III

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 grotesque.

Fortunately, her turning her back on me was not a snub that could stop our growing mutual esteem. I had more important things to think about. After I brought little Miles home, we became closer than ever over my astonishment and general excitement. I was ready to declare it monstrous that a child like the one I had just met should be forbidden to return to school. I arrived a little late and found him waiting anxiously for me outside the inn where the coach had left him. At once, I felt I could see him, inside and out. He had the same wonderful freshness, the same unmistakable fragrance of purity, that I had seen in his little sister from the first moment. He was incredibly beautiful, and Mrs. Grose had been exactly right. In his presence, everything was swept away except a kind of passionate tenderness for him. I took him to my heart then and there for something divine that I have never found to the same degree in any child. It was his indescribable little air of knowing nothing in the world but love. No one could have borne a bad reputation with a sweeter innocence. By the time I returned to Bly with him, I was bewildered, except where I was outraged, at the thought of the horrible letter locked in a drawer in my room. As soon as I could speak privately with Mrs. Grose, I told her that the letter was grotesque.

She promptly understood me. “You mean the cruel charge—?”

She understood me immediately. “You mean the cruel accusation?”

“It doesn’t live an instant. My dear woman, look at him!”

“It doesn’t last even a moment. 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.

She smiled at my claim to have discovered his charm. “I assure you, miss, I do nothing else! What will you say, then?” she added at once.

“In answer to the letter?” I had made up my mind. “Nothing.”

“In reply to the letter?” I had decided. “Nothing.”

“And to his uncle?”

“And to his uncle?”

I was incisive. “Nothing.”

I was direct. “Nothing.”

“And to the boy himself?”

“And to the boy himself?”

I was wonderful. “Nothing.”

I was amazing. “Nothing.”

She gave with her apron a great wipe to her mouth. “Then I’ll stand by you. We’ll see it out.”

She wiped her mouth vigorously with her apron. “Then I’ll stand by you. We’ll see it through.”

“We’ll see it out!” I ardently echoed, giving her my hand to make it a vow.

“We’ll see it through!” I echoed eagerly, offering her my hand to seal the promise.

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—”

She held me there for a moment, then quickly lifted her apron again with her free hand. “Would you mind, miss, if I took the liberty...”

“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.

“To kiss me? No!” I took the dear woman in my arms, and we hugged like sisters. Afterward, I felt even stronger and more 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 any case, that was how things stood for the time being. Those days were so full that I now struggle to make them clear in my memory. What amazes me, looking back, is the situation I accepted. My companion and I had agreed to see it through. I was apparently under a spell that made me forget how great the effort would be, and how far-reaching and difficult its implications. A great wave of infatuation and pity lifted me up. In my ignorance, my confusion, and perhaps my vanity, I found it easy to assume I could manage a boy whose education for the world was just about to begin. Even now, I cannot remember what I planned for the end of his holidays, when his studies would resume. We all supposed that he would have lessons with me that lovely summer. But I now feel that, for weeks, I must have been the one learning. At first, certainly, I learned something my small, sheltered life had never taught me. I learned to enjoy myself, and even to entertain others, without thinking about tomorrow. In a way, it was the first time I had known space, air, and freedom, all the music of summer, and all the mystery of nature. And then there was the consideration shown to me, and that consideration was sweet. Oh, it was a trap, though no one had intended it. It drew me deeply in, appealing to my imagination, my sensitivity, perhaps my vanity, and whatever else in me was most easily stirred. The best way to describe it is to say that I had let down my guard. The children gave me so little trouble. They were extraordinarily gentle. I used to wonder, though only vaguely and now and then, how the rough future would treat them and perhaps hurt them. For all futures are rough! They glowed with health and happiness. Yet I imagined them as a pair of little nobles, princes of royal blood, who would need everything around them to be sheltered and protected. The only future I could picture for them was a romantic, truly royal extension of the garden and the park. Of course, it may be, above all, that what suddenly broke into those days gives the earlier time its charm of stillness. It had the hush in which something gathers or crouches. The change was 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.

In the first weeks, the days were long. On the finest days, they often gave me what I used to call my own hour. My pupils had finished tea and gone to bed, leaving me a little time alone before I went to bed myself. Much as I liked their company, this was my favorite hour of the day. I liked it best when I could walk in the grounds as the light faded. Or rather, the day lingered, and the last calls of the last birds came from the old trees against a rosy sky. I enjoyed the beauty and dignity of the place, almost feeling that it belonged to me. That feeling amused and flattered me. At such moments, it was a pleasure to feel peaceful and sure I had done the right thing. No doubt it was also a pleasure, perhaps, to think that my discretion, quiet good sense, and generally proper conduct were pleasing him. That is, if he ever thought about it! I was doing what he had earnestly hoped for and directly asked me to do. And finding that I could do it, after all, gave me even more joy than I had expected. I suppose I imagined myself a remarkable young woman, in short, and took comfort in believing that others would come to see it too. Well, I needed to be remarkable to face the remarkable things that soon showed 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 happened one afternoon, right in the middle of my usual hour. The children were tucked away, and I had come out for my stroll. On these walks, I often had a thought that I don’t hesitate to admit now. It would be as charming as something in a charming story to meet someone suddenly. He would appear around a bend in the path, stand before me, smile, and show his approval. I asked for nothing more. I only asked that he should know. The only way to be sure he knew would be to see it in his handsome face, along with the kindness in his eyes. His face was exactly what I had in mind on the first of these occasions. It was the end of a long June day. I came out of a grove of trees and stopped short when the house came into view. What stopped me, with a shock much greater than any daydream had prepared me for, was the feeling that my imagination had suddenly become real. He was standing there! But he was high up, beyond the lawn, at the very top of the tower. It was the tower to which little Flora had led me on that first morning. The tower was one of a pair of square, out of place structures with battlements. For some reason they were called the new tower and the old tower, though I could see little difference between them. They stood at opposite ends of the house and were probably architectural absurdities. They were redeemed somewhat, though, by being partly connected to the house and not too pretentiously tall. Their fanciful imitation of ancient architecture dated from a romantic revival that was already a respectable part of the past. I admired the towers and entertained fancies about them. We could all benefit to some degree from the grandeur of their real battlements, especially when they loomed through the dusk. Yet the figure I had so often imagined did not seem most at home at such a height.

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.

I remember that the figure in the clear twilight made me gasp twice. Each gasp came from a separate shock of surprise. The second was the sudden realization that my first impression had been wrong. The man I saw was not the person I had hastily taken him for. I was so bewildered by what I saw that, after all these years, I cannot hope to convey it vividly. A young woman raised in a sheltered home has good reason to fear an unknown man in a lonely place. A few more seconds assured me that the figure facing me was not anyone else I knew, either. I had not seen him in Harley Street. I had not seen him anywhere. Strangely, the moment the man appeared, his very presence made the place feel deserted. At least, the whole feeling of that moment comes back to me now. I am telling the story here more carefully than I ever have before. As I took in what I saw, it was as if everything else in the scene had been struck dead. As I write, I can hear again the intense silence as the evening sounds faded. The rooks stopped cawing in the golden sky, and the friendly hour lost all its voice for a minute. But nothing else in nature changed, unless it was that I saw everything with a strange new sharpness. The sky was still golden, the air still clear. The man looking at me over the battlements was as clear as a picture in a frame. In that moment, I thought with extraordinary speed of everyone he might have been, and was not. We faced each other across the distance long enough for me to ask myself urgently who he was. Because I could not say, I felt a sense of wonder that grew intense within a few moments.

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.

I know that afterward, the great question, or one of them, is how long certain things lasted. Well, whatever you think of it, this moment lasted while I considered a dozen possibilities. None made it any better, as far as I could see, that someone had been in the house without my knowledge. Above all, how long had he been there? The moment lasted while I felt a little indignant. My duties required that I know who was in the house, and that no such person be there. The moment lasted while this visitor seemed to stare at me from where he stood. Through the fading light, his gaze held the same question, the same scrutiny, that his presence stirred in me. He wore no hat, a sign of familiarity that, as I remember, suggested a strangely bold freedom. We were too far apart to call to each other. But for a moment we stared so directly at each other that, if we had been closer, one of us would have challenged the other and broken the silence. He stood at one corner, the one away from the house. He seemed very upright, with both hands on the ledge. I see him as clearly as I see the letters I form on this page. Then, after a minute, he slowly moved, as if to add to the spectacle. He crossed to the opposite corner of the platform, looking hard at me all the while. Yes, I felt sure he never took his eyes off me as he crossed. Even now, I can see his hand passing from one of the crenelations to the next. He stopped at the other corner, but for less time. Even as he turned away, he was still staring intently at me. He turned away. That was all I knew.