Children -- Fiction; England -- Fiction; Ghost stories; Governesses -- Fiction; Psychological fiction
She faltered but a second. “Quint!” she cried.
“Quint?”
“Peter Quint—his own man, his valet, when he was here!”
“When the master was?”
Gaping still, but meeting me, she pieced it all together. “He never
wore his hat, but he did wear—well, there were waistcoats missed. They
were both here—last year. Then the master went, and Quint was alone.”
I followed, but halting a little. “Alone?”
“Alone with _us_.” Then, as from a deeper depth, “In charge,” she
added.
“And what became of him?”
She hung fire so long that I was still more mystified. “He went, too,”
she brought out at last.
“Went where?”
Her expression, at this, became extraordinary. “God knows where! He
died.”
“Died?” I almost shrieked.
She seemed fairly to square herself, plant herself more firmly to utter
the wonder of it. “Yes. Mr. Quint is dead.”
VI
It took of course more than that particular passage to place us
together in presence of what we had now to live with as we could—my
dreadful liability to impressions of the order so vividly exemplified,
and my companion’s knowledge, henceforth—a knowledge half consternation
and half compassion—of that liability. There had been, this evening,
after the revelation left me, for an hour, so prostrate—there had been,
for either of us, no attendance on any service but a little service of
tears and vows, of prayers and promises, a climax to the series of
mutual challenges and pledges that had straightway ensued on our
retreating together to the schoolroom and shutting ourselves up there
to have everything out. The result of our having everything out was
simply to reduce our situation to the last rigor of its elements. She
herself had seen nothing, not the shadow of a shadow, and nobody in the
house but the governess was in the governess’s plight; yet she accepted
without directly impugning my sanity the truth as I gave it to her, and
ended by showing me, on this ground, an awestricken tenderness, an
expression of the sense of my more than questionable privilege, of
which the very breath has remained with me as that of the sweetest of
human charities.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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