of the screw
The story had held us, round the fire, sufficiently
breathless, but except the obvious remark that it was gruesome,
as, on Christmas Eve in an old house, a strange tale should
essentially be, I remember no comment uttered till somebody
happened to say that it was the only case he had met in which such
a visitation had fallen on a child. The case, I may mention, was
that of an apparition in just such an old house as had gathered us
for the occasion -- an appearance, of a dreadful kind, to a little
boy sleeping in the room with his mother and waking her up in the
terror of it; waking her not to dissipate his dread and soothe him
to sleep again, but to encounter also, herself, before she had
succeeded in doing so, the same sight that had shaken him. It was
this observation that drew from Douglas -- not immediately, but
later in the evening -- a reply that had the interesting
consequence to which I call attention. Someone else told a story
not particularly effective, which I saw he was not following. This
I took for a sign that he had himself something to produce and
that we should only have to wait. We waited in fact till two
nights later, but that same evening, before we scattered, he
brought out what was in his mind.
"I quite agree -- in regard to Griffin's ghost,
or whatever it was -- that its appearing first to the little boy,
at so tender an age, adds a particular touch. But it's not the
first occurrence of its charming kind that I know to have involved
a child. If the child gives the effect another turn of the screw,
what do you say to two children -- -- ?"
"We say, of course," somebody exclaimed, "that
they give two turns! Also that we want to hear about them."
I can see Douglas there before the fire, to
which he had got up to present his back, looking down at his
interlocutor with his hands in his pockets. "Nobody but me, till
now, has ever heard. It's quite too horrible." This, naturally,
was declared by several voices to give the thing the utmost price,
and our friend, with quiet art, prepared his triumph by turning
his eyes over the rest of us and going on: "It's beyond
everything. Nothing at all that I know touches it."
"For sheer terror?" I remember asking.
He seemed to say it was not so simple as that;
to be really at a loss how to qualify it. He passed his hand over
his eyes, made a little wincing grimace. "For dreadful --
"Oh, how delicious!" cried one of the women.
He took no notice of her; he looked at me, but
as if, instead of me, he saw what he spoke of. "For general
uncanny ugliness and horror and pain."
"Well then," I said, "just sit right down and
He turned round to the fire, gave a kick to a
log, watched it an instant. Then as he faced us again: "I can't
begin. I shall have to send to town." There was a unanimous groan
at this, and much reproach; after which, in his preoccupied way,
he explained. "The story's written. It's in a locked drawer -- it
has not been out for years. I could write to my man and enclose
the key; he could send down the packet as he finds it." It was to
me in particular that he appeared to propound this -- appeared
almost to appeal for aid not to hesitate. He had broken a
thickness of ice, the formation of many a winter; had had his
reasons for a long silence. The others resented postponement, but
it was just his scruples that charmed me. I adjured him to write
by the first post and to agree with us for an early hearing; then
I asked him if the experience in question had been his own. To
this his answer was prompt. "Oh, thank God, no!"
"And is the record yours? You took the thing
"Nothing but the impression. I took that here "
-- he tapped his heart. "I've never lost it."
"Then your manuscript -- -- ?"
"Is in old, faded ink, and in the most
beautiful hand." He hung fire again. "A woman's. She has been dead
these twenty years. She sent me the pages in question before she
died." They were all listening now, and of course there was
somebody to be arch, or at any rate to draw the inference. But if
he put the inference by without a smile it was also without
irritation. "She was a most charming person, but she was ten years
older than I. She was my sister's governess," he quietly said.
"She was the most agreeable woman I've ever known in her position;
she would have been worthy of any whatever. It was long ago, and
this episode was long before. I was at Trinity, and I found her at
home on my coming down the second summer. I was much there that
year -- it was a beautiful one; and we had, in her off-hours, some
strolls and talks in the garden -- talks in which she struck me as
awfully clever and nice. Oh yes; don't grin: I liked her extremely
and am glad to this day to think she liked me, too. If she hadn't
she wouldn't have told me. She had never told anyone. It wasn't
simply that she said so, but that I knew she hadn't. I was sure; I
could see. You'll easily judge why when you hear."
"Because the thing had been such a scare?"
He continued to fix me. "You'll easily judge,"
he repeated: " you will."
I fixed him, too. "I see. She was in love."
He laughed for the first time. "You are acute.
Yes, she was in love. That is, she had been. That came out -- she
couldn't tell her story without its coming out. I saw it, and she
saw I saw it; but neither of us spoke of it. I remember the time
and the place -- the corner of the lawn, the shade of the great
beeches and the long, hot summer afternoon. It wasn't a scene for
a shudder; but oh -- -- !" He quitted the fire and dropped
back into his chair.
"You'll receive the packet Thursday morning?" I
"Probably not till the second post."
"Well then; after dinner -- -- "
"You'll all meet me here?" He looked us round
again. "Isn't anybody going?" It was almost the tone of hope.
"Everybody will stay!"
" Iwill -- and Iwill!" cried the ladies whose
departure had been fixed. Mrs. Griffin, however, expressed the
need for a little more light. "Who was it she was in love with?"
"The story will tell," I took upon myself to
"Oh, I can't wait for the story!"
"The story won't tell," said Douglas; "not in
any literal, vulgar way."
"More's the pity, then. That's the only way I
"Won't you tell, Douglas?" somebody else
He sprang to his feet again. "Yes -- tomorrow.
Now I must go to bed. Good night." And quickly catching up a
candlestick, he left us slightly bewildered. From our end of the
great brown hall we heard his step on the stair; whereupon Mrs.
Griffin spoke. "Well, if I don't know who she was in love with, I
know who he was."
"She was ten years older," said her husband.
" Raison de plus -- at that age! But it's
rather nice, his long reticence."
"Forty years!" Griffin put in.
"With this outbreak at last."
"The outbreak," I returned, "will make a
tremendous occasion of Thursday night;" and everyone so agreed
with me that, in the light of it, we lost all attention for
everything else. The last story, however incomplete and like the
mere opening of a serial, had been told; we handshook and
"candlestuck," as somebody said, and went to bed.
I knew the next day that a letter containing
the key had, by the first post, gone off to his London apartments;
but in spite of -- or perhaps just on account of -- the eventual
diffusion of this knowledge we quite let him alone till after
dinner, till such an hour of the evening, in fact, as might best
accord with the kind of emotion on which our hopes were fixed.
Then he became as communicative as we could desire and indeed gave
us his best reason for being so. We had it from him again before
the fire in the hall, as we had had our mild wonders of the
previous night. It appeared that the narrative he had promised to
read us really required for a proper intelligence a few words of
prologue. Let me say here distinctly, to have done with it, that
this narrative, from am exact transcript of my own made much
later, is what I shall presently give. Poor Douglas, before his
death -- when it was in sight -- committed to me the manuscript
that reached him on the third of these days and that, on the same
spot, with immense effect, he began to read to our hushed little
circle on the night of the fourth. The departing ladies who had
said they would stay didn't, of course, thank heaven, stay: they
departed, in consequence of arrangements made, in a rage of
curiosity, as they professed, produced by the touches with which
he had already worked us up. But that only made his little final
auditory more compact and select, kept it, round the hearth,
subject to a common thrill.
The first of these touches conveyed that the
written statement took up the tale at a point after it had, in a
manner, begun. The fact to be in possession of was therefore that
his old friend, the youngest of several daughters of a poor
country parson, had, at the age of twenty, on taking service for
the first time in the schoolroom, come up to London, in
trepidation, to answer in person an advertisement that had already
placed her in brief correspondence with the advertiser. This
person proved, on her presenting herself, for judgment, at a house
in Harley Street, that impressed her as vast and imposing -- this
prospective patron proved a gentleman, a bachelor in the prime of
life, such a figure as had never risen, save in a dream or an old
novel, before a fluttered, anxious girl out of a Hampshire
vicarage. One could easily fix this type; it never, happily, dies
out. He was handsome and bold and pleasant, offhand and gay and
kind. He struck her, inevitably, as gallant and splendid, but what
took her most of all and gave her the courage she afterward showed
was that he put the whole thing to her as a kind of favor, an
obligation he should gratefully incur. She conceived him as rich,
but as fearfully extravagant -- saw him all in a glow of high
fashion, of good looks, of expensive habits, of charming ways with
women. He had for his own town residence a big house filled with
the spoils of travel and the trophies of the chase; but it was to
his country home, an old family place in Essex, that he wished her
immediately to proceed.
He had been left, by the death of their parents
in India, guardian to a small nephew and a small niece, children
of a younger, a military brother, whom he had lost two years
before. These children were, by the strangest of chances for a man
in his position -- a lone man without the right sort of experience
or a gram of patience -- very heavily on his hands. It had all
been a great worry and, on his own part doubtless, a series of
blunders, but he immensely pitied the poor chicks and had done all
he could; had in particular sent them down to his other house, the
proper place for them being of course the country, and kept them
there, from the first, with the best people he could find to look
after them, parting even with his own servants to wait on them and
going down himself, whenever he might, to see how they were doing.
The awkward thing was that they had practically no other relations
and that his own affairs took up all his time. He had put them in
possession of Bly, which was healthy and secure, and had placed at
the head of their little establishment -- but below stairs only --
an excellent woman, Mrs. Grose, whom he was sure his visitor would
like and who had formerly been maid to his mother. She was now
housekeeper and was also acting for the time as superintendent to
the little girl, of whom, without children of her own, she was, by
good luck, extremely fond. There were plenty of people to help,
but of course the young lady who should go down as governess would
be in supreme authority. She would also have, in holidays, to look
after the small boy, who had been for a term at school -- young as
he was to be sent, but what else could be done? -- and who, as the
holidays were about to begin, would be back from one day to the
other. There had been for the two children at first a young lady
whom they had had the misfortune to lose. She had done for them
quite beautifully -- she was a most respectable person -- till her
death, the great awkwardness of which had, precisely, left no
alternative but the school for little Miles. Mrs. Grose, since
then, in the way of manners and doings, had done as she could for
Flora; and there were, further, a cook, a housemaid, a dairywoman,
an old pony, an old groom, and an old gardener, all likewise
So far had Douglas presented his picture when
someone put a question. "And what did the former governess die of?
-- of so much respectability?"
Our friend's answer was prompt. "That will come
out. I don't anticipate."
"Excuse me -- I thought that was just what you
"In her successor's place," I suggested, "I
should have wished to learn if the office brought with it --
"Necessary danger to life?" Douglas completed
my thought. "She did wish to learn, and she did learn. You shall
hear tomorrow what she learned. Meanwhile, of course, the prospect
struck her as slightly grim. She was young, untried, nervous: it
was a vision of serious duties and little company, of really great
loneliness. She hesitated -- took a couple of days to consult and
consider. But the salary offered much exceeded her modest measure,
and on a second interview she faced the music, she engaged." And
Douglas, with this, made a pause that, for the benefit of the
company, moved me to throw in --
"The moral of which was of course the seduction
exercised by the splendid young man. She succumbed to it."
He got up and, as he had done the night before,
went to the fire, gave a stir to a log with his foot, then stood a
moment with his back to us. "She saw him only twice."
"Yes, but that's just the beauty of her
A little to my surprise, on this, Douglas
turned round to me. "It was the beauty of it. There were others,"
he went on, "who hadn't succumbed. He told her frankly all his
difficulty -- that for several applicants the conditions had been
prohibitive. They were, somehow, simply afraid. It sounded dull --
it sounded strange; and all the more so because of his main
"Which was -- -- ?"
"That she should never trouble him -- but
never, never: neither appeal nor complain nor write about
anything; only meet all questions herself, receive all moneys from
his solicitor, take the whole thing over and let him alone. She
promised to do this, and she mentioned to me that when, for a
moment, disburdened, delighted, he held her hand, thanking her for
the sacrifice, she already felt rewarded.
"But was that all her reward?" one of the
"She never saw him again."
"Oh!" said the lady; which, as our friend
immediately left us again, was the only other word of importance
contributed to the subject till, the next night, by the corner of
the hearth, in the best chair, he opened the faded red cover of a
thin old-fashioned gilt-edged album. The whole thing took indeed
more nights than one, but on the first occasion the same lady put
another question. "What is your title?"
"I haven't one."
"Oh, Ihave!" I said. But Douglas, without
heeding me, had begun to read with a fine clearness that was like
a rendering to the ear of the beauty of his author's hand.
I remember the whole beginning as a succession
of flights and drops, a little seesaw of the right throbs and the
wrong. After rising, in town, to meet his appeal, I had at all
events a couple of very bad days -- found myself doubtful again,
felt indeed sure I had made a mistake. In this state of mind I
spent the long hours of bumping, swinging coach that carried me to
the stopping place at which I was to be met by a vehicle from the
house. This convenience, I was told, had been ordered, and I
found, toward the close of the June afternoon, a commodious fly in
waiting for me. Driving at that hour, on a lovely day, through a
country to which the summer sweetness seemed to offer me a
friendly welcome, my fortitude mounted afresh and, as we turned
into the avenue, encountered a reprieve that was probably but a
proof of the point to which it had sunk. I suppose I had expected,
or had dreaded, something so melancholy that what greeted me was a
good surprise. I remember as a most pleasant impression the broad,
clear front, its open windows and fresh curtains and the pair of
maids looking out; I remember the lawn and the bright flowers and
the crunch of my wheels on the gravel and the clustered treetops
over which the rooks circled and cawed in the golden sky. The
scene had a greatness that made it a different affair from my own
scant home, and there immediately appeared at the door, with a
little girl in her hand, a civil person who dropped me as decent a
curtsy as if I had been the mistress or a distinguished visitor. I
had received in Harley Street a narrower notion of the place, and
that, as I recalled it, made me think the proprietor still more of
a gentleman, suggested that what I was to enjoy might be something
beyond his promise.
I had no drop again till the next day, for I
was carried triumphantly through the following hours by my
introduction to the younger of my pupils. The little girl who
accompanied Mrs. Grose appeared to me on the spot a creature so
charming as to make it a great fortune to have to do with her. She
was the most beautiful child I had ever seen, and I afterward
wondered that my employer had not told me more of her. I slept
little that night -- I was too much excited; and this astonished
me, too, I recollect, remained with me, adding to my sense of the
liberality with which I was treated. The large, impressive room,
one of the best in the house, the great state bed, as I almost
felt it, the full, figured draperies, the long glasses in which,
for the first time, I could see myself from head to foot, all
struck me -- like the extraordinary charm of my small charge -- as
so many things thrown in. It was thrown in as well, from the first
moment, that I should get on with Mrs. Grose in a relation over
which, on my way, in the coach, I fear I had rather brooded. The
only thing indeed that in this early outlook might have made me
shrink again was the clear circumstance of her being so glad to
see me. I perceived within half an hour that she was so glad --
stout, simple, plain, clean, wholesome woman -- as to be
positively on her guard against showing it too much. I wondered
even then a little why she should wish not to show it, and that,
with reflection, with suspicion, might of course have made me
But it was a comfort that there could be no
uneasiness in a connection with anything so beatific as the
radiant image of my little girl, the vision of whose angelic
beauty had probably more than anything else to do with me
restlessness that, before morning, made me several times rise and
wander about my room to take in the whole picture and prospect; to
watch, from my open window, the faint summer dawn, to look at such
portions of the rest of the house as I could catch, and to listen,
while, in the fading dusk, the first birds began to twitter, for
the possible recurrence of a sound or two, less natural and not
without, but within, that I had fancied I heard. There had been a
moment when I believed I recognized, faint and far, the cry of a
child; there had been another when I found myself just consciously
starting as at the passage, before my door, of a light footstep.
But these fancies were not marked enough not to be thrown off, and
it is only in the light, or the gloom, I should rather say, of
other and subsequent matters that they now come back to me. To
watch, teach, "form" little Flora would too evidently be the
making of a happy and useful life. It had been agreed between us
downstairs that after this first occasion I should have her as a
matter of course at night, her small white bed being already
arranged, to that end, in my room. What I had undertaken was the
whole care of her, and she had remained, just this last time, with
Mrs. Grose only as an effect of our consideration for my
inevitable strangeness and her natural timidity. In spite of this
timidity -- which the child herself, in the oddest way in the
world, had been perfectly frank and brave about, allowing it,
without a sign of uncomfortable consciousness, with the deep,
sweet serenity indeed of one of Raphael's holy infants, to be
discussed, to be imputed to her, and to determine us -- I felt
quite sure she would presently like me. It was part of what I
already liked Mrs. Grose herself for, the pleasure I could see her
feel in my admiration and wonder as I sat at supper with four tall
candles and with my pupil, in a high chair and a bib, brightly
facing me, between them, over bread and milk. There were naturally
things that in Flora's presence could pass between us only as
prodigious and gratified looks, obscure and roundabout allusions.
"And the little boy -- does he look like her?
Is he too so very remarkable?"
One wouldn't flatter a child. "Oh, miss, most
remarkable. If you think well of this one!" -- and she stood there
with a plate in her hand, beaming at our companion, who looked
from one of us to the other with placid heavenly eyes that
contained nothing to check us.
"Yes; if I do -- -- ?"
"You will be carried away by the little
"Well, that, I think, is what I came for -- to
be carried away. I'm afraid, however," I remember feeling the
impulse to add, "I'm rather easily carried away. I was carried
away in London!"
I can still see Mrs. Grose's broad face as she
took this in. "In Harley Street?"
"In Harley Street."
"Well, miss, you're not the first -- and you
won't be the last."
"Oh, I've no pretension," I could laugh, "to
being the only one. My other pupil, at any rate, as I understand,
comes back tomorrow?"
"Not tomorrow -- Friday, miss. He arrives, as
you did, by the coach, under care of the guard, and is to be met
by the same carriage."
I forthwith expressed that the proper as well
as the pleasant and friendly thing would be therefore that on the
arrival of the public conveyance I should be in waiting for him
with his little sister; an idea in which Mrs. Grose concurred so
heartily that I somehow took her manner as a kind of comforting
pledge -- never falsified, thank heaven! -- that we should on
every question be quite at one. Oh, she was glad I was there!
What I felt the next day was, I suppose,
nothing that could be fairly called a reaction from the cheer of
my arrival; it was probably at the most only a slight oppression
produced by a fuller measure of the scale, as I walked round them,
gazed up at them, took them in, of my new circumstances. They had,
as it were, an extent and mass for which I had not been prepared
and in the presence of which I found myself, freshly, a little
scared as well as a little proud. Lessons, in this agitation,
certainly suffered some delay; I reflected that my first duty was,
by the gentlest arts I could contrive, to win the child into the
sense of knowing me. I spent the day with her out-of-doors; I
arranged with her, to her great satisfaction, that it should be
she, she only, who might show me the place. She showed it step by
step and room by room and secret by secret, with droll,
delightful, childish talk about it and with the result, in half an
hour, of our becoming immense friends. Young as she was, I was
struck, throughout our little tour, with her confidence and
courage with the way, in empty chambers and dull corridors, on
crooked staircases that made me pause and even on the summit of an
old machicolated square tower that made me dizzy, her morning
music, her disposition to tell me so many more things than she
asked, rang out and led me on. I have not seen Bly since the day I
left it, and I daresay that to my older and more informed eyes it
would now appear sufficiently contracted. But as my little
conductress, with her hair of gold and her frock of blue, danced
before me round corners and pattered down passages, I had the view
of a castle of romance inhabited by a rosy sprite, such a place as
would somehow, for diversion of the young idea, take all color out
of storybooks and fairytales. Wasn't it just a storybook over
which I had fallen adoze and adream? No; it was a big, ugly,
antique, but convenient house, embodying a few features of a
building still older, half-replaced and half-utilized, in which I
had the fancy of our being almost as lost as a handful of
passengers in a great drifting ship. Well, I was, strangely, at
This came home to me when, two days later, I
drove over with Flora to meet, as Mrs. Grose said, the little
gentleman; and all the more for an incident that, presenting
itself the second evening, had deeply disconcerted me. The first
day had been, on the whole, as I have expressed, reassuring; but I
was to see it wind up in keen apprehension. The postbag, that
evening -- it came late -- contained a letter for me, which,
however, in the hand of my employer, I found to be composed but of
a few words enclosing another, addressed to himself, with a seal
still unbroken. "This, I recognize, is from the headmaster, and
the headmaster's an awful bore. Read him, please; deal with him;
but mind you don't report. Not a word. I'm off!" I broke the seal
with a great effort -- so great a one that I was a long time
coming to it; took the unopened missive at last up to my room and
only attacked it just before going to bed. I had better have let
it wait till morning, for it gave me a second sleepless night.
With no counsel to take, the next day, I was full of distress; and
it finally got so the better of me that I determined to open
myself at least to Mrs. Grose.
"What does it mean? The child's dismissed his
She gave me a look that I remarked at the
moment; then, visibly, with a quick blankness, seemed to try to
take it back. "But aren't they all -- -- ?"
"Sent home -- yes. But only for the holidays.
Miles may never go back at all."
Consciously, under my attention, she reddened.
"They won't take him?"
"They absolutely decline."
At this she raised her eyes, which she had
turned from me; I saw them fill with good tears. "What has he
I hesitated; then I judged best simply to hand
her my letter -- which, however, had the effect of making her,
without taking it, simply put her hands behind her. She shook her
head sadly. "Such things are not for me, miss."
My counselor couldn't read! I winced at my
mistake, which I attenuated as I could, and opened my letter again
to repeat it to her; then, faltering in the act and folding it up
once more, I put it back in my pocket. "Is he really bad? "
The tears were still in her eyes. "Do the
gentlemen say so?"
"They go into no particulars. They simply
express their regret that it should be impossible to keep him.
That can have only one meaning." Mrs. Grose listened with dumb
emotion; she forbore to ask me what this meaning might be; so
that, presently, to put the thing with some coherence and with the
mere aid of her presence to my own mind, I went on: "That he's an
injury to the others."
At this, with one of the quick turns of simple
folk, she suddenly flamed up. "Master Miles! him an injury?"
There was such a flood of good faith in it
that, though I had not yet seen the child, my very fears made me
jump to the absurdity of the idea. I found myself, to meet my
friend the better, offering it, on the spot, sarcastically. "To
his poor little innocent mates!"
"It's too dreadful," cried Mrs. Grose, "to say
such cruel things! Why, he's scarce ten years old."
"Yes, yes; it would be incredible."
She was evidently grateful for such a
profession. "See him, miss, first. Then believe it!" I felt
forthwith a new impatience to see him; it was the beginning of a
curiosity that, for all the next hours, was to deepen almost to
pain. Mrs. Grose was aware, I could judge, of what she had
produced in me, and she followed it up with assurance. "You might
as well believe it of the little lady. Bless her," she added the
next moment -- " look at her!"
I turned and saw that Flora, whom, ten minutes
before, I had established in the schoolroom with a sheet of white
paper, a pencil, and a copy of nice "round o's," now presented
herself to view at the open door. She expressed in her little way
an extraordinary detachment from disagreeable duties, looking to
me, however, with a great childish light that seemed to offer it
as a mere result of the affection she had conceived for my person,
which had rendered necessary that she should follow me. I needed
nothing more than this to feel the full force of Mrs. Grose's
comparison, and, catching my pupil in my arms, covered her with
kisses in which there was a sob of atonement.
Nonetheless, the rest of the day I watched for
further occasion to approach my colleague, especially as, toward
evening, I began to fancy she rather sought to avoid me. I
overtook her, I remember, on the staircase; we went down together,
and at the bottom I detained her, holding her there with a hand on
her arm. "I take what you said to me at noon as a declaration that
you've never known him to be bad."
She threw back her head; she had clearly, by
this time, and very honestly, adopted an attitude. "Oh, never
known him -- I don't pretend that! "
I was upset again. "Then you have known him
-- -- ?"
"Yes indeed, miss, thank God!"
On reflection I accepted this. "You mean that a
boy who never is -- -- ?"
"Is no boy for me! "
I held her tighter. "You like them with the
spirit to be naughty?" Then, keeping pace with her answer, "So do
I!'' I eagerly brought out. "But not to the degree to contaminate
"To contaminate?" -- my big word left her at a
loss. I explained it. "To corrupt."
She stared, taking my meaning in; but it
produced in her an odd laugh. "Are you afraid he'll corrupt you? "
She put the question with such a fine bold humor that, with a
laugh, a little silly doubtless, to match her own, I gave way for
the time to the apprehension of ridicule.
But the next day, as the hour for my drive
approached, I cropped up in another place. "What was the lady who
was here before?"
"The last governess? She was also young and
pretty -- almost as young and almost as pretty, miss, even as
"Ah, then, I hope her youth and her beauty
helped her!" I recollect throwing off. "He seems to like us young
"Oh, he did, " Mrs. Grose assented -- "it was
the way he liked everyone!" She had no sooner spoken indeed than
she caught herself up. "I mean that's his way -- the master's."
I was struck. "But of whom did you speak
She looked blank, but she colored. "Why, of
"Of the master?"
"Of who else?"
There was so obviously no one else that the
next moment I had lost my impression of her having accidentally
said more than she meant -- and I merely asked what I wanted to
know. "Did she see anything in the boy -- -- ?"
"That wasn't right? She never told me."
I had a scruple, but I overcame it. "Was she
careful -- particular?"
Mrs. Grose appeared to try to be conscientious.
"About some things -- yes."
"But not about all?"
Again she considered. "Well, miss -- she's
gone. I won't tell tales."
"I quite understand your feeling," I hastened
to reply; but I thought it, after an instant, not opposed to this
concession to pursue: "Did she die here?"
"No -- she went off."
I don't know what there was in this brevity of
Mrs. Grose's that struck me as ambiguous. "Went off to die?" Mrs.
Grose looked straight out of the window, but I felt that,
hypothetically, I had a right to know what young persons engaged
for Bly were expected to do. "She was taken ill, you mean, and
"She was not taken ill, so far as appeared, in
this house. She left it, at the end of the year, to go home, as
she said, for a short holiday, to which the time she had put in
had certainly given her a right. We had then a young woman a
nursemaid who had stayed on and who was a good girl and clever;
and she took the children altogether for the interval. But our
young lady never came back, and at the very moment I was expecting
her I heard from the master that she was dead."
I turned this over. "But of what?"
"He never told me! But please, miss," said Mrs.
Grose, "I must get to my work."
Her thus turning her back on me was fortunately
not, for my just preoccupations, a snub that could check the
growth of our mutual esteem. We met, after I had brought home
little Miles, more intimately than ever on the ground of my
stupefaction, my general emotion: so monstrous was I then ready to
pronounce it that such a child as had now been revealed to me
should be under an interdict. I was a little late on the scene,
and I felt, as he stood wistfully looking out for me before the
door of the inn at which the coach had put him down, that I had
seen him, on the instant, without and within, in the great glow of
freshness, the same positive fragrance of purity, in which I had,
from the first moment, seen his little sister. He was incredibly
beautiful, and Mrs. Grose had put her finger on it: everything but
a sort of passion of tenderness for him was swept away by his
presence. What I then and there took him to my heart for was
something divine that I have never found to the same degree in any
child -- his indescribable little air of knowing nothing in the
world but love. It would have been impossible to carry a bad name
with a greater sweetness of innocence, and by the time I had got
back to Bly with him I remained merely bewildered -- so far, that
is, as I was not outraged -- by the sense of the horrible letter
locked up in my room, in a drawer. As soon as I could compass a
private word with Mrs. Grose I declared to her that it was
She promptly understood me. "You mean the cruel
charge -- -- ?"
"It doesn't live an instant. My dear woman,
look at him!"
She smiled at my pretention to have discovered
his charm. "I assure you, miss, I do nothing else! What will you
say, then?" she immediately added.
"In answer to the letter?" I had made up my
"And to his uncle?"
I was incisive. "Nothing."
"And to the boy himself?"
I was wonderful. "Nothing."
She gave with her apron a great wipe to her
mouth. "Then I'll stand by you. We'll see it out."
"We'll see it out!" I ardently echoed, giving
her my hand to make It a vow.
She held me there a moment, then whisked up her
apron again with her detached hand. "Would you mind, miss, if I
used the freedom -- -- "
"To kiss me? No!" I took the good creature in
my arms and, after we had embraced like sisters, felt still more
fortified and indignant.
This, at all events, was for the time: a time
so full that, as I recall the way it went, it reminds me of all
the art I now need to make it a little distinct. What I look back
at with amazement is the situation I accepted. I had undertaken,
with my companion, to see it out, and I was under a charm,
apparently, that could smooth away the extent and the far and
difficult connections of such an effort. I was lifted aloft on a
great wave of infatuation and pity. I found it simple, in my
ignorance, my confusion, and perhaps my conceit, to assume that I
could deal with a boy whose education for the world was all on the
point of beginning. I am unable even to remember at this day what
proposal I framed for the end of his holidays and the resumption
of his studies. Lessons with me, indeed, that charming summer, we
all had a theory that he was to have; but I now feel that, for
weeks, the lessons must have been rather my own. I learned
something -- at first, certainly -- that had not been one of the
teachings of my small, smothered life; learned to be amused, and
even amusing, and not to think for the morrow. It was the first
time, in a manner, that I had known space and air and freedom, all
the music of summer and all the mystery of nature. And then there
was consideration -- and consideration was sweet. Oh, it was a
trap -- not designed, but deep -- to my imagination, to my
delicacy, perhaps to my vanity; to whatever, in me, was most
excitable. The best way to picture it all is to say that I was off
my guard. They gave me so little trouble -- they were of a
gentleness so extraordinary. I used to speculate -- but even this
with a dim disconnectedness -- as to how the rough future (for all
futures are rough!) would handle them and might bruise them. They
had the bloom of health and happiness; and yet, as if I had been
in charge of a pair of little grandees, of princes of the blood,
for whom everything, to be right, would have to be enclosed and
protected, the only form that, in my fancy, the afteryears could
take for them was that of a romantic, a really royal extension of
the garden and the park. It may be, of course, above all, that
what suddenly broke into this gives the previous time a charm of
stillness -- that hush in which something gathers or crouches. The
change was actually like the spring of a beast.
In the first weeks the days were long; they
often, at their finest, gave me what I used to call my own hour,
the hour when, for my pupils, teatime and bedtime having come and
gone, I had, before my final retirement, a small interval alone.
Much as I liked my companions, this hour was the thing in the day
I liked most; and I liked it best of all when, as the light faded
-- or rather, I should say, the day lingered and the last calls of
the last birds sounded, in a flushed sky, from the old trees -- I
could take a turn into the grounds and enjoy, almost with a sense
of property that amused and flattered me, the beauty and dignity
of the place. It was a pleasure at these moments to feel myself
tranquil and justified; doubtless, perhaps, also to reflect that
by my discretion, my quiet good sense and general high propriety,
I was giving pleasure -- if he ever thought of it! -- to the
person to whose pressure I had responded. What I was doing was
what he had earnestly hoped and directly asked of me, and that I
could, after all, do it proved even a greater joy than I had
expected. I daresay I fancied myself, in short, a remarkable young
woman and took comfort in the faith that this would more publicly
appear. Well, I needed to be remarkable to offer a front to the
remarkable things that presently gave their first sign.
It was plump, one afternoon, in the middle of
my very hour: the children were tucked away, and I had come out
for my stroll. One of the thoughts that, as I don't in the least
shrink now from noting, used to be with me in these wanderings was
that it would be as charming as a charming story suddenly to meet
someone. Someone would appear there at the turn of a path and
would stand before me and smile and approve. I didn't ask more
than that -- I only asked that he should know and the only way to
be sure he knew would be to see it, and the kind light of it, in
his handsome face. That was exactly present to me -- by which I
mean the face was -- when, on the first of these occasions, at the
end of a long June day, I stopped short on emerging from one of
the plantations and coming into view of the house. What arrested
me on the spot -- and with a shock much greater than any vision
had allowed for -- was the sense that my imagination had, in a
flash, turned real. He did stand there! -- but high up, beyond the
lawn and at the very top of the tower to which, on that first
morning, little Flora had conducted me. This tower was one of a
pair -- square, incongruous, crenelated structures -- that were
distinguished, for some reason, though I could see little
difference, as the new and the old. They flanked opposite ends of
the house and were probably architectural absurdities, redeemed in
a measure indeed by not being wholly disengaged nor of a height
too pretentious, dating, in their gingerbread antiquity, from a
romantic revival that was already a respectable past. I admired
them, had fancies about them, for we could all profit in a degree,
especially when they loomed through the dusk, by the grandeur of
their actual battlements; yet it was not at such an elevation that
the figure I had so often invoked seemed most in place.
It produced in me, this figure, in the clear
twilight, I remember, two distinct gasps of emotion, which were,
sharply, the shock of my first and that of my second surprise. My
second was a violent perception of the mistake of my first: the
man who met my eyes was not the person I had precipitately
supposed. There came to me thus a bewilderment of vision of which,
after these years, there is no living view that I can hope to
give. An unknown man in a lonely place is a permitted object of
fear to a young woman privately bred; and the figure that faced me
was -- a few more seconds assured me -- as little anyone else I
knew as it was the image that had been in my mind. I had not seen
it in Harley Street -- I had not seen it anywhere. The place,
moreover, in the strangest way in the world, had, on the instant,
and by the very fact of its appearance, become a solitude. To me
at least, making my statement here with a deliberation with which
I have never made it, the whole feeling of the moment returns. It
was as if, while I took in -- what I did take in -- all the rest
of the scene had been stricken with death. I can hear again, as I
write, the intense hush in which the sounds of evening dropped.
The rooks stopped cawing in the golden sky, and the friendly hour
lost, for the minute, all its voice. But there was no other change
in nature, unless indeed it were a change that I saw with a
stranger sharpness. The gold was still in the sky, the clearness
in the air, and the man who looked at me over the battlements was
as definite as a picture in a frame. That's how I thought, with
extraordinary quickness, of each person that he might have been
and that he was not. We were confronted across our distance quite
long enough for me to ask myself with intensity who then he was
and to feel, as an effect of my inability to say, a wonder that in
a few instants more became intense.
The great question, or one of these, is,
afterward, I know, with regard to certain matters, the question of
how long they have lasted. Well, this matter of mine, think what
you will of it, lasted while I caught at a dozen possibilities,
none of which made a difference for the better, that I could see,
in there having been in the house -- and for how long, above all?
-- a person of whom I was in ignorance. It lasted while I just
bridled a little with the sense that my office demanded that there
should be no such ignorance and no such person. It lasted while
this visitant, at all events -- and there was a touch of the
strange freedom, as I remember, in the sign of familiarity of his
wearing no hat -- seemed to fix me, from his position, with just
the question, just the scrutiny through the fading light, that his
own presence provoked. We were too far apart to call to each
other, but there was a moment at which, at shorter range, some
challenge between us, breaking the hush, would have been the right
result of our straight mutual stare. He was in one of the angles,
the one away from the house, very erect, as it struck me, and with
both hands on the ledge. So I saw him as I see the letters I form
on this page; then, exactly, after a minute, as if to add to the
spectacle, he slowly changed his place -- passed, looking at me
hard all the while, to the opposite corner of the platform. Yes, I
had the sharpest sense that during this transit he never took his
eyes from me, and I can see at this moment the way his hand, as he
went, passed from one of the crenelations to the next. He stopped
at the other corner, but less long, and even as he turned away
still markedly fixed me. He turned away; that was all I knew.
It was not that I didn't wait, on this
occasion, for more, for I was rooted as deeply as I was shaken.
Was there a "secret" at Bly -- a mystery of Udolpho or an insane,
an unmentionable relative kept in unsuspected confinement? I can't
say how long I turned it over, or how long, in a confusion of
curiosity and dread, I remained where I had had my collision; I
only recall that when I re-entered the house darkness had quite
closed in. Agitation, in the interval, certainly had held me and
driven me, for I must, in circling about the place, have walked
three miles; but I was to be, later on, so much more overwhelmed
that this mere dawn of alarm was a comparatively human chill. The
most singular part of it, in fact -- singular as the rest had been
-- was the part I became, in the hall, aware of in meeting Mrs.
Grose. This picture comes back to me in the general train -- the
impression, as I received it on my return, of the wide white
panelled space, bright in the lamplight and with its portraits and
red carpet, and of the good surprised look of my friend, which
immediately told me she had missed me. It came to me straightway,
under her contact, that, with plain heartiness, mere relieved
anxiety at my appearance, she knew nothing whatever that could
bear upon the incident I had there ready for her. I had not
suspected in advance that her comfortable face would pull me up,
and I somehow measured the importance of what I had seen by my
thus finding myself hesitate to mention it. Scarce anything in the
whole history seems to me so odd as this fact that my real
beginning of fear was one, as I may say, with the instinct of
sparing my companion. On the spot, accordingly, in the pleasant
hall and with her eyes on me, I, for a reason that I couldn't then
have phrased, achieved an inward resolution -- offered a vague
pretext for my lateness and, with the plea of the beauty of the
night and of the heavy dew and wet feet, went as soon as possible
to my room.
Here it was another affair; here, for many days
after, it was a queer affair enough. There were hours, from day to
day -- or at least there were moments, snatched even from clear
duties -- when I had to shut myself up to think. It was not so
much yet that I was more nervous than I could bear to be as that I
was remarkably afraid of becoming so; for the truth I had now to
turn over was, simply and clearly, the truth that I could arrive
at no account whatever of the visitor with whom I had been so
inexplicably and yet, as it seemed to me, so intimately concerned.
It took little time to see that I could sound without forms of
inquiry and without exciting remark any domestic complication. The
shock I had suffered must have sharpened all my senses; I felt
sure, at the end of three days and as the result of mere closer
attention, that I had not been practiced upon by the servants nor
made the object of any "game." Of whatever it was that I knew,
nothing was known around me. There was but one sane inference:
someone had taken a liberty rather gross. That was what,
repeatedly, I dipped into my room and locked the door to say to
myself. We had been, collectively, subject to an intrusion; some
unscrupulous traveler, curious in old houses, had made his way in
unobserved, enjoyed the prospect from the best point of view, and
then stolen out as he came. If he had given me such a bold hard
stare, that was but a part of his indiscretion. The good thing,
after all, was that we should surely see no more of him.
This was not so good a thing, I admit, as not
to leave me to judge that what, essentially, made nothing else
much signify was simply my charming work. My charming work was
just my life with Miles and Flora, and through nothing could I so
like it as through feeling that I could throw myself into it in
trouble. The attraction of my small charges was a constant joy,
leading me to wonder afresh at the vanity of my original fears,
the distaste I had begun by entertaining for the probable gray
prose of my office. There was to be no gray prose, it appeared,
and no long grind; so how could work not be charming that
presented itself as daily beauty? It was all the romance of the
nursery and the poetry of the school room. I don't mean by this,
of course, that we studied only fiction and verse; I mean I can
express no otherwise the sort of interest my companions inspired.
How can I describe that except by saying that instead of growing
used to them -- and it's a marvel for a governess: I call the
sisterhood to witness! -- I made constant fresh discoveries. There
was one direction, assuredly, in which these discoveries stopped:
deep obscurity continued to cover the region of the boy's conduct
at school. It had been promptly given me, I have noted, to face
that mystery without a pang. Perhaps even it would be nearer the
truth to say that -- without a word -- he himself had cleared it
up. He had made the whole charge absurd. My conclusion bloomed
there with the real rose flush of his innocence: he was only too
fine and fair for the little horrid, unclean school world, and he
had paid a price for it. I reflected acutely that the sense of
such differences, such superiorities of quality, always, on the
part of the majority -- which could include even stupid, sordid
headmasters -- turns infallibly to the vindictive.
Both the children had a gentleness (it was
their only fault, and it never made Miles a muff) that kept them
-- how shall I express it? almost impersonal and certainly quite
unpunishable. They were like the cherubs of the anecdote, who had
-- morally, at any rate -- nothing to whack! I remember feeling
with Miles in especial as if he had had, as it were, no history.
We expect of a small child a scant one, but there was in this
beautiful little boy something extraordinarily sensitive, yet
extraordinarily happy, that, more than in any creature of his age
I have seen, struck me as beginning anew each day. He had never
for a second suffered. I took this as a direct disproof of his
having really been chastised. If he had been wicked he would have
"caught" it, and I should have caught it by the rebound -- I
should have found the trace. I found nothing at all, and he was
therefore an angel. He never spoke of his school, never mentioned
a comrade or a master; and I, for my part, was quite too much
disgusted to allude to them. Of course I was under the spell, and
the wonderful part is that, even at the time, I perfectly knew I
was. But I gave myself up to it; it was an antidote to any pain,
and I had more pains than one. I was in receipt in these days of
disturbing letters from home, where things were not going well.
But with my children, what things in the world mattered? That was
the question I used to put to my scrappy retirements. I was
dazzled by their loveliness.
There was a Sunday -- to get on -- when it
rained with such force and for so many hours that there could be
no procession to church; in consequence of which, as the day
declined, I had arranged with Mrs. Grose that, should the evening
show improvement, we would attend together the late service. The
rain happily stopped, and I prepared for our walk, which, through
the park and by the good road to the village, would be a matter of
twenty minutes. Coming downstairs to meet my colleague in the
hall, I remembered a pair of gloves that had required three
stitches and that had received them -- with a publicity perhaps
not edifying -- while I sat with the children at their tea, served
on Sundays, by exception, in that cold, clean temple of mahogany
and brass, the "grown-up" dining room. The gloves had been dropped
there, and I turned in to recover them. The day was gray enough,
but the afternoon light still lingered, and it enabled me, on
crossing the threshold, not only to recognize, on a chair near the
wide window, then closed, the articles I wanted, but to become
aware of a person on the other side of the window and looking
straight in. One step into the room had sufficed; my vision was
instantaneous; it was all there. The person looking straight in
was the person who had already appeared to me. He appeared thus
again with I won't say greater distinctness, for that was
impossible, but with a nearness that represented a forward stride
in our intercourse and made me, as I met him, catch my breath and
turn cold. He was the same -- he was the same, and seen, this
time, as he had been seen before, from the waist up, the window,
though the dining room was on the ground floor, not going down to
the terrace on which he stood. His face was close to the glass,
yet the effect of this better view was, strangely, only to show me
how intense the former had been. He remained but a few seconds --
long enough to convince me he also saw and recognized; but it was
as if I had been looking at him for years and had known him
always. Something, however, happened this tune that had not
happened before; his stare into my face, through the glass and
across the room, was as deep and hard as then, but it quitted me
for a moment during which I could still watch it, see it fix
successively several other things. On the spot there came to me
the added shock of a certitude that it was not for me he had come
there. He had come for someone else.
The flash of this knowledge -- for it was
knowledge in the midst of dread -- produced in me the most
extraordinary effect, started, as I stood there, a sudden
vibration of duty and courage. I say courage because I was beyond
all doubt already far gone. I bounded straight out of the door
again, reached that of the house, got, in an instant, upon the
drive, and, passing along the terrace as fast as I could rush,
turned a corner and came full in sight. But it was in sight of
nothing now -- my visitor had vanished. I stopped, I almost
dropped, with the real relief of this; but I took in the whole
scene -- I gave him time to reappear. I call it time, but how long
was it? I can't speak to the purpose today of the duration of
these things. That kind of measure must have left me: they
couldn't have lasted as they actually appeared to me to last. The
terrace and the whole place, the lawn and the garden beyond it,
all I could see of the park, were empty with a great emptiness.
There were shrubberies and big trees, but I remember the clear
assurance I felt that none of them concealed him. He was there or
was not there: not there if I didn't see him. I got hold of this;
then, instinctively, instead of returning as I had come, went to
the window. It was confusedly present to me that I ought to place
myself where he had stood. I did so; I applied my face to the pane
and looked, as he had looked, into the room. As if, at this
moment, to show me exactly what his range had been, Mrs. Grose, as
I had done for himself just before, came in from the hall. With
this I had the full image of a repetition of what had already
occurred. She saw me as I had seen my own visitant; she pulled up
short as I had done; I gave her something of the shock that I had
received. She turned white, and this made me ask myself if I had
blanched as much. She stared, in short, and retreated on just my
lines, and I knew she had then passed out and come round to me and
that I should presently meet her. I remained where I was, and
while I waited I thought of more things than one. But there's only
one I take space to mention. I wondered why she should be scared.
Oh, she let me know as soon as, round the
corner of the house, she loomed again into view. "What in the name
of goodness is the matter -- -- ?" She was now flushed and
out of breath.
I said nothing till she came quite near. "With
me?" I must have made a wonderful face. "Do I show it?"
"You're as white as a sheet. You look awful."
I considered; I could meet on this, without
scruple, any innocence. My need to respect the bloom of Mrs.
Grose's had dropped, without a rustle, from my shoulders, and if I
wavered for the instant it was not with what I kept back. I put
out my hand to her and she took it; I held her hard a little,
liking to feel her close to me. There was a kind of support in the
shy heave of her surprise. "You came for me for church, of course,
but I can't go."
"Has anything happened?"
"Yes. You must know now. Did I look very
"Through this window? Dreadful!"
"Well," I said, "I've been frightened." Mrs.
Grose's eyes expressed plainly that she had no wish to be, yet
also that she knew too well her place not to be ready to share
with me any marked inconvenience. Oh, it was quite settled that
she must share! "Just what you saw from the dining room a minute
ago was the effect of that. What Isaw -- just before -- was much
Her hand tightened. "What was it?"
"An extraordinary man. Looking in."
"What extraordinary man?"
"I haven't the least idea."
Mrs. Grose gazed round us in vain. 'Then where
is he gone?"
"I know still less."
"Have you seen him before?"
"Yes -- once. On the old tower."
She could only look at me harder. "Do you mean
he's a stranger?"
"Oh, very much!"
"Yet you didn't tell me?"
"No -- for reasons. But now that you've guessed
-- -- "
Mrs. Grose's round eyes encountered this
charge. "Ah, I haven't guessed!" she said very simply. "How can I
if you don't imagine?"
"I don't in the very least."
"You've seen him nowhere but on the tower?"
"And on this spot just now."
Mrs. Grose looked round again. "What was he
doing on the tower?"
"Only standing there and looking down at me."
She thought a minute. "Was he a gentleman?"
I found I had no need to think. "No." She gazed
in deeper wonder. "No."
"Then nobody about the place? Nobody from the
"Nobody -- nobody. I didn't tell you, but I
She breathed a vague relief: this was, oddly,
so much to the good. It only went indeed a little way, "But if he
isn't a gentleman -- -- "
"What is he? He's a horror."
"He's -- God help me if I know what he is!"
Mrs. Grose looked round once more; she fixed
her eyes on the duskier distance, then, pulling herself together,
turned to me with abrupt inconsequence. "It's time we should be at
"Oh, I'm not fit for church!"
"Won't it do you good?"
"It won't do them -- -- !" I nodded at
"I can't leave them now."
"You're afraid -- -- ?"
I spoke boldly. "I'm afraid of him. "
Mrs. Grose's large face showed me, at this, for
the first time, the faraway faint glimmer of a consciousness more
acute: I somehow made out in it the delayed dawn of an idea I
myself had not given her and that was as yet quite obscure to me,
It comes back to me that I thought instantly of this as something
I could get from her; and I felt it to be connected with the
desire she presently showed to know more. "When was it -- on the
"About the middle of the month. At this same
"Almost at dark," said Mrs. Grose.
"Oh, no, not nearly. I saw him as I see you."
"Then how did he get in?"
"And how did he get out?" I laughed. "I had no
opportunity to ask him! This evening, you see," I pursued, "he has
not been able to get in."
"He only peeps?"
"I hope it will be confined to that!" She had
now let go my hand; she turned away a little. I waited an instant;
then I brought out: "Go to church. Goodbye. I must watch."
Slowly she faced me again. "Do you fear for
We met in another long look, "Don't you? "
Instead of answering she came nearer to the window and, for a
minute, applied her face to the glass. "You see how he could see,"
I meanwhile went on.
She didn't move. "How long was he here?"
"Till I came out. I came to meet him."
Mrs. Grose at last turned round, and there was
still more in her face. " Icouldn't have come out."
"Neither could l!" I laughed again. "But I did
come. I have my duty."
"So have I mine," she replied; after which she
added "What is he like?"
"I've been dying to tell you. But he's like
"Nobody?" she echoed.
"He has no hat." Then seeing in her face that
she already, in this, with a deeper dismay, found a touch of
picture, I quickly added stroke to stroke. "He has red hair, very
red, close-curling, and a pale face, long in shape, with straight,
good features and little, rather queer whiskers that are as red as
his hair. His eyebrows are, somehow, darker; they look
particularly arched and as if they might move a good deal. His
eyes are sharp, strange -- awfully; but I only know clearly that
they're rather small and very fixed. His mouth's wide, and his
lips are thin, and except for his little whiskers he's quite
clean-shaven. He gives me a sort of sense of looking like an
"An actor!" It was impossible to resemble one
less, at least, than Mrs. Grose at that moment.
"I've never seen one, but so I suppose them.
He's tall, active, erect," I continued, "but never -- no, never!
-- a gentleman."
My companion's face had blanched as I went on;
her round eyes started and her mild mouth gaped. "A gentleman?"
she gasped, confounded, stupefied: "a gentleman he? "
"You know him then?"
She visibly tried to hold herself. "But he is
I saw the way to help her. "Remarkably!"
"And dressed -- -- ?"
"In somebody's clothes. They're smart, but
they're not his own."
She broke into a breathless affirmative groan:
"They're the master's!"
I caught it up. "You do know him?"
She faltered but a second. "Quint!" she cried.
"Peter Quint -- his own man, his valet, when he
"When the master was?"
Gaping still, but meeting me, she pieced it all
together. "He never wore his hat, but he did wear -- well, there
were waistcoats missed. They were both here -- last year. Then the
master went, and Quint was alone."
I followed, but halting a little. "Alone?"
"Alone with us. " Then, as from a deeper depth,
"In charge," she added.
"And what became of him?"
She hung fire so long that I was still more
mystified. "He went, too," she brought out at last.
Her expression, at this, became extraordinary.
"God knows where! He died."
"Died?" I almost shrieked.
She seemed fairly to square herself, plant
herself more firmly to utter the wonder of it. "Yes. Mr. Quint is
It took of course more than that particular
passage to place us together in presence of what we had now to
live with as we could -- my dreadful liability to impressions of
the order so vividly exemplified, and my companion's knowledge,
henceforth -- a knowledge half consternation and half compassion
-- of that liability. There had been, this evening, after the
revelation that left me, for an hour, so prostrate -- there had
been, for either of us, no attendance on any service but a little
service of tears and vows, of prayers and promises, a climax to
the series of mutual challenges and pledges that had straightway
ensued on our retreating together to me schoolroom and shutting
ourselves up there to have everything out. The result of our
having everything out was simply to reduce our situation to the
last rigor of its elements. She herself had seen nothing, not the
shadow of a shadow, and nobody in the house but the governess was
in the governess's plight; yet she accepted without directly
impugning my sanity the truth as I gave it to her, and ended by
showing me, on this ground, an awestricken tenderness, an
expression of the sense of my more than questionable privilege, of
which the very breath has remained with me as that of the sweetest
of human charities.
What was settled between us, accordingly, that
night, was that we thought we might bear things together; and I
was not even sure that, in spite of her exemption, it was she who
had the best of the burden. I knew at this hour, I think, as well
as I knew later, what I was capable of meeting to shelter my
pupils; but it took me some time to be wholly sure of what my
honest ally was prepared for to keep terms with so compromising a
contract, I was queer company enough -- quite as queer as the
company I received; but as I trace over what we went through I see
how much common ground we must have found in the one idea that, by
good fortune, could steady us. It was the idea, the second
movement, that led me straight out, as I may say, of the inner
chamber of my dread. I could take the air in the court, at least,
and there Mrs. Grose could join me. Perfectly can I recall now the
particular way strength came to me before we separated for the
night. We had gone over and over every feature of what I had seen.
"He was looking for someone else, you say --
someone who was not you?"
"He was looking for little Miles." A portentous
clearness now possessed me. " That's whom he was looking for."
"But how do you know?"
"I know, I know, I know!" My exaltation grew.
"And you know, my dear!"
She didn't deny this, but I required, I felt,
not even so much telling as that. She resumed in a moment, at any
rate: "What if he should see him?"
"Little Miles? That's what he wants!"
She looked immensely scared again. "The child?"
"Heaven forbid! The man. He wants to appear to
them. " That he might was an awful conception, and yet, somehow, I
could keep it at bay; which, moreover, as we lingered there, was
what I succeeded in practically proving, I had an absolute
certainty that I should see again what I had already seen, but
something within me said that by offering myself bravely as the
sole subject of such experience, by accepting, by inviting, by
surmounting it all, I should serve as an expiatory victim and
guard the tranquility of my companions. The children, in especial
I should thus fence about and absolutely save. I recall one of the
last things I said that night to Mrs. Grose.
"It does strike me that my pupils have never
mentioned -- -- "
She looked at me hard as I musingly pulled up.
"His having been here and the time they were with him?"
"The time they were with him, and his name, his
presence, his history, in any way."
"Oh, the little lady doesn't remember. She
never heard or knew."
"The circumstances of his death?" I thought
with some intensity. "Perhaps not. But Miles would remember --
Miles would know."
"Ah, don't try him!" broke from Mrs. Grose
I returned her the look she had given me.
"Don't be afraid." I continued to think. "It is rather odd."
"That he has never spoken of him?"
"Never by the least allusion. And you tell me
they were 'great friends'?"
"Oh, it wasn't him! " Mrs. Grose with emphasis
declared. "It was Quint's own fancy. To play with him, I mean --
to spoil him," She paused a moment; then she added: "Quint was
much too free."
This gave me, straight from my vision of his
face -- such a face! -- a sudden sickness of disgust. "Too free
with my boy?"
"Too free with everyone!"
I forbore, for the moment, to analyze this
description further than by the reflection that a part of it
applied to several of the members of the household, of the
half-dozen maids and men who were still of our small colony. But
there was everything, for our apprehension, in the lucky fact that
no discomfortable legend, no perturbation of scullions, had ever,
within anyone's memory attached to the kind old place. It had
neither bad name nor ill fame, and Mrs. Grose, most apparently,
only desired to cling to me and to quake in silence. I even put
her, the very last thing of all, to the test. It was when, at
midnight, she had her hand on the schoolroom door to take leave.
"I have it from you then -- for it's of great importance -- that
he was definitely and admittedly bad?"
"Oh, not admittedly. Iknew it -- but the master
"And you never told him?"
"Well, he didn't like tale-bearing -- he hated
complaints. He was terribly short with anything of that kind, and
if people were all right to him -- -- "
"He wouldn't be bothered with more?" This
squared well enough with my impression of him: he was not a
trouble-loving gentleman, nor so very particular perhaps about
some of the company he kept. All the same, I pressed my
interlocutress, "I promise you I would have told!"
She felt my discrimination. "I daresay I was
wrong. But, really, I was afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"Of things that man could do. Quint was so
clever -- he was so deep."
I took this in still more than, probably, I
showed. "You weren't afraid of anything else? Not of his effect
-- -- ?"
"His effect?" she repeated with a face of
anguish and waiting while I faltered.
"On innocent little precious lives. They were
in your charge."
"No, they were not in mine!" she roundly and
distressfully returned. "The master believed in him and placed him
here because he was supposed not to be well and the country air so
good for him. So he had everything to say. Yes" -- she let me have
it -- "even about them. "
"Them -- that creature?" I had to smother a
kind of howl. "And you could bear it!"
"No. I couldn't -- and I can't now!" And the
poor woman burst into tears.
A rigid control, from the next day, was, as I
have said, to follow them; yet how often and how passionately, for
a week, we came back together to the subject! Much as we had
discussed it that Sunday night, I was, in the immediate later
hours in especial -- for it may be imagined whether I slept --
still haunted with the shadow of something she had not told me. I
myself had kept back nothing, but there was a word Mrs. Grose had
kept back. I was sure, moreover, by morning, that this was not
from a failure of frankness, but because on every side there were
fears. It seems to me indeed, in retrospect, that by the time the
morrow's sun was high I had restlessly read into the fact before
us almost all the meaning they were to receive from subsequent and
more cruel occurrences. What they gave me above all was just the
sinister figure of the living man -- the dead one would keep
awhile! -- and of the months he had continuously passed at Bly,
which, added up, made a formidable stretch. The limit of this evil
time had arrived only when, on the dawn of a winter's morning,
Peter Quint was found, by a laborer going to early work, stone
dead on the road from the village: a catastrophe explained --
superficially at least -- by a visible wound to his head; such a
wound as might have been produced -- and as, on the final
evidence, had been -- by a fatal slip, in the dark and after
leaving the public house, on the steepish icy slope, a wrong path
altogether, at the bottom of which he lay. The icy slope, the turn
mistaken at night and in liquor, accounted for much --
practically, in the end and after the inquest and boundless
chatter, for everything; but there had been matters in his life --
strange passages and perils, secret disorders, vices more than
suspected -- that would have accounted for a good deal more.
I scarce know how to put my story into words
that shall be a credible picture of my state of mind; but I was in
these days literally able to find a joy in the extraordinary
flight of heroism the occasion demanded of me, I now saw that I
had been asked for a service admirable and difficult; and there
would be a greatness in letting it be seen -- oh, in the right
quarter! -- that I could succeed where many another girl might
have failed. It was an immense help to me -- I confess I rather
applaud myself as I look back! -- that I saw my service so
strongly and so simply. I was there to protect and defend the
little creatures in the world the most bereaved and the most
lovable, the appeal of whose helplessness had suddenly become only
too explicit, a deep, constant ache of one's own committed heart.
We were cut off, really, together; we were united in our danger.
They had nothing but me, and I -- well, I had them. It was in
short a magnificent chance. This chance presented itself to me in
an image richly material. I was a screen -- I was to stand before
them. The more I saw, the less they would. I began to watch them
in a stifled suspense, a disguised excitement that might well, had
it continued too long, have turned to something like madness. What
saved me, as I now see, was that it turned to something else
altogether. It didn't last as suspense -- it was superseded by
horrible proofs. Proofs, I say, yes -- from the moment I really
This moment dated from an afternoon hour that I
happened to spend in the grounds with the younger of my pupils
alone. We had left Miles indoors, on the red cushion of a deep
window seat; he had wished to finish a book, and I had been glad
to encourage a purpose so laudable in a young man whose only
defect was an occasional excess of the restless. His sister, on
the contrary, had been alert to come out, and I strolled with her
half an hour, seeking the shade, for the sun was still high and
the day exceptionally warm. I was aware afresh, with her, as we
went, of how, like her brother, she contrived -- it was the
charming thing in both children -- to let me alone without
appearing to drop me and to accompany me without appearing to
surround. They were never importunate and yet never listless. My
attention to them all really went to seeing them amuse themselves
immensely without me: this was a spectacle they seemed actively to
prepare and that engaged me as an active admirer. I walked in a
world of their invention -- they had no occasion whatever to draw
upon mine; so that my time was taken only with being, for them,
some remarkable person or thing that the game of the moment
required and that was merely, thanks to my superior, my exalted
stamp, a happy and highly distinguished sinecure. I forget what I
was on the present occasion; I only remember that I was something
very important and very quiet and that Flora was playing very
hard. We were on the edge of the lake, and, as we had lately begun
geography, the lake was the Sea of Azof.
Suddenly, in these circumstances, I became
aware that, on the other side of the Sea of Azof, we had an
interested spectator. The way this knowledge gathered in me was
the strangest thing in the world -- the strangest, that is, except
the very much stranger in which it quickly merged itself. I had
sat down with a piece of work -- for I was something or other that
could sit -- on the old stone bench which overlooked the pond; and
in this position I began to take in with certitude, and yet
without direct vision, the presence, at a distance, of a third
person. The old trees, the thick shrubbery, made a great and
pleasant shade, but it was all suffused with the brightness of the
hot, still hour. There was no ambiguity in anything; none
whatever, at least, in the conviction I from one moment to another
found myself forming as to what I should see straight before me
and across the lake as a consequence of raising my eyes. They were
attached at this juncture to the stitching in which I was engaged,
and I can feel once more the spasm of my effort not to move them
till I should so have steadied myself as to be able to make up my
mind what to do. There was an alien object in view -- a figure
whose right of presence I instantly, passionately questioned. I
recollect counting over perfectly the possibilities, reminding
myself that nothing was more natural, for instance, than the
appearance of one of the men about the place, or even of a
messenger, a postman, or a tradesman's boy, from the village. That
reminder had as little effect on my practical certitude as I was
conscious -- still even without looking -- of its having upon the
character and attitude of our visitor. Nothing was more natural
than that these things should be the other things that they
absolutely were not.
Of the positive identity of the apparition I
would assure myself as soon as the small clock of my courage
should have ticked out the right second; meanwhile, with an effort
that was already sharp enough, I transferred my eyes straight to
little Flora, who, at the moment, was about ten yards away. My
heart had stood still for an instant with the wonder and terror of
the question whether she too would see; and I held my breath while
I waited for what a cry from her, what some sudden innocent sign
either of interest or of alarm, would tell me. I waited, but
nothing came; then, in the first place -- and there is something
more dire in this, I feel, than in anything I have to relate -- I
was determined by a sense that, within a minute, all sounds from
her had previously dropped; and, in the second, by the
circumstance that, also within the minute, she had, in her play,
turned her back to the water. This was her attitude when I at last
looked at her -- looked with the confirmed conviction that we were
still, together, under direct personal notice. She had picked up a
small flat piece of wood, which happened to have in it a little
hole that had evidently suggested to her the idea of sticking in
another fragment that might figure as a mast and make the thing a
boat This second morsel, as I watched her, she was very markedly
and intently attempting to tighten in its place. My apprehension
of what she was doing sustained me so that after some seconds I
felt I was ready for more. Then I again shifted my eyes -- I faced
what I had to face.
I got hold of Mrs. Grose as soon after this as
I could; and I can give no intelligible account of how I fought
out the interval. Yet I still hear myself cry as I fairly threw
myself into her arms: "They know -- it's too monstrous: they know,
"And what on earth -- -- ?" I felt her
incredulity as she held me.
"Why, all that we know -- and heaven knows what
else besides!" Then, as she released me, I made it out to her,
made it out perhaps only now with full coherency even to myself.
"Two hours ago, in the garden" -- I could scarce articulate --
"Flora saw! "
Mrs. Grose took it as she might have taken a
blow in the stomach. "She has told you?" she panted.
"Not a word -- that's the horror. She kept it
to herself! The child of eight, that child!" Unutterable still,
for me, was the stupefaction of it.
Mrs. Grose, of course, could only gape the
wider. "Then how do you know?"
"I was there -- I saw with my eyes: saw that
she was perfectly aware."
"Do you mean aware of him? "
"No -- of her. " I was conscious as I spoke
that I looked prodigious things, for I got the slow reflection of
them in my companion's face. "Another person -- this time; but a
figure of quite as unmistakable horror and evil: a woman in black,
pale and dreadful -- with such an air also, and such a face! -- on
the other side of the lake. I was there with the child -- quiet
for the hour; and in the midst of it she came."
"Came how -- from where?"
"From where they come from! She just appeared
and stood there -- but not so near."
"And without coming nearer?"
"Oh, for the effect and the feeling, she might
have been as close as you!"
My friend, with an odd impulse, fell back a
step. "Was she someone you've never seen?"
"Yes. But someone the child has. Someone you
have. Then, to show how I had thought it all out: "My predecessor
-- the one who died."
"Miss Jessel. You don't believe me?" I pressed.
She turned right and left in her distress. "How
can you be sure?"
This drew from me, in the state of my nerves, a
flash of impatience. "Then ask Flora -- she's sure!" But I had no
sooner spoken than I caught myself up. "No, for God's sake, don't!
She'll say she isn't -- she'll lie!"
Mrs. Grose was not too bewildered instinctively
to protest "Ah, how can you?"
"Because I'm clear. Flora doesn't want me to
"It's only then to spare you."
"No, no -- there are depths, depths! The more I
go over it, the more I see in it, and the more I see in it, the
more I fear. I don't know what I don't see -- what I don't fear!"
Mrs. Grose tried to keep up with me. "You mean
you're afraid of seeing her again?"
"Oh, no; that's nothing -- now!" Then I
explained. "It's of not seeing her."
But my companion only looked wan. "I don't
"Why, it's that the child may keep it up -- and
that the child assuredly will -- without my knowing it."
At the image of this possibility Mrs. Grose for
a moment collapsed, yet presently to pull herself together again,
as if from the positive force of the sense of what, should we
yield an inch, there would really be to give way to. "Dear, dear
-- we must keep our heads! And after all, if she doesn't mind it
-- !" She even tried a grim joke. "Perhaps she likes it!"
"Likes such things -- a scrap of an infant!"
"Isn't it just a proof of her blessed
innocence?" my friend bravely inquired.
She brought me, for the instant, almost round.
"Oh, we must clutch at that -- we must cling to it! If it isn't a
proof of what you say, it's a proof of -- God knows what! For the
woman's a horror of horrors."
Mrs. Grose, at this, fixed her eyes a minute on
the ground; then at last raising them, "Tell me how you know," she
"Then you admit it's what she was?" I cried.
"Tell me how you know," my friend simply
"Know? By seeing her! By the way she looked."
"At you, do you mean -- so wickedly?"
"Dear me, no -- I could have borne that. She
gave me never a glance. She only fixed the child."
Mrs. Grose tried to see it. "Fixed her?"
"Ah, with such awful eyes!"
She stared at mine as if they might really have
resembled them. "Do you mean of dislike?"
"God help us, no. Of something much worse."
"Worse than dislike?" -- this left her indeed
at a loss.
"With a determination -- indescribable. With a
kind of fury of intention."
I made her turn pale. "Intention?"
"To get hold of her." Mrs. Grose -- her eyes
just lingering on mine -- gave a shudder and walked to the window;
and while she stood there looking out I completed my statement. "
That's what Flora knows."
After a little she turned round. "The person
was in black, you say?"
"In mourning -- rather poor, almost shabby. But
-- yes -- with extraordinary beauty." I now recognized to what I
had at last, stroke by stroke, brought the the victim of my
confidence, for she quite visibly weighed this. "Oh, handsome --
very, very," I insisted; "wonderfully handsome. But infamous."
She slowly came back to me. "Miss Jessel -- was
infamous." She once more took my hand in both her own, holding it
as tight as if to fortify me against the increase of alarm I might
draw from this disclosure. "They were both infamous," she finally
So, for a little, we faced it once more
together; and I found absolutely a degree of help in seeing it now
so straight. "I appreciate," I said, "the great decency of your
not having hitherto spoken; but the time has certainly come to
give me the whole thing." She appeared to assent to this, but
still only in silence; seeing which I went on: "I must have it
now. Of what did she die? Come, there was something between them."
"There was everything."
"In spite of the difference -- -- ?"
"Oh, of their rank, their condition" -- she
brought it woefully out. " She was a lady."
I turned it over; I again saw. "Yes -- she was
"And he so dreadfully below," said Mrs. Grose.
I felt that I doubtless needn't press too hard,
in such company, on the place of a servant in the scale; but there
was nothing to prevent an acceptance of my companion's own measure
of my predecessor's abasement. There was a way to deal with that,
and I dealt; the more readily for my full vision -- on the
evidence -- of our employer's late clever, good-looking "own" man;
impudent, assured, spoiled, depraved. "The fellow was a hound."
Mrs. Grose considered as if it were perhaps a
little a case for a sense of shades. "I've never seen one like
him. He did what he wished."
"With her? "
"With them all."
It was as if now in my friend's own eyes Miss
Jessel had again appeared. I seemed at any rate, for an instant,
to see their evocation of her as distinctly as I had seen her by
the pond; and I brought out with decision: "It must have been also
what she wished!"
Mrs. Grose's face signified that it had been
indeed, but she said at the same time: "Poor woman -- she paid for
"Then you do know what she died of?" I asked.
"No -- I know nothing. I wanted not to know; I
was glad enough I didn't; and I thanked heaven she was well out of
"Yet you had, then, your idea -- -- "
"Of her real reason for leaving? Oh, yes -- as
to that. She couldn't have stayed. Fancy it here -- for a
governess! And afterward I imagined -- and I still imagine. And
what I imagine is dreadful."
"Not so dreadful as what I do," I replied; on
which I must have shown her -- as I was indeed but too conscious
-- a front of miserable defeat. It brought out again all her
compassion for me, and at the renewed touch of her kindness my
power to resist broke down. I burst, as I had, the other time,
made her burst, into tears; she took me to her motherly breast,
and my lamentation overflowed. "I don't do it!" I sobbed in
despair; "I don't save or shield them! It's far worse than I
dreamed -- they're lost!"
What I had said to Mrs. Grose was true enough:
there were in the matter I had put before her depths and
possibilities that I lacked resolution to sound; so that when we
met once more in the wonder of it we were of a common mind about
the duty of resistance to extravagant fancies. We were to keep our
heads if we should keep nothing else -- difficult indeed as that
might be in the face of what, in our prodigious experience, was
least to be questioned. Late that night, while the house slept, we
had another talk in my room, when she went all the way with me as
to its being beyond doubt that I had seen exactly what I had seen.
To hold her perfectly in the pinch of that, I found I had only to
ask her how, if I had "made it up," I came to be able to give, of
each of the persons appearing to me, a picture disclosing, to the
last detail, their special marks -- a portrait on the exhibition
of which she had instantly recognized and named them. She wished
of course -- small blame to her! -- to sink the whole subject; and
I was quick to assure her that my own interest in it had now
violently taken the form of a search for the way to escape from
it. I encountered her on the ground of a probability that with
recurrence -- for recurrence we took for granted -- I should get
used to my danger, distinctly professing that my personal exposure
had suddenly become the least of my discomforts. It was my new
suspicion that was intolerable; and yet even to this complication
the later hours of the day had brought a little ease.
On leaving her, after my first outbreak, I had
of course returned to my pupils, associating the right remedy for
my dismay with that sense of their charm which I had already found
to be a thing I could positively cultivate and which had never
failed me yet. I had simply, in other words, plunged afresh into
Flora's special society and there become aware -- it was almost a
luxury! -- that she could put her little conscious hand straight
upon the spot that ached. She had looked at me in sweet
speculation and then had accused me to my face of having "cried."
I had supposed I had brushed away the ugly signs: but I could
literally -- for the time, at all events -- rejoice, under this
fathomless charity, that they had not entirely disappeared. To
gaze into the depths of blue of the child's eyes and pronounce
their loveliness a trick of premature cunning was to be guilty of
a cynicism in preference to which I naturally preferred to abjure
my judgment and, so far as might be, my agitation. I couldn't
abjure for merely wanting to, but I could repeat to Mrs. Grose as
I did there, over and over, in the small hours -- that with their
voices in the air, their pressure on one's heart, and their
fragrant faces against one's cheek, everything fell to the ground
but their incapacity and their beauty. It was a pity that,
somehow, to settle this once for all, I had equally to
re-enumerate the signs of subtlety that, in the afternoon, by the
lake, had made a miracle of my show of self-possession. It was a
pity to be obliged to reinvestigate the certitude of the moment
itself and repeat how it had come to me as a revelation that the
inconceivable communion I then surprised was a matter, for either
party, of habit. It was a pity that I should have had to quaver
out again the reasons for my not having, in my delusion, so much
as questioned that the little girl saw our visitant even as I
actually saw Mrs. Grose herself, and that she wanted, by just so
much as she did thus see, to make me suppose she didn't, and at
the same time, without showing anything, arrive at a guess as to
whether I myself did! It was a pity that I needed once more to
describe the portentous little activity by which she sought to
divert my attention -- the perceptible increase of movement, the
greater intensity of play, the singing, the gabbling of nonsense,
and the invitation to romp.
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 Iat 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 -- 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 -- , 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."
"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
I considered. "Did he put that to you as a
At this she dropped again. "No, he never spoke
"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 --
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
"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
"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.
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 circumstance 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
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 school master 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 naive
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
Iwere 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.
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
"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 name 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 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
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 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.
At the hour I now speak of she had joined me,
under pressure, on the terrace, where, with the lapse of the
season, the afternoon sun was now agreeable; and we sat there
together while, before us, at a distance, but within call if we
wished, -- the children strolled to and fro in one of their most
manageable moods. They moved slowly, in unison, below us, over the
lawn, the boy, as they went, reading aloud from a storybook and
passing his arm round his sister to keep her quite in touch. Mrs.
Grose watched them with positive placidity; then I caught the
suppressed intellectual creak with which she conscientiously
turned to take from me a view of the back of the tapestry. I had
made her a receptacle of lurid things, but there was an odd
recognition of my superiority -- my accomplishments and my
function -- in her patience under my pain. She offered her mind to
my disclosures as, had I wished to mix a witch's broth and
proposed it with assurance, she would have held out a large clean
saucepan. This had become thoroughly her attitude by the time
that, in my recital of the events of the night, I reached the
point of what Miles had said to me when, after seeing him, at such
a monstrous hour almost on the very spot where he happened now to
be, I had gone down to bring him in; choosing then, at the window,
with a concentrated need of not alarming the house, rather that
method than a signal more resonant I had left her meanwhile in
little doubt of my small hope of representing with success even to
her actual sympathy my sense of the real splendor of the little
inspiration with which, after I had got him into the house, the
boy met my final articulate challenge. As soon as I appeared in
the moonlight on the terrace, he had come to me as straight as
possible; on which I had taken his hand without a word and led
him, through the dark spaces, up the staircase where Quint had so
hungrily hovered for him, along the lobby where I had listened and
trembled, and so to his forsaken room.
Not a sound, on the way, had passed between us,
and I had wondered -- oh, how I had wondered! -- if he were
groping about in his little mind for something plausible and not
too grotesque. It would tax his invention, certainly, and I felt,
this time, over his real embarrassment, a curious thrill of
triumph. It was a sharp trap for the inscrutable! He couldn't play
any longer at innocence; so how the deuce would he get out of it?
There beat in me indeed, with the passionate throb of this
question, an equal dumb appeal as to how the deuce Ishould. I was
confronted at last, as never yet, with all the risk attached even
now to sounding my own horrid note. I remember in fact that as we
pushed into his little chamber, where the bed had not been slept
in at all and the window, uncovered to the moonlight, made the
place so clear that there was no need of striking a match -- I
remember how I suddenly dropped, sank upon the edge of the bed
from the force of the idea that he must know how he really, as
they say, "had" me. He could do what he liked, with all his
cleverness to help him, so long as I should continue to defer to
the old tradition of the criminality of those caretakers of the
young who minister to superstitions and fears. He "had" me indeed,
and in a cleft stick; for who would ever absolve me, who would
consent that I should go unhung, if, by the faintest tremor of an
overture, I were the first to introduce into our perfect
intercourse an element so dire? No, no: it was useless to attempt
to convey to Mrs. Grose, just as it is scarcely less so to attempt
to suggest here, how, in our short, stiff brush in the dark, he
fairly shook me with admiration. I was of course thoroughly kind
and merciful; never, never yet had I placed on his little
shoulders hands of such tenderness as those with which, while I
rested against the bed, I held him there well under fire. I had no
alternative but, in form at least, to put it to him.
"You must tell me now -- and all the truth.
What did you go out for? What were you doing there?"
I can still see his wonderful smile, the whites
of his beautiful eyes, and the uncovering of his little teeth
shine to me in the dusk. "If I tell you why, will you understand?"
My heart, at this, leaped into my mouth. Would he tell me why? I
found no sound on my lips to press it, and I was aware of replying
only with a vague, repeated, grimacing nod. He was gentleness
itself, and while I wagged my head at him he stood there more than
ever a little fairy prince. It was his brightness indeed that gave
me a respite. Would it be so great if he were really going to tell
me? "Well," he said at last, "just exactly in order that you
should do this."
"Think me -- for a change -- bad! " I shall
never forget the sweetness and gaiety with which he brought out
the word, nor how, on top of it, he bent forward and kissed me. It
was practically the end of everything. I met his kiss and I had to
make, while I folded him for a minute in my arms, the most
stupendous effort not to cry. He had given exactly the account of
himself that permitted least of my going behind it, and it was
only with the effect of confirming my acceptance of it that, as I
presently glanced about the room, I could say --
"Then you didn't undress at all?"
He fairly glittered in the gloom. "Not at all.
I sat up and read."
"And when did you go down?"
"At midnight. When I'm bad I am bad!"
"I see, I see it's charming. But how could you
be sure I would know it?"
"Oh, I arranged that with Flora." His answers
rang out with a readiness! "She was to get up and look out."
"Which is what she did do." It was I who fell
into the trap!"
"So she disturbed you, and, to see what she was
looking at, you also looked -- you saw."
"While you," I concurred, "caught your death in
the night air!"
He literally bloomed so from this exploit that
he could afford radiantly to assent. "How otherwise should I have
been bad enough?" he asked. Then, after another embrace, the
incident and our interview dosed on my recognition of all the
reserves of goodness that, for his joke, he had been able to draw
The particular impression I had received proved
in the morning light, I repeat, not quite successfully presentable
to Mrs. Grose, though I reinforced it with the mention of still
another remark that he had made before we separated. "It all lies
in half a dozen words," I said to her, "words that really settle
the matter. 'Think, you know, what I might do!' He threw that off
to show me how good he is. He knows down to the ground what he
'might' do. That's what he gave them a taste of at school."
"Lord, you do change!" cried my friend.
"I don't change -- I simply make it out. The
four, depend upon it, perpetually meet. If on either of these last
nights you had been with either child, you would clearly have
understood. The more I've watched and waited the more I've felt
that if there were nothing else to make it sure it would be made
so by the systematic silence of each. Never, by a slip of the
tongue, have they so much as alluded to either of their old
friends, any more than Miles has alluded to his expulsion. Oh,
yes, we may sit here and look at them, and they may show off to us
there to their fill; but even while they pretend to be lost in
their fairytale they're steeped in their vision of the dead
restored. He's not reading to her," I declared; "they're talking
of them -- they're talking horrors! I go on, I know, as if I were
crazy; and it's a wonder I'm not. What I've seen would have made
you so; but it has only made me more lucid, made me get hold of
still other things."
My lucidity must have seemed awful, but the
charming creatures who were victims of it, passing and repassing
in their interlocked sweetness, gave my colleague something to
hold on by; and I felt how tight she held as, without stirring in
the breath of my passion, she covered them still with her eyes.
"Of what other things have you got hold?"
"Why, of the very things that have delighted,
fascinated, and yet, at bottom, as I now so strangely see,
mystified and troubled me. Their more than earthly beauty, their
absolutely unnatural goodness. It's a game," I went on; "it's a
policy and a fraud!"
"On the part of little darlings -- ?"
"As yet mere lovely babies? Yes, mad as that
seems!" The very act of bringing it out really helped me to trace
it -- follow it all up and piece it all together. "They haven't
been good -- they've only been absent. It has been easy to live
with them, because they're simply leading a life of their own.
They're not mine -- they're not ours. They're his and they're
"Quint's and that woman's?"
"Quint's and that woman's. They want to get to
Oh, how, at this, poor Mrs. Grose appeared to
study them! "But for what?"
"For the love of all the evil that, in those
dreadful days, the pair put into them. And to ply them with that
evil still, to keep up the work of demons, is what brings the
"Laws!" said my friend under her breath. The
exclamation was homely, but it revealed a real acceptance of my
further proof of what, in the bad time -- for there had been a
worse even than this! -- must have occurred. There could have been
no such justification for me as the plain assent of her experience
to whatever depth of depravity I found credible in our brace of
scoundrels. It was in obvious submission of memory that she
brought out after a moment: "They were rascals! But what can they
now do?" she pursued.
"Do?" I echoed so loud that Miles and Flora, as
they passed at their distance, paused an instant in their walk and
looked at us. "Don't they do enough?" I demanded in a lower tone,
while the children, having smiled and nodded and kissed hands to
us, resumed their exhibition. We were held by it a minute; then I
answered: "They can destroy them!" At this my companion did turn,
but the inquiry she launched was a silent one, the effect of which
was to make me more explicit. "They don't know, as yet, quite how
-- but they're trying hard. They're seen only across, as it were,
and beyond -- in strange places and on high places, the top of
towers, the roof of houses, the outside of windows, the further
edge of pools; but there's a deep design, on either side, to
shorten the distance and overcome the obstacle; and the success of
the tempters is only a question of time. They've only to keep to
their suggestions of danger."
"For the children to come?"
"And perish in the attempt!" Mrs. Grose slowly
got up, and I scrupulously added: "Unless, of course, we can
Standing there before me while I kept my seat,
she visibly turned things over. "Their uncle must do the
preventing. He must take them away."
"And who's to make him?"
She had been scanning the distance, but she now
dropped on me a foolish face. "You, miss."
"By writing to him that his house is poisoned
and his little nephew and niece mad?"
"But if they are, miss?"
"And if I am myself, you mean? That's charming
news to be sent him by a governess whose prime undertaking was to
give him no worry."
Mrs. Grose considered, following the children
again. "Yes, he do hate worry. That was the great reason --
"Why those fiends took him in so long? No
doubt, though his indifference must have been awful. As I'm not a
fiend, at any rate, I shouldn't take him in."
My companion, after an instant and for all
answer, sat down again and grasped my arm. "Make him at any rate
come to you."
I stared. "To me? " I had a sudden fear of what
she might do. "'Him'?"
"He ought to be here -- he ought to help."
I quickly rose, and I think I must have shown
her a queerer face than ever yet. "You see me asking him for a
visit?" No, with her eyes on my face she evidently couldn't.
Instead of it even -- as a woman reads another -- she could see
what I myself saw: his derision, his amusement, his contempt for
the breakdown of my resignation at being left alone and for the
fine machinery I had set in motion to attract his attention to my
slighted charms. She didn't know -- no one knew -- how proud I had
been to serve him and to stick to our terms; yet she nonetheless
took the measure, I think, of the warning I now gave her. "If you
should so lose your head as to appeal to him for me -- -- "
She was really frightened. "Yes, miss?"
"I would leave, on the spot, both him and you."
It was all very well to join them, but speaking
to them proved quite as much as ever an effort beyond my strength
-- offered, in close quarters, difficulties as insurmountable as
before. This situation continued a month, and with new
aggravations and particular notes, the note above all, sharper and
sharper, of the small ironic consciousness on the part of my
pupils. It was not, I am as sure today as I was sure then, my mere
infernal imagination: it was absolutely traceable that they were
aware of my predicament and that this strange relation made, in a
manner, for a long time, the air in which we moved. I don't mean
that they had their tongues in their cheeks or did anything
vulgar, for that was not one of their dangers: I do mean, on the
other hand, that the element of the unnamed and untouched became,
between us, greater than any other, and that so much avoidance
could not have been so successfully effected without a great deal
of tacit arrangement. It was as if, at moments, we were
perpetually coming into sight of subjects before which we must
stop short, turning suddenly out of alleys that we perceived to be
blind, closing with a little bang that made us look at each other
-- for, like all bangs, it was something louder than we had
intended -- the doors we had indiscreetly opened. All roads lead
to Rome, and there were times when it might have struck us that
almost every branch of study or subject of conversation skirted
forbidden ground. Forbidden ground was the question of the return
of the dead in general and of whatever, in especial, might
survive, in memory, of the friends little children had lost. There
were days when I could have sworn that one of them had, with a
small invisible nudge, said to the other: "She thinks she'll do it
this time -- but she won't! " To "do it" would have been to
indulge for instance -- and for once in a way -- in some direct
reference to the lady who had prepared them for my discipline.
They had a delightful endless appetite for passages in my own
history, to which I had again and again treated them; they were in
possession of everything that had ever happened to me, had had,
with every circumstance the story of my smallest adventures and of
those of my brothers and sisters and of the cat and the dog at
home, as well as many particulars of the eccentric nature of my
father, of the furniture and arrangement of our house, and of the
conversation of the old women of our village. There were things
enough, taking one with another, to chatter about, if one went
very fast and knew by instinct when to go round. They pulled with
an art of their own the strings of my invention and my memory; and
nothing else perhaps, when I thought of such occasions afterward,
gave me so the suspicion of being watched from under cover. It was
in any case over my life, my past, and my friends alone that we
could take anything like our ease -- a state of affairs that led
them sometimes without the least pertinence to break out into
sociable reminders. I was invited -- with no visible connection --
to repeat afresh Goody Gosling's celebrated mot or to confirm the
details already supplied as to the cleverness of the vicarage
It was partly at such junctures as these and
partly at quite different ones that, with the turn my matters had
now taken, my predicament, as I have called it, grew most
sensible. The fact that the days passed for me without another
encounter ought, it would have appeared, to have done something
toward soothing my nerves. Since the light brush, that second
night on the upper landing, of the presence of a woman at the foot
of the stair, I had seen nothing, whether in or out of the house,
that one had better not have seen. There was many a corner round
which I expected to come upon Quint, and many a situation that, in
a merely sinister way, would have favored the appearance of Miss
Jessel. The summer had turned, the summer had gone, the autumn had
dropped upon Bly and had blown out half our lights. The place,
with its gray sky and withered garlands, its bared spaces and
scattered dead leaves, was like a theater after the performance --
all strewn with crumpled playbills. There were exactly states of
the air, conditions of sound and of stillness, unspeakable
impressions of the kind of ministering moment, that brought back
to me, long enough to catch it, the feeling of the medium in
which, that June evening out of doors, I had had my first sight of
Quint, and in which, too, at those other instants, I had, after
seeing him through the window, looked for him in vain in the
circle of shrubbery. I recognized the signs, the portents -- I
recognized the moment, the spot. But they remained unaccompanied
and empty, and I continued unmolested; if unmolested one could
call a young woman whose sensibility had, in the most
extraordinary fashion, not declined but deepened. I had said in my
talk with Mrs. Grose on that horrid scene of Flora's by the lake
and had perplexed her by so saying -- that it would from that
moment distress me much more to lose my power than to keep it. I
had then expressed what was vividly in my mind: the truth that,
whether the children really saw or not -- since, that is, it was
not yet definitely proved -- I greatly preferred, as a safeguard,
the fullness of my own exposure. I was ready to know the very
worst that was to be known. What I had then had an ugly glimpse of
was that my eyes might be sealed just while theirs were most
opened. Well, my eyes were sealed, it appeared, at present -- a
consummation for which it seemed blasphemous not to thank God.
There was, alas, a difficulty about that: I would have thanked him
with all my soul had I not had in a proportionate measure this
conviction of the secret of my pupils.
How can I retrace today the strange steps of my
obsession? There were times of our being together when I would
have been ready to swear that, literally, in my presence, but with
my direct sense of it closed, they had visitors who were known and
were welcome. Then it was that, had I not been deterred by the
very chance that such an injury might prove greater than the
injury to be averted, my exultation would have broken out.
"They're here, they're here, you little wretches," I would have
cried, "and you can't deny it now!" The little wretches denied it
with all the added volume of their sociability and their
tenderness, in just the crystal depths of which -- like the flash
of a fish in a stream -- the mockery of their advantage peeped up.
The shock, in truth, had sunk into me still deeper than I knew on
the night when, looking out to see either Quint or Miss Jessel
under the stars, I had beheld the boy over whose rest I watched
and who had immediately brought in with him -- had straightway,
there, turned it on me the lovely upward look with which, from the
battlements above me, the hideous apparition of Quint had played.
If it was a question of a scare, my discovery on this occasion had
scared me more than any other, and it was in the condition of
nerves produced by it that I made my actual inductions. They
harassed me so that sometimes, at odd moments, I shut myself up
audibly to rehearse -- it was at once a fantastic relief and a
renewed despair -- the manner in which I might come to the point.
I approached it from one side and the other while, in my room, I
flung myself about, but I always broke down in the monstrous
utterance of names. As they died away on my lips, I said to myself
that I should indeed help them to represent something infamous if,
by pronouncing them, I should violate as rare a little case of
instinctive delicacy as any school-room, probably, had ever known.
When I said to myself: " They have the manners to be silent, and
you, trusted as you are, the baseness to speak!" I felt myself
crimson and I covered my face with my hands. After these secret
scenes I chattered more than ever, going on volubly enough till
one of our prodigious, palpable hushes occurred -- I can call them
nothing else -- the strange, dizzy lift or swim (I try for terms!)
into a stillness, a pause of all life, that had nothing to do with
the more or less noise that at the moment we might be engaged in
making and that I could hear through any deepened exhilaration or
quickened recitation or louder strum of the piano. Then it was
that the others, the outsiders, were there. Though they were not
angels, they "passed," as the French say causing me, while they
stayed, to tremble with the fear of their addressing to their
younger victims some yet more infernal message or more vivid image
than they had thought good enough for myself.
What it was most impossible to get rid of was
the cruel idea that, whatever I had seen, Miles and Flora saw more
-- things terrible and unguessable and that sprang from dreadful
passages of intercourse in the past. Such things naturally left on
the surface, for the time, a child which we vociferously denied
that we felt; and we had, all three, with repetition, got into
such splendid training that we went, each time, almost
automatically, to mark the close of the incident, through the very
same movements. It was striking of the children, at all events to
kiss me inveterately with a kind of wild irrelevance and never to
fail -- one or the other -- of the precious question that had
helped us through many a peril. "When do you think he will come?
Don't you think we ought to write?" -- there was nothing like that
inquiry, we found by experience, for carrying off an awkwardness.
"He" of course was their uncle in Harley Street; and we lived in
much profusion of theory that he might at any moment arrive to
mingle in our circle. It was impossible to have given less
encouragement than he had done to such a doctrine, but if we had
not had the doctrine to fall back upon we should have deprived
each other of some of our finest exhibitions. He never wrote to
them -- that may have been selfish, but it was a part of the
flattery of his trust of me; for the way in which a man pays his
highest tribute to a woman is apt to be but by the more festal
celebration of one of the sacred laws of his comfort; and I held
that I carried out the spirit of the pledge given not to appeal to
him when I let my charges understand that their own letters were
but charming literary exercises. They were too beautiful to be
posted; I kept them myself; I have them all to this hour. This was
a rule indeed which only added to the satiric effect of my being
plied with the supposition that he might at any moment be among
us. It was exactly as if my charges knew how almost more awkward
than anything else that might be for me. There appears to me,
moreover, as I look back, no note in all this more extraordinary
than the mere fact that, in spite of my tension and of their
triumph, I never lost patience with them. Adorable they must in
truth have been, I now reflect, that I didn't in these days hate
them! Would exasperation, however, if relief had longer been
postponed, finally have betrayed me? It little matters, for relief
arrived. I call it relief, though it was only the relief that a
snap brings to a strain or the burst of a thunderstorm to a day of
suffocation. It was at least change, and it came with a rush.
Walking to church a certain Sunday morning, I
had little Miles at my side and his sister, in advance of us and
at Mrs. Grose's, well in sight. It was a crisp, clear day, the
first of its order for some time; the night had brought a touch of
frost, and the autumn air, bright and sharp, made the church bells
almost gay. It was an odd accident of thought that I should have
happened at such a moment to be particularly and very gratefully
struck with the obedience of my little charges. Why did they never
resent my inexorable, my perpetual society? Something or other had
brought nearer home to me that I had all but pinned the boy to my
shawl and that, in the way our companions were marshaled before
me, I might have appeared to provide against some danger of
rebellion. I was like a gaoler with an eye to possible surprises
and escapes. But all this belonged -- I mean their magnificent
little surrender -- just to the special array of the facts that
were most abysmal. Turned out for Sunday by his uncle's tailor,
who had had a free hand and a notion of pretty waistcoats and of
his grand little air, Miles's whole title to independence, the
rights of his sex and situation, were so stamped upon him that if
he had suddenly struck for freedom I should have had nothing to
say. I was by the strangest of chances wondering how I should meet
him when the revolution unmistakably occurred. I call it a
revolution because I now see how, with the word he spoke, the
curtain rose on the last act of my dreadful drama, and the
catastrophe was precipitated. "Look here, my dear, you know," he
charmingly said, "when in the world, please, am I going back to
Transcribed here the speech sounds harmless
enough, particularly as uttered in the sweet, high, casual pipe
with which, at all interlocutors, but above all at his eternal
governess, he threw off intonations as if he were tossing roses.
There was something in them that always made one "catch," and I
caught, at any rate, now so effectually that I stopped as short as
if one of the trees of the park had fallen across the road. There
was something new, on the spot, between us, and he was perfectly
aware that I recognized it, though, to enable me to do so, he had
no need to look a whit less candid and charming than usual. I
could feel in him how he already, from my at first finding nothing
to reply, perceived the advantage he had gained. I was so slow to
find anything that he had plenty of time, after a minute, to
continue with his suggestive but inconclusive smile: "You know, my
dear, that for a fellow to be with a lady always -- -- !"
His "my dear" was constantly on his lips for me, and nothing could
have expressed more the exact shade of the sentiment with which I
desired to inspire my pupils than its fond familiarity. It was so
But, oh, how I felt that at present I must pick
my own phrases! I remember that, to gain time, I tried to laugh,
and I seemed to see in the beautiful face with which he watched me
how ugly and queer I looked. "And always with the same lady?" I
He neither blanched nor winked. The whole thing
was virtually out between us. "Ah, of course, she's a jolly,
'perfect' lady; but, after all, I'm a fellow, don't you see?
that's -- well, getting on."
I lingered there with him an instant ever so
kindly. "Yes, you're getting on." Oh, but I felt helpless!
I have kept to this day the heartbreaking
little idea of how he seemed to know that and to play with it.
"And you can't say I've not been awfully good, can you?"
I laid my hand on his shoulder, for, though I
felt how much better it would have been to walk on, I was not yet
quite able. "No, I can't say that, Miles."
"Except just that one night, you know --
"That one night?" I couldn't look as straight
"Why, when I went down -- went out of the
"Oh, yes. But I forget what you did it for."
"You forget?" -- he spoke with the sweet
extravagance of childish reproach. "Why, it was to show you I
"Oh, yes, you could."
"And I can again."
I felt that I might, perhaps, after all,
succeed in keeping my wits about me. "Certainly. But you won't."
"No, not that again. It was nothing."
"It was nothing," I said. "But we must go on."
He resumed our walk with me, passing his hand
into my arm. "Then when am I going back?"
I wore, in turning it over, my most responsible
air. "Were you very happy at school?"
He just considered. "Oh, I'm happy enough
"Well, then," I quavered, "if you're just as
happy here -- -- "
"Ah, but that isn't everything! Of course you
know a lot -- -- "
"But you hint that you know almost as much?" I
risked as he paused.
"Not half I want to!" Miles honestly professed.
"But it isn't so much that."
"What is it, then?"
"Well -- I want to see more life."
"I see; I see." We had arrived within sight of
the church and of various persons, including several of the
household of Bly, on their way to it and clustered about the door
to see us go in. I quickened our step; I wanted to get there
before the question between us opened up much further; I reflected
hungrily that, for more than an hour, he would have to be silent;
and I thought with envy of the comparative dusk of the pew and of
the almost spiritual help of the hassock on which I might bend my
knees. I seemed literally to be running a race with some confusion
to which he was about to reduce me, but I felt that he had got in
first when, before we had even entered the churchyard, he threw
"I want my own sort!"
It literally made me bound forward. "There are
not many of your own sort, Miles!" I laughed. "Unless perhaps dear
"You really compare me to a baby girl?"
This found me singularly weak. "Don't you,
then, love our sweet Flora?"
"If I didn't -- and you, too; if I didn't
-- -- !" he repeated as if retreating for a jump, yet
leaving his thought so unfinished that, after we had come into the
gate, another stop, which he imposed on me by the pressure of his
arm, had become inevitable. Mrs. Grose and Flora had passed into
the church, the other worshippers had followed, and we were, for
the minute, alone among the old, thick graves. We had paused, on
the path from the gate, by a low, oblong, tablelike tomb.
"Yes, if you didn't -- -- ?"
He looked, while I waited, about at the graves.
"Well, you know what!" But he didn't move, and he presently
produced something that made me drop straight down on the stone
slab, as if suddenly to rest. "Does my uncle think what you
I markedly rested. "How do you know what I
"Ah, well, of course I don't; for it strikes me
you never tell me. But I mean does he know?"
"Know what, Miles?"
"Why, the way I'm going on."
I perceived quickly enough that I could make,
to this inquiry, no answer that would not involve something of a
sacrifice of my employer. Yet it appeared to me that we were all,
at Bly, sufficiently sacrificed to make that venial. "I don't
think your uncle much cares."
Miles, on this, stood looking at me. "Then
don't you think he can be made to?"
"In what way?"
"Why, by his coming down."
"But who'll get him to come down?"
" Iwill!" the boy said with extraordinary
brightness and emphasis. He gave me another look charged with that
expression and then marched off alone into church.
The business was practically settled from the
moment I never followed him. It was a pitiful surrender to
agitation, but my being aware of this had somehow no power to
restore me. I only sat there on my tomb and read into what my
little friend had said to me the fullness of its meaning; by the
time I had grasped the whole of which I had also embraced, for
absence, the pretext that I was ashamed to offer my pupils and the
rest of the congregation such an example of delay. What I said to
myself above all was that Miles had got something out of me and
that the proof of it, for him, would be just this awkward
collapse. He had got out of me that there was something I was much
afraid of and that he should probably be able to make use of my
fear to gain, for his own purpose, more freedom. My fear was of
having to deal with the intolerable question of the grounds of his
dismissal from school, for that was really but the question of the
horrors gathered behind. That his uncle should arrive to treat
with me of these things was a solution that, strictly speaking, I
ought now to have desired to bring on; but I could so little face
the ugliness and the pain of it that I simply procrastinated and
lived from hand to mouth. The boy, to my deep discomposure, was
immensely in the right, was in a position to say to me: "Either
you clear up with my guardian the mystery of this interruption of
my studies, or you cease to expect me to lead with you a life
that's so unnatural for a boy." What was so unnatural for the
particular boy I was concerned with was this sudden revelation of
a consciousness and a plan.
That was what really overcame me, what
prevented my going in. I walked round the church, hesitating,
hovering; I reflected that I had already, with him, hurt myself
beyond repair. Therefore I could patch up nothing, and it was too
extreme an effort to squeeze beside him into the pew: he would be
so much more sure than ever to pass his arm into mine and make me
sit there for an hour in close, silent contact with his commentary
on our talk. For the first minute since his arrival I wanted to
get away from him. As I paused beneath the high east window and
listened to the sounds of worship, I was taken with an impulse
that might master me, I felt, completely should I give it the
least encouragement. I might easily put an end to my predicament
by getting away altogether. Here was my chance; there was no one
to stop me; I could give the whole thing up -- turn my back and
retreat. It was only a question of hurrying again, for a few
preparations, to the house which the attendance at church of so
many of the servants would practically have left unoccupied. No
one, in short, could blame me if I should just drive desperately
off. What was it to get away if I got away only till dinner? That
would be in a couple of hours, at the end of which -- I had the
acute prevision -- my little pupils would play at innocent wonder
about my nonappearance in their train.
"What did you do, you naughty, bad thing? Why
in the world, to worry us so -- and take our thoughts off, too,
don't you know? -- did you desert us at the very door?" I couldn't
meet such questions nor, as they asked them, their false little
lovely eyes; yet it was all so exactly what I should have to meet
that, as the prospect grew sharp to me, I at last let myself go.
I got, so far as the immediate moment was
concerned, away; I came straight out of the churchyard and,
thinking hard, retraced my steps through the park. It seemed to me
that by the time I reached the house I had made up my mind I would
fly. The Sunday stillness both of the approaches and of the
interior, in which I met no one, fairly excited me with a sense of
opportunity. Were I to get off quickly, this way, I should get off
without a scene, without a word. My quickness would have to be
remarkable, however, and the question of a conveyance was the
great one to settle. Tormented, in the hall, with difficulties and
obstacles, I remember sinking down at the foot of the staircase --
suddenly collapsing there on the lowest step and then, with a
revulsion, recalling that it was exactly where more than a month
before, in the darkness of night and just so bowed with evil
things I had seen the specter of the most horrible of women. At
this I was able to straighten my self; I went the rest of the way
up; I made, in my bewilderment, for the schoolroom, where there
were objects belonging to me that I should have to take. But I
opened the door to find again, in a flash, my eyes unsealed. In
the presence of what I saw I reeled straight back upon my
Seated at my own table in clear noonday light I
saw a person whom without my previous experience I should have
taken at the first blush for some housemaid who might have stayed
at home to look after the place and who, availing herself of rare
relief from observation and of the schoolroom table and my pens,
ink, and paper, had applied herself to the considerable effort of
a letter to her sweetheart. There was an effort in the way that,
while her arms rested on the table, her hands with evident
weariness supported her head; but at the moment I took this in I
had already become aware that, in spite of my entrance, her
attitude strangely persisted. Then it was -- with the very act of
its announcing itself -- that her identity flared up in a change
of posture. She rose, not as if she had heard me, but with an
indescribable grand melancholy of indifference and detachment,
and, within a dozen feet of me, stood there as my vile
predecessor. Dishonored and tragic, she was all before me; but
even as I fixed and, for memory, secured it, the awful image
passed away. Dark as midnight in her black dress her haggard
beauty and her unutterable woe, she had looked at me long enough
to appear to say that her right to sit at my table was as good as
mine to sit at hers. While these instants lasted, indeed, I had
the extraordinary chill of feeling that it was I who was the
intruder. It was as a wild protest against it that, I actually
addressing her -- "You terrible, miserable woman!" -- I heard
myself break into a sound that, by the open door, rang through the
long passage and the empty house. She looked at me as if she heard
me, but I had recovered myself and cleared the air. There was
nothing in the room the next minute but the sunshine and a sense
that I must stay.
I had so perfectly expected that the return of
my pupils would be marked by a demonstration that I was freshly
upset at having to take into account that they were dumb about my
absence. Instead of gaily denouncing and caressing me, they made
no allusion to my having failed them, and I was left, for the
time, on perceiving that she too said nothing, to study Mrs.
Grose's odd face. I did this to such purpose that I made sure they
had in some way bribed her to silence; a silence that, however, I
would engage to break down on the first private opportunity. This
opportunity came before tea: I secured five minutes with her in
the housekeeper's room, where, in the twilight, amid a smell of
lately baked bread, but with the place all swept and garnished, I
found her sitting in pained placidity before the fire. So I see
her still, so I see her best: facing the flame from her straight
chair in the dusky, shining room, a large clean image of the "put
away" -- of drawers closed and locked and rest without a remedy.
"Oh, yes, they asked me to say nothing; and to
please them -- so long as they were there -- of course I promised.
But what had happened to you?"
"I only went with you for the walk," I said. "I
had then to come back to meet a friend."
She showed her surprise. "A friend -- you? "
"Oh, yes, I have a couple!" I laughed. "But did
the children give you a reason?"
"For not alluding to your leaving us? Yes; they
said you would like it better. Do you like it better?"
My face had made her rueful. "No, I like it
worse!" But after an instant I added: "Did they say why I should
like it better?"
"No; Master Miles only said, 'We must do
nothing but what she likes!' "
"I wish indeed he would! And what did Flora
"Miss Flora was too sweet. She said, 'Oh, of
course, of course!' -- and I said the same."
I thought a moment. "You were too sweet, too. I
can hear you all. But nonetheless, between Miles and me, it's now
"All out?" My companion stared. "But what,
"Everything. It doesn't matter. I've made up my
mind. I came home, my dear," I went on, "for a talk with Miss
I had by this time formed the habit of having
Mrs. Grose literally well in hand in advance of my sounding that
note: so that even now, as she bravely blinked under the signal of
my word, I could keep her comparatively firm. "A talk! Do you mean
"It came to that. I found her, on my return, in
"And what did she say?" I can hear the good
woman still, and the candor of her stupefaction.
"That she suffers the torments -- -- !"
It was this, of a truth, that made her, as she
filled out my picture, gape. "Do you mean," she faltered, " -- of
"Of the lost. Of the dammed. And that's why, to
share them -- -- " I faltered myself with the horror of it.
But my companion, with less imagination, kept
me up. "To share them -- -- ?"
"She wants Flora." Mrs. Grose might, as I gave
it to her, fairly have fallen away from me had I not been
prepared. I still held her there, to show I was. "As I've told
you, however, it doesn't matter."
"Because you've made up your mind? But to
"And what do you call 'everything'?"
"Why, sending for their uncle."
"Oh, miss, in pity do," my friend broke out.
"Ah, but I will, I will! I see it's the only
way. What's 'out,' as I told you, with Miles is that if he thinks
I'm afraid to and has ideas of what he gains by that -- he shall
see he's mistaken. Yes, yes; his uncle shall have it here from me
on the spot (and before the boy himself, if necessary) that if I'm
to be reproached with having done nothing again about more school
-- -- "
"Yes, miss -- -- " my companion pressed
"Well, there's that awful reason."
There were now clearly so many of these for my
poor colleague that she was excusable for being vague. "But -- a
"Why, the letter from his old place."
"You'll show it to the master?"
"I ought to have done so on the instant."
"Oh, no!" said Mrs. Grose with decision.
"I'll put it before him," I went on inexorably,
"that I can't undertake to work the question on behalf of a child
who has been expelled -- "
"For we've never in the least known what!" Mrs.
"For wickedness. For what else -- when he's so
clever and beautiful and perfect? Is he stupid? Is he untidy? Is
he infirm? Is he ill-natured? He's exquisite -- so it can be only
that; and that would open up the whole thing. After all," I said,
"it's their uncle's fault. If he left here such people -- --
"He didn't really in the least know them. The
fault's mine" She had turned quite pale.
"Well, you shan't suffer," I answered.
"The children shan't!" she emphatically
I was silent awhile; we looked at each other,
"Then what am I to tell him?"
"You needn't tell him anything. I'll tell him."
I measured this. "Do you mean you'll write
-- -- ?" Remembering she couldn't, I caught myself up. "How
do you communicate?"
"I tell the bailiff. He writes."
"And should you like him to write our story?"
My question had a sarcastic force that I had
not fully intended, and it made her, after a moment,
inconsequently break down. The tears were again in her eyes. "Ah,
miss, you write!"
"Well -- tonight," I at last answered; and on
this we separated.
I went so far, in the evening, as to make a
beginning. The weather had changed back, a great wind was abroad,
and beneath the lamp, in my room, with Flora at peace beside me, I
sat for a long time before a blank sheet of paper and listened to
the lash of the rain and the batter of the gusts. Finally I went
out, taking a candle; I crossed the passage and listened a minute
at Miles's door. What, under my endless obsession, I had been
impelled to listen for was some betrayal of his not being at rest,
and I presently caught one, but not in the form I had expected.
His voice tinkled out. "I say, you there -- come in." It was a
gaiety in the gloom!
I went in with my light and found him, in bed,
very wide awake, but very much at his ease. "Well, what are you up
to?" he asked with a grace of sociability in which it occurred to
me that Mrs. Grose, had she been present, might have looked in
vain for proof that anything was "out."
I stood over him with my candle. "How did you
know I was there?"
"Why, of course I heard you. Did you fancy you
made no noise? You're like a troop of cavalry!" he beautifully
"Then you weren't asleep?"
"Not much! I lie awake and think."
I had put my candle, designedly, a short way
off, and then, as he held out his friendly old hand to me, had sat
down on the edge of his bed. "What is it," I asked, "that you
"What in the world, my dear, but you? "
"Ah, the pride I take in your appreciation
doesn't insist on that! I had so far rather you slept."
"Well, I think also, you know, of this queer
business of ours."
I marked the coolness of his firm little hand.
"Of what queer business, Miles?"
"Why, the way you bring me up. And all the
I fairly held my breath a minute, and even from
my glimmering taper there was light enough to show how he smiled
up at me from his pillow. "What do you mean by all me rest?"
"Oh, you know, you know!"
I could say nothing for a minute, though I
felt, as I held his hand and our eyes continued to meet, that my
silence had all the air of admitting his charge and that nothing
in the whole world of reality was perhaps at that moment so
fabulous as our actual relation. "Certainly you shall go back to
school," I said, "if it be that that troubles you. But not to the
old place -- we must find another, a better. How could I know it
did trouble you, this question, when you never told me so, never
spoke of it at all?" His dear, listening face, framed in its
smooth whiteness, made him for the minute as appealing as some
wistful patient in a children's hospital; and I would have given,
as the resemblance came to me, all I possessed on earth really to
be the nurse or the sister of charity who might have helped to
cure him. Well, even as it was, I perhaps might help! "Do you know
you've never said a word to me about your school -- I mean the old
one; never mentioned it in any way?"
He seemed to wonder; he smiled with the same
loveliness. But he clearly gained time; he waited, he called for
guidance. "Haven't I?" It wasn't for me to help him -- it was for
the thing I had met!
Something in his tone and the expression of his
face, as I got this from him, set my heart aching with such a pang
as it had never yet known; so unutterably touching was it to see
his little brain puzzled and his little resources taxed to play,
under the spell laid on him, a part of innocence and consistency.
"No, never -- from the hour you came back, You've never mentioned
to me one of your masters, one of your comrades, nor the least
little thing that ever happened to you at school. Never, little
Miles -- no, never -- have you given me an inkling of anything
that may have happened there. Therefore you can fancy how much I'm
in the dark. Until you came out, that way, this morning, you had,
since the first hour I saw you, scarce even made a reference to
anything in your previous life. You seemed so perfectly to accept
the present." It was extraordinary how my absolute conviction of
his secret precocity (or whatever I might call the poison of an
influence that I dared but half to phrase) made him, in spite of
the faint breath of his inward trouble, appear as accessible as an
older person -- imposed him almost as an intellectual equal. "I
thought you wanted to go on as you are."
It struck me that at this he just faintly
colored. He gave, at any rate, like a convalescent slightly
fatigued, a languid shake of his head. "I don't -- I don't. I want
to get away."
"You're tired of Bly?"
"Oh, no, I like Bly."
"Well, then -- -- ?"
"Oh, you know what a boy wants!"
I felt that I didn't know so well as Miles, and
I took temporary refuge. "You want to go to your uncle?"
Again, at this, with his sweet ironic face, he
made a movement on the pillow. "Ah, you can't get off with that!"
I was silent a little, and it was I, now, I
think, who changed color. "My dear, I don't want to get off!"
"You can't, even if you do. You can't, you
can't!" -- he lay beautifully staring. "My uncle must come down,
and you must completely settle things."
"If we do," I returned with some spirit, "you
may be sure it will be to take you quite away."
"Well, don't you understand that that's exactly
what I'm working for? You'll have to tell him -- about the way
you've let it all drop: you'll have to tell him a tremendous lot!"
The exultation with which he uttered this
helped me somehow, for the instant, to meet him rather more. "And
how much will you, Miles, have to tell him? There are things he'll
He turned it over. "Very likely. But what
"The things you've never told me. To make up
his mind what to do with you. He can't send you back -- -- "
"Oh, I don't want to go back!" he broke in. "I
want a new field."
He said it with admirable serenity, with
positive unimpeachable gaiety; and doubtless it was that very note
that most evoked for me the poignancy, the unnatural childish
tragedy, of his probable reappearance at the end of three months
with all this bravado and still more dishonor. It overwhelmed me
now that I should never be able to bear that, and it made me let
myself go. I threw myself upon him and in the tenderness of my
pity I embraced him. "Dear little Miles, dear little Miles
-- -- !"
My face was close to his, and he let me kiss
him, simply taking it with indulgent good humor. "Well, old lady?"
"Is there nothing -- nothing at all that you
want to tell me?"
He turned off a little, facing round toward the
wall and holding up his hand to look at as one had seen sick
children look. "I've told you -- I told you this morning."
Oh, I was sorry for him! "That you just want me
not to worry you?"
He looked round at me now, as if in recognition
of my understanding him; then ever so gently, "To let me alone,"
There was even a singular little dignity in it,
something that made me release him, yet, when I had slowly risen,
linger beside him. God knows I never wished to harass him, but I
felt that merely, at this, to turn my back on him was to abandon
or, to put it more truly, to lose him "I've just begun a letter to
your uncle," I said.
"Well, then, finish it!"
I waited a minute. "What happened before?"
He gazed up at me again. "Before what?"
"Before you came back. And before you went away
For some time he was silent, but he continued
to meet my eyes. "What happened?"
It made me, the sound of the words, in which it
seemed to me that I caught for the very first time a small faint
quaver of consenting consciousness -- it made me drop on my knees
beside the bed and seize once more the chance of possessing him.
"Dear little Miles, dear little Miles, if you knew how I want to
help you! It's only that, it's nothing but that, and I'd rather
die than give you a pain or do you a wrong -- I'd rather die than
hurt a hair of you. Dear little Miles" -- oh, I brought it out now
even if I should go too far -- "I just want you to help me to save
you!" But I knew in a moment after this that I had gone too far.
The answer to my appeal was instantaneous, but it came in the form
of an extraordinary blast and chill, a gust of frozen air, and a
shake of the room as great as if, in the wild wind, the casement
had crashed in. The boy gave a loud, high shriek, which, lost in
the rest of the shock of sound, might have seemed, indistinctly,
though I was so close to him, a note either of jubilation or of
terror. I jumped to my feet again and was conscious of darkness.
So for a moment we remained, while I stared about me and saw mat
the drawn curtains were unstirred and the window tight. "Why, the
candle's out!" I then cried.
"It was I who blew it, dear!" said Miles.
The next day, after lessons, Mrs. Grose found a
moment to say to me quietly: "Have you written, miss?"
"Yes -- I've written." But I didn't add -- for
the hour -- that my letter, sealed and directed, was still in my
pocket. There would be time enough to send it before the messenger
should go to the village. Meanwhile there had been, on the part of
my pupils, no more brilliant, more exemplary morning. It was
exactly as if they had both had at heart to gloss over any recent
little friction. They performed the dizziest feats of arithmetic,
soaring quite out of my feeble range, and perpetrated, in higher
spirits than ever, geographical and historical jokes. It was
conspicuous of course in Miles in particular that he appeared to
wish to show how easily he could let me down. This child, to my
memory, really lives in a setting of beauty and misery that no
words can translate; there was a distinction all his own in every
impulse he revealed; never was a small natural creature, to the
uninitiated eye all frankness and freedom, a more ingenious, a
more extraordinary little gentleman. I had perpetually to guard
against the wonder of contemplation into which my initiated view
betrayed me; to check the irrelevant gaze and discouraged sigh in
which I constantly both attacked and renounced the enigma of what
such a little gentleman could have done that deserved a penalty.
Say that, by the dark prodigy I knew, the imagination of all evil
had been opened up to him: all the justice within me ached for the
proof that it could ever have flowered into an act.
He had never, at any rate, been such a little
gentleman as when, after our early dinner on this dreadful day, he
came round to me and asked if I shouldn't like him, for half an
hour, to play to me. David playing to Saul could never have shown
a finer sense of the occasion. It was literally a charming
exhibition of tact, of magnanimity, and quite tantamount to his
saying outright: "The true knights we love to read about never
push an advantage too far. I know what you mean now: you mean that
-- to be let alone yourself and not followed up -- you'll cease to
worry and spy upon me, won't keep me so close to you, will let me
go and come. Well, I 'come,' you see -- but I don't go! There'll
be plenty of time for that. I do really delight in your society,
and I only want to show you that I contended for a principle." It
may be imagined whether I resisted this appeal or failed to
accompany him again, hand in hand, to the schoolroom. He sat down
at the old piano and played as he had never played; and if there
are those who think he had better have been kicking a football I
can only say that I wholly agree with them. For at the end of a
time that under his influence I had quite ceased to measure, I
started up with a strange sense of having literally slept at my
post. It was after luncheon, and by the schoolroom fire, and yet I
hadn't really, in the least, slept: I had only done something much
worse -- I had forgotten. Where, all this time, was Flora? When I
put the question to Miles, he played on a minute before answering
and then could only say: "Why, my dear, how do Iknow?" -- breaking
moreover into a happy laugh which, immediately after, as if it
were a vocal accompaniment, he prolonged into incoherent,
I went straight to my room, but his sister was
not there; then, before going downstairs, I looked into several
others. As she was nowhere about she would surely be with Mrs.
Grose, whom, in the comfort of that theory, I accordingly
proceeded in quest of. I found her where I had found her the
evening before, but she met my quick challenge with blank, scared
ignorance. She had only supposed that, after the repast, I had
carried off both the children; as to which she was quite in her
right, for it was the very first time I had allowed the little
girl out of my sight without some special provision. Of course now
indeed she might be with the maids, so that the immediate thing
was to look for her without an air of alarm. This we promptly
arranged between us; but when, ten minutes later and in pursuance
of our arrangement, we met in the hall, it was only to report on
either side that after guarded inquiries we had altogether failed
to trace her. For a minute there, apart from observation, we
exchanged mute alarms, and I could feel with what high interest my
friend returned me all those I had from the first given her.
"She'll be above," she presently said -- "in
one of the rooms you haven't searched."
"No; she's at a distance." I had made up my
mind. "She has gone out."
Mrs. Grose stared. "Without a hat?"
I naturally also looked volumes. "Isn't that
woman always without one?"
"She's with her? "
"She's with her! " I declared. "We must find
My hand was on my friend's arm, but she failed
for the moment, confronted with such an account of the matter, to
respond to my pressure. She communed, on the contrary, on the
spot, with her uneasiness. "And where's Master Miles?"
"Oh, he's with Quint. They're in the
"Lord, miss!" My view, I was myself aware --
and therefore I suppose my tone -- had never yet reached so calm
"The trick's played," I went on; "they've
successfully worked their plan. He found the most divine little
way to keep me quiet while she went off."
"'Divine'?" Mrs. Grose bewilderedly echoed.
"Infernal, then!" I almost cheerfully rejoined.
"He has provided for himself as well. But come!"
She had helplessly gloomed at the upper
regions. "You leave him -- -- ?"
"So long with Quint? Yes -- I don't mind that
She always ended, at these moments, by getting
possession of my hand, and in this manner she could at present
still stay me. But after gasping an instant at my sudden
resignation, "Because of your letter?" she eagerly brought out.
I quickly, by way of answer, felt for my
letter, drew it forth, held it up, and then, freeing myself, went
and laid it on the great hall table. "Luke will take it," I said
as I carne back. I reached the house door and opened it; I was
already on the steps.
My companion still demurred: the storm of the
night and the early morning had dropped, but the afternoon was
damp and gray. I came down to the drive while she stood in the
doorway. "You go with nothing on?"
"What do I care when the child has nothing? I
can't wait to dress," I cried, "and if you must do so, I leave
you. Try meanwhile, yourself, upstairs."
"With them? " Oh, on this, the poor woman
promptly joined me!
We went straight to the lake, as it was called
at Bly, and I daresay rightly called, though I reflect that it may
in fact have been a sheet of water less remarkable than it
appeared to my untraveled eyes. My acquaintance with sheets of
water was small, and the pool of Bly, at all events on the few
occasions of my consenting, under the protection of my pupils, to
affront its surface in the old flat-bottomed boat moored there for
our use, had impressed me both with its extent and its agitation.
The usual place of embarkation was half a mile from the house, but
I had an intimate conviction that, wherever Flora might be, she
was not near home. She had not given me the slip for any small
adventure, and, since the day of the very great one that I had
shared with her by the pond, I had been aware, in our walks, of
the quarter to which she most inclined. This was why I had now
given to Mrs. Grose's steps so marked a direction -- a direction
that made her, when she perceived it, oppose a resistance that
showed me she was freshly mystified. "You're going to the water,
Miss?. -- you think she's in -- -- ?"
"She may be, though the depth is, I believe,
nowhere very great. But what I judge most likely is that she's on
the spot from which, the other day, we saw together what I told
"When she pretended not to see -- -- ?"
"With that astounding self-possession? I've
always been sure she wanted to go back alone. And now her brother
has managed it for her."
Mrs. Grose still stood where she had stopped.
"You suppose they really talk of them?"
I could meet this with a confidence! "They say
things that, if we heard them, would simply appal us."
"And if she is there -- -- ?"
"Then Miss Jessel is?"
"Beyond a doubt. You shall see."
"Oh, thank you!" my friend cried, planted so
firm that, taking it in, I went straight on without her. By the
time I reached the pool, however, -- she was close behind me, and
I knew that, whatever, to her apprehension, might befall me, the
exposure of my society struck her as her least danger. She exhaled
a moan of relief as we at last came in sight of the greater part
of the water without a sight of the child. There was no trace of
Flora on that nearer side of the bank where my observation of her
had been most startling, and none on the opposite edge, where,
save for a margin of some twenty yards, a thick copse came down to
the water. The pond, oblong in shape, had a width so scant
compared to its length that, with its ends out of view, it might
have been taken for a scant river. We looked at the empty expanse,
and then I felt the suggestion of my friend's eyes. I knew what
she meant and I replied with a negative headshake.
"No, no; wait! She has taken the boat."
My companion stared at the vacant mooring place
and then again across the lake. "Then where is it?"
"Our not seeing it is the strongest of proofs.
She has used it to go over, and then has managed to hide it."
"All alone -- that child?"
"She's not alone, and at such times she's not a
child: she's an old, old woman." I scanned all the visible shore
while Mrs. Grose took again, into the queer element I offered her,
one of her plunges of submission; then I pointed out that the boat
might perfectly be in a small refuge formed by one of the recesses
of the pool, an indentation masked, for the hither side, by a
projection of the bank and by a clump of trees growing close to
"But if the boat's there, where on earth's she?
" my colleague anxiously asked.
"That's exactly what we must learn." And I
started to walk further.
"By going all the way round?"
"Certainly, far as it is. It will take us but
ten minutes, but it's far enough to have made the child prefer not
to walk. She went straight over."
"Laws!" cried my friend again; the chain of my
logic was ever too much for her. It dragged her at my heels even
now, and when we had got halfway round -- a devious, tiresome
process, on ground much broken and by a path choked with
overgrowth -- I paused to give her breath. I sustained her with a
grateful arm, assuring her that she might hugely help me; and this
started us afresh, so that in the course of but few minutes more
we reached a point from which we found the boat to be where I had
supposed it. It had been intentionally left as much as possible
out of sight and was tied to one of the stakes of a fence that
came, just there, down to the brink and that had been an
assistance to disembarking. I recognized, as I looked at the pair
of short, thick oars, quite safely drawn up, the prodigious
character of the feat for a little girl; but I had lived, by this
time, too long among wonders and had panted to too many livelier
measures. There was a gate in the fence, through which we passed,
and that brought us, after a trifling interval, more into the
open. Then, "There she is!" we both exclaimed at once.
Flora, a short way off, stood before us on the
grass and smiled as if her performance was now complete. The next
thing she did, however, was to stoop straight down and pluck --
quite as if it were all she was there for -- a big, ugly spray of
withered fern. I instantly became sure she had just come out of
the copse. She waited for us, not herself taking a step, and I was
conscious of the rare solemnity with which we presently approached
her. She smiled and smiled, and we met; but it was all done in a
silence by this time flagrantly ominous. Mrs. Grose was the first
to break the spell: she threw herself on her knees and, drawing
the child to her breast, clasped in a long embrace the little
tender, yielding body. While this dumb convulsion lasted I could
only watch it -- which I did the more intently when I saw Flora's
face peep at me over our companion's shoulder. It was serious now
-- the flicker had left it; but it strengthened the pang with
which I at that moment envied Mrs. Grose the simplicity of her
relation. Still, all this while, nothing more passed between us
save that Flora had let her foolish fern again drop to the ground.
What she and I had virtually said to each other was that pretexts
were useless now. When Mrs. Grose finally got up she kept the
child's hand, so that the two were still before me; and the
singular reticence of our communion was even more marked in the
frank look she launched me. "I'll be hanged," it said, "if I'll
It was Flora who, gazing all over me in candid
wonder, was the first. She was struck with our bareheaded aspect.
"Why, where are your things?"
"Where yours are, my dear!" I promptly
She had already got back her gaiety, and
appeared to take this as an answer quite sufficient, "And where's
Miles?" she went on.
There was something in the small valor of it
that quite finished me: these three words from her were, in a
flash like the glitter of a drawn blade, the jostle of the cup
that my hand, for weeks and weeks, had held high and full to the
brim and that now, even before speaking, I felt overflow in a
deluge. "I'll tell you if you'll tell me -- -- " I heard
myself say, then heard the tremor in which it broke.
Mrs. Grose's suspense blazed at me, but it was
too late now, and I brought the thing out handsomely. "Where, my
pet, is Miss Jessel?"
Just as in the churchyard with Miles, the whole
thing was upon us. Much as I had made of the fact that this name
had never once, between us, been sounded, the quick, smitten glare
with which the child's face now received it fairly likened my
breach of the silence to the smash of a pane of glass. It added to
the interposing cry, as if to stay the blow, that Mrs. Grose, at
the same instant, uttered over my violence -- the shriek of a
creature scared, or rather wounded, which, in turn, within a few
seconds, was completed by a gasp of my own. I seized my
colleague's arm. "She's there, she's there!"
Miss Jessel stood before us on the opposite
bank exactly as she had stood the other time, and I remember,
strangely, as the first feeling now produced in me, my thrill of
joy at having brought on a proof. She was there, and I was
justified; she was there, and I was neither cruel nor mad. She was
there for poor scared Mrs. Grose, but she was mere most for Flora;
and no moment of my monstrous time was perhaps so extraordinary as
that in which I consciously threw out to her -- with the sense
that, pale and ravenous demon as she was, she would catch and
understand it -- an inarticulate message of gratitude. She rose
erect on the spot my friend and I had lately quitted, and mere was
not, in all the long reach of her desire, an inch of her evil that
fell short. This first vividness of vision and emotion were things
of a few seconds, during which Mrs. Grose's dazed blink across to
where I pointed struck me as a sovereign sign that she too at last
saw, just as it carried my own eyes precipitately to the child.
The revelation then of the manner in which Flora was affected
startled me, in truth, far more than it would have done to find
her also merely agitated, for direct dismay was of course not what
I had expected. Prepared and on her guard as our pursuit had
actually made her, she would repress every betrayal; and I was
therefore shaken, on the spot, by my first glimpse of the
particular one for which I had not allowed. To see her, without a
convulsion of her small pink face, not even feign to glance in the
direction of the prodigy I announced, but only, instead of that,
turn at me an expression of hard, still gravity, am expression
absolutely new and unprecedented and that appeared to read and
accuse and judge me -- this was a stroke that somehow converted
the little girl herself into the very presence that could make me
quail. I quailed even though my certitude that she thoroughly saw
was never greater than at that instant, and in the immediate need
to defend myself I called it passionately to witness. "She's
there, you little unhappy thing -- there, there, there, and you
see her as well as you see me!" I had said shortly before to Mrs.
Grose that she was not at these times a child, but an old, old
woman, and that description of her could not have been more
strikingly confirmed than in the way in which, for all answer to
this, she simply showed me, without a concession, an admission, of
her eyes, a countenance of deeper and deeper, of indeed suddenly
quite fixed, reprobation. I was by this time -- if I can put the
whole thing at all together -- more appalled at what I may
properly call her manner than at anything else, though it was
simultaneously with this that I became aware of having Mrs. Grose
also, and very formidably, to reckon with. My elder companion, the
next moment, at any rate, blotted out everything but her own
flushed face and her loud, shocked protest, a burst of high
disapproval. "What a dreadful turn, to be sure, miss! Where on
earth do you see anything?"
I could only grasp her more quickly yet, for
even while she spoke the hideous plain presence stood undimmed and
undaunted. It had already lasted a minute, and it lasted while I
continued, seizing my colleague, quite thrusting her at it and
presenting her to it, to insist with my pointing hand. "You don't
see her exactly as we see? -- you mean to say you don't now --
now? She's as big as a blazing fire! Only look, dearest woman,
look -- -- !" She looked, even as I did, and gave me, with
her deep groan of negation, repulsion, compassion -- the mixture
with her pity of her relief at her exemption -- a sense, touching
to me even then, that she would have backed me up if she could. I
might well have needed that, for with this hard blow of the proof
that her eyes were hopelessly sealed I felt my own situation
horribly crumble, I felt -- I saw -- my livid predecessor press,
from her position, on my defeat, and I was conscious, more than
all, of what I should have from this instant to deal with in the
astounding little attitude of Flora. Into this attitude Mrs. Grose
immediately and violently entered, breaking, even while there
pierced through my sense of ruin a prodigious private triumph,
into breathless reassurance.
"She isn't there, little lady, and nobody's
there and you never see nothing, my sweet! How can poor Miss
Jessel -- when poor Miss Jessel's dead and buried? We know, don't
we, love?" -- and she appealed, blundering in, to the child. "It's
all a mere mistake and a worry and a joke -- and we'll go home as
fast as we can!"
Our companion, on this, had responded with a
strange, quick primness of propriety, and they were again, with
Mrs. Grose on her feet, united, as it were, in pained opposition
to me. Flora continued to fix me with her small mask of
reprobation, and even at that minute I prayed God to forgive me
for seeming to see that, as she stood there holding tight to our
friend's dress, her incomparable childish beauty had suddenly
failed, had quite vanished. I've said it already -- she was
literally, she was hideously, hard; she had turned common and
almost ugly. "I don't know what you mean. I see nobody. I see
nothing. I never have. I think you're cruel. I don't like you!"
Then, after this deliverance, which might have been that of a
vulgarly pert little girl in the street, she hugged Mrs. Grose
more closely and buried in her skirts the dreadful little face. In
this position she produced an almost furious wail. "Take me away,
take me away -- oh, take me away from her! "
"From me? " I panted.
"From you -- from you!" she cried.
Even Mrs. Grose looked across at me dismayed,
while I had nothing to do but communicate again with the figure
that, on the opposite bank, without a movement, as rigidly still
as if catching, beyond the interval, our voices, was as vividly
there for my disaster as it was not there for my service. The
wretched child had spoken exactly as if she had got from some
outside source each of her stabbing little words, and I could
therefore, in the full despair of all I had to accept, but sadly
shake my head at her. "If I had ever doubted, all my doubt would
at present have gone. I've been living with the miserable truth,
and now it has only too much closed round me. Of course I've lost
you: I've interfered, and you've seen -- under her dictation" --
with which I faced, over the pool again, our infernal witness --
"the easy and perfect way to meet it. I've done my best, but I've
lost you. Goodbye." For Mrs. Grose I had am imperative, am almost
frantic "Go, go!" before which, in infinite distress, but mutely
possessed of the little girl and clearly convinced, in spite of
her blindness, that something awful had occurred and some collapse
engulfed us, she retreated, by the way we had come, as fast as she
Of what first happened when I was left alone I
had no subsequent memory. I only knew that at the end of, I
suppose, a quarter of an hour, an odorous dampness and roughness,
chilling and piercing my trouble, had made me understand that I
must have thrown myself, on my face, on the ground and given way
to a wildness of grief. I must have lain there long and cried and
sobbed, for when I raised my head the day was almost done. I got
up and looked a moment, through the twilight, at the gray pool and
its blank, haunted edge, and then I took, back to the house, my
dreary and difficult course. When I reached the gate in the fence
the boat, to my surprise, was gone, so that I had a fresh
reflection to make on Flora's extraordinary command of the
situation. She passed that night, by the most tacit, and I should
add, were not the word so grotesque a false note, the happiest of
arrangements, with Mrs. Grose. I saw neither of them on my return,
but, on the other hand, as by an ambiguous compensation, I saw a
great deal of Miles. I saw -- I can use no other phrase -- so much
of him that it was as if it were more than it had ever been. No
evening I had passed at Bly had the portentous quality of this
one; in spite of which -- and in spite also of the deeper depths
of consternation that had opened beneath my feet -- there was
literally, in the ebbing actual, an extraordinarily sweet sadness.
On reaching the house I had never so much as looked for the boy; I
had simply gone straight to my room to change what I was wearing
and to take in, at a glance, much material testimony to Flora's
rupture. Her little belongings had all been removed. When later,
by the schoolroom fire, I was served with tea by the usual maid, I
indulged, on the article of my other pupil, in no inquiry
whatever. He had his freedom now -- he might have it to the end!
Well, he did have it; and it consisted -- in part at least -- of
his coming in at about eight o'clock and sitting down with me in
silence. On the removal of the tea things I had blown out the
candles and drawn my chair closer: I was conscious of a mortal
coldness and felt as if I should never again be warm. So, when he
appeared, I was sitting in the glow with my thoughts. He paused a
moment by the door as if to look at me; then -- as if to share
them came to the other side of the hearth and sank into a chair.
We sat there in absolute stillness, yet he wanted, I felt, to be
Before a new day, in my room, had fully broken,
my eyes opened to Mrs. Grose, who had come to my bedside with
worse news. Flora was so markedly feverish that an illess was
perhaps at hand; she had passed a night of extreme unrest, a night
agitated above all by fears that had for their subject not in the
least her former, but wholly her present, governess. It was not
against the possible re-entrance of Miss Jessel on the scene that
she protested -- it was conspicuously and passionately against
mine. I was promptly on my feet of course, and with an immense
deal to ask; the more that my friend had discernibly now girded
her loins to meet me once more. This I felt as soon as I had put
to her the question of her sense of the child's sincerity as
against my own. "She persists in denying to you that she saw, or
has ever seen, anything?"
My visitor's trouble, truly, was great. "Ah,
miss, it isn't a matter on which I can push her! Yet it isn't
either, I must say, as if I much needed to. It has made her, every
inch of her, quite old."
"Oh, I see her perfectly from here. She
resents, for all the world like some high little personage, the
imputation on her truthfulness and, as it were, her
respectability. 'Miss Jessel indeed -- she! ' Ah, she's
'respectable,' the chit! The impression she gave me there
yesterday was, I assure you, the very strangest of all; it was
quite beyond any of the others. I did put my foot in it! She'll
never speak to me again."
Hideous and obscure as it all was, it held Mrs.
Grose briefly silent; then she granted my point with a frankness
which, I made sure, had more behind it. "I think indeed, miss, she
never will. She do have a grand manner about it!
"And that manner" -- I summed it up -- "is
practically what's the matter with her now!"
Oh, that manner, I could see in my visitor's
face, and not a little else besides! "She asks me every three
minutes if I think you're coming in."
"I see -- I see." I, too, on my side, had so
much more than worked it out. "Has she said to you since yesterday
-- except to repudiate her familiarity with anything so dreadful
-- a single other word about Miss Jessel?"
"Not one, miss. And of course you know," my
friend added, "I took it from her, by the lake, that, just then
and there at least, there was nobody."
"Rather! And, naturally, you take it from her
"I don't contradict her. What else can I do?"
"Nothing in the world! You've the cleverest
little person to deal with. They've made them -- their two
friends, I mean -- still cleverer even than nature did; for it was
wondrous material to play on! Flora has now her grievance, and
she'll work it to the end."
"Yes, miss; but to what end?"
"Why, that of dealing with me to her uncle.
She'll make me out to him the lowest creature -- -- !"
I winced at the fair show of the scene in Mrs.
Grose's face; she looked for a minute as if she sharply saw them
together. "And him who thinks so well of you!"
"He has an odd way -- it comes over me now," I
laughed, " -- of proving it! But that doesn't matter. What Flora
wants, of course, is to get rid of me."
My companion bravely concurred. "Never again to
so much as look at you."
"So that what you've come to me now for," I
asked, "is to speed me on my way?" Before she had time to reply,
however, I had her in check. "I've a better idea -- the result of
my reflections. My going would seem the right thing, and on Sunday
I was terribly near it. Yet that won't do. It's you who must go.
You must take Flora."
My visitor, at this, did speculate. "But where
in the world -- -- ?"
"Away from here. Away from them. Away, even
most of all, now, from me. Straight to her uncle."
"Only to tell on you -- -- ?"
"No, not 'only'! To leave me, in addition, with
She was still vague. "And what is your remedy?"
"Your loyalty, to begin with. And then
She looked at me hard. "Do you think he
-- -- ?"
"Won't, if he has the chance, turn on me? Yes,
I venture still to think it. At all events, I want to try. Get off
with his sister as soon as possible and leave me with him alone."
I was amazed, myself, at the spirit I had still in reserve, and
therefore perhaps a trifle the more disconcerted at the way in
which, in spite of this fine example of it, she hesitated.
"There's one thing, of course," I went on: "they mustn't, before
she goes, see each other for three seconds." Then it came over me
that, in spite of Flora s presumable sequestration from the
instant of her return from the pool, it might already be too late.
"Do you mean," I anxiously asked, "that they have met?"
At this she quite flushed. "Ah, miss, I'm not
such a fool as that! If I've been obliged to leave her three or
four times, it has been each time with one of the maids, and at
present, though she's alone, she's locked in safe. And yet -- and
yet!" There were too many things.
"And yet what?"
"Well, are you so sure of the little
"I'm not sure of anything but you. But I have,
since last evening, a new hope. I think he wants to give me an
opening. I do believe that -- poor little exquisite wretch! -- he
wants to speak. Last evening, in the firelight and the silence, he
sat with me for two hours as if it were just coming."
Mrs. Grose looked hard, through the window, at
the gray, gathering day. "And did it come?"
"No, though I waited and waited, I confess it
didn't, and it was without a breach of the silence or so much as a
faint allusion to his sister's condition and absence that we at
last kissed for good night. All the same," I continued, "I can't,
if her uncle sees her, consent to his seeing her brother without
my having given the boy -- and most of all because things have got
so bad -- a little more time."
My friend appeared on this ground more
reluctant than I could quite understand. "What do you mean by more
"Well, a day or two -- really to bring it out.
He'll then be on my side -- of which you see the importance. If
nothing comes, I shall only fail, and you will, at the worst, have
helped me by doing, on your arrival in town, whatever yon may have
found possible." So I put it before her, but she continued for a
little so inscrutably embarrassed that I came again to her aid.
"Unless, indeed," I wound up, "you really want not to go."
I could see it, in her face, at last clear
itself; she put out her hand to me as a pledge. "I'll go -- I'll
go. I'll go this morning."
I wanted to be very just. "If you should wish
still to wait, I would engage she shouldn't see me."
"No, no: it's the place itself. She must leave
it." She held me a moment with heavy eyes, then brought out the
rest. "Your idea's the right one. I myself, miss -- -- "
"I can't stay."
The look she gave me with it made me jump at
possibilities. "You mean that, since yesterday, you have seen
-- -- ?"
She shook her head with dignity. "I've heard
-- -- !"
"From that child -- horrors! There!" she sighed
with tragic relief. "On my honor, miss, she says things --
-- !" But at this evocation she broke down; she dropped, with a
sudden sob, upon my sofa and, as I had seen her do before, gave
way to all the grief of it.
It was quite in another manner that I, for my
part, let myself go. "Oh, thank God!"
She sprang up again at this, drying her eyes
with a groan. "'Thank God'?"
"It so justifies me!"
"It does that, miss!"
I couldn't have desired more emphasis, but I
just hesitated. "She's so horrible?"
I saw my colleague scarce knew how to put it.
"And about me?"
"About you, miss -- since you must have it.
It's beyond everything, for a young lady; and I can't think
wherever she must have picked up -- -- "
"The appalling language she applied to me? I
can, then!" I broke in with a laugh that was doubtless significant
It only, in truth, left my friend still more
grave. "Well, perhaps I ought to also -- since I've heard some of
it before! Yet I can't bear it," the poor woman went on while,
with the same movement, she glanced, on my dressing table, at the
face of my watch. "But I must go back."
I kept her, however. "Ah, if you can't bear it
-- -- !"
"How can I stop with her, you mean? Why, just
for that: to get her away. Far from this," she pursued, "far from
them -- -- "
"She may be different? She may be free?" I
seized her almost with joy. "Then, in spite of yesterday, you
believe -- "
"In such doings?" Her simple description of
them required, in the light of her expression, to be carried no
further, and she gave me the whole thing as she had never done. "I
Yes, it was a joy, and we were still shoulder
to shoulder: if I might continue sure of that I should care but
little what else happened. My support in the presence of disaster
would be the same as it had been in my early need of confidence,
and if my friend would answer for my honesty, I would answer for
all the rest. On the point of taking leave of her, nonetheless, I
was to some extent embarrassed. "There's one thing, of course --
it occurs to me -- to remember. My letter, giving the alarm, will
have reached town before you."
I now perceived still more how she had been
beating about the bush and how weary at last it had made her.
"Your letter won't have got there. Your letter never went."
"What then became of it?"
"Goodness knows! Master Miles -- "
"Do you mean he took it?" I gasped.
She hung fire, but she overcame her reluctance.
"I mean that I saw yesterday, when I came back with Miss Flora,
that it wasn't where you had put it. Later in the evening I had
the chance to question Luke, and he declared that he had neither
noticed nor touched it." We could only exchange, on this, one of
our deeper mutual soundings, and it was Mrs. Grose who first
brought up the plumb with an almost elated "You see!"
"Yes, I see that if Miles took it instead he
probably will have read it and destroyed it."
"And don't you see anything else?"
I faced her a moment with a sad smile. "It
strikes me that by this time your eyes are open even wider than
They proved to be so indeed, but she could
still blush, almost, to show it. "I make out now what he must have
done at school." And she gave, in her simple sharpness, an almost
droll disillusioned nod. "He stole!"
I turned it over -- I tried to be more
judicial. "Well -- perhaps."
She looked as if she found me unexpectedly
calm. "He stole letters !"
She couldn't know my reasons for a calmness
after all pretty shallow; so I showed them off as I might. "I hope
then it was to more purpose than in this case! The note, at any
rate, that I put on me table yesterday," I pursued, "will have
given him so scant an advantage -- for it contained only the bare
demand for an interview -- that he is already much ashamed of
having gone so far for so little, and that what he had on his mind
last evening was precisely the need of confession." I seemed to
myself, for me instant, to have mastered it, to see it all. "Leave
us, leave us" -- I was already, at the door, hurrying her off.
"I'll get it out of him. He'll meet me -- he'll confess. If he
confesses, he's saved. And if he's saved -- -- "
"Then you are?" The dear woman kissed me on
this, and I took her farewell. "I'll save you without him!" she
cried as she went.
Yet it was when she had got off -- and I missed
her on the spot -- that the great pinch really came. If I had
counted on what it would give me to find myself alone with Miles,
I speedily perceived, at least, that it would give me a measure.
No hour of my stay in fact was so assailed with apprehensions as
that of my coming down to learn that the carriage containing Mrs.
Grose and my younger pupil had already rolled out of the gates.
Now I was, I said to myself, face to face with the elements, and
for much of the rest of the day, while I fought my weakness, I
could consider that I had been supremely rash. It was a tighter
place still than I had yet turned round in; all the more that, for
the first time, I could see in the aspect of others a confused
reflection of the crisis. What had happened naturally caused them
all to stare; there was too little of the explained, throw out
whatever we might, in the suddenness of my colleague's act. The
maids and the men looked blank; the effect of which on my nerves
was an aggravation until I saw the necessity of making it a
positive aid. It was precisely, in short, by just clutching the
helm that I avoided total wreck; and I dare say that, to bear up
at all, I became, that morning, very grand and very dry. I
welcomed the consciousness that I was charged with much to do, and
I caused it to be known as well that, left thus to myself, I was
quite remarkably firm. I wandered with that manner, for the next
hour or two, all over the place and looked, I have no doubt, as if
I were ready for any onset. So, for the benefit of whom it might
concern, I paraded with a sick heart.
The person it appeared least to concern proved
to be, till dinner, little Miles himself. My perambulations had
given me, meanwhile, no glimpse of him, but they had tended to
make more public the change taking place in our relation as a
consequence of his having at the piano the day before, kept me, in
Flora's interest, so beguiled and befooled. The stamp of publicity
had of course been fully given by her confinement and departure,
and the change itself was now ushered in by our nonobservance of
the regular custom of the schoolroom. He had already disappeared
when, on my way down, I pushed open his door, and I learned below
that he had breakfasted -- in the presence of a couple of the
maids -- with Mrs. Grose and his sister. He had then gone out, as
he said, for a stroll than which nothing, I reflected, could
better have expressed his frank view of the abrupt transformation
of my office. What he would now permit this office to consist of
was yet to be settled: there was a queer relief, at all events --
I mean for myself in especial -- in the renouncement of one
pretension. If so much had sprung to the surface, I scarce put it
too strongly in saying that what had perhaps sprung highest was
the absurdity of our prolonging the fiction that I had anything
more to teach him. It sufficiently stuck out that, by tacit little
tricks in which even more than myself he carried out the care for
my dignity, I had had to appeal to him to let me off straining to
meet him on the ground of his true capacity.
He had at any rate his freedom now; I was never
to touch it again; as I had amply shown, moreover, when, on his
joining me in the schoolroom the previous night, I had uttered, on
the subject of the interval just concluded, neither challenge nor
hint. I had too much, from this moment, my other ideas. Yet when
he at last arrived, the difficulty of applying them, the
accumulations of my problem, were brought straight home to me by
the beautiful little presence on which what had occurred had as
yet, for the eye, dropped neither stain nor shadow.
To mark, for the house, the high state I
cultivated I decreed that my meals with the boy should be served,
as we called it, downstairs; so that I had been awaiting him in
the ponderous pomp of the room outside of the window of which I
had had from Mrs. Grose, that first scared Sunday, my flash of
something it would scarce have done to call light. Here at present
I felt afresh -- for I had felt it again and again -- how my
equilibrium depended on the success of my rigid will, the will to
shut my eyes as tight as possible to the truth that what I had to
deal with was, revoltingly, against nature. I could only get on at
all by taking "nature" into my confidence and my account, by
treating my monstrous ordeal as a push in a direction unusual, of
course, and unpleasant, but demanding, after all, for a fair
front, only another turn of the screw of ordinary human virtue. No
attempt, nonetheless, could well require more tact than just this
attempt to supply, one's self, all the nature. How could I put
even a little of that article into a suppression of reference to
what had occurred? How, on the other hand, could I make reference
without a new plunge into the hideous obscure? Well, a sort of
answer, after a time, had come to me, and it was so far confirmed
as that I was met, incontestably, by the quickened vision of what
was rare in my little companion. It was indeed as if he had found
even now -- as he had so often found at lessons -- still some
other delicate way to ease me off. Wasn't there light in the fact
which, as we shared our solitude, broke out with a specious
glitter it had never yet quite worn? -- the fact that (opportunity
aiding, precious opportunity which had now come) it would be
preposterous, with a child so endowed, to forego the help one
might wrest from absolute intelligence? What had his intelligence
been given him for but to save him? Mightn't one, to reach his
mind, risk the stretch of an angular arm over his character? It
was as if, when we were face to face in the dining room, he had
literally shown me the way, The roast mutton was on the table, and
I had dispensed with attendance. Miles, before he sat down, stood
a moment with his hands in his pockets and looked at the joint, on
which he seemed on the point of passing some humorous judgment.
But what he presently produced was: "I say, my dear, is she really
very awfully ill?"
"Little Flora? Not so bad but that she'll
presently be better. London will set her up. Bly had ceased to
agree with her. Come here and take your mutton.
He alertly obeyed me, carried the plate
carefully to ms seat, and, when he was established, went on. Did
Bly disagree with her so terribly suddenly?
"Not so suddenly as you might think. One had
seen it coming on."
"Then why didn't you get her off before?"
"Before she became too ill to travel."
I found myself prompt. "She's not too ill to
travel: she only might have become so if she had stayed. This was
just the moment to seize. The journey will dissipate the
influence" -- oh, I was grand! -- "and carry it off."
"I see, I see" -- Miles, for that matter, was
grand, too. He settled to his repast with the charming little
"table manner" that, from the day of his arrival, had relieved me
of all grossness of admonition. Whatever he had been driven from
school for, it was not for ugly feeding. He was irreproachable, as
always, today; but he was unmistakably more conscious. He was
discernibly trying to take for granted more things than he found,
without assistance, quite easy; and he dropped into peaceful
silence while he felt his situation. Our meal was of the briefest
-- mine a vain pretense, and I had the things immediately removed.
While this was done Miles stood again with his hands in his little
pockets and his back to me -- stood and looked out of the wide
window through which, that other day, I had seen what pulled me
up. We continued silent while the maid was with us -- as silent,
it whimsically occurred to me, as some young couple who, on their
wedding journey, at the inn, feel shy in the presence of the
waiter. He turned round only when the waiter had left us. "Well --
so we're alone!"
"Oh, more or less." I fancy my smile was pale.
"Not absolutely. We shouldn't like that!" I went on.
"No -- I suppose we shouldn't. Of course we
have the others."
"We have the others -- we have indeed the
others," I concurred.
"Yet even though we have them," he returned,
still with his hands in his pockets and planted there in front of
me, "they don't much count, do they?"
I made the best of it, but I felt wan. "It
depends on what you call 'much!'."
"Yes" -- with all accommodation -- "everything
depends!" On this, however, he faced to the window again and
presently reached it with his vague, restless, cogitating step. He
remained there awhile, with his forehead against the glass, in
contemplation of the stupid shrubs I knew and the dull things of
November. I had always my hypocrisy of "work," behind which, now,
I gained the sofa. Steadying myself with it there as I had
repeatedly done at those moments of torment that I have described
as the moments of my knowing me children to be given to something
from which I was barred, I sufficiently obeyed my habit of being
prepared for the worst. But an extraordinary impression dropped on
me as I extracted a meaning from the boy's embarrassed back --
none other than the impression that I was not barred now. This
influence grew in a few minutes to sharp intensity and seemed
bound up with the direct perception that it was positively he who
was. The frames and squares of the great window were a kind of
image, for him, of a kind of failure. I felt that I saw him, at
any rate, shut in or shut out. He was admirable, but not
comfortable: I took it in with a throb of hope. Wasn't he looking,
through the haunted pane, for something he couldn't see? -- and
wasn't it the first time in the whole business that he had known
such a lapse? The first, the very first: I found it a splendid
portent. It made him anxious, though he watched himself; he had
been anxious all day and, even while in his usual sweet little
manner he sat at table, had needed all his small strange genius to
give it a gloss. When he at last turned round to meet me, it was
almost as if this genius had succumbed. "Well, I think I'm glad
Bly agrees with me! "
"You would certainly seem to have seen, these
twenty-four hours, a good deal more of it than for some time
before. I hope," I went on bravely, "that you've been enjoying
"Oh, yes, I've been ever so far; all round
about -- miles and miles away. I've never been so free."
He had really a manner of his own, and I could
only try to keep up with him. "Well, do you like it?"
He stood there smiling; then at last he put
into two words -- "Do you? " -- more discrimination than I had
ever heard two words contain. Before I had time to deal with that,
however, he continued as if with the sense that this was an
impertinence to be softened. "Nothing could be more charming than
the way you take it, for of course if we're alone together now
it's you that are alone most. But I hope," he threw in, "yon don't
"Having to do with you?" I asked. "My dear
child, how can I help minding? Though I've renounced all claim to
your company -- you're so beyond me -- I at least greatly enjoy
it. What else should I stay on for?"
He looked at me more directly, and the
expression of his face, graver now, struck me as the most
beautiful I had ever found in it. "You stay on just for that? "
"Certainly. I stay on as your friend and from
the tremendous interest I take in you till something can be done
for you that may be more worth your while. That needn't surprise
you." My voice trembled so that I felt it impossible to suppress
the shake. "Don't you remember how I told you, when I came and sat
on your bed the night of the storm, that there was nothing in the
world I wouldn't do for you?"
"Yes, yes!" He, on his side, more and more
visibly nervous, had a tone to master; but he was so much more
successful than I that, laughing out through his gravity, he could
pretend we were pleasantly jesting. "Only that, I think, was to
get me to do something for you! "
"It was partly to get you to do something," I
conceded. "But you know, you didn't do it."
"Oh, yes," he said with the brightest
superficial eagerness, "you wanted me to tell you something."
"That's it. Out, straight out. What you have on
your mind, you know."
"Ah, then, is that what you've stayed over
He spoke with a gaiety through which I could
still catch the finest little quiver of resentful passion; but I
can't begin to express the effect upon me of an implication of
surrender even so faint. It was as if what I had yearned for had
come at last only to astonish me. "Well, yes -- I may as well make
a clean breast of it. It was precisely for that."
He waited so long that I supposed it for the
purpose of repudiating the assumption on which my action had been
founded; but what he finally said was: "Do you mean now -- here?"
"There couldn't be a better place or time." He
looked round him uneasily, and I had the rare -- oh, the queer --
impression of the very first symptom I had seen in him of the
approach of immediate fear. It was as if he were suddenly afraid
of me -- which struck me indeed as perhaps the best thing to make
him. Yet in the very pang of the effort I felt it vain to try
sternness, and I heard myself the next instant so gentle as to be
almost grotesque "You want so to go out again?"
"Awfully!" He smiled at me heroically, and the
touching little bravery of it was enhanced by his actually
flushing with pain. He had picked up his hat, which he had brought
in, and stood twirling it in a way that gave me, even as I was
just nearly reaching port, a perverse horror of what I was doing.
To do it in any way was an act of violence, for what did it
consist of but the obtrusion of the idea of grossness and guilt on
a small helpless creature who had been for me a revelation of the
possibilities of beautiful intercourse? Wasn't it base to create
for a being so exquisite a mere alien awkwardness? I suppose I now
read into our situation a clearness it couldn't have had at the
time, for I seem to see our poor eyes already lighted with some
spark of a prevision of the anguish that was to come. So we
circled about, with terrors and scruples, like fighters not daring
to close. But it was for each other we feared! That kept us a
little longer suspended and unbruised. "I'll tell you everything,"
Miles said -- "I mean I'll tell you anything you like. You'll stay
on with me, and we shall both be all right; and I will tell you --
I will. But not now."
"Why not now?"
My insistence turned him from me and kept him
once more at his window in a silence during which, between us, you
might have heard a pin drop. Then he was before me again with the
air of a person for whom, outside, someone who had frankly to be
reckoned with was waiting. "I have to see Luke."
I had not yet reduced him to quite so vulgar a
lie, and I felt proportionately ashamed. But, horrible as it was,
his lies made up my truth. I achieved thoughtfully a few loops of
my knitting. "Well, then, go to Luke, and I'll wait for what you
promise. Only, in return for that, satisfy, before you leave me,
one very much smaller request."
He looked as if he felt he had succeeded enough
to be able still a little to bargain. "Very much smaller --
"Yes, a mere fraction of the whole. Tell me" --
oh, my work preoccupied me, and I was offhand! -- "if, yesterday
afternoon, from the table in the hall, you took, you know, my
My sense of how he received this suffered for a
minute from something that I can describe only as a fierce split
of my attention -- a stroke that at first, as I sprang straight
up, reduced me to the mere blind movement of getting hold of him,
drawing him close, and, while I just fell for support against the
nearest piece of furniture, instinctively keeping him with his
back to the window. The appearance was full upon us that I had
already had to deal with here: Peter Quint had come into view like
a sentinel before a prison. The next thing I saw was that, from
outside, he had reached the window, and then I knew that, close to
the glass and glaring in through it, he offered once more to the
room his white face of damnation. It represents but grossly what
took place within me at the sight to say that on the second my
decision was made; yet I believe that no woman so overwhelmed ever
in so short a time recovered her grasp of the act. It came to me
in the very horror of the immediate presence that the act would
be, seeing and facing what I saw and faced, to keep the boy
himself unaware. The inspiration -- I can call it by no other name
-- was that I felt how voluntarily, how transcentently, I might.
It was like fighting with a demon for a human soul, and when I had
fairly so appraised it I saw how the human soul -- held out, in
the tremor of my hands, at arm's length -- had a perfect dew of
sweat on a lovely childish forehead. The face that was close to
mine was as white as the face against the glass, and out of it
presently came a sound, not low nor weak, but as if from much
further away, that I drank like a waft of fragrance.
"Yes I took it."
At this, with a moan of joy, I enfolded, I drew
him close; and while I held him to my breast, where I could feel
in the sudden fever of his little body the tremendous pulse of his
little heart, I kept my eyes on the thing at the window and saw it
move and shift its posture. I have likened it to a sentinel, but
its slow wheel, for a moment, was rather the prowl of a baffled
beast. My present quickened courage, however, was such that, not
too much to let it through, I had to shade, as it were, my flame.
Meanwhile the glare of the face was again at the window, the
scoundrel fixed as if to watch and wait. It was the very
confidence that I might now defy him, as well as the positive
certitude, by this time, of the child's unconsciousness, that made
me go on, "What did you take it for?"
'To see what you said about me."
"You opened the letter?"
"I opened it."
My eyes were now, as I held him off a little
again, on Miles's own face, in which the collapse of mockery
showed me how complete was the ravage of uneasiness. What was
prodigious was that at last, by my success, his sense was sealed
and his communication stopped: he knew that he was in presence,
but knew not of what, and knew still less that I also was and that
I did know. And what did this strain of trouble matter when my
eyes went back to the window only to see that the air was clear
again and -- by my personal triumph -- the influence quenched?
There was nothing there. I felt that the cause was mine and that I
should surely get all. "And you found nothing!" -- I let my
He gave the most mournful, thoughtful little
"Nothing, nothing!" I almost shouted in my joy.
'Nothing, nothing," he sadly repeated.
I kissed his forehead; it was drenched. "So
what have you done with it?"
"I've burned it."
"Burned it?" It was now or never. "Is that what
you did at school?"
Oh, what this brought up! "At school?"
"Did you take letters? or other things?"
"Other things?" He appeared now to be thinking
of something far off and that reached him only through the
pressure of his anxiety. Yet it did reach him. "Did I steal? "
I felt myself redden to the roots of my hair as
well as wonder if it were more strange to put to a gentleman such
a question or to see him take it with allowances that gave the
very distance of his fall in the world. "Was it for that you
mightn't go back?"
The only thing he felt was rather a dreary
little surprise. "Did you know I mightn't go back?"
"I know everything."
He gave me at this the longest and strangest
"Everything. Therefore did you -- -- ?"
But I couldn't say it again.
Miles could, very simply. "No. I didn't steal."
My face must have shown him I believed him
utterly; yet my hands -- but it was for pure tenderness -- shook
him as if to ask him why, if it was all for nothing, he had
condemned me to months of torment. "What then did you do?"
He looked in vague pain all round the top of
the room and drew his breath, two or three times over, as if with
difficulty. He might have been standing at the bottom of the sea
and raising his eyes to some faint green twilight. "Well -- I said
"They thought it was enough!"
"To turn you out for?"
Never, truly, had a person "turned out" shown
so little to explain it as this little person! He appeared to
weigh my question, but in a manner quite detached and almost
helpless. "Well, I suppose I oughtn't."
But to whom did you say them?"
He evidently tried to remember, but it dropped
-- he had lost it. "I don't know!"
He almost smiled at me in the desolation of his
surrender, which was indeed practically, by this time, so complete
that I ought to have left it there. But I was infatuated -- I was
blind with victory, though even then the very effect that was to
have brought him so much nearer was already that of added
separation. "Was it to everyone?" I asked.
"No; it was only to -- -- " But he gave a
sick little headshake. "I don't remember their names."
"Were they then so many?"
"No -- only a few. Those I liked."
Those he liked? I seemed to float not into
clearness, but into a darker obscure, and within a minute there
had come to me out of my very pity the appalling alarm of his
being perhaps innocent. It was for the instant confounding and
bottomless, for if he were innocent, what then on earth was I?
Paralyzed, while it lasted, by the mere brush of the question, I
let him go a little, so that, with a deep-drawn sigh, he turned
away from me again; which, as he faced toward the clear window, I
suffered, feeling that I had nothing now there to keep him from.
"And did they repeat what you said?" I went on after a moment.
He was soon at some distance from me, still
breathing hard and again with the air, though now without anger
for it, of being confined against his will. Once more, as he had
done before, he looked up at the dim day as if, of what had
hitherto sustained him, nothing was left but an unspeakable
anxiety. "Oh, yes," he nevertheless replied -- "they must have
repeated them. To those they liked," he added.
There was, somehow, less of it than I had
expected; but I turned it over. "And these things came round
-- -- ?"
"To the masters? Oh, yes!" he answered very
simply. "But I didn't know they'd tell."
"The masters? They didn't -- they've never
told. That's why I ask you."
He turned to me again his little beautiful
fevered face. "Yes, it was too bad."
"What I suppose I sometimes said. To write
I can't name the exquisite pathos of the
contradiction given to such a speech by such a speaker; I only
know that the next instant I heard myself throw off with homely
force: "Stuff and nonsense!" But the next after that I must have
sounded stern enough. "What were these things?"
My sternness was all for his judge, his
executioner; yet it made him avert himself again, and that
movement made me, with a single bound and an irrepressible cry,
spring straight upon him. For there again, against the glass, as
if to blight his confession and stay his answer, was the hideous
author of our woe -- the white face of damnation. I felt a sick
swim at the drop of my victory and all the return of my battle, so
that the wildness of my veritable leap only served as a great
betrayal. I saw him, from the midst of my act, meet it with a
divination, and on the perception that even now he only guessed,
and that the window was still to his own eyes free, I let the
impulse flame up to convert the climax of his dismay into the very
proof of his liberation. "No more, no more, no more!" I shrieked,
as I tried to press him against me, to my visitant.
"Is she here? " Miles panted as he caught with
his sealed eyes the direction of my words. Then as his strange
"she" staggered me and, with a gasp, I echoed it, "Miss Jessel,
Miss Jessel!" he with a sudden fury gave me back.
I seized, stupefied, his supposition some
sequel to what we had done to Flora, but this made me only want to
show him that it was better still than that. "It's not Miss
Jessel! But it's at the window -- straight before us. It's there
-- the coward horror, there for the last time!"
At this, after a second in which his head made
the movement of a baffled dog's on a scent and then gave a frantic
little shake for air and light, he was at me in a white rage,
bewildered, glaring vainly over the place and missing wholly,
though it now, to my sense, filled the room like the taste of
poison, the wide, overwhelming presence. "It's he? "
I was so determined to have all my proof that I
flashed into ice to challenge him. "Whom do you mean. by 'he'?"
"Peter Quint -- you devil!" His face gave
again, round the room, its convulsed supplication. " Where? "
They are in my ears still, his supreme
surrender of the name and his tribute to my devotion. "What does
he matter now, my own? -- what will he ever matter? I have you," I
launched at the beast, "but he has lost you forever!" Then, for
the demonstration of my work, "There, there! " I said to Miles.
But he had already jerked straight round,
stared, glared again, and seen but the quiet day. With the stroke
of the loss I was so proud of he uttered the cry of a creature
hurled over an abyss, and the grasp with which I recovered him
might have been that of catching him in his fall. I caught him,
yes, I held him -- it may be imagined with what a passion; but at
the end of a minute I began to feel what it truly was that I held.
We were alone with the quiet day, and his little heart,
dispossessed, had stopped.