Chapter: 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.

"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?"

"I only went with you for the walk," I said. "I had then to come back to
meet a friend."

She showed her surprise. "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?"

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?"

"No; Master Miles only said, 'We must do nothing but what she likes!'"

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

"Miss Flora was too 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."

"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."

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?"

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

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

"That she suffers the torments--!"

It was this, of a truth, that made her, as she filled out my picture,
gape. "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.

But my companion, with less imagination, kept me up. "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."

"Because you've made up your mind? But to what?"

"To everything."

"And what do you call 'everything'?"

"Why, sending for their uncle."

"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--"

"Yes, miss--" my companion pressed me.

"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?"

"Why, the letter from his old place."

"You'll show it to the master?"

"I ought to have done so on the instant."

"Oh, no!" said Mrs. Grose with decision.

"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--"

"For we've never in the least known 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--!"

"He didn't really in the least know them. The fault's mine." She had
turned quite pale.

"Well, you shan't suffer," I answered.

"The children shan't!" she emphatically returned.

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

"You needn't 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 tell the bailiff. HE writes."

"And should 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!"

"Well--tonight," I at last answered; and on this we separated.

 When Mrs. Grose and the children return from church, none of them mention the governess's absence, and immediately, the governess suspects the children of "bribing" Mrs. Grose into doing so. Before tea, she visits Mrs. Grose's room, where the housekeeper tells her that the children asked her not to ask why she had left because she would like it better. The governess tells Mrs. Grose that she went for a walk - to meet some "friends. The governess informs Mrs. Grose that she in fact did not like their silence and then tells her that it is "all out" between her and Miles. Though Mrs. Grose asks, what "all" means, the governess interrupts her to say that she saw Miss Jessel and that the two had "a talk. She found her in the schoolroom, and she says that Miss Jessel said that she suffers the torments of the damned and that she wants to share them with Flora. Mrs. Grose is terrified. The governess says all that doesn't matter, though, because she will send for her employer. Mrs. Grose begs her to do so, and the governess says that she will, even though Miles tries using her fear of doing so against her. The employer will not be able to reproach her for not sending Miles to school because she will show him the letter from the old school master. What's more, she now believes that Miles was expelled for "wickedness" - since he is clearly perfect in all other respects. She believes it is the uncle's fault for leaving the children for Quint and Miss Jessel, but Mrs. Grose tries to take the blame on herself. Mrs. Grose tries to take charge of sending for the uncle, by having the town bailiff write to him for her, but the governess scoffs at having a stranger tell their incredible story and says instead that she will write.

