7

7 min

I got hold of Mrs. Grose as soon after this as I could; and I can give no intelligible account of how I fought out the interval. Yet I still hear myself cry as I fairly threw myself into her arms: “They know—it’s too monstrous: they know, they know!”

I found Mrs. Grose as soon as I could after this. I can hardly explain how I struggled through the time before I found her. Yet I still hear myself cry out as I practically threw myself into her arms: “They know. It’s too monstrous. They know, they know!”

“And what on earth—?” I felt her incredulity as she held me.

“And what on earth...?” I could feel her disbelief as she held me.

“Why, all that we know—and heaven knows what else besides!” Then, as she released me, I made it out to her, made it out perhaps only now with full coherency even to myself. “Two hours ago, in the garden”—I could scarce articulate—“Flora saw!”

“Why, all that we know, and heaven knows what else!” Then, as she let go of me, I explained it to her. Perhaps only now did it become fully clear even to me. “Two hours ago, in the garden,” I could barely get the words out, “Flora saw!”

Mrs. Grose took it as she might have taken a blow in the stomach. “She has told you?” she panted.

Mrs. Grose reacted as if she had been punched in the stomach. “She told you?” she panted.

“Not a word—that’s the horror. She kept it to herself! The child of eight, that child!” Unutterable still, for me, was the stupefaction of it.

“Not a word. That’s the horror. She kept it to herself! An eight-year-old, that child!” I was still too stunned to put it into words.

Mrs. Grose, of course, could only gape the wider. “Then how do you know?”

Mrs. Grose, of course, could only stare with her mouth open even wider. “Then how do you know?”

“I was there—I saw with my eyes: saw that she was perfectly aware.”

“I was there. I saw with my own eyes that she was fully aware.”

“Do you mean aware of him?”

“No—of her.” I was conscious as I spoke that I looked prodigious things, for I got the slow reflection of them in my companion’s face. “Another person—this time; but a figure of quite as unmistakable horror and evil: a woman in black, pale and dreadful—with such an air also, and such a face!—on the other side of the lake. I was there with the child—quiet for the hour; and in the midst of it she came.”

“No, her.” As I spoke, I knew my expression showed something extraordinary. I saw it slowly reflected in my companion’s face. “Another person this time, but a figure just as unmistakably horrifying and evil. A woman in black, pale and dreadful, stood on the other side of the lake. And her manner, and her face! I was there with the child. We had been quiet for an hour, and in the middle of that time she appeared.”

“Came how—from where?”

“How did they come, and where from?”

“From where they come from! She just appeared and stood there—but not so near.”

“Where do they come from? She just appeared and stood there, but not so close.”

“And without coming nearer?”

“And without coming closer?”

“Oh, for the effect and the feeling, she might have been as close as you!”

“Oh, from how it felt, she might have been as close as you!”

My friend, with an odd impulse, fell back a step. “Was she someone you’ve never seen?”

My friend stepped back on a strange impulse. “Was she someone you’ve never seen before?”

“Yes. But someone the child has. Someone you have.” Then, to show how I had thought it all out: “My predecessor—the one who died.”

“Yes. But someone the child has. Someone you have.” Then, to show I had thought it all through, I said: “My predecessor, the one who died.”

“Miss Jessel?”

“Miss Jessel. You don’t believe me?” I pressed.

“Miss Jessel. You don’t believe me?” I insisted.

She turned right and left in her distress. “How can you be sure?”

She turned from side to side, distressed. “How can you be sure?”

This drew from me, in the state of my nerves, a flash of impatience. “Then ask Flora—she’s sure!” But I had no sooner spoken than I caught myself up. “No, for God’s sake, don’t! She’ll say she isn’t—she’ll lie!”

This made me suddenly impatient because my nerves were on edge. “Then ask Flora. She’s sure!” But as soon as I spoke, I caught myself. “No, for God’s sake, don’t! She’ll say she isn’t. She’ll lie!”

Mrs. Grose was not too bewildered instinctively to protest. “Ah, how can you?”

Mrs. Grose was not too confused to protest instinctively. “Oh, how can you?”

“Because I’m clear. Flora doesn’t want me to know.”

“Because I’m sure. Flora doesn’t want me to know.”

“It’s only then to spare you.”

“Then it’s only to spare you.”

“No, no—there are depths, depths! The more I go over it, the more I see in it, and the more I see in it, the more I fear. I don’t know what I don’t see—what I don’t fear!”

“No, no, there are depths, depths! The more I think about it, the more I see in it. And the more I see, the more I fear. I don’t know what I don’t see, what I don’t fear!”

Mrs. Grose tried to keep up with me. “You mean you’re afraid of seeing her again?”

Mrs. Grose tried to follow me. “You mean you’re afraid of seeing her again?”

“Oh, no; that’s nothing—now!” Then I explained. “It’s of not seeing her.”

“Oh, no. That’s nothing now!” Then I explained. “It’s not seeing her.”

But my companion only looked wan. “I don’t understand you.”

But my companion only looked pale. “I don’t understand you.”

“Why, it’s that the child may keep it up—and that the child assuredly will—without my knowing it.”

“Why, the child may keep it up without my knowing, and the child surely will.”

At the image of this possibility Mrs. Grose for a moment collapsed, yet presently to pull herself together again, as if from the positive force of the sense of what, should we yield an inch, there would really be to give way to. “Dear, dear—we must keep our heads! And after all, if she doesn’t mind it—!” She even tried a grim joke. “Perhaps she likes it!”

At the thought of this possibility, Mrs. Grose faltered for a moment. But she soon pulled herself together, as if realizing what they would be giving way to if they yielded an inch. “Dear, dear, we must keep our heads! And after all, if she doesn’t mind it...!” She even tried a grim joke. “Perhaps she likes it!”

“Likes such things—a scrap of an infant!”

“Likes such things, a tiny baby!”

“Isn’t it just a proof of her blessed innocence?” my friend bravely inquired.

“Isn’t it just proof of her blessed innocence?” my friend asked bravely.

She brought me, for the instant, almost round. “Oh, we must clutch at that—we must cling to it! If it isn’t a proof of what you say, it’s a proof of—God knows what! For the woman’s a horror of horrors.”

For a moment, she almost convinced me. “Oh, we must hold on to that. We must cling to it! If it isn’t proof of what you say, it’s proof of God knows what! Because the woman is an absolute horror.”

Mrs. Grose, at this, fixed her eyes a minute on the ground; then at last raising them, “Tell me how you know,” she said.

At this, Mrs. Grose stared at the ground for a moment. Then she finally looked up. “Tell me how you know,” she said.

“Then you admit it’s what she was?” I cried.

“Then you admit that’s what she was?” I cried.

“Tell me how you know,” my friend simply repeated.

“Know? By seeing her! By the way she looked.”

“At you, do you mean—so wickedly?”

“At you, do you mean, so wickedly?”

“Dear me, no—I could have borne that. She gave me never a glance. She only fixed the child.”

“Oh no, I could have borne that. She never even looked at me. She only stared at the child.”

Mrs. Grose tried to see it. “Fixed her?”

Mrs. Grose tried to understand. “Fixed her?”

“Ah, with such awful eyes!”

“Oh, with such terrifying eyes!”

She stared at mine as if they might really have resembled them. “Do you mean of dislike?”

She stared at mine as if they might really look like them. “Do you mean dislike?”

“God help us, no. Of something much worse.”

“God help us, no. Something much worse.”

“Worse than dislike?”—this left her indeed at a loss.

“Worse than dislike?” This question left her at a loss.

“With a determination—indescribable. With a kind of fury of intention.”

“With a determination beyond words. With a kind of fierce intent.”

I made her turn pale. “Intention?”

“To get hold of her.” Mrs. Grose—her eyes just lingering on mine—gave a shudder and walked to the window; and while she stood there looking out I completed my statement. “That’s what Flora knows.”

“To get hold of her.” Mrs. Grose’s eyes lingered on mine for a moment. Then she shuddered and walked to the window. While she stood there looking out, I finished what I was saying. “That’s what Flora knows.”

After a little she turned round. “The person was in black, you say?”

After a moment she turned around. “You say the person was dressed in black?”

“In mourning—rather poor, almost shabby. But—yes—with extraordinary beauty.” I now recognized to what I had at last, stroke by stroke, brought the victim of my confidence, for she quite visibly weighed this. “Oh, handsome—very, very,” I insisted; “wonderfully handsome. But infamous.”

“In mourning clothes, rather poor, almost shabby. But yes, extraordinarily beautiful.” I now saw what I had slowly led the woman I had confided in to realize. She was visibly thinking it over. “Oh, handsome, very, very handsome,” I insisted. “Wonderfully handsome. But notorious.”

She slowly came back to me. “Miss Jessel—was infamous.” She once more took my hand in both her own, holding it as tight as if to fortify me against the increase of alarm I might draw from this disclosure. “They were both infamous,” she finally said.

She slowly came back to me. “Miss Jessel was infamous.” She took my hand in both of hers again. She held it tightly, as if to brace me against the greater alarm her revelation might cause. “They were both infamous,” she finally said.

So, for a little, we faced it once more together; and I found absolutely a degree of help in seeing it now so straight. “I appreciate,” I said, “the great decency of your not having hitherto spoken; but the time has certainly come to give me the whole thing.” She appeared to assent to this, but still only in silence; seeing which I went on: “I must have it now. Of what did she die? Come, there was something between them.”

So, for a little while, we faced it together again. I found it genuinely helpful to see it so clearly now. “I appreciate,” I said, “how considerate you’ve been not to speak of it until now. But the time has certainly come to tell me everything.” She seemed to agree, but she remained silent. So I went on: “I must know now. What did she die of? Come, there was something between them.”

“There was everything.”

“Everything was there.”

“In spite of the difference—?”

“Despite the difference?”

“Oh, of their rank, their condition”—she brought it woefully out. “She was a lady.”

“Oh, their social rank, their status.” She said it mournfully. “She was a lady.”

I turned it over; I again saw. “Yes—she was a lady.”

I thought it over. I saw again. “Yes, she was a lady.”

“And he so dreadfully below,” said Mrs. Grose.

“And he was so terribly far below,” said Mrs. Grose.

I felt that I doubtless needn’t press too hard, in such company, on the place of a servant in the scale; but there was nothing to prevent an acceptance of my companion’s own measure of my predecessor’s abasement. There was a way to deal with that, and I dealt; the more readily for my full vision—on the evidence—of our employer’s late clever, good-looking “own” man; impudent, assured, spoiled, depraved. “The fellow was a hound.”

I felt I probably shouldn’t press too hard on a servant’s place in the social order, given the company I was in. But nothing stopped me from accepting my companion’s own judgment of how low my predecessor had fallen. There was a way to address that, and I did. It was all the easier because, from the evidence, I could clearly picture our employer’s former “own” man. He was clever and good-looking, impudent, self-assured, spoiled, and depraved. “The fellow was a hound.”

Mrs. Grose considered as if it were perhaps a little a case for a sense of shades. “I’ve never seen one like him. He did what he wished.”

Mrs. Grose considered the question, as if perhaps the answer required some nuance. “I’ve never seen anyone like him. He did as he pleased.”

“With her?”

“With them all.”

“With all of them.”

It was as if now in my friend’s own eyes Miss Jessel had again appeared. I seemed at any rate, for an instant, to see their evocation of her as distinctly as I had seen her by the pond; and I brought out with decision: “It must have been also what she wished!”

It was as if Miss Jessel had appeared again in my friend’s eyes. For a moment, at least, I seemed to see her image in those eyes as clearly as I had seen her by the pond. I said firmly: “It must have been what she wanted too!”

Mrs. Grose’s face signified that it had been indeed, but she said at the same time: “Poor woman—she paid for it!”

Mrs. Grose’s face showed that it had indeed been so, but she also said: “Poor woman, she paid for it!”

“Then you do know what she died of?” I asked.

“No—I know nothing. I wanted not to know; I was glad enough I didn’t; and I thanked heaven she was well out of this!”

“No, I know nothing. I didn’t want to know. I was glad I didn’t, and I thanked heaven she was safely out of this!”

“Yet you had, then, your idea—”

“But you had an idea, then...”

“Of her real reason for leaving? Oh, yes—as to that. She couldn’t have stayed. Fancy it here—for a governess! And afterward I imagined—and I still imagine. And what I imagine is dreadful.”

“Her real reason for leaving? Oh, yes, about that. She couldn’t have stayed. Imagine being a governess here! And afterward I imagined what happened, and I still do. What I imagine is dreadful.”

“Not so dreadful as what I do,” I replied; on which I must have shown her—as I was indeed but too conscious—a front of miserable defeat. It brought out again all her compassion for me, and at the renewed touch of her kindness my power to resist broke down. I burst, as I had, the other time, made her burst, into tears; she took me to her motherly breast, and my lamentation overflowed. “I don’t do it!” I sobbed in despair; “I don’t save or shield them! It’s far worse than I dreamed—they’re lost!”

“Not as dreadful as what I do,” I replied. I must have looked miserably defeated, and I was painfully aware of it. My expression brought out all her compassion for me again. When she showed me that kindness, my resistance broke down. I burst into tears, just as I had made her burst into tears the other time. She held me to her breast like a mother, and my grief poured out. “I don’t do it!” I sobbed in despair. “I don’t save or protect them! It’s far worse than I imagined. They’re lost!”