"You DO know him?"
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.
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