Chapter 2

This came home to me when, two days later, I drove over with Flora to meet, as Mrs. Grose said, the little gentleman; and all the more for an incident that, presenting itself the second evening, had deeply disconcerted me. The first day had been, on the whole, as I have expressed, reassuring; but I was to see it wind up in keen apprehension. The postbag, that evening—it came late—contained a letter for me, which, however, in the hand of my employer, I found to be composed but of a few words enclosing another, addressed to himself, with a seal still unbroken. “This, I recognize, is from the headmaster, and the headmaster’s an awful bore. Read him, please; deal with him; but mind you don’t report. Not a word. I’m off!” I broke the seal with a great effort—so great a one that I was a long time coming to it; took the unopened missive at last up to my room and only attacked it just before going to bed. I had better have let it wait till morning, for it gave me a second sleepless night. With no counsel to take, the next day, I was full of distress; and it finally got so the better of me that I determined to open myself at least to Mrs. Grose.

This became clear to me two days later, when I drove with Flora to meet, as Mrs. Grose called him, the little gentleman. I felt it all the more because of an incident on the second evening that had deeply unsettled me. The first day had been reassuring on the whole, as I have said, but it ended in sharp anxiety. The mailbag arrived late that evening and contained a letter for me. It was in my employer’s handwriting and contained only a few words. It also enclosed another letter, addressed to him and still sealed. “I recognize this as a letter from the headmaster, and the headmaster is an awful bore. Please read it and deal with him, but make sure you don’t report back. Not a word. I’m off!” Breaking the seal took a great effort, so great that I put it off for a long time. At last I took the unopened letter up to my room and tackled it just before bed. I would have been better off leaving it until morning, for it gave me a second sleepless night. The next day, with no one to advise me, I was deeply distressed. Finally, my distress got the better of me, and I decided to confide in Mrs. Grose at least.

“What does it mean? The child’s dismissed his school.”

“What does it mean? The child has been expelled from school.”

She gave me a look that I remarked at the moment; then, visibly, with a quick blankness, seemed to try to take it back. “But aren’t they all—?”

She gave me a look that I noticed at once. Then, her face suddenly blank, she seemed to try to take it back. “But aren’t they all...?”

“Sent home—yes. But only for the holidays. Miles may never go back at all.”

“Sent home, yes. But only for the holidays. Miles may never go back at all.”

Consciously, under my attention, she reddened. “They won’t take him?”

Aware that I was watching her, she blushed. “They won’t take him?”

“They absolutely decline.”

“They absolutely refuse.”

At this she raised her eyes, which she had turned from me; I saw them fill with good tears. “What has he done?”

At this, she looked up at me again. I saw her eyes fill with genuine tears. “What has he done?”

I hesitated; then I judged best simply to hand her my letter—which, however, had the effect of making her, without taking it, simply put her hands behind her. She shook her head sadly. “Such things are not for me, miss.”

I hesitated, then decided it was best simply to hand her my letter. But instead of taking it, she put her hands behind her back. She shook her head sadly. “Such things are not for me, miss.”

My counselor couldn’t read! I winced at my mistake, which I attenuated as I could, and opened my letter again to repeat it to her; then, faltering in the act and folding it up once more, I put it back in my pocket. “Is he really bad?”

My adviser couldn’t read! I winced at my mistake and tried to make it less awkward. I opened my letter again to read it to her, but hesitated. I folded it up once more and put it back in my pocket. “Is he really bad?”

The tears were still in her eyes. “Do the gentlemen say so?”

Tears were still in her eyes. “Do the gentlemen say so?”

“They go into no particulars. They simply express their regret that it should be impossible to keep him. That can have only one meaning.” Mrs. Grose listened with dumb emotion; she forbore to ask me what this meaning might be; so that, presently, to put the thing with some coherence and with the mere aid of her presence to my own mind, I went on: “That he’s an injury to the others.”

“They give no details. They simply say they regret that they cannot keep him. That can mean only one thing.” Mrs. Grose listened, silently moved. She did not ask me what I meant. So, after a moment, I went on, trying to make sense of it in my own mind with her presence alone to help me: “That he’s harmful to the others.”

At this, with one of the quick turns of simple folk, she suddenly flamed up. “Master Miles! him an injury?”

At this, she suddenly flared up, as simple people sometimes do. “Master Miles! him a danger?”

There was such a flood of good faith in it that, though I had not yet seen the child, my very fears made me jump to the absurdity of the idea. I found myself, to meet my friend the better, offering it, on the spot, sarcastically. “To his poor little innocent mates!”

There was such an outpouring of good faith in it that my own fears made me jump to the absurd idea. This was even though I had not yet seen the child. To respond to my friend, I offered the idea sarcastically, right then: “To his poor little innocent classmates!”

“It’s too dreadful,” cried Mrs. Grose, “to say such cruel things! Why, he’s scarce ten years old.”

“It’s awful,” cried Mrs. Grose, “to say such cruel things! He’s barely ten years old.”

“Yes, yes; it would be incredible.”

“Yes, yes. It would be hard to believe.”

She was evidently grateful for such a profession. “See him, miss, first. Then believe it!” I felt forthwith a new impatience to see him; it was the beginning of a curiosity that, for all the next hours, was to deepen almost to pain. Mrs. Grose was aware, I could judge, of what she had produced in me, and she followed it up with assurance. “You might as well believe it of the little lady. Bless her,” she added the next moment—“look at her!”

She was clearly grateful for my declaration. “See him, miss, first. Then believe it!” I immediately felt a new impatience to see him. For all the next few hours, my curiosity would grow until it was almost painful. I could tell that Mrs. Grose knew what she had stirred in me. She followed it up confidently. “You might as well believe it of the little lady. Bless her,” she added a moment later. “Look at her!”

I turned and saw that Flora, whom, ten minutes before, I had established in the schoolroom with a sheet of white paper, a pencil, and a copy of nice “round O’s,” now presented herself to view at the open door. She expressed in her little way an extraordinary detachment from disagreeable duties, looking to me, however, with a great childish light that seemed to offer it as a mere result of the affection she had conceived for my person, which had rendered necessary that she should follow me. I needed nothing more than this to feel the full force of Mrs. Grose’s comparison, and, catching my pupil in my arms, covered her with kisses in which there was a sob of atonement.

I turned and saw Flora standing in the open doorway. Ten minutes earlier, I had settled her in the schoolroom with a sheet of white paper, a pencil, and a copy of nice “round O’s” to practice. In her own little way, she showed a remarkable indifference to unpleasant duties. Yet she looked at me with a bright, childlike expression. She seemed to suggest that she had left her work simply because her affection for me had made her follow me. That was all I needed to feel the full force of Mrs. Grose’s comparison. I caught my pupil in my arms and covered her with kisses, sobbing as if to make amends.

Nonetheless, the rest of the day I watched for further occasion to approach my colleague, especially as, toward evening, I began to fancy she rather sought to avoid me. I overtook her, I remember, on the staircase; we went down together, and at the bottom I detained her, holding her there with a hand on her arm. “I take what you said to me at noon as a declaration that you’ve never known him to be bad.”

Still, for the rest of the day, I watched for another chance to speak to my colleague. By evening, I had begun to think she was trying to avoid me. I remember catching up with her on the stairs. We went down together, and at the bottom I stopped her, holding her arm. “I take what you told me at noon to mean that you’ve never known him to be bad.”

She threw back her head; she had clearly, by this time, and very honestly, adopted an attitude. “Oh, never known him—I don’t pretend that!”

She threw back her head. By now, she had clearly and quite honestly taken a stand. “Oh, I don’t pretend I never knew him. I don’t pretend that!”

I was upset again. “Then you have known him—?”

I was upset again. “Then you have known him?”

“Yes indeed, miss, thank God!”

“Yes, miss, thank God!”

On reflection I accepted this. “You mean that a boy who never is—?”

After thinking it over, I accepted this. “You mean a boy who never is...?”

“Is no boy for me!”

“He's no boy for me!”

I held her tighter. “You like them with the spirit to be naughty?” Then, keeping pace with her answer, “So do I!” I eagerly brought out. “But not to the degree to contaminate—”

I held her tighter. “You like them spirited enough to be naughty?” As she answered, I eagerly said, “So do I! But not so naughty that they contaminate.”

“To contaminate?”—my big word left her at a loss. I explained it. “To corrupt.”

“To contaminate?” My big word confused her. I explained what it meant. “To corrupt.”

She stared, taking my meaning in; but it produced in her an odd laugh. “Are you afraid he’ll corrupt you?” She put the question with such a fine bold humor that, with a laugh, a little silly doubtless, to match her own, I gave way for the time to the apprehension of ridicule.

She stared as she understood what I meant, but then she gave an odd laugh. “Are you afraid he’ll corrupt you?” She asked with such bold, playful humor that I laughed too, probably a little foolishly. For the moment, I gave in to my fear of being ridiculed.

But the next day, as the hour for my drive approached, I cropped up in another place. “What was the lady who was here before?”

But the next day, as the time for my drive approached, I popped up somewhere else. “What was the lady who was here before?”

“The last governess? She was also young and pretty—almost as young and almost as pretty, miss, even as you.”

“The last governess? She was young and pretty too. Almost as young and almost as pretty as you, miss.”

“Ah, then, I hope her youth and her beauty helped her!” I recollect throwing off. “He seems to like us young and pretty!”

“Oh, then, I hope her youth and beauty helped her!” I remember saying casually. “He seems to like us young and pretty!”

“Oh, he did,” Mrs. Grose assented: “it was the way he liked everyone!” She had no sooner spoken indeed than she caught herself up. “I mean that’s his way—the master’s.”

“Oh, he did,” Mrs. Grose agreed: “that was how he liked everyone!” But as soon as she spoke, she corrected herself. “I mean that’s his way, the master’s.”

I was struck. “But of whom did you speak first?”

I was surprised. “But who did you speak of first?”

She looked blank, but she colored. “Why, of him.”

She looked confused, but she blushed. “Why, of him.”

“Of the master?”

“About the master?”

“Of who else?”

“Who else?”

There was so obviously no one else that the next moment I had lost my impression of her having accidentally said more than she meant; and I merely asked what I wanted to know. “Did she see anything in the boy—?”

There was so obviously no one else that, a moment later, I no longer thought she had accidentally said too much. I simply asked what I wanted to know. “Did she see anything in the boy?”

“That wasn’t right? She never told me.”

“That wasn’t right? She never told me.”

I had a scruple, but I overcame it. “Was she careful—particular?”

I hesitated, but I overcame my hesitation. “Was she careful, particular?”

Mrs. Grose appeared to try to be conscientious. “About some things—yes.”

Mrs. Grose seemed to try to be careful and honest. “About some things, yes.”

“But not about all?”

“But not about everything?”

Again she considered. “Well, miss—she’s gone. I won’t tell tales.”

Again, she thought it over. “Well, miss, she’s gone. I won’t gossip about her.”

“I quite understand your feeling,” I hastened to reply; but I thought it, after an instant, not opposed to this concession to pursue: “Did she die here?”

“I quite understand how you feel,” I quickly replied. But after a moment, I thought I could say that and still ask, “Did she die here?”

“No—she went off.”

“No, she left.”

I don’t know what there was in this brevity of Mrs. Grose’s that struck me as ambiguous. “Went off to die?” Mrs. Grose looked straight out of the window, but I felt that, hypothetically, I had a right to know what young persons engaged for Bly were expected to do. “She was taken ill, you mean, and went home?”

I don’t know why Mrs. Grose’s brief answer struck me as ambiguous. “Went off to die?” Mrs. Grose looked straight out of the window. But I felt that, in theory, I had a right to know what young people hired for Bly were expected to do. “You mean she became ill and went home?”

“She was not taken ill, so far as appeared, in this house. She left it, at the end of the year, to go home, as she said, for a short holiday, to which the time she had put in had certainly given her a right. We had then a young woman—a nursemaid who had stayed on and who was a good girl and clever; and she took the children altogether for the interval. But our young lady never came back, and at the very moment I was expecting her I heard from the master that she was dead.”

“As far as anyone could tell, she did not fall ill in this house. At the end of the year, she left to go home for a short holiday, as she said. Her time working here had certainly earned her a holiday. At the time, we had a young woman who had stayed on as a nursemaid. She was a good girl and clever, and she took full charge of the children in the meantime. But our young lady never came back. Just when I was expecting her, the master told me she had died.”

I turned this over. “But of what?”

I thought this over. “But of what?”

“He never told me! But please, miss,” said Mrs. Grose, “I must get to my work.”

“He never told me! But please, miss,” said Mrs. Grose, “I have to get back to work.”