15

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.

The matter was practically settled the moment I failed to follow him. It was a pitiful surrender to my agitation, but knowing that somehow did nothing to calm me. I just sat there on my tomb and thought through the full meaning of what my little friend had said. By the time I understood it all, I had also found an excuse for staying away. I was ashamed to set such an example of lateness for my pupils and the rest of the congregation. Above all, I told myself that Miles had learned something from me. For him, this awkward collapse would be the proof of it. He had learned that there was something I greatly feared. He would probably be able to use my fear to gain more freedom for his own purposes. I was afraid of having to face the unbearable question of why he had been dismissed from school. That question was really only the question of the horrors behind it. Strictly speaking, I should now have wanted his uncle to come and discuss these things with me. But I could so little face the ugliness and pain of it that I simply put it off. I lived from one day to the next. To my deep distress, the boy was entirely right. He could say to me: “Either you clear up the mystery of this interruption to my studies with my guardian, or you stop expecting me to live a life with you that is so unnatural for a boy.” What was so unnatural for this particular boy was his sudden display of awareness 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.

That was what truly overwhelmed me and kept me from going in. I walked around the church, hesitating and lingering. I thought about how I had already damaged my relationship with him beyond repair. So I could not make things right, and squeezing into the pew beside him was too much to ask. He would be even more likely than ever to slip his arm through mine. Then I would have to sit there for an hour in close, silent contact with his response to our talk. For the first time since his arrival, I wanted to get away from him. I paused beneath the high east window and listened to the sounds of worship. An impulse came over me. I felt that if I gave it the slightest encouragement, it might take complete control of me. I could easily end my predicament by leaving altogether. This was my chance. No one could stop me. I could give up the whole thing, turn my back and retreat. All I had to do was hurry back to the house and make a few preparations. With so many servants at church, the house would be practically empty. In short, no one could blame me if I simply drove away in desperation. What was the point of getting away if I got away only until dinner? Dinner was only a couple of hours away. I could clearly foresee how my little pupils would then pretend innocent surprise that I had not followed them to church.

“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.

“What did you do, you naughty, bad thing? Why on earth did you abandon us right at the door? You worried us so and distracted us, too, you know.” I couldn’t face those questions or their false, lovely little eyes as they asked them. Yet I knew I would have to face exactly that. As the prospect became clear to me, I finally 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 myself; 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 resistance.

For the moment, at least, I got away. I came straight out of the churchyard and walked back through the park, thinking hard. By the time I reached the house, it seemed I had decided to flee. The Sunday stillness outside and inside the house, where I met no one, excited me with a sense of opportunity. If I left quickly like this, I could go without a scene, without a word. But I would have to be remarkably quick, and the biggest question was how to find a way to travel. In the hall, tormented by difficulties and obstacles, I remember sinking down at the foot of the staircase. I suddenly collapsed on the lowest step. Then, with a feeling of revulsion, I remembered that this was exactly where I had seen the ghost of that most horrible woman. That had been more than a month before, in the dark of night. She had been bowed down just as I was, weighed down by evil things. At this, I managed to straighten up. I climbed the rest of the stairs and, bewildered, headed for the schoolroom. Some things I would have to take with me were there. But when I opened the door, my eyes were opened again in a flash. At the sight of what was there, I staggered straight back into resistance.

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, 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.

In the clear light of noon, I saw a woman sitting at my table. Without my earlier experience, I would have taken her at first for a housemaid left at home to look after the place. She seemed to be taking advantage of a rare chance to be unobserved. Using the schoolroom table and my pens, ink, and paper, she seemed to be struggling to write a letter to her sweetheart. Her arms rested on the table, and her hands held up her head, plainly weary from the effort. But as I noticed this, I was already aware that she strangely remained in the same position despite my entrance. Then, just as I recognized her, she changed her posture. She rose, not as if she had heard me, but with an indescribable, grand sadness of indifference and detachment. Less than a dozen feet away, my vile predecessor stood before me. There she was, dishonored and tragic, fully visible before me. But even as I fixed the dreadful image in my memory, it vanished. She was dark as midnight in her black dress, her haggard beauty and her unspeakable sorrow. She had looked at me long enough to seem to say that her right to sit at my table was as good as my right to sit at hers. During those moments, I felt an extraordinary chill, as if I were the intruder. In wild protest against that feeling, I actually spoke to her. “You terrible, miserable woman!” I heard myself cry out, and the sound rang through the open door, down the long passage and through the empty house. She looked at me as if she heard me, but I had regained control of myself and cleared the air. The next minute, there was nothing in the room but sunshine and a sense that I must stay.