Chapter 17

8 min

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!

That evening, I went so far as to make a start. The weather had changed again, and a strong wind was blowing. In my room, Flora rested peacefully beside me. I sat beneath the lamp for a long time, facing a blank sheet of paper. I listened to the rain lashing down and the gusts battering the house. Finally, I took a candle and went out. I crossed the passage and listened at Miles’s door for a minute. In my endless obsession, I felt driven to listen for some sign that he was not resting. Soon I caught one, but not in the form I had expected. His voice rang out. “I say, you there, come in.” What a cheerful sound 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 went in with my light and found him in bed, wide awake but completely at ease. “Well, what are you up to?” he asked with such graceful friendliness that I had a thought. If Mrs. Grose had been there, she 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 laughed.

“Of course I heard you. Did you think you weren’t making any noise? You sound like a troop of cavalry!” he said with a beautiful laugh.

“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 think of?”

I had deliberately placed my candle a short distance away. Then, as he held out his friendly old hand to me, I sat down on the edge of his bed. “What are you thinking about?” I asked.

“What in the world, my dear, but you?”

“What else 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.”

“Ah, I’m proud that you appreciate it, but I wouldn’t insist on that! I’d much rather you slept.”

“Well, I think also, you know, of this queer business of ours.”

“Well, I also think, you know, about this strange situation we’re in.”

I marked the coolness of his firm little hand. “Of what queer business, Miles?”

I noticed how cool his firm little hand was. “What strange business, Miles?”

“Why, the way you bring me up. And all the rest!”

“Why, the way you raise me. And everything else!”

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 the rest?”

I held my breath for a moment. Even my flickering candle gave enough light to show him smiling up at me from his pillow. “What do you mean by all the 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 clear, 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?”

I couldn’t speak for a minute. I held his hand, and we continued to look into each other’s eyes. I felt that my silence made it look as though I admitted his accusation. Perhaps nothing in the real world seemed so unbelievable just then as the relationship between us. “Of course you can go back to school,” I said, “if that’s what’s troubling you. But not to the old school. We must find another, a better one. How could I know the question of school was troubling you? You never told me, never spoke of it at all.” His open, attentive face, framed by his smooth white skin, made him look as appealing as a wistful patient in a children’s hospital. As the resemblance struck me, I would have given all I owned on earth to be a nurse or a charitable sister who could have helped cure him. Well, even as things were, perhaps I could help! “Do you know you’ve never said a word to me about your school? I mean the old one. You’ve 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!

He seemed puzzled. He smiled just as beautifully as before. But he was clearly buying time. He waited and 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.”

Something in his tone and expression, as I heard this from him, made my heart ache as it never had before. It was unbearably touching to see his little mind struggling, his little resources strained. Under the spell laid on him, he was trying to seem innocent and keep his story straight. “No, never, not since the hour you came back. You’ve never mentioned a single teacher or schoolmate to me. You’ve never told me the slightest thing that happened to you at school. Never, little Miles, no, never, have you given me a hint of anything that may have happened there. So you can imagine how much I don’t know. Until you spoke out like that this morning, you had barely mentioned your earlier life since I first saw you. You seemed so completely content with the present.” It was extraordinary how my absolute conviction of his hidden precocity made him seem as approachable as an older person. I scarcely dared put into words what I saw as the poison of an influence on him, or whatever I might call it. Despite a faint sign of his inner trouble, my conviction made him seem almost my intellectual equal. “I thought you wanted things to go on as they 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.”

I thought he blushed slightly at this. In any case, he shook his head slowly, like someone tired from recovering from an illness. “I don’t, I don’t. I want to get away.”

“You’re tired of Bly?”

“Oh, no, I like Bly.”

“Well, then—?”

“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?”

I felt that Miles knew better than I did, and I looked for a way to buy time. “Do 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!”

Again, he shifted on the pillow, his face sweet and ironic. “Oh, you can’t get away 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!”

I was quiet for a moment. I think I was the one who changed color this time. “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.”

“You can’t, even if you do. You can’t, you can’t!” He lay there, staring beautifully. “My uncle has to come down, and you have to settle everything completely.”

“If we do,” I returned with some spirit, “you may be sure it will be to take you quite away.”

“If we do,” I replied spiritedly, “you can be sure it will be to take you far 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!”

“Well, don’t you understand? That’s exactly what I’m working toward. You’ll have to tell him how you’ve let it all drop. You’ll have a tremendous amount to tell him!”

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 ask you!”

The joy with which he said this somehow helped me face him a little more, for a moment. “And how much will you have to tell him, Miles? There are things he’ll ask you!”

He turned it over. “Very likely. But what things?”

He thought it over. “Probably. But what things?”

“The things you’ve never told me. To make up his mind what to do with you. He can’t send you back—”

“The things you’ve never told me. To decide 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.”

“Oh, I don’t want to go back!” he interrupted. “I want something new.”

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—!”

He said it with admirable calm and unmistakable cheerfulness. Doubtless, that cheerfulness was what most brought home to me the painful, unnatural tragedy of his childhood. He would probably return after three months with all this bravado and even more dishonor. The thought overwhelmed me. I knew I would never be able to bear it, and I gave way to my feelings. I threw myself on him and embraced him with tender pity. “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?”

My face was close to his, and he let me kiss him, accepting the kiss with patient good humor. “Well, old lady?”

“Is there nothing—nothing at all that you want to tell me?”

“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.”

He turned slightly away, facing the wall. He held up his hand and looked at it as sick children do. “I’ve told you. I told you this morning.”

Oh, I was sorry for him! “That you just want me not to worry you?”

Oh, I felt so 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,” he replied.

He turned to look at me, as if he recognized that I understood him. Then he replied very gently, “To leave 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.

There was even a strange little dignity in it. It made me let him go, yet stay beside him after I slowly stood up. God knows I never wanted to harass him. But I felt that if I simply turned my back on him now, I would be abandoning him. Or, more truly, I would be losing him. “I’ve just started 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?”

He looked 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?”

He was silent for a while, but he kept looking into 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 that the drawn curtains were unstirred and the window tight. “Why, the candle’s out!” I then cried.

The sound of his words made me drop to my knees beside the bed. For the first time, I thought I heard a faint tremor of knowing consent in his voice. I seized the chance to win him over once more. “Dear little Miles, dear little Miles, if you knew how much I want to help you! That’s all I want, nothing else. I’d rather die than cause you pain or do you wrong. I’d rather die than hurt a hair on your head. Dear little Miles,” I said it now, even if I should go too far, “I just want you to help me save you!” But a moment later, I knew I had gone too far. The answer to my plea came at once. It came as an extraordinary blast and chill, a gust of freezing air. The room shook as violently as if the wind had blown the window open. The boy let out a loud, high scream. It was lost in the rest of the shocking noise. Though I was so close to him, I couldn’t clearly tell whether it expressed joy or terror. I jumped to my feet again and became aware of the darkness. We stayed like that for a moment. I stared around and saw that the drawn curtains had not moved and the window was tightly shut. “Why, the candle’s out!” I cried.

“It was I who blew it, dear!” said Miles.

“I blew it, dear!” said Miles.