Chapter 23

“Oh, more or less.” I fancy my smile was pale. “Not absolutely. We shouldn’t like that!” I went on.

“Oh, more or less.” I think my smile was faint. “Not completely. We wouldn’t like that!” I continued.

“No—I suppose we shouldn’t. Of course we have the others.”

“No, I suppose we shouldn’t. Of course, we have the others.”

“We have the others—we have indeed the others,” I concurred.

“We have the others. We certainly have the others,” I agreed.

“Yet even though we have them,” he returned, still with his hands in his pockets and planted there in front of me, “they don’t much count, do they?”

“Still, even though we have them,” he replied, standing in front of me with his hands in his pockets, “they don’t count for much, do they?”

I made the best of it, but I felt wan. “It depends on what you call ‘much’!”

I made the best of it, but I felt weak. “It depends on what you call ‘much’!”

“Yes”—with all accommodation—“everything depends!” On this, however, he faced to the window again and presently reached it with his vague, restless, cogitating step. He remained there awhile, with his forehead against the glass, in contemplation of the stupid shrubs I knew and the dull things of November. I had always my hypocrisy of “work,” behind which, now, I gained the sofa. Steadying myself with it there as I had repeatedly done at those moments of torment that I have described as the moments of my knowing the children to be given to something from which I was barred, I sufficiently obeyed my habit of being prepared for the worst. But an extraordinary impression dropped on me as I extracted a meaning from the boy’s embarrassed back—none other than the impression that I was not barred now. This inference grew in a few minutes to sharp intensity and seemed bound up with the direct perception that it was positively he who was. The frames and squares of the great window were a kind of image, for him, of a kind of failure. I felt that I saw him, at any rate, shut in or shut out. He was admirable, but not comfortable: I took it in with a throb of hope. Wasn’t he looking, through the haunted pane, for something he couldn’t see?—and wasn’t it the first time in the whole business that he had known such a lapse? The first, the very first: I found it a splendid portent. It made him anxious, though he watched himself; he had been anxious all day and, even while in his usual sweet little manner he sat at table, had needed all his small strange genius to give it a gloss. When he at last turned round to meet me, it was almost as if this genius had succumbed. “Well, I think I’m glad Bly agrees with me!”

“Yes,” I said, doing my best to agree, “everything depends!” At this, however, he turned toward the window again. Soon he reached it, walking in his vague, restless, thoughtful way. He stayed there for a while, his forehead against the glass, contemplating the familiar, dreary shrubs and the dull November scene. I still had my pretense of “work,” and under its cover I moved to the sofa. I steadied myself against it, as I had often done during those moments of torment I have described. Those were the moments when I knew the children were involved in something from which I was shut out. As usual, I managed to prepare myself for the worst. But as I read meaning in the boy’s embarrassed posture, an extraordinary impression came over me. I felt that I was not shut out now. Within minutes, this conclusion became a sharp conviction. It seemed bound up with my direct perception that he was the one shut out. For him, the frames and panes of the great window seemed to represent some kind of failure. At any rate, I felt I could see that he was shut in or shut out. He was admirable, but he was not comfortable, and I realized this with a throb of hope. Wasn’t he looking through the haunted pane for something he couldn’t see? And wasn’t this the first time in the whole affair that he had experienced such a failure? The first, the very first. I thought it a splendid sign. His failure made him anxious, though he was careful not to show it. He had been anxious all day. Even while he sat at the table in his usual sweet little way, he had needed all his small, strange genius to conceal it. When he finally turned to face me, it was almost as if that genius had failed him. “Well, I think I’m glad Bly agrees with me!”

“You would certainly seem to have seen, these twenty-four hours, a good deal more of it than for some time before. I hope,” I went on bravely, “that you’ve been enjoying yourself.”

“You certainly seem to have seen a lot more of it in the last twenty-four hours than you had for some time before. I hope,” I continued bravely, “you’ve been enjoying yourself.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve been ever so far; all round about—miles and miles away. I’ve never been so free.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve been so far, all around, miles and miles away. I’ve never been so free.”

He had really a manner of his own, and I could only try to keep up with him. “Well, do you like it?”

He really had his own way about him, and I could only try to keep up with him. “Well, do you like it?”

He stood there smiling; then at last he put into two words—“Do you?”—more discrimination than I had ever heard two words contain. Before I had time to deal with that, however, he continued as if with the sense that this was an impertinence to be softened. “Nothing could be more charming than the way you take it, for of course if we’re alone together now it’s you that are alone most. But I hope,” he threw in, “you don’t particularly mind!”

He stood there smiling. Then, at last, he said, “Do you?” He put more meaning into those two words than I had ever heard in two words. Before I had time to respond, however, he continued, as if he felt he should soften the rudeness. “Nothing could be more charming than the way you take it. Of course, if we’re alone together now, you’re the one who’s alone most. But I hope,” he added, “you don’t particularly mind!”

“Having to do with you?” I asked. “My dear child, how can I help minding? Though I’ve renounced all claim to your company—you’re so beyond me—I at least greatly enjoy it. What else should I stay on for?”

“Anything to do with you?” I asked. “My dear child, how could I not care? Though I’ve given up all claim to your company, you’re so far beyond me. I still enjoy your company very much. What else would I stay for?”

He looked at me more directly, and the expression of his face, graver now, struck me as the most beautiful I had ever found in it. “You stay on just for that?”

He looked at me more directly. His face was more serious now, and I thought it was the most beautiful expression I had ever seen on it. “You’re staying just for that?”

“Certainly. I stay on as your friend and from the tremendous interest I take in you till something can be done for you that may be more worth your while. That needn’t surprise you.” My voice trembled so that I felt it impossible to suppress the shake. “Don’t you remember how I told you, when I came and sat on your bed the night of the storm, that there was nothing in the world I wouldn’t do for you?”

“Of course. I’m staying as your friend because I care so deeply about you. I’ll stay until something can be done for you that may be better for you. My staying shouldn’t surprise you.” My voice trembled so much that I felt I couldn’t stop it. “Don’t you remember what I told you when I came and sat on your bed that stormy night? I said there was nothing in the world I wouldn’t do for you.”

“Yes, yes!” He, on his side, more and more visibly nervous, had a tone to master; but he was so much more successful than I that, laughing out through his gravity, he could pretend we were pleasantly jesting. “Only that, I think, was to get me to do something for you!”

“Yes, yes!” He was growing visibly more nervous and had to control his tone. But he managed much better than I did. He laughed despite his serious manner and could pretend we were joking pleasantly. “Only I think that was to get me to do something for you!”

“It was partly to get you to do something,” I conceded. “But, you know, you didn’t do it.”

“It was partly to get you to do something,” I admitted. “But, you know, you didn’t do it.”

“Oh, yes,” he said with the brightest superficial eagerness, “you wanted me to tell you something.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, sounding brightly eager but insincere, “you wanted me to tell you something.”

“That’s it. Out, straight out. What you have on your mind, you know.”

“That’s it. Say it. Say exactly what’s on your mind, you know.”

“Ah, then, is that what you’ve stayed over for?”

“Oh, so is that why you stayed?”

He spoke with a gaiety through which I could still catch the finest little quiver of resentful passion; but I can’t begin to express the effect upon me of an implication of surrender even so faint. It was as if what I had yearned for had come at last only to astonish me. “Well, yes—I may as well make a clean breast of it, it was precisely for that.”

He spoke cheerfully, though I could still hear the faintest tremor of resentment in his voice. But I can’t begin to describe how that faint hint of surrender affected me. It was as if what I had longed for had finally come, only to astonish me. “Well, yes, I might as well confess. That was exactly why.”

He waited so long that I supposed it for the purpose of repudiating the assumption on which my action had been founded; but what he finally said was: “Do you mean now—here?”

He waited so long that I thought he meant to reject the assumption behind my action. But finally he said, “Do you mean now, here?”

“There couldn’t be a better place or time.” He looked round him uneasily, and I had the rare—oh, the queer!—impression of the very first symptom I had seen in him of the approach of immediate fear. It was as if he were suddenly afraid of me—which struck me indeed as perhaps the best thing to make him. Yet in the very pang of the effort I felt it vain to try sternness, and I heard myself the next instant so gentle as to be almost grotesque. “You want so to go out again?”

“There couldn’t be a better place or time.” He looked around uneasily. For the first time, I saw a sign that he was beginning to feel immediate fear. It was a rare and strange impression. It was as if he were suddenly afraid of me. And perhaps, I thought, making him afraid of me was the best thing to do. Yet even as I struggled to be stern, I felt it was useless to try. The next moment, I heard myself speaking so gently that it was almost absurd. “You really want to go out again?”

“Awfully!” He smiled at me heroically, and the touching little bravery of it was enhanced by his actually flushing with pain. He had picked up his hat, which he had brought in, and stood twirling it in a way that gave me, even as I was just nearly reaching port, a perverse horror of what I was doing. To do it in any way was an act of violence, for what did it consist of but the obtrusion of the idea of grossness and guilt on a small helpless creature who had been for me a revelation of the possibilities of beautiful intercourse? Wasn’t it base to create for a being so exquisite a mere alien awkwardness? I suppose I now read into our situation a clearness it couldn’t have had at the time, for I seem to see our poor eyes already lighted with some spark of a prevision of the anguish that was to come. So we circled about, with terrors and scruples, like fighters not daring to close. But it was for each other we feared! That kept us a little longer suspended and unbruised. “I’ll tell you everything,” Miles said—“I mean I’ll tell you anything you like. You’ll stay on with me, and we shall both be all right, and I will tell you—I will. But not now.”

“Terribly!” He smiled at me bravely. His little show of courage was even more touching because he was actually blushing with pain. He had picked up the hat he had brought in and stood twirling it. Even though I was nearly at my goal, the sight filled me with a strange horror of what I was doing. There was no way to do it without an act of violence. I was forcing the idea of ugliness and guilt on a small, helpless creature. He had shown me how beautiful a relationship between people could be. Wasn’t it cruel to make someone so exquisite feel an awkwardness that was entirely foreign to him? I suppose I now see our situation more clearly than I could have at the time. I seem to see a glimmer in our poor eyes already, as if we sensed the anguish to come. So we circled each other, full of fear and doubt, like fighters afraid to come close. But it was for each other that we feared! That kept us apart and unharmed a little longer. “I’ll tell you everything,” Miles said. “I mean I’ll tell you anything you like. You’ll stay on with me, and we shall both be all right, and I will tell you, I will. But not now.”

“Why not now?”

“Why not now?”

My insistence turned him from me and kept him once more at his window in a silence during which, between us, you might have heard a pin drop. Then he was before me again with the air of a person for whom, outside, someone who had frankly to be reckoned with was waiting. “I have to see Luke.”

My insistence made him turn away from me and return to his window. The silence between us was so complete that you could have heard a pin drop. Then he turned back to me. He looked like someone who had a person waiting outside, someone he had to take seriously. “I have to see Luke.”

I had not yet reduced him to quite so vulgar a lie, and I felt proportionately ashamed. But, horrible as it was, his lies made up my truth. I achieved thoughtfully a few loops of my knitting. “Well, then, go to Luke, and I’ll wait for what you promise. Only, in return for that, satisfy, before you leave me, one very much smaller request.”

I had not yet driven him to tell such a crude lie, and I felt ashamed in proportion. But, horrible as it was, his lies made up my truth. I thoughtfully knitted a few stitches. “Well, then, go to Luke, and I’ll wait for what you promise. But in return, please do one much smaller thing for me before you leave.”

He looked as if he felt he had succeeded enough to be able still a little to bargain. “Very much smaller—?”

He looked as if he felt he had succeeded enough to bargain a little more. “Much smaller?”

“Yes, a mere fraction of the whole. Tell me”—oh, my work preoccupied me, and I was offhand!—“if, yesterday afternoon, from the table in the hall, you took, you know, my letter.”

“Yes, just a small part of the whole. Tell me.” Oh, I was so preoccupied with my work that I spoke casually! “Did you take my letter from the table in the hall yesterday afternoon?”