Chapter 16

5 min

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.

I had been so sure my pupils would make a fuss when they returned that their silence about my absence upset me all over again. Instead of cheerfully scolding and embracing me, they said nothing about my having failed them. For the time being, when I saw that Mrs. Grose said nothing either, I was left to study her strange expression. I studied it so closely that I became sure the children had somehow bribed her to keep quiet. But I was determined to break her silence at the first chance to speak to her alone. The chance came before tea. I managed to get five minutes with her in the housekeeper’s room. In the twilight, I found her sitting calmly but painfully before the fire. The room smelled of freshly baked bread, but everything had been swept and put in order. That is how I still see her, and how I see her best. She sat facing the fire in her straight chair, in the dim, gleaming room. She was a large, clean image of things “put away”, of drawers closed and locked, and of 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?”

“Oh, yes, they asked me not to say anything. To please them, of course I promised to say nothing as long as they were there. 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.”

“I only went with you for the walk,” I said. “Then I had to come back to meet a friend.”

She showed her surprise. “A friend—you?”

She looked surprised. “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?”

“For not mentioning that you’re leaving us? Yes, they said you’d prefer it that way. Do you prefer it that way?”

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?”

My expression made her look regretful. “No, I like it less!” But a moment later, I added: “Did they say why I should like it better?”

“No; Master Miles only said, ‘We must do nothing but what she likes!’”

“No; Master Miles only said, ‘We must only do what she likes!’”

“I wish indeed he would. And what did Flora say?”

“I really wish he would. And what did Flora say?”

“Miss Flora was too sweet. She said, ‘Oh, of course, of course!’—and I said the same.”

“Miss Flora was so 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 nonetheless, between Miles and me, it’s now all out.”

I thought for a moment. “You were too sweet, too. I can hear you all. But even so, everything is out in the open between Miles and me now.”

“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.”

“Everything. It doesn’t matter. I’ve made up my mind. I came home, my dear,” I continued, “to 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?”

By now, I had made a habit of making sure Mrs. Grose was firmly in hand before I raised that subject. So even now, as she bravely blinked at my words, I could keep her relatively steady. “A talk! Do you mean she spoke?”

“It came to that. I found her, on my return, in the schoolroom.”

“It came to that. When I returned, I found her in the schoolroom.”

“And what did she say?” I can hear the good woman still, and the candor of her stupefaction.

“And what did she say?” I can still hear the good woman and her open astonishment.

“That she suffers the torments—!”

“That she suffers such torment...!”

It was this, of a truth, that made her, as she filled out my picture, gape. “Do you mean,” she faltered, “—of the lost?”

This was indeed what made her stare in shock as she filled in the picture I had given her. “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.

“Of the lost. Of the damned. And that’s why, to share them...” I faltered at the horror of it.

But my companion, with less imagination, kept me up. “To share them—?”

But my companion had less imagination and kept me talking. “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 still held her there, to show I was. “As I’ve told you, however, it doesn’t matter.”

“She wants Flora.” When I told Mrs. Grose, she might well have pulled away from me if I hadn't been prepared. I kept holding her to show her I was prepared. “But as I’ve told you, it doesn’t matter.”

“Because you’ve made up your mind? But to what?”

“Because you’ve made up your mind? But what have you decided?”

“To everything.”

“And what do you call ‘everything’?”

“And what do you mean by ‘everything’?”

“Why, sending for their uncle.”

“By sending for their uncle, of course.”

“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—”

“Oh, miss, please do,” my friend exclaimed. “Oh, but I will, I will! I see it’s the only way. As I told you, the problem with Miles is this. If he thinks I’m afraid to do it, and thinks he can gain something by that, he’ll see he’s wrong. Yes, yes, I’ll tell his uncle right here and now, in front of the boy himself if necessary. If I’m to be blamed for doing nothing more about sending Miles back to school...”

“Yes, miss—” my companion pressed me.

“Yes, miss,” my companion urged me to continue.

“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?”

There were clearly so many of these now for my poor colleague that I could excuse her vagueness. “But, uh, which one?”

“Why, the letter from his old place.”

“The letter from his old place, of course.”

“You’ll show it to the master?”

“I ought to have done so on the instant.”

“I should have done so right away.”

“Oh, no!” said Mrs. Grose with decision.

“Oh, no!” said Mrs. Grose firmly.

“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—”

“I’ll tell him,” I went on relentlessly, “that I can’t try to resolve the matter for a child who has been expelled...”

“For we’ve never in the least known what!” Mrs. Grose declared.

“Because we’ve never had the slightest idea 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—!”

“For being wicked. What else could it be, when he’s so clever and beautiful and perfect? Is he stupid? Is he untidy? Is he weak? Is he bad-tempered? He’s wonderful, so it can only be that. And that would explain everything. After all,” I said, “it’s their uncle’s fault. If he left such people here!”

“He didn’t really in the least know them. The fault’s mine.” She had turned quite pale.

“He didn’t know them at all. It’s my fault.” She had turned very pale.

“Well, you shan’t suffer,” I answered.

“Well, you won’t suffer,” I answered.

“The children shan’t!” she emphatically returned.

“The children won’t!” she replied emphatically.

I was silent awhile; we looked at each other. “Then what am I to tell him?”

I was quiet for a while. We looked at each other. “Then what should I tell him?”

“You needn’t tell him anything. I’ll tell him.”

“You don’t need to 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 considered this. “Do you mean you’ll write...?” Then I remembered she couldn’t write and corrected myself. “How do you communicate?”

“I tell the bailiff. He writes.”

“And should you like him to write our story?”

“And would 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!”

My question sounded more sarcastic than I had intended, and after a moment she unexpectedly broke down. Tears filled her eyes again. “Ah, miss, you write!”

“Well—tonight,” I at last answered; and on this we separated.

“Well, tonight,” I finally answered, and then we parted.