My candle, under a bold flourish, 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 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, detestable,
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. 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 rigor of
confidence, that if I stood my ground a minute I should cease—for the
time, at least—to have him to reckon with; and during the minute,
accordingly, the thing was as human and hideous as a real interview:
hideous just because it _was_ 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 _I_ 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 wretch 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. X

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 counterpane 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 candor 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 of losing an advantage acquired (the
thrill of which had just been so prodigious) as on my consciousness
that she addressed me with a reproach. “You naughty: where _have_ you
been?”—instead of challenging her own irregularity I found myself
arraigned 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?”

“Well, you know, I thought someone was”—she never blanched as she
smiled out that at me. Oh, how I looked at her now! “And did you see anyone?”

“Ah, _no!_” she returned, almost with the full privilege of childish
inconsequence, resentfully, though with a long sweetness in her little
drawl of the negative. 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
_know_ 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 solicitation dropped, alas,
as it came: if I could immediately have succumbed 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?”

Flora luminously considered; after which, with her little divine smile:
“Because I don’t like to frighten you!”

“But if I had, by your idea, gone out—?”

She absolutely declined to be puzzled; she turned her eyes to the flame
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 _have!_” 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 pertinence of my return. 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.