Mimi
IOn a Saturday afternoon in late October Edward Coe, a satisfactoryaverage successful man of thirty-five, was walking slowly along theKing's Road, Brighton. A native and inhabitant of the Five Towns in theMidlands, he had the brusque and energetic mien of the Midlands. Itcould be seen that he was a stranger to the south; and, in fact, he wasnow viewing for the first time the vast and glittering spectacle of thesouthern pleasure city in the unique glory of her autumn season. Aspectacle to enliven any man by its mere splendour! And yet Edward Coewas gloomy. One reason for his gloom was that he had just left abicycle, with a deflated back tyre, to be repaired at a shop in PrestonStreet. Not perhaps an adequate reason for gloom!... Well, that depends.He had been informed by the blue-clad repairer, after due inspection,that the trouble was not a common puncture, but a malady of the valvemysterious.And the deflation was not the sole cause of his gloom. There wasanother. He was on his honeymoon. Understand me--not a honeymoon ofromance, but a real honeymoon. Who that has ever been on a realhoneymoon can look back upon the adventure and faithfully say that itwas an unmixed ecstasy of joy? A honeymoon is in its nature andconsequences so solemn, so dangerous, and so pitted with startlingsurprises, that the most irresponsible bridegroom, the mostlight-hearted, the least in love, must have moments of grave anxiety.And Edward Coe was far from irresponsible. Nor was he only a little inlove. Moreover, the circumstances of his marriage were peculiar, and hehad married a dark, brooding, passionate girl.Mrs Coe was the younger of two sisters named Olive Wardle, well known inthe most desirable circles in the Five Towns. I mean those circles whereintellectual and artistic tastes are united with sound incomes andexcellent food delicately served. It will certainly be asked why twosisters should be named Olive. The answer is that though Olive One andOlive Two were treated as sisters, and even treated themselves assisters, they were not sisters. They were not even half-sisters. Theyhad first met at the age of nine. The father of Olive One, a widower,had married the mother of Olive Two, a widow. Olive One was the elder bya few months. Olive Two gradually allowed herself to be called Wardlebecause it saved trouble. They got on with one another very well indeed,especially after the death of both parents, when they became jointmistresses, each with a separate income, of a nice house at Sneyd, thefashionable residential village on the rim of the Five Towns. Like allpersons who live long together, they grew in many respects alike. Bothwere dark, brooding and passionate, and to this deep similarity asuperficial similarity of habits and demeanour was added. Only, whereasOlive One was rather more inclined to be the woman of the world, OliveTwo was rather more inclined to study and was particularly interested inthe theory of music.They were sought after, naturally. And yet they had reached the age oftwenty-five before the world perceived that either of them was notsought after in vain. The fact, obvious enough, that Pierre EmileVaillac had become an object of profound human interest to OliveOne--this fact excited the world, and the world would have been stillmore excited had it been aware of another fact that was not at allobvious: namely, that Pierre Emile Vaillac was the cause of a secret andterrible breach between the two sisters. Vaillac, a widower with twoyoung children, Mimi and Jean, was a Frenchman, and a great authority onthe decoration of egg-shell china, who had settled in the Five Towns asexpert partner in one of the classic china firms at Longshaw. He wasundoubtedly a very attractive man.Olive One, when the relations between herself and Vaillac weredeveloping into something unmistakable, had suddenly, and withoutwarning, accused Olive Two of poaching. It was a frightful accusation,and a frightful scene followed it, one of those scenes that are seldomforgiven and never forgotten. It altered their lives; but as they werewomen of considerable common sense and of good breeding, each did herbest to behave afterwards as though nothing had happened.Olive Two did not convince Olive One of her innocence, because she didnot bring forward the supreme proof of it. She was too proud--in herbrooding and her mystery--to do so. The supreme proof was that at thistime she herself was secretly engaged to be married to Edward Coe, whohad conquered her heart with unimaginable swiftness a few weeks beforeshe was about to sit for a musical examination at Manchester. "Let ussay nothing till after my exam," she had suggested to her betrothed."There will be an enormous fuss, and it will put me off, and I shallfail, and I don't want to fail, and you don't want me to fail." Heagreed rapturously. Of course she did fail, nevertheless. But beingobstinate she said she would go in again, and they continued to make asecret of the engagement. They found the secret delicious. Then followedthe devastating episode of Vaillac. Shortly afterwards Olive One andVaillac were married, and then Olive Two was alone in the nice house.The examination was forgotten, and she hated the house. She wanted to bemarried; Coe also. But nothing had been said. Difficult to announce herengagement just then! The world would say that she had married out ofimitation, and her sister would think that she had married out of pique.Besides, there would be the fuss, which Olive Two hated. Already thefuss of her sister's marriage, and the effort at the wedding ofpretending that nothing had happened between them, had fatigued thenerves of Olive Two.Then Edward Coe had had the brilliant and seductive idea of marrying insecret. To slip away, and then to return, saying, "We are married.That's all!" ... Why not? No fuss! No ceremonial! The accomplished fact,which simplifies everything!It was, therefore, a secret honeymoon that Edward Coe was on;delightful--but surreptitious, furtive! His mental condition may be bestdescribed by stating that, though he was conscious of rectitude, hesomehow could not look a policeman in the face. After all, plain peopledo not usually run off on secret honeymoons. Had he acted wisely?Perhaps this question, presenting itself now and then, was the chiefcause of his improper gloom.
IIHowever, the spectacle of Brighton on a fine Saturday afternoon inOctober had its effect on Edward Coe--the effect which it has oneverybody. Little by little it inspired him with the joy of life, andstraightened his back, and put a sparkle into his eyes. And he wasfilled with the consciousness of the fact that it is a fine thing to bewell-dressed and to have loose gold in your pocket, and to eat, drink,and smoke well; and to be among crowds of people who are well-dressedand have loose gold in their pockets, and eat and drink and smoke well;and to know that a magnificent woman will be waiting for you at acertain place at a certain hour, and that upon catching sight of youher dark orbs will take on an enchanting expression reserved for youalone, and that she is utterly yours. In a word, he looked on the brightside of things again. It could not ultimately matter a bilberry whetherhis marriage was public or private.He lit a cigarette gaily. He could not guess that untoward destiny waswaiting for him close by the newspaper kiosque.A little girl was leaning against the palisade there, and gazingsomewhat restlessly about her. A quite little girl, aged, perhaps,eleven, dressed in blue serge, with a short frock and long legs, and asailor hat (H.M.S. Formidable), and long hair down her back, and amild, twinkling, trustful glance. Somewhat untidy, but nevertheless theimage of grace.She saw him first. Otherwise he might have fled. But he was right uponher before he saw her. Indeed, he heard her before he saw her."Good afternoon, Mr Coe.""Mimi!"The Vaillacs were in Brighton! He had chosen practically the other endof the world for his honeymoon, and lo! by some awful clumsiness of fatethe Vaillacs were at the same end! The very people from whom he wishedto conceal his honeymoon until it was over would know all about it atthe very start! Relations between the two Olives would be still morestrained and difficult! In brief, from optimism he swung violently backto darkest pessimism. What could be worse than to be caught red-handedin a surreptitious honeymoon?She noticed his confusion, and he knew that she noticed it. She was alittle girl. But she was also a little woman, a little Frenchwoman, whospoke English perfectly--and yet with a difference! They had flirtedtogether, she and Mr Coe. She had a new mother now, but for years shehad been without a mother, and she would receive callers at herfather's house (if he happened to be out) with a delicious imitation ofa practised hostess.He raised his hat and shook hands and tried to play the game."What are you doing here, Mimi?" he asked."What are you doing here?" she parried, laughing. And then, perceivinghis increased trouble, and that she was failing in tact, she went onrapidly, with a screwing up of the childish shoulders and somethingbetween a laugh and a grin: "It's my back. It seems it's not strong. Andso we've taken an ever so jolly little house for the autumn, because ofthe air, you know. Didn't you know?"No, he did not know. That was the worst of strained relations. You werenot informed of events in advance."Where?" he asked."Oh!" she said, pointing. "That way. On the road to Rottingdean. Nearthe big girls' school. We came in on that lovely electric railway--alongthe beach. Have you been on it, Mr Coe?"Terrible! Rottingdean was precisely the scene of his honeymoon. Thehazard of fate was truly appalling. He and his wife might have walkedone day straight into the arms of her sister! He went hot and cold."And where are the others?" he asked nervously."Mamma"--she coloured as she used this word, so strange on herlips--"mamma's at home. Father may come to-night. And Ada has brought ushere so that Jean can have his hair cut. He didn't want to come withoutme.""Ada?""Ada's a new servant. She's just gone in there again to see how long thebarber will be." Mimi indicated a barber's shop opposite. "And I'mwaiting here," she added."Mimi," he said, in a confidential tone, "can you keep a secret?"She grew solemn. "Yes." She smiled seriously. "What?""About meeting me. Don't tell anybody you've met me to-day. See?""Not Jean?""No, not Jean. But later on you can tell--when I give you the tip. Idon't want anybody to know just now."It was a shame. He knew it was a shame. He deliberately flattered her byappealing to her as to a grown woman. He deliberately put a cajolingtone into his voice. He would not have done it if Mimi had not beenMimi--if she had been an ordinary sort of English girl. But she wasMimi. And the temptation was very strong. She promised, gravely. He knewthat he could rely on her.Hurrying away lest Jean and the servant might emerge from the barber's,he remembered with compunction that he had omitted to show any curiosityabout Mimi's back.
IIIThe magnificent woman was to be waiting for him in the lounge of theRoyal York Hotel at a quarter to four. She was coming in to Brighton bythe Rottingdean omnibus, which function, unless the driver changes hismind, occurs once in every two or three hours. He, being under thenecessity of telephoning to London on urgent business, had hired abicycle and ridden in. Despite the accident to this prehistoric machine,he arrived at the Royal York half a minute before the Rottingdeanomnibus passed through the Old Steine and set down the magnificent womanhis wife. The sight of her stepping off the omnibus really did thrillhim. They entered the hotel together, and, accustomed though the RoyalYork is to the reception of magnificent women, Olive made a sensationtherein. As for him, he could not help feeling just as though he hadeloped with her. He could not help fancying that all the brilliantcompany in the lounge was murmuring under the strains of the band: "Thatjohnny there has certainly eloped with that splendid creature!""Ed," she asked, fixing her dark eyes upon him, "is anything thematter?"They were having tea at a little Moorish table in the huge bay window ofthe lounge."No," he said. This was the first lie of his career as a husband. Buttruly he could not bring himself to give her the awful shock of tellingher that the Vaillacs were close at hand, that their secret wasdiscovered, and that their peace and security depended entirely upon thediscretion of little Mimi and upon their not meeting other Vaillacs."Then it's having that puncture that has upset you," his wife insisted.You see her feelings towards him were so passionate that she could notleave him alone. She was utterly preoccupied by him."No," he said guiltily."I'm afraid you don't very much care for this place," she went on,because she knew now that he was not telling her the truth, and thatsomething, indeed, was the matter."On the contrary," he replied, "I was informed that the finest tea andthe most perfect toast in Brighton were to be had in this lounge, andupon my soul I feel as if I could keep on having tea here for ever andever amen!"He was trying to be gay, but not very successfully."I don't mean just here," she said. "I mean all this south coast.""Well--" he began judicially."Oh! Ed!" she implored him. "Do say you don't like it!""Why!" he exclaimed. "Don't you?"She shook her head. "I much prefer the north," she remarked."Well," he said, "let's go. Say Scarborough.""You're joking," she murmured. "You adore this south coast.""Never!" he asserted positively."Well, darling," she said, "if you hadn't said first that you didn'tcare for it, of course I shouldn't have breathed a word--""Let's go to-morrow," he suggested."Yes." Her eyes shone."First train! We should have to leave Rottingdean at six o'clock a.m.""How lovely!" she exclaimed. She was enchanted by this idea of acapricious change of programme. It gave such a sense of freedom, ofirresponsibility, of romance!"More toast, please," he said to the waiter, joyously.It cost him no effort to be gay now. He could not have been sad. Theworld was suddenly transformed into the best of all possible worlds. Hewas saved! They were saved! Yes, he could trust Mimi. By no chance wouldthey be caught. They would stick in their rooms all the evening, and onthe morrow they would be away long before the Vaillacs were up. Papa and"mamma" Vaillac were terrible for late rising. And when he had got hismagnificent Olive safe in Scarborough, or wherever their noses mightlead them, then he would tell her of the risk they had run.They both laughed from mere irrational glee, and Edward Coe nearlyforgot to pay the bill. However, he did pay it. They departed from theRoyal York. He put his Olive into the returning Rottingdean omnibus, andthen hurried to get his repaired bicycle. He had momentarily quakedlest Mimi and company might be in the omnibus. But they were not. Theymust have left earlier, fortunately, or walked.
IVWhen he was still about a mile away from Rottingdean, and the hour wasdusk, and he was walking up a hill, he caught sight of a girl leaning ona 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 easenow--but really, with that house so close to the road and so close toRottingdean, he and his Olive had practically begun their honeymoon onthe summit of a volcano!Mimi was pensive. He felt remorse at having bound her to secrecy. Shewas so pensive, and so wistful, and her eyes were so loyal, that he felthe 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 calmsimplicity 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 elsein our house will be up till hours afterwards!... Do!"He was about to say "No," for it would mean revealing the whole affairto his wife at once. But after an instant he said "Yes." He would notrefuse that exquisite, appealing gesture. Besides, why keep anythingwhatever from Olive, even for a day?At dinner he told his wife, and was glad to learn that she also thoughthighly of Mimi and had confidence in her.
VMimi lay in bed in the nursery of the hired house on the way toRottingdean, which, considering that it was not "home," was a fairlycomfortable sort of abode. The nursery was immense, though an attic. Thewhite blinds of the two windows were drawn, and a fire burned in thegrate, lighting it pleasantly and behaving in a very friendly manner. Atthe 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 thedoor to without quite shutting it."Is that you, mamma?" Jean demanded in his shrill voice, from thedistance 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 thestepmother had come up to kiss them and be kind. She was a conscientiousyoung woman, full of a desire to do right, and she had determined not tobe like the traditional stepmother.She kissed Jean, who had taken quite a fancy to her, and tickled himagreeably, and tucked him up anew, and then moved silently across theroom to Mimi. Mimi could see her face in the twilight of the fire. Ahandsome, good-natured face; yet very determined, and perhaps a littletoo full of common sense. It had a responsible, somewhat grave look.After all, these two young children were a responsibility, especiallyMimi with her back; and, moreover, Pierre Emile Vaillac had disappointedboth her and her step-children by telegraphing that he could not arrivethat night. Olive One, the bride of three months, had put on fineraiment for nothing."Well, Mimi," she said in her low, vibrating voice, as she stood overthe bed, "I do hope you didn't overtire yourself this afternoon." Thenshe kissed Mimi."Oh no, mamma!" The little girl smiled."It seems you waited outside the barber's while Jeannot was having hishair 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 tome, 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 doneso, and I've told her.... The King's Road, with all kinds of peopleabout!"Mimi said nothing. The new Madame Vaillac moved a little towards thefire."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 thestreet.""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. ThenJean called out:"Mimi."She made no reply. The fact was she was too disturbed to be able toreply.Jean called again and then got out of bed and thudded across the room toher bedside."I say, Mimi," he screeched in his insistent treble, "who was it youwere 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 hearsobbing."You might tell me!" Jean insisted. He was too absorbed by his owncuriosity, and too upset by the full realization of the fact that shehad 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 saidsavagely, but there were tears in his voice too. He was a creature atonce sensitive and violent, passionately attached to Mimi.He thudded back to his bed. But even before he had reached his bed Mimicould hear him weeping.She gradually stilled her own sobs, and after a time Jean's ceased. Andthen she guessed that Jean had gone to sleep. But Mimi did not go tosleep. 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'sleading idea was that children had to be circumvented. Imagine thedetestable woman spying on her from the window, and then saying nothingto her, but sneaking off to tell tales to her mamma! Imagine it! Mimi'sstrict sense of justice could not blame her mamma. She was sure thatthe new stepmother meant well by her. Her mamma had given her everyopportunity to confess, to admit of her own accord that she had beentalking to somebody in the street, and she had not confessed. On thecontrary, she had lied. Her mamma would probably say nothing more on thematter, for she had a considerable sense of honour with children, andwould not take an unfair advantage. Having tried to obtain a confessionfrom Mimi by pretending that she knew nothing, and having failed, shewas not the woman to turn round and say, "Now I know all about it. Sojust confess at once!" Her mamma would accept the situation, would tryto behave as if nothing had happened, and would probably even saynothing 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 andexceedingly rare. And there was also the private worry of her mysteriousback. And there was another thing. The mere fact that her friend, MrCoe, had gone and married somebody. For long she had had a weakness forMr Coe. They had been intimate at times. Once, last year, in the sternof a large sailing-boat at Morecambe, while her friends were laughingand shouting at the prow, she and Mr Coe had had a most beautiful quietconversation about her thoughts on the world in general; she had strokedhis hand.... No! She had no dream whatever of growing up into a womanand then marrying Mr Coe! Certainly not. But still, that he should havegone and married, like that ... it was....The fire died out into blackness, thus ceasing to be a friend. Still shedid not sleep. Was it likely that she should sleep, with the tragedy andwoe of the entire universe crushing her?
VIMr Edward Coe and Olive Two arose from their bed the next morning ingreat spirits. Mr Coe had told both his wife and Mimi that the hour ofdeparture from Rottingdean would be six o'clock. But this was anexaggeration. So far as his wife was concerned he had already found itwell to exaggerate on such matters. A little judicious exaggerationlessened the risk of missing trains and other phenomena which cannot bemissed without confusion and disappointment.As a fact it was already six o'clock when Edward Coe looked forth fromthe bedroom window. He was completely dressed. His wife also wascompletely dressed. He therefore felt quite safe about the train. Thewindow, which was fairly high up in the world, gave on the south-east,so that he had a view, not only of the vast naked downs billowing awaytowards Newhaven, but also of the Channel, which was calm, and uponwhich little parcels of fog rested. The sky was clear overhead, of agreenish sapphire colour, and the autumnal air bit and gnawed on theskin like some friendly domestic animal, and invigorated like anexpensive tonic. On the dying foliage of a tree near the window millionsof precious stones hung. Cocks were boasting. Cows were expressing ajustifiable anxiety. And in the distance a small steamer was making agreat deal of smoke about nothing, as it puffed out of Newhaven harbour."Olive," he said."What is it?"She was putting hats into the top of her trunk. She had a specialhat-box, but the hats were too large for it, and she packed minortrifles in the hat-box, such as skirts. This was one of the detailswhich first indicated to an astounded Edward Coe that a woman is neverless like a man than when travelling."Come here," he commanded her.She obeyed."Look at that," he commanded her, pointing to the scene of which thewindow was the frame.She obeyed. She also looked at him with her dark, passionate, and yethalf-mocking eyes."Yes," she said, "and who's going to make that trunk lock?"She snapped her fingers at the sweet morning influences of Nature, towhich he was peculiarly sensitive. And yet he was delighted. He found itentirely delicious that she should say, when called upon to admireNature: "Who's going to make that trunk lock?"He stroked her hair."It's no use trying to keep your hair decent at the seaside," sheremarked, pouting exquisitely.He explained that his hand was offering no criticism of her hair. Andthen there was a knock at the bedroom door, and Olive Two jumped alittle away from her husband."Come in," he cried, pretending to be as bold as a lion.However, he had forgotten that the door was locked, and he had to go andopen it.A tray with coffee and milk and sugar and slices of bread-and-butter wasin the doorway, and behind the tray the little parlour-maid of thelittle hotel. He greeted the girl and instructed her to carry thetray to the table by the window."You are prompt," said Olive Two, kindly. She had got up so miraculouslyearly herself that she was startled to see any other woman up quite asearly. And also she was a little surprised that the parlour-maid showedno surprise at these very unusual hours."Yes'm," replied the parlour-maid, wondering why Olive Two was soexcited. The parlour-maid arose at five-thirty every morning of herlife, except on special occasions, when she arose at four-thirty toassist in pastoral affairs."All right, this coffee, eh?" murmured Edward Coe as he put down thesteaming cup after his first sip. They were alone again, seated oppositeeach other at the small table by the window.Olive Two nodded.It must not be supposed that this was the one unique dreamed-of hotel inEngland where the coffee is good of its own accord. No! In the matter ofcoffee this hotel was just like all other hotels. Only Olive Two hadtaken special precautions about that coffee. She had been into the hotelkitchen on the previous evening about that coffee."By the way," she asked, "where's the sun?""The sun doesn't happen to be up yet," said Edward. He looked at hisdiary and then at his watch. "Unless something goes wrong, you'll beseeing it inside of three minutes.""Do you mean to say we shall see the sun rise?" she exclaimed.He nodded."Well!" cried she, absurdly gleeful, "I never heard of such a thing!"She watched the sunrise like a child who sees for the first time theinside of a watch. And when the sun had risen she glanced anxiouslyround the disordered room."For heaven's sake," she muttered, "don't let's forget thesetooth-brushes!""You are so ridiculous," said he, "that I must kiss you."The truth is that they were no better than two children out on anadventure.It was the same when down in the hotel-yard they got into the small anddecrepit victoria which was destined to take them and their luggage toBrighton. It was the same, but more so. They were both so pleased withthemselves that their joy was bubbling continually out in manifestationsthat could only be described as infantile. The mere drive through thevillage, with the pony whisking his tail round corners, and the driversteadying the perilous hat-box with his left hand, was so funny thatsomehow they could not help laughing.Then they had left the village and were climbing the exposed highroad,with the wavy blue-green downs on the right, and the immense glitteringflat floor of the Channel on the left. And the mere sensation of beingalive almost overwhelmed them.And further on they passed a house that stood by itself away from theroad towards the cliffs. It had a sloping garden and a small greenhouse.The gate leading to the road was ajar, but the blinds of all the windowswere drawn, and there was no sign of life anywhere."That's the house," said Edward Coe, briefly."I might have known it," Olive Two replied. "Olive One is certainly theworst getter-up that I ever had anything to do with, and I believePierre Emile isn't much better.""Well," said Edward, "it's no absolute proof of sluggardliness not to beup and about at six forty-five of a morning, you know.""I was forgetting how early it was!" said Olive Two, and yawned. Theyawn escaped her before she was aware of it. She pulled herself togetherand kissed her hands mockingly, quizzically, to the house. "Good-bye,house! Good-bye, house!"They were saved now. They could not be caught now on their surreptitioushoneymoon. And their spirits went even higher."I thought you said Mimi would be waiting for us?" Olive Two remarked.Edward Coe shrugged his shoulders. "Probably overslept herself! Or shemay have got tired of waiting. I told her six o'clock."On the whole Olive Two was relieved that Mimi was invisible."It wouldn't really matter if she did split on us, would it?" said thebride."Not a bit," the bridegroom agreed. Now that they had safely left thehouse behind them, they were both very valiant. It was as if they wereboth saying: "Who cares?" The bridegroom's mood was entirely differentfrom his sombre apprehensiveness of the previous evening. And the earlysunshine on the dew-drops was magnificent.But a couple of hundred yards further on, at a bend of the road, theysaw a little girl shading her eyes with her hand and gazing towards thesun. She wore a short blue serge frock, and she had long restless legs,and the word Formidable was on her forehead, and her eyes were allscrewed up in the strong sunshine. And in her hand were flowers."There she is, after all!" said Edward, quickly.Olive Two nodded. Olive Two also blushed, for Mimi was the first personacquainted with her to see her after her marriage. She blushed becauseshe was now a married woman.Mimi, who with much prudence had managed so that the meeting should notoccur exactly in front of the house, came towards the carriage. The ponywas walking up a slope. She bounded forward with her childish grace andwith the awkwardness of her long legs, and her hair loose in the breeze,and she laughed nervously."Good morning, good morning," she cried. "Shall I jump on the step? Thenthe horse won't have to stop."And she jumped lightly on to the step and giggled, still nervously,looking first at the bridegroom and then at the bride. The bridegroomheld her securely by the shoulder."Well, Mimi," said Olive Two, whose shyness vanished in an instantbefore the shyness of the child. "This is nice of you."The two women kissed. But Mimi did not offer her cheek to thebridegroom. He and she simply shook hands as well as they could with adue regard for Mimi's firmness on the step."And who woke you up, eh?" Edward Coe demanded."Nobody," said Mimi; "I got up by myself, and," turning to Olive Two,"I've made this bouquet for you, auntie. There aren't any flowers in thefields. But I got the chrysanthemum out of the greenhouse, and put somebits of ferns and things round it. You must excuse it being tied up withdarning wool."She offered the bouquet diffidently, and Olive Two accepted it with awarm smile."Well," said Mimi, "I don't think I'd better go any further, had I?"There was another kiss and hand-shaking, and the next moment Mimi wasstanding in the road and waving a little crumpled handkerchief to thereceding victoria, and the bride and bridegroom were cricking theirnecks to respond. She waved until the carriage was out of sight, andthen she stood moveless, a blue and white spot on the green landscape,with the morning sun and the sea behind her."Exactly like a little woman, isn't she?" said Edward Coe, enchanted bythe vision."Exactly!" Olive Two agreed. "Nice little thing! But how tired andunwell she looks! They did well to bring her away.""Oh!" said Edward Coe, "she probably didn't sleep well because she wasafraid of oversleeping herself. She looked perfectly all rightyesterday."
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