Chapter 21

9 min

Before a new day, in my room, had fully broken, my eyes opened to Mrs. Grose, who had come to my bedside with worse news. Flora was so markedly feverish that an illness was perhaps at hand; she had passed a night of extreme unrest, a night agitated above all by fears that had for their subject not in the least her former, but wholly her present, governess. It was not against the possible re-entrance of Miss Jessel on the scene that she protested—it was conspicuously and passionately against mine. I was promptly on my feet of course, and with an immense deal to ask; the more that my friend had discernibly now girded her loins to meet me once more. This I felt as soon as I had put to her the question of her sense of the child’s sincerity as against my own. “She persists in denying to you that she saw, or has ever seen, anything?”

Before the new day had fully dawned, I opened my eyes to find Mrs. Grose at my bedside with worse news. Flora was noticeably feverish and perhaps about to fall ill. She had spent an extremely restless night, troubled above all by fears of her present governess, not her former one. She was not protesting against the possibility of Miss Jessel’s return. Her protests were clearly and passionately against mine. Of course, I got up at once, with a great many questions to ask. I had all the more to ask because my friend had plainly prepared herself to face me again. I felt this as soon as I asked whether she believed the child was sincere, unlike me. “Does she still deny to you that she saw anything, or has ever seen anything?”

My visitor’s trouble, truly, was great. “Ah, miss, it isn’t a matter on which I can push her! Yet it isn’t either, I must say, as if I much needed to. It has made her, every inch of her, quite old.”

My visitor was truly distressed. “Oh, miss, I can’t press her about it! But I must say, it’s not as if I really need to. It has made her old in every way.”

“Oh, I see her perfectly from here. She resents, for all the world like some high little personage, the imputation on her truthfulness and, as it were, her respectability. ‘Miss Jessel indeed—she!’ Ah, she’s ‘respectable,’ the chit! The impression she gave me there yesterday was, I assure you, the very strangest of all; it was quite beyond any of the others. I did put my foot in it! She’ll never speak to me again.”

“Oh, I can see her perfectly from here. She objects to any suggestion that she is dishonest or, so to speak, not respectable. She’s just like some important little person. ‘Miss Jessel, indeed! She!’ Ah, the little thing is ‘respectable’! I assure you, the impression she gave me there yesterday was the strangest of all. It was far stranger than any of the others. I did put my foot in it! She’ll never speak to me again.”

Hideous and obscure as it all was, it held Mrs. Grose briefly silent; then she granted my point with a frankness which, I made sure, had more behind it. “I think indeed, miss, she never will. She do have a grand manner about it!”

As horrible and unclear as it all was, it left Mrs. Grose silent for a moment. Then she agreed with me so frankly that I was sure there was more behind her words. “I really think she never will, miss. She does have such a grand manner about it!”

“And that manner”—I summed it up—“is practically what’s the matter with her now!”

“And that manner,” I concluded, “is practically what’s wrong with her now!”

Oh, that manner, I could see in my visitor’s face, and not a little else besides! “She asks me every three minutes if I think you’re coming in.”

Oh, I could see that manner in my visitor’s face, and quite a lot else besides! “She asks me every three minutes if I think you’re coming in.”

“I see—I see.” I, too, on my side, had so much more than worked it out. “Has she said to you since yesterday—except to repudiate her familiarity with anything so dreadful—a single other word about Miss Jessel?”

“I see, I see.” I, too, had done far more than figure it out. “Since yesterday, has she said anything else to you about Miss Jessel? Anything besides denying that she knew about anything so dreadful?”

“Not one, miss. And of course you know,” my friend added, “I took it from her, by the lake, that, just then and there at least, there was nobody.”

“Not one, miss. And of course you know,” my friend added, “that by the lake, I understood from her that, at least at that moment and in that place, there was nobody.”

“Rather! and, naturally, you take it from her still.”

“Absolutely! And, of course, you still get it from her.”

“I don’t contradict her. What else can I do?”

“I don’t disagree with her. What else can I do?”

“Nothing in the world! You’ve the cleverest little person to deal with. They’ve made them—their two friends, I mean—still cleverer even than nature did; for it was wondrous material to play on! Flora has now her grievance, and she’ll work it to the end.”

“Nothing in the world! You’re dealing with a very clever little person. Their two friends have made them even cleverer than nature did, because they were wonderfully suited to their influence! Flora has a grievance now, and she’ll make the most of it to the end.”

“Yes, miss; but to what end?”

“Yes, miss, but what for?”

“Why, that of dealing with me to her uncle. She’ll make me out to him the lowest creature—!”

“Why, the matter of speaking to her uncle about me. She’ll make me sound like the lowest kind of person!”

I winced at the fair show of the scene in Mrs. Grose’s face; she looked for a minute as if she sharply saw them together. “And him who thinks so well of you!”

I winced at how clearly the scene showed on Mrs. Grose’s face. For a moment, she looked as if she could see them together. “And he thinks so highly of you!”

“He has an odd way—it comes over me now,” I laughed, “—of proving it! But that doesn’t matter. What Flora wants, of course, is to get rid of me.”

“He has a strange way of proving it, now that I think about it!” I laughed. “But that doesn’t matter. What Flora wants, of course, is to get rid of me.”

My companion bravely concurred. “Never again to so much as look at you.”

My companion bravely agreed. “Never even look at you again.”

“So that what you’ve come to me now for,” I asked, “is to speed me on my way?” Before she had time to reply, however, I had her in check. “I’ve a better idea—the result of my reflections. My going would seem the right thing, and on Sunday I was terribly near it. Yet that won’t do. It’s you who must go. You must take Flora.”

“So you’ve come to help me on my way?” I asked. But before she could reply, I stopped her. “I’ve thought it over and have a better idea. My leaving would seem like the right thing, and on Sunday I came terribly close to leaving. But that won’t do. You must go. You must take Flora.”

My visitor, at this, did speculate. “But where in the world—?”

At this, my visitor did wonder. “But where in the world...?”

“Away from here. Away from them. Away, even most of all, now, from me. Straight to her uncle.”

“Away from here. Away from them. And now, most of all, away from me. Straight to her uncle.”

“Only to tell on you—?”

“Only to tell on you?”

“No, not ‘only’! To leave me, in addition, with my remedy.”

“No, not ‘only’! To leave me with my remedy as well.”

She was still vague. “And what is your remedy?”

She was still vague. “And what is your solution?”

“Your loyalty, to begin with. And then Miles’s.”

“First, your loyalty. Then Miles’s.”

She looked at me hard. “Do you think he—?”

She stared at me. “Do you think he...?”

“Won’t, if he has the chance, turn on me? Yes, I venture still to think it. At all events, I want to try. Get off with his sister as soon as possible and leave me with him alone.” I was amazed, myself, at the spirit I had still in reserve, and therefore perhaps a trifle the more disconcerted at the way in which, in spite of this fine example of it, she hesitated. “There’s one thing, of course,” I went on: “they mustn’t, before she goes, see each other for three seconds.” Then it came over me that, in spite of Flora’s presumable sequestration from the instant of her return from the pool, it might already be too late. “Do you mean,” I anxiously asked, “that they have met?”

“Won’t he turn on me if he gets the chance? Yes, I still dare to think so. In any case, I want to try. Leave with his sister as soon as possible and let me be alone with him.” I was amazed at how much spirit I still had left. Perhaps that made me a little more unsettled when she hesitated, despite my fine show of spirit. “There’s one thing, of course,” I went on: “They mustn’t see each other for even three seconds before she leaves.” Then it struck me that it might already be too late, even though Flora had presumably been kept apart from him since she returned from the pool. “Do you mean,” I asked anxiously, “that they have met?”

At this she quite flushed. “Ah, miss, I’m not such a fool as that! If I’ve been obliged to leave her three or four times, it has been each time with one of the maids, and at present, though she’s alone, she’s locked in safe. And yet—and yet!” There were too many things.

At this she blushed deeply. “Oh, miss, I’m not that foolish! If I’ve had to leave her three or four times, I’ve always left her with one of the maids. And although she’s alone now, she’s locked in safely. And yet, and yet!” There were too many things.

“And yet what?”

“Well, are you so sure of the little gentleman?”

“Well, are you so sure about the little boy?”

“I’m not sure of anything but you. But I have, since last evening, a new hope. I think he wants to give me an opening. I do believe that—poor little exquisite wretch!—he wants to speak. Last evening, in the firelight and the silence, he sat with me for two hours as if it were just coming.”

“I’m not sure of anything but you. But since last night, I have a new hope. I think he wants to give me a chance. I do believe he wants to speak. Poor, lovely little wretch! Last night, he sat with me for two hours in the quiet firelight, as if he were just about to speak.”

Mrs. Grose looked hard, through the window, at the gray, gathering day. “And did it come?”

Mrs. Grose stared through the window at the gray light of dawn. “And did it come?”

“No, though I waited and waited, I confess it didn’t, and it was without a breach of the silence or so much as a faint allusion to his sister’s condition and absence that we at last kissed for good night. All the same,” I continued, “I can’t, if her uncle sees her, consent to his seeing her brother without my having given the boy—and most of all because things have got so bad—a little more time.”

“No, although I waited and waited, I admit it didn’t. We finally kissed good night without breaking the silence or even hinting at his sister’s condition or absence. Even so,” I continued, “if her uncle sees her, I can’t agree to let him see her brother yet. I must give the boy a little more time, especially because things have gotten so bad.”

My friend appeared on this ground more reluctant than I could quite understand. “What do you mean by more time?”

My friend seemed more reluctant about this than I could quite understand. “What do you mean by more time?”

“Well, a day or two—really to bring it out. He’ll then be on my side—of which you see the importance. If nothing comes, I shall only fail, and you will, at the worst, have helped me by doing, on your arrival in town, whatever you may have found possible.” So I put it before her, but she continued for a little so inscrutably embarrassed that I came again to her aid. “Unless, indeed,” I wound up, “you really want not to go.”

“Well, a day or two, to really bring it out. He’ll then be on my side. You can see how important that is. If nothing comes of it, I’ll simply have failed. And at worst, you’ll have helped me by doing whatever you could when you arrived in town.” That was how I put it to her. But she remained so mysteriously embarrassed for a while that I came to her aid again. “Unless, of course,” I added, “you really want not to go.”

I could see it, in her face, at last clear itself; she put out her hand to me as a pledge. “I’ll go—I’ll go. I’ll go this morning.”

At last, I could see it clear from her face. She held out her hand to me as a promise. “I’ll go. I’ll go. I’ll go this morning.”

I wanted to be very just. “If you should wish still to wait, I would engage she shouldn’t see me.”

I wanted to be very fair. “If you do still want to wait, I promise she won’t see me.”

“No, no: it’s the place itself. She must leave it.” She held me a moment with heavy eyes, then brought out the rest. “Your idea’s the right one. I myself, miss—”

“No, no, it’s the place itself. She must leave it.” She looked at me for a moment with heavy eyes, then said the rest. “Your idea is right. I myself, miss...”

“Well?”

“I can’t stay.”

The look she gave me with it made me jump at possibilities. “You mean that, since yesterday, you have seen—?”

The look she gave me as she said it made me imagine the possibilities. “You mean that, since yesterday, you have seen...?”

She shook her head with dignity. “I’ve heard—!”

She shook her head with dignity. “I’ve heard...!”

“Heard?”

“From that child—horrors! There!” she sighed with tragic relief. “On my honor, miss, she says things—!” But at this evocation she broke down; she dropped, with a sudden sob, upon my sofa and, as I had seen her do before, gave way to all the grief of it.

“From that child! Horrible! There!” she sighed with tragic relief. “I swear, miss, she says things!” But the thought overwhelmed her. With a sudden sob, she sank onto my sofa. As I had seen her do before, she gave way to all her grief.

It was quite in another manner that I, for my part, let myself go. “Oh, thank God!”

I expressed my feelings quite differently. “Oh, thank God!”

She sprang up again at this, drying her eyes with a groan. “‘Thank God’?”

She jumped up again at this, wiping her eyes with a groan. “‘Thank God’?”

“It so justifies me!”

“It really proves I was right!”

“It does that, miss!”

“It certainly does, miss!”

I couldn’t have desired more emphasis, but I just hesitated. “She’s so horrible?”

I couldn’t have asked for a more emphatic answer, but I hesitated. “She’s that horrible?”

I saw my colleague scarce knew how to put it. “Really shocking.”

I could see my colleague hardly knew how to put it. “Really shocking.”

“And about me?”

“And what about me?”

“About you, miss—since you must have it. It’s beyond everything, for a young lady; and I can’t think wherever she must have picked up—”

“About you, miss, since you insist on knowing. It’s shocking for a young lady. I can’t imagine where she picked up...”

“The appalling language she applied to me? I can, then!” I broke in with a laugh that was doubtless significant enough.

“The terrible things she called me? Then I can!” I interrupted with a laugh that surely said enough.

It only, in truth, left my friend still more grave. “Well, perhaps I ought to also—since I’ve heard some of it before! Yet I can’t bear it,” the poor woman went on while, with the same movement, she glanced, on my dressing table, at the face of my watch. “But I must go back.”

In fact, it only made my friend look even more serious. “Well, perhaps I ought to as well, since I’ve heard some of it before! Yet I can’t bear it,” the poor woman went on, glancing at the face of my watch on the dressing table. “But I must go back.”

I kept her, however. “Ah, if you can’t bear it—!”

But I kept her there. “Oh, if you can’t bear it...!”

“How can I stop with her, you mean? Why, just for that: to get her away. Far from this,” she pursued, “far from them—”

“How can I stay with her, you mean? Why, for that very reason: to get her away. Far from this,” she continued, “far from them.”

“She may be different? She may be free?” I seized her almost with joy. “Then, in spite of yesterday, you believe—”

“She may be different? She may be free?” I grabbed her, almost joyful. “Then, despite yesterday, you believe...”

“In such doings?” Her simple description of them required, in the light of her expression, to be carried no further, and she gave me the whole thing as she had never done. “I believe.”

“In such activities?” Her simple description, together with her expression, needed no further explanation. She told me the whole story as she never had before. “I believe.”

Yes, it was a joy, and we were still shoulder to shoulder: if I might continue sure of that I should care but little what else happened. My support in the presence of disaster would be the same as it had been in my early need of confidence, and if my friend would answer for my honesty, I would answer for all the rest. On the point of taking leave of her, nonetheless, I was to some extent embarrassed. “There’s one thing, of course—it occurs to me—to remember. My letter, giving the alarm, will have reached town before you.”

Yes, it was a joy, and we were still standing together. If I could remain sure of that, I would care little what else happened. In a disaster, I would have the same support I had when I first needed reassurance. And if my friend would vouch for my honesty, I would answer for all the rest. Still, as I was about to say goodbye to her, I felt somewhat awkward. “There’s one thing, of course, that I just thought of. We should remember that my letter raising the alarm will reach town before you do.”

I now perceived still more how she had been beating about the bush and how weary at last it had made her. “Your letter won’t have got there. Your letter never went.”

I could see even more clearly how she had been avoiding the subject, and how tired it had finally made her. “Your letter won’t have arrived. Your letter was never sent.”

“What then became of it?”

“What happened to it then?”

“Goodness knows! Master Miles—”

“Who knows! Master Miles...”

“Do you mean he took it?” I gasped.

She hung fire, but she overcame her reluctance. “I mean that I saw yesterday, when I came back with Miss Flora, that it wasn’t where you had put it. Later in the evening I had the chance to question Luke, and he declared that he had neither noticed nor touched it.” We could only exchange, on this, one of our deeper mutual soundings, and it was Mrs. Grose who first brought up the plumb with an almost elated “You see!”

She hesitated, but overcame her reluctance. “I mean that yesterday, when I came back with Miss Flora, I saw that it wasn’t where you had put it. Later that evening, I had a chance to ask Luke about it. He said he had neither noticed nor touched it.” At this, we could only exchange another of our searching looks. Mrs. Grose was the first to speak, with an almost delighted “You see!”

“Yes, I see that if Miles took it instead he probably will have read it and destroyed it.”

“Yes, I see that if Miles took it instead, he probably read it and destroyed it.”

“And don’t you see anything else?”

I faced her a moment with a sad smile. “It strikes me that by this time your eyes are open even wider than mine.”

I looked at her for a moment with a sad smile. “I think your eyes are even more open than mine by now.”

They proved to be so indeed, but she could still blush, almost, to show it. “I make out now what he must have done at school.” And she gave, in her simple sharpness, an almost droll disillusioned nod. “He stole!”

They did indeed turn out to be so, but she could still almost blush to show it. “I understand now what he must have done at school.” With simple, sharp insight, she nodded. Her disillusioned look was almost comical. “He stole!”

I turned it over—I tried to be more judicial. “Well—perhaps.”

I thought it over. I tried to be more fair-minded. “Well, perhaps.”

She looked as if she found me unexpectedly calm. “He stole letters!”

She looked as if she thought I was surprisingly calm. “He stole letters!”

She couldn’t know my reasons for a calmness after all pretty shallow; so I showed them off as I might. “I hope then it was to more purpose than in this case! The note, at any rate, that I put on the table yesterday,” I pursued, “will have given him so scant an advantage—for it contained only the bare demand for an interview—that he is already much ashamed of having gone so far for so little, and that what he had on his mind last evening was precisely the need of confession.” I seemed to myself, for the instant, to have mastered it, to see it all. “Leave us, leave us”—I was already, at the door, hurrying her off. “I’ll get it out of him. He’ll meet me—he’ll confess. If he confesses, he’s saved. And if he’s saved—”

She couldn’t know why I was calm, though my calm was rather shallow. So I made the most of it. “I hope then it was more worthwhile than in this case! At any rate, the note I put on the table yesterday could have been of little use to him,” I continued. “It only asked for an interview. He must already be deeply ashamed of having gone so far for so little. And what was on his mind last evening was the need to confess.” For a moment, I felt I had gotten to the bottom of it and could see everything clearly. “Leave us, leave us.” I was already at the door, hurrying her away. “I’ll get it out of him. He’ll meet me. He’ll confess. If he confesses, he’s saved. And if he’s saved...”

“Then you are?” The dear woman kissed me on this, and I took her farewell. “I’ll save you without him!” she cried as she went.

“Then you are?” The dear woman kissed me, and I said goodbye to her. “I’ll save you without him!” she cried as she left.