The Turn of the Screw

II

IIThis came home to me when, two days later, I drove over withFlora to meet, as Mrs. Grose said, the little gentleman; and allthemore 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 inkeen apprehension. The postbag, that evening—it camelate—contained a letter for me, which, however, in the handof my employer, I found to be composed but of a few words enclosinganother, addressed to himself, with a seal still unbroken.“This, I recognize, is from the headmaster, and theheadmaster’s an awfulbore. 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 Iwas a long time coming to it; took the unopened missive at last upto my room and only attacked it just before going to bed. I hadbetter have let it wait till morning, for it gave me a secondsleepless night. With no counsel to take, the next day, I was fullof distress; and it finally got so the better of me that Idetermined to open myself at least to Mrs. Grose.

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

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

“Sent home—yes. But only for the holidays. Milesmaynever go back at all.”

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

“They absolutely decline.”

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

I hesitated; then I judged best simply to hand her myletter—which, however, had the effect of making her, withouttaking it, simply put her hands behind her. She shook her headsadly. “Such things are not for me, miss.”

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

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

“They go into no particulars. They simply express theirregret that it should be impossible to keep him. That can have onlyone meaning.” Mrs. Grose listened with dumb emotion; sheforbore to ask me what this meaning might be; so that, presently,to put the thing with somecoherence and with the mere aid of herpresence to my own mind, I went on: “That he’s aninjury to the others.”

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

There was such a flood of good faithin it that, though I had notyet seen the child, my very fears made me jump to the absurdity ofthe idea. I found myself, to meet my friend the better, offeringit, on the spot, sarcastically. “To his poor little innocentmates!”

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

“Yes, yes; it would be incredible.”

She was evidently grateful for such a profession. “Seehim, miss, first. THEN believe it!” I felt forthwith a newimpatience to see him; it was the beginning of a curiosity that,for all the next hours, was to deepen almost to pain. Mrs. Grosewas aware, I could judge, of what she had produced in me, and shefollowed it up with assurance. “You might as well believe itof the little lady. Bless her,”she added the nextmoment—“LOOK at her!”

I turned and saw that Flora, whom, ten minutes before, I hadestablished in the schoolroom with a sheet of white paper, apencil, and a copy of nice “round o’s,” nowpresented herself to view at the open door. Sheexpressed in herlittle way an extraordinary detachment from disagreeable duties,looking to me, however, with a great childish light that seemed tooffer it as a mere result of the affection she had conceived for myperson, which had rendered necessary that she should follow me. Ineeded 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.

Nonetheless, the rest of the day I watched for further occasionto approach my colleague, especially as, toward evening, I began tofancy she rather sought to avoid me. I overtook her, I remember, onthe staircase; we went down together, and at the bottom I detainedher, holding her there with a hand on her arm. “I take whatyou said to me at noon as a declaration that YOU’VE neverknown him to be bad.”

She threw back her head; she had clearly, by this time, and veryhonestly, adopted an attitude. “Oh, never known him—Idon’t pretend THAT!”

I was upset again. “Then you HAVE knownhim—?”

“Yes indeed, miss, thank God!”

On reflection I accepted this. “You mean that a boy whonever is—?”

“Is no boy for ME!”

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

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

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

But the next day, as the hour for my drive approached, I croppedup in another place. “What was the lady who was herebefore?”

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

“Ah, then, I hope her youth and her beauty helpedher!” I recollect throwing off. “He seems to likeusyoung and pretty!”

“Oh, he DID,” Mrs. Grose assented: “it was theway he liked everyone!” She had no sooner spoken indeed thanshe caught herself up. “I mean that’s HIS way—themaster’s.”

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

She looked blank, but she colored. “Why, ofHIM.”

“Of the master?”

“Of who else?”

There was so obviously no one else that the next moment I hadlost my impression of her having accidentally said more than shemeant; and I merely asked what I wanted to know. “Did SHE seeanything in the boy—?”

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

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

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

“But not about all?”

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

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

“No—she went off.”

I don’t know what there was in this brevity of Mrs.Grose’s that struck me as ambiguous. “Went off todie?” Mrs. Grose looked straight out of the window, but Ifelt that, hypothetically, I had a right to know what young personsengaged for Bly were expected to do. “She was taken ill, youmean, 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 ashort holiday, to which the time she had put in had certainly givenher a right. We had then a young woman—a nursemaid who hadstayed on and who was a good girl and clever; and SHE took thechildren altogether for the interval. But our young lady never cameback, and at the very moment I was expecting her I heard from themaster that she was dead.”

I turned this over. “But of what?”

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