What Maisie Knew by Henry James Page B

only be
loosened by force: she would "leave" for the police perhaps, but she
wouldn't leave for mere outrage. That would be to play her ladyship's
game, and it would take another turn of the screw to make her desert her
darling. Her ladyship had come down with extraordinary violence: it had
been one of many symptoms of a situation strained—"between them all,"
as Mrs. Wix said, "but especially between the two"—to the point of God
only knew what.
    Her description of the crisis made the child blanch. "Between which
two?—papa and mamma?"
    "Dear no. I mean between your mother and HIM."
    Maisie, in this, recognised an opportunity to be really deep.
"'Him'?—Mr. Perriam?"
    She fairly brought a blush to the scared face. "Well, my dear, I must
say what you DON'T know ain't worth mentioning. That it won't go on for
ever with Mr. Perriam—since I MUST meet you—you can suppose? But I
meant dear Sir Claude."
    Maisie stood corrected rather than abashed. "I see. But it's about Mr.
Perriam he's angry?"
    Mrs. Wix waited. "He says he's not."
    "Not angry? He has told you so?"
    Mrs. Wix looked at her hard. "Not about HIM!"
    "Then about some one else?"
    Mrs. Wix looked at her harder. "About some one else."
    "Lord Eric?" the child promptly brought forth.
    At this, of a sudden, her governess was more agitated. "Oh why, little
unfortunate, should we discuss their dreadful names?"—and she threw
herself for the millionth time on Maisie's neck. It took her pupil but
a moment to feel that she quivered with insecurity, and, the contact
of her terror aiding, the pair in another instant were sobbing in each
other's arms. Then it was that, completely relaxed, demoralised as she
had never been, Mrs. Wix suffered her wound to bleed and her resentment
to gush. Her great bitterness was that Ida had called her false,
denounced her hypocrisy and duplicity, reviled her spying and tattling,
her lying and grovelling to Sir Claude. "Me, ME!" the poor woman wailed,
"who've seen what I've seen and gone through everything only to cover
her up and ease her off and smooth her down? If I've been an 'ipocrite
it's the other way round: I've pretended, to him and to her, to myself
and to you and to every one, NOT to see! It serves me right to have held
my tongue before such horrors!"
    What horrors they were her companion forbore too closely to enquire,
showing even signs not a few of an ability to take them for granted.
That put the couple more than ever, in this troubled sea, in the same
boat, so that with the consciousness of ideas on the part of her fellow
mariner Maisie could sit close and wait. Sir Claude on the morrow came
in to tea, and then the ideas were produced. It was extraordinary how
the child's presence drew out their full strength. The principal one was
startling, but Maisie appreciated the courage with which her governess
handled it. It simply consisted of the proposal that whenever and
wherever they should seek refuge Sir Claude should consent to share
their asylum. On his protesting with all the warmth in nature against
this note of secession she asked what else in the world was left to them
if her ladyship should stop supplies.
    "Supplies be hanged, my dear woman!" said their delightful friend.
"Leave supplies to me—I'll take care of supplies."
    Mrs. Wix rose to it. "Well, it's exactly because I knew you'd be so glad
to do so that I put the question before you. There's a way to look after
us better than any other. The way's just to come along with us."
    It hung before Maisie, Mrs. Wix's way, like a glittering picture, and
she clasped her hands in ecstasy. "Come along, come along, come along!"
    Sir Claude looked from his stepdaughter back to her governess. "Do you
mean leave this house and take up my abode with you?"
    "It will be the right thing—if you feel as you've told me you feel."
Mrs. Wix, sustained and uplifted, was now as clear as a bell.
    Sir Claude had the air of trying to recall what he had told her; then
the light broke that was