X

I remained awhile at the top of the stair, but with the effect presently of understanding that when my visitor had gone, he had gone: then I returned to my room. The foremost thing I saw there by the light of the candle I had left burning was that Flora’s little bed was empty; and on this I caught my breath with all the terror that, five minutes before, I had been able to resist. I dashed at the place in which I had left her lying and over which (for the small silk counterpane and the sheets were disarranged) the white curtains had been deceivingly pulled forward; then my step, to my unutterable relief, produced an answering sound: I perceived an agitation of the window blind, and the child, ducking down, emerged rosily from the other side of it. She stood there in so much of her candor and so little of her nightgown, with her pink bare feet and the golden glow of her curls. She looked intensely grave, and I had never had such a sense of losing an advantage acquired (the thrill of which had just been so prodigious) as on my consciousness that she addressed me with a reproach. “You naughty: where have you been?”—instead of challenging her own irregularity I found myself arraigned and explaining. She herself explained, for that matter, with the loveliest, eagerest simplicity. She had known suddenly, as she lay there, that I was out of the room, and had jumped up to see what had become of me. I had dropped, with the joy of her reappearance, back into my chair—feeling then, and then only, a little faint; and she had pattered straight over to me, thrown herself upon my knee, given herself to be held with the flame of the candle full in the wonderful little face that was still flushed with sleep. I remember closing my eyes an instant, yieldingly, consciously, as before the excess of something beautiful that shone out of the blue of her own. “You were looking for me out of the window?” I said. “You thought I might be walking in the grounds?”

I stayed at the top of the stairs for a while. Soon, though, I understood that my visitor had gone and was not coming back. Then I returned to my room. By the light of the candle I had left burning, the first thing I saw was Flora’s little bed, empty. I caught my breath, overcome by all the terror I had managed to resist five minutes earlier. I rushed to where I had left her lying. The white curtains had been pulled forward, hiding the fact that the small silk bedspread and the sheets were disturbed. Then, to my unspeakable relief, my footsteps drew a sound in reply. I saw the window blind move, and the child ducked down and emerged, rosy-cheeked, from behind it. She stood there looking so innocent, wearing so little of her nightgown, with her bare pink feet and glowing golden curls. She looked intensely serious. I had just been thrilled to feel I had gained such an advantage. But now, as she spoke to me reproachfully, I had never felt so keenly that I had lost one. “You naughty: where have you been?” Instead of questioning her own behavior, I found myself accused and explaining myself. She explained herself, too, with the sweetest, most eager simplicity. As she lay there, she had suddenly realized I was out of the room. She had jumped up to see what had become of me. Overjoyed to see her again, I sank back into my chair. Only then did I feel a little faint. She pattered straight over to me and threw herself onto my knee, letting me hold her. The candlelight fell fully on her wonderful little face, still flushed with sleep. I remember closing my eyes for an instant, willingly and deliberately. It was as though I had been overwhelmed by the beauty shining from her blue eyes. “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.

“Well, you know, I thought someone was.” She smiled at me as she said it, without turning pale.

Oh, how I looked at her now! “And did you see anyone?”

Oh, how I looked at her then! “And did you see anyone?”

“Ah, no!” she returned, almost with the full privilege of childish inconsequence, resentfully, though with a long sweetness in her little drawl of the negative.

“Ah, no!” she replied resentfully, with almost all a child’s freedom to be inconsistent. Yet she drew out the word with a lingering sweetness.

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?”

At that moment, with my nerves so strained, I absolutely believed she was lying. I closed my eyes again, dazzled by the three or four possible ways I might deal with it. For a moment, one of them tempted me with extraordinary force. To resist it, I must have gripped my little girl so hard that I trembled. Amazingly, she bore it without a cry or any sign of fear. Why not confront her on the spot and have it all over? Why not tell her straight to her lovely, shining little face? “You see, you see, you know you do, and you already quite suspect that I believe it. So why not confess it to me honestly? Then at least we could live with it together. Perhaps, in our strange situation, we could learn where we stand and what it means.” Alas, the temptation passed as quickly as it came. If I had given in to it at once, I might have spared myself. Well, you’ll see what. Instead of giving in, I sprang to my feet again and looked at her bed. Helplessly, I took a middle course. “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!”

Flora thought for a moment, her face lighting up. Then, with her little angelic smile, she said, “Because I don’t like to frighten you!”

“But if I had, by your idea, gone out—?”

“But what if I had gone out, as you suggest?”

She absolutely declined to be puzzled; she turned her eyes to the flame of the candle as if the question were as irrelevant, or at any rate as impersonal, as Mrs. Marcet or nine-times-nine. “Oh, but you know,” she quite adequately answered, “that you might come back, you dear, and that you have!” And after a little, when she had got into bed, I had, for a long time, by almost sitting on her to hold her hand, to prove that I recognized the pertinence of my return.

She refused to be puzzled. She looked at the candle flame as if the question were irrelevant, or at least as impersonal as Mrs. Marcet or nine times nine. “Oh, but you know,” she answered well enough, “that you might come back, you dear, and that you have!” A little later, when she had gone to bed, I had to hold her hand for a long time, almost sitting on her to do so. I had to prove that I understood how much my return mattered.

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.

You can imagine what my nights were like from then on. I often sat up until I lost track of time. When my roommate was clearly asleep, I slipped out and walked silently up and down the passage. I even went as far as the place where I had last met Quint. But I never met him there again. I may as well say now that I never saw him in the house again, either. On the staircase, though, I narrowly missed a different encounter. Once, looking down from the top, I saw a woman sitting on one of the lower steps. Her back was to me, her body was bent forward, and her head rested sorrowfully in her hands. But I had been there only a moment when she vanished without looking around at me. Even so, I knew exactly what dreadful face she would have shown me. I wondered whether, if I had been below her instead of above, I would have had the nerve to go upstairs, as I had recently shown with Quint. Well, there were still plenty of chances to test my nerve. On the eleventh night after my last encounter with that gentleman, I had a fright that nearly tested my nerve. I counted all the nights now. This fright was so unexpected in its own way that it gave me my sharpest shock yet. It was the first night in that series when, tired of keeping watch, I had felt I could go to bed at my old hour without neglecting my duty. I fell asleep immediately and slept until about one o’clock, as I learned afterward. But when I woke, I sat straight up, as fully alert as if a hand had shaken me. I had left a light burning, but it was out now. I was instantly certain that Flora had put it out. I got up and went straight to her bed in the dark. I found that she had left it. A glance at the window told me more, and when I struck a match, I saw the whole 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?

The child had got up again. This time she had blown out the candle. Once more, she had squeezed in behind the blind and was peering into the night, to watch or respond to something. I had convinced myself that she had seen nothing the previous time. But now I knew she saw something, because she was not disturbed when I lit the candle again. Nor did she notice me hurrying to put on slippers and a wrap. Hidden, protected and absorbed, she was evidently leaning on the sill. The window opened outward, and she gave herself up to what she saw. A large, still moon gave her light, and I had taken this into account in my quick decision. She was face to face with the apparition we had met at the lake. Now she could communicate with it, as she had not been able to do then. My concern was to reach another window on the same side of the house, without disturbing her. I had to go through the corridor to reach it. I got to the door without her hearing me, went out and closed it. From the other side, I listened for any sound from her. As I stood in the passage, I watched her brother’s door, only ten steps away. Somehow, the sight of it brought back the strange impulse I recently described as my temptation. What if I went straight in and walked to his window? What if I risked revealing my purpose, though it might bewilder the boy? Could I throw the long halter of my boldness over the rest of the mystery?

This thought held me sufficiently to make me cross to his threshold and pause again. I preternaturally listened; I figured to myself what might portentously be; I wondered if his bed were also empty and he too were secretly at watch. It was a deep, soundless minute, at the end of which my impulse failed. He was quiet; he might be innocent; the risk was hideous; I turned away. There was a figure in the grounds—a figure prowling for a sight, the visitor with whom Flora was engaged; but it was not the visitor most concerned with my boy. I hesitated afresh, but on other grounds and only for a few seconds; then I had made my choice. There were empty rooms at Bly, and it was only a question of choosing the right one. The right one suddenly presented itself to me as the lower one—though high above the gardens—in the solid corner of the house that I have spoken of as the old tower. This was a large, square chamber, arranged with some state as a bedroom, the extravagant size of which made it so inconvenient that it had not for years, though kept by Mrs. Grose in exemplary order, been occupied. I had often admired it and I knew my way about in it; I had only, after just faltering at the first chill gloom of its disuse, to pass across it and unbolt as quietly as I could one of the shutters. Achieving this transit, I uncovered the glass without a sound and, applying my face to the pane, was able, the darkness without being much less than within, to see that I commanded the right direction. Then I saw something more. The moon made the night extraordinarily penetrable and showed me on the lawn a person, diminished by distance, who stood there motionless and as if fascinated, looking up to where I had appeared—looking, that is, not so much straight at me as at something that was apparently above me. There was clearly another person above me—there was a person on the tower; but the presence on the lawn was not in the least what I had conceived and had confidently hurried to meet. The presence on the lawn—I felt sick as I made it out—was poor little Miles himself.

The thought held me long enough to cross to his doorway and pause again. I listened with unnatural intensity. I imagined what ominous thing might be happening. I wondered if his bed was empty too, and if he too was secretly keeping watch. A long, silent minute passed, and then I lost my nerve. He was quiet. He might be innocent. The risk was dreadful. I turned away. There was a figure in the grounds, prowling about to catch sight of someone. It was the visitor with whom Flora was involved, but not the visitor most concerned with my boy. I hesitated again, for different reasons, and only for a few seconds. Then I made my choice. There were empty rooms at Bly. I only had to choose the right one. It suddenly occurred to me that the right room was the lower one, though still high above the gardens. It was in the solid corner of the house I have called the old tower. It was a large, square room, furnished with some grandeur as a bedroom. Its excessive size made it so inconvenient that no one had occupied it for years. Even so, Mrs. Grose kept it in perfect order. I had often admired the room and knew my way around it. After hesitating briefly in the cold gloom of the unused room, I crossed it. Then I unbolted one of the shutters as quietly as I could. I uncovered the glass without a sound and pressed my face against the pane. It was much less dark outside than inside, and I could see that I was looking in the right direction. Then I saw something more. The moon made it extraordinarily easy to see through the darkness. It showed me a person on the lawn, small in the distance, standing motionless as if fascinated. The person was looking up toward where I had appeared. But the gaze was directed less at me than at something apparently above me. Clearly there was another person above me, someone on the tower. But the person on the lawn was not at all the one I had imagined and hurried so confidently to meet. I felt sick as I made out who it was. The person on the lawn was poor little Miles himself.