Chapter eight

Mrs Grose came into my room the next morning. Flora was ill. ‘What does she say?’ I asked. ‘What has she seen?’

‘I can’t ask her,’ Mrs Grose said sadly. ‘But she seems so old now.’

‘Does she talk about Miss Jessel?’

‘Not a word.’

‘They’re so clever, that woman and Flora! Flora will never speak to me again. And she’ll tell her uncle about me. “What a terrible governess!” he’ll think. Shall I leave now?’ I continued. ‘That’s what Flora wants, isn’t it?’

She agreed. ‘She doesn’t want to see you again.’

‘Well then,’ I said, ‘you must go. You must take Flora away, to her uncle’s. I’ll stay here with Miles. But the two children must not meet alone together! Not for three seconds!’

‘Yes, you’re right. Flora must leave this house. We’ll go this morning. And – I can’t stay! Flora is saying such terrible things. Dreadful words, dreadful things. Where did she learn them?’

She was crying now. ‘You believe me, then?’ I asked her.

‘Oh, yes, I do! I must take Flora far away, far from them!’ she said.

‘My letter – it will arrive in town first,’ I said.

She shook her head. ‘No, it won’t. It’s disappeared.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It disappeared from the table by the front door. The other servants haven’t seen it. Miles-‘

‘Miles took it?’ This was terrible. ‘Then he’s read it! So he’s a thief – he was stealing letters at school, then! I must talk to him. If he talks to me, we can save him!’

The servants were surprised when Flora left with Mrs Grose. They stared at me silently when I walked through the house. But Miles did not seem worried. We ate lunch together in the large dining-room.

‘Is Flora very ill?’ he asked me.

‘She’ll get better in London. Take some meat, Miles,’ I said.

He filled his plate, and we ate quickly. Miles got up, and stood with his back to me and his hands in his little pockets. We did not speak while the servant took the plates away.

‘Well,’ Miles said. ‘We’re alone now!’

‘Not quite alone,’ I answered.

‘Of course, there are the others,’ he said. ‘But they’re not important, are they?’ He walked to the window and put his face against the glass. Was he looking for something, or somebody? ‘Have you enjoyed yourself today?’ I asked.

‘Oh, yes! I’m so free now. I walked miles and miles. I went everywhere.’

‘And do you like it?’

‘Do you?’ he replied. ‘You are more alone now.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘I’m happy to be here. And why am I still here? For you, of course.’

He stared at me, and his little face was both handsome and serious.

‘You’re staying here just for me?’

‘Yes. I’m your friend, and I want to help you – I told you so, that night, in your bedroom. Do you remember?’

‘Yes, but you wanted something from me, too!’

‘Yes. Tell me everything, Miles. That’s what I want!’

‘Ah! You’re staying here so that I can tell you everything!’

‘Well, yes, it’s true.’

‘Now?’ he asked.

‘It’s a good time. Or do you want to go out again?’

‘Yes, I want to go out very much!’ He picked up his hat, and was ready to leave. ‘I’ll tell you everything – I promise. But later – not now.’

‘Why not now?’

He turned to the window again and was silent. ‘I have to see the gardener,’ he said. He was lying, I knew it. Someone was waiting for him outside.

‘Well, then,’ I said. ‘Tell me just one little thing before you go. Did you take my letter from the table by the door?’

Then, in that same second, I saw the terrible face of Peter Quint at the window again. The room changed, and everything felt bad. But Miles saw nothing.

‘Yes, I took it,’ he said.

I took him in my arms. He could not see the ghost, and he was not lying now! These were two good, good things! The face still stared at us through the glass.

‘Why did you take it?’

‘I wanted to know what you wrote about me,’ he said.

‘And did you open the letter?’ I asked.

‘I opened it, and then I burnt it,’ he said.

‘And did you do this at school? Did you steal letters, and burn them? Did you steal other things, Miles?’

‘Me?’ he asked. ‘Steal? His voice told me that this was a terrible question.

My face was red. ‘Well, why can’t you go back? What did you do, then?’

‘I – I said things,’ the boy replied, ‘to a few people. And then all the masters heard about it. That’s all.’

‘What things?’ I asked. But he didn’t say. Perhaps he really was innocent!

‘Didn’t they tell you? Well, there were some bad things. Perhaps they were too bad for a letter.’

But the face at the window came closer. It wanted to stop Miles, to stop his true answers. I screamed and held Miles again. ‘No more, no more!’ I shouted to the ghost.

‘Is she here?’ Miles asked, and turned his eyes to the window. But he could still see nothing.

‘She?’ I asked.

‘Miss Jessel, Miss Jessel!’ he shouted in anger.

I understood then; he was thinking about Flora’s story.

‘No, it’s not Miss Jessel. But that other dreadful face – that wicked man – he’s at the window for the last time!’

He got angrier then, and the room felt worse. ‘He is here then?’ he asked.

‘Who?’ I had to ask him.

‘Peter Quint, of course! Where is he?’ He looked round the room. ‘Where?’

‘It doesn’t matter!’ I said. ‘I have you now! You are mine, not his! He has lost you forever! There, there!’ I pointed. But Miles saw nothing. He screamed like an animal, like a person who has lost everything. ‘He’s falling!’ I thought. ‘I must catch him and save him!’ I held him hard, very hard. And then Miles and I were alone, alone together in a quiet afternoon. But suddenly, his little heart stopped, and I realised what I was holding. I was holding a dead child, not a living one.