Chapter 8

What I had said to Mrs. Grose was true enough: there were in the matter I had put before her depths and possibilities that I lacked resolution to sound; so that when we met once more in the wonder of it we were of a common mind about the duty of resistance to extravagant fancies. We were to keep our heads if we should keep nothing else—difficult indeed as that might be in the face of what, in our prodigious experience, was least to be questioned. Late that night, while the house slept, we had another talk in my room, when she went all the way with me as to its being beyond doubt that I had seen exactly what I had seen. To hold her perfectly in the pinch of that, I found I had only to ask her how, if I had “made it up,” I came to be able to give, of each of the persons appearing to me, a picture disclosing, to the last detail, their special marks—a portrait on the exhibition of which she had instantly recognized and named them. She wished of course—small blame to her!—to sink the whole subject; and I was quick to assure her that my own interest in it had now violently taken the form of a search for the way to escape from it. I encountered her on the ground of a probability that with recurrence—for recurrence we took for granted—I should get used to my danger, distinctly professing that my personal exposure had suddenly become the least of my discomforts. It was my new suspicion that was intolerable; and yet even to this complication the later hours of the day had brought a little ease.

What I had said to Mrs. Grose was true enough. The matter I had put before her had depths and possibilities I lacked the courage to explore. So when we met again, still full of wonder, we agreed that we must resist wild imaginings. We had to keep our heads, even if we kept nothing else. That would be difficult, given the part of our extraordinary experience that was least open to doubt. Late that night, while the house slept, we talked again in my room. Mrs. Grose agreed completely that I had undoubtedly seen exactly what I had seen. To keep her convinced of that, I needed only to ask her one question. If I had “made it up,” how could I have described each person I had seen, down to their distinguishing marks? She had instantly recognized and named them from my descriptions. Of course, she wanted to drop the whole subject. I could hardly blame her! I quickly assured her that my own interest had now turned intensely toward finding a way to escape it. We agreed that, if the appearances happened again, I would probably get used to the danger. We took it for granted that they would happen again. I stated plainly that my own exposure to danger had suddenly become the least of my troubles. What I could not bear was my new suspicion. Yet even that complication had become a little easier to bear in the later hours of the day.

On leaving her, after my first outbreak, I had of course returned to my pupils, associating the right remedy for my dismay with that sense of their charm which I had already found to be a thing I could positively cultivate and which had never failed me yet. I had simply, in other words, plunged afresh into Flora’s special society and there become aware—it was almost a luxury!—that she could put her little conscious hand straight upon the spot that ached. She had looked at me in sweet speculation and then had accused me to my face of having “cried.” I had supposed I had brushed away the ugly signs: but I could literally—for the time, at all events—rejoice, under this fathomless charity, that they had not entirely disappeared. To gaze into the depths of blue of the child’s eyes and pronounce their loveliness a trick of premature cunning was to be guilty of a cynicism in preference to which I naturally preferred to abjure my judgment and, so far as might be, my agitation. I couldn’t abjure for merely wanting to, but I could repeat to Mrs. Grose—as I did there, over and over, in the small hours—that with their voices in the air, their pressure on one’s heart, and their fragrant faces against one’s cheek, everything fell to the ground but their incapacity and their beauty. It was a pity that, somehow, to settle this once for all, I had equally to re-enumerate the signs of subtlety that, in the afternoon, by the lake had made a miracle of my show of self-possession. It was a pity to be obliged to reinvestigate the certitude of the moment itself and repeat how it had come to me as a revelation that the inconceivable communion I then surprised was a matter, for either party, of habit. It was a pity that I should have had to quaver out again the reasons for my not having, in my delusion, so much as questioned that the little girl saw our visitant even as I actually saw Mrs. Grose herself, and that she wanted, by just so much as she did thus see, to make me suppose she didn’t, and at the same time, without showing anything, arrive at a guess as to whether I myself did! It was a pity that I needed once more to describe the portentous little activity by which she sought to divert my attention—the perceptible increase of movement, the greater intensity of play, the singing, the gabbling of nonsense, and the invitation to romp.

After my first outburst, I left her and, of course, returned to my pupils. I believed the best remedy for my distress was to feel their charm. I had already found that I could deliberately cultivate that feeling, and it had never failed me yet. In other words, I simply plunged back into Flora’s company. There I realized, almost with a sense of luxury, that she could place her little, knowing hand right on the sore spot. She looked at me with sweet curiosity, then accused me to my face of having “cried.” I had thought I had wiped away the ugly signs. But under such boundless kindness, I could actually rejoice, for the time being, that they had not entirely disappeared. To look into the depths of the child’s blue eyes and call their beauty a trick of precocious cunning would have been cynical. Rather than be so cynical, I naturally preferred to give up my judgment and, as far as possible, my agitation. I could not give them up simply because I wanted to. But I could repeat to Mrs. Grose, as I did there, over and over in the early hours, how the children affected me. With their voices in the air, their hold on one’s heart, and their fragrant faces against one’s cheek, everything else fell away. Only their helplessness and beauty remained. It was a pity that, to settle the question once and for all, I also had to list the signs of cunning again. That afternoon by the lake, those signs had made it a miracle that I appeared to keep my composure. It was a pity that I had to examine again what I had felt so certain of at the time. I had to repeat how it had struck me as a revelation that the inconceivable connection I had caught them sharing was a habit for both of them. It was a pity that I had to tremble as I repeated why I had not, in my delusion, even questioned what I believed. I believed that the little girl saw our visitor as clearly as I actually saw Mrs. Grose herself. I also believed that Flora wanted to make me think she did not see the visitor, though she did. At the same time, without revealing anything, she wanted to guess whether I saw the visitor too. It was a pity that I needed once more to describe the ominous little efforts she made to distract me. She moved about more, played more intensely, sang, babbled nonsense, and invited me to romp with her.

Yet if I had not indulged, to prove there was nothing in it, in this review, I should have missed the two or three dim elements of comfort that still remained to me. I should not for instance have been able to asseverate to my friend that I was certain—which was so much to the good—that I at least had not betrayed myself. I should not have been prompted, by stress of need, by desperation of mind—I scarce know what to call it—to invoke such further aid to intelligence as might spring from pushing my colleague fairly to the wall. She had told me, bit by bit, under pressure, a great deal; but a small shifty spot on the wrong side of it all still sometimes brushed my brow like the wing of a bat; and I remember how on this occasion—for the sleeping house and the concentration alike of our danger and our watch seemed to help—I felt the importance of giving the last jerk to the curtain. “I don’t believe anything so horrible,” I recollect saying; “no, let us put it definitely, my dear, that I don’t. But if I did, you know, there’s a thing I should require now, just without sparing you the least bit more—oh, not a scrap, come!—to get out of you. What was it you had in mind when, in our distress, before Miles came back, over the letter from his school, you said, under my insistence, that you didn’t pretend for him that he had not literally ever been ‘bad’? He has not literally ‘ever,’ in these weeks that I myself have lived with him and so closely watched him; he has been an imperturbable little prodigy of delightful, lovable goodness. Therefore you might perfectly have made the claim for him if you had not, as it happened, seen an exception to take. What was your exception, and to what passage in your personal observation of him did you refer?”

Yet if I had not reviewed everything to prove there was nothing in it, I would have missed the two or three faint comforts still left to me. For instance, I would not have been able to assure my friend of one thing. At least I had not given myself away, and I was certain of it. That was something in my favor. Nor would I have been driven to press my colleague into a corner, hoping she could tell me more. I hardly know what to call the feeling that drove me, such urgent need, such desperation. Bit by bit, under pressure, she had told me a great deal. But there was still a small, elusive dark spot in what she had told me. It sometimes brushed my forehead like a bat’s wing. I remember how important it seemed on this occasion to give the curtain one last tug. The sleeping house seemed to help, as did the closeness of the danger and the intensity of our watch. “I don’t believe anything so horrible,” I remember saying. “No, my dear, let us be clear that I don’t. But if I did, you know, there is something I would have to get out of you now. I wouldn’t spare you one bit more. Oh, not a scrap, come! What did you have in mind when you said you couldn’t claim he had literally ever been free of ‘bad’ behavior? You said it when we were distressed over the letter from his school, before Miles came back, and only because I pressed you. He has not literally ‘ever’ been bad in the weeks I have lived with him and watched him so closely. He has been an unshakable little prodigy of delightful, lovable goodness. So you could easily have made that claim for him, if you had not happened to know of an exception. What was the exception? What had you personally seen him do that you were referring to?”

It was a dreadfully austere inquiry, but levity was not our note, and, at any rate, before the gray dawn admonished us to separate I had got my answer. What my friend had had in mind proved to be immensely to the purpose. It was neither more nor less than the circumstance that for a period of several months Quint and the boy had been perpetually together. It was in fact the very appropriate truth that she had ventured to criticize the propriety, to hint at the incongruity, of so close an alliance, and even to go so far on the subject as a frank overture to Miss Jessel. Miss Jessel had, with a most strange manner, requested her to mind her business, and the good woman had, on this, directly approached little Miles. What she had said to him, since I pressed, was that she liked to see young gentlemen not forget their station.

It was a terribly serious inquiry, but we were not in a lighthearted mood. In any case, I had my answer before the gray dawn reminded us to part. What my friend had had in mind turned out to be highly relevant. For several months, Quint and the boy had been constantly together. And, as it happened, she had indeed dared to question whether such a close relationship was proper. She had hinted that it was inappropriate and had even raised the subject openly with Miss Jessel. Miss Jessel, in a very strange manner, had told her to mind her own business. The good woman had then gone directly to little Miles. When I pressed her, she told me what she had said to him: that she liked to see young gentlemen remember their place.

I pressed again, of course, at this. “You reminded him that Quint was only a base menial?”

Of course, I pressed her again. “You reminded him that Quint was only a lowly servant?”

“As you might say! And it was his answer, for one thing, that was bad.”

“You could say that! And his answer, for one thing, was bad.”

“And for another thing?” I waited. “He repeated your words to Quint?”

“And what else?” I waited. “Did he repeat your words to Quint?”

“No, not that. It’s just what he wouldn’t!” she could still impress upon me. “I was sure, at any rate,” she added, “that he didn’t. But he denied certain occasions.”

“No, not that. That’s exactly what he wouldn’t do!” she insisted. “At any rate, I was sure he didn’t,” she added. “But he denied certain occasions.”

“What occasions?”

“What occasions?”

“When they had been about together quite as if Quint were his tutor—and a very grand one—and Miss Jessel only for the little lady. When he had gone off with the fellow, I mean, and spent hours with him.”

“When they spent time together as if Quint were his tutor, and a very grand one, while Miss Jessel was only the little lady’s tutor. I mean, when he went off with the fellow and spent hours with him.”

“He then prevaricated about it—he said he hadn’t?” Her assent was clear enough to cause me to add in a moment: “I see. He lied.”

“Then he was evasive about it? He said he hadn’t?” Her agreement was clear enough that I added a moment later: “I see. He lied.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Grose mumbled. This was a suggestion that it didn’t matter; which indeed she backed up by a further remark. “You see, after all, Miss Jessel didn’t mind. She didn’t forbid him.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Grose mumbled. She seemed to suggest that it didn’t matter. Her next remark confirmed this. “You see, after all, Miss Jessel didn’t mind. She didn’t forbid him.”

I considered. “Did he put that to you as a justification?”

I thought it over. “Did he give you that as a reason?”

At this she dropped again. “No, he never spoke of it.”

At this, her spirits fell again. “No, he never spoke of it.”

“Never mentioned her in connection with Quint?”

“Never mentioned her in relation to Quint?”

She saw, visibly flushing, where I was coming out. “Well, he didn’t show anything. He denied,” she repeated; “he denied.”

She flushed visibly as she saw what I was getting at. “Well, he didn’t show anything. He denied it,” she repeated. “He denied it.”

Lord, how I pressed her now! “So that you could see he knew what was between the two wretches?”

God, how I pressed her now! “So you could see that he knew what was going on between those two wretches?”

“I don’t know—I don’t know!” the poor woman groaned.

“I don’t know. I don’t know!” the poor woman groaned.

“You do know, you dear thing,” I replied; “only you haven’t my dreadful boldness of mind, and you keep back, out of timidity and modesty and delicacy, even the impression that, in the past, when you had, without my aid, to flounder about in silence, most of all made you miserable. But I shall get it out of you yet! There was something in the boy that suggested to you,” I continued, “that he covered and concealed their relation.”

“You do know, dear,” I replied. “You just don’t have my dreadful boldness of mind. You’re too timid, modest, and sensitive to share even the impression that once made you most miserable. Back then, you had to struggle with it in silence, without my help. But I’ll get it out of you yet! Something about the boy suggested to you,” I continued, “that he was hiding and concealing their relationship.”

“Oh, he couldn’t prevent—”

“Oh, he couldn’t stop...”

“Your learning the truth? I daresay! But, heavens,” I fell, with vehemence, athinking, “what it shows that they must, to that extent, have succeeded in making of him!”

“Your learning the truth? I suppose so! But heavens,” I thought intensely, “what this shows they must have made of him, to that extent!”

“Ah, nothing that’s not nice now!” Mrs. Grose lugubriously pleaded.

“Oh, nothing unpleasant now!” Mrs. Grose pleaded sorrowfully.

“I don’t wonder you looked queer,” I persisted, “when I mentioned to you the letter from his school!”

“I’m not surprised you looked strange,” I insisted, “when I mentioned the letter from his school!”

“I doubt if I looked as queer as you!” she retorted with homely force. “And if he was so bad then as that comes to, how is he such an angel now?”

“I doubt I looked as strange as you did!” she retorted with plainspoken force. “And if he was really that bad then, how is he such an angel now?”

“Yes, indeed—and if he was a fiend at school! How, how, how? Well,” I said in my torment, “you must put it to me again, but I shall not be able to tell you for some days. Only, put it to me again!” I cried in a way that made my friend stare. “There are directions in which I must not for the present let myself go.” Meanwhile I returned to her first example—the one to which she had just previously referred—of the boy’s happy capacity for an occasional slip. “If Quint—on your remonstrance at the time you speak of—was a base menial, one of the things Miles said to you, I find myself guessing, was that you were another.” Again her admission was so adequate that I continued: “And you forgave him that?”

“Yes, indeed, and if he was a fiend at school! How, how, how? Well,” I said in anguish, “you must ask me again, but I won’t be able to tell you for some days. Just ask me again!” I cried, making my friend stare. “For now, there are thoughts I must not allow myself to pursue.” Meanwhile, I returned to her first example of the boy’s talent for occasionally letting something slip. She had just mentioned it again. “If Quint was a lowly servant when you protested to him, I’m guessing Miles told you that you were another.” Again, she admitted enough for me to continue: “And you forgave him for that?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, yes!” And we exchanged there, in the stillness, a sound of the oddest amusement. Then I went on: “At all events, while he was with the man—”

“Oh, yes!” In the silence, we shared a strangely amused laugh. Then I went on: “Anyway, while he was with the man...”

“Miss Flora was with the woman. It suited them all!”

“Miss Flora was with the woman. That suited them all!”

It suited me, too, I felt, only too well; by which I mean that it suited exactly the particularly deadly view I was in the very act of forbidding myself to entertain. But I so far succeeded in checking the expression of this view that I will throw, just here, no further light on it than may be offered by the mention of my final observation to Mrs. Grose. “His having lied and been impudent are, I confess, less engaging specimens than I had hoped to have from you of the outbreak in him of the little natural man. Still,” I mused, “They must do, for they make me feel more than ever that I must watch.”

I felt it suited me too, only too well. I mean that it fit exactly the deeply troubling idea I was trying to forbid myself from considering. But I managed not to express that idea. For now, I will reveal no more about it than my final remark to Mrs. Grose may suggest. “I admit, his lying and being rude are less appealing examples of his natural impulses than I had hoped you would give me. Still,” I mused, “they will have to do, for they make me feel more than ever that I must watch.”

It made me blush, the next minute, to see in my friend’s face how much more unreservedly she had forgiven him than her anecdote struck me as presenting to my own tenderness an occasion for doing. This came out when, at the schoolroom door, she quitted me. “Surely you don’t accuse him—”

The next minute, I blushed when I saw my friend’s face. She had forgiven him far more completely than her story seemed to give my own sympathy reason to. This became clear when she left me at the schoolroom door. “Surely you don’t accuse him...”

“Of carrying on an intercourse that he conceals from me? Ah, remember that, until further evidence, I now accuse nobody.” Then, before shutting her out to go, by another passage, to her own place, “I must just wait,” I wound up.

“Of having a relationship he hides from me? Ah, remember, I’m not accusing anyone until there’s more evidence.” Before closing the door and leaving her to return to her own room by another passage, I concluded, “I’ll just have to wait.”