The Complete Works of Henry James

by Henry James

  This quantity was so great as to fill the child’s days with a sense of intermission to which even French Lisette gave no accent —with finished games and unanswered questions and dreaded tests; with the habit, above all, in her watch for a change, of hanging over banisters when the door-bell sounded. This was the great refuge of her impatience, but what she heard at such times was a clatter of gaiety downstairs; the impression of which, from her earliest childhood, had built up in her the belief that the grown-up time was the time of real amusement and above all of real intimacy. Even Lisette, even Mrs. Wix had never, she felt, in spite of hugs and tears, been so intimate with her as so many persons at present were with Mrs. Beale and as so many others of old had been with Mrs. Farange. The note of hilarity brought people together still more than the note of melancholy, which was the one exclusively sounded, for instance, by poor Mrs. Wix. Maisie in these days preferred none the less that domestic revels should be wafted to her from a distance: she felt sadly unsupported for facing the inquisition of the drawing-room. That was a reason the more for making the most of Susan Ash, who in her quality of under-housemaid moved at a very different level and who, none the less, was much depended upon out of doors. She was a guide to peregrinations that had little in common with those intensely definite airings that had left with the child a vivid memory of the regulated mind of Moddle. There had been under Moddle’s system no dawdles at shop-windows and no nudges, in Oxford Street, of “I SAY, look at ‘ER!” There had been an inexorable treatment of crossings and a serene exemption from the fear that—especially at corners, of which she was yet weakly fond—haunted the housemaid, the fear of being, as she ominously said, “spoken to.” The dangers of the town equally with its diversions added to Maisie’s sense of being untutored and unclaimed.

  The situation however, had taken a twist when, on another of her returns, at Susan’s side, extremely tired, from the pursuit of exercise qualified by much hovering, she encountered another emotion. She on this occasion learnt at the door that her instant attendance was requested in the drawing-room. Crossing the threshold in a cloud of shame she discerned through the blur Mrs. Beale seated there with a gentleman who immediately drew the pain from her predicament by rising before her as the original of the photograph of Sir Claude. She felt the moment she looked at him that he was by far the most shining presence that had ever made her gape, and her pleasure in seeing him, in knowing that he took hold of her and kissed her, as quickly throbbed into a strange shy pride in him, a perception of his making up for her fallen state, for Susan’s public nudges, which quite bruised her, and for all the lessons that, in the dead schoolroom, where at times she was almost afraid to stay alone, she was bored with not having. It was as if he had told her on the spot that he belonged to her, so that she could already show him off and see the effect he produced. No, nothing else that was most beautiful ever belonging to her could kindle that particular joy—not Mrs. Beale at that very moment, not papa when he was gay, nor mamma when she was dressed, nor Lisette when she was new. The joy almost overflowed in tears when he laid his hand on her and drew her to him, telling her, with a smile of which the promise was as bright as that of a Christmas-tree, that he knew her ever so well by her mother, but had come to see her now so that he might know her for himself. She could see that his view of this kind of knowledge was to make her come away with him, and, further, that it was just what he was there for and had already been some time: arranging it with Mrs. Beale and getting on with that lady in a manner evidently not at all affected by her having on the arrival of his portrait thought of him so ill. They had grown almost intimate—or had the air of it—over their discussion; and it was still further conveyed to Maisie that Mrs. Beale had made no secret, and would make yet less of one, of all that it cost to let her go. “You seem so tremendously eager,” she said to the child, “that I hope you’re at least clear about Sir Claude’s relation to you. It doesn’t appear to occur to him to give you the necessary reassurance.”

  Maisie, a trifle mystified, turned quickly to her new friend. “Why it’s of course that you’re MARRIED to her, isn’t it?”

  Her anxious emphasis started them off, as she had learned to call it; this was the echo she infallibly and now quite resignedly produced; moreover Sir Claude’s laughter was an indistinguishable part of the sweetness of his being there. “We’ve been married, my dear child, three months, and my interest in you is a consequence, don’t you know? of my great affection for your mother. In coming here it’s of course for your mother I’m acting.”

  “Oh I know,” Maisie said with all the candour of her competence. “She can’t come herself—except just to the door.” Then as she thought afresh: “Can’t she come even to the door now?”

  “There you are!” Mrs. Beale exclaimed to Sir Claude. She spoke as if his dilemma were ludicrous.

  His kind face, in a hesitation, seemed to recognise it; but he answered the child with a frank smile. “No—not very well.”

  “Because she has married you?”

  He promptly accepted this reason. “Well, that has a good deal to do with it.”

  He was so delightful to talk to that Maisie pursued the subject.

  “But papa—HE has married Miss Overmore.”

  “Ah you’ll see that he won’t come for you at your mother’s,” that lady interposed.

  “Yes, but that won’t be for a long time,” Maisie hastened to respond.

  “We won’t talk about it now—you’ve months and months to put in first.” And Sir Claude drew her closer.

  “Oh that’s what makes it so hard to give her up!” Mrs. Beale made this point with her arms out to her stepdaughter. Maisie, quitting Sir Claude, went over to them and, clasped in a still tenderer embrace, felt entrancingly the extension of the field of happiness. “I’LL come for you,” said her stepmother, “if Sir Claude keeps you too long: we must make him quite understand that! Don’t talk to me about her ladyship!” she went on to their visitor so familiarly that it was almost as if they must have met before. “I know her ladyship as if I had made her. They’re a pretty pair of parents!” cried Mrs. Beale.

  Maisie had so often heard them called so that the remark diverted her but an instant from the agreeable wonder of this grand new form of allusion to her mother; and that, in its turn, presently left her free to catch at the pleasant possibility, in connexion with herself, of a relation much happier as between Mrs. Beale and Sir Claude than as between mamma and papa. Still the next thing that happened was that her interest in such a relation brought to her lips a fresh question.

  “Have you seen papa?” she asked of Sir Claude.

  It was the signal for their going off again, as her small stoicism had perfectly taken for granted that it would be. All that Mrs. Beale had nevertheless to add was the vague apparent sarcasm: “Oh papa!”

  “I’m assured he’s not at home,” Sir Claude replied to the child; “but if he had been I should have hoped for the pleasure of seeing him.”

  “Won’t he mind your coming?” Maisie asked as with need of the knowledge.

  “Oh you bad little girl!” Mrs. Beale humorously protested.

  The child could see that at this Sir Claude, though still moved to mirth, coloured a little; but he spoke to her very kindly. “That’s just what I came to see, you know—whether your father WOULD mind. But Mrs. Beale appears strongly of the opinion that he won’t.”

  This lady promptly justified that view to her stepdaughter. “It will be very interesting, my dear, you know, to find out what it is to-day that your father does mind. I’m sure I don’t know!” —and she seemed to repeat, though with perceptible resignation, her plaint of a moment before. “Your father, darling, is a very odd person indeed.” She turned with this, smiling, to Sir Claude. “But perhaps it’s hardly civil for me to say that of his not objecting to have YOU in the house. If you knew some of the people he does have!”

  Maisie knew them all, and none indeed were to be compared to Sir Claude. He laugh
ed back at Mrs. Beale; he looked at such moments quite as Mrs. Wix, in the long stories she told her pupil, always described the lovers of her distressed beauties—”the perfect gentleman and strikingly handsome.” He got up, to the child’s regret, as if he were going. “Oh I dare say we should be all right!”

  Mrs. Beale once more gathered in her little charge, holding her close and looking thoughtfully over her head at their visitor. “It’s so charming—a man of your type—to have wanted her so much!”

  “What do you know about my type?” Sir Claude laughed. “Whatever it may be I dare say it deceives you. The truth about me is simply that I’m the most unappreciated of—what do you call the fellows?—’family-men.’ Yes, I’m a family-man; upon my honour I am!”

  “Then why on earth,” cried Mrs. Beale, “didn’t you marry a family-woman?”

  Sir Claude looked at her hard. “YOU know who one marries, I think. Besides, there ARE no family-women—hanged if there are! None of them want any children—hanged if they do!”

  His account of the matter was most interesting, and Maisie, as if it were of bad omen for her, stared at the picture in some dismay. At the same time she felt, through encircling arms, her protectress hesitate. “You do come out with things! But you mean her ladyship doesn’t want any—really?”

  “Won’t hear of them—simply. But she can’t help the one she HAS got.” And with this Sir Claude’s eyes rested on the little girl in a way that seemed to her to mask her mother’s attitude with the consciousness of his own. “She must make the best of her, don’t you see? If only for the look of the thing, don’t you know? one wants one’s wife to take the proper line about her child.”

  “Oh I know what one wants!” Mrs. Beale cried with a competence that evidently impressed her interlocutor.

  “Well, if you keep HIM up—and I dare say you’ve had worry enough —why shouldn’t I keep Ida? What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander—or the other way round, don’t you know? I mean to see the thing through.”

  Mrs. Beale, for a minute, still with her eyes on him as he leaned upon the chimneypiece, appeared to turn this over. “You’re just a wonder of kindness—that’s what you are!” she said at last. “A lady’s expected to have natural feelings. But YOUR horrible sex—isn’t it a horrible sex, little love?” she demanded with her cheek upon her stepdaughter’s.

  “Oh I like gentlemen best,” Maisie lucidly replied.

  The words were taken up merrily. “That’s a good one for YOU!” Sir Claude exclaimed to Mrs. Beale.

  “No,” said that lady: “I’ve only to remember the women she sees at her mother’s.”

  “Ah they’re very nice now,” Sir Claude returned.

  “What do you call ‘nice’?”

  “Well, they’re all right.”

  “That doesn’t answer me,” said Mrs. Beale; “but I dare say you do take care of them. That makes you more of an angel to want this job too.” And she playfully whacked her smaller companion.

  “I’m not an angel—I’m an old grandmother,” Sir Claude declared. “I like babies—I always did. If we go to smash I shall look for a place as responsible nurse.”

  Maisie, in her charmed mood, drank in an imputation on her years which at another moment might have been bitter; but the charm was sensibly interrupted by Mrs. Beale’s screwing her round and gazing fondly into her eyes, “You’re willing to leave me, you wretch?”

  The little girl deliberated; even this consecrated tie had become as a cord she must suddenly snap. But she snapped it very gently. “Isn’t it my turn for mamma?”

  “You’re a horrible little hypocrite! The less, I think, now said about ‘turns’ the better,” Mrs. Beale made answer. “I know whose turn it is. You’ve not such a passion for your mother!”

  “I say, I say: DO look out!” Sir Claude quite amiably protested. “There’s nothing she hasn’t heard. But it doesn’t matter—it hasn’t spoiled her. If you knew what it costs me to part with you!” she pursued to Maisie.

  Sir Claude watched her as she charmingly clung to the child. “I’m so glad you really care for her. That’s so much to the good.”

  Mrs. Beale slowly got up, still with her hands on Maisie, but emitting a soft exhalation. “Well, if you’re glad, that may help us; for I assure you that I shall never give up any rights in her that I may consider I’ve acquired by my own sacrifices. I shall hold very fast to my interest in her. What seems to have happened is that she has brought you and me together.”

  “She has brought you and me together,” said Sir Claude.

  His cheerful echo prolonged the happy truth, and Maisie broke out almost with enthusiasm: “I’ve brought you and her together!”

  Her companions of course laughed anew and Mrs. Beale gave her an affectionate shake. “You little monster—take care what you do! But that’s what she does do,” she continued to Sir Claude. “She did it to me and Beale.”

  “Well then,” he said to Maisie, “you must try the trick at our place.” He held out his hand to her again. “Will you come now?”

  “Now—just as I am?” She turned with an immense appeal to her stepmother, taking a leap over the mountain of “mending,” the abyss of packing that had loomed and yawned before her. “Oh may I?”

  Mrs. Beale addressed her assent to Sir Claude. “As well so as any other way. I’ll send on her things to-morrow.” Then she gave a tug to the child’s coat, glancing at her up and down with some ruefulness.

  “She’s not turned out as I should like—her mother will pull her to pieces. But what’s one to do—with nothing to do it on? And she’s better than when she came—you can tell her mother that. I’m sorry to have to say it to you—but the poor child was a sight.”

  “Oh I’ll turn her out myself!” the visitor cordially said.

  “I shall like to see how!”—Mrs. Beale appeared much amused. “You must bring her to show me—we can manage that. Good-bye, little fright!” And her last word to Sir Claude was that she would keep him up to the mark.

  9

  The idea of what she was to make up and the prodigious total it came to were kept well before Maisie at her mother’s. These things were the constant occupation of Mrs. Wix, who arrived there by the back stairs, but in tears of joy, the day after her own arrival. The process of making up, as to which the good lady had an immense deal to say, took, through its successive phases, so long that it heralded a term at least equal to the child’s last stretch with her father. This, however, was a fuller and richer time: it bounded along to the tune of Mrs. Wix’s constant insistence on the energy they must both put forth. There was a fine intensity in the way the child agreed with her that under Mrs. Beale and Susan Ash she had learned nothing whatever; the wildness of the rescued castaway was one of the forces that would henceforth make for a career of conquest. The year therefore rounded itself as a receptacle of retarded knowledge—a cup brimming over with the sense that now at least she was learning. Mrs. Wix fed this sense from the stores of her conversation and with the immense bustle of her reminder that they must cull the fleeting hour. They were surrounded with subjects they must take at a rush and perpetually getting into the attitude of triumphant attack. They had certainly no idle hours, and the child went to bed each night as tired as from a long day’s play. This had begun from the moment of their reunion, begun with all Mrs. Wix had to tell her young friend of the reasons of her ladyship’s extraordinary behaviour at the very first.