Chapter 18

6 min

The next day, after lessons, Mrs. Grose found a moment to say to me quietly: “Have you written, miss?”

The next day, after lessons, Mrs. Grose found a moment to ask 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.

“Yes, I’ve written.” But for the moment, I didn’t add that my letter was still in my pocket, sealed and addressed. There would be plenty of time to send it before the messenger left for the village. Meanwhile, my pupils had never had a more brilliant, more exemplary morning. It was exactly as if they both wanted to smooth over any recent little friction. They performed dizzying feats of arithmetic, soaring well beyond my feeble abilities. In higher spirits than ever, they made jokes about geography and history. Miles, in particular, seemed eager to show how easily he could put me at ease. In my memory, this child lives surrounded by beauty and misery that no words can convey. Every impulse he showed had a distinction all its own. To an uninformed observer, he was a small, natural creature, entirely open and free. Yet never was there a more ingenious or extraordinary little gentleman. I constantly had to guard against the wondering contemplation into which my knowledge drew me. I had to stop myself from staring at him and sighing in discouragement. In those moments, I kept trying to solve the mystery, only to give up. What could such a little gentleman have done to deserve punishment? Suppose that, through the dark marvel I knew of, he had come to imagine all evil. Even so, every sense of justice in me longed for proof that such imaginings could ever have led to 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 I know?”—breaking moreover into a happy laugh which, immediately after, as if it were a vocal accompaniment, he prolonged into incoherent, extravagant song.

At any rate, he had never been such a little gentleman as he was that dreadful day after our early dinner. He came over and asked if I would like him to play for me for half an hour. David playing for Saul could never have shown a finer sense of the occasion. It was a truly charming display of tact and generosity. It was almost as if he had said outright: “The true knights we love to read about never push an advantage too far. I know what you mean now. You mean that, so I’ll leave you alone and stop pressing you, you’ll stop worrying and spying on me. You won’t keep me so close to you, and you’ll let me come and go. Well, I ‘come,’ you see, but I don’t go! There’ll be plenty of time for that. I really do enjoy your company, and I only want to show you that I was standing up for a principle.” You can imagine whether I resisted his appeal or failed to go with him again, hand in hand, to the schoolroom. He sat down at the old piano and played as he had never played before. If anyone thinks he would have been better off kicking a football, I can only say that I completely agree. Under his influence, I had quite stopped keeping track of time. But eventually I jumped up, with a strange sense that I had literally fallen asleep at my post. It was after lunch, and I was by the schoolroom fire. Yet I hadn’t really slept at all. I had only done something much worse: I had forgotten. Where had Flora been all this time? When I asked Miles, he played on for a minute before answering. Then all he could say was, “Why, my dear, how do I know?” He also broke into a happy laugh. Right afterward, he prolonged the laugh into wild, incoherent song, as if it were an accompaniment to his playing.

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.

I went straight to my room, but his sister was not there. Before going downstairs, I looked in several other rooms. She was nowhere to be found, so she must be with Mrs. Grose. Comforted by that thought, I went to look for her. I found Mrs. Grose where I had found her the evening before. But when I quickly asked about the girl, she looked blank and frightened and knew nothing. She had assumed that I had taken both children away after the meal. She was quite right to assume so. This was the first time I had let the little girl out of my sight without making special arrangements. Of course, she might be with the maids, so we needed to look for her without showing alarm. We quickly agreed to do that. But when we met in the hall ten minutes later, as we had arranged, we had the same news. We had both made careful inquiries and completely failed to find her. For a minute, away from anyone’s notice, we silently shared our fears. I could feel how fully my friend was now returning all the alarm I had given her from the start, with interest.

“She’ll be above,” she presently said—“in one of the rooms you haven’t searched.”

“She’ll be upstairs,” she said after a moment, “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.”

“No, she’s far away.” I had made up my mind. “She’s gone out.”

Mrs. Grose stared. “Without a hat?”

I naturally also looked volumes. “Isn’t that woman always without one?”

Naturally, my expression also spoke volumes. “Doesn’t that woman always go without one?”

“She’s with her?”

“She’s with her!” I declared. “We must find them.”

“She’s with her!” I said. “We have to find them.”

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?”

My hand was on my friend’s arm, but after hearing my account, she did not respond to my touch right away. Instead, she paused to dwell on her uneasiness. “And where’s Master Miles?”

“Oh, he’s with Quint. They’re in the schoolroom.”

“Lord, miss!” My view, I was myself aware—and therefore I suppose my tone—had never yet reached so calm an assurance.

“Good Lord, miss!” I knew my view had never been so calmly assured. I suppose my tone reflected that.

“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.”

“The trick worked,” I continued. “They’ve carried out their plan. He found the most delightful little way to keep me quiet while she went off.”

“‘Divine’?” Mrs. Grose bewilderedly echoed.

“‘Divine’?” Mrs. Grose repeated, puzzled.

“Infernal, then!” I almost cheerfully rejoined. “He has provided for himself as well. But come!”

“Devilish, then!” I replied almost cheerfully. “He has made arrangements for himself too. But come on!”

She had helplessly gloomed at the upper regions. “You leave him—?”

She looked helplessly and gloomily upstairs. “You leave him?”

“So long with Quint? Yes—I don’t mind that now.”

“So long with Quint? Yes, I don’t mind that now.”

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.

At moments like these, she always ended up taking my hand, and she could still stop me that way now. But she gasped for a moment at my sudden surrender. Then she eagerly asked, “Because of your letter?”

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 came back. I reached the house door and opened it; I was already on the steps.

In answer, I quickly reached for my letter, pulled it out, and held it up. Then I freed myself and laid the letter on the large hall table. “Luke will take it,” I said as I came back. I reached the front 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?”

My companion still hesitated. The storm from the night and early morning had died down, but the afternoon was damp and gray. I went down to the drive while she stood in the doorway. “Are you going out 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.”

“Why should I care when the child has nothing? I can’t wait to get dressed,” I cried. “If you have to get dressed, I’ll leave you. Meanwhile, try upstairs yourself.”

“With them?” Oh, on this, the poor woman promptly joined me!

“With them?” Oh, the poor woman quickly agreed with me on that!