At dinner he told his wife, and was glad to learn that she also thought highly of Mimi and had confidence in her.
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?
VI
Mr. Edward Coe and Olive Two arose from their bed the next morning
