tenderness of which, she felt, made up for the sacrifice
she imposed, their companion had had time to lay a
quick hand on Sir Claude and, with a glance at him
or not, whisk him effectually out of sight. Released
from the child’s arms Mrs. Wix looked about
for the picture; then she fixed Miss Overmore with
a hard dumb stare; and finally, with her eyes on the
little girl again, achieved the grimmest of smiles.
“Well, nothing matters, Maisie, because there’s
another thing your mamma wrote about. She has
made sure of me.” Even after her loyal hug
Maisie felt a bit of a sneak as she glanced at Miss
Overmore for permission to understand this. But
Mrs. Wix left them in no doubt of what it meant.
“She has definitely engaged me—for
her return and for yours. Then you’ll see
for yourself.” Maisie, on the spot, quite
believed she should; but the prospect was suddenly
thrown into confusion by an extraordinary demonstration
from Miss Overmore.
“Mrs. Wix,” said that young lady, “has
some undiscoverable reason for regarding your mother’s
hold on you as strengthened by the fact that she’s
about to marry. I wonder then—on that
system—what our visitor will say to your
father’s.”
Miss Overmore’s words were directed to her pupil,
but her face, lighted with an irony that made it prettier
even than ever before, was presented to the dingy
figure that had stiffened itself for departure.
The child’s discipline had been bewildering—had
ranged freely between the prescription that she was
to answer when spoken to and the experience of lively
penalties on obeying that prescription. This time,
nevertheless, she felt emboldened for risks; above
all as something portentous seemed to have leaped
into her sense of the relations of things. She
looked at Miss Overmore much as she had a way of looking
at persons who treated her to “grown up”
jokes. “Do you mean papa’s hold on
me—do you mean he’s about to
marry?”
“Papa’s not about to marry—papa
is married, my dear. Papa was married the
day before yesterday at Brighton.” Miss
Overmore glittered more gaily; meanwhile it came over
Maisie, and quite dazzlingly, that her “smart”
governess was a bride. “He’s my husband,
if you please, and I’m his little wife.
So now we’ll see who’s your little
mother!” She caught her pupil to her bosom in
a manner that was not to be outdone by the emissary
of her predecessor, and a few moments later, when things
had lurched back into their places, that poor lady,
quite defeated of the last word, had soundlessly taken
flight.
After Mrs. Wix’s retreat Miss Overmore appeared
to recognise that she was not exactly in a position
to denounce Ida Farange’s second union; but
she drew from a table-drawer the photograph of Sir
Claude and, standing there before Maisie, studied
it at some length.
“Isn’t he beautiful?” the child
ingenuously asked.
