When he was still about a mile away from Rottingdean, and the hour was
dusk, and he was walking up a hill, he caught sight of a girl leaning on
a gate that led by a long path to a house near the cliffs. It was Mimi.
She gave a cry of recognition. He did not care now--he was at ease
now--but really, with that house so close to the road and so close to
Rottingdean, he and his Olive had practically begun their honeymoon on
the summit of a volcano!
Mimi was pensive. He felt remorse at having bound her to secrecy. She
was so pensive, and so wistful, and her eyes were so loyal, that he felt
he owed her a more complete confidence.
"I'm on my honeymoon, Mimi," he said. It gave him pleasure to tell her.
"Yes," she said simply, "I saw Auntie Olive go by in the omnibus."
That was all she said. He was thunderstruck, as much by her calm
simplicity as by anything else. Children were astounding creatures.
"Did Jean see her, or anyone?" he asked.
Mimi shook her head.
Then he told her they were leaving the next morning at six.
"Shall you be in a carriage?" she inquired.
"Yes."
"Oh! Do let me come out and see you go past," she pleaded. "Nobody else
in our house will be up till hours afterwards!... Do!"
He was about to say "No," for it would mean revealing the whole affair
to his wife at once. But after an instant he said "Yes." He would not
refuse that exquisite, appealing gesture. Besides, why keep anything
whatever from Olive, even for a day?
At dinner he told his wife, and was glad to learn that she also thought
highly of Mimi and had confidence in her.
V
Mimi lay in bed in the nursery of the hired house on the way to
Rottingdean, which, considering that it was not "home," was a fairly
comfortable sort of abode. The nursery was immense, though an attic. The
white blinds of the two windows were drawn, and a fire burned in the
grate, lighting it pleasantly and behaving in a very friendly manner. At
the other end of the room, in the deep shadow, was Jean's bed.
The door opened quietly and someone came into the room and pushed the
door to without quite shutting it.
"Is that you, mamma?" Jean demanded in his shrill voice, from the
distance of the bed in the corner. His age was exactly eight.
"Yes, dear," said the new stepmother.
The menial Ada had arranged the children for the night, and now the
stepmother had come up to kiss them and be kind. She was a conscientious
young woman, full of a desire to do right, and she had determined not to
be like the traditional stepmother.
She kissed Jean, who had taken quite a fancy to her, and tickled him
agreeably, and tucked him up anew, and then moved silently across the
room to Mimi. Mimi could see her face in the twilight of the fire. A
handsome, good-natured face; yet very determined, and perhaps a little
too full of common sense. It had a responsible, somewhat grave look.
After all, these two young children were a responsibility, especially
Mimi with her back; and, moreover, Pierre Emile Vaillac had disappointed
both her and her step-children by telegraphing that he could not arrive
that night. Olive One, the bride of three months, had put on fine
raiment for nothing.
"Well, Mimi," she said in her low, vibrating voice, as she stood over
the bed, "I do hope you didn't overtire yourself this afternoon." Then
she kissed Mimi.
"Oh no, mamma!" The little girl smiled.
"It seems you waited outside the barber's while Jeannot was having his
hair cut."
"Yes, mamma. I didn't like to go in."
"Ada didn't stay with you all the time?"
"No, mamma. First of all she took Jeannot in, and then she came out to
me, and then she went in again to see how long he would be."
"I'm sorry she left you alone in the street. She ought not to have done
so, and I've told her.... The King's Road, with all kinds of people
about!"
Mimi said nothing. The new Madame Vaillac moved a little towards the
fire.
"Of course," the latter went on, "I know you're a regular little woman,
and perhaps I needn't tell you but you must never speak to anyone in the
street."
"No, mamma."
"Particularly in Brighton.... You never do, do you?"
"No, mamma."
"Good-night."
The stepmother left the room. Mimi could feel her heart beating. Then
Jean called out:
"Mimi."
She made no reply. The fact was she was too disturbed to be able to
reply.
Jean called again and then got out of bed and thudded across the room to
her bedside.
"I say, Mimi," he screeched in his insistent treble, "who _was_ it you
were talking to?"
Mimi's heart did not beat, it jumped.
"When? Where?"
"This afternoon, when I was having my hair cut."
"How do you know I was talking to anybody?"
"Ada saw you through the window of the barber's."
"When did she tell you?"
"She didn't. I heard her telling mamma."
There was a silence. Then Mimi hid her face, and Jean could hear
sobbing.
"You might tell me!" Jean insisted. He was too absorbed by his own
curiosity, and too upset by the full realization of the fact that she
had kept something from him, to be touched by her tears.
"It's a secret," she muttered into the pillow.
"You might tell me!"
"Go away, Jeannot!" she burst out hysterically.
He gave an angry lunge against the bed.
"I tell you everything; and it's not fair. _C'est pas juste!_" he said
savagely, but there were tears in his voice too. He was a creature at
once sensitive and violent, passionately attached to Mimi.
He thudded back to his bed. But even before he had reached his bed Mimi
could hear him weeping.
She gradually stilled her own sobs, and after a time Jean's ceased. And
then she guessed that Jean had gone to sleep. But Mimi did not go to
sleep. She knew that chance, and Mr Coe, and that odious new servant,
Ada, had combined to ruin her life. She saw the whole affair clearly.
Ada was officious and fussy, also secretive and given to plotting. Ada's
leading idea was that children had to be circumvented. Imagine the
detestable woman spying on her from the window, and then saying nothing
to her, but sneaking off to tell tales to her mamma! Imagine it! Mimi's
strict sense of justice could not blame her mamma. She was sure that
the new stepmother meant well by her. Her mamma had given her every
opportunity to confess, to admit of her own accord that she had been
talking to somebody in the street, and she had not confessed. On the
contrary, she had lied. Her mamma would probably say nothing more on the
matter, for she had a considerable sense of honour with children, and
would not take an unfair advantage. Having tried to obtain a confession
from Mimi by pretending that she knew nothing, and having failed, she
was not the woman to turn round and say, "Now I know all about it. So
just confess at once!" Her mamma would accept the situation, would try
to behave as if nothing had happened, and would probably even say
nothing to her father.
But Mimi knew that she was ruined for ever in her stepmother's esteem.
And she had quarrelled with Jean, which was exceedingly hateful and
exceedingly rare. And there was also the private worry of her mysterious
back. And there was another thing. The mere fact that her friend, Mr
Coe, had gone and married somebody. For long she had had a weakness for
Mr Coe. They had been intimate at times. Once, last year, in the stern
of a large sailing-boat at Morecambe, while her friends were laughing
and shouting at the prow, she and Mr Coe had had a most beautiful quiet
conversation about her thoughts on the world in general; she had stroked
his hand.... No! She had no dream whatever of growing up into a woman
and then marrying Mr Coe! Certainly not. But still, that he should have
gone and married, like that ... it was....
The fire died out into blackness, thus ceasing to be a friend. Still she
did not sleep. Was it likely that she should sleep, with the tragedy and
woe of the entire universe crushing her?