XVI
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 gaily denouncing 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 placidity before the fire. So I see her still, so I see
her best: facing the flame from her straight chair in the
dusky, shining room, a large clean image of the “put
away”—of drawers closed and locked and rest without a
remedy.
“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?”
“I only went with you for the walk,” I said. “I had then
to come back to meet a friend.”
She showed her surprise. “A friend—you?”
“Oh, yes, I have a couple!” I laughed. “But did the
children give you a reason?”
“For not alluding to your leaving us? Yes; they said you
would like it better. Do you like it better?”
100
HENRY JAMES 101
My face had made her rueful. “No, I like it worse!” But
after an instant I added: “Did they say why I should like it
better?”
“No; Master Miles only said, ‘We must do nothing but
what she likes’!”
“I wish indeed he would! And what did Flora say?”
“Miss Flora was too sweet. She said, ‘Oh, of course, of
course!’—and I said the same.”
I thought a moment. “You were too sweet too—I can
hear you all. But none the less, between Miles and me, it’s
now all out.”
“All out?” My companion stared. “But what, Miss?”
“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.”
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?”
“It came to that. I found her, on my return, in the
schoolroom.”
“And what did she say?” I can hear the good woman
still, and the candour of her stupefaction.
“That she suffers the torments—!”
It was this, of a truth, that made her, as she filled out my
picture, gape. “Do you mean,” she faltered, “—of the lost?”
“Of the lost. Of the damned. And that’s why, to share
them—” I faltered myself with the horror of it.
But my companion, with less imagination, kept me up.
“To share them—?”
“She wants Flora.” Mrs. Grose might, as I gave it to her,
fairly have fallen away from me had I not been prepared. I
102 THE TURN OF THE SCREW
still held her there, to show I was. “As I’ve told you,
however, it doesn’t matter.”
“Because you’ve made up your mind? But to what?”
“To everything.”
“And what do you call ‘everything’?”
“Why, sending for their uncle.”
“Oh, Miss, in pity do,” my friend broke out.
“Ah, but I will, I will! 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—”
“Yes, Miss—” my companion pressed me.
“Well, there’s that awful reason.”
There were now clearly so many of these for my poor
colleague that she was excusable for being vague. “But—a—
which?”
“Why, the letter from his old place.”
“You’ll show it to the master?”
“I ought to have done so on the instant.”
“Oh, no!” said Mrs. Grose with decision.
“I’ll put it before him,” I went on inexorably, “that I
can’t undertake to work the question on behalf of a child
who has been expelled—”
“For we’ve never in the least known what!” Mrs. Grose
declared.
“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
that; and that would open up the whole thing. After all,” I
said, “it’s their uncle’s fault. If he left here such people—!”
HENRY JAMES 103
“He didn’t really in the least know them. The fault’s
mine.” She had turned quite pale.
“Well, you shan’t suffer,” I answered.
“The children shan’t!” she emphatically returned.
I was silent awhile; we looked at each other. “Then
what am I to tell him?”
“You needn’t tell him anything. I’ll tell him.”
I measured this. “Do you mean you’ll write—?”
Remembering she couldn’t, I caught myself up. “How do
you communicate?”
“I tell the bailiff. He writes.”
“And should you like him to write our story?”
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,
you write!”
“Well—tonight,” I at last answered; and on this we
separated.
