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?”
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.
I pressed again, of course, at this.“You reminded him that Quint was only a base menial?”
“As you might say!And it was his answer, for one thing, that was bad.”
“And for another thing?” I waited. “He repeated 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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
I considered. “Did he put that to you as a justification?”
At this she dropped again. “No, he never spoke of it.”
“Never mentioned her in connection with Quint?”
She saw, visibly flushing, where I was coming out.“Well, he didn’t show anything. He denied,” she repeated; “he denied.”
Lord, how I pressed her now!“So that you could see he knew what was between the two wretches?”
“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. ”
“Oh, he couldn’t prevent—”
“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!”
“Ah, nothing that’s not nice _now!_” Mrs. Grose lugubriously pleaded.
“I don’t wonder you looked queer,” I persisted,“when I mentioned to you 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?”
“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?”
“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—”
“Miss Flora was with the woman. It 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.”
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_—”
“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.
IX