She stared, in short, and retreated on just MY 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
SHE should be scared.
V
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.
I said nothing till she came quite near. "With me?"
I must have made a wonderful face. "Do I show it?"
"You're as white as a sheet. You look awful."
I considered; I could meet on this, without
scruple, 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
instantit 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."
"Has anything happened?"
"Yes. You must know now. Did I look very queer?"
"Through this window? Dreadful!"
"Well," I said, "I've been frightened." Mrs. Grose's eyes expressed
plainly that SHE 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 MUST share! "Just what you
saw from the dining room a minute ago was the effect of that.
What _I_ saw--just before--was much worse."
Her hand tightened. "What was it?"
"An
extraordinary man. Looking in."
"What
extraordinary man?"
"I haven't the least idea."
Mrs. Grose gazed round us in vain. "Then where is he gone?"
"I know still less."
"Have you seen him before?"
"Yes--once. On the old tower."
She could only look at me harder. "Do you mean he's a stranger?"
"Oh, very much!"
"Yet you didn't tell me?"
"No--for reasons. But now that you've guessed--"
Mrs. Grose's round eyes encountered this
charge. "Ah, I haven't guessed!"
she said very simply. "How can I if YOU don't imagine?"
"I don't in the very least."
"You've seen him
nowhere but on the tower?"
"And on this spot just now."
Mrs. Grose looked round again. "What was he doing on the tower?"
"Only
standing there and looking down at me."
She thought a minute. "Was he a gentleman?"
I found I had no need to think. "No." She gazed in deeper wonder. "No."
"Then nobody about the place? Nobody from the village?"
"Nobody--nobody. I didn't tell you, but I made sure."
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--"
"What IS he? He's a horror."
"A horror?"
"He's--God help me if I know WHAT he is!"
Mrs. Grose looked round once more; she fixed her eyes on the duskier distance,
then, pulling herself together, turned to me with
abrupt in
consequence.
"It's time we should be at church."
"Oh, I'm not fit for church!"
"Won't it do you good?"
"It won't do THEM--! I nodded at the house.
"The children?"
"I can't leave them now."
"You're afraid--?"
I spoke
boldly. "I'm afraid of HIM."
Mrs. Grose's large face showed me, at this, for the first time,
the faraway faint
glimmer of a
consciousness more acute:
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