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                <title type="main">The Turn of the Screw</title>
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                                    <forename>Henry</forename>
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                        <title type="main">The Two Magics: The Turn of the Screw, Covering End</title>
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                                <placeName type="tgn" key="7007567">New York</placeName>
                            </pubPlace>
                            <publisher>Macmillan</publisher>
                            <date when="1898">1898</date>
                            <note type="callNo">Source copy consulted:PS2116 .T9 1898 Special Collections, Alderman Library, University of
                                Virginia</note>
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        <front>
           
            <titlePage>
                <pb facs="pageImages/henry-turn-tp.png" n="Title Page"/>
                    <titlePart type="main">
                        THE TWO MAGICS
                    </titlePart>
                <lb/>
                <lb/>
                <titlePart type="sub">
                    THE TURN OF THE SCREW<lb/>
                    COVERING END
                </titlePart>
                <byline>BY</byline>
                <lb/>
                <docAuthor>HENRY JAMES<lb/>
                AUTHOR OF "DAISY MILLER," "THE EUROPEANS"<lb/>
                    ETC., ETC.<lb/>
                </docAuthor>
                <lb/>
                <lb/>
                <lb/>
             <docImprint>
                 <pubPlace>
                        <hi rend="gothic">New York</hi>
                    </pubPlace>
                    <lb/>
                 <publisher>THE MACMILLAN COMPANY</publisher>
                    <lb/>
                 <publisher>London:  Macmillan &amp; CO., <hi rend="small-caps">Ltd.</hi>
                    </publisher>
                    <lb/>
                 <date when="1898">1898</date>
                    <lb/>
                 <lb/>
                <hi rend="italic">All rights reserved</hi>
             </docImprint>
            </titlePage>
           
        </front>
        <body>
        <div type="preface">
            <div type="half-title">
                <pb facs="pageImages/henry-turn-half-title.png" n="Half Title"/>
                <head>THE TURN OF THE SCREW</head>
                <p/>
            </div>
            <div type="preface">
                <pb facs="pageImages/henry-turn-3.png" n="3"/>
                <head>THE TURN OF THE SCREW</head>
                <p>
                    The story had held us, round the fire, sufficiently breathless, but except
                    the obvious remark that it was gruesome, as, on Christmas Eve in an old house,
                    a strange tale should essentially be, I remember no comment uttered till
                    somebody happened to say that it was the only case he had met in which such
                    a visitation had fallen on a child. The case, I may mention, was that of
                    an apparition in just such an old house as had gathered us for the occasion—an
                    appearance, of a dreadful kind, to a little boy sleeping in the room with
                    his mother and waking her up in the terror of it; waking her not to dissipate
                    his dread and soothe him to sleep again, but to encounter also, herself,
                    before she had succeeded in doing so, the same sight that had shaken him.
                    It was this observation that drew from Douglas—not immediately, but later
                    in the evening—a reply that had the interesting consequence to which I call
                    attention. Someone else told a story not particularly effective, which I saw 
                    <pb facs="pageImages/henry-turn-4.png" n="4"/>
                    he was not following. This I took for a sign that he had himself something
                    to produce and that we should only have to wait. We waited in fact till two
                    nights later, but that same evening, before we scattered, he brought out
                    what was in his mind.
                </p>
                <p>
                    "I quite agree—in regard to Griffin's ghost, or whatever it was—that its
                    appearing first to the little boy, at so tender an age, adds a particular
                    touch. But it's not the first occurrence of its charming kind that I know
                    to have involved a child. If the child gives the effect another <ref target="turn_" corresp="turn">turn
                    of the screw,</ref>
                        <note target="turn_" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="turn" type="editorial">
                    Turn of the screw means something that makes a bad situation worse. 
                    Source: <ref target="https://dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/turn-of-the-screw">
                    https://dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/turn-of-the-screw</ref>
                        </note>
                    what do you say to <hi rend="italic">two</hi> children—?"
                </p>
                <p>
                    "We say, of course," somebody exclaimed, "that they give two turns! Also
                    that we want to hear about them."
                </p>
                <p>
                    I can see Douglas there before the fire, to which he had got up to present
                    his back, looking down at his <ref target="interlocutor_" corresp="interlocutor">interlocutor</ref>
                    <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="interlocutor" target="interlocutor_">
                    Someone who takes part in a dialogue, conversation, or discussion. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                    </note> with his hands in his pockets.
                    "Nobody but me, till now, has ever heard. It's quite too horrible." This,
                    naturally, was declared by several voices to give the thing the utmost price,
                    and our friend, with quiet art, prepared his triumph by turning his eyes
                    over the rest of us and going on: "It's beyond everything. Nothing at all
                    that I know touches it."
                </p>
                <p>
                    "For sheer terror?" I remember asking.
                </p>
                <pb facs="pageImages/henry-turn-5.png" n="5"/>
                <p>
                    He seemed to say it was not so simple as that; to be really at a loss how
                    to qualify it. He passed his hand over his eyes, made a little wincing grimace.
                    "For dreadful—dreadfulness!"
                </p>
                <p>
                    "Oh, how <ref corresp="delicious" target="delicious_">delicious!"</ref>
                    <note target="delicious_" xml:id="delicious" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                    Very amusing or entertaining. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> cried one of the women.
                </p>
                <p>
                    He took no notice of her; he looked at me, but as if, instead of me, he saw
                    what he spoke of. "For general uncanny ugliness and horror and pain."
                </p>
                <p>
                    "Well then," I said, "just sit right down and begin."
                </p>
                    <p>
                    He turned round to the fire, gave a kick to a log, watched it an instant.
                    Then as he faced us again: "I can't begin. I shall have to send to town."
                    There was a <ref target="unanimous_" corresp="unanimous">unanimous</ref>
                    <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="unanimous" target="unanimous_">
                    General agreement or consent. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                    </note> groan at this, and much reproach; after which, in his
                    preoccupied way, he explained. "The story's written. It's in a locked drawer—it
                    has not been out for years. I could write to my man and enclose the key;
                    he could send down the packet as he finds it." It was to me in particular
                    that he appeared to <ref corresp="propound" target="propound_">propound</ref>
                    <note target="propound_" xml:id="propound" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                    To put forward, set forth; to put forward as a question for solution. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                    </note> this—appeared almost to appeal for aid not
                    to hesitate. He had broken a thickness of ice, the formation of many a winter;
                    had had his reasons for a long silence. The others resented postponement,
                    but it was just his <ref target="scruples_" corresp="scruples">scruples</ref>
                    <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="scruples" target="scruples_">
                    A feeling that prevents you from doing something morally wrong.
                    Source: <ref target="https://dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/scruple">
                    https://dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/scruple</ref>
                        </note> that charmed me. I adjured 
                    <pb facs="pageImages/henry-turn-6.png" n="6"/>
                    him to write by the
                    first post and to agree with us for an early hearing; then I asked him if
                    the experience in question had been his own. To this his answer was prompt.
                    "Oh, thank God, no!"
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "And is the record yours? You took the thing down?"
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "Nothing but the impression. I took that <hi rend="italic">here"</hi>—he tapped his heart.
                    "I've never lost it."
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "Then your manuscript—?"
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "Is in old, faded ink, and in the most beautiful hand." He <ref target="fire_" corresp="fire">hung fire</ref>
                    <note target="fire_" xml:id="fire" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                    To hesitate or be slow in acting. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> again.
                    "A woman's. She has been dead these twenty years. She sent me the pages in
                    question before she died." They were all listening now, and of course there
                    was somebody to be arch, or at any rate to draw the inference. But if he
                    put the inference by without a smile it was also without irritation. "She
                    was a most charming person, but she was ten years older than I. She was my
                    sister's governess," he quietly said. "She was the most agreeable woman I've
                    ever known in her position; she would have been worthy of any whatever. It
                    was long ago, and this episode was long before. I was at Trinity, and I found
                    her at home on my coming down the second summer. I was much there that year—it
                    was a beautiful 
                    <pb facs="pageImages/henry-turn-7.png" n="7"/>
                    one; and we had, in her off-hours, some strolls and talks
                    in the garden—talks in which she struck me as awfully clever and nice. Oh
                    yes; don't grin: I liked her extremely and am glad to this day to think she
                    liked me, too. If she hadn't she wouldn't have told me. She had never told
                    anyone. It wasn't simply that she said so, but that I knew she hadn't. I
                    was sure; I could see. You'll easily judge why when you hear."
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "Because the thing had been such a scare?"
                </p>
                    <p>
                    He continued to fix me. "You'll easily judge," he repeated: <hi rend="italic">"you</hi> will."
                </p>
                    <p>
                    I fixed him, too. "I see. She was in love."
                </p>
                    <p>
                    He laughed for the first time. "You <hi rend="italic">are</hi> <ref corresp="acute" target="acute_">acute.</ref>
                    <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="acute" target="acute_">
                    Sharpness or keenness; perceptiveness. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> Yes, she was in love.
                    That is, she had been. That came out—she couldn't tell her story without
                    its coming out. I saw it, and she saw I saw it; but neither of us spoke of
                    it. I remember the time and the place—the corner of the lawn, the shade
                    of the great beeches and the long, hot summer afternoon. It wasn't a scene
                    for a shudder; but oh—!" He quitted the fire and dropped back into his
                    chair.
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "You'll receive the packet Thursday morning?" I inquired.
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "Probably not till the second post."
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "Well then; after dinner—"
                </p>
                <pb facs="pageImages/henry-turn-8.png" n="8"/>
                <p>
                    "You'll all meet me here?" He looked us round again. "Isn't anybody going?"
                    It was almost the tone of hope. "Everybody will stay!"
                </p>
                    <p>
                    <hi rend="italic">"I</hi> will—and <hi rend="italic">I</hi> will!" cried the ladies whose departure had
                    been fixed. Mrs. Griffin, however, expressed the need for a little more light.
                    "Who was it she was in love with?"
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "The story will tell," I took upon myself to reply.
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "Oh, I can't wait for the story!"
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "The story <hi rend="italic">won't</hi> tell," said Douglas; "not in any literal, <ref target="vulgar_" corresp="vulgar">vulgar</ref>
                    <note target="vulgar_" xml:id="vulgar" type="gloss" resp="editors.xmL#VBS">
                    Not special, singular, or exceptional. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                    way."
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "More's the pity, then. That's the only way I ever understand."
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "Won't you tell, Douglas?" somebody else inquired.
                </p>
                    <p>
                    He sprang to his feet again. "Yes—tomorrow. Now I must go to bed. Good night."
                    And quickly catching up a candlestick, he left us slightly bewildered. From
                    our end of the great brown hall we heard his step on the stair; whereupon
                    Mrs. Griffin spoke. "Well, if I don't know who she was in love with, I know
                    who <hi rend="italic">he</hi> was."
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "She was ten years older," said her husband.
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "<ref corresp="raison" target="raison_">
                            <hi rend="italic">Raison de plus</hi>—</ref>
                    <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="raison" target="raison_">
                    French for "all the more reason". Source: <ref target="https://www.collinsdictionary.com/dictionary/french-english/raison-de-plus">
                    https://www.collinsdictionary.com/dictionary/french-english/raison-de-plus</ref>
                    </note> at that age! But it's rather nice, his long
                    <ref target="reticence_" corresp="reticence">reticence."</ref>
                    <note target="reticence_" xml:id="reticence" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                    Reluctance to perform a particular action; disinclination, hesitation. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                </p>
                <pb facs="pageImages/henry-turn-9.png" n="9"/>
                    <p>
                    "Forty years!" Griffin put in.
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "With this outbreak at last."
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "The outbreak," I returned, "will make a tremendous occasion of Thursday
                    night;" and everyone so agreed with me that, in the light of it, we lost
                    all attention for everything else. The last story, however incomplete and
                    like the mere opening of a <ref corresp="serial" target="serial_">serial,</ref>
                    <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="serial" target="serial_">
                    A story published in installments like in a magazine or newspaper. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                    </note> had been told; we handshook and
                    <ref target="candlestuck_" corresp="candlestuck">"candlestuck,"</ref>
                    <note target="candlestuck_" xml:id="candlestuck" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                    Possibly to prepare candles by softening the wax at the end of it and putting it in a holder.
                    Source: <ref target="https://www.towernotes.co.uk/literature-notes-55_James_Turn-of-the-Screw_13.php">
                    https://www.towernotes.co.uk/literature-notes-55_James_Turn-of-the-Screw_13.php</ref>
                        </note>
                    as somebody said, and went to bed.
                </p>
                    <p>
                    I knew the next day that a letter containing the key had, by the first post,
                    gone off to his London apartments; but in spite of—or perhaps just on account
                    of—the eventual diffusion of this knowledge we quite let him alone till
                    after dinner, till such an hour of the evening, in fact, as might best accord
                    with the kind of emotion on which our hopes were fixed. Then he became as
                    communicative as we could desire and indeed gave us his best reason for being
                    so. We had it from him again before the fire in the hall, as we had had our
                    mild wonders of the previous night. It appeared that the narrative he had
                    promised to read us really required for a proper intelligence a few words
                    of prologue. Let me say here distinctly, to have done with it, that this
                    narrative, from am exact transcript of my own made <pb facs="pageImages/henry-turn-10.png" n="10"/>much later, is what I
                    shall presently give. Poor Douglas, before his death—when it was in
                    sight—committed to me the manuscript that reached him on the third of these
                    days and that, on the same spot, with immense effect, he began to read to
                    our hushed little circle on the night of the fourth. The departing ladies
                    who had said they would stay didn't, of course, thank heaven, stay: they
                    departed, in consequence of arrangements made, in a rage of curiosity, as
                    they professed, produced by the touches with which he had already worked
                    us up. But that only made his little final auditory more compact and select,
                    kept it, round the hearth, subject to a common thrill.
                </p>
                    <p>
                    The first of these touches conveyed that the written statement took up the
                    tale at a point after it had, in a manner, begun. The fact to be in possession
                    of was therefore that his old friend, the youngest of several daughters of
                    a poor country parson, had, at the age of twenty, on taking service for the
                    first time in the schoolroom, come up to <placeName type="tgn" key="7011781">London</placeName>, in
                    <ref corresp="trepidation" target="trepidation_">trepidation,</ref>
                    <note target="trepidation_" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="trepidation">
                    confusion; confused hurry or alarm. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> to answer
                    in person an advertisement that had already placed her in brief correspondence
                    with the advertiser. This person proved, on her presenting herself, for judgment,
                    at a house in Harley Street, that impressed her as vast and imposing
                    <pb facs="pageImages/henry-turn-11.png" n="11"/>
                    —this prospective patron proved a gentleman, a bachelor in the prime of life, such
                    a figure as had never risen, save in a dream or an old novel, before a fluttered,
                    anxious girl out of a Hampshire <ref target="vicarage_" corresp="vicarage">vicarage.</ref>
                    <note xml:id="vicarage" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" target="vicarage_">
                    The house of a vicar, or a member of the Church who has charge of a mission or chapel.
                    Source: <ref target="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/vicar">https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/vicar</ref>
                    </note> One could easily fix this type;
                    it never, happily, dies out. He was handsome and bold and pleasant, offhand
                    and <ref corresp="gay" target="gay_">gay</ref>
                    <note target="gay_" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="gay" type="gloss">
                    Here meaning light-hearted, carefree. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                    </note> and kind. He struck her, 
                    <ref target="inevitably_" corresp="inevitably">inevitably,</ref>
                    <note type="gloss" xml:id="inevitably" resp="editors.xml#VBS" target="inevitably_">
                    Unavoidably. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                    </note> as <ref corresp="gallant" target="gallant_">gallant</ref>
                    <note target="gallant_" xml:id="gallant" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                    Chivalrously brave, full of noble daring. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> and splendid, but
                    what took her most of all and gave her the courage she afterward showed was
                    that he put the whole thing to her as a kind of favor, an obligation he should
                    gratefully <ref target="incur_" corresp="incur">incur.</ref>
                    <note target="incur_" xml:id="incur" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                    To bring upon oneself. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                    </note> She conceived him as rich, but as fearfully extravagant—saw
                    him all in a glow of high fashion, of good looks, of expensive habits, of
                    charming ways with women. He had for his own town residence a big house filled
                    with the spoils of travel and the trophies of the chase; but it was to his
                    country home, an old family place in <placeName type="tgn" key="7008131">Essex,</placeName> that he wished her immediately
                    to proceed.
                </p>
                    <p>
                    He had been left, by the death of their parents in <placeName type="tgn" key="7000208">India,</placeName> guardian to a small
                    nephew and a small niece, children of a younger, a military brother, whom
                    he had lost two years before. These children were, by the strangest of chances
                    for a man in his position—a lone man without the right sort of experience
                    or a gram of patience—
                    <pb facs="pageImages/henry-turn-12.png" n="12"/>
                    very heavily on his hands. It had all been a great
                    worry and, on his own part doubtless, a series of blunders, but he immensely
                    pitied the poor <ref corresp="chicks" target="chicks_">chicks</ref>
                    <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="chicks" target="chicks_">
                    Here meaning children. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                    </note> and had done all he could; had in particular sent
                    them down to his other house, the proper place for them being of course the
                    country, and kept them there, from the first, with the best people he could
                    find to look after them, parting even with his own servants to wait on them
                    and going down himself, whenever he might, to see how they were doing. The
                    awkward thing was that they had practically no other relations and that his
                    own affairs took up all his time. He had put them in possession of Bly, which
                    was healthy and secure, and had placed at the head of their little
                    establishment—but below stairs only—an excellent woman, Mrs. Grose, whom
                    he was sure his visitor would like and who had formerly been maid to his
                    mother. She was now housekeeper and was also acting for the time as
                    superintendent to the little girl, of whom, without children of her own,
                    she was, by good luck, extremely <ref corresp="fond" target="fond_">fond.</ref>
                    <note target="fond_" xml:id="fond" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                    Having an affection or liking for. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                    </note> There were plenty of people to help,
                    but of course the young lady who should go down as governess would be in
                    supreme authority. She would also have, in holidays, to look after the small
                    boy, who had been for a term at school—young as he was 
                    <pb facs="pageImages/henry-turn-13.png" n="13"/>
                    to be sent, but what
                    else could be done?—and who, as the holidays were about to begin, would
                    be back from one day to the other. There had been for the two children at
                    first a young lady whom they had had the misfortune to lose. She had done
                    for them quite beautifully—she was a most respectable person—till her death,
                    the great awkwardness of which had, precisely, left no alternative but the
                    school for little Miles. Mrs. Grose, since then, in the way of manners and
                    doings, had done as she could for Flora; and there were, further, a cook,
                    a housemaid, a dairywoman, an old pony, an old
                    <ref corresp="groom" target="groom_">groom,</ref>
                    <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="groom" target="groom_">
                    A person who takes care of horses for a living. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                    </note> and an old gardener,
                    all likewise thoroughly respectable.
                </p>
                    <p>
                </p>
                    <p>
                    So far had Douglas presented his picture when someone put a question. "And
                    what did the former governess die of?—of so much respectability?"
                </p>
                    <p>
                    Our friend's answer was prompt. "That will come out. I don't anticipate."
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "Excuse me—I thought that was just what you <hi rend="italic">are</hi> doing."
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "In her successor's place," I suggested, "I should have wished to learn if
                    the office brought with it—"
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "Necessary danger to life?" Douglas completed my thought. "She did wish to
                    learn, and
                    <pb facs="pageImages/henry-turn-14.png" n="14"/>
                    she did learn. You shall hear tomorrow what she learned. Meanwhile,
                    of course, the prospect struck her as slightly grim. She was young, <ref target="untried_" corresp="untried">untried,</ref>
                    <note target="untried_" xml:id="untried" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">Not tried, proved, or tested. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                    nervous: it was a vision of serious duties and little company, of really
                    great loneliness. She hesitated—took a couple of days to consult and consider.
                    But the salary offered much exceeded her modest measure, and on a second
                    interview she <ref corresp="music" target="music_">faced the music,</ref>
                    <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="music" target="music_">
                    Confront reality; Not shrink from some unwelcomed truth. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                    </note> she engaged." And Douglas, with this, made
                    a pause that, for the benefit of the company, moved me to throw in—
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "The moral of which was of course the seduction exercised by the splendid
                    young man. She succumbed to it."
                </p>
                    <p>
                    He got up and, as he had done the night before, went to the fire, gave a
                    stir to a log with his foot, then stood a moment with his back to us. "She
                    saw him only twice."
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "Yes, but that's just the beauty of her passion."
                </p>
                    <p>
                    A little to my surprise, on this, Douglas turned round to me. "It <hi rend="italic">was</hi>
                    the beauty of it. There were others," he went on, "who hadn't succumbed.
                    He told her frankly all his difficulty—that for several applicants the
                    conditions had been prohibitive. They were, somehow, simply afraid. It sounded
                    dull—it sounded strange; and all the more so because of his main condition."
                </p>
                <pb facs="pageImages/henry-turn-15.png" n="15"/>
                <p>
                    "Which was—?"
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "That she should never trouble him—but never, never: neither appeal nor
                    complain nor write about anything; only meet all questions herself, receive
                    all moneys from his solicitor, take the whole thing over and let him alone.
                    She promised to do this, and she mentioned to me that when, for a moment,
                    disburdened, delighted, he held her hand, thanking her for the sacrifice,
                    she already felt rewarded.
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "But was that all her reward?" one of the ladies asked.
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "She never saw him again."
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "Oh!" said the lady; which, as our friend immediately left us again, was
                    the only other word of importance contributed to the subject till, the next
                    night, by the corner of the hearth, in the best chair, he opened the faded
                    red cover of a thin old-fashioned <ref corresp="gilt" target="gilt_">gilt-edged</ref>
                    <note target="gilt_" xml:id="gilt" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                    Covered with a thin coating of gold. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                    <ref target="album_" corresp="album">album.</ref>
                    <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="album" target="album_">
                    A book used for the collection and preservation of miscellaneous items.
                    Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> The whole thing took
                    indeed more nights than one, but on the first occasion the same lady put
                    another question. "What is your title?"
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "I haven't one."
                </p>
                    <p>
                    "Oh, <hi rend="italic">I</hi> have!" I said. But Douglas, without heeding me, had begun to
                    read with a fine clearness that was like a rendering to the ear of the beauty
                    of his author's hand.
                </p>
            </div>
        </div>
            
            
            
        <div type="chapter" n="1">
            <pb n="16"/>
            <head>I</head>
            <p>
                I remember the whole beginning as a succession of flights and drops, a little
                seesaw of the right throbs and the wrong. After rising, in town, to meet
                his appeal, I had at all events a couple of very bad days—found myself doubtful
                again, felt indeed sure I had made a mistake. In this state of mind I spent
                the long hours of bumping, swinging coach that carried me to the stopping
                place at which I was to be met by a vehicle from the house. This convenience,
                I was told, had been ordered, and I found, toward the close of the June
                afternoon, a <ref corresp="commodious" target="commodious_">commodious</ref>
                <note xml:id="commodious" target="commodious_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Comfortable; free from hardship. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> fly in waiting for me. Driving at that hour, on a
                lovely day, through a country to which the summer sweetness seemed to offer
                me a friendly welcome, my <ref target="fortitude_" corresp="fortitude">fortitude</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="fortitude_" xml:id="fortitude">
                Moral strength or courage. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> mounted
                afresh and, as we turned into
                the avenue, encountered a <ref target="reprieve_" corresp="reprieve">reprieve</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="reprieve_" xml:id="reprieve">
                A respite or temporary escape from an unpleasant or undesirable situation. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> that was probably but a proof of the point
                to which it had sunk. I suppose I had expected, or had dreaded, something
                so melancholy that 
                <pb n="17"/>
                what greeted me was a good surprise. I remember as a most
                pleasant impression the broad, clear front, its open windows and fresh curtains
                and the pair of maids looking out; I remember the lawn and the bright flowers
                and the crunch of my wheels on the gravel and the clustered treetops over
                which the <ref corresp="rooks" target="rooks_">rooks</ref>
                <note target="rooks_" xml:id="rooks" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                A species of bird in the United Kingdom. They have black feathers, a white beak, and a peaked head.
                Source: <ref target="https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/wildlife-guides/bird-a-z/rook/">
                https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/wildlife-guides/bird-a-z/rook/</ref>
                </note> circled and cawed in the golden sky. The scene had a greatness
                that made it a different affair from my own scant home, and there immediately
                appeared at the door, with a little girl in her hand, a civil person who
                dropped me as decent a curtsy as if I had been the mistress or a distinguished
                visitor. I had received in Harley Street a narrower notion of the place,
                and that, as I recalled it, made me think the <ref target="proprietor_" corresp="proprietor">proprietor</ref>
                <note target="proprietor_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="proprietor">
                An owner of land or a business. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> still more of a
                gentleman, suggested that what I was to enjoy might be something beyond his
                promise.
            </p>
                <p>
                I had no drop again till the next day, for I was carried triumphantly through
                the following hours by my introduction to the younger of my pupils. The little
                girl who accompanied Mrs. Grose appeared to me on the spot a creature so
                charming as to make it a great fortune to have to do with her. She was the
                most beautiful child I had ever seen, and I afterwards 
                <pb n="18"/>
                wondered that my employer
                had not told me more of her. I slept little that night—I was too much excited;
                and this astonished me, too, I recollect, remained with me, adding to my
                sense of the liberality with which I was treated. The large, impressive room,
                one of the best in the house, the great state bed, as I almost felt it, the
                full, figured draperies, the long glasses in which, for the first time, I
                could see myself from head to foot, all struck me—like the extraordinary
                charm of my small charge—as so many things thrown in. It was thrown in as
                well, from the first moment, that I should get on with Mrs. Grose in a relation
                over which, on my way, in the coach, I fear I had rather <ref corresp="brooded" target="brooded_">brooded.</ref>
                <note xml:id="brooded" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="brooded_">
                To meditate (esp. in a moody or morbid way). Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> The only
                thing indeed that in this early outlook might have made me shrink again was
                the clear circumstance of her being so glad to see me. I perceived within
                half an hour that she was so glad—stout, simple, plain, clean, wholesome
                woman—as to be positively on her guard against showing it too much. I wondered
                even then a little why she should wish not to show it, and that, with reflection,
                with suspicion, might of course have made me uneasy.
            </p>
                <p>
                But it was a comfort that there could be no 
                <pb n="19"/>
                uneasiness in a connection with
                anything so <ref target="beatific_" corresp="beatific">beatific</ref>
                <note target="beatific_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="beatific">
                Making blessed; giving supreme happiness or blessedness. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> as the radiant image of my little girl, the vision of
                whose angelic beauty had probably more than anything else to do with me
                restlessness that, before morning, made me several times rise and wander
                about my room to take in the whole picture and prospect; to watch, from my
                open window, the faint summer dawn, to look at such portions of the rest
                of the house as I could catch, and to listen, while, in the fading dusk,
                the first birds began to twitter, for the possible recurrence of a sound
                or two, less natural and not without, but within, that I had fancied I heard.
                There had been a moment when I believed I recognized, faint and far, the
                cry of a child; there had been another when I found myself just consciously
                starting as at the passage, before my door, of a light footstep. But these
                fancies were not marked enough not to be thrown off, and it is only in the
                light, or the gloom, I should rather say, of other and subsequent matters
                that they now come back to me. To watch, teach, "form" little Flora would
                too evidently be the making of a happy and useful life. It had been agreed
                between us downstairs that after this first occasion I should have her as
                a matter of course at 
                <pb n="20"/>
                night, her small white bed being already arranged,
                to that end, in my room. What I had undertaken was the whole care of her,
                and she had remained, just this last time, with Mrs. Grose only as an effect
                of our consideration for my inevitable strangeness and her natural <ref corresp="timidity" target="timidity_">timidity.</ref>
                <note xml:id="timidity" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="timidity_">
                Lack of courage, confidence, or assertiveness. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                In spite of this timidity—which the child herself, in the oddest way in
                the world, had been perfectly <ref target="frank_" corresp="frank">frank</ref>
                <note target="frank_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="frank">
                Candid, outspoken, unreserved. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> and brave about, allowing it, without
                a sign of uncomfortable consciousness, with the deep, sweet <ref corresp="serenity" target="serenity_">serenity</ref>
                <note xml:id="serenity" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="serenity_">
                Tranquillity, peacefulness. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> indeed
                of one of Raphael's holy infants, to be discussed, to be
                <ref corresp="imputed" target="imputed_">imputed</ref>
                <note target="imputed_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="imputed">
                To blame someone often falsely or unjustly. Source: <ref target="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/imputed">
                https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/imputed</ref>
                </note> to her,
                and to determine us—I felt quite sure she would presently like me. It was
                part of what I already liked Mrs. Grose herself for, the pleasure I could
                see her feel in my admiration and wonder as I sat at supper with four tall
                candles and with my pupil, in a high chair and a bib, brightly facing me,
                between them, over bread and milk. There were naturally things that in Flora's
                presence could pass between us only as <ref target="prodigious_" corresp="prodigious">prodigious</ref>
                <note target="prodigious_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="prodigious">
                Marvellous, astonishing. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> and gratified looks, obscure
                and roundabout allusions.
            </p>
                <p>
                "And the little boy—does he look like her? Is he too so very remarkable?"
            </p>
                <p>
                One wouldn't flatter a child. "Oh, miss, <hi rend="italic">most</hi> remarkable. If you think
                well of this one!"—
                <pb n="21"/>
                and she stood there with a plate in her hand, beaming
                at our companion, who looked from one of us to the other with placid heavenly
                eyes that contained nothing to check us.
            </p>
                <p>
                "Yes; if I do—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "You <hi rend="italic">will</hi> be carried away by the little gentleman!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Well, that, I think, is what I came for—to be carried away. I'm afraid,
                however," I remember feeling the impulse to add, "I'm rather easily carried
                away. I was carried away in London!"
            </p>
                <p>
                I can still see Mrs. Grose's broad face as she took this in. "In Harley Street?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "In Harley Street."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Well, miss, you're not the first—and you won't be the last."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, I've no pretension," I could laugh, "to being the only one. My other
                pupil, at any rate, as I understand, comes back tomorrow?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Not tomorrow—Friday, miss. He arrives, as you did, by the coach, under
                care of the guard, and is to be met by the same carriage."
            </p>
                <p>
                I <ref target="forthwith_" corresp="forthwith">forthwith</ref>
                <note xml:id="forthwith" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="forthwith_">
                Immediately, at once, without delay or interval. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> expressed that the proper as well as the pleasant and friendly
                thing would be therefore that on the arrival of the public conveyance I should
                be in waiting for him with his little sister; an idea in which Mrs. Grose
                <ref corresp="concurred" target="concurred_">concurred</ref>
                <note target="concurred_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="concurred">
                To agree with. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                <pb n="22"/>
                so heartily that I somehow took her manner as a kind of comforting
                pledge—never falsified, thank heaven!—that we should on every question
                be quite at one. Oh, she was glad I was there!
            </p>
                <p>
                What I felt the next day was, I suppose, nothing that could be fairly called
                a reaction from the cheer of my arrival; it was probably at the most only
                a slight oppression produced by a fuller measure of the scale, as I walked
                round them, gazed up at them, took them in, of my new circumstances. They
                had, as it were, an extent and mass for which I had not been prepared and
                in the presence of which I found myself, freshly, a little scared as well
                as a little proud. Lessons, in this agitation, certainly suffered some delay;
                I reflected that my first duty was, by the gentlest arts I could contrive,
                to win the child into the sense of knowing me. I spent the day with her
                out-of-doors; I arranged with her, to her great satisfaction, that it should
                be she, she only, who might show me the place. She showed it step by step
                and room by room and secret by secret, with <ref target="droll_" corresp="droll">droll,</ref>
                <note xml:id="droll" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="droll_">
                Unintentionally amusing. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> delightful, childish talk
                about it and with the result, in half an hour, of our becoming immense friends.
                Young as she was, I was struck, throughout our little
                <pb n="23"/>
                tour, with her confidence
                and courage with the way, in empty chambers and dull corridors, on crooked
                staircases that made me pause and even on the summit of an old <ref corresp="machicolated" target="machicolated_">machicolated</ref>
                <note target="machicolated_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="machicolated">
                Having holes in the floor of an overhanging gallery to drop rocks and boiling liquids on attackers.
                <ref target="https://tudorhistory.org/glossaries/m/machicolation.html">https://tudorhistory.org/glossaries/m/machicolation.html</ref>
                    </note>
                square tower that made me dizzy, her morning music, her disposition to tell
                me so many more things than she asked, rang out and led me on. I have not
                seen Bly since the day I left it, and I daresay that to my older and more
                informed eyes it would now appear sufficiently <ref target="contracted_" corresp="contracted">contracted.</ref>
                <note target="contracted_" xml:id="contracted" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Narrowed, shortened, shrunken. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> But as my little
                conductress, with her hair of gold and her frock of blue, danced before me
                round corners and pattered down passages, I had the view of a castle of romance
                inhabited by a rosy sprite, such a place as would somehow, for diversion
                of the young idea, take all color out of storybooks and fairytales. Wasn't
                it just a storybook over which I had fallen <ref target="adoze_" corresp="adoze">adoze</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="adoze" target="adoze_">
                In a light sleep. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> and
                <ref corresp="adream" target="adream_">adream?</ref>
                <note target="adream_" xml:id="adream" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                In a dream. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> No; it was
                a big, ugly, antique, but convenient house, embodying a few features of a
                building still older, half-replaced and half-utilized, in which I had the
                fancy of our being almost as lost as a handful of passengers in a great drifting
                ship. Well, I was, strangely, at the helm!
            </p>
        </div>
        <div type="chapter" n="2">
            <pb n="24"/>
            <head>II</head>
            <p>
                This came home to me when, two days later, I drove over with Flora to meet,
                as Mrs. Grose said, the little gentleman; and all the more for an incident
                that, presenting itself the second evening, had deeply disconcerted me. The
                first day had been, on the whole, as I have expressed, reassuring; but I
                was to see it wind up in keen apprehension. The <ref target="postbag_" corresp="postbag">postbag,</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="postbag" target="postbag_">
                A large sack or bag for carrying letters. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> that evening—it
                came late—contained a letter for me, which, however, in the hand of my employer,
                I found to be composed but of a few words enclosing another, addressed to
                himself, with a seal still unbroken. "This, I recognize, is from the headmaster,
                and the headmaster's an awful bore. Read him, please; deal with him; but
                mind you don't report. Not a word. I'm off!" I broke the seal with a great
                effort—so great a one that I was a long time coming to it; took the unopened
                missive at last up to my room and only attacked it just before going to bed.
                I 
                <pb n="25"/>
                had better have let it wait till morning, for it gave me a second sleepless
                night. With no counsel to take, the next day, I was full of distress; and
                it finally got so the better of me that I determined to open myself at least
                to Mrs. Grose.
            </p>
                <p>
                "What does it mean? The child's dismissed his school."
            </p>
                <p>
                She gave me a look that I remarked at the moment; then, visibly, with a quick
                blankness, seemed to try to take it back. "But aren't they all—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Sent home—yes. But only for the holidays. Miles may never go back at all."
            </p>
                <p>
                Consciously, under my attention, she reddened. "They won't take him?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "They absolutely decline."
            </p>
                <p>
                At this she raised her eyes, which she had turned from me; I saw them fill
                with good tears. "What has he done?"
            </p>
                <p>
                I hesitated; then I judged best simply to hand her my letter—which, however,
                had the effect of making her, without taking it, simply put her hands behind
                her. She shook her head sadly. "Such things are not for me, miss."
            </p>
                <p>
                My counselor couldn't read! I winced at my mistake, which I <ref corresp="attenuated" target="attenuated_">attenuated</ref>
                <note target="attenuated_" xml:id="attenuated" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                To weaken or reduce in force, effect, or amount. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> as
                I could, 
                <pb n="26"/>
                and opened my letter again to repeat it to her; then, faltering
                in the act and folding it up once more, I put it back in my pocket. "Is he
                really <hi rend="italic">bad?</hi>"
            </p>
                <p>
                The tears were still in her eyes. "Do the gentlemen say so?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "They go into no particulars. They simply express their regret that it should
                be impossible to keep him. That can have only one meaning." Mrs. Grose listened
                with dumb emotion; she <ref target="forbore_" corresp="forbore">forbore</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="forbore" target="forbore_">
                To refrain from mentioning; to withhold, keep back. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> to ask me what this meaning might be; so that,
                presently, to put the thing with some coherence and with the mere aid of
                her presence to my own mind, I went on: "That he's an injury to the others."
            </p>
                <p>
                At this, with one of the quick turns of simple folk, she suddenly flamed
                up. "Master Miles!—<hi rend="italic">him</hi> an injury?"
            </p>
                <p>
                There was such a flood of good faith in it that, though I had not yet seen
                the child, my very fears made me jump to the absurdity of the idea. I found
                myself, to meet my friend the better, offering it, on the spot, sarcastically.
                "To his poor little innocent mates!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "It's too dreadful," cried Mrs. Grose, "to say such cruel things! Why, he's
                <ref corresp="scarce" target="scarce_">scarce</ref>
                <note target="scarce_" xml:id="scarce" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Barely, only just; not quite. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> ten years old."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Yes, yes; it would be incredible."
            </p>
            <pb n="27"/>
            <p>
                She was evidently grateful for such a profession. "See him, miss, first.
                <hi rend="italic">Then</hi> believe it!" I felt <ref target="forthwith_" corresp="forthwith">forthwith</ref>
                a new impatience to see him; it
                was the beginning of a curiosity that, for all the next hours, was to deepen
                almost to pain. Mrs. Grose was aware, I could judge, of what she had produced
                in me, and she followed it up with assurance. "You might as well believe
                it of the little lady. Bless her," she added the next moment—"<hi rend="italic">look</hi>
                at her!"
            </p>
                <p>
                I turned and saw that Flora, whom, ten minutes before, I had established
                in the schoolroom with a sheet of white paper, a pencil, and a copy of nice
                "round o's," now presented herself to view at the open door. She expressed
                in her little way an extraordinary detachment from disagreeable duties, looking
                to me, however, with a great childish light that seemed to offer it as a
                mere result of the affection she had conceived for my person, which had rendered
                necessary that she should follow me. I needed nothing more than this to feel
                the full force of Mrs. Grose's comparison, and, catching my pupil in my arms,
                covered her with kisses in which there was a sob of <ref corresp="atonement" target="atonement_">atonement.</ref>
                <note target="atonement_" xml:id="atonement" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">amends, satisfaction.
                Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
            </p>
                <p>
                Nonetheless, the rest of the day I watched for further occasion to approach
                my colleague, 
                <pb n="28"/>
                especially as, toward evening, I began to fancy she rather
                sought to avoid me. I overtook her, I remember, on the staircase; we went
                down together, and at the bottom I detained her, holding her there with a
                hand on her arm. "I take what you said to me at noon as a declaration that
                <hi rend="italic">you've</hi> never known him to be bad."
            </p>
                <p>
                She threw back her head; she had clearly, by this time, and very honestly,
                adopted an attitude. "Oh, never known him—I don't pretend <hi rend="italic">that!</hi>"
            </p>
                <p>
                I was upset again. "Then you <hi rend="italic">have</hi> known him—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Yes indeed, miss, thank God!"
            </p>
                <p>
                On reflection I accepted this. "You mean that a boy who never is—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Is no boy for <hi rend="italic">me!"</hi>
            </p>
                <p>
                I held her tighter. "You like them with the spirit to be naughty?" Then,
                keeping pace with her answer, "So do I!" I eagerly brought out. "But not
                to the degree to contaminate—"
            </p>
                <p>
                "To contaminate?"—my big word left her at a loss. I explained it. "To corrupt."
            </p>
                <p>
                She stared, taking my meaning in; but it produced in her an odd laugh. "Are
                you afraid he'll corrupt <hi rend="italic">you?</hi>" She put the question with such a fine
                bold humor that, with a laugh, a little silly doubtless, to match her own,
                I gave 
                <pb n="29"/>
                way for the time to the apprehension of ridicule.
            </p>
                <p>
                But the next day, as the hour for my drive approached, I cropped up in another
                place. "What was the lady who was here before?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "The last governess? She was also young and pretty—almost as young and almost
                as pretty, miss, even as you."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Ah, then, I hope her youth and her beauty helped her!" I recollect throwing
                off. "He seems to like us young and pretty!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, he <hi rend="italic">did,</hi>" Mrs. Grose assented—"it was the way he liked everyone!"
                She had no sooner spoken indeed than she caught herself up. "I mean that's
                <hi rend="italic">his</hi> way—the master's."
            </p>
                <p>
                I was struck. "But of whom did you speak first?"
            </p>
                <p>
                She looked blank, but she colored. "Why, of <hi rend="italic">him.</hi>"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Of the master?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Of who else?"
            </p>
                <p>
                There was so obviously no one else that the next moment I had lost my impression
                of her having accidentally said more than she meant—and I merely asked what
                I wanted to know. "Did <hi rend="italic">she</hi> see anything in the boy—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "That wasn't right? She never told me."
            </p>
            <pb n="30"/>
            <p>
                I had a scruple, but I overcame it. "Was she careful—particular?"
            </p>
                <p>
                Mrs. Grose appeared to try to be conscientious. "About some things—yes."
            </p>
                <p>
                "But not about all?"
            </p>
                <p>
                Again she considered. "Well, miss—she's gone. I won't tell tales."
            </p>
                <p>
                "I quite understand your feeling," I hastened to reply; but I thought it,
                after an instant, not opposed to this concession to pursue: "Did she die
                here?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "No—she went off."
            </p>
                <p>
                I don't know what there was in this brevity of Mrs. Grose's that struck me
                as ambiguous. "Went off to die?" Mrs. Grose looked straight out of the window,
                but I felt that, hypothetically, I had a right to know what young persons
                engaged for Bly were expected to do. "She was taken ill, you mean, and went
                home?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "She was not taken ill, so far as appeared, in this house. She left it, at
                the end of the year, to go home, as she said, for a short holiday, to which
                the time she had put in had certainly given her a right. We had then a young
                woman a nursemaid who had stayed on and who was a good girl and clever; and
                <hi rend="italic">she</hi> took the children altogether for the interval. But our young lady
                never came 
                <pb n="31"/>
                back, and at the very moment I was expecting her I heard from
                the master that she was dead."
            </p>
                <p>
                I turned this over. "But of what?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "He never told me! But please, miss," said Mrs. Grose, "I must get to my
                work."
            </p>
        </div>
        <div type="chapter" n="3">
            <pb n="32"/>
            <head>III</head>
            <p>
                Her thus turning her back on me was fortunately not, for my just preoccupations,
                a snub that could check the growth of our mutual esteem. We met, after I
                had brought home little Miles, more intimately than ever on the ground of
                my <ref target="stupefaction_" corresp="stupefaction">stupefaction,</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="stupefaction" target="stupefaction_">
                Great or overwhelming surprise. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> my general emotion: so monstrous was I then ready to pronounce
                it that such a child as had now been revealed to me should be under an <ref corresp="interdict" target="interdict_">interdict.</ref>
                <note target="interdict_" xml:id="interdict" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">An authoritative prohibition; an act of forbidding peremptorily. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                I was a little late on the scene, and I felt, as he stood wistfully looking
                out for me before the door of the inn at which the coach had put him down,
                that I had seen him, on the instant, without and within, in the great glow
                of freshness, the same positive fragrance of purity, in which I had, from
                the first moment, seen his little sister. He was incredibly beautiful, and
                Mrs. Grose had put her finger on it: everything but a sort of passion of
                tenderness for him was swept away by his presence. What I then and there
                took him to my heart for was something divine 
                <pb n="33"/>
                that I have never found to
                the same degree in any child—his indescribable little air of knowing nothing
                in the world but love. It would have been impossible to carry a bad name
                with a greater sweetness of innocence, and by the time I had got back to
                Bly with him I remained merely bewildered—so far, that is, as I was not
                outraged—by the sense of the horrible letter locked up in my room, in a
                drawer. As soon as I could compass a private word with Mrs. Grose I declared
                to her that it was grotesque.
            </p>
                <p>
                She promptly understood me. "You mean the cruel charge—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "It doesn't live an instant. My dear woman, <hi rend="italic">look</hi> at him!"
            </p>
                <p>
                She smiled at my pretention to have discovered his charm. "I assure you,
                miss, I do nothing else! What will you say, then?" she immediately added.
            </p>
                <p>
                "In answer to the letter?" I had made up my mind. "Nothing."
            </p>
                <p>
                "And to his uncle?"
            </p>
                <p>
                I was <ref target="incisive_" corresp="incisive">incisive.</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="incisive" target="incisive_">
                Sharp or keen in mental qualities; acute. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> "Nothing."
            </p>
                <p>
                "And to the boy himself?"
            </p>
                <p>
                I was wonderful. "Nothing."
            </p>
                <p>
                She gave with her apron a great wipe to her mouth. "Then I'll stand by you.
                We'll see it out."
            </p>
            <pb n="34"/>
            <p>
                "We'll see it out!" I <ref target="ardently_" corresp="ardently">ardently</ref>
                <note target="ardently_" xml:id="ardently" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                with great eagerness or keen desire; passionately, earnestly, zealously. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> echoed, giving her my hand to make It a vow.
            </p>
                <p>
                She held me there a moment, then whisked up her apron again with her detached
                hand. "Would you mind, miss, if I used the freedom—"
            </p>
                <p>
                "To kiss me? No!" I took the good creature in my arms and, after we had embraced
                like sisters, felt still more <ref target="fortified_" corresp="fortified">fortified</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="fortified" target="fortified_">
                Strengthened; provided with means of defence. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> and <ref corresp="indignant" target="indignant_">indignant.</ref>
                <note target="indignant_" xml:id="indignant" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Feeling angry because of something unjust. Source:
                <ref target="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/indignant">https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/indignant</ref>
                    </note>
            </p>
                <p>
                This, at all events, was for the time: a time so full that, as I recall the
                way it went, it reminds me of all the art I now need to make it a little
                distinct. What I look back at with amazement is the situation I accepted.
                I had undertaken, with my companion, to see it out, and I was under a charm,
                apparently, that could smooth away the extent and the far and difficult
                connections of such an effort. I was lifted aloft on a great wave of infatuation
                and pity. I found it simple, in my ignorance, my confusion, and perhaps my
                <ref target="conceit_" corresp="conceit">conceit,</ref>
                <note target="conceit_" xml:id="conceit" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                A notion, conception, idea, or thought. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> to assume that I could deal with a boy whose education for the world
                was all on the point of beginning. I am unable even to remember at this day
                what proposal I framed for the end of his holidays and the <ref corresp="resumption" target="resumption_">resumption</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="resumption" target="resumption_">
                The action of taking up or starting something again after interruption. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> of
                his studies. Lessons with me, indeed, that charming summer, we all had a
                theory that he was to have; but I now feel that, for weeks, the lessons must
                have been rather my own. 
                <pb n="35"/>
                I learned something—at first, certainly—that had
                not been one of the teachings of my small, smothered life; learned to be
                amused, and even amusing, and not to think for the <ref target="morrow_" corresp="morrow">morrow.</ref>
                <note target="morrow_" xml:id="morrow" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                The following day. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> It was the first
                time, in a manner, that I had known space and air and freedom, all the music
                of summer and all the mystery of nature. And then there was consideration—and
                consideration was sweet. Oh, it was a trap—not designed, but deep—to my
                imagination, to my delicacy, perhaps to my vanity; to whatever, in me, was
                most excitable. The best way to picture it all is to say that I was off my
                guard. They gave me so little trouble—they were of a gentleness so
                extraordinary. I used to speculate—but even this with a dim disconnectedness—as
                to how the rough future (for all futures are rough!) would handle them and
                might bruise them. They had the bloom of health and happiness; and yet, as
                if I had been in charge of a pair of little <ref corresp="grandees" target="grandees_">grandees,</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="grandees" target="grandees_">
                A person of high rank or position. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> of princes of the blood,
                for whom everything, to be right, would have to be enclosed and protected,
                the only form that, in my fancy, the <ref target="afteryears_" corresp="afteryears">afteryears</ref>
                <note target="afteryears_" xml:id="afteryears" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                A later or future year. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> could take for them was that
                of a romantic, a really royal extension of the garden and the park. It may
                be, of course, above all, that what suddenly broke into this gives the previous
                time a charm of stillness—
                <pb n="36"/>
                that hush in which something gathers or crouches.
                The change was actually like the spring of a beast.
            </p>
                <p>
                In the first weeks the days were long; they often, at their finest, gave
                me what I used to call my own hour, the hour when, for my pupils, <ref corresp="teatime" target="teatime_">teatime</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="teatime" target="teatime_">
                This is a small meal in Britain between lunch and dinner. It is typically taken around the late afternoon or early evening.
                Source: <ref target="https://dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/teatime">https://dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/teatime</ref>
                    </note>
                and bedtime having come and gone, I had, before my final retirement, a small
                interval alone. Much as I liked my companions, this hour was the thing in
                the day I liked most; and I liked it best of all when, as the light faded—or
                rather, I should say, the day lingered and the last calls of the last birds
                sounded, in a flushed sky, from the old trees—I could take a turn into the
                grounds and enjoy, almost with a sense of property that amused and flattered
                me, the beauty and dignity of the place. It was a pleasure at these moments
                to feel myself tranquil and justified; doubtless, perhaps, also to reflect
                that by my discretion, my quiet good sense and general high propriety, I
                was giving pleasure—if he ever thought of it!—to the person to whose pressure
                I had responded. What I was doing was what he had earnestly hoped and directly
                asked of me, and that I <hi rend="italic">could,</hi> after all, do it proved even a greater
                joy than I had expected. I dare say I fancied 
                <pb n="37"/>
                myself, in short, a remarkable
                young woman and took comfort in the faith that this would more publicly appear.
                Well, I needed to be remarkable to offer a front to the remarkable things
                that presently gave their first sign.
            </p>
                <p>
                It was plump, one afternoon, in the middle of my very hour: the children
                were tucked away, and I had come out for my stroll. One of the thoughts that,
                as I don't in the least shrink now from noting, used to be with me in these
                wanderings was that it would be as charming as a charming story suddenly
                to meet someone. Someone would appear there at the turn of a path and would
                stand before me and smile and approve. I didn't ask more than that—I only
                asked that he should <hi rend="italic">know</hi> and the only way to be sure he knew would
                be to see it, and the kind light of it, in his handsome face. That was exactly
                present to me—by which I mean the face was—when, on the first of these
                occasions, at the end of a long June day, I stopped short on emerging from
                one of the plantations and coming into view of the house. What arrested me
                on the spot—and with a shock much greater than any vision had allowed for—was
                the sense that my imagination had, in a flash, turned real. He did stand
                there!—but high 
                <pb n="38"/>
                up, beyond the lawn and at the very top of the tower to
                which, on that first morning, little Flora had <ref corresp="conducted" target="conducted_">conducted</ref>
                <note target="conducted_" xml:id="conducted" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                To lead, escort, guide. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> me. This tower was
                one of a pair—square, <ref target="incongruous_" corresp="incongruous">incongruous,</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="incongruous" target="incongruous_">
                Inconsistent. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                crenelated structures—that were distinguished, for some reason, though I could see little difference, as
                the new and the old. They <ref target="flanked_" corresp="flanked">flanked</ref>
                <note target="flanked_" xml:id="flanked" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                To defend the sides of something. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> opposite ends of the house and were probably
                architectural absurdities, redeemed in a measure indeed by not being wholly
                <ref target="disengaged_" corresp="disengaged">disengaged</ref>
                <note target="disengaged_" xml:id="disengaged" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                To loosen from something that holds fast; to detach, liberate, free. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> nor of a height too
                <ref corresp="pretentious" target="pretentious_">pretentious,</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="pretentious" target="pretentious_">
                Attempting to impress by affecting greater importance than it actually possessed. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> dating, in their <ref target="gingerbread_" corresp="gingerbread">gingerbread antiquity,</ref>
                <note target="gingerbread_" xml:id="gingerbread" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Outwardly or superficially attractive or appealing, but lacking real substance or worth.
                Extremely or excessively elaborate or ornate decoration. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> from a romantic revival that was already a respectable past. I
                admired them, had fancies about them, for we could all profit in a degree,
                especially when they loomed through the dusk, by the grandeur of their actual
                battlements; yet it was not at such an elevation that the figure I had so
                often invoked seemed most in place.
            </p>
                <p>
                It produced in me, this figure, in the clear twilight, I remember, two distinct
                gasps of emotion, which were, sharply, the shock of my first and that of
                my second surprise. My second was a violent perception of the mistake of
                my first: the man who met my eyes was not the person I had <ref corresp="precipitately" target="precipitately_">precipitately</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="precipitately" target="precipitately_">
                Rashly, hastily; at great speed. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                supposed. There came to me thus a bewilderment of vision of which, after
                these
                <pb n="39"/>
                years, there is no living view that I can hope to give. An unknown
                man in a lonely place is a permitted object of fear to a young woman privately
                <ref target="bred_" corresp="bred">bred;</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="bred" target="bred_">
                Brought up, (properly) trained. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> and the figure that faced me was—a few more seconds assured me—as
                little anyone else I knew as it was the image that had been in my mind. I
                had not seen it in Harley Street—I had not seen it anywhere. The place,
                moreover, in the strangest way in the world, had, on the instant, and by
                the very fact of its appearance, become a solitude. To me at least, making
                my statement here with a deliberation with which I have never made it, the
                whole feeling of the moment returns. It was as if, while I took in—what
                I did take in—all the rest of the scene had been stricken with death. I
                can hear again, as I write, the intense hush in which the sounds of evening
                dropped. The rooks stopped cawing in the golden sky, and the friendly hour
                lost, for the minute, all its voice. But there was no other change in nature,
                unless indeed it were a change that I saw with a stranger sharpness. The
                gold was still in the sky, the clearness in the air, and the man who looked
                at me over the battlements was as definite as a picture in a frame. That's
                how I thought, with extraordinary quickness, of each person that he might
                have been and that he 
                <pb n="40"/>
                was not. We were confronted across our distance quite
                long enough for me to ask myself with intensity who then he was and to feel,
                as an effect of my inability to say, a wonder that in a few instants more
                became intense.
            </p>
                <p>
                The great question, or one of these, is, afterward, I know, with regard to
                certain matters, the question of how long they have lasted. Well, this matter
                of mine, think what you will of it, lasted while I caught at a dozen
                possibilities, none of which made a difference for the better, that I could
                see, in there having been in the house—and for how long, above all?—a person
                of whom I was in ignorance. It lasted while I just <ref target="bridled_" corresp="bridled">bridled</ref>
                <note target="bridled_" xml:id="bridled" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                To put a restrain on; to regulate; to restrict, bring under control. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> a little with
                the sense that my office demanded that there should be no such ignorance
                and no such person. It lasted while this <ref corresp="visitant" target="visitant_">visitant,</ref>
                <note target="visitant_" xml:id="visitant" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                A visitor. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> at all events—and there
                was a touch of the strange freedom, as I remember, in the sign of familiarity
                of his wearing no hat—seemed to fix me, from his position, with just the
                question, just the scrutiny through the fading light, that his own presence
                provoked. We were too far apart to call to each other, but there was a moment
                at which, at shorter range, some challenge between us, breaking the hush,
                would have been the right result of our straight mutual stare. He was in
                <pb n="41"/>
                one of the angles, the one away from the house, very erect, as it struck
                me, and with both hands on the ledge. So I saw him as I see the letters I
                form on this page; then, exactly, after a minute, as if to add to the spectacle,
                he slowly changed his place—passed, looking at me hard all the while, to
                the opposite corner of the platform. Yes, I had the sharpest sense that during
                this transit he never took his eyes from me, and I can see at this moment
                the way his hand, as he went, passed from one of the crenelations to the
                next. He stopped at the other corner, but less long, and even as he turned
                away still <ref target="markedly_" corresp="markedly">markedly</ref>
                <note target="markedly_" xml:id="markedly" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Distinctly, definitely, notably. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> <ref target="fixed_" corresp="fixed">fixed</ref>
                <note target="fixed_" xml:id="fixed" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                To make someone motionless with astonishment. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> me. He turned away; that was all I knew.
            </p>
        </div>
        <div type="chapter" n="4">
            <pb n="42"/>
            <head>IV</head>
            <p>
                It was not that I didn't wait, on this occasion, for more, for I was rooted
                as deeply as I was shaken. Was there a "secret" at Bly—a mystery of <ref corresp="udolpho" target="udolpho_">Udolpho</ref>
                <note type="editorial" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="udolpho" target="udolpho_">
                This is in reference to the Gothic story <hi rend="italic">The Mysteries of Udolpho</hi>.
                It is about Emily, a young woman, who moves in with her aunt after her father dies.
                Her uncle is a crule man who traps her and her aunt in a castle and forces Emily to
                marry his friend. She escapes and marries the man she loves.
                <ref target="https://www.bl.uk/collection-items/the-mysteries-of-udolpho">https://www.bl.uk/collection-items/the-mysteries-of-udolpho</ref>
                    </note>
                or an insane, an unmentionable relative kept in unsuspected confinement?
                I can't say how long I turned it over, or how long, in a confusion of curiosity
                and dread, I remained where I had had my collision; I only recall that when
                I re-entered the house darkness had quite closed in. Agitation, in the <ref target="interval_" corresp="interval">interval,</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="interval" target="interval_">
                An open space between two thing; a gap. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                certainly had held me and driven me, for I must, in circling about the place,
                have walked three miles; but I was to be, later on, so much more overwhelmed
                that this mere dawn of alarm was a comparatively human chill. The most singular
                part of it, in fact—singular as the rest had been—was the part I became,
                in the hall, aware of in meeting Mrs. Grose. This picture comes back to me
                in the general train—the impression, as I received it on my return, of the
                wide white 
                <pb n="43"/>
                panelled space, bright in the lamplight and with its portraits
                and red carpet, and of the good surprised look of my friend, which immediately
                told me she had missed me. It came to me straightway, under her contact,
                that, with plain heartiness, mere relieved anxiety at my appearance, she
                knew nothing whatever that could bear upon the incident I had there ready
                for her. I had not suspected in advance that her comfortable face would pull
                me up, and I somehow measured the importance of what I had seen by my thus
                finding myself hesitate to mention it. Scarce anything in the whole history
                seems to me so odd as this fact that my real beginning of fear was one, as
                I may say, with the instinct of sparing my companion. On the spot, accordingly,
                in the pleasant hall and with her eyes on me, I, for a reason that I couldn't
                then have phrased, achieved an inward resolution—offered a vague <ref corresp="pretext" target="pretext_">pretext</ref>
                <note target="pretext_" xml:id="pretext" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                A reason that hides someone's true purpose;  an excuse. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> for my lateness and, with the plea of the beauty of the night and of the
                heavy dew and wet feet, went as soon as possible to my room.
            </p>
                <p>
                Here it was another affair; here, for many days after, it was a queer affair
                enough. There were hours, from day to day—or at least there were moments,
                snatched even from clear duties—when I had to shut myself up to think. It
                <pb n="44"/>
                was not so much yet that I was more nervous than I could bear to be as that
                I was remarkably afraid of becoming so; for the truth I had now to turn over
                was, simply and clearly, the truth that I could arrive at no account whatever
                of the visitor with whom I had been so inexplicably and yet, as it seemed
                to me, so intimately concerned. It took little time to see that I could sound
                without forms of inquiry and without exciting remark any domestic complication.
                The shock I had suffered must have sharpened all my senses; I felt sure,
                at the end of three days and as the result of mere closer attention, that
                I had not been practiced upon by the servants nor made the object of any
                "game". Of whatever it was that I knew, nothing was known around me. There
                was but one sane inference: someone had taken a liberty rather gross. That
                was what, repeatedly, I dipped into my room and locked the door to say to
                myself. We had been, collectively, subject to an intrusion; some <ref target="unscrupulous_" corresp="unscrupulous">unscrupulous</ref>
                <note target="unscrupulous_" xml:id="unscrupulous" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Someone who acts in a dishonest way in order to get what they want.
                Source: <ref target="https://www.collinsdictionary.com/us/dictionary/english/unscrupulous">
                https://www.collinsdictionary.com/us/dictionary/english/unscrupulous</ref>
                    </note>
                traveler, curious in old houses, had made his way in unobserved, enjoyed
                the prospect from the best point of view, and then stolen out as he came.
                If he had given me such a bold hard stare, that was but a part of his
                <ref corresp="indiscretion" target="indiscretion_">indiscretion.</ref>
                <note target="indiscretion_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="indiscretion">
                Wanting to be discreet. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> The good thing, after all, was that we should surely see no
                more of him.
            </p>
            <pb n="45"/>
            <p>
                This was not so good a thing, I admit, as not to leave me to judge that what,
                essentially, made nothing else much signify was simply my charming work.
                My charming work was just my life with Miles and Flora, and through nothing
                could I so like it as through feeling that I could throw myself into it in
                trouble. The attraction of my small charges was a constant joy, leading me
                to wonder afresh at the vanity of my original fears, the distaste I had begun
                by entertaining for the probable gray prose of my office. There was to be
                no gray prose, it appeared, and no long grind; so how could work not be charming
                that presented itself as daily beauty? It was all the romance of the nursery
                and the poetry of the school room. I don't mean by this, of course, that
                we studied only fiction and verse; I mean I can express no otherwise the
                sort of interest my companions inspired. How can I describe that except by
                saying that instead of growing used to them—and it's a marvel for a governess:
                I call the sisterhood to witness!—I made constant fresh discoveries. There
                was one direction, assuredly, in which these discoveries stopped: deep obscurity
                continued to cover the region of the boy's conduct at school. It had been
                promptly given me, I have noted, to face that mystery 
                <pb n="46"/>
                without a <ref corresp="pang" target="pang_">pang.</ref>
                <note xml:id="pang" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="pang_">
                A sudden sharp feeling of mental anguish or intense emotional pain.
                Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> Perhaps
                even it would be nearer the truth to say that—without a word—he himself
                had cleared it up. He had made the whole charge absurd. My conclusion bloomed
                there with the real rose flush of his innocence: he was only too fine and
                fair for the little horrid, unclean school world, and he had paid a price
                for it. I reflected acutely that the sense of such differences, such
                superiorities of quality, always, on the part of the majority—which could
                include even stupid, <ref target="sordid_" corresp="sordid">sordid</ref>
                <note target="sordid_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="sordid">
                Low, coarse, rough; mean. Source: Oxford Englsh Dictionary</note> headmasters—turns
                <ref corresp="infallibly" target="infallibly_">infallibly</ref>
                <note xml:id="infallibly" target="infallibly_" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Most certainly. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> to the
                <ref target="vindictive_" corresp="vindictive">vindictive.</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="edtors.xml#VBS" target="vindictive_" xml:id="vindictive">
                Involving retribution or punishment; avenging. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
            </p>
                <p>
                Both the children had a gentleness (it was their only fault, and it never
                made Miles a <ref corresp="muff" target="muff_">muff)</ref>
                <note xml:id="muff" target="muff_" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                A foolish, stupid, feeble, or incompetent person. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> that kept them—how shall I express it? almost impersonal
                and certainly quite unpunishable. They were like the cherubs of the
                <ref corresp="anecdote" target="anecdote_">anecdote,</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" target="anecdote_" xml:id="anecdote">
                A short account of an interesting experience.
                Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                who had—morally, at any rate—nothing to whack! I remember feeling with
                Miles in especial as if he had had, as it were, no history. We expect of
                a small child a <ref target="scant_" corresp="scant">scant</ref>
                <note xml:id="scant" target="scant_" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Barely; hardly. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> one, but there was in this beautiful little boy something
                extraordinarily sensitive, yet extraordinarily happy, that, more than in
                any creature of his age I have seen, struck me as beginning anew each day.
                He had never for a second suffered. I took this as a direct disproof of his
                <pb n="47"/>
                having really been <ref corresp="chastised" target="chastised_">chastised.</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" target="chastised_" xml:id="chastised">
                To punish; to inflict punishment. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> If he had been wicked he would have "caught"
                it, and I should have caught it by the rebound— I should have found the trace.
                I found nothing at all, and he was therefore an angel. He never spoke of
                his school, never mentioned a comrade or a master; and I, for my part, was
                quite too much disgusted to allude to them. Of course I was under the spell,
                and the wonderful part is that, even at the time, I perfectly knew I was.
                But I gave myself up to it; it was an antidote to any pain, and I had more
                pains than one. I was in receipt in these days of disturbing letters from
                home, where things were not going well. But with my children, what things
                in the world mattered? That was the question I used to put to my scrappy
                retirements. I was dazzled by their loveliness.
            </p>
                <p>
                There was a Sunday—to get on—when it rained with such force and for so
                many hours that there could be no procession to church; in consequence of
                which, as the day declined, I had arranged with Mrs. Grose that, should the
                evening show improvement, we would attend together the late service. The
                rain happily stopped, and I prepared for our walk, which, through the park
                and by the good road to the village, would be a matter of twenty minutes.
                Coming downstairs 
                <pb n="48"/>
                to meet my colleague in the hall, I remembered a pair of
                gloves that had required three stitches and that had received them—with
                a publicity perhaps not edifying—while I sat with the children at their
                tea, served on Sundays, by exception, in that cold, clean temple of mahogany
                and brass, the "grown-up" dining room. The gloves had been dropped there,
                and I turned in to recover them. The day was gray enough, but the afternoon
                light still lingered, and it enabled me, on crossing the threshold, not only
                to recognize, on a chair near the wide window, then closed, the articles
                I wanted, but to become aware of a person on the other side of the window
                and looking straight in. One step into the room had sufficed; my vision was
                instantaneous; it was all there. The person looking straight in was the person
                who had already appeared to me. He appeared thus again with I won't say greater
                distinctness, for that was impossible, but with a nearness that represented
                a forward stride in our <ref target="intercourse_" corresp="intercourse">intercourse</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" target="intercourse_" xml:id="intercourse">
                Social communication between people. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> and made me, as I met him, catch my breath
                and turn cold. He was the same—he was the same, and seen, this time, as
                he had been seen before, from the waist up, the window, though the dining
                room was on the ground floor, not going down to the terrace on which he stood.
                <pb n="49"/>
                His face was close to the glass, yet the effect of this better view was,
                strangely, only to show me how intense the former had been. He remained but
                a few seconds—long enough to convince me he also saw and recognized; but
                it was as if I had been looking at him for years and had known him always.
                Something, however, happened this tune that had not happened before; his
                stare into my face, through the glass and across the room, was as deep and
                hard as then, but it quitted me for a moment during which I could still watch
                it, see it fix successively several other things. On the spot there came
                to me the added shock of a <ref corresp="certitude" target="certitude_">certitude</ref>
                <note xml:id="certitude" target="certitude_" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Being certain of anything. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> that it was not for me he had come there.
                He had come for someone else.
            </p>
                <p>
                The flash of this knowledge—for it was knowledge in the midst of dread—produced
                in me the most extraordinary effect, started, as I stood there, a sudden
                vibration of duty and courage. I say courage because I was beyond all doubt
                already far gone. I bounded straight out of the door again, reached that
                of the house, got, in an instant, upon the drive, and, passing along the
                terrace as fast as I could rush, turned a corner and came full in sight.
                But it was in sight of nothing now—my visitor had vanished. I stopped, I
                almost dropped, with the real relief 
                <pb n="50"/>
                of this; but I took in the whole scene—I
                gave him time to reappear. I call it time, but how long was it? I can't speak
                to the purpose today of the duration of these things. That kind of measure
                must have left me: they couldn't have lasted as they actually appeared to
                me to last. The terrace and the whole place, the lawn and the garden beyond
                it, all I could see of the park, were empty with a great emptiness. There
                were shrubberies and big trees, but I remember the clear assurance I felt
                that none of them concealed him. He was there or was not there: not there
                if I didn't see him. I got hold of this; then, instinctively, instead of
                returning as I had come, went to the window. It was confusedly present to
                me that I ought to place myself where he had stood. I did so; I applied my
                face to the pane and looked, as he had looked, into the room. As if, at this
                moment, to show me exactly what his range had been, Mrs. Grose, as I had
                done for himself just before, came in from the hall. With this I had the
                full image of a repetition of what had already occurred. She saw me as I
                had seen my own <ref target="visitant_" corresp="visitant">visitant;</ref> she pulled up short as I had done; I gave her something
                of the shock that I had received. She turned white, and this made me 
                <pb n="51"/>
                ask
                myself if I had <ref corresp="blanched" target="blanched_">blanched</ref>
                <note target="blanched_" xml:id="blanched" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                To make something white; to bleach. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> as much. She stared, in short, and retreated on
                just <hi rend="italic">my</hi> lines, and I knew she had then passed out and come round to
                me and that I should presently meet her. I remained where I was, and while
                I waited I thought of more things than one. But there's only one I take space
                to mention. I wondered why <hi rend="italic">she</hi> should be scared.
            </p>
        </div>
        <div type="chapter" n="5">
            <pb n="52"/>
            <head>V</head>
            <p>
                Oh, she let me know as soon as, round the corner of the house, she loomed
                again into view. "What in the name of goodness is the matter—?" She was
                now flushed and out of breath.
            </p>
                <p>
                I said nothing till she came quite near. "With me?" I must have made a wonderful
                face. "Do I show it?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "You're as white as a sheet. You look awful."
            </p>
                <p>
                I considered; I could meet on this, <ref target="scruple_" corresp="scruple">without scruple,</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="scruple" target="scruple_">
                Without doubt or question. Source: Oxford Englsh Dictionary</note> any innocence. My need
                to respect the bloom of Mrs. Grose's had dropped, without a rustle, from
                my shoulders, and if I wavered for the instant it was not with what I kept
                back. I put out my hand to her and she took it; I held her hard a little,
                liking to feel her close to me. There was a kind of support in the shy heave
                of her surprise. "You came for me for church, of course, but I can't go."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Has anything happened?"<pb n="53"/>
            </p>
                <p>
                "Yes. You must know now. Did I look very <ref corresp="queer" target="queer_">queer?"</ref>
                <note target="queer_" xml:id="queer" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Here meaning strange or odd. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
            </p>
                <p>
                "Through this window? Dreadful!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Well," I said, "I've been frightened." Mrs. Grose's eyes expressed plainly
                that <hi rend="italic">she</hi> had no wish to be, yet also that she knew too well her place
                not to be ready to share with me any marked inconvenience. Oh, it was quite
                settled that she <hi rend="italic">must</hi> share! "Just what you saw from the dining room
                a minute ago was the effect of that. What <hi rend="italic">I</hi> saw—just before—was
                much worse."
            </p>
                <p>
                Her hand tightened. "What was it?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "An <ref target="extraordinary_" corresp="extraordinary">extraordinary</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="extraordinary" target="extraordinary_">
                Here meaning unusual. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> man. Looking in."
            </p>
                <p>
                "What extraordinary man?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "I haven't the least idea."
            </p>
                <p>
                Mrs. Grose gazed round us in vain. "Then where is he gone?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "I know still less."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Have you seen him before?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Yes—once. On the old tower."
            </p>
                <p>
                She could only look at me harder. "Do you mean he's a stranger?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, very much!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Yet you didn't tell me?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "No—for reasons. But now that you've guessed—"
            </p>
            <pb n="54"/>
            <p>
                Mrs. Grose's round eyes encountered this charge. "Ah, I haven't guessed!"
                she said very simply. "How can I if <hi rend="italic">you</hi> don't imagine?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "I don't in the very least."
            </p>
                <p>
                "You've seen him nowhere but on the tower?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "And on this spot just now."
            </p>
                <p>
                Mrs. Grose looked round again. "What was he doing on the tower?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Only standing there and looking down at me."
            </p>
                <p>
                She thought a minute. "Was he a gentleman?"
            </p>
                <p>
                I found I had no need to think. "No." She gazed in deeper wonder. "No."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Then nobody about the place? Nobody from the village?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Nobody—nobody. I didn't tell you, but I made sure."
            </p>
                <p>
                She breathed a vague relief: this was, oddly, so much to the good. It only
                went indeed a little way, "But if he isn't a gentleman—"
            </p>
                <p>
                "What <hi rend="italic">is</hi> he? He's a horror."
            </p>
                <p>
                "A horror?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "He's—God help me if I know <hi rend="italic">what</hi> he is!"
            </p>
                <p>
                Mrs. Grose looked round once more; she fixed her eyes on the duskier distance,
                then, pulling herself together, turned to me with abrupt <ref corresp="inconsequence" target="inconsequence_">inconsequence.</ref>
                <note target="inconsequence_" xml:id="inconsequence" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Lacking reason or a logical sequence. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>"It's
                time we should be at church."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, I'm not fit for church!"
            </p>
            <pb n="55"/>
            <p>
                "Won't it do you good?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "It won't do <hi rend="italic">them</hi>—!" I nodded at the house.
            </p>
                <p>
                "The children?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "I can't leave them now."
            </p>
                <p>
                "You're afraid—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                I spoke boldly. "I'm afraid of <hi rend="italic">him.</hi>"
            </p>
                <p>
                Mrs. Grose's large face showed me, at this, for the first time, the faraway
                faint glimmer of a consciousness more <ref target="acute_" corresp="acute">acute:</ref> I somehow made out in it the
                delayed dawn of an idea I myself had not given her and that was as yet quite
                obscure to me, It comes back to me that I thought instantly of this as something
                I could get from her; and I felt it to be connected with the desire she presently
                showed to know more. "When was it—on the tower?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "About the middle of the month. At this same hour."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Almost at dark," said Mrs. Grose.
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, no, not nearly. I saw him as I see you."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Then how did he get in?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "And how did he get out?" I laughed. "I had no opportunity to ask him! This
                evening, you see," I pursued, "he has not been able to get in."
            </p>
                <p>
                "He only peeps?"
            </p>
            <pb n="56"/>  
            <p>
                "I hope it will be confined to that!" She had now let go my hand; she turned
                away a little. I waited an instant; then I brought out: "Go to church. Goodbye.
                I must watch."
            </p>
                <p>
                Slowly she faced me again. "Do you fear for them?"
            </p>
                <p>
                We met in another long look, "Don't <hi rend="italic">you?</hi>" Instead of answering she
                came nearer to the window and, for a minute, applied her face to the glass.
                "You see how he could see," I meanwhile went on.
            </p>
                <p>
                She didn't move. "How long was he here?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Till I came out. I came to meet him."
            </p>
                <p>
                Mrs. Grose at last turned round, and there was still more in her face.
                <hi rend="italic">"I</hi> couldn't have come out."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Neither could I!" I laughed again. "But I did come. I have my duty."
            </p>
                <p>
                "So have I mine," she replied; after which she added "What is he like?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "I've been dying to tell you. But he's like nobody."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Nobody?" she echoed.
            </p>
                <p>
                "He has no hat." Then seeing in her face that she already, in this, with
                a deeper dismay, found a touch of picture, I quickly added stroke to stroke.
                "He has red hair, very red, close-curling, and a 
                <pb n="57"/>
                pale face, long in shape,
                with straight, good features and little, rather queer whiskers that are as
                red as his hair. His eyebrows are, somehow, darker; they look particularly
                arched and as if they might move a good deal. His eyes are sharp,
                strange—awfully; but I only know clearly that they're rather small and very
                fixed. His mouth's wide, and his lips are thin, and except for his little
                whiskers he's quite clean-shaven. He gives me a sort of sense of looking
                like an actor."
            </p>
                <p>
                "An actor!" It was impossible to resemble one less, at least, than Mrs. Grose
                at that moment.
            </p>
                <p>
                "I've never seen one, but so I suppose them. He's tall, active, erect," I
                continued, "but never—no, never!—a gentleman."
            </p>
                <p>
                My companion's face had blanched as I went on; her round eyes started and
                her mild mouth gaped. "A gentleman?" she gasped, confounded, stupefied: "a
                gentleman <hi rend="italic">he?</hi>"
            </p>
                <p>
                "You know him then?"
            </p>
                <p>
                She visibly tried to hold herself. "But he <hi rend="italic">is</hi> handsome?"
            </p>
                <p>
                I saw the way to help her. "Remarkably!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "And dressed—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "In somebody's clothes. They're smart, but they're not his own."
            </p>
            <pb n="58"/>
            <p>
                She broke into a breathless affirmative groan: "They're the master's!"
            </p>
                <p>
                I caught it up. "You <hi rend="italic">do</hi> know him?"
            </p>
                <p>
                She faltered but a second. "Quint!" she cried.
            </p>
                <p>
                "Quint?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Peter Quint—his own man, his <ref corresp="valet" target="valet_">valet,</ref>
                <note target="valet_" xml:id="valet" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Here meaning a gentleman's personal attendant. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> when he was here!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "When the master was?"
            </p>
                <p>
                Gaping still, but meeting me, she pieced it all together. "He never wore
                his hat, but he did wear—well, there were waistcoats missed. They were both
                here—last year. Then the master went, and Quint was alone."
            </p>
                <p>
                I followed, but halting a little. "Alone?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Alone with <hi rend="italic">us.</hi>" Then, as from a deeper depth, "In charge," she added.
            </p>
                <p>
                "And what became of him?"
            </p>
                <p>
                She hung fire so long that I was still more mystified. "He went, too," she
                brought out at last.
            </p>
                <p>
                "Went where?"
            </p>
                <p>
                Her expression, at this, became extraordinary. "God knows where! He died."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Died?" I almost shrieked.
            </p>
                <p>
                She seemed fairly to square herself, plant herself more firmly to utter the
                wonder of it. "Yes. Mr. Quint is dead."
            </p>
        </div>
        <div type="chapter" n="6">
            <pb n="59"/>
            <head>VI</head>
            <p>
                It took of course more than that particular passage to place us together
                in presence of what we had now to live with as we could—my dreadful liability
                to impressions of the order so vividly exemplified, and my companion's knowledge,
                henceforth—a knowledge half <ref corresp="consternation" target="consternation_">consternation</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="consternation" target="consternation_">
                Amazement and terror; dismay. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> and half compassion—of that
                liability. There had been, this evening, after the revelation that left me,
                for an hour, so <ref target="prostrate_" corresp="prostrate">prostrate—</ref>
                <note target="prostrate_" xml:id="prostrate" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                In a state of physical exhaustion or complete weakness. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> there had been, for either of us, no attendance
                on any service but a little service of tears and vows, of prayers and promises,
                a climax to the series of mutual challenges and pledges that had straightway
                ensued on our retreating together to the schoolroom and shutting ourselves
                up there to have everything out. The result of our having everything out
                was simply to reduce our situation to the last rigor of its elements. She
                herself had seen nothing, not the shadow of a shadow, and 
                <pb n="60"/>
                nobody in the house
                but the governess was in the governess's <ref corresp="plight" target="plight_">plight;</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="plight" target="plight_">
                An unfortunate condition or state. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> yet she accepted without directly <ref target="impugning_" corresp="impugning">impugning</ref>
                <note target="impugning_" xml:id="impugning" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                To call in question; to dispute the truth, validity, or correctness. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> my sanity the truth as I gave it to her, and ended by
                showing me, on this ground, an awestricken tenderness, an expression of the
                sense of my more than questionable privilege, of which the very breath has
                remained with me as that of the sweetest of human charities.
            </p>
                <p>
                What was settled between us, accordingly, that night, was that we thought
                we might bear things together; and I was not even sure that, in spite of
                her exemption, it was she who had the best of the burden. I knew at this
                hour, I think, as well as I knew later, what I was capable of meeting to
                shelter my pupils; but it took me some time to be wholly sure of what my
                honest ally was prepared for to keep terms with so compromising a contract,
                I was queer company enough—quite as queer as the company I received; but
                as I trace over what we went through I see how much common ground we must
                have found in the one idea that, by good fortune, <hi rend="italic">could</hi> steady us.
                It was the idea, the second movement, that led me straight out, as I may
                say, of the inner chamber of my dread. I could take the air in the court,
                at least, and there Mrs. Grose could join me. 
                <pb n="61"/>
                Perfectly can I recall now
                the particular way strength came to me before we separated for the night.
                We had gone over and over every feature of what I had seen.
            </p>
                <p>
                "He was looking for someone else, you say—someone who was not you?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "He was looking for little Miles." A <ref corresp="portentous" target="portentous_">portentous</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="portentous" target="portentous_">
                Ominous, threatening. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> clearness now possessed me.
                "<hi rend="italic">That's</hi> whom he was looking for."
            </p>
                <p>
                "But how do you know?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "I know, I know, I know!" My <ref target="exaltation_" corresp="exaltation">exaltation</ref>
                <note target="exaltation_" xml:id="exaltation" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                A strong feeling of happiness. Source: <ref target="https://dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/exaltation">
                https://dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/exaltation</ref>
                </note> grew. "And <hi rend="italic">you</hi> know, my dear!"
            </p>
                <p>
                She didn't deny this, but I required, I felt, not even so much telling as
                that. She resumed in a moment, at any rate: "What if <hi rend="italic">he</hi> should see
                him?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Little Miles? That's what he wants!"
            </p>
                <p>
                She looked immensely scared again. "The child?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Heaven forbid! The man. He wants to appear to <hi rend="italic">them.</hi>" That he might
                was an awful conception, and yet, somehow, I could keep it at bay; which,
                moreover, as we lingered there, was what I succeeded in practically proving,
                I had an absolute certainty that I should see again what I had already seen,
                but something within me said that by offering myself bravely as the sole
                subject 
                <pb n="62"/>
                of such experience, by accepting, by inviting, by <ref corresp="surmounting" target="surmounting_">surmounting</ref>
                <note target="surmounting_" xml:id="surmounting" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                To prevail over, get the better of, overcome. Source: Oxford Englsh Dictionary</note> it
                all, I should serve as an <ref target="expiatory_" corresp="expiatory">expiatory</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="expiatory" target="expiatory_">
                Making amends for. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> victim and guard the tranquility of my
                companions. The children, <ref corresp="especial" target="especial_">in especial,</ref>
                <note target="especial_" xml:id="especial" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                In particular; especially. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> I should thus <ref target="fence_" corresp="fence">fence about</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="fence" target="fence_">
                To keep off with a fence. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> and absolutely
                save. I recall one of the last things I said that night to Mrs. Grose.
            </p>
                <p>
                "It does strike me that my pupils have never mentioned—"
            </p>
                <p>
                She looked at me hard as I <ref corresp="musingly" target="musingly_">musingly</ref>
                <note target="musingly_" xml:id="musingly" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Thoughtfully, dreamily. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> pulled up. "His having been here and
                the time they were with him?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "The time they were with him, and his name, his presence, his history, in
                any way."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, the little lady doesn't remember. She never heard or knew."
            </p>
                <p>
                "The circumstances of his death?" I thought with some intensity. "Perhaps
                not. But Miles would remember—Miles would know."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Ah, don't try him!" broke from Mrs. Grose
            </p>
                <p>
                I returned her the look she had given me. "Don't be afraid." I continued
                to think. "It <hi rend="italic">is</hi> rather odd."
            </p>
                <p>
                "That he has never spoken of him?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Never by the least <ref target="allusion_" corresp="allusion">allusion.</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="allusion" target="allusion_">
                An implied, indirect, or passing reference to a person or thing. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> And you tell me they were 'great friends'?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, it wasn't <hi rend="italic">him!</hi>" Mrs. Grose with emphasis declared. "It was Quint's
                own fancy. To 
                <pb n="63"/>
                play with him, I mean—to spoil him," She paused a moment;
                then she added: "Quint was much too free."
            </p>
                <p>
                This gave me, straight from my vision of his face—<hi rend="italic">such</hi> a face!—a
                sudden sickness of disgust. "Too free with <hi rend="italic">my</hi> boy?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Too free with everyone!"
            </p>
                <p>
                I forbore, for the moment, to analyze this description further than by the
                reflection that a part of it applied to several of the members of the household,
                of the half-dozen maids and men who were still of our small colony. But there
                was everything, for our apprehension, in the lucky fact that no discomfortable
                legend, no <ref corresp="perturbation" target="perturbation_">perturbation</ref>
                <note target="perturbation_" xml:id="perturbation" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Mental or spiritual agitation or disturbance. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> of
                <ref target="scullions_" corresp="scullions">scullions,</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="scullions" target="scullions_">
                A domestic servant of the lowest rank in a household who worked in the kitchen. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> had ever, within anyone's memory attached
                to the kind old place. It had neither bad name nor ill fame, and Mrs. Grose,
                most apparently, only desired to cling to me and to <ref corresp="quake" target="quake_">quake</ref>
                <note target="quake_" xml:id="quake" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                To shake involuntarily; to tremble, shiver, shudder. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> in silence. I even
                put her, the very last thing of all, to the test. It was when, at midnight,
                she had her hand on the schoolroom door to take leave. "I have it from you
                then—for it's of great importance—that he was definitely and admittedly
                bad?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, not admittedly. <hi rend="italic">I</hi> knew it—but the master didn't."
            </p>
                <p>
                "And you never told him?"
            </p>
            <pb n="64"/>
            <p>
                "Well, he didn't like tale-bearing—he hated complaints. He was terribly
                short with anything of that kind, and if people were all right to him—"
            </p>
                <p>
                "He wouldn't be bothered with more?" This squared well enough with my impression
                of him: he was not a trouble-loving gentleman, nor so very particular perhaps
                about some of the company <hi rend="italic">he</hi> kept. All the same, I pressed my
                <ref target="interlocutress_" corresp="interlocutress">interlocutress,</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="interlocutress" target="interlocutress_">
                A woman who takes part in a dialogue, conversation, or discussion. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> "I promise you I would have told!"
            </p>
                <p>
                She felt my discrimination. "I daresay I was wrong. But, really, I was afraid."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Afraid of what?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Of things that man could do. Quint was so clever—he was so deep."
            </p>
                <p>
                I took this in still more than, probably, I showed. "You weren't afraid of
                anything else? Not of his effect—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "His effect?" she repeated with a face of anguish and waiting while I faltered.
            </p>
                <p>
                "On innocent little precious lives. They were in your charge."
            </p>
                <p>
                "No, they were not in mine!" she roundly and distressfully returned. "The
                master believed in him and placed him here because he was supposed not to
                be well and the country air so good for 
                <pb n="65"/>
                him. So he had everything to say.
                Yes"—she let me have it—"even about <hi rend="italic">them.</hi>"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Them—that creature?" I had to smother a kind of howl. "And you could bear
                it!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "No. I couldn't—and I can't now!" And the poor woman burst into tears.
            </p>
                <p>
                A rigid control, from the next day, was, as I have said, to follow them;
                yet how often and how passionately, for a week, we came back together to
                the subject! Much as we had discussed it that Sunday night, I was, in the
                immediate later hours in especial—for it may be imagined whether I slept—still
                haunted with the shadow of something she had not told me. I myself had kept
                back nothing, but there was a word Mrs. Grose had kept back. I was sure,
                moreover, by morning, that this was not from a failure of frankness, but
                because on every side there were fears. It seems to me indeed, in retrospect,
                that by the time the morrow's sun was high I had restlessly read into the
                fact before us almost all the meaning they were to receive from subsequent
                and more cruel occurrences. What they gave me above all was just the sinister
                figure of the living man—the dead one would keep awhile!—and of the months
                he had continuously passed at Bly, which, added up, made a formidable stretch.
                The 
                <pb n="66"/>
                limit of this evil time had arrived only when, on the dawn of a winter's
                morning, Peter Quint was found, by a laborer going to early work, stone dead
                on the road from the village: a catastrophe explained—superficially at least—by
                a visible wound to his head; such a wound as might have been produced—and
                as, on the final evidence, <hi rend="italic">had</hi> been—by a fatal slip, in the dark
                and after leaving the <ref corresp="house" target="house_">public house,</ref>
                <note target="house_" xml:id="house" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                A pub or tavern. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> on the steepish icy slope, a wrong path
                altogether, at the bottom of which he lay. The icy slope, the turn mistaken
                at night and in liquor, accounted for much—practically, in the end and after
                the <ref target="inquest_" corresp="inquest">inquest</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="inquest" target="inquest_">
                Inquiry or investigation (into something). Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> and boundless chatter, for everything; but there had been matters
                in his life—strange passages and perils, secret disorders, vices more than
                suspected—that would have accounted for a good deal more.
            </p>
                <p>
                I scarce know how to put my story into words that shall be a credible picture
                of my state of mind; but I was in these days literally able to find a joy
                in the extraordinary flight of heroism the occasion demanded of me, I now
                saw that I had been asked for a service admirable and difficult; and there
                would be a greatness in letting it be seen—oh, in the right quarter!—that
                I could succeed where many another girl might have failed. It was an immense
                help to 
                <pb n="67"/>
                me—I confess I rather applaud myself as I look back!—that I saw
                my service so strongly and so simply. I was there to protect and defend the
                little creatures in the world the most bereaved and the most lovable, the
                appeal of whose helplessness had suddenly become only too <ref corresp="explicit" target="explicit_">explicit,</ref> a deep,
                constant ache of one's own committed heart. We were cut off, really, together;
                we were united in our danger. They had nothing but me, and I—well, I had
                <hi rend="italic">them.</hi> It was in short a magnificent chance. This chance presented
                itself to me in an image richly material. I was a screen—I was to stand
                before them. The more I saw, the less they would. I began to watch them in
                a stifled suspense, a disguised excitement that might well, had it continued
                too long, have turned to something like madness. What saved me, as I now
                see, was that it turned to something else altogether. It didn't last as
                suspense—it was superseded by horrible proofs. Proofs, I say, yes—from
                the moment I really took hold.
            </p>
                <p>
                This moment dated from an afternoon hour that I happened to spend in the
                grounds with the younger of my pupils alone. We had left Miles indoors, on
                the red cushion of a deep window seat; he had wished to finish a book, and
                <pb n="68"/>
                I had been glad to encourage a purpose so laudable in a young man whose only
                defect was an occasional excess of the restless. His sister, on the contrary,
                had been alert to come out, and I strolled with her half an hour, seeking
                the shade, for the sun was still high and the day exceptionally warm. I was
                aware afresh, with her, as we went, of how, like her brother, she contrived—it
                was the charming thing in both children—to let me alone without appearing
                to drop me and to accompany me without appearing to surround. They were never
                <ref target="importunate_" corresp="importunate">importunate</ref>
                <note target="importunate_" xml:id="importunate" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Something that is a nuisance or inconvenience; persistently troublesome; annoying, irritating, irksome.
                Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> and yet never
                <ref corresp="listless" target="listless_">listless.</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="listless" target="listless_">
                A lack of interest, spirit, or energy.
                Source: <ref target="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/listless">https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/listless</ref>
                </note> My attention to them all really went
                to seeing them amuse themselves immensely without me: this was a spectacle
                they seemed actively to prepare and that engaged me as an active admirer.
                I walked in a world of their invention—they had no occasion whatever to
                draw upon mine; so that my time was taken only with being, for them, some
                remarkable person or thing that the game of the moment required and that
                was merely, thanks to my superior, my exalted stamp, a happy and highly
                distinguished <ref target="sinecure_" corresp="sinecure">sinecure.</ref>
                <note target="sinecure_" xml:id="sinecure" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                A position that does not have work attached to it but is paid. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> I forget what I was on the present occasion; I only
                remember that I was something very important and very quiet and that Flora
                was playing very hard. We were 
                <pb n="69"/>
                on the edge of the lake, and, as we had lately
                begun geography, the lake was the <placeName type="tgn" key="1112246">Sea of Azof.</placeName>
            </p>
                <p>
                Suddenly, in these circumstances, I became aware that, on the other side
                of the Sea of Azof, we had an interested spectator. The way this knowledge
                gathered in me was the strangest thing in the world—the strangest, that
                is, except the very much stranger in which it quickly merged itself. I had
                sat down with a piece of work—for I was something or other that could sit—on
                the old stone bench which overlooked the pond; and in this position I began
                to take in with certitude, and yet without direct vision, the presence, at
                a distance, of a third person. The old trees, the thick shrubbery, made a
                great and pleasant shade, but it was all suffused with the brightness of
                the hot, still hour. There was no ambiguity in anything; none whatever, at
                least, in the conviction I from one moment to another found myself forming
                as to what I should see straight before me and across the lake as a consequence
                of raising my eyes. They were attached at this <ref target="juncture_" corresp="juncture">juncture</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="juncture" target="juncture_">
                The place where two things are joined. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> to the stitching
                in which I was engaged, and I can feel once more the spasm of my effort not
                to move them till I should so have steadied myself as to be able to make
                up my mind what 
                <pb n="70"/>
                to do. There was an <ref target="alien_" corresp="alien">alien</ref>
                <note target="alien_" xml:id="alien" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Here meaning strange, unfamiliar, different. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> object in view—a figure whose
                right of presence I instantly, passionately questioned. I recollect counting
                over perfectly the possibilities, reminding myself that nothing was more
                natural, for instance, than the appearance of one of the men about the place,
                or even of a messenger, a postman, or a tradesman's boy, from the village.
                That reminder had as little effect on my practical <ref corresp="certitude" target="certitude_">certitude</ref> as I was
                conscious—still even without looking—of its having upon the character and
                attitude of our visitor. Nothing was more natural than that these things
                should be the other things that they absolutely were not.
            </p>
                <p>
                Of the positive identity of the apparition I would assure myself as soon
                as the small clock of my courage should have ticked out the right second;
                meanwhile, with an effort that was already sharp enough, I transferred my
                eyes straight to little Flora, who, at the moment, was about ten yards away.
                My heart had stood still for an instant with the wonder and terror of the
                question whether she too would see; and I held my breath while I waited for
                what a cry from her, what some sudden innocent sign either of interest or
                of alarm, would tell me. I waited, but nothing came; then, in the first
                place—and 
                <pb n="71"/>
                there is something more <ref target="dire_" corresp="dire">dire</ref>
                <note target="dire_" xml:id="dire" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Terrible, dreadful; awful, ‘frightful’. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> in this, I feel, than in anything
                I have to relate—I was determined by a sense that, within a minute, all
                sounds from her had previously dropped; and, in the second, by the circumstance
                that, also within the minute, she had, in her play, turned her back to the
                water. This was her attitude when I at last looked at her—looked with the
                confirmed conviction that we were still, together, under direct personal
                notice. She had picked up a small flat piece of wood, which happened to have
                in it a little hole that had evidently suggested to her the idea of sticking
                in another fragment that might figure as a mast and make the thing a boat
                This second <ref corresp="morsel" target="morsel_">morsel,</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="morsel" target="morsel_">
                A small piece or amount (of anything). Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> as I watched her, she was very markedly and intently
                attempting to tighten in its  place. My apprehension of what she was doing
                sustained me so that after some seconds I felt I was ready for more. Then
                I again shifted my eyes—I faced what I had to face.
            </p>
        </div>
        <div type="chapter" n="7">
            <pb n="72"/>
            <head>VII</head>
            <p>
                I got hold of Mrs. Grose as soon after this as I could; and I can give no
                intelligible account of how I fought out the <ref target="interval_" corresp="interval">interval.</ref> Yet I still hear myself
                cry as I fairly threw myself into her arms: "They <hi rend="italic">know</hi>—it's too
                monstrous: they know, they know!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "And what on earth—?" I felt her <ref corresp="incredulity" target="incredulity_">incredulity</ref>
                <note target="incredulity_" xml:id="incredulity" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Unwillingness to believe something. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> as she held me.
            </p>
                <p>
                "Why, all that <hi rend="italic">we</hi> know—and heaven knows what else besides!" Then,
                as she released me, I made it out to her, made it out perhaps only now with
                full coherency even to myself. "Two hours ago, in the garden"—I could <ref target="scarce_" corresp="scarce">scarce</ref>
                <ref corresp="articulate" target="articulate_">articulate—</ref>
                <note xml:id="articulate" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="articulate_">
                To utter or pronounce words. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note>"Flora <hi rend="italic">saw!</hi>"
            </p>
                <p>
                Mrs. Grose took it as she might have taken a blow in the stomach. "She has
                told you?" she panted.
            </p>
                <p>
                "Not a word—that's the horror. She kept it to herself! The child of eight,
                <hi rend="italic">that</hi> child!" Unutterable still, for me, was the <ref target="stupefaction_" corresp="stupefaction">stupefaction</ref> of it.
            </p>
            <pb n="73"/>
            <p>
                Mrs. Grose, of course, could only gape the wider. "Then how do you know?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "I was there—I saw with my eyes: saw that she was perfectly aware."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Do you mean aware of <hi rend="italic">him?</hi>"
            </p>
                <p>
                "No—of <hi rend="italic">her.</hi>" I was conscious as I spoke that I looked <ref corresp="prodigious" target="prodigious_">prodigious</ref>
                things, for I got the slow reflection of them in my companion's face. "Another
                person—this time; but a figure of quite as unmistakable horror and evil:
                a woman in black, pale and dreadful—with such an air also, and such a face!—on
                the other side of the lake. I was there with the child—quiet for the hour;
                and in the midst of it she came."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Came how—from where?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "From where they come from! She just appeared and stood there—but not so
                near."
            </p>
                <p>
                "And without coming nearer?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, for the effect and the feeling, she might have been as close as you!"
            </p>
                <p>
                My friend, with an odd impulse, fell back a step. "Was she someone you've
                never seen?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Yes. But someone the child has. Someone <hi rend="italic">you</hi> have. Then, to show how
                I had thought it all out: "My predecessor—the one who died."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Miss Jessel?"
            </p>
            <pb n="74"/>
            <p>
                "Miss Jessel. You don't believe me?" I pressed.
            </p>
                <p>
                She turned right and left in her distress. "How can you be sure?"
            </p>
                <p>
                This drew from me, in the state of my nerves, a flash of impatience. "Then
                ask Flora—<hi rend="italic">she's</hi> sure!" But I had no sooner spoken than I caught myself
                up. "No, for God's sake, <hi rend="italic">don't!</hi> She'll say she isn't—she'll lie!"
            </p>
                <p>
                Mrs. Grose was not too bewildered instinctively to protest "Ah, how
                <hi rend="italic">can</hi> you?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Because I'm clear. Flora doesn't want me to know."
            </p>
                <p>
                "It's only then to spare you."
            </p>
                <p>
                "No, no—there are depths, depths! The more I go over it, the more I see
                in it, and the more I see in it, the more I fear. I don't know what I
                <hi rend="italic">don't</hi> see—what I <hi rend="italic">don't</hi> fear!"
            </p>
                <p>
                Mrs. Grose tried to keep up with me. "You mean you're afraid of seeing her
                again?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, no; that's nothing—now!" Then I explained. "It's of <hi rend="italic">not</hi> seeing
                her."
            </p>
                <p>
                But my companion only looked wan. "I don't understand you."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Why, it's that the child may keep it up—and that the child assuredly
                <hi rend="italic">will</hi>—without my knowing it."
            </p>
            <pb n="75"/>
            <p>
                At the image of this possibility Mrs. Grose for a moment collapsed, yet presently
                to pull herself together again, as if from the positive force of the sense
                of what, should we yield an inch, there would really be to give way to. "Dear,
                dear—we must keep our heads! And after all, if she doesn't mind it—!" She
                even tried a grim joke. "Perhaps she likes it!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Likes <hi rend="italic">such</hi> things—a scrap of an infant!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Isn't it just a proof of her blessed innocence?" my friend bravely inquired.
            </p>
                <p>
                She brought me, for the instant, almost round. "Oh, we must clutch at
                <hi rend="italic">that</hi>—we must cling to it! If it isn't a proof of what you say, it's
                a proof of—God knows what! For the woman's a horror of horrors."
            </p>
                <p>
                Mrs. Grose, at this, fixed her eyes a minute on the ground; then at last
                raising them, "Tell me how you know," she said.
            </p>
                <p>
                "Then you admit it's what she was?" I cried.
            </p>
                <p>
                "Tell me how you know," my friend simply repeated.
            </p>
                <p>
                "Know? By seeing her! By the way she looked."
            </p>
                <p>
                "At you, do you mean—so wickedly?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Dear me, no—I could have borne that. 
                <pb n="76"/>
                She gave me never a glance. She only
                fixed the child."
            </p>
                <p>
                Mrs. Grose tried to see it. "Fixed her?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Ah, with such awful eyes!"
            </p>
                <p>
                She stared at mine as if they might really have resembled them. "Do you mean
                of dislike?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "God help us, no. Of something much worse."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Worse than dislike?"—this left her indeed at a loss.
            </p>
                <p>
                "With a determination—indescribable. With a kind of fury of intention."
            </p>
                <p>
                I made her turn pale. "Intention?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "To get hold of her." Mrs. Grose—her eyes just lingering on mine—gave a
                shudder and walked to the window; and while she stood there looking out I
                completed my statement. "<hi rend="italic">That's</hi> what Flora knows."
            </p>
                <p>
                After a little she turned round. "The person was in black, you say?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "In mourning—rather poor, almost shabby. But—yes—with extraordinary beauty."
                I now recognized to what I had at last, stroke by stroke, brought the the
                victim of my confidence, for she quite visibly weighed this. "Oh, handsome—very,
                very," I insisted; "wonderfully handsome. But <ref target="infamous_" corresp="infamous">infamous."</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="infamous" target="infamous_">
                Famous for badness of any kind. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
            </p>
            <pb n="77"/>
            <p>
                She slowly came back to me. "Miss Jessel—<hi rend="italic">was</hi> infamous." She once
                more took my hand in both her own, holding it as tight as if to fortify me
                against the increase of alarm I might draw from this disclosure. "They were
                both infamous," she finally said.
            </p>
                <p>
                So, for a little, we faced it once more together; and I found absolutely
                a degree of help in seeing it now so straight. "I appreciate," I said, "the
                great decency of your not having hitherto spoken; but the time has certainly
                come to give me the whole thing." She appeared to assent to this, but still
                only in silence; seeing which I went on: "I must have it now. Of what did
                she die? Come, there was something between them."
            </p>
                <p>
                "There was everything."
            </p>
                <p>
                "In spite of the difference—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, of their rank, their condition"—she brought it woefully out.
                "<hi rend="italic">She</hi> was a lady."
            </p>
                <p>
                I turned it over; I again saw. "Yes—she was a lady."
            </p>
                <p>
                "And he so dreadfully below," said Mrs. Grose.
            </p>
                <p>
                I felt that I doubtless needn't press too hard, in such company, on the place
                of a servant in the scale; but there was nothing to prevent 
                <pb n="78"/>
                an acceptance
                of my companion's own measure of my predecessor's <ref corresp="abasement" target="abasement_">abasement.</ref>
                <note target="abasement_" xml:id="abasement" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Lowering in rank; humiliation, degradation. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> There was a
                way to deal with that, and I dealt; the more readily for my full vision—on
                the evidence—of our employer's late clever, good-looking "own" man; <ref target="impudent_" corresp="impudent">impudent,</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="impudent_" xml:id="impudent">
                Shameless, immodest. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                assured, spoiled, depraved. "The fellow was a hound."
            </p>
                <p>
                Mrs. Grose considered as if it were perhaps a little a case for a sense of
                shades. "I've never seen one like him. He did what he wished."
            </p>
                <p>
                "With <hi rend="italic">her?</hi>"
            </p>
                <p>
                "With them all."
            </p>
                <p>
                It was as if now in my friend's own eyes Miss Jessel had again appeared.
                I seemed at any rate, for an instant, to see their <ref target="evocation_" corresp="evocation">evocation</ref>
                <note xml:id="evocation" target="evocation_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                The calling up a spirit. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> of her as distinctly
                as I had seen her by the pond; and I brought out with decision: "It must
                have been also what <hi rend="italic">she</hi> wished!"
            </p>
                <p>
                Mrs. Grose's face signified that it had been indeed, but she said at the
                same time: "Poor woman—she paid for it!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Then you do know what she died of?" I asked.
            </p>
                <p>
                "No—I know nothing. I wanted not to know; I was glad enough I didn't; and
                I thanked heaven she was well out of this!"
            </p>
            <pb n="79"/>
            <p>
                "Yet you had, then, your idea—"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Of her real reason for leaving? Oh, yes—as to that. She couldn't have stayed.
                Fancy it here—for a governess! And afterward I imagined—and I still imagine.
                And what I imagine is dreadful."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Not so dreadful as what I do," I replied; on which I must have shown her—as
                I was indeed but too conscious—a front of miserable defeat. It brought out
                again all her compassion for me, and at the renewed touch of her kindness
                my power to resist broke down. I burst, as I had, the other time, made her
                burst, into tears; she took me to her motherly breast, and my lamentation
                overflowed. "I don't do it!" I sobbed in despair; "I don't save or shield
                them! It's far worse than I dreamed—they're lost!"
            </p>
        </div>
        <div type="chapter" n="8">
            <pb n="80"/>
            <head>VIII</head>
            <p>
                What I had said to Mrs. Grose was true enough: there were in the matter I
                had put before her depths and possibilities that I lacked resolution to sound;
                so that when we met once more in the wonder of it we were of a common mind
                about the duty of resistance to extravagant fancies. We were to keep our
                heads if we should keep nothing else—difficult indeed as that might be in
                the face of what, in our prodigious experience, was least to be questioned.
                Late that night, while the house slept, we had another talk in my room, when
                she went all the way with me as to its being beyond doubt that I had seen
                exactly what I had seen. To hold her perfectly in the pinch of that, I found
                I had only to ask her how, if I had "made it up," I came to be able to give,
                of each of the persons appearing to me, a picture disclosing, to the last
                detail, their special marks—a portrait on the exhibition of which she had
                <pb n="81"/>
                instantly recognized and named them. She wished of course—small blame to
                her!—to sink the whole subject; and I was quick to assure her that my own
                interest in it had now violently taken the form of a search for the way to
                escape from it. I encountered her on the ground of a probability that with
                recurrence—for recurrence we took for granted—I should get used to my danger,
                distinctly professing that my personal exposure had suddenly become the least
                of my discomforts. It was my new suspicion that was intolerable; and yet
                even to this complication the later hours of the day had brought a little
                ease.
            </p>
                <p>
                On leaving her, after my first outbreak, I had of course returned to my pupils,
                associating the right remedy for my dismay with that sense of their charm
                which I had already found to be a thing I could positively cultivate and
                which had never failed me yet. I had simply, in other words, plunged <ref corresp="afresh" target="afresh_">afresh</ref>
                <note xml:id="afresh" target="afresh_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Once more from the beginning; anew. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                into Flora's special society and there become aware—it was almost a
                luxury!—that she could put her little conscious hand straight upon the spot
                that ached. She had looked at me in sweet speculation and then had accused
                me to my face of having "cried." I had supposed I had brushed away the ugly
                signs: but I could literally—for the time, at 
                <pb n="82"/>
                all events—rejoice, under
                this fathomless charity, that they had not entirely disappeared. To gaze
                into the depths of blue of the child's eyes and pronounce their loveliness
                a trick of premature cunning was to be guilty of a cynicism in preference
                to which I naturally preferred to <ref target="abjure_" corresp="abjure">abjure</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="abjure_" xml:id="abjure">
                To withdraw, retract, recant a previously held opinion. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> my judgment and, so far as might
                be, my agitation. I couldn't <ref corresp="abjure" target="abjure_">abjure</ref> for merely wanting to, but I could repeat
                to Mrs. Grose as I did there, over and over, in the small hours—that with
                their voices in the air, their pressure on one's heart, and their fragrant
                faces against one's cheek, everything fell to the ground but their incapacity
                and their beauty. It was a pity that, somehow, to settle this once for all,
                I had equally to <ref target="re-enumerate_" corresp="re-enumerate">re-enumerate</ref>
                <note xml:id="re-enumerate" target="re-enumerate_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                To count again. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> the signs of subtlety that, in the afternoon,
                by the lake, had made a miracle of my show of self-possession. It was a pity
                to be obliged to reinvestigate the <ref corresp="certitude" target="certitude_">certitude</ref> of the moment itself and repeat
                how it had come to me as a revelation that the inconceivable communion I
                then surprised was a matter, for either party, of habit. It was a pity that
                I should have had to <ref target="quaver_" corresp="quaver">quaver</ref>
                <note xml:id="quaver" target="quaver_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                To vibrate, tremble, quiver. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> out again the reasons for my not having, in my
                delusion, so much as questioned that the little girl saw our <ref corresp="visitant" target="visitant_">visitant</ref> even
                as I actually saw Mrs. Grose herself, and that she wanted, by 
                <pb n="83"/>
                just so much
                as she did thus see, to make me suppose she didn't, and at the same time,
                without showing anything, arrive at a guess as to whether I myself did! It
                was a pity that I needed once more to describe the <ref target="portentous_" corresp="portentous">portentous</ref> little activity
                by which she sought to divert my attention—the <ref corresp="perceptible" target="perceptible_">perceptible</ref>
                <note xml:id="perceptible" target="perceptible_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Able to be perceived; esp. able to be seen or noticed. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> increase of movement,
                the greater intensity of play, the singing, the <ref target="gabbling_" corresp="gabbling">gabbling</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="gabbling_" xml:id="gabbling">
                To talk rapidly esp. in an unintelligible way. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> of nonsense, and
                the invitation to <ref corresp="romp" target="romp_">romp.</ref>
                <note xml:id="romp" target="romp_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                To play roughly. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
            </p>
                <p>
                Yet if I had not indulged, to prove there was nothing in it, in this review,
                I should have missed the two or three dim elements of comfort that still
                remained to me. I should not for instance have been able to <ref target="asseverate_" corresp="asseverate">asseverate</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="asseverate_" xml:id="asseverate">
                To declare positively, assert emphatically, affirm seriously. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> to
                my friend that I was certain—which was so much to the good—that <hi rend="italic">I</hi>
                at least had not betrayed myself. I should not have been prompted, by stress
                of need, by desperation of mind—I scarce know what to call it—to invoke
                such further aid to intelligence as might spring from pushing my colleague
                fairly to the wall. She had told me, bit by bit, under pressure, a great
                deal; but a small shifty spot on the wrong side of it all still sometimes
                brushed my brow like the wing of a bat; and I remember how on this occasion—for
                the sleeping house and the concentration alike of our danger and our watch
                seemed to help—I felt 
                <pb n="84"/>
                the importance of giving the last jerk to the curtain.
                "I don't believe anything so horrible," I recollect saying; "no, let us put
                it definitely, my dear, that I don't. But if I did, you know, there's a thing
                I should require now, just without sparing you the least bit more—oh, not
                a scrap, come!—to get out of you. What was it you had in mind when, in our
                distress, before Miles came back, over the letter from his school, you said,
                under my insistence, that you didn't pretend for him that he had not literally
                <hi rend="italic">ever</hi> been 'bad'? He has <hi rend="italic">not</hi> literally 'ever,' in these weeks
                that I myself have lived with him and so closely watched him; he has been
                an <ref corresp="imperturbable" target="imperturbable_">imperturbable</ref>
                <note xml:id="imperturbable" target="imperturbable_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Not capable of being mentally agitated; unexcitable; calm, composed. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> little prodigy of delightful, lovable goodness. Therefore
                you might perfectly have made the claim for him if you had not, as it happened,
                seen an exception to take. What was your exception, and to what passage in
                your personal observation of him did you refer?"
            </p>
                <p>
                It was a dreadfully <ref target="austere_" corresp="austere">austere</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="austere_" xml:id="austere">
                Stern; strict, harsh. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> inquiry, but
                <ref corresp="levity" target="levity_">levity</ref>
                <note xml:id="levity" target="levity_" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Lack of seriousness. Source: <ref target="https://dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/levity">
                https://dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/levity</ref>
                </note> was not our note, and, at
                any rate, before the gray dawn <ref target="admonished_" corresp="admonished">admonished</ref>
                <note target="admonished_" xml:id="admonished" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                To urge someone to do something; to warn or tell a person that they should do something. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> to separate I had got my answer.
                What my friend had had in mind proved to be immensely to the purpose. It
                was neither more nor less than the circumstance that for a period of several
                months Quint and the boy 
                <pb n="85"/>
                had been perpetually together. It was in fact the
                very appropriate truth that she had ventured to criticize the propriety,
                to hint at the <ref corresp="incongruity" target="incongruity_">incongruity,</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="incongruity" target="incongruity_">
                Unreasonable; unsuitableness, inappropriateness, absurdity. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> of so close an alliance, and even to go so far
                on the subject as a <ref corresp="frank" target="frank_">frank</ref> <ref target="overture_" corresp="overture">overture</ref>
                <note target="overture_" xml:id="overture" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Here meaning an approach or proposal with the aim of opening negotiations or establishing a relationship.
                Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> to Miss Jessel. Miss Jessel had, with
                a most strange manner, requested her to mind her business, and the good woman
                had, on this, directly approached little Miles. What she had said to him,
                since I pressed, was that <hi rend="italic">she</hi> liked to see young gentlemen not forget
                their station.
            </p>
                <p>
                I pressed again, of course, at this. "You reminded him that Quint was only
                a base <ref corresp="menial" target="menial_">menial?"</ref>
                <note target="menial_" xml:id="menial" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Here meaning a servant who does domestic or household work.
                Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
            </p>
                <p>
                "As you might say! And it was his answer, for one thing, that was bad."
            </p>
                <p>
                "And for another thing?" I waited. "He repeated your words to Quint?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "No, not that. It's just what he <hi rend="italic">wouldn't!</hi>" she could still impress
                upon me. "I was sure, at any rate," she added, "that he didn't. But he denied
                certain occasions."
            </p>
                <p>
                "What occasions?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "When they had been about together quite as if Quint were his tutor—and
                a very grand one—and Miss Jessel only for the little lady. When he had gone
                off with the fellow, I mean, and spent hours with him."
            </p>
            <pb n="86"/>
            <p>
                "He then <ref target="prevaricated_" corresp="prevaricated">prevaricated</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="prevaricated" target="prevaricated_">
                To not be straightforward; to speak or act in an evasive way. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> about it—he said he hadn't?" Her assent was clear
                enough to cause me to add in a moment: "I see. He lied."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh!" Mrs. Grose mumbled. This was a suggestion that it didn't matter; which
                indeed she backed up by a further remark. "You see, after all, Miss Jessel
                didn't mind. She didn't forbid him."
            </p>
                <p>
                I considered. "Did he put that to you as a justification?"
            </p>
                <p>
                At this she dropped again. "No, he never spoke of it."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Never mentioned her in connection with Quint?"
            </p>
                <p>
                She saw, visibly flushing, where I was coming out. "Well, he didn't show
                anything. He denied," she repeated—"he denied."
            </p>
                <p>
                Lord, how I pressed her now! "So that you could see he knew what was between
                the two wretches?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "I don't know—I don't know!" the poor woman groaned.
            </p>
                <p>
                "You do know, you dear thing," I replied; "only you haven't my dreadful boldness
                of mind, and you keep back, out of timidity and modesty and delicacy, even
                the impression that, in the past, when you had, without my aid, to <ref corresp="flounder" target="flounder_">flounder</ref>
                <note target="flounder_" xml:id="flounder" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                To stumble. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                about 
                <pb n="87"/>
                in silence, most of all made you miserable. But I shall get it out
                of you yet! There was something in the boy that suggested to you," I continued,
                "that he covered and concealed their relation."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, he couldn't prevent—"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Your learning the truth? I daresay! But, heavens," I fell, with <ref target="vehemence_" corresp="vehemence">vehemence,</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="vehemence" target="vehemence_">
                Great or excessive passion; eagerness of personal feeling, action, expression. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                athinking, "what it shows that they must, to that extent, have succeeded
                in making of him!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Ah, nothing that's not nice <hi rend="italic">now!</hi>" Mrs. Grose <ref target="lugubriously_" corresp="lugubriously">lugubriously</ref>
                <note target="lugubriously_" xml:id="lugubriously" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Mournfully, sorrowfully. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> pleaded.
            </p>
                <p>
                "I don't wonder you looked queer," I persisted, "when I mentioned to you
                the letter from his school!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "I doubt if I looked as queer as you!" she retorted with <ref corresp="homely" target="homely_">homely</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="homely" target="homely_">
                Familiar; well-known. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> force. "And
                if he was so bad then as that comes to, how is he such an angel now?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Yes, indeed—and if he was a fiend at school! How, how, how? Well," I said
                in my torment, "you must put it to me again, but I shall not be able to tell
                you for some days. Only, put it to me again!" I cried in a way that made
                my friend stare. "There are directions in which I must not for the present
                let myself go." Meanwhile I returned to her first example—the one to 
                <pb n="88"/>
                which
                she had just previously referred—of the boy's happy capacity for an occasional
                slip. "If Quint—on your <ref target="remonstrance_" corresp="remonstrance">remonstrance</ref>
                <note target="remonstrance_" xml:id="remonstrance" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                An expression of disapproval or disagreement. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> at the time you speak of—was a base
                menial, one of the things Miles said to you, I find myself guessing, was
                that you were another." Again her admission was so adequate that I continued:
                "And you forgave him that?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Wouldn't <hi rend="italic">you?</hi>"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, yes!" And we exchanged there, in the stillness, a sound of the oddest
                amusement. Then I went on: "At all events, while he was with the man—"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Miss Flora was with the woman. It suited them all!" It suited me, too, I
                felt, only too well; by which I mean that it suited exactly the particularly
                deadly view I was in the very act of forbidding myself to entertain. But
                I so far succeeded in checking the expression of this view that I will throw,
                just here, no further light on it than may be offered by the mention of my
                final observation to Mrs. Grose. "His having lied and been <ref corresp="impudent" target="impudent_">impudent</ref> are,
                I confess, less engaging specimens than I had hoped to have from you of the
                outbreak in him of the little natural man. Still," I <ref target="mused_" corresp="mused">mused,</ref>
                <note target="mused_" xml:id="mused" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                To be absorbed in thought. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> "They must do,
                <pb n="89"/>
                for they make me feel more than ever that I must watch."
            </p>
                <p>
                It made me blush, the next minute, to see in my friend's face how much more
                unreservedly she had forgiven him than her <ref corresp="anecdote" target="anecdote_">anecdote</ref> struck me as presenting
                to my own tenderness an occasion for doing. This came out when, at the schoolroom
                door, she quitted me. "Surely you don't accuse <hi rend="italic">him</hi>—"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Of carrying on an intercourse that he conceals from me? Ah, remember that,
                until further evidence, I now accuse nobody." Then, before shutting her out
                to go, by another passage, to her own place, "I must just wait," I wound
                up.
            </p>
        </div>
        <div type="chapter" n="9">
            <pb n="90"/>
            <head>IX</head>
            <p>
                I waited and waited, and the days, as they elapsed, took something from my
                consternation. A very few of them, in fact, passing, in constant sight of
                my pupils, without a fresh incident sufficed to give to grievous fancies
                and even to odious memories a kind of brush of the sponge. I have spoken
                of the surrender to their extraordinary childish grace as a thing I could
                actively cultivate, and it may be imagined if I neglected now to address
                myself to this source for whatever it would yield. Stranger than I can express,
                certainly, was the effort to struggle against my new lights; it would doubtless
                have been, however, a greater tension still had it not been so frequently
                successful. I used to wonder how my little charges could help guessing that
                I thought strange things about them; and the circumstance that these things
                only made them more interesting was not by itself a direct aid to keeping
                them in the dark. I trembled lest they 
                <pb n="91"/>
                should see that they <hi rend="italic">were</hi> so
                immensely more interesting. Putting things at the worst, at all events, as
                in meditation I so often did, any clouding of their innocence could only
                be—blameless and foredoomed as they were—a reason the more for taking risks.
                There were moments when, by an irresistible impulse, I found myself catching
                them up and pressing them to my heart. As soon as I had done so I used to
                say to myself: "What will they think of that? Doesn't it betray too much?"
                It would have been easy to get into a sad, wild tangle about how much I might
                betray; but the real account, I feel, of the hours of peace that I could
                still enjoy was that the immediate charm of my companions was a <ref corresp="beguilement" target="beguilement_">beguilement</ref>
                <note xml:id="beguilement" type="gloss" target="beguilement_" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Deluder, deceiver, cheater. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                still effective even under the shadow of the possibility that it was studied.
                For if it occurred to me that I might occasionally excite suspicion by the
                little outbreaks of my sharper passion for them, so too I remember wondering
                if I mightn't see a queerness in the traceable increase of their own
                demonstrations.
            </p>
                <p>
                They were at this period extravagantly and <ref target="preternaturally_" corresp="preternaturally">preternaturally</ref>
                <note xml:id="preternaturally" target="preternaturally_" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Abnormally, extraordinarily. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> fond of me; which,
                after all, I could reflect, was no more than a graceful response in children
                perpetually bowed over and hugged. The <ref corresp="homage" target="homage_">homage</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="homage" target="homage_">
                Acknowledgement of superiority in respect of rank, worth, beauty, or some other quality. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> of which they were so
                lavish
                <pb n="92"/>
                succeeded, in truth, for my nerves, quite as well as if I never appeared
                to myself, as I may say, literally to catch them at a purpose in it. They
                had never, I think, wanted to do so many things for their poor <ref corresp="protectress" target="protectress_">protectress;</ref>
                <note target="protectress_" xml:id="protectress" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                A female protector or guardian. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                I mean—though they got their lessons better and better, which was naturally
                what would please her most—in the way of diverting, entertaining, surprising
                her; reading her passages, telling her stories, acting her <ref target="charades_" corresp="charades">charades,</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="charades" target="charades_">
                A game where players try to communicate a particular word by using silent actions.
                Source: <ref target="https://dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/charade">https://dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/charade</ref>
                    </note> pouncing
                out at her, in disguises, as animals and historical characters, and above
                all astonishing her by the "pieces" they had secretly got by heart and could
                interminably recite. I should never get to the bottom—were I to let myself
                go even now—of the <ref corresp="prodigious" target="prodigious_">prodigious</ref> private commentary, all under still more private
                correction, with which, in these days, I overscored their full hours. They
                had shown me from the first a facility for everything, a general faculty
                which, taking a fresh start, achieved remarkable flights. They got their
                little tasks as if they loved them, and indulged, from the mere <ref target="exuberance_" corresp="exuberance">exuberance</ref>
                <note xml:id="exuberance" target="exuberance_" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Energetic, excited, cheerful. Source: <ref target="https://www.collinsdictionary.com/us/dictionary/english/exuberance#google_vignette">
                https://www.collinsdictionary.com/us/dictionary/english/exuberance#google_vignette
                </ref>
                    </note>
                of the gift, in the most unimposed little miracles of memory. They not only
                popped out at me as tigers and as Romans, but as Shakespeareans, astronomers,
                and navigators. This was so <ref corresp="singularly" target="singularly_">singularly</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" target="singularly_" xml:id="singularly">
                Apart from; separately, individually. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> the case that it had presumably much
                to do with the fact as to which, 
                <pb n="93"/>
                at the present day, I am at a loss for a
                different explanation: I <ref target="allude_" corresp="allude">allude</ref>
                <note xml:id="allude" target="allude_" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                To suggest, hint; to refer indirectly. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> to my unnatural composure on the subject
                of another school for Miles. What I remember is that I was content not, for
                the time, to open the question, and that contentment must have sprung from
                the sense of his perpetually striking show of cleverness. He was too clever
                for a bad governess, for a parson's daughter, to spoil; and the strangest
                if not the brightest thread in the pensive embroidery I just spoke of was
                the impression I might have got, if I had dared to work it out, that he was
                under some influence operating in his small intellectual life as a tremendous
                <ref target="incitement_" corresp="incitement">incitement.</ref>
                <note xml:id="incitement" target="incitement_" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                To move to action; to stir up. Source: <ref target="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/incite">
                https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/incite</ref>
                    </note>
            </p>
                <p>
                If it was easy to reflect, however, that such a boy could postpone school,
                it was at least as marked that for such a boy to have been "kicked out" by
                a school master was a <ref corresp="mystification" target="mystification_">mystification</ref>
                <note target="mystification_" xml:id="mystification" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                A puzzle, an enigma. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> without end. Let me add that in their
                company now—and I was careful almost never to be out of it—I could follow
                no scent very far. We lived in a cloud of music and love and success and
                private <ref target="theatricals_" corresp="theatricals">theatricals.</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="theatricals" target="theatricals_">
                The performance of stage plays formerly in a private house. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> The musical sense in each of the children was of the
                quickest, but the elder in especial had a marvelous knack of catching and
                repeating. The schoolroom piano broke into all gruesome fancies; and when
                that failed there were 
                <pb n="94"/>
                <ref corresp="confabulations" target="confabulations_">confabulations</ref>
                <note target="confabulations_" xml:id="confabulations" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Talking together; chats. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> in corners, with a sequel of one of
                them going out in the highest spirits in order to "come in" as something
                new. I had had brothers myself, and it was no revelation to me that little
                girls could be slavish <ref corresp="idolaters" target="idolaters_">idolaters</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="idolaters" target="idolaters_">
                A person who shows an intense or excessive fascination with or devotion to a person or thing. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> of little boys. What surpassed everything
                was that there was a little boy in the world who could have for the inferior
                age, sex, and intelligence so fine a consideration. They were extraordinarily
                at one, and to say that they never either <ref corresp="quarreled" target="quarreled_">quarreled</ref>
                <note target="quarreled_" xml:id="quarreled" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                verbal conflict between two people. Source: <ref target="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/quarrel">
                https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/quarrel</ref>
                    </note> or complained is to make
                the note of praise coarse for their quality of sweetness. Sometimes, indeed,
                when I dropped into <ref target="coarseness_" corresp="coarseness">coarseness,</ref>
                <note target="coarseness_" xml:id="coarseness" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Rudeness. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> I perhaps came across traces of little
                understandings between them by which one of them should keep me occupied
                while the other slipped away. There is a <ref corresp="naive" target="naive_">
                        <hi rend="italic">naive</hi>
                    </ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="naive" target="naive_">
                Lack of experience, judgement, or wisdom. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> side, I suppose, in
                all diplomacy; but if my pupils practiced upon me, it was surely with the
                minimum of grossness. It was all in the other
                quarter that, after a lull, the grossness broke out.
            </p>
                <p>
                I find that I really hang back; but I must take my plunge. In going on with
                the record of what was <ref corresp="hideous" target="hideous_">hideous</ref>
                <note target="hideous_" xml:id="hideous" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Terrible, horrible. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> at Bly, I not only challenge the most liberal
                faith—for which I little care; but—and this is another matter—I renew
                what I myself suffered, I again push my way through it to the end. There
                came suddenly an hour 
                <pb n="95"/>
                after which, as I look back, the affair seems to me
                to have been all pure suffering; but I have at least reached the heart of
                it, and the straightest road out is doubtless to advance. One evening—with
                nothing to lead up or to prepare it—I felt the cold touch of the impression
                that had breathed on me the night of my arrival and which, much lighter then,
                as I have mentioned, I should probably have made little of in memory had
                my subsequent <ref target="sojourn_" corresp="sojourn">sojourn</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="sojourn" target="sojourn_">
                To stay in a place temporarily. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> been less agitated. I had not gone to bed; I sat reading
                by a couple of candles. There was a roomful of old books at Bly—last-century
                fiction, some of it, which, to the extent of a distinctly deprecated renown,
                but never to so much as that of a stray specimen, had reached the <ref corresp="sequestered" target="sequestered_">sequestered</ref>
                <note target="sequestered_" xml:id="sequestered" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Sheltered, secluded. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                home and appealed to the unavowed curiosity of my youth. I remember that
                the book I had in my hand was Fielding's <hi rend="italic">Amelia,</hi> also that I was wholly
                awake. I recall further both a general conviction that it was horribly late
                and a particular objection to looking at my watch. I figure, finally, that
                the white curtain draping, in the fashion of those days, the head of Flora's
                little bed, <ref target="shrouded_" corresp="shrouded">shrouded,</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="shrouded" target="shrouded_">
                Concealed, veiled; sheltered. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> as I had assured myself long before, the perfection
                of childish rest. I recollect in short that, though I was deeply interested
                in my author, I found 
                <pb n="96"/>
                myself, at the turn of a page and with his spell all
                scattered, looking straight up from him and hard at the door of my room.
                There was a moment during which I listened, reminded of the faint sense I
                had had, the first night, of there being something undefinably
                <ref corresp="astir" target="astir_">astir</ref>
                <note target="astir_" xml:id="astir" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Out of bed; up and moving about. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> in the
                house, and noted the soft breath of the open <ref corresp="casement" target="casement_">casement</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="casement" target="casement_">
                A window. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> just move the half-drawn
                blind. Then, with all the marks of a deliberation that must have seemed
                magnificent had there been anyone to admire it, I laid down my book, rose
                to my feet, and, taking a candle, went straight out of the room and, from
                the passage, on which my light made little impression, noiselessly closed
                and locked the door.
            </p>
                <p>
                I can say now neither what determined nor what guided me, but I went straight
                along the lobby, holding my candle high, till I came within sight of the
                tall window that presided over the great turn of the staircase. At this point
                I precipitately found myself aware of three things. They were practically
                simultaneous, yet they had flashes of succession. My candle, under a bold
                <ref target="flourish_" corresp="flourish">flourish,</ref>
                <note target="flourish_" xml:id="flourish" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                A sudden burst; an act or instance of waving. Source: <ref target="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/flourish">
                https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/flourish</ref>
                </note> went out, and I perceived, by the uncovered window, that the yielding
                dusk of earliest morning rendered it unnecessary. Without it, the next instant,
                I saw that there was someone 
                <pb n="97"/>
                on the stair. I speak of sequences, but I required
                no lapse of seconds to stiffen myself for a third encounter with Quint. The
                apparition had reached the landing halfway up and was therefore on the spot
                nearest the window, where at sight of me, it stopped short and fixed me exactly
                as it had fixed me from the tower and from the garden. He knew me as well
                as I knew him; and so, in the cold, faint twilight, with a glimmer in the
                high glass and another on the polish of the oak stair below, we faced each
                other in our common intensity. He was absolutely, on this occasion, a living,
                <ref corresp="detestable" target="detestable_">detestable,</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="detestable" target="detestable_">
                Intensely hateful. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> dangerous presence. But that was not the wonder of wonders; I
                reserve this distinction for quite another circumstance: the circumstance
                that dread had unmistakably quitted me and that there was nothing in me there
                that didn't meet and measure him.
            </p>
                <p>
                I had plenty of anguish after that extraordinary moment, but I had, thank
                God, no terror. And he knew I had not—I found myself at the end of an instant
                magnificently aware of this. I felt, in a fierce <ref target="rigor_" corresp="rigor">rigor</ref>
                <note target="rigor_" xml:id="rigor" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Being unyielding or inflexible; harsh inflexibility in opinion or judgment. Source:
                <ref target="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/rigor">
                https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/rigor</ref>
                    </note> of confidence, that
                if I stood my ground a minute I should cease—for the time, at least—to
                have him to <ref target="reckon_" corresp="reckon">reckon</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="reckon" target="reckon">
                To take into account; to be prepared for. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> with; and during the minute, accordingly, the thing was
                as human and hideous as a real interview: hideous 
                <pb n="98"/>
                just because it <hi rend="italic">was</hi>
                human, as human as to have met alone, in the small hours, in a sleeping house,
                some enemy, some adventurer, some criminal. It was the dead silence of our
                long gaze at such close quarters that gave the whole horror, huge as it was,
                its only note of the unnatural. If I had met a murderer in such a place and
                at such an hour, we still at least would have spoken. Something would have
                passed, in life, between us; if nothing had passed, one of us would have
                moved. The moment was so prolonged that it would have taken but little more
                to make me doubt if even <hi rend="italic">I</hi> were in life. I can't express what followed
                it save by saying that the silence itself—which was indeed in a manner an
                attestation of my strength—became the element into which I saw the figure
                disappear; in which I definitely saw it turn as I might have seen the low
                <ref corresp="wretch" target="wretch_">wretch</ref>
                <note target="wretch_" xml:id="wretch" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                A vile, sorry, or despicable person. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> to which it had once belonged turn on receipt of an order, and pass,
                with my eyes on the villainous back that no hunch could have more disfigured,
                straight down the staircase and into the darkness in which the next bend
                was lost.
            </p>
        </div>
        <div type="chapter" n="10">
            <pb n="99"/>
            <head>X</head>
            <p>
                I remained awhile at the top of the stair, but with the effect presently
                of understanding that when my visitor had gone, he had gone: then I returned
                to my room. The foremost thing I saw there by the light of the candle I had
                left burning was that Flora's little bed was empty; and on this I caught
                my breath with all the terror that, five minutes before, I had been able
                to resist. I dashed at the place in which I had left her lying and over which
                (for the small silk <ref corresp="counterpane" target="counterpane_">counterpane</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="counterpane" target="counterpane_">
                The outer covering of a bed; a quilt. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                Example: <ref target="https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/13623">https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/13623</ref>
                </note> and the sheets were disarranged) the white
                curtains had been deceivingly pulled forward; then my step, to my unutterable
                relief, produced an answering sound: I perceived an agitation of the window
                blind, and the child, ducking down, emerged rosily from the other side of
                it. She stood there in so much of her <ref target="candor_" corresp="candor">candor</ref>
                <note target="candor_" xml:id="candor" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Speaking freely; frankness, outspokenness. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> and so little of her nightgown,
                with her pink bare feet and the golden glow of her curls. She looked intensely
                grave, and I had never had such a sense
                <pb n="100"/>
                of losing an advantage acquired (the
                thrill of which had just been so <ref corresp="prodigious" target="prodigious_">prodigious)</ref> as on my consciousness that
                she addressed me with a reproach. "You naughty: where <hi rend="italic">have</hi> you
                been?"—instead of challenging her own irregularity I found myself <ref target="arraigned_" corresp="arraigned">arraigned</ref>
                <note target="arraigned_" xml:id="arraigned" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Accused of some fault or imperfection, called in question. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                and explaining. She herself explained, for that matter, with the loveliest,
                eagerest simplicity. She had known suddenly, as she lay there, that I was
                out of the room, and had jumped up to see what had become of me. I had dropped,
                with the joy of her reappearance, back into my chair—feeling then, and then
                only, a little faint; and she had pattered straight over to me, thrown herself
                upon my knee, given herself to be held with the flame of the candle full
                in the wonderful little face that was still flushed with sleep. I remember
                closing my eyes an instant, yieldingly, consciously, as before the excess
                of something beautiful that shone out of the blue of her own. "You were looking
                for me out of the window?" I said. "You thought I might be walking in the
                grounds?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Well, you know, I thought someone was"—she never <ref corresp="blanched" target="blanched_">blanched</ref> as she smiled
                out that at me.
            </p>
                <p>
                Oh, how I looked at her now! "And did you see anyone?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Ah, <hi rend="italic">no!</hi>" she returned, almost with the full 
                <pb n="101"/>
                privilege of childish
                inconsequence, resentfully, though with a long sweetness in her little drawl
                of the negative.
            </p>
                <p>
                At that moment, in the state of my nerves, I absolutely believed she lied;
                and if I once more closed my eyes it was before the dazzle of the three or
                four possible ways in which I might take this up. One of these, for a moment,
                tempted me with such singular intensity that, to withstand it, I must have
                gripped my little girl with a spasm that, wonderfully, she submitted to without
                a cry or a sign of fright. Why not break out at her on the spot and have
                it all over?—give it to her straight in her lovely little lighted face?
                "You see, you see, you <hi rend="italic">know</hi> that you do and that you already quite
                suspect I believe it; therefore, why not frankly confess it to me, so that
                we may at least live with it together and learn perhaps, in the strangeness
                of our fate, where we are and what it means?" This <ref target="solicitation_" corresp="solicitation">solicitation</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="solicitation" target="solicitation_">
                Seeking to get something by an earnest request. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> dropped,
                alas, as it came: if I could immediately have <ref corresp="succumbed" target="succumbed_">succumbed</ref>
                <note target="succumbed_" xml:id="succumbed" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                To sink under pressure. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> to it I might have
                spared myself—well, you'll see what. Instead of succumbing I sprang again
                to my feet, looked at her bed, and took a helpless middle way. "Why did you
                pull the curtain over the place to make me think you were still there?"
            </p>
            <pb n="102"/>
            <p>
                Flora <ref target="luminously_" corresp="luminously">luminously</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="luminously" target="luminously_">
                 Brightly, shining. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> considered, after which, with her little divine smile: "Because
                I don't like to frighten you!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "But if I had, by your idea, gone out—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                She absolutely declined to be puzzled, she turned her eyes to the name of
                the candle as if the question were as irrelevant, or at any rate as impersonal,
                as Mrs. Marcet or nine-times-nine. "Oh, but you know," she quite adequately
                answered, "that you might come back, you dear, and that you <hi rend="italic">have!</hi>"
                And after a little, when she had got into bed, I had, for a long time, by
                almost sitting on her to hold her hand, to prove that I recognized the <ref corresp="pertinence" target="pertinence_">pertinence</ref>
                <note target="pertinence_" xml:id="pertinence" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Relevance. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                of my return.
            </p>
                <p>
                You may imagine the general complexion, from that moment, of my nights. I
                repeatedly sat up till I didn't know when; I selected moments when my roommate
                unmistakably slept, and, stealing out, took noiseless turns in the passage
                and even pushed as far as to where I had last met Quint. But I never met
                him there again, and I may as well say at once that I on no other occasion
                saw him in the house. I just missed, on the staircase, on the other hand,
                a different adventure. Looking down it from the top I once recognised the
                presence of a 
                <pb n="103"/>
                woman seated on one of the lower steps with her back presented
                to me, her body half-bowed and her head, in an attitude of <ref target="woe_" corresp="woe">woe,</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="woe" target="woe_">
                A state of misery, suffering, or emotional distress. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> in her hands.
                I had been there but an instant, however, when she vanished without looking
                round at me. I knew, nonetheless, exactly what dreadful face she had to show;
                and I wondered whether, if instead of being above I had been below, I should
                have had, for going up, the same nerve I had lately shown Quint. Well, there
                continued to be plenty of chance for nerve. On the eleventh night after my
                latest encounter with that gentleman—they were all numbered now—I had an
                alarm that perilously skirted it and that indeed, from the particular quality
                of its unexpectedness, proved quite my sharpest shock. It was precisely the
                first night during this series that, weary with watching, I had felt that
                I might again without <ref corresp="laxity" target="laxity_">laxity</ref>
                <note target="laxity_" xml:id="laxity" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Looseness or slackness; lack of strictness. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> lay myself down at my old hour. I slept immediately
                and, as I afterward knew, till about one o'clock; but when I woke it was
                to sit straight up, as completely roused as if a hand had shook me. I had
                left a light burning, but it was now out, and I felt an instant certainty
                that Flora had extinguished it. This brought me to my feet and straight,
                in the darkness, 
                <pb n="104"/>
                to her bed, which I found she had left. A glance at the
                window enlightened me further, and the striking of a match completed the
                picture.
            </p>
                <p>
                The child had again got up—this time blowing out the <ref target="taper_" corresp="taper">taper,</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="taper" target="taper_">
                A long wax candle. The term originally used used for devotional purposes. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> and had again,
                for some purpose of observation or response, squeezed in behind the blind
                and was peering out into the night. That she now saw—as she had not, I had
                satisfied myself, the previous time—was proved to me by the fact that she
                was disturbed neither by my <ref corresp="reillumination" target="reillumination_">reillumination</ref>
                <note target="reillumination_" xml:id="reillumination" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Relighting. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> nor by the haste I made to get
                into slippers and into a <ref target="wrap_" corresp="wrap">wrap.</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="wrap" target="wrap_">
                A shawl, scarf, or the like. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> Hidden, protected, absorbed, she evidently
                rested on the sill—the <ref corresp="casement" target="casement_">casement</ref> opened forward—and gave herself up. There
                was a great still moon to help her, and this fact had counted in my quick
                decision. She was face to face with the apparition we had met at the lake,
                and could now communicate with it as she had not then been able to do. What
                I, on my side, had to care for was, without disturbing her, to reach, from
                the corridor, some other window in the same quarter. I got to the door without
                her hearing me; I got out of it, closed it, and listened, from the other
                side, for some sound from her. While I stood in the passage 
                <pb n="105"/>
                I had my eyes
                on her brother's door, which was but ten steps off and which, indescribably,
                produced in me a renewal of the strange impulse that I lately spoke of as
                my temptation. What if I should go straight in and march to <hi rend="italic">his</hi>
                window?—what if, by risking to his boyish <ref target="bewilderment_" corresp="bewilderment">bewilderment</ref>
                <note target="bewilderment_" xml:id="bewilderment" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Confusion. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> a revelation of my
                motive, I should throw across the rest of the mystery the long <ref corresp="halter" target="halter_">halter</ref>
                <note target="halter_" xml:id="halter" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                A rope with a noose, it can be used to lead cattle or horses. Sources: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> of my boldness?
            </p>
                <p>
                This thought held me sufficiently to make me cross to his threshold and pause
                again. I preternaturally listened; I figured to myself what might <ref target="portentously_" corresp="portentously">portentously</ref>
                <note xml:id="portentously" target="portentously_" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                In a way that foreshadows something; ominously. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                be; I wondered if his bed were also empty and he too were secretly at watch.
                It was a deep, soundless minute, at the end of which my impulse failed. He
                was quiet; he might be innocent; the risk was hideous; I turned away. There
                was a figure in the grounds—a figure <ref corresp="prowling" target="prowling_">prowling</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" target="prowling_" xml:id="prowling">
                To move around looking for something; to wander in search for prey or with predatory intent.
                Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> for a sight, the visitor with
                whom Flora was engaged; but it was not the visitor most concerned with my
                boy. I hesitated afresh, but on other grounds and only a few seconds; then
                I had made my choice. There were empty rooms at Bly, and it was only a question
                of choosing the right one. The right one suddenly presented itself to me
                as the lower one—though high above the gardens—in the 
                <pb n="106"/>
                solid corner of the
                house that I have spoken of as the old tower. This was a large, square chamber,
                arranged with some state as a bedroom, the extravagant size of which made
                it so inconvenient that it had not for years, though kept by Mrs. Grose in
                exemplary order, been occupied. I had often admired it and I knew my way
                about in it; I had only, after just <ref target="faltering_" corresp="faltering">faltering</ref>
                <note xml:id="faltering" target="faltering_" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                To stumble, stagger. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> at the first chill gloom of
                its disuse, to pass across it and unbolt as quietly as I could one of the
                shutters. Achieving this transit, I uncovered the glass without a sound and,
                applying my face to the pane, was able, the darkness without being much less
                than within, to see that I commanded the right direction. Then I saw something
                more. The moon made the night extraordinarily <ref corresp="penetrable" target="penetrable_">penetrable</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" target="penetrable_" xml:id="penetrable">
                Here meaning bringing light into or able to see through the darkness.
                Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> and showed me on
                the lawn a person, diminished by distance, who stood there motionless and
                as if fascinated, looking up to where I had appeared—looking, that is, not
                so much straight at me as at something that was apparently above me. There
                was clearly another person above me—there was a person on the tower; but
                the presence on the lawn was not in the least what I had conceived and had
                confidently hurried to meet. The presence on the lawn—I felt sick as I made
                it out—was poor little Miles himself.
            </p>
        </div>
        <div type="chapter" n="11">
            <pb n="107"/>
            <head>XI</head>
            <p>
                It was not till late next day that I spoke to Mrs. Grose; the rigor with
                which I kept my pupils in sight making it often difficult to meet her privately,
                and the more as we each felt the importance of not provoking—on the part
                of the servants quite as much as on that of the children—any suspicion of
                a secret <ref corresp="flurry" target="flurry_">flurry</ref>
                <note xml:id="flurry" target="flurry_" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Sudden commotion or excitement. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> or of a discussion of mysteries. I drew a great security
                in this particular from her mere smooth aspect. There was nothing in her
                fresh face to pass on to others my horrible confidences. She believed me,
                I was sure, absolutely: if she hadn't I don't know what would have become
                of me, for I couldn't have borne the business alone. But she was a magnificent
                monument to the blessing of <ref target="want_" corresp="want">a want of</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" target="want_" xml:id="want">
                To be without, to lack. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> imagination, and if she could see in
                our little charges nothing but their beauty and <ref corresp="amiability" target="amiability_">amiability,</ref>
                <note xml:id="amiability" target="amiability_" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Being lovable; being friendly or pleasant. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> their happiness
                and cleverness, she had no direct communication with the sources of my trouble.
                If they had <pb n="108"/>been at all visibly <ref target="blighted_" corresp="blighted">blighted</ref>
                <note xml:id="blighted" target="blighted_" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                In a badly damaged or deteriorated condition. Source: <ref target="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/blighted">
                https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/blighted</ref>
                    </note> or
                <ref corresp="battered" target="battered_">battered,</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" target="battered_" xml:id="battered">
                Bruised and shattered by repeated blows; worn by rough or hard use.
                Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> she would doubtless
                have grown, on tracing it back, haggard enough to match them; as matters
                stood, however, I could feel her, when she surveyed them, with her large
                white arms folded and the <ref target="habit_" corresp="habit">habit</ref>
                <note target="habit_" xml:id="habit" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Disposition, character; a settled practice, custom. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> of
                <ref corresp="serenity" target="serenity_">serenity</ref> in all her look, thank the Lord's
                mercy that if they were ruined the pieces would still serve. Flights of fancy
                gave place, in her mind, to a steady fireside glow, and I had already begun
                to perceive how, with the development of the <ref corresp="conviction" target="conviction_">conviction</ref>
                <note target="conviction_" xml:id="conviction" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                An opinion or belief that is thought of as well proved. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> that—as time went
                on without a public accident—our young things could, after all, look out
                for themselves, she addressed her greatest <ref target="solicitude_" corresp="solicitude">solicitude</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="solicitude" target="solicitude_">
                Anxiety; care, concern. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> to the sad case presented
                by their <ref corresp="instructress" target="instructress_">instructress.</ref>
                <note target="instructress_" xml:id="instructress" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                A female teacher. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> That, for myself, was a sound simplification: I could
                engage that, to the world, my face should tell no tales, but it would have
                been, in the conditions, an immense added strain to find myself anxious about
                hers.
            </p>
                <p>
                At the hour I now speak of she had joined me, under pressure, on the terrace,
                where, with the lapse of the season, the afternoon sun was now agreeable;
                and we sat there together while, before us, at a distance, but within call
                if we wished,—the children strolled to and fro in one of their most manageable
                moods. They moved 
                <pb n="109"/>
                slowly, in unison, below us, over the lawn, the boy, as
                they went, reading aloud from a storybook and passing his arm round his sister
                to keep her quite in touch. Mrs. Grose watched them with positive <ref target="placidity_" corresp="placidity">placidity;</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="placidity" target="placidity_">
                Mildness; calmness, peacefulness. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                then I caught the suppressed intellectual creak with which she conscientiously
                turned to take from me a view of the back of the tapestry. I had made her
                a receptacle of <ref corresp="lurid" target="lurid_">lurid</ref>
                <note target="lurid_" xml:id="lurid" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Connotation of ‘terrible’, ‘ominous’, ‘ghastly’, ‘sensational’. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> things, but there was an odd recognition of my
                superiority—my accomplishments and my function—in her patience under my
                pain. She offered her mind to my disclosures as, had I wished to mix a witch's
                broth and proposed it with assurance, she would have held out a large clean
                saucepan. This had become thoroughly her attitude by the time that, in my
                recital of the events of the night, I reached the point of what Miles had
                said to me when, after seeing him, at such a monstrous hour almost on the
                very spot where he happened now to be, I had gone down to bring him in; choosing
                then, at the window, with a concentrated need of not alarming the house,
                rather that method than a signal more resonant I had left her meanwhile in
                little doubt of my small hope of representing with success even to her actual
                sympathy my sense 
                <pb n="110"/>
                of the real splendor of the little inspiration with which,
                after I had got him into the house, the boy met my final articulate challenge.
                As soon as I appeared in the moonlight on the terrace, he had come to me
                as straight as possible; on which I had taken his hand without a word and
                led him, through the dark spaces, up the staircase where Quint had so hungrily
                hovered for him, along the lobby where I had listened and trembled, and so
                to his forsaken room.
            </p>
                <p>
                Not a sound, on the way, had passed between us, and I had wondered—oh,
                <hi rend="italic">how</hi> I had wondered!—if he were groping about in his little mind for
                something plausible and not too grotesque. It would tax his invention, certainly,
                and I felt, this time, over his real embarrassment, a curious thrill of triumph.
                It was a sharp trap for the <ref target="inscrutable_" corresp="inscrutable">inscrutable!</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="inscrutable" target="inscrutable_">
                Something that cannot be searched into or found out by searching; entirely mysterious.
                Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> He couldn't play any longer at
                innocence; so how the deuce would he get out of it? There beat in me indeed,
                with the passionate throb of this question, an equal dumb appeal as to how
                the deuce <hi rend="italic">I</hi> should. I was confronted at last, as never yet, with all
                the risk attached even now to sounding my own horrid note. I remember in
                fact that as we pushed into his little chamber, where the 
                <pb n="111"/>
                bed had not been
                slept in at all and the window, uncovered to the moonlight, made the place
                so clear that there was no need of striking a match—I remember how I suddenly
                dropped, sank upon the edge of the bed from the force of the idea that he
                must know how he really, as they say, "had" me. He could do what he liked,
                with all his cleverness to help him, so long as I should continue to defer
                to the old tradition of the criminality of those caretakers of the young
                who minister to superstitions and fears. He "had" me indeed, and in a <ref target="cleft_" corresp="cleft">cleft stick;</ref>
                <note target="cleft_" xml:id="cleft" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                A position where advance and retreat are impossible; a dilemma. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                for who would ever absolve me, who would consent that I should go
                unhung, if, by the faintest tremor of an overture, I were the first to introduce
                into our perfect intercourse an element so dire? No, no: it was useless to
                attempt to convey to Mrs. Grose, just as it is scarcely less so to attempt
                to suggest here, how, in our short, stiff brush in the dark, he fairly shook
                me with admiration. I was of course thoroughly kind and merciful; never,
                never yet had I placed on his little shoulders hands of such tenderness as
                those with which, while I rested against the bed, I held him there well under
                fire. I had no alternative but, in form at least, to put it to him.
            </p>
            <pb n="112"/>
            <p>
                "You must tell me now—and all the truth. What did you go out for? What were
                you doing there?"
            </p>
                <p>
                I can still see his wonderful smile, the whites of his beautiful eyes, and
                the uncovering of his little teeth shine to me in the dusk. "If I tell you
                why, will you understand?" My heart, at this, leaped into my mouth.
                <hi rend="italic">Would</hi> he tell me why? I found no sound on my lips to press it, and
                I was aware of replying only with a vague, repeated, grimacing nod. He was
                gentleness itself, and while I wagged my head at him he stood there more
                than ever a little fairy prince. It was his brightness indeed that gave me
                a respite. Would it be so great if he were really going to tell me? "Well,"
                he said at last, "just exactly in order that you should do this."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Do what?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Think me—for a change—<hi rend="italic">bad!</hi>" I shall never forget the sweetness
                and gaiety with which he brought out the word, nor how, on top of it, he
                bent forward and kissed me. It was practically the end of everything. I met
                his kiss and I had to make, while I folded him for a minute in my arms, the
                most <ref target="stupendous_" corresp="stupendous">stupendous</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="stupendous" target="stupendous_">
                Tremendous, enormous. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> effort not to cry. He had given exactly the account of himself
                that permitted least of my 
                <pb n="113"/>
                going behind it, and it was only with the effect
                of confirming my acceptance of it that, as I presently glanced about the
                room, I could say—
            </p>
                <p>
                "Then you didn't undress at all?"
            </p>
                <p>
                He fairly glittered in the gloom. "Not at all. I sat up and read."
            </p>
                <p>
                "And when did you go down?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "At midnight. When I'm bad I <hi rend="italic">am</hi> bad!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "I see, I see it's charming. But how could you be sure I would know it?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, I arranged that with Flora." His answers rang out with a readiness!
                "She was to get up and look out."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Which is what she did do." It was I who fell into the trap!
            </p>
                <p>
                "So she disturbed you, and, to see what she was looking at, you also looked—you
                saw."
            </p>
                <p>
                "While you," I concurred, "caught your death in the night air!"
            </p>
                <p>
                He literally bloomed so from this exploit that he could afford radiantly
                to assent. "How otherwise should I have been bad enough?" he asked. Then,
                after another embrace, the incident and our interview dosed on my recognition
                of all the reserves of goodness that, for his joke, he had been able to draw
                upon.
            </p>
        </div>
        <div type="chapter" n="12">
            <pb n="114"/>
            <head>XII</head>
            <p>
                The particular impression I had received proved in the morning light, I repeat,
                not quite successfully presentable to Mrs. Grose, though I reinforced it
                with the mention of still another remark that he had made before we separated.
                "It all lies in half a dozen words," I said to her, "words that really settle
                the matter. 'Think, you know, what I <hi rend="italic">might</hi> do!' He threw that off
                to show me how good he is. He knows down to the ground what he 'might' do.
                That's what he gave them a taste of at school."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Lord, you do change!" cried my friend.
            </p>
                <p>
                "I don't change—I simply make it out. The four, depend upon it, perpetually
                meet. If on either of these last nights you had been with either child, you
                would clearly have understood. The more I've watched and waited the more
                I've felt that if there were nothing else to make it sure it would be made
                so by the systematic silence of each. <hi rend="italic">Never,</hi> by a slip of the tongue,
                have 
                <pb n="115"/>
                they so much as alluded to either of their old friends, any more than
                Miles has alluded to his expulsion. Oh, yes, we may sit here and look at
                them, and they may show off to us there to their fill; but even while they
                pretend to be lost in their fairytale they're steeped in their vision of
                the dead restored. He's not reading to her," I declared; "they're talking
                of <hi rend="italic">them</hi>—they're talking horrors! I go on, I know, as if I were crazy;
                and it's a wonder I'm not. What I've seen would have made <hi rend="italic">you</hi> so;
                but it has only made me more <ref corresp="lucid" target="lucid_">lucid,</ref>
                <note target="lucid_" xml:id="lucid" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Clear in intellect; rational, sane. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> made me get hold of still other things."
            </p>
                <p>
                My lucidity must have seemed awful, but the charming creatures who were victims
                of it, passing and repassing in their interlocked sweetness, gave my colleague
                something to hold on by; and I felt how tight she held as, without stirring
                in the breath of my passion, she covered them still with her eyes. "Of what
                other things have you got hold?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Why, of the very things that have delighted, fascinated, and yet, at bottom,
                as I now so strangely see, mystified and troubled me. Their more than earthly
                beauty, their absolutely unnatural goodness. It's a game," I went on; "it's
                a policy and a fraud!"
            </p>
            <pb n="116"/>
            <p>
                "On the part of little darlings—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "As yet mere lovely babies? Yes, mad as that seems!" The very act of bringing
                it out really helped me to trace it—follow it all up and piece it all together.
                "They haven't been good—they've only been absent. It has been easy to live
                with them, because they're simply leading a life of their own. They're not
                mine—they're not ours. They're his and they're hers!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Quint's and that woman's?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Quint's and that woman's. They want to get to them."
            </p>
                <p>
                Oh, how, at this, poor Mrs. Grose appeared to study them! "But for what?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "For the love of all the evil that, in those dreadful days, the pair put
                into them. And to ply them with that evil still, to keep up the work of demons,
                is what brings the others back."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Laws!" said my friend under her breath. The exclamation was homely, but
                it revealed a real acceptance of my further proof of what, in the bad time—for
                there had been a worse even than this!—must have occurred. There could have
                been no such justification for me as the plain assent of her experience to
                whatever depth of depravity I found credible in our brace of
                <pb n="117"/>
                scoundrels.
                It was in obvious submission of memory that she brought out after a moment:
                "They <hi rend="italic">were</hi> rascals! But what can they now do?" she pursued.
            </p>
                <p>
                "Do?" I echoed so loud that Miles and Flora, as they passed at their distance,
                paused an instant in their walk and looked at us. "Don't they do enough?"
                I demanded in a lower tone, while the children, having smiled and nodded
                and kissed hands to us, resumed their exhibition. We were held by it a minute;
                then I answered: "They can destroy them!" At this my companion did turn,
                but the inquiry she launched was a silent one, the effect of which was to
                make me more explicit. "They don't know, as yet, quite how—but they're trying
                hard. They're seen only across, as it were, and beyond—in strange places
                and on high places, the top of towers, the roof of houses, the outside of
                windows, the further edge of pools; but there's a deep design, on either
                side, to shorten the distance and overcome the obstacle; and the success
                of the tempters is only a question of time. They've only to keep to their
                suggestions of danger."
            </p>
                <p>
                "For the children to come?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "And perish in the attempt!" Mrs. Grose 
                <pb n="118"/>
                slowly got up, and I scrupulously
                added: "Unless, of course, we can prevent!"
            </p>
                <p>
                Standing there before me while I kept my seat, she visibly turned things
                over. "Their uncle must do the preventing. He must take them away."
            </p>
                <p>
                "And who's to make him?"
            </p>
                <p>
                She had been scanning the distance, but she now dropped on me a foolish face.
                "You, miss."
            </p>
                <p>
                "By writing to him that his house is poisoned and his little nephew and niece
                mad?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "But if they <hi rend="italic">are,</hi> miss?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "And if I am myself, you mean? That's charming news to be sent him by a governess
                whose prime undertaking was to give him no worry."
            </p>
                <p>
                Mrs. Grose considered, following the children again. "Yes, he do hate worry.
                That was the great reason—"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Why those fiends took him in so long? No doubt, though his indifference
                must have been awful. As I'm not a fiend, at any rate, I shouldn't take him
                in."
            </p>
                <p>
                My companion, after an instant and for all answer, sat down again and grasped
                my arm. "Make him at any rate come to you."
            </p>
            <pb n="119"/>
            <p>
                I stared. "To <hi rend="italic">me?</hi>" I had a sudden fear of what she might do. "'Him'?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "He ought to <hi rend="italic">be</hi> here—he ought to help."
            </p>
                <p>
                I quickly rose, and I think I must have shown her a queerer face than ever
                yet. "You see me asking him for a visit?" No, with her eyes on my face she
                evidently couldn't. Instead of it even—as a woman reads another—she could
                see what I myself saw: his <ref target="derision_" corresp="derision">derision,</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="derision" target="derision_">
                Laughing to scorn; ridicule, mockery. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> his amusement, his contempt for the
                breakdown of my resignation at being left alone and for the fine machinery
                I had set in motion to attract his attention to my slighted charms. She didn't
                know—no one knew—how proud I had been to serve him and to stick to our
                terms; yet she nonetheless took the measure, I think, of the warning I now
                gave her. "If you should so lose your head as to appeal to him for me—"
            </p>
                <p>
                She was really frightened. "Yes, miss?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "I would leave, on the spot, both him and you."
            </p>
        </div>
        <div type="chapter" n="13">
            <pb n="120"/>
            <head>XIII</head>
            <p>
                It was all very well to join them, but speaking to them proved quite as much
                as ever an effort beyond my strength—offered, in close quarters, difficulties
                as <ref corresp="insurmountable" target="insurmountable_">insurmountable</ref>
                <note target="insurmountable_" xml:id="insurmountable" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Something that can't be overcome or passed over. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> as before. This situation continued a month, and with new
                aggravations and particular notes, the note above all, sharper and sharper,
                of the small ironic consciousness on the part of my pupils. It was not, I
                am as sure today as I was sure then, my mere infernal imagination: it was
                absolutely traceable that they were aware of my predicament and that this
                strange relation made, in a manner, for a long time, the air in which we
                moved. I don't mean that they had their tongues in their cheeks or did anything
                <ref corresp="vulgar" target="vulgar_">vulgar,</ref> for that was not one of their dangers: I do mean, on the other hand,
                that the element of the unnamed and untouched became, between us, greater
                than any other, and that so much avoidance could not have been so successfully
                <pb n="121"/>
                effected without a great deal of <ref target="tacit_" corresp="tacit">tacit</ref>
                <note xml:id="tacit" target="tacit_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Silent; not openly stated; understood, inferred. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> arrangement. It was as if, at moments,
                we were perpetually coming into sight of subjects before which we must stop
                short, turning suddenly out of alleys that we perceived to be blind, closing
                with a little bang that made us look at each other—for, like all bangs,
                it was something louder than we had intended—the doors we had indiscreetly
                opened. All roads lead to Rome, and there were times when it might have struck
                us that almost every branch of study or subject of conversation skirted forbidden
                ground. Forbidden ground was the question of the return of the dead in general
                and of whatever, in especial, might survive, in memory, of the friends little
                children had lost. There were days when I could have sworn that one of them
                had, with a small invisible nudge, said to the other: "She thinks she'll
                do it this time—but she <hi rend="italic">won't!</hi>" To "do it" would have been to indulge
                for instance—and for once in a way—in some direct reference to the lady
                who had prepared them for my discipline. They had a delightful endless appetite
                for passages in my own history, to which I had again and again treated them;
                they were in possession of everything that had ever happened to me, had had,
                with every circumstance 
                <pb n="122"/>
                the story of my smallest adventures and of those
                of my brothers and sisters and of the cat and the dog at home, as well as
                many particulars of the eccentric nature of my father, of the furniture and
                arrangement of our house, and of the conversation of the old women of our
                village. There were things enough, taking one with another, to chatter about,
                if one went very fast and knew by instinct when to go round. They pulled
                with an art of their own the strings of my invention and my memory; and nothing
                else perhaps, when I thought of such occasions afterward, gave me so the
                suspicion of being watched from under cover. It was in any case over
                <hi rend="italic">my</hi> life, <hi rend="italic">my</hi> past, and <hi rend="italic">my</hi> friends alone that we could
                take anything like our ease—a state of affairs that led them sometimes without
                the least <ref target="pertinence_" corresp="pertinence">pertinence</ref> to break out into sociable reminders. I was invited—with
                no visible connection—to repeat afresh Goody Gosling's celebrated <hi rend="italic">mot</hi>
                or to confirm the details already supplied as to the cleverness of the <ref target="vicarage_" corresp="vicarage">vicarage</ref>
                pony.
            </p>
                <p>
                It was partly at such junctures as these and partly at quite different ones
                that, with the turn my matters had now taken, my predicament, as I have called
                it, grew most sensible. The fact that the days passed for me without 
                <pb n="123"/>
                another
                encounter ought, it would have appeared, to have done something toward soothing
                my nerves. Since the light brush, that second night on the upper landing,
                of the presence of a woman at the foot of the stair, I had seen nothing,
                whether in or out of the house, that one had better not have seen. There
                was many a corner round which I expected to come upon Quint, and many a situation
                that, in a merely sinister way, would have favored the appearance of Miss
                Jessel. The summer had turned, the summer had gone, the autumn had dropped
                upon Bly and had blown out half our lights. The place, with its gray sky
                and withered garlands, its bared spaces and scattered dead leaves, was like
                a theater after the performance—all strewn with crumpled playbills. There
                were exactly states of the air, conditions of sound and of stillness, unspeakable
                impressions of the <hi rend="italic">kind</hi> of ministering moment, that brought back to
                me, long enough to catch it, the feeling of the medium in which, that June
                evening out of doors, I had had my first sight of Quint, and in which, too,
                at those other instants, I had, after seeing him through the window, looked
                for him in vain in the circle of shrubbery. I recognized the signs, the
                <ref corresp="portents" target="portents_">portents—</ref>
                <note xml:id="portents" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="portents_">
                A sign, indication, or omen of a momentous event that is about to happen.
                Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>I recognized the moment, 
                <pb n="124"/>
                the spot. But they remained unaccompanied
                and empty, and I continued unmolested; if unmolested one could call a young
                woman whose sensibility had, in the most extraordinary fashion, not declined
                but deepened. I had said in my talk with Mrs. Grose on that horrid scene
                of Flora's by the lake and had perplexed her by so saying—that it would
                from that moment distress me much more to lose my power than to keep it.
                I had then expressed what was vividly in my mind: the truth that, whether
                the children really saw or not—since, that is, it was not yet definitely
                proved—I greatly preferred, as a safeguard, the fullness of my own exposure.
                I was ready to know the very worst that was to be known. What I had then
                had an ugly glimpse of was that my eyes might be sealed just while theirs
                were most opened. Well, my eyes <hi rend="italic">were</hi> sealed, it appeared, at present—a
                consummation for which it seemed blasphemous not to thank God. There was,
                alas, a difficulty about that: I would have thanked him with all my soul
                had I not had in a proportionate measure this conviction of the secret of
                my pupils.
            </p>
                <p>
                How can I retrace today the strange steps of my obsession? There were times
                of our being together when I would have been ready to swear 
                <pb n="125"/>
                that, literally,
                in my presence, but with my direct sense of it closed, they had visitors
                who were known and were welcome. Then it was that, had I not been deterred
                by the very chance that such an injury might prove greater than the injury
                to be averted, my <ref corresp="exultation" target="exultation_">exultation</ref> would have broken out. "They're here, they're
                here, you little wretches," I would have cried, "and you can't deny it now!"
                The little wretches denied it with all the added volume of their sociability
                and their tenderness, in just the crystal depths of which—like the flash
                of a fish in a stream—the mockery of their advantage peeped up. The shock,
                in truth, had sunk into me still deeper than I knew on the night when, looking
                out to see either Quint or Miss Jessel under the stars, I had beheld the
                boy over whose rest I watched and who had immediately brought in with him—had
                straightway, there, turned it on me the lovely upward look with which, from
                the battlements above me, the hideous apparition of Quint had played. If
                it was a question of a scare, my discovery on this occasion had scared me
                more than any other, and it was in the condition of nerves produced by it
                that I made my actual inductions. They harassed me so that sometimes, at
                odd moments, I shut myself up audibly 
                <pb n="126"/>
                to rehearse—it was at once a fantastic
                relief and a renewed despair—the manner in which I might come to the point.
                I approached it from one side and the other while, in my room, I flung myself
                about, but I always broke down in the monstrous utterance of names. As they
                died away on my lips, I said to myself that I should indeed help them to
                represent something infamous if, by pronouncing them, I should violate as
                rare a little case of instinctive delicacy as any school-room, probably,
                had ever known. When I said to myself: "<hi rend="italic">They</hi> have the manners to be
                silent, and you, trusted as you are, the <ref target="baseness_" corresp="baseness">baseness</ref>
                <note target="baseness_" xml:id="baseness" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Cowardice, selfishness, or meanness. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> to speak!" I felt myself
                crimson and I covered my face with my hands. After these secret scenes I
                chattered more than ever, going on <ref corresp="volubly" target="volubly_">volubly</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="volubly" target="volubly_">
                Spoken confidently and forcefully. Source: <ref target="https://dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/volubly">
                https://dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/volubly</ref> 
                </note> enough till one of our prodigious,
                <ref target="palpable_" corresp="palpable">palpable</ref>
                <note target="palpable_" xml:id="palpable" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Plainly observable; noticeable. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> hushes occurred—I can call them nothing else—the strange, dizzy
                lift or swim (I try for terms!) into a stillness, a pause of all life, that
                had nothing to do with the more or less noise that at the moment we might
                be engaged in making and that I could hear through any deepened exhilaration
                or quickened recitation or louder strum of the piano. Then it was that the
                others, the outsiders, were there. Though they were not angels, they "passed,"
                as the 
                <pb n="127"/>
                French say causing me, while they stayed, to tremble with the fear
                of their addressing to their younger victims some yet more infernal message
                or more vivid image than they had thought good enough for myself.
            </p>
                <p>
                What it was most impossible to get rid of was the cruel idea that, whatever
                I had seen, Miles and Flora saw <hi rend="italic">more</hi>—things terrible and unguessable
                and that sprang from dreadful passages of intercourse in the past. Such things
                naturally left on the surface, for the time, a child which we <ref target="vociferously_" corresp="vociferously">vociferously</ref>
                <note target="vociferously_" xml:id="vociferously" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                With great noise. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                denied that we felt; and we had, all three, with repetition, got into such
                splendid training that we went, each time, almost automatically, to mark
                the close of the incident, through the very same movements. It was striking
                of the children, at all events to kiss me inveterately with a kind of wild
                irrelevance and never to fail—one or the other—of the precious question
                that had helped us through many a peril. "When do you think he <hi rend="italic">will</hi>
                come? Don't you think we <hi rend="italic">ought</hi> to write?"—there was nothing like
                that inquiry, we found by experience, for carrying off an awkwardness. "He"
                of course was their uncle in Harley Street; and we lived in much profusion
                of theory that he might at any moment arrive to mingle in 
                <pb n="128"/>
                our circle. It
                was impossible to have given less encouragement than he had done to such
                a doctrine, but if we had not had the doctrine to fall back upon we should
                have deprived each other of some of our finest exhibitions. He never wrote
                to them—that may have been selfish, but it was a part of the flattery of
                his trust of me; for the way in which a man pays his highest tribute to a
                woman is apt to be but by the more festal celebration of one of the sacred
                laws of his comfort; and I held that I carried out the spirit of the pledge
                given not to appeal to him when I let my charges understand that their own
                letters were but charming literary exercises. They were too beautiful to
                be posted; I kept them myself; I have them all to this hour. This was a rule
                indeed which only added to the satiric effect of my being plied with the
                supposition that he might at any moment be among us. It was exactly as if
                my charges knew how almost more awkward than anything else that might be
                for me. There appears to me, moreover, as I look back, no note in all this
                more extraordinary than the mere fact that, in spite of my tension and of
                their triumph, I never lost patience with them. Adorable they must in truth
                have been, I now reflect, that 
                <pb n="129"/>
                I didn't in these days hate them! Would
                exasperation, however, if relief had longer been postponed, finally have
                betrayed me? It little matters, for relief arrived. I call it relief, though
                it was only the relief that a snap brings to a strain or the burst of a
                thunderstorm to a day of suffocation. It was at least change, and it came
                with a rush.
            </p>
        </div>
        <div type="chapter" n="14">
            <pb n="130"/>
            <head>XIV</head>
            <p>
                Walking to church a certain Sunday morning, I had little Miles at my side
                and his sister, in advance of us and at Mrs. Grose's, well in sight. It was
                a crisp, clear day, the first of its order for some time; the night had brought
                a touch of frost, and the autumn air, bright and sharp, made the church bells
                almost gay. It was an odd accident of thought that I should have happened
                at such a moment to be particularly and very gratefully struck with the obedience
                of my little charges. Why did they never resent my <ref target="inexorable_" corresp="inexorable">inexorable,</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" target="inexorable_" xml:id="inexorable">
                Continuing without being stopped. Source: <ref target="https://dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/inexorable">
                https://dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/inexorable</ref>
                    </note> my perpetual
                society? Something or other had brought nearer home to me that I had all
                but pinned the boy to my shawl and that, in the way our companions were marshaled
                before me, I might have appeared to provide against some danger of rebellion.
                I was like a <ref target="gaoler_" corresp="gaoler">gaoler</ref>
                <note xml:id="gaoler" target="gaoler_" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                I.e. jailer. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> with an eye to possible surprises and escapes. But all
                this belonged—I mean their magnificent little surrender—just to the special
                array of the facts 
                <pb n="131"/>
                that were most abysmal. <ref corresp="turned" target="turned_">Turned out</ref>
                <note target="turned_" xml:id="turned" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                He came out for a reason. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> for Sunday by his uncle's
                tailor, who had had a free hand and a notion of pretty waistcoats and of
                his grand little air, Miles's whole title to independence, the rights of
                his sex and situation, were so stamped upon him that if he had suddenly struck
                for freedom I should have had nothing to say. I was by the strangest of chances
                wondering how I should meet him when the revolution unmistakably occurred.
                I call it a revolution because I now see how, with the word he spoke, the
                curtain rose on the last act of my dreadful drama, and the catastrophe was
                precipitated. "Look here, my dear, you know," he charmingly said, "when in
                the world, please, am I going back to school?"
            </p>
                <p>
                Transcribed here the speech sounds harmless enough, particularly as uttered
                in the sweet, high, casual pipe with which, at all <ref corresp="interlocutor" target="interlocutor_">interlocutors,</ref> but above
                all at his eternal governess, he threw off intonations as if he were tossing roses.
                There was something in them that always made one "catch," and I caught,
                at any rate, now so effectually that I stopped as short as if one of the
                trees of the park had fallen across the road. There was something new, on
                the spot, between us, and he was perfectly aware that I recognized it, though,
                to enable me to do so, he had no need 
                <pb n="132"/> 
                to look a whit less candid and charming
                than usual. I could feel in him how he already, from my at first finding
                nothing to reply, perceived the advantage he had gained. I was so slow to
                find anything that he had plenty of time, after a minute, to continue with
                his suggestive but inconclusive smile: "You know, my dear, that for a fellow
                to be with a lady <hi rend="italic">always</hi>—!" His "my dear" was constantly on his
                lips for me, and nothing could have expressed more the exact shade of the
                sentiment with which I desired to inspire my pupils than its fond familiarity.
                It was so respectfully easy.
            </p>
                <p>
                But, oh, how I felt that at present I must pick my own phrases! I remember
                that, to gain time, I tried to laugh, and I seemed to see in the beautiful
                face with which he watched me how ugly and queer I looked. "And always with
                the same lady?" I returned.
            </p>
                <p>
                He neither blanched nor winked. The whole thing was virtually out between
                us. "Ah, of course, she's a jolly, 'perfect' lady; but, after all, I'm a
                fellow, don't you see? that's—well, getting on."
            </p>
                <p>
                I lingered there with him an instant ever so kindly. "Yes, you're getting
                on." Oh, but I felt helpless!
            </p>
            <pb n="133"/>
            <p>
                I have kept to this day the heartbreaking little idea of how he seemed to
                know that and to play with it. "And you can't say I've not been awfully good,
                can you?"
            </p>
                <p>
                I laid my hand on his shoulder, for, though I felt how much better it would
                have been to walk on, I was not yet quite able. "No, I can't say that, Miles."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Except just that one night, you know—!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "That one night?" I couldn't look as straight as he.
            </p>
                <p>
                "Why, when I went down—went out of the house."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, yes. But I forget what you did it for."
            </p>
                <p>
                "You forget?"—he spoke with the sweet extravagance of childish reproach.
                "Why, it was to show you I could!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, yes, you could."
            </p>
                <p>
                "And I can again."
            </p>
                <p>
                I felt that I might, perhaps, after all, succeed in keeping my wits about
                me. "Certainly. But you won't."
            </p>
                <p>
                "No, not <hi rend="italic">that</hi> again. It was nothing."
            </p>
                <p>
                "It was nothing," I said. "But we must go on."
            </p>
                <p>
                He resumed our walk with me, passing his hand into my arm. "Then when
                <hi rend="italic">am</hi> I going back?"
            </p>
            <pb n="134"/>
            <p>
                I wore, in turning it over, my most responsible air. "Were you very happy
                at school?"
            </p>
                <p>
                He just considered. "Oh, I'm happy enough anywhere!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Well, then," I quavered, "if you're just as happy here—"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Ah, but that isn't everything! Of course <hi rend="italic">you</hi> know a lot—"
            </p>
                <p>
                "But you hint that you know almost as much?" I risked as he paused.
            </p>
                <p>
                "Not half I want to!" Miles honestly professed. "But it isn't so much that."
            </p>
                <p>
                "What is it, then?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Well—I want to see more life."
            </p>
                <p>
                "I see; I see." We had arrived within sight of the church and of various
                persons, including several of the household of Bly, on their way to it and
                clustered about the door to see us go in. I quickened our step; I wanted
                to get there before the question between us opened up much further; I reflected
                hungrily that, for more than an hour, he would have to be silent; and I thought
                with envy of the comparative dusk of the pew and of the almost spiritual
                help of the <ref target="hassock_" corresp="hassock">hassock</ref>
                <note xml:id="hassock" target="hassock_" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                A thick firm cushion used as a footrest or to kneel upon in church.
                Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> on which I might bend my knees. I seemed literally to
                be running a race with some confusion to which he was about to reduce me,
                <pb n="135"/>
                but I felt that he had got in first when, before we had even entered the
                churchyard, he threw out—
            </p>
                <p>
                "I want my own sort!"
            </p>
                <p>
                It literally made me bound forward. "There are not many of your own sort,
                Miles!" I laughed. "Unless perhaps dear little Flora!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "You really compare me to a baby girl?"
            </p>
                <p>
                This found me <ref corresp="singularly" target="singularly_">singularly</ref> weak.
                "Don't you, then, <hi rend="italic">love</hi> our sweet Flora?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "If I didn't—and you, too; if I didn't—!" he repeated as if retreating
                for a jump, yet leaving his thought so unfinished that, after we had come
                into the gate, another stop, which he imposed on me by the pressure of his
                arm, had become inevitable. Mrs. Grose and Flora had passed into the church,
                the other worshippers had followed, and we were, for the minute, alone among
                the old, thick graves. We had paused, on the path from the gate, by a low,
                oblong, tablelike tomb.
            </p>
                <p>
                "Yes, if you didn't—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                He looked, while I waited, about at the graves. "Well, you know what!" But
                he didn't move, and he presently produced something that made me drop straight
                down on the stone slab, as if suddenly to rest. "Does my uncle think what
                <hi rend="italic">you</hi> think?"
            </p>
            <pb n="136"/>
            <p>
                I markedly rested. "How do you know what I think?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Ah, well, of course I don't; for it strikes me you never tell me. But I
                mean does <hi rend="italic">he</hi> know?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Know what, Miles?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Why, the way I'm going on."
            </p>
                <p>
                I perceived quickly enough that I could make, to this inquiry, no answer
                that would not involve something of a sacrifice of my employer. Yet it appeared
                to me that we were all, at Bly, sufficiently sacrificed to make that <ref corresp="venial" target="venial_">venial.</ref>
                <note type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS" target="venial_" xml:id="venial">
                Worthy of forgiveness. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                "I don't think your uncle much cares."
            </p>
                <p>
                Miles, on this, stood looking at me. "Then don't you think he can be made
                to?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "In what way?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Why, by his coming down."
            </p>
                <p>
                "But who'll get him to come down?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "<hi rend="italic">I</hi> will!" the boy said with extraordinary brightness and emphasis.
                He gave me another look charged with that expression and then marched off
                alone into church.
            </p>
        </div>
        <div type="chapter" n="15">
            <pb n="137"/>
            <head>XV</head>
            <p>
                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 
                <pb n="138"/>
                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
                <ref corresp="hand" target="hand_">lived from hand to mouth.</ref>
                <note target="hand_" xml:id="hand" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                Satisfying only one's immediate needs because of a lack of money.
                Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                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.
            </p>
                <p>
                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 
                <pb n="139"/>
                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.
            </p>
                <p>
                "What <hi rend="italic">did</hi> 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.
            </p>
                <p>
                I got, so far as the immediate moment was concerned, away; I came straight
                out of the <pb n="140"/>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 my
                self; 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.
            </p>
                <p>
                Seated at my own table in clear noonday light I saw a person whom without
                my previous experience 
                <pb n="141"/>
                I should have taken at <ref corresp="blush" target="blush_">the first blush</ref>
                <note xml:id="blush" target="blush_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                When you first see something. Source: <ref target="https://dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/at-first-blush">
                https://dictionary.cambridge.org/us/dictionary/english/at-first-blush</ref>
                    </note> 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 <ref target="melancholy_" corresp="melancholy">melancholy</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="melancholy_" xml:id="melancholy">
                Gloomy, mournful, or dejected; gloomily. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                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
                <pb n="142"/>
                was the intruder. It was as a wild protest against it that, I 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.
            </p>
        </div>
        <div type="chapter" n="16">
            <pb n="143"/>
            <head>XVI</head>
            <p>
                I had so perfectly expected that the return of my pupils would be marked
                by a demonstration that I was freshly upset at having to take into account
                that they were dumb about my absence.
                Instead of <ref target="gaily_" corresp="gaily">gaily</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="gaily_" xml:id="gaily">
                Cheerfully, joyously. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                <ref corresp="denouncing" target="denouncing_">denouncing</ref>
                <note xml:id="denouncing" target="denouncing_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                To proclaim, announce, declare. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> and caressing
                me, they made no allusion to my having failed them, and I was left, for the
                time, on perceiving that she too said nothing, to study Mrs. Grose's odd
                face. I did this to such purpose that I made sure they had in some way bribed
                her to silence; a silence that, however, I would engage to break down on
                the first private opportunity. This opportunity came before tea: I secured
                five minutes with her in the housekeeper's room, where, in the twilight,
                amid a smell of lately baked bread, but with the place all swept and garnished,
                I found her sitting in pained <ref corresp="placidity" target="placidity_">placidity</ref> before the fire. So I see her still,
                so I see her best: facing the flame from her straight chair in the dusky,
                <pb n="144"/>
                shining room, a large clean image of the "put away"—of drawers closed and
                locked and rest without a remedy.
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, yes, they asked me to say nothing; and to please them—so long as they
                were there—of course I promised. But what had happened to you?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "I only went with you for the walk," I said. "I had then to come back to
                meet a friend."
            </p>
                <p>
                She showed her surprise. "A friend—<hi rend="italic">you?</hi>"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, yes, I have a couple!" I laughed. "But did the children give you a reason?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "For not <ref corresp="alluding" target="alluding_">alluding</ref>
                <note xml:id="alluding" target="alluding_" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                To suggest, hint; to refer indirectly. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> to your leaving us? Yes; they said you would like it better.
                Do you like it better?"
            </p>
                <p>
                My face had made her <ref target="rueful_" corresp="rueful">rueful.</ref>
                <note xml:id="rueful" target="rueful_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Remorse, sorrow, or regret. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> "No, I like it worse!" But after an instant
                I added: "Did they say why I should like it better?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "No; Master Miles only said, 'We must do nothing but what she likes!'"
            </p>
                <p>
                "I wish indeed he would! And what did Flora say?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Miss Flora was too sweet. She said, 'Oh, of course, of course!'—and I said
                the same."
            </p>
                <p>
                I thought a moment. "You were too sweet, too. I can hear you all. But
                nonetheless, between Miles and me, it's now all out."
            </p>
            <pb n="145"/>
            <p>
                "All out?" My companion stared. "But what, miss?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Everything. It doesn't matter. I've made up my mind. I came home, my dear,"
                I went on, "for a talk with Miss Jessel."
            </p>
                <p>
                I had by this time formed the habit of having Mrs. Grose literally well in hand
                in advance of my sounding that note: so that even now, as she bravely
                blinked under the signal of my word, I could keep her comparatively firm.
                "A talk! Do you mean she spoke?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "It came to that. I found her, on my return, in the schoolroom."
            </p>
                <p>
                "And what did she say?" I can hear the good woman still, and the candor of
                her stupefaction.
            </p>
                <p>
                "That she suffers the torments—!"
            </p>
                <p>
                It was this, of a truth, that made her, as she filled out my picture, gape.
                "Do you mean," she faltered, "—of the lost?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Of the lost. Of the dammed.
                And that's why, to share them—" I faltered myself with the horror of it.
            </p>
                <p>
                But my companion, with less imagination, kept me up. "To share them—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "She wants Flora." Mrs. Grose might, as I gave it to her, fairly have fallen
                away from me 
                <pb n="146"/>
                had I not been prepared. I still held her there, to show I was.
                "As I've told you, however, it doesn't matter."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Because you've made up your mind? But to what?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "To everything."
            </p>
                <p>
                "And what do you call 'everything'?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Why, sending for their uncle."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, miss, in pity do," my friend broke out.
            </p>
                <p>
                "Ah, but I will, I <hi rend="italic">will!</hi> I see it's the only way. What's 'out,' as
                I told you, with Miles is that if he thinks I'm afraid to and has ideas of
                what he gains by that—he shall see he's mistaken. Yes, yes; his uncle shall
                have it here from me on the spot (and before the boy himself, if necessary)
                that if I'm to be reproached with having done nothing again about more
                school—"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Yes, miss—" my companion pressed me.
            </p>
                <p>
                "Well, there's that awful reason."
            </p>
                <p>
                There were now clearly so many of these for my poor colleague that she was
                excusable for being vague. "But—a—which?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Why, the letter from his old place."
            </p>
                <p>
                "You'll show it to the master?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "I ought to have done so on the instant."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, no!" said Mrs. Grose with decision.
            </p>
            <pb n="147"/>
            <p>
                "I'll put it before him," I went on <ref corresp="inexorably" target="inexorably_">inexorably,</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="inexorably_" xml:id="inexorably">
                Relentlessly. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> "that I can't undertake to
                work the question on behalf of a child who has been expelled—"
            </p>
                <p>
                "For we've never in the least known what!" Mrs. Grose declared.
            </p>
                <p>
                "For wickedness. For what else—when he's so clever and beautiful and perfect?
                Is he stupid? Is he untidy? Is he infirm? Is he ill-natured? He's exquisite—so
                it can be only <hi rend="italic">that;</hi> and that would open up the whole thing. After
                all," I said, "it's their uncle's fault. If he left here such people—!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "He didn't really in the least know them. The fault's mine" She had turned
                quite pale.
            </p>
                <p>
                "Well, you shan't suffer," I answered.
            </p>
                <p>
                "The children shan't!" she emphatically returned.
            </p>
                <p>
                I was silent awhile; we looked at each other, "Then what am I to tell him?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "You needn't tell him anything. <hi rend="italic">I'll</hi> tell him."
            </p>
                <p>
                I measured this. "Do you mean you'll write—?" Remembering she couldn't,
                I caught myself up. "How do you communicate?"
            </p>
            <pb n="148"/>
            <p>
                "I tell the bailiff. <hi rend="italic">He</hi> writes."
            </p>
                <p>
                "And should you like him to write our story?"
            </p>
                <p>
                My question had a sarcastic force that I had not fully intended, and it made
                her, after a moment, inconsequently break down. The tears were again in her
                eyes. "Ah, miss, <hi rend="italic">you</hi> write!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Well—tonight," I at last answered; and on this we separated.
            </p>
        </div>
        <div type="chapter" n="17">
            <pb n="149"/>
            <head>XVII</head>
            <p>
                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!
            </p>
                <p>
                I went in with my light and found him, in bed, very wide awake, but very
                much at his ease. "Well, what are <hi rend="italic">you</hi> 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."
            </p>
            <pb n="150"/>
            <p>
                I stood over him with my candle. "How did you know I was there?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Why, of course I heard you. Did you fancy you made no noise? You're like
                a troop of cavalry!" he beautifully laughed.
            </p>
                <p>
                "Then you weren't asleep?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Not much! I lie awake and think."
            </p>
                <p>
                I had put my candle, <ref corresp="designedly" target="designedly_">designedly,</ref>
                <note xml:id="designedly" target="designedly_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                By design; on purpose; intentionally or deliberately. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> 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?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "What in the world, my dear, but <hi rend="italic">you?</hi>"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Ah, the pride I take in your appreciation doesn't insist on that! I had
                so far rather you slept."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Well, I think also, you know, of this queer business of ours."
            </p>
                <p>
                I marked the coolness of his firm little hand. "Of what queer business, Miles?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Why, the way you bring me up. And all the rest!"
            </p>
                <p>
                I fairly held my breath a minute, and even from my glimmering <ref target="taper_" corresp="taper">taper</ref> there
                was light enough to show how he smiled up at me from his pillow. "What do
                you mean by all me rest?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, you know, you know!"
            </p>
                <p>
                I could say nothing for a minute, though I 
                <pb n="151"/>
                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 dear, 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?"
            </p>
                <p>
                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 <hi rend="italic">me</hi>
                to help him—it was for the thing I had met!
            </p>
                <p>
                Something in his tone and the expression of his face, as I got this from
                him, set my heart aching 
                <pb n="152"/>
                with such a <ref corresp="pang" target="pang_">pang</ref> 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 <hi rend="italic">may</hi> 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 <ref target="precocity_" corresp="precocity">precocity</ref>
                <note xml:id="precocity" target="precocity_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Early maturity. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> (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."
            </p>
                <p>
                It struck me that at this he just faintly colored. He gave, at any rate,
                like a <ref corresp="convalescent" target="convalescent_">convalescent</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="convalescent_" xml:id="convalescent">
                Someone recovering from sickness. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> slightly fatigued, a
                languid shake of his head. "I don't—I don't. I want to get away."
            </p>
            <pb n="153"/>
            <p>
                "You're tired of Bly?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, no, I like Bly."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Well, then—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, <hi rend="italic">you</hi> know what a boy wants!"
            </p>
                <p>
                I felt that I didn't know so well as Miles, and I took temporary refuge.
                "You want to go to your uncle?"
            </p>
                <p>
                Again, at this, with his sweet ironic face, he made a movement on the pillow.
                "Ah, you can't get off with that!"
            </p>
                <p>
                I was silent a little, and it was I, now, I think, who changed color. "My
                dear, I don't want to get off!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "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."
            </p>
                <p>
                "If we do," I returned with some spirit, "you may be sure it will be to take
                you quite away."
            </p>
                <p>
                "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!"
            </p>
                <p>
                The <ref corresp="exultation" target="exultation_">exultation</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="exultation_" xml:id="exultation">
                Rejoicing greatly; joyousness. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> with which he uttered this helped me somehow, for the instant,
                to meet him rather more. "And how much will <hi rend="italic">you,</hi> Miles, have to tell
                him? There are things he'll ask you!"
            </p>
            <pb n="154"/>
            <p>
                He turned it over. "Very likely. But what things?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "The things you've never told me. To make up his mind what to do with you.
                He can't send you back—"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, I don't want to go back!" he broke in. "I want a new field."
            </p>
                <p>
                He said it with admirable <ref corresp="serenity" target="serenity_">serenity,</ref> with positive
                <ref target="unimpeachable_" corresp="unimpeachable">unimpeachable</ref>
                <note xml:id="unimpeachable" target="unimpeachable_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Unable to be called into question or accused. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> gaiety; and
                doubtless it was that very note that most evoked for me the <ref corresp="poignancy" target="poignancy_">poignancy,</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="poignancy_" xml:id="poignancy">
                Sharpness of feeling or emotion, especially of sadness, regret, or sorrow. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> the
                unnatural childish tragedy, of his probable reappearance at the end of three
                months with all this <ref target="bravado_" corresp="bravado">bravado</ref>
                <note xml:id="bravado" target="bravado_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Bold or daring action intended to intimidate. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> 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—!"
            </p>
                <p>
                My face was close to his, and he let me kiss him, simply taking it with indulgent
                good humor. "Well, old lady?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Is there nothing—nothing at all that you want to tell me?"
            </p>
                <p>
                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."
            </p>
            <pb n="155"/>
            <p>
                Oh, I was sorry for him! "That you just want me not to worry you?"
            </p>
                <p>
                He looked round at me now, as if in recognition of my understanding him;
                then ever so gently, "To let me alone," he replied.
            </p>
                <p>
                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.
            </p>
                <p>
                "Well, then, finish it!"
            </p>
                <p>
                I waited a minute. "What happened before?"
            </p>
                <p>
                He gazed up at me again. "Before what?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Before you came back. And before you went away."
            </p>
                <p>
                For some time he was silent, but he continued to meet my eyes. "What happened?"
            </p>
                <p>
                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 <ref target="quaver_" corresp="quaver">quaver</ref> 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 <hi rend="italic">knew</hi>
                how I want to help you! 
                <pb n="156"/>
                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 <hi rend="italic">should</hi>
                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 <ref corresp="casement" target="casement_">casement</ref>
                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 <ref target="jubilation_" corresp="jubilation">jubilation</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="jubilation_" xml:id="jubilation">
                Rejoicing, gladness. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> 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 mat the drawn curtains were unstirred and the window tight.
                "Why, the candle's out!" I then cried.
            </p>
                <p>
                "It was I who blew it, dear!" said Miles.
            </p>
        </div>
        <div type="chapter" n="18">
            <pb n="157"/>
            <head>XVIII</head>
            <p>
                The next day, after lessons, Mrs. Grose found a moment to say to me quietly:
                "Have you written, miss?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "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 <ref corresp="exemplary" target="exemplary_">exemplary</ref>
                <note xml:id="exemplary" target="exemplary_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Something that is a good example; excellent, outstanding, perfect. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> 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 <hi rend="italic">my</hi> feeble range, and perpetrated, in higher spirits than ever,
                geographical and historical jokes. It was <ref corresp="conspicuous" target="conspicuous_">conspicuous</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="conspicuous_" xml:id="conspicuous">
                Clearly visible; easy to be seen. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> 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 
                <pb n="158"/>
                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 <hi rend="italic">had</hi>
                been opened up to him: all the justice within me ached for the proof that
                it could ever have flowered into an act.
            </p>
                <p>
                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 <ref corresp="tantamount" target="tantamount_">tantamount</ref>
                <note xml:id="tantamount" target="tantamount_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Something equivalent (to). Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> 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 
                <pb n="159"/>
                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 <hi rend="italic">I</hi> know?"—breaking
                moreover into a happy laugh which, immediately after, as if it were a vocal
                accompaniment, he prolonged into incoherent, extravagant song.
            </p>
                <p>
                I went straight to my room, but his sister was not there; then, before going
                downstairs, I looked 
                <pb n="160"/>
                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 <ref target="repast_" corresp="repast">repast,</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="repast" target="repast_">
                Food, nourishment. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> 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 <ref corresp="pursuance" target="pursuance_">pursuance</ref>
                <note target="pursuance_" xml:id="pursuance" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Seeking after or aiming at something, or trying to accomplish some object. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> 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 <ref target="mute_" corresp="mute">mute</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="mute" target="mute_">
                Quiet; making no sound. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> alarms, and I could feel with what high interest
                my friend returned me all those I had from the first given her.
            </p>
                <p>
                "She'll be above," she presently said—"in one of the rooms you haven't
                searched."
            </p>
                <p>
                "No; she's at a distance." I had made up my mind. "She has gone out."
            </p>
            <pb n="161"/>
            <p>
                Mrs. Grose stared. "Without a hat?"
            </p>
                <p>
                I naturally also looked <ref corresp="volumes" target="volumes_">volumes.</ref>
                <note target="volumes_" xml:id="volumes" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                To be highly expressive or significant. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> "Isn't that woman always without one?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "She's with <hi rend="italic">her?</hi>"
            </p>
                <p>
                "She's with <hi rend="italic">her!</hi>" I declared. "We must find them."
            </p>
                <p>
                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 <ref target="communed_" corresp="communed">communed,</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="communed" target="communed_">
                To talk together, converse with someone. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                on the contrary, on the spot, with her uneasiness. "And where's Master Miles?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, <hi rend="italic">he's</hi> with Quint. They're in the schoolroom."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Lord, miss!" My view, I was myself aware—and therefore I suppose my tone—had
                never yet reached so calm an assurance.
            </p>
                <p>
                "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."
            </p>
                <p>
                "'Divine'?" Mrs. Grose bewilderedly echoed.
            </p>
                <p>
                "Infernal then!" I almost cheerfully rejoined. "He has provided for himself
                as well. But come!"
            </p>
                <p>
                She had helplessly gloomed at the upper regions. "You leave him—?"
            </p>
            <pb n="162"/>
            <p>
                "So long with Quint? Yes—I don't mind that now."
            </p>
                <p>
                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.
            </p>
                <p>
                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.
            </p>
                <p>
                My companion still <ref corresp="demurred" target="demurred_">demurred:</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" xml:id="demurred" target="demurred_">
                Made difficulties; to raise objection. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> 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?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "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."
            </p>
                <p>
                "With <hi rend="italic">them?</hi>" Oh, on this, the poor woman promptly joined me!
            </p>
        </div>
        <div type="chapter" n="19">
            <pb n="163"/>
            <head>XIX</head>
            <p>
                We went straight to the lake, as it was called at Bly, and I daresay rightly
                called, though I reflect that it may in fact have been a sheet of water less
                remarkable than it appeared to my untraveled eyes. My acquaintance with sheets
                of water was small, and the pool of Bly, at all events on the few occasions
                of my consenting, under the protection of my pupils, to affront its surface
                in the old flat-bottomed boat moored there for our use, had impressed me
                both with its extent and its agitation. The usual place of embarkation was
                half a mile from the house, but I had an intimate conviction that, wherever
                Flora might be, she was not near home. She had not given me the slip for
                any small adventure, and, since the day of the very great one that I had
                shared with her by the pond, I had been aware, in our walks, of the quarter
                to which she most inclined. This was why I had now given to Mrs. Grose's
                steps so marked 
                <pb n="164"/>
                a direction—a direction that made her, when she perceived
                it, oppose a resistance that showed me she was freshly mystified. "You're
                going to the water, Miss?.—you think she's in—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "She may be, though the depth is, I believe, nowhere very great. But what
                I judge most likely is that she's on the spot from which, the other day,
                we saw together what I told you."
            </p>
                <p>
                "When she pretended not to see—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "With that astounding self-possession? I've always been sure she wanted to
                go back alone. And now her brother has managed it for her."
            </p>
                <p>
                Mrs. Grose still stood where she had stopped. "You suppose they really
                <hi rend="italic">talk</hi> of them?"
            </p>
                <p>
                I could meet this with a confidence! "They say things that, if we heard them,
                would simply appal us."
            </p>
                <p>
                "And if she <hi rend="italic">is</hi> there—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Yes?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Then Miss Jessel is?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Beyond a doubt. You shall see."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, thank you!" my friend cried, planted so firm that, taking it in, I went
                straight on without her. By the time I reached the pool, however,—she was
                close behind me, and I knew that, whatever, to her apprehension, might befall
                me, the exposure of my society struck her 
                <pb n="165"/>
                as her least danger. She exhaled
                a moan of relief as we at last came in sight of the greater part of the water
                without a sight of the child. There was no trace of Flora on that nearer
                side of the bank where my observation of her had been most startling, and
                none on the opposite edge, where, save for a margin of some twenty yards,
                a thick copse came down to the water. The pond, oblong in shape, had a width
                so scant compared to its length that, with its ends out of view, it might
                have been taken for a scant river. We looked at the empty expanse, and then
                I felt the suggestion of my friend's eyes. I knew what she meant and I replied
                with a negative headshake.
            </p>
                <p>
                "No, no; wait! She has taken the boat."
            </p>
                <p>
                My companion stared at the vacant <ref corresp="mooring" target="mooring_">mooring</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="mooring_" xml:id="mooring">
                The place where a ship is secured. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> place and then again across the
                lake. "Then where is it?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Our not seeing it is the strongest of proofs. She has used it to go over,
                and then has managed to hide it."
            </p>
                <p>
                "All alone—that child?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "She's not alone, and at such times she's not a child: she's an old, old
                woman." I scanned all the visible shore while Mrs. Grose took again, into
                the queer element I offered her, one of her plunges 
                <pb n="166"/>
                of submission; then I
                pointed out that the boat might perfectly be in a small refuge formed by
                one of the recesses of the pool, an indentation masked, for the hither side,
                by a projection of the bank and by a clump of trees growing close to the
                water.
            </p>
                <p>
                "But if the boat's there, where on earth's <hi rend="italic">she?</hi>" my colleague anxiously
                asked.
            </p>
                <p>
                "That's exactly what we must learn." And I started to walk further.
            </p>
                <p>
                "By going all the way round?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Certainly, far as it is. It will take us but ten minutes, but it's far enough
                to have made the child prefer not to walk. She went straight over."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Laws!" cried my friend again; the chain of my logic was ever too much for
                her. It dragged her at my heels even now, and when we had got halfway round—a
                devious, tiresome process, on ground much broken and by a path choked with
                overgrowth—I paused to give her breath. I sustained her with a grateful
                arm, assuring her that she might hugely help me; and this started us afresh,
                so that in the course of but few minutes more we reached a point from which
                we found the boat to be where I had supposed it. It had been intentionally
                left as much as possible out of 
                <pb n="167"/>
                sight and was tied to one of the stakes of
                a fence that came, just there, down to the brink and that had been an assistance
                to disembarking. I recognized, as I looked at the pair of short, thick oars,
                quite safely drawn up, the prodigious character of the feat for a little
                girl; but I had lived, by this time, too long among wonders and had panted
                to too many livelier measures. There was a gate in the fence, through which
                we passed, and that brought us, after a trifling interval, more into the
                open. Then, "There she is!" we both exclaimed at once.
            </p>
                <p>
                Flora, a short way off, stood before us on the grass and smiled as if her
                performance was now complete. The next thing she did, however, was to stoop
                straight down and pluck—quite as if it were all she was there for—a big,
                ugly spray of withered fern. I instantly became sure she had just come out
                of the copse. She waited for us, not herself taking a step, and I was conscious
                of the rare solemnity with which we presently approached her. She smiled
                and smiled, and we met; but it was all done in a silence by this time flagrantly
                ominous. Mrs. Grose was the first to break the spell: she threw herself on
                her knees and, drawing the child to her breast, clasped in a long embrace
                the little tender, yielding body. 
                <pb n="168"/>
                While this dumb convulsion lasted I could
                only watch it—which I did the more intently when I saw Flora's face peep
                at me over our companion's shoulder. It was serious now—the flicker had
                left it; but it strengthened the pang with which I at that moment envied
                Mrs. Grose the simplicity of <hi rend="italic">her</hi> relation. Still, all this while,
                nothing more passed between us save that Flora had let her foolish fern again
                drop to the ground. What she and I had virtually said to each other was that
                pretexts were useless now. When Mrs. Grose finally got up she kept the child's
                hand, so that the two were still before me; and the singular <ref corresp="reticence" target="reticence_">reticence</ref> of
                our communion was even more marked in the frank look she launched me. "I'll
                be hanged," it said, "if <hi rend="italic">I'll</hi> speak!"
            </p>
                <p>
                It was Flora who, gazing all over me in candid wonder, was the first. She
                was struck with our bareheaded aspect. "Why, where are your things?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Where yours are, my dear!" I promptly returned.
            </p>
                <p>
                She had already got back her gaiety, and appeared to take this as an answer
                quite sufficient, "And where's Miles?" she went on.
            </p>
                <p>
                There was something in the small valor of it that quite finished me: these
                three words 
                <pb n="169"/>
                from her were, in a flash like the glitter of a drawn blade,
                the jostle of the cup that my hand, for weeks and weeks, had held high and
                full to the brim and that now, even before speaking, I felt overflow in a
                deluge. "I'll tell you if you'll tell <hi rend="italic">me</hi>—" I heard myself say,
                then heard the tremor in which it broke.
            </p>
                <p>
                "Well, what?"
            </p>
                <p>
                Mrs. Grose's suspense blazed at me, but it was too late now, and I brought
                the thing out handsomely. "Where, my pet, is Miss Jessel?"
            </p>
        </div>
        <div type="chapter" n="20">
            <pb n="170"/>
            <head>XX</head>
            <p>
                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 <ref corresp="interposing" target="interposing_">interposing</ref>
                <note xml:id="interposing" target="interposing_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                To interrupt. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> 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!"
            </p>
                <p>
                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 <pb n="171"/>nor mad. She was
                there for poor scared Mrs. Grose, but she was mere 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 mere 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 <ref target="sovereign_" corresp="sovereign">sovereign</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="sovereign_" xml:id="sovereign">
                Supreme, greatest, or most notable. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> 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 
                <pb n="172"/>
                I announced, but only, instead of
                that, turn at <hi rend="italic">me</hi> 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 <ref corresp="quail" target="quail_">quail.</ref>
                <note xml:id="quail" target="quail_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                To lose heart, be discouraged. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> 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, <hi rend="italic">there,</hi> 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, <ref target="reprobation_" corresp="reprobation">reprobation.</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="reprobation_" xml:id="reprobation">
                Rejection of a person or thing. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> 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 
                <pb n="173"/>
                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?"
            </p>
                <p>
                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 <hi rend="italic">we</hi> see?—you mean to say you don't now—<hi rend="italic">now?</hi>
                She's as big as a blazing fire! Only look, dearest woman, <hi rend="italic">look</hi>—!"
                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 
                <pb n="174"/>
                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.
            </p>
                <p>
                "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?
                <hi rend="italic">We</hi> 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!"
            </p>
                <p>
                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 <ref target="reprobation_" corresp="reprobation">reprobation,</ref>
                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 <hi rend="italic">have.</hi> I think you're cruel. I don't like you!"
                Then, after this deliverance, 
                <pb n="175"/>
                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
                <hi rend="italic">her!</hi>"
            </p>
                <p>
                "From <hi rend="italic">me?</hi>" I panted.
            </p>
                <p>
                "From you—from you!" she cried.
            </p>
                <p>
                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 <hi rend="italic">her</hi> 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." 
                <pb n="176"/>
                For Mrs.
                Grose I had am imperative, am 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.
            </p>
                <p>
                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 <ref corresp="odorous" target="odorous_">odorous</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="odorous_" xml:id="odorous">
                Having a strong or unpleasant smell. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note>
                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 
                <pb n="177"/>
                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 <ref target="portentous_" corresp="portentous">portentous</ref> 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 
                <pb n="178"/>
                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.
            </p>
        </div>
        <div type="chapter" n="21">
            <pb n="179"/>
            <head>XXI</head>
            <p>
                Before a new day, in my room, had fully broken, my eyes opened to Mrs. Grose,
                who had come to my bedside with worse news. Flora was so markedly feverish
                that an illess was perhaps at hand; she had passed a night of extreme unrest,
                a night agitated above all by fears that had for their subject not in the
                least her former, but wholly her present, governess. It was not against the
                possible re-entrance of Miss Jessel on the scene that she protested—it was
                conspicuously and passionately against mine. I was promptly on my feet of
                course, and with an immense deal to ask; the more that my friend had discernibly
                now girded her loins to meet me once more. This I felt as soon as I had put
                to her the question of her sense of the child's sincerity as against my own.
                "She persists in denying to you that she saw, or has ever seen, anything?"
            </p>
                <p>
                My visitor's trouble, truly, was great. "Ah, 
                <pb n="180"/>
                miss, it isn't a matter on which
                I can push her! Yet it isn't either, I must say, as if I much needed to.
                It has made her, every inch of her, quite old."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, I see her perfectly from here. She resents, for all the world like some
                high little personage, the imputation on her truthfulness and, as it were,
                her respectability. 'Miss Jessel indeed—<hi rend="italic">she!</hi>' Ah, she's 'respectable,'
                the <ref target="chit_" corresp="chit">chit!</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="chit_" xml:id="chit">
                An offensive way of saying someone is no better than a child. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> The impression she gave me there yesterday was, I assure you, the
                very strangest of all; it was quite beyond any of the others. I <hi rend="italic">did</hi>
                put my foot in it! She'll never speak to me again."
            </p>
                <p>
                Hideous and obscure as it all was, it held Mrs. Grose briefly silent; then
                she granted my point with a frankness which, I made sure, had more behind
                it. "I think indeed, miss, she never will. She do have a grand manner about
                it!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "And that manner"—I summed it up—"is practically what's the matter with
                her now!"
            </p>
                <p>
                Oh, that manner, I could see in my visitor's face, and not a little else
                besides! "She asks me every three minutes if I think you're coming in."
            </p>
                <p>
                "I see—I see." I, too, on my side, had so much more than worked it out.
                "Has she said to you since yesterday—except to <ref corresp="repudiate" target="repudiate_">repudiate</ref>
                <note xml:id="repudiate" target="repudiate_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                To refuse to accept or be associated with; to reject. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> her 
                <pb n="181"/>
                familiarity
                with anything so dreadful—a single other word about Miss Jessel?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Not one, miss. And of course you know," my friend added, "I took it from
                her, by the lake, that, just then and there at least, there <hi rend="italic">was</hi> nobody."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Rather! And, naturally, you take it from her still."
            </p>
                <p>
                "I don't contradict her. What else can I do?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Nothing in the world! You've the cleverest little person to deal with. They've
                made them—their two friends, I mean—still cleverer even than nature did;
                for it was wondrous material to play on! Flora has now her grievance, and
                she'll work it to the end."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Yes, miss; but to <hi rend="italic">what</hi> end?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Why, that of dealing with me to her uncle. She'll make me out to him the
                lowest creature—!"
            </p>
                <p>
                I winced at the fair show of the scene in Mrs. Grose's face; she looked for
                a minute as if she sharply saw them together. "And him who thinks so well
                of you!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "He has an odd way—it comes over me now," I laughed, "—of proving it! But
                that doesn't matter. What Flora wants, of course, is to get rid of me."
            </p>
            <pb n="182"/>
            <p>
                My companion bravely concurred. "Never again to so much as look at you."
            </p>
                <p>
                "So that what you've come to me now for," I asked, "is to speed me on my
                way?" Before she had time to reply, however, I had her in check. "I've a
                better idea—the result of my reflections. My going <hi rend="italic">would</hi> seem the
                right thing, and on Sunday I was terribly near it. Yet that won't do. It's
                you who must go. You must take Flora."
            </p>
                <p>
                My visitor, at this, did speculate. "But where in the world—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Away from here. Away from <hi rend="italic">them.</hi> Away, even most of all, now, from
                me. Straight to her uncle."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Only to tell on you—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "No, not 'only'! To leave me, in addition, with my remedy."
            </p>
                <p>
                She was still vague. "And what <hi rend="italic">is</hi> your remedy?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Your loyalty, to begin with. And then Miles's."
            </p>
                <p>
                She looked at me hard. "Do you think he—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Won't, if he has the chance, turn on me? Yes, I venture still to think it.
                At all events, I want to try. Get off with his sister as soon 
                <pb n="183"/>
                as possible
                and leave me with him alone." I was amazed, myself, at the spirit I had still
                in reserve, and therefore perhaps a trifle the more disconcerted at the way
                in which, in spite of this fine example of it, she hesitated. "There's one
                thing, of course," I went on: "they mustn't, before she goes, see each other
                for three seconds." Then it came over me that, in spite of Flora s presumable
                <ref target="sequestration_" corresp="sequestration">sequestration</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="sequestration_" xml:id="sequestration">
                Separated, secluded, retired. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> from the instant of her return from the pool, it might already
                be too late. "Do you mean," I anxiously asked, "that they <hi rend="italic">have</hi> met?"
            </p>
                <p>
                At this she quite flushed. "Ah, miss, I'm not such a fool as that! If I've
                been obliged to leave her three or four times, it has been each time with
                one of the maids, and at present, though she's alone, she's locked in safe.
                And yet—and yet!" There were too many things.
            </p>
                <p>
                "And yet what?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Well, are you so sure of the little gentleman?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "I'm not sure of anything but <hi rend="italic">you.</hi> But I have, since last evening,
                a new hope. I think he wants to give me an opening. I do believe that—poor
                little exquisite wretch!—he wants to speak. Last evening, in the firelight
                and 
                <pb n="184"/>
                the silence, he sat with me for two hours as if it were just coming."
            </p>
                <p>
                Mrs. Grose looked hard, through the window, at the gray, gathering day. "And
                did it come?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "No, though I waited and waited, I confess it didn't, and it was without
                a breach of the silence or so much as a faint allusion to his sister's condition
                and absence that we at last kissed for good night. All the same," I continued,
                "I can't, if her uncle sees her, consent to his seeing her brother without
                my having given the boy—and most of all because things have got so bad—a
                little more time."
            </p>
                <p>
                My friend appeared on this ground more reluctant than I could quite understand.
                "What do you mean by more time?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Well, a day or two—really to bring it out. He'll then be on <hi rend="italic">my</hi> side—of
                which you see the importance. If nothing comes, I shall only fail, and you
                will, at the worst, have helped me by doing, on your arrival in town, whatever
                yon may have found possible." So I put it before her, but she continued for
                a little so <ref corresp="inscrutably" target="inscrutably_">inscrutably</ref>
                <note xml:id="inscrutably" target="inscrutably_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Beyond searching out; unfathomably. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> embarrassed that I came again to her aid. "Unless,
                indeed," I wound up, "you really want <hi rend="italic">not</hi> to go."
            </p>
                <p>
                I could see it, in her face, at last clear itself; 
                <pb n="185"/>
                she put out her hand to
                me as a pledge. "I'll go—I'll go. I'll go this morning."
            </p>
                <p>
                I wanted to be very just. "If you <hi rend="italic">should</hi> wish still to wait, I would
                engage she shouldn't see me."
            </p>
                <p>
                "No, no: it's the place itself. She must leave it." She held me a moment
                with heavy eyes, then brought out the rest. "Your idea's the right one. I
                myself, miss—"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Well?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "I can't stay."
            </p>
                <p>
                The look she gave me with it made me jump at possibilities. "You mean that,
                since yesterday, you <hi rend="italic">have</hi> seen—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                She shook her head with dignity. "I've <hi rend="italic">heard</hi>—!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Heard?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "From that child—horrors! There!" she sighed with tragic relief. "On my
                honor, miss, she says things—!" But at this <ref target="evocation_" corresp="evocation">evocation</ref> she broke down;
                she dropped, with a sudden sob, upon my sofa and, as I had seen her do before,
                gave way to all the grief of it.
            </p>
                <p>
                It was quite in another manner that I, for my part, let myself go. "Oh, thank
                God!"
            </p>
                <p>
                She sprang up again at this, drying her eyes with a groan. "'Thank God'?"
            </p>
            <pb n="186"/>
            <p>
                "It so justifies me!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "It does that, miss!"
            </p>
                <p>
                I couldn't have desired more emphasis, but I just hesitated. "She's so horrible?"
            </p>
                <p>
                I saw my colleague scarce knew how to put it. "Really shocking."
            </p>
                <p>
                "And about me?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "About you, miss—since you must have it. It's beyond everything, for a young
                lady; and I can't think wherever she must have picked up—"
            </p>
                <p>
                "The appalling language she applied to me? I can, then!" I broke in with
                a laugh that was doubtless significant enough.
            </p>
                <p>
                It only, in truth, left my friend still more grave. "Well, perhaps I ought
                to also—since I've heard some of it before! Yet I can't bear it," the poor
                woman went on while, with the same movement, she glanced, on my dressing
                table, at the face of my watch. "But I must go back."
            </p>
                <p>
                I kept her, however. "Ah, if you can't bear it—!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "How can I stop with her, you mean? Why, just <hi rend="italic">for</hi> that: to get her
                away. Far from this," she pursued, "far from them—"
            </p>
                <p>
                "She may be different? She may be free?" 
                <pb n="187"/>
                I seized her almost with joy. "Then,
                in spite of yesterday, you <hi rend="italic">believe</hi>—"
            </p>
                <p>
                "In such doings?" Her simple description of them required, in the light of
                her expression, to be carried no further, and she gave me the whole thing
                as she had never done. "I believe."
            </p>
                <p>
                Yes, it was a joy, and we were still shoulder to shoulder: if I might continue
                sure of that I should care but little what else happened. My support in the
                presence of disaster would be the same as it had been in my early need of
                confidence, and if my friend would answer for my honesty, I would answer
                for all the rest. On the point of taking leave of her, nonetheless, I was
                to some extent embarrassed. "There's one thing, of course—it occurs to me—to
                remember. My letter, giving the alarm, will have reached town before you."
            </p>
                <p>
                I now perceived still more how she had been beating about the bush and how
                weary at last it had made her. "Your letter won't have got there. Your letter
                never went."
            </p>
                <p>
                "What then became of it?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Goodness knows! Master Miles—"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Do you mean he took it?" I gasped.
            </p>
                <p>
                She hung fire, but she overcame her reluctance. "I mean that I saw yesterday,
                when I came back 
                <pb n="188"/>
                with Miss Flora, that it wasn't where you had put it. Later
                in the evening I had the chance to question Luke, and he declared that he
                had neither noticed nor touched it." We could only exchange, on this, one
                of our deeper mutual soundings, and it was Mrs. Grose who first brought up
                the plumb with an almost elated "You see!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Yes, I see that if Miles took it instead he probably will have read it and
                destroyed it."
            </p>
                <p>
                "And don't you see anything else?"
            </p>
                <p>
                I faced her a moment with a sad smile. "It strikes me that by this time your
                eyes are open even wider than mine."
            </p>
                <p>
                They proved to be so indeed, but she could still blush, almost, to show it.
                "I make out now what he must have done at school." And she gave, in her simple
                sharpness, an almost <ref corresp="droll" target="droll_">droll</ref> disillusioned nod. "He stole!"
            </p>
                <p>
                I turned it over—I tried to be more judicial. "Well—perhaps."
            </p>
                <p>
                She looked as if she found me unexpectedly calm. "He stole <hi rend="italic">letters!</hi>"
            </p>
                <p>
                She couldn't know my reasons for a calmness after all pretty shallow; so
                I showed them off as I might. "I hope then it was to more purpose than in
                this case! The note, at any rate, 
                <pb n="189"/>
                that I put on me table yesterday," I pursued,
                "will have given him so scant an advantage—for it contained only the bare
                demand for an interview—that he is already much ashamed of having gone so
                far for so little, and that what he had on his mind last evening was precisely
                the need of confession." I seemed to myself, for me instant, to have mastered
                it, to see it all. "Leave us, leave us"—I was already, at the door, hurrying
                her off. "I'll get it out of him. He'll meet me—he'll confess. If he confesses,
                he's saved. And if he's saved—"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Then <hi rend="italic">you</hi> are?" The dear woman kissed me on this, and I took her farewell.
                "I'll save you without him!" she cried as she went.
            </p>
        </div>
        <div type="chapter" n="22">
            <pb n="190"/>
            <head>XXII</head>
            <p>
                Yet it was when she had got off—and I missed her on the spot—that the great
                pinch really came. If I had counted on what it would give me to find myself
                alone with Miles, I speedily perceived, at least, that it would give me a
                measure. No hour of my stay in fact was so assailed with apprehensions as
                that of my coming down to learn that the carriage containing Mrs. Grose and
                my younger pupil had already rolled out of the gates. Now I <hi rend="italic">was,</hi> I
                said to myself, face to face with the elements, and for much of the rest
                of the day, while I fought my weakness, I could consider that I had been
                supremely rash. It was a tighter place still than I had yet turned round
                in; all the more that, for the first time, I could see in the aspect of others
                a confused reflection of the crisis. What had happened naturally caused them
                all to stare; there was too little of the explained, throw out whatever we
                might, in the suddenness of my colleague's act. The maids 
                <pb n="191"/>
                and the men looked
                blank; the effect of which on my nerves was an aggravation until I saw the
                necessity of making it a positive aid. It was precisely, in short, by just
                clutching the helm that I avoided total wreck; and I dare say that, to bear
                up at all, I became, that morning, very grand and very dry. I welcomed the
                consciousness that I was charged with much to do, and I 
                caused it to be known
                as well that, left thus to myself, I was quite remarkably firm. I wandered
                with that manner, for the next hour or two, all over the place and looked,
                I have no doubt, as if I were ready for any onset. So, for the benefit of
                whom it might concern, I paraded with a sick heart.
            </p>
                <p>
                The person it appeared least to concern proved to be, till dinner, little
                Miles himself. My <ref target="perambulations_" corresp="perambulations">perambulations</ref>
                <note xml:id="perambulations" target="perambulations_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                The action of walking through or around a place or space; a walk. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> had given me, meanwhile, no glimpse of him,
                but they had tended to make more public the change taking place in our relation
                as a consequence of his having at the piano the day before, kept me, in Flora's
                interest, so <ref corresp="beguiled" target="beguiled_">beguiled</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="beguiled_" xml:id="beguiled">
                To delude, deceive, cheat. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> and befooled. The stamp of publicity had of course
                been fully given by her confinement and departure, and the change itself
                was now ushered in by our nonobservance of the regular custom of the schoolroom.
                He had already disappeared when, on my way down, I pushed open his door,
                and I 
                <pb n="192"/>
                learned below that he had breakfasted—in the presence of a couple
                of the maids—with Mrs. Grose and his sister. He had then gone out, as he
                said, for a stroll than which nothing, I reflected, could better have expressed
                his frank view of the abrupt transformation of my office. What he would now
                permit this office to consist of was yet to be settled: there was a queer
                relief, at all events—I mean for myself in especial—in the renouncement
                of one pretension. If so much had sprung to the surface, I scarce put it
                too strongly in saying that what had perhaps sprung highest was the absurdity
                of our prolonging the fiction that I had anything more to teach him. It
                sufficiently stuck out that, by tacit little tricks in which even more than
                myself he carried out the care for my dignity, I had had to appeal to him
                to let me off straining to meet him on the ground of his true capacity.
            </p>
                <p>
                He had at any rate his freedom now; I was never to touch it again; as I had
                amply shown, moreover, when, on his joining me in the schoolroom the previous
                night, I had uttered, on the subject of the interval just concluded, neither
                challenge nor hint. I had too much, from this moment, my other ideas. Yet
                when he at last arrived, the difficulty of applying them, the accumulations
                of my problem, were 
                <pb n="193"/>
                brought straight home to me by the beautiful little presence
                on which what had occurred had as yet, for the eye, dropped neither stain
                nor shadow.
            </p>
                <p>
                To mark, for the house, the high state I cultivated I decreed that my meals
                with the boy should be served, as we called it, downstairs; so that I had
                been awaiting him in the ponderous pomp of the room outside of the window
                of which I had had from Mrs. Grose, that first scared Sunday, my flash of
                something it would scarce have done to call light. Here at present I felt
                afresh—for I had felt it again and again—how my equilibrium depended on
                the success of my rigid will, the will to shut my eyes as tight as possible
                to the truth that what I had to deal with was, revoltingly, against nature.
                I could only get on at all by taking "nature" into my confidence and my account,
                by treating my monstrous ordeal as a push in a direction unusual, of course,
                and unpleasant, but demanding, after all, for a fair front, only another
                turn of the screw of ordinary human virtue. No attempt, nonetheless, could
                well require more tact than just this attempt to supply, one's self,
            <hi rend="italic">all</hi> the nature. How could I put even a little of that article into
                a suppression of reference to what had occurred? How, on the other hand,
                could 
                <pb n="194"/>
                I make reference without a new plunge into the hideous obscure? Well,
                a sort of answer, after a time, had come to me, and it was so far confirmed
                as that I was met, <ref target="incontestably_" corresp="incontestably">incontestably,</ref>
                <note xml:id="incontestably" target="incontestably_" type="gloss" resp="gloss">
                Unquestionably, indisputably. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> by the quickened vision of what was rare
                in my little companion. It was indeed as if he had found even now—as he
                had so often found at lessons—still some other delicate way to ease me off.
                Wasn't there light in the fact which, as we shared our solitude, broke out
                with a <ref corresp="specious" target="specious_">specious</ref>
                <note xml:id="specious" target="specious_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Having a fair or attractive appearance. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> glitter it had never yet quite worn?—the fact that (opportunity
                aiding, precious opportunity which had now come) it would be preposterous,
                with a child so endowed, to forego the help one might <ref target="wrest_" corresp="wrest">wrest</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="wrest_" xml:id="wrest">
                take by force; to seize, capture, or take. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> from absolute
                intelligence? What had his intelligence been given him for but to save him?
                Mightn't one, to reach his mind, risk the stretch of an angular arm over
                his character? It was as if, when we were face to face in the dining room,
                he had literally shown me the way, The roast mutton was on the table, and
                I had dispensed with attendance. Miles, before he sat down, stood a moment
                with his hands in his pockets and looked at the joint, on which he seemed
                on the point of passing some humorous judgment. But what he presently produced
                was: "I say, my dear, is she really very awfully ill?"
            </p>
            <pb n="195"/>
            <p>
                "Little Flora? Not so bad but that she'll presently be better. London will
                set her up. Bly had ceased to agree with her. Come here and take your mutton."
            </p>
                <p>
                He alertly obeyed me, carried the plate carefully to ms seat, and, when he
                was established, went on. Did Bly disagree with her so terribly suddenly?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Not so suddenly as you might think. One had seen it coming on."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Then why didn't you get her off before?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Before what?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Before she became too ill to travel."
            </p>
                <p>
                I found myself prompt. "She's <hi rend="italic">not</hi> too ill to travel: she only might
                have become so if she had stayed. This was just the moment to seize. The
                journey will dissipate the influence"—oh, I was grand!—"and carry it off."
            </p>
                <p>
                "I see, I see"—Miles, for that matter, was grand, too. He settled to his
                repast with the charming little "table manner" that, from the day of his
                arrival, had relieved me of all grossness of <ref corresp="admonition" target="admonition_">admonition.</ref>
                <note xml:id="admonition" target="admonition_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Authoritative advice or warning. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> Whatever he had
                been driven from school for, it was not for ugly feeding. He was irreproachable,
                as always, today; but he was unmistakably more conscious. He was discernibly
                trying to take for granted 
                <pb n="196"/>
                more things than he found, without assistance,
                quite easy; and he dropped into peaceful silence while he felt his situation.
                Our meal was of the briefest—mine a vain pretense, and I had the things
                immediately removed. While this was done Miles stood again with his hands
                in his little pockets and his back to me—stood and looked out of the wide
                window through which, that other day, I had seen what pulled me up. We continued
                silent while the maid was with us—as silent, it whimsically occurred to
                me, as some young couple who, on their wedding journey, at the inn, feel
                shy in the presence of the waiter. He turned round only when the waiter had
                left us. "Well—so we're alone!"
            </p>
        </div>
        <div type="chapter" n="23">
            <pb n="197"/>
            <head>XXIII</head>
            <p>
                "Oh, more or less." I fancy my smile was pale. "Not absolutely. We shouldn't
                like that!" I went on.
            </p>
                <p>
                "No—I suppose we shouldn't. Of course we have the others."
            </p>
                <p>
                "We have the others—we have indeed the others," I concurred.
            </p>
                <p>
                "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?"
            </p>
                <p>
                I made the best of it, but I felt wan. "It depends on what you call 'much'!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "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 
                <pb n="198"/>
                had always my <ref corresp="hypocrisy" target="hypocrisy_">hypocrisy</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="hypocrisy_" xml:id="hypocrisy">
                A fake appearance of virtue or goodness. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                </note> 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 me
                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 influence 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 
                <pb n="199"/>
                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
                <hi rend="italic">me!"</hi>
            </p>
                <p>
                "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."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, yes, I've been ever so far; all round about—miles and miles away. I've
                never been so free."
            </p>
                <p>
                He had really a manner of his own, and I could only try to keep up with him.
                "Well, do you like it?"
            </p>
                <p>
                He stood there smiling; then at last he put into two words—"Do
                <hi rend="italic">you?"</hi>—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, "yon don't
                particularly mind!"
            </p>
                <p>
                "Having to do with you?" I asked. "My dear child, how can I help minding?
                Though 
                <pb n="200"/>
                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?"
            </p>
                <p>
                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 <hi rend="italic">that?</hi>"
            </p>
                <p>
                "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?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "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 <hi rend="italic">you!</hi>"
            </p>
                <p>
                "It was partly to get you to do something," I conceded. "But you know, you
                didn't do it."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Oh, yes," he said with the brightest superficial eagerness, "you wanted
                me to tell you something."
            </p>
            <pb n="201"/>
            <p>
                "That's it. Out, straight out. What you have on your mind, you know."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Ah, then, is <hi rend="italic">that</hi> what you've stayed over for?"
            </p>
                <p>
                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."
            </p>
                <p>
                He waited so long that I supposed it for the purpose of <ref target="repudiating_" corresp="repudiating">repudiating</ref>
                <note xml:id="repudiating" target="repudiating_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                Casting off; reject something. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> the
                assumption on which my action had been founded; but what he finally said
                was: "Do you mean now—here?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "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?"
            </p>
            <pb n="202"/>
            <p>
                "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 <ref target="perverse_" corresp="perverse">perverse</ref>
                <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="perverse_" xml:id="perverse">
                Wicked, evil, debased. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> horror of what I was
                doing. To do it in <hi rend="italic">any</hi> 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 <hi rend="italic">will</hi> tell you—I <hi rend="italic">will.</hi> But not now."
            </p>
                <p>
                "Why not now?"
            </p>
                <p>
                My insistence turned him from me and kept 
                <pb n="203"/>
                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."
            </p>
                <p>
                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."
            </p>
                <p>
                He looked as if he felt he had succeeded enough to be able still a little
                to bargain. "Very much smaller—?"
            </p>
                <p>
                "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."
            </p>
        </div>
            <div type="chapter" n="24">
                <pb n="204"/>
                <head>XXIV</head>
                <p>
                    My sense of how he received this suffered for a minute from something that
                    I can describe only as a fierce split of my attention—a stroke that at first,
                    as I sprang straight up, reduced me to the mere blind movement of getting
                    hold of him, drawing him close, and, while I just fell for support against
                    the nearest piece of furniture, instinctively keeping him with his back to
                    the window. The appearance was full upon us that I had already had to deal
                    with here: Peter Quint had come into view like a sentinel before a prison.
                    The next thing I saw was that, from outside, he had reached the window, and
                    then I knew that, close to the glass and glaring in through it, he offered
                    once more to the room his white face of damnation. It represents but grossly
                    what took place within me at the sight to say that on the second my decision
                    was made; yet I believe that no woman so overwhelmed ever in so short a time
                    recovered her grasp of the <hi rend="italic">act.</hi> It came to me in 
                    <pb n="205"/>
                    the very horror of
                    the immediate presence that the act would be, seeing and facing what I saw
                    and faced, to keep the boy himself unaware. The inspiration—I can call it
                    by no other name—was that I felt how voluntarily, how <ref corresp="transcendently" target="transcendently_">transcendently,</ref>
                    <note xml:id="transcendently" target="transcendently_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                    Surpassingly, supremely. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> I
                    <hi rend="italic">might</hi>. It was like fighting with a demon for a human soul, and when
                    I had fairly so appraised it I saw how the human soul—held out, in the tremor
                    of my hands, at arm's length—had a perfect dew of sweat on a lovely childish
                    forehead. The face that was close to mine was as white as the face against
                    the glass, and out of it presently came a sound, not low nor weak, but as
                    if from much further away, that I drank like a waft of fragrance.
                </p>
                <p>
                    "Yes I took it."
                </p>
                <p>
                    At this, with a moan of joy, I enfolded, I drew him close; and while I held
                    him to my breast, where I could feel in the sudden fever of his little body
                    the tremendous pulse of his little heart, I kept my eyes on the thing at
                    the window and saw it move and shift its posture. I have likened it to a
                    <ref target="sentinel_" corresp="sentinel">sentinel,</ref>
                    <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss" target="sentinel_" xml:id="sentinel">
                    Someone who keeps guard. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                    </note> but its slow wheel, for a moment, was rather the prowl of a baffled
                    beast. My present quickened courage, however, was such that, not too much
                    to let it through, I had to shade, as it were, my flame. Meanwhile the 
                    <pb n="206"/>
                    glare
                    of the face was again at the window, the scoundrel fixed as if to watch and
                    wait. It was the very confidence that I might now defy him, as well as the
                    positive certitude, by this time, of the child's unconsciousness, that made
                    me go on, "What did you take it for?"
                </p>
                <p>
                    "To see what you said about me."
                </p>
                <p>
                    "You opened the letter?"
                </p>
                <p>
                    "I opened it."
                </p>
                <p>
                    My eyes were now, as I held him off a little again, on Miles's own face,
                    in which the collapse of mockery showed me how complete was the ravage of
                    uneasiness. What was prodigious was that at last, by my success, his sense
                    was sealed and his communication stopped: he knew that he was in presence,
                    but knew not of what, and knew still less that I also was and that I did
                    know. And what did this strain of trouble matter when my eyes went back to
                    the window only to see that the air was clear again and—by my personal
                    triumph—the influence quenched? There was nothing there. I felt that the
                    cause was mine and that I should surely get <hi rend="italic">all.</hi> "And you found
                    nothing!"—I let my <ref corresp="elation" target="elation_">elation</ref>
                    <note xml:id="elation" target="elation_" type="gloss" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                    Joyousness. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> out.
                </p>
                <p>
                    He gave the most mournful, thoughtful little headshake. "Nothing."
                </p>
                <p>
                    "Nothing, nothing!" I almost shouted in my joy.
                </p>
                <pb n="207"/>
                <p>
                    "Nothing, nothing," he sadly repeated.
                </p>
                <p>
                    I kissed his forehead; it was drenched. "So what have you done with it?"
                </p>
                <p>
                    "I've burned it."
                </p>
                <p>
                    "Burned it?" It was now or never. "Is that what you did at school?"
                </p>
                <p>
                    Oh, what this brought up! "At school?"
                </p>
                <p>
                    "Did you take letters? or other things?"
                </p>
                <p>
                    "Other things?" He appeared now to be thinking of something far off and that
                    reached him only through the pressure of his anxiety. Yet it did reach him.
                    "Did I <hi rend="italic">steal?</hi>"
                </p>
                <p>
                    I felt myself redden to the roots of my hair as well as wonder if it were
                    more strange to put to a gentleman such a question or to see him take it
                    with allowances that gave the very distance of his fall in the world. "Was
                    it for that you mightn't go back?"
                </p>
                <p>
                    The only thing he felt was rather a dreary little surprise. "Did you know
                    I mightn't go back?"
                </p>
                <p>
                    "I know everything."
                </p>
                <p>
                    He gave me at this the longest and strangest look. "Everything?"
                </p>
                <p>
                    "Everything. Therefore <hi rend="italic">did</hi> you—?" But I couldn't say it again.
                </p>
                <p>
                    Miles could, very simply. "No. I didn't steal."
                </p>
                <pb n="208"/>
                <p>
                    My face must have shown him I believed him utterly; yet my hands—but it
                    was for pure tenderness—shook him as if to ask him why, if it was all for
                    nothing, he had condemned me to months of torment. "What then did you do?"
                </p>
                <p>
                    He looked in vague pain all round the top of the room and drew his breath,
                    two or three times over, as if with difficulty. He might have been standing
                    at the bottom of the sea and raising his eyes to some faint green twilight.
                    "Well—I said things."
                </p>
                <p>
                    "Only that?"
                </p>
                <p>
                    "They thought it was enough!"
                </p>
                <p>
                    "To turn you out for?"
                </p>
                <p>
                    Never, truly, had a person "turned out" shown so little to explain it as
                    this little person! He appeared to weigh my question, but in a manner quite
                    detached and almost helpless. "Well, I suppose I oughtn't."
                </p>
                <p>
                    "But to whom did you say them?"
                </p>
                <p>
                    He evidently tried to remember, but it dropped—he had lost it. "I don't
                    know!"
                </p>
                <p>
                    He almost smiled at me in the desolation of his surrender, which was indeed
                    practically, by this time, so complete that I ought to have left it there.
                    But I was infatuated—I was blind with victory, 
                    <pb n="209"/>
                    though even then the very
                    effect that was to have brought him so much nearer was already that of added
                    separation. "Was it to everyone?" I asked.
                </p>
                <p>
                    "No; it was only to—" But he gave a sick little headshake. "I don't remember
                    their names."
                </p>
                <p>
                    "Were they then so many?"
                </p>
                <p>
                    "No—only a few. Those I liked."
                </p>
                <p>
                    Those he liked? I seemed to float not into clearness, but into a darker obscure,
                    and within a minute there had come to me out of my very pity the appalling
                    alarm of his being perhaps innocent. It was for the instant confounding and
                    bottomless, for if he <hi rend="italic">were</hi> innocent, what then on earth was <hi rend="italic">I?</hi>
                    Paralyzed, while it lasted, by the mere brush of the question, I let him
                    go a little, so that, with a deep-drawn sigh, he turned away from me again;
                    which, as he faced toward the clear window, I suffered, feeling that I had
                    nothing now there to keep him from. "And did they repeat what you said?"
                    I went on after a moment.
                </p>
                <p>
                    He was soon at some distance from me, still breathing hard and again with
                    the air, though now without anger for it, of being confined against his will.
                    Once more, as he had done before, he looked up at the dim day as if, of what
                    had hitherto sustained him, nothing was left but an unspeakable 
                    <pb n="210"/>
                    anxiety.
                    "Oh, yes," he nevertheless replied—"they must have repeated them. To those
                    <hi rend="italic">they</hi> liked," he added.
                </p>
                <p>
                    There was, somehow, less of it than I had expected; but I turned it over.
                    "And these things came round—?"
                </p>
                <p>
                    "To the masters? Oh, yes!" he answered very simply. "But I didn't know they'd
                    tell."
                </p>
                <p>
                    "The masters? They didn't—they've never told. That's why I ask you."
                </p>
                <p>
                    He turned to me again his little beautiful fevered face. "Yes, it was too
                    bad."
                </p>
                <p>
                    "Too bad?"
                </p>
                <p>
                    "What I suppose I sometimes said. To write home."
                </p>
                <p>
                    I can't name the exquisite <ref target="pathos_" corresp="pathos">pathos</ref>
                    <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" target="pathos_" type="gloss" xml:id="pathos">
                    A quality which evokes pity, sadness, or tenderness. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                    </note> of the contradiction given to such a speech
                    by such a speaker; I only know that the next instant I heard myself throw
                    off with homely force: "Stuff and nonsense!" But the next after that I must
                    have sounded stern enough. "What <hi rend="italic">were</hi> these things?"
                </p>
                <p>
                    My sternness was all for his judge, his executioner; yet it made him avert
                    himself again, and that movement made <hi rend="italic">me,</hi> with a single bound and
                    an irrepressible cry, spring straight upon him. For there again, against
                    the glass, as if 
                    <pb n="211"/>
                    to blight his confession and stay his answer, was the hideous
                    author of our woe—the white face of damnation. I felt a sick swim at the
                    drop of my victory and all the return of my battle, so that the wildness
                    of my <ref corresp="veritable" target="veritable_">veritable</ref>
                    <note xml:id="veritable" type="gloss" target="veritable_" resp="editors.xml#VBS">
                    Truth. Source: Oxford English Dictionary
                    </note> leap only served as a great betrayal. I saw him, from the
                    midst of my act, meet it with a divination, and on the perception that even
                    now he only guessed, and that the window was still to his own eyes free,
                    I let the impulse flame up to convert the climax of his dismay into the very
                    proof of his liberation. "No more, no more, no more!" I shrieked, as I tried
                    to press him against me, to my <ref target="visitant_" corresp="visitant">visitant.</ref>
                </p>
                <p>
                    "Is she <hi rend="italic">here?</hi>" Miles panted as he caught with his sealed eyes the
                    direction of my words. Then as his strange "she" staggered me and, with a
                    gasp, I echoed it, "Miss Jessel, Miss Jessel!" he with a sudden fury gave
                    me back.
                </p>
                <p>
                    I seized, stupefied, his supposition some sequel to what we had done to Flora,
                    but this made me only want to show him that it was better still than that.
                    "It's not Miss Jessel! But it's at the window—straight before us. It's
                    <hi rend="italic">there</hi>—the coward horror, there for the last time!"
                </p>
                <pb n="212"/>
                <p>
                    At this, after a second in which his head made the movement of a baffled
                    dog's on a scent and then gave a frantic little shake for air and light,
                    he was at me in a white rage, bewildered, glaring vainly over the place and
                    missing wholly, though it now, to my sense, filled the room like the taste
                    of poison, the wide, overwhelming presence. "It's <hi rend="italic">he?</hi>"
                </p>
                <p>
                    I was so determined to have all my proof that I flashed into ice to challenge
                    him. "Whom do you mean. by 'he'?"
                </p>
                <p>
                    "Peter Quint—you devil!" His face gave again, round the room, its <ref target="convulsed_" corresp="convulsed">convulsed</ref>
                    <note resp="editors.xml#VBS" xml:id="convulsed" target="convulsed_" type="gloss">
                    To shake violently. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note>
                    <ref corresp="supplication" target="supplication_">supplication.</ref>
                    <note target="supplication_" xml:id="supplication" resp="editors.xml#VBS" type="gloss">
                    A humble plea. Source: Oxford English Dictionary</note> <hi rend="italic">"Where?</hi>"
                </p>
                <p>
                    They are in my ears still, his supreme surrender of the name and his tribute
                    to my devotion. "What does he matter now, my own?—what will he <hi rend="italic">ever</hi>
                    matter? I have you," I launched at the beast, "but he has lost you forever!"
                    Then, for the demonstration of my work, "There, <hi rend="italic">there!</hi>" I said to
                    Miles.
                </p>
                <p>
                    But he had already jerked straight round, stared, glared again, and seen
                    but the quiet day. With the stroke of the loss I was so proud of he uttered
                    the cry of a creature hurled over an abyss, and the grasp with which I recovered
                    him might have been that of catching him in 
                    <pb n="213"/>
                    his fall. I caught him, yes,
                    I held him—it may be imagined with what a passion; but at the end of a minute
                    I began to feel what it truly was that I held. We were alone with the quiet
                    day, and his little heart, dispossessed, had stopped.
                </p>
            </div>
        </body>
    </text>
</TEI>