XX

Just as in the churchyard with Miles, the whole thing was upon us. Much as I had made of the fact that this name had never once, between us, been sounded, the quick, smitten glare with which the child’s face now received it fairly likened my breach of the silence to the smash of a pane of glass. It added to the interposing cry, as if to stay the blow, that Mrs. Grose, at the same instant, uttered over my violence—the shriek of a creature scared, or rather wounded, which, in turn, within a few seconds, was completed by a gasp of my own. I seized my colleague’s arm. “She’s there, she’s there!”

Just as in the churchyard with Miles, the whole thing was upon us. I had thought a great deal about how we had never once spoken this name between us. Now the child’s face flashed with such shock at hearing it that my breaking the silence was like smashing a pane of glass. At that same moment, Mrs. Grose cried out at my violence, as if to stop the blow. The child’s look added to her cry, which was the shriek of someone frightened, or rather wounded. A few seconds later, my own gasp followed. I seized my colleague’s arm. “She’s there, she’s there!”

Miss Jessel stood before us on the opposite bank exactly as she had stood the other time, and I remember, strangely, as the first feeling now produced in me, my thrill of joy at having brought on a proof. She was there, and I was justified; she was there, and I was neither cruel nor mad. She was there for poor scared Mrs. Grose, but she was there most for Flora; and no moment of my monstrous time was perhaps so extraordinary as that in which I consciously threw out to her—with the sense that, pale and ravenous demon as she was, she would catch and understand it—an inarticulate message of gratitude. She rose erect on the spot my friend and I had lately quitted, and there was not, in all the long reach of her desire, an inch of her evil that fell short. This first vividness of vision and emotion were things of a few seconds, during which Mrs. Grose’s dazed blink across to where I pointed struck me as a sovereign sign that she too at last saw, just as it carried my own eyes precipitately to the child. The revelation then of the manner in which Flora was affected startled me, in truth, far more than it would have done to find her also merely agitated, for direct dismay was of course not what I had expected. Prepared and on her guard as our pursuit had actually made her, she would repress every betrayal; and I was therefore shaken, on the spot, by my first glimpse of the particular one for which I had not allowed. To see her, without a convulsion of her small pink face, not even feign to glance in the direction of the prodigy I announced, but only, instead of that, turn at me an expression of hard, still gravity, an expression absolutely new and unprecedented and that appeared to read and accuse and judge me—this was a stroke that somehow converted the little girl herself into the very presence that could make me quail. I quailed even though my certitude that she thoroughly saw was never greater than at that instant, and in the immediate need to defend myself I called it passionately to witness. “She’s there, you little unhappy thing—there, there, there, and you see her as well as you see me!” I had said shortly before to Mrs. Grose that she was not at these times a child, but an old, old woman, and that description of her could not have been more strikingly confirmed than in the way in which, for all answer to this, she simply showed me, without a concession, an admission, of her eyes, a countenance of deeper and deeper, of indeed suddenly quite fixed, reprobation. I was by this time—if I can put the whole thing at all together—more appalled at what I may properly call her manner than at anything else, though it was simultaneously with this that I became aware of having Mrs. Grose also, and very formidably, to reckon with. My elder companion, the next moment, at any rate, blotted out everything but her own flushed face and her loud, shocked protest, a burst of high disapproval. “What a dreadful turn, to be sure, miss! Where on earth do you see anything?”

Miss Jessel stood before us on the opposite bank, exactly where she had stood before. Strangely, I remember that my first feeling was a thrill of joy at having produced proof. She was there, and I was justified. She was there, and I was neither cruel nor mad. She was there for poor, frightened Mrs. Grose, but most of all she was there for Flora. Perhaps no moment in that monstrous time was so extraordinary as this one. I deliberately sent Miss Jessel a silent message of gratitude. Pale and ravenous demon that she was, I felt she would catch and understand it. She stood upright in the very spot my companion and I had just left. Across the whole distance her desire had reached, not an inch of her evil had fallen short. Those first vivid impressions and emotions lasted only a few seconds. During that time, Mrs. Grose blinked in confusion across the water where I was pointing. Her look struck me as certain proof that she too could finally see Miss Jessel. At the same time, it sent my own eyes rushing toward the child. What I saw in Flora’s reaction startled me far more than if I had found her merely upset. Of course, I had not expected her to show open alarm. Our pursuit had put her on her guard, so she would hide any sign that might give her away. Still, I was shaken at once by the first sign I had not anticipated. Her small pink face did not twitch. She did not even pretend to look toward the apparition I had pointed out. Instead, she turned on me a look of hard, quiet seriousness. The look was completely new to her. It seemed to read me, accuse me, and judge me. Somehow, the look turned the little girl herself into the very presence that could make me shrink back in fear. I shrank back even though I had never been more certain that she saw Miss Jessel clearly. Needing to defend myself at once, I passionately appealed to that certainty. “She’s there, you poor unhappy thing, there, there, there, and you see her as well as you see me!” I had recently told Mrs. Grose that at such times Flora was not a child, but a very, very old woman. Her response could not have confirmed that description more strikingly. She gave me no answer except a look of deeper and deeper disapproval, which suddenly became quite fixed. She gave nothing away with her eyes, made no admission. By then, if I can put the whole experience together at all, I was more appalled by her manner than by anything else. At the same time, though, I became aware that I also had Mrs. Grose to reckon with, and that she was a formidable force. The next moment, at any rate, my older companion shut out everything else. All I saw was her flushed face, and all I heard was her loud, shocked protest, bursting with disapproval. “What a dreadful thing to say, miss! Where on earth do you see anything?”

I could only grasp her more quickly yet, for even while she spoke the hideous plain presence stood undimmed and undaunted. It had already lasted a minute, and it lasted while I continued, seizing my colleague, quite thrusting her at it and presenting her to it, to insist with my pointing hand. “You don’t see her exactly as we see?—you mean to say you don’t now—now? She’s as big as a blazing fire! Only look, dearest woman, look—!” She looked, even as I did, and gave me, with her deep groan of negation, repulsion, compassion—the mixture with her pity of her relief at her exemption—a sense, touching to me even then, that she would have backed me up if she could. I might well have needed that, for with this hard blow of the proof that her eyes were hopelessly sealed I felt my own situation horribly crumble, I felt—I saw—my livid predecessor press, from her position, on my defeat, and I was conscious, more than all, of what I should have from this instant to deal with in the astounding little attitude of Flora. Into this attitude Mrs. Grose immediately and violently entered, breaking, even while there pierced through my sense of ruin a prodigious private triumph, into breathless reassurance.

I could only grab her more urgently. Even as she spoke, the hideous figure stood there plainly, as clear and fearless as ever. It had already been there for a minute, and it stayed as I seized my colleague. I practically pushed her toward it and kept pointing at it. “You don’t see her exactly as we do? You mean you don’t see her now, now? She’s as big as a blazing fire! Just look, dearest woman, look!” She looked, just as I did, and gave a deep groan of denial, revulsion, and compassion. Her pity was mixed with relief that she had been spared the sight. Even then, I was touched by the feeling that she would have supported me if she could. I might well have needed that support. The crushing proof that her eyes were hopelessly closed to the sight made me feel my situation falling horribly apart. I felt, I saw, my deathly pale predecessor take advantage of my defeat from where she stood. Above all, I was aware of what I would have to deal with from this moment on in Flora’s astonishing little manner. Mrs. Grose immediately and forcefully took Flora’s side. As an enormous private triumph cut through my sense of ruin, she began breathlessly reassuring the child.

“She isn’t there, little lady, and nobody’s there—and you never see nothing, my sweet! How can poor Miss Jessel—when poor Miss Jessel’s dead and buried? We know, don’t we, love?”—and she appealed, blundering in, to the child. “It’s all a mere mistake and a worry and a joke—and we’ll go home as fast as we can!”

“She isn’t there, little lady, and nobody’s there. And you never see anything, my sweet! How could poor Miss Jessel be there, when she’s dead and buried? We know, don’t we, love?” She appealed clumsily to the child. “It’s all just a mistake and a worry and a joke. And we’ll go home as fast as we can!”

Our companion, on this, had responded with a strange, quick primness of propriety, and they were again, with Mrs. Grose on her feet, united, as it were, in pained opposition to me. Flora continued to fix me with her small mask of reprobation, and even at that minute I prayed God to forgive me for seeming to see that, as she stood there holding tight to our friend’s dress, her incomparable childish beauty had suddenly failed, had quite vanished. I’ve said it already—she was literally, she was hideously, hard; she had turned common and almost ugly. “I don’t know what you mean. I see nobody. I see nothing. I never have. I think you’re cruel. I don’t like you!” Then, after this deliverance, which might have been that of a vulgarly pert little girl in the street, she hugged Mrs. Grose more closely and buried in her skirts the dreadful little face. In this position she produced an almost furious wail. “Take me away, take me away—oh, take me away from her!”

Our companion responded with a strange, sudden show of proper behavior. Mrs. Grose rose to her feet, and the two were once again united, as if hurt, against me. Flora kept staring at me, her little face a mask of disapproval. Even then, I prayed that God would forgive me for what I seemed to see. As she stood there, holding tightly to our friend’s dress, her incomparable childish beauty had suddenly faded, vanished completely. I’ve said it already. She was literally, hideously hard. She had become ordinary and almost ugly. “I don’t know what you mean. I see nobody. I see nothing. I never have. I think you’re cruel. I don’t like you!” After saying this, as any rude, cheeky little girl in the street might have done, she hugged Mrs. Grose more tightly and buried her dreadful little face in her skirts. There she let out an almost furious wail. “Take me away, take me away, oh, take me away from her!”

“From me?” I panted.

“From me?” I panted.

“From you—from you!” she cried.

“From you, from you!” she cried.

Even Mrs. Grose looked across at me dismayed, while I had nothing to do but communicate again with the figure that, on the opposite bank, without a movement, as rigidly still as if catching, beyond the interval, our voices, was as vividly there for my disaster as it was not there for my service. The wretched child had spoken exactly as if she had got from some outside source each of her stabbing little words, and I could therefore, in the full despair of all I had to accept, but sadly shake my head at her. “If I had ever doubted, all my doubt would at present have gone. I’ve been living with the miserable truth, and now it has only too much closed round me. Of course I’ve lost you: I’ve interfered, and you’ve seen—under her dictation”—with which I faced, over the pool again, our infernal witness—“the easy and perfect way to meet it. I’ve done my best, but I’ve lost you. Goodbye.” For Mrs. Grose I had an imperative, an almost frantic “Go, go!” before which, in infinite distress, but mutely possessed of the little girl and clearly convinced, in spite of her blindness, that something awful had occurred and some collapse engulfed us, she retreated, by the way we had come, as fast as she could move.

Even Mrs. Grose looked at me in dismay. I could only turn again to the figure on the opposite bank. It stood without moving, as rigidly still as if it could hear our voices across the water. It was vividly there to ruin me, though it was not there to help me. The poor child had spoken exactly as if someone else had given her every one of her hurtful little words. So, in complete despair at all I had to accept, I could only shake my head sadly at her. “If I had ever doubted, all my doubt would be gone now. I’ve been living with the miserable truth, and now it has closed in on me all too completely. Of course I’ve lost you. I interfered, and you’ve seen, under her direction, the easy and perfect way to deal with my interference.” As I said this, I faced our infernal witness across the pool again. “I’ve done my best, but I’ve lost you. Goodbye.” To Mrs. Grose, I said urgently, almost frantically, “Go, go!” She was deeply distressed, but she silently took hold of the little girl. Despite her blindness, she was clearly convinced that something awful had happened and that some disaster had overwhelmed us. She went back the way we had come, as fast as she could.

Of what first happened when I was left alone I had no subsequent memory. I only knew that at the end of, I suppose, a quarter of an hour, an odorous dampness and roughness, chilling and piercing my trouble, had made me understand that I must have thrown myself, on my face, on the ground and given way to a wildness of grief. I must have lain there long and cried and sobbed, for when I raised my head the day was almost done. I got up and looked a moment, through the twilight, at the gray pool and its blank, haunted edge, and then I took, back to the house, my dreary and difficult course. When I reached the gate in the fence the boat, to my surprise, was gone, so that I had a fresh reflection to make on Flora’s extraordinary command of the situation. She passed that night, by the most tacit, and I should add, were not the word so grotesque a false note, the happiest of arrangements, with Mrs. Grose. I saw neither of them on my return, but, on the other hand, as by an ambiguous compensation, I saw a great deal of Miles. I saw—I can use no other phrase—so much of him that it was as if it were more than it had ever been. No evening I had passed at Bly had the portentous quality of this one; in spite of which—and in spite also of the deeper depths of consternation that had opened beneath my feet—there was literally, in the ebbing actual, an extraordinarily sweet sadness. On reaching the house I had never so much as looked for the boy; I had simply gone straight to my room to change what I was wearing and to take in, at a glance, much material testimony to Flora’s rupture. Her little belongings had all been removed. When later, by the schoolroom fire, I was served with tea by the usual maid, I indulged, on the article of my other pupil, in no inquiry whatever. He had his freedom now—he might have it to the end! Well, he did have it; and it consisted—in part at least—of his coming in at about eight o’clock and sitting down with me in silence. On the removal of the tea things I had blown out the candles and drawn my chair closer: I was conscious of a mortal coldness and felt as if I should never again be warm. So, when he appeared, I was sitting in the glow with my thoughts. He paused a moment by the door as if to look at me; then—as if to share them—came to the other side of the hearth and sank into a chair. We sat there in absolute stillness; yet he wanted, I felt, to be with me.

I had no later memory of what first happened after I was left alone. I only knew that after perhaps fifteen minutes, a damp, earthy smell and the rough ground broke through my distress. The cold and roughness made me realize I must have thrown myself face down and given way to wild grief. I must have lain there a long time, crying and sobbing, for when I lifted my head, the day was nearly over. I got up and looked for a moment through the twilight at the gray pool and its empty, haunted edge. Then I made my dreary, difficult way back to the house. When I reached the gate in the fence, I was surprised to find the boat gone. That gave me another reason to reflect on Flora’s extraordinary control of the situation. By an entirely unspoken agreement, Flora spent that night with Mrs. Grose. I would call it the happiest arrangement, if the word were not so grotesquely out of place. When I returned, I saw neither of them. But I saw a great deal of Miles, as if that were some uncertain compensation. I saw so much of him, I can find no other way to say it, that it seemed more than ever before. No evening I had spent at Bly had felt as ominous as this one. Yet despite that feeling, and despite the still deeper depths of dismay that had opened beneath my feet, the passing hours held an extraordinarily sweet sadness. When I reached the house, I did not even look for the boy. I simply went straight to my room to change my clothes. There I saw at a glance plenty of physical evidence of Flora’s break with me. All her little belongings had been removed. Later, the usual maid served me tea by the schoolroom fire. I asked nothing at all about my other pupil. He had his freedom now, and he could have it to the end! Well, he did have it. At least partly, his freedom consisted of coming in at about eight o’clock and sitting down with me in silence. After the tea things had been taken away, I had blown out the candles and drawn my chair closer to the fire. I felt a deadly coldness and thought I would never be warm again. So when he appeared, I was sitting in the firelight with my thoughts. He paused for a moment by the door, as if to look at me. Then he came to the other side of the hearth and sank into a chair, as if to share my thoughts. We sat there in complete silence. Yet I felt he wanted to be with me.