“Yes—I’ve written.” But I didn’t add—for the hour—that my letter, sealed and directed, was still in my pocket. There would be time enough to send it before the messenger should go to the village. Meanwhile there had been, on the part of my pupils, no more brilliant, more exemplary morning. It was exactly as if they had both had at heart to gloss1 over any recent little friction2. They performed the dizziest feats3 of arithmetic, soaring quite out of my feeble range, and perpetrated, in higher spirits than ever, geographical4 and historical jokes. It was conspicuous5 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 misery6 that no words can translate; there was a distinction all his own in every impulse he revealed; never was a small natural creature, to the uninitiated eye all frankness and freedom, a more ingenious, a more extraordinary little gentleman. I had perpetually to guard against the wonder of contemplation into which my initiated7 view betrayed me; to check the irrelevant8 gaze and discouraged sigh in which I constantly both attacked and renounced9 the enigma10 of what such a little gentleman could have done that deserved a penalty. Say that, by the dark prodigy11 I knew, the imagination of all evil had been opened up to him: all the justice within me ached for the proof that it could ever have flowered into an act.
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 literally12 a charming exhibition of tact13, of magnanimity, and quite tantamount to his saying outright14: “The true knights15 we love to read about never push an advantage too far. I know what you mean now: you mean that—to be let alone yourself and not followed up—you’ll cease to worry and spy upon me, won’t keep me so close to you, will let me go and come. Well, I ‘come,’ you see—but I don’t go! There’ll be plenty of time for that. I do really delight in your society, and I only want to show you that I contended for a principle.” It may be imagined whether I resisted this appeal or failed to accompany him again, hand in hand, to the schoolroom. He sat down at the old piano and played as he had never played; and if there are those who think he had better have been kicking a football I can only say that I wholly agree with them. For at the end of a time that under his influence I had quite ceased to measure, I started up with a strange sense of having literally slept at my post. It was after luncheon16, 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 Flora17? When I put the question to Miles, he played on a minute before answering and then could only say: “Why, my dear, how do I know?”—breaking moreover into a happy laugh which, immediately after, as if it were a vocal19 accompaniment, he prolonged into incoherent, extravagant20 song.
I went straight to my room, but his sister was not there; then, before going downstairs, I looked into several others. As she was nowhere about she would surely be with Mrs. Grose, whom, in the comfort of that theory, I accordingly proceeded in quest of. I found her where I had found her the evening before, but she met my quick challenge with blank, scared ignorance. She had only supposed that, after the repast, I had carried off both the children; as to which she was quite in her right, for it was the very first time I had allowed the little girl out of my sight without some special provision. Of course now indeed she might be with the maids, so that the immediate18 thing was to look for her without an air of alarm. This we promptly21 arranged between us; but when, ten minutes later and in pursuance of our arrangement, we met in the hall, it was only to report on either side that after guarded inquiries22 we had altogether failed to trace her. For a minute there, apart from observation, we exchanged mute alarms, and I could feel with what high interest my friend returned me all those I had from the first given her.
“She’ll be above,” she presently said—“in one of the rooms you haven’t searched.”
“No; she’s at a distance.” I had made up my mind. “She has gone out.”
Mrs. Grose stared. “Without a hat?”
I naturally also looked volumes. “Isn’t that woman always without one?”
“She’s with her?”
“She’s with her!” I declared. “We must find them.”
My hand was on my friend’s arm, but she failed for the moment, confronted with such an account of the matter, to respond to my pressure. She communed, on the contrary, on the spot, with her uneasiness. “And where’s Master Miles?”
“Oh, he’s with Quint. They’re in the schoolroom.”
“Lord, miss!” My view, I was myself aware—and therefore I suppose my tone—had never yet reached so calm an assurance.
“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.”
“‘Divine’?” Mrs. Grose bewilderedly echoed.
“Infernal, then!” I almost cheerfully rejoined. “He has provided for himself as well. But come!”
She had helplessly gloomed at the upper regions. “You leave him—?”
“So long with Quint? Yes—I don’t mind that now.”
She always ended, at these moments, by getting possession of my hand, and in this manner she could at present still stay me. But after gasping23 an instant at my sudden resignation, “Because of your letter?” she eagerly brought out.
I quickly, by way of answer, felt for my letter, drew it forth24, 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.
My companion still demurred25: 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 doorway26. “You go with nothing on?”
“What do I care when the child has nothing? I can’t wait to dress,” I cried, “and if you must do so, I leave you. Try meanwhile, yourself, upstairs.”
“With them?” Oh, on this, the poor woman promptly joined me!
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1
gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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2
friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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3
feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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4
geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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5
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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6
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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7
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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8
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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9
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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10
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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11
prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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12
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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13
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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14
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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15
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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16
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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17
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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18
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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19
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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20
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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22
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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23
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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24
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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25
demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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