetually together.It was in fact the very appropriate truth that she had ventured to criticize the propriety,to hint at the incongruity, of so close an alliance,and even to go so far on the subject as a frank overture to Miss Jessel. Miss Jessel had,with a most strange manner, requested her to mind her business, and the good woman had, on this,directly approached little Miles. What she had said to him, since I pressed,was that _she_ liked to see young gentlemen not forget their station.
I pressed again, of course, at this. “You reminded him that Quint was only a base menial?”
“As you might say!And it was his answer, for one thing, that was bad.”
“And for another thing?” I waited. “He repeated your words to Quint?”
“No, not that. It’s just what he _wouldn’t!_” she could still impress upon me. “I was sure, at any rate,” she added, “that he didn’t. But he denied certain occasions.”
“What occasions?”
“When they had been about together quite as if Quint were his tutor—and a very grand one—and Miss Jessel only for the little lady.When he had gone off with the fellow, I mean, and spent hours with him.”
“He then prevaricated about it—he said he hadn’t?” Her assent was clear enough to cause me to add in a moment: “I see. He lied.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Grose mumbled. This was a suggestion that it didn’t matter;which indeed she backed up by a further remark. “You see, after all, Miss Jessel didn’t mind. She didn’t forbid him.”
I considered. “Did he put that to you as a justification?”
At this she dropped again. “No, he never spoke of it.”
“Never mentioned her in connection with Quint?”
She saw, visibly flushing, where I was coming out. “Well, he didn’t show anything. He denied, ” she repeated; “he denied.”
Lord, how I pressed her now!“So that you could see he knew what was between the two wretches?”
“I don’t know—I don’t know!” the poor woman groaned.
“You do know, you dear thing,” I replied; “only you haven’t my dreadful boldness of mind,and you keep back, out of timidity and modesty and delicacy, even the impression that, in the past,when you had, without my aid, to flounder about in silence, most of all made you miserable. But I shall get it out of you yet!There was something in the boy that suggested to you,” I continued,“that he covered and concealed their relation.”
“Oh, he couldn’t prevent—”
“Your learning the truth?I daresay!But, heavens,” I fell, with vehemence, athinking, “what it shows that they must, to that extent, have succeeded in making of him!”
“Ah, nothing that’s not nice _now!_” Mrs. Grose lugubriously pleaded.
“I don’t wonder you looked queer,” I persisted, “when I mentioned to you the letter from his school!”
“I doubt if I looked as queer as you!” she retorted with homely force. “And if he was so bad then as that comes to, how is he such an angel now?”
“Yes, indeed—and if he was a fiend at school!How, how, how?Well,” I said in my torment, “you must put it to me again,but I shall not be able to tell you for some days. Only, put it to me again!” I cried in a way that made my friend stare.“There are directions in which I must not for the present let myself go.” Meanwhile I returned to her first example—the one to which she had just previously referred—of the boy’s happy capacity for an occasional slip.“If Quint—on your remonstrance at the time you speak of—was a base menial,one of the things Miles said to you, I find myself guessing, was that you were another.” Again her admission was so adequate that I continued: “And you forgave him that?”
“Wouldn’t _you?_”
“Oh, yes!” And we exchanged there, in the stillness, a sound of the oddest amusement. Then I went on:“At all events, while he was with the man—”
“Miss Flora was with the woman. It suited them all!”
It suited me, too, I felt, only too well;by which I mean that it suited exactly the particularly deadly view I was in the very act of forbidding myself to entertain.But I so far succeeded in checking the expression of this view that I will throw, just here,no further light on it than may be offered by the mention of my final observation to Mrs. Grose.“His having lied and been impudent are, I confess,less engaging specimens than I had hoped to have from you of the outbreak in him of the little natural man.Still,” I mused, “They must do, for they make me feel more than ever that I must watch.”
It made me blush, the next minute, to see in my friend’s face how much more unreservedly she had forgiven him than her anecdote struck me as presenting to my own tenderness an occasion for doing. This came out when, at the schoolroom door, she quitted me. “Surely you don’t accuse _him_—”
“Of carrying on an intercourse that he conceals from me?Ah, remember that, until further evidence, I now accuse nobody.” Then,before shutting her out to go, by another passage, to her own place, “I must just wait, ” I wound up.
IX
I waited and waited, and the days, as they elapsed, took something from my consternation.A very few of them, in fact, passing, in constant sight of my pupils, without a fresh incident,sufficed to give to grievous fancies and even to odious memories a kind of brush of the sponge.I have spoken of the surrender to their extraordinary childish grace as a thing I could actively cultivate,and it may be imagined if I neglected now to address myself to this source for whatever it would yield.Stranger than I can express, certainly, was the effort to struggle against my new lights;it would doubtless have been, however, a greater tension still had it not been so frequently successful.I used to wonder how my little charges could help guessing that I thought strange things about them;and the circumstances that these things only made them more interesting was not by itself a direct aid to keeping them in the dark.I trembled lest they should see that they _were_ so immensely more interesting.Putting things at the worst, at all events, as in meditation I so often did,any clouding of their innocence could only be—blameless and foredoomed as they were—a reason the more for taking risks.There were moments when, by an irresistible impulse,I found myself catching them up and pressing them to my heart.As soon as I had done so I used to say to myself: “What will they think of that?Doesn’t it betray too much?” It would have been easy to get into a sad, wild tangle about how much I might betray;but the real account, I feel, of the hours of peace that I could still enjoy was that the immediate charm of my companions was a beguilement still effective even under the shadow of the possibility that it was studied. For if it occurred to me that I might occasionally excite suspicion by the little outbreaks of my sharper passion for them, so too I remember wondering if I mightn’t see a queerness in the traceable increase of their own demonstrations.
They were at this period extravagantly and preternaturally fond of me; which, after all,I could reflect, was no more than a graceful response in children perpetually bowed over and hugged.The homage of which they were so lavish succeeded, in truth, for my nerves,quite as well as if I never appeared to myself, as I may say,literally to catch them at a purpose in it. They had never, I think,wanted to do so many things for their poor protectress;I mean—though they got their lessons better and better,which was naturally what would please her most—in the way of diverting, entertaining,surprising her; reading her passages, telling her stories, acting her charades,pouncing out at her, in disguises, as animals and historical characters,and above all astonishing her by the “pieces” they had secretly got by heart and could interminably recite.I should never get to the bottom—were I to let myself go even now—of the prodigious private commentary,all under still more private correction, with which, in these days, I overscored their full hours.They had shown me from the first a facility for everything, a general faculty which,taking a fresh start, achieved remarkable flights.They got their little tasks as if they loved them, and indulged,from the mere exuberance of the gift, in the most unimposed little miracles of memory.They not only popped out at me as tigers and as Romans, but as Shakespeareans, astronomers,and navigators. This was so singularly the case that it had presumably much to do with the fact as to which,at the present day, I am at a loss for a different explanation:I allude to my unnatural composure on the subject of another school for Miles.What I remember is that I was content not, for the time, to open the question,and that contentment must have sprung from the sense of his perpetually striking show of cleverness.He was too clever for a bad governess, for a parson’s daughter, to spoil;and the strangest if not the brightest thread in the pensive embroidery I just spoke of was the impression I might have got,if I had dared to work it out, that he was under some influence operating in his small intellectual life as a tremendous incitement.
If it was easy to reflect, however, that such a boy could postpone school,it was at least as marked that for such a boy to have been “kicked out” by a schoolmaster was a mystification without end.Let me add that in their company now—and I was careful almost never to be out of it—I could follow no scent very far.We lived in a cloud of music and love and success and private theatricals.The musical sense in each of the children was of the quickest,but the elder in especial had a marvelous knack of catching and repeating.The schoolroom piano broke into all gruesome fancies;and when that failed there were confabulations in corners,with a sequel of one of them going out in the highest spirits in order to “come in” as something new.I had had brothers myself, and it was no revelation to me that little girls could be slavish idolaters of little boys.What surpassed everything was that there was a little boy in the world who could have for the inferior age,sex, and intelligence so fine a consideration. They were extraordinarily at one,and to say that they never either quarreled or complained is to make the note of praise coarse for their quality of sweetness.Sometimes, indeed, when I dropped into coarseness,I perhaps came across traces of little understandings between them by which one of them should keep me occupied while the other slipped away.There is a _naïf_ side, I suppose, in all diplomacy; but if my pupils practiced upon me,it was surely with the minimum of grossness. It was all in the other quarter that, after a lull, the grossness broke out.
I find that I really hang back; but I must take my plunge.In going on with the record of what was hideous at Bly,I not only challenge the most liberal faith—for which I little care;but—and this is another matter—I renew what I myself suffered,I again push my way through it to the end. There came suddenly an hour after which, as I look back,the affair seems to me to have been all pure suffering;but I have at least reached the heart of it, and the straightest road out is doubtless to advance.One evening—with nothing to lead up or to prepare it—I felt the cold touch of the impression that had breathed on me the night of my arrival and which,much lighter then, as I have mentioned,I should probably have made little of in memory had my subsequent sojourn been less agitated.I had not gone to bed; I sat reading by a couple of candles.There was a roomful of old books at Bly—last-century fiction, some of it, which,to the extent of a distinctly deprecated renown, but never to so much as that of a stray specimen,had reached the sequestered home and appealed to the unavowed curiosity of my youth.I remember that the book I had in my hand was Fielding’s _Amelia_; also that I was wholly awake.I recall further both a general conviction that it was horribly late and a particular objection to looking at my watch.I figure, finally, that the white curtain draping, in the fashion of those days,the head of Flora’s little bed, shrouded, as I had assured myself long before,the perfection of childish rest. I recollect in short that,though I was deeply interested in my author, I found myself,at the turn of a page and with his spell all scattered,looking straight up from him and hard at the door of my room.There was a moment during which I listened, reminded of the faint sense I had had, the first night,of there being something undefinably astir in the house,and noted the soft breath of the open casement just move the half-drawn blind. Then,with all the marks of a deliberation that must have seemed magnificent had there been anyone to admire it,I laid down my book, rose to my feet, and, taking a candle, went straight out of the room and,from the passage, on which my light made little impression, noiselessly closed and locked the door.
I can say now neither what determined nor what guided me, but I went straight along the lobby,holding my candle high, till I came within sight of the tall window that presided over the great turn of the staircase.At this point I precipitately found myself aware of three things.They were practically simultaneous, yet they had flashes of succession. My candle,under a bold flourish, went out, and I perceived, by the uncovered window,that the yielding dusk of earliest morning rendered it unnecessary. Without it, the next instant,I saw that there was someone on the stair. I speak of sequences,but I required no lapse of seconds to stiffen myself for a third encounter with Quint.The apparition had reached the landing halfway up and was therefore on the spot nearest the window,where at sight of me, it stopped short and fixed me exactly as it had fixed me from the tower and from the garden.He knew me as well as I knew him; and so, in the cold, faint twilight,with a glimmer in the high glass and another on the polish of the oak stair below,we faced each other in our common intensity. He was absolutely, on this occasion, a living,detestable, dangerous presence. But that was not the wonder of wonders;I reserve this distinction for quite another circumstance:the circumstance that dread had unmistakably quitted me and that there was nothing in me there that didn’t meet and measure him.
I had plenty of anguish after that extraordinary moment, but I had, thank God, no terror.And he knew I had not—I found myself at the end of an instant magnificently aware of this. I felt,in a fierce rigor of confidence, that if I stood my ground a minute I should cease—for the time,at least—to have him to reckon with; and during the minute, accordingly,the thing was as human and hideous as a real interview: hideous just because it _was_ human,as human as to have met alone, in the small hours, in a sleeping house, some enemy,some adventurer, some criminal. It was the dead silence of our long gaze at such close quarters that gave the whole horror,huge as it was, its only note of the unnatural.If I had met a murderer in such a place and at such an hour, we still at least would have spoken.Something would have passed, in life, between us; if nothing had passed,one of us would have moved. The moment was so prolonged that it would have taken but little more to make me doubt if even _I_ were in life.I can’t express what followed it save by saying that the silence itself—which was indeed in a manner an attestation of my strength—became the element into which I saw the figure disappear; in which I definitely saw it turn as I might have seen the low wretch to which it had once belonged turn on receipt of an order, and pass, with my eyes on the villainous back that no hunch could have more disfigured, straight down the staircase and into the darkness in which the next bend was lost.
X
I remained awhile at the top of the stair,but with the effect presently of understanding that when my visitor had gone, he had gone:then I returned to my room. The foremost thing I saw there by the light of the candle I had left burning was that Flora’s little bed was empty;and on this I caught my breath with all the terror that, five minutes before,I had been able to resist. I dashed at the place in which I had left her lying and over which (for the small silk counterpane and the sheets were disarranged) the white curtains had been deceivingly pulled forward; then my step, to my unutterable relief, produced an answering sound: I perceived an agitation of the window blind, and the child, ducking down, emerged rosily from the other side of it. She stood there in so much of her candor and so little of her nightgown, with her pink bare feet and the golden glow of her curls. She looked intensely grave, and I had never had such a sense of losing an advantage acquired (the thrill of which had just been so prodigious) as on my consciousness that she addressed me with a reproach. “You naughty: where _have_ you been?”—instead of challenging her own irregularity I found myself arraigned and explaining.She herself explained, for that matter, with the loveliest, eagerest simplicity.She had known suddenly, as she lay there, that I was out of the room,and had jumped up to see what had become of me. I had dropped, with the joy of her reappearance,back into my chair—feeling then, and then only, a little faint;and she had pattered straight over to me, thrown herself upon my knee,given herself to be held with the flame of the candle full in the wonderful little face that was still flushed with sleep.I remember closing my eyes an instant, yieldingly, consciously,as before the excess of something beautiful that shone out of the blue of her own.“You were looking for me out of the window?” I said. “You thought I might be walking in the grounds?”
“Well, you know, I thought someone was”—she never blanched as she smiled out that at me.
Oh, how I looked at her now!“And did you see anyone?”
“Ah, _no!_” she returned, almost with the full privilege of childish inconsequence, resentfully,though with a long sweetness in her little drawl of the negative.
At that moment, in the state of my nerves, I absolutely believed she lied;and if I once more closed my eyes it was before the dazzle of the three or four possible ways in which I might take this up.One of these, for a moment, tempted me with such singular intensity that, to withstand it,I must have gripped my little girl with a spasm that, wonderfully,she submitted to without a cry or a sign of fright.Why not break out at her on the spot and have it all over?—give it to her straight in her lovely little lighted face?“You see, you see, you _know_ that you do and that you already quite suspect I believe it;therefore, why not frankly confess it to me,so that we may at least live with it together and learn perhaps, in the strangeness of our fate, where we are and what it means?” This solicitation dropped, alas, as it came:if I could immediately have succumbed to it I might have spared myself—well, you’ll see what.Instead of succumbing I sprang again to my feet, looked at her bed, and took a helpless middle way.“Why did you pull the curtain over the place to make me think you were still there?”
Flora luminously considered; after which, with her little divine smile: “Because I don’t like to frighten you!”
“But if I had, by your idea, gone out—?”
She absolutely declined to be puzzled; she turned her eyes to the flame of the candle as if the question were as irrelevant,or at any rate as impersonal, as Mrs. Marcet or nine-times-nine. “Oh, but you know,” she quite adequately answered, “that you might come back, you dear, and that you _have!_” And after a little, when she had got into bed, I had, for a long time,by almost sitting on her to hold her hand, to prove that I recognized the pertinence of my return.
You may imagine the general complexion, from that moment, of my nights.I repeatedly sat up till I didn’t know when;I selected moments when my roommate unmistakably slept, and, stealing out,took noiseless turns in the passage and even pushed as far as to where I had last met Quint.But I never met him there again; and I may as well say at once that I on no other occasion saw him in the house.I just missed, on the staircase, on the other hand, a different adventure.Looking down it from the top I once recognized the presence of a woman seated on one of the lower steps with her back presented to me,her body half-bowed and her head, in an attitude of woe, in her hands.I had been there but an instant, however, when she vanished without looking round at me. I knew,nonetheless, exactly what dreadful face she had to show; and I wondered whether,if instead of being above I had been below, I should have had, for going up,the same nerve I had lately shown Quint. Well, there continued to be plenty of chance for nerve.On the eleventh night after my latest encounter with that gentleman—they were all numbered now—I had an alarm that perilously skirted it and that indeed,from the particular quality of its unexpectedness, proved quite my sharpest shock.It was precisely the first night during this series that, weary with watching,I had felt that I might again without laxity lay myself down at my old hour.I slept immediately and, as I afterward knew, till about one o’clock;but when I woke it was to sit straight up, as completely roused as if a hand had shook me.I had left a light burning, but it was now out,and I felt an instant certainty that Flora had extinguished it.This brought me to my feet and straight, in the darkness, to her bed, which I found she had left.A glance at the window enlightened me further, and the striking of a match completed the picture.
The child had again got up—this time blowing out the taper, and had again,for some purpose of observation or response,squeezed in behind the blind and was peering out into the night. That she now saw—as she had not,I had satisfied myself, the previous time—was proved to me by the fact that she was disturbed neither by my reillumination nor by the haste I made to get into slippers and into a wrap. Hidden, protected, absorbed, she evidently rested on the sill—the casement opened forward—and gave herself up. There was a great still moon to help her, and this fact had counted in my quick decision. She was face to face with the apparition we had met at the lake, and could now communicate with it as she had not then been able to do. What I, on my side, had to care for was, without disturbing her, to reach, from the corridor, some other window in the same quarter. I got to the door without her hearing me; I got out of it, closed it, and listened, from the other side, for some sound from her. While I stood in the passage I had my eyes on her brother’s door, which was but ten steps off and which, indescribably, produced in me a renewal of the strange impulse that I lately spoke of as my temptation. What if I should go straight in and march to _his_ window?—what if, by risking to his boyish bewilderment a revelation of my motive,I should throw across the rest of the mystery the long halter of my boldness?
This thought held me sufficiently to make me cross to his threshold and pause again.I preternaturally listened; I figured to myself what might portentously be;I wondered if his bed were also empty and he too were secretly at watch. It was a deep,soundless minute, at the end of which my impulse failed. He was quiet; he might be innocent;the risk was hideous; I turned away. There was a figure in the grounds—a figure prowling for a sight,the visitor with whom Flora was engaged; but it was not the visitor most concerned with my boy.I hesitated afresh, but on other grounds and only for a few seconds; then I had made my choice.There were empty rooms at Bly, and it was only a question of choosing the right one.The right one suddenly presented itself to me as the lower one—though high above the gardens—in the solid corner of the house that I have spoken of as the old tower. This was a large, square chamber, arranged with some state as a bedroom, the extravagant size of which made it so inconvenient that it had not for years, though kept by Mrs. Grose in exemplary order, been occupied. I had often admired it and I knew my way about in it; I had only, after just faltering at the first chill gloom of its disuse, to pass across it and unbolt as quietly as I could one of the shutters. Achieving this transit, I uncovered the glass without a sound and, applying my face to the pane, was able, the darkness without being much less than within, to see that I commanded the right direction. Then I saw something more. The moon made the night extraordinarily penetrable and showed me on the lawn a person, diminished by distance, who stood there motionless and as if fascinated, looking up to where I had appeared—looking, that is, not so much straight at me as at something that was apparently above me. There was clearly another person above me—there was a person on the tower; but the presence on the lawn was not in the least what I had conceived and had confidently hurried to meet. The presence on the lawn—I felt sick as I made it out—was poor little Miles himself.
XI
It was not till late next day that I spoke to Mrs. Grose;the rigor with which I kept my pupils in sight making it often difficult to meet her privately,and the more as we each felt the importance of not provoking—on the part of the servants quite as much as on that of the children—any suspicion of a secret flurry or that of a discussion of mysteries. I drew a great security in this particular from her mere smooth aspect. There was nothing in her fresh face to pass on to others my horrible confidences. She believed me, I was sure, absolutely: if she hadn’t I don’t know what would have become of me, for I couldn’t have borne the business alone. But she was a magnificent monument to the blessing of a want of imagination, and if she could see in our little charges nothing but their beauty and amiability, their happiness and cleverness, she had no direct communication with the sources of my trouble. If they had been at all visibly blighted or battered, she would doubtless have grown, on tracing it back, haggard enough to match them; as matters stood, however, I could feel her, when she surveyed them, with her large white arms folded and the habit of serenity in all her look, thank the Lord’s mercy that if they were ruined the pieces would still serve. Flights of fancy gave place, in her mind, to a steady fireside glow, and I had already begun to perceive how, with the development of the conviction that—as time went on without a public accident—our young things could, after all, look out for themselves, she addressed her greatest solicitude to the sad case presented by their instructress. That, for myself, was a sound simplification: I could engage that, to the world, my face should tell no tales, but it would have been, in the conditions, an immense added strain to find myself anxious about hers.