MISS SEMAPHORE RECEIVES AN ANSWER.
“I am perfectly proportioned,” said the medical lady confidentially to
Mrs. Whitley.
Mrs. Whitley would not have thought so herself, but she made an
assenting murmur, out of politeness.
They were seated at breakfast two or three mornings later, and the
medical lady’s statement was interrupted by the entrance of Miss
Semaphore, who glided quietly to her place, and took up her
correspondence with some appearance of anxiety.
“Perfectly proportioned,” went on the medical lady in a lower key; “my
dressmaker says she has no difficulty therefore in fitting me, and my
gowns always sit well. I don’t say this out of vanity. It is a fact. I
fear, however, it would be no use giving her address to other people,
for the result might not be as satisfactory.”
Mrs. Whitley looked insulted, but she was a timid woman, and not ready
of speech. She thought the medical lady’s dress clumsy, and her figure
shapeless, but had indiscreetly asked who made it—the dress, not the
figure—with a view to employing the woman on some plain sewing. The
medical lady’s answer to her question had offended her very much, but
she could not think of anything cutting to say in reply.
Without noticing her expression, or feeling any awkwardness, the medical
lady continued,
“You know my velvet mantle? I have been told Miss Fastleigh says she
does not like it. Now that is pure jealousy. It is an extremely handsome
mantle, far handsomer than anything she could afford. But of course it
could only be worn by a fine, tall woman. It is astonishing that so many
people are jealous of me.”
Mrs. Whitley wondered vaguely what grounds for jealousy the medical lady
gave. She certainly was not popular in the house, but that was scarcely
because anyone was jealous of her. Belief in her own beauty, however,
and in the envy she imagined it excited, kept her happy; so sharp
speeches or covert hints alike failed to alter her. Mrs. Whitley she had
chosen as a confidante, under the belief that she was a quiet little
person who admired her. She would have been very much astonished to hear
Mrs. Whitley’s candid opinion.
“And how are you this morning, Mrs. Whitley?” asked Mrs. Dumaresq
blandly. She was the next arrival.
“My cold is still bad, thank you,” said Mrs. Whitley.
“Oh, indeed! No doubt the draught in your room increased it. All the
small rooms here are draughty, as the doors and windows are opposite
each other. Of course, as I have told you, when we came here we meant to
stop but a very short time. I can assure you, my dear Mrs. Whitley, that
to anyone who has moved in diplomatic circles, and been honoured by the
gracious hospitality of royalty, a boarding-house, however well kept—and
this is not without its good points—cannot fail to be objectionable.
Though we meant, as I have said, to stay but a short time, I was most
particular about having a good room. ‘Angelo,’ said I, ‘let us take the
best apartments in the house,’ and so we did. I made a point of it. It
is a great pity that you do not move into a larger room. Not that it
makes any difference to me. I am quite above such petty matters. I never
was influenced by any worldly consideration in my choice of
acquaintances; far from it. If I like people, my dear Mrs. Whitley, I
like them whether they have a small room or not. I do assure you they
may be stowed away at the very top of the house for all I care.”
“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” murmured Mrs. Whitley. The blaze of
grandeur surrounding Mr. and Mrs. Dumaresq, caused her to take all that
they said in good part. They had a certain suavity, an easy way of
saying unpleasant things, that the medical lady lacked. Besides, Mrs.
Whitley’s one ambition was to get into Society, and she secretly hoped
that if she was very civil to Mrs. Dumaresq, she might possibly be one
day introduced to some of the distinguished personages whose names were
so frequently introduced into her conversation.
“Yes,” went on the lady in a glow of generous feeling and a somewhat
heightened voice, “rank, and wealth, and position have never had any
charm for me. As my dear friend, the Marchese Polichinello, a charming
woman, a reigning beauty at the Italian Court—You remember the Marchese,
Angelo?—often said to me, ‘_Bellisima mia_’—she always addressed me as
‘_bellisima mia_’—‘you are led too much by your heart.’”
“I suppose you are going to the Queen’s Garden Party, Mrs. Dumaresq,”
said the medical lady, who had been reading the _Court Circular_.
“Oh, ah, yes,” replied Mrs. Dumaresq, “I expect I shall. It is easy for
me to go at any time.”
“But guests must have attended a Drawing-room within the last two years
to be eligible for invitations,” said Mr. Lorimer gruffly, “and I
thought you said you were out of England.”
“Certainly, certainly,” answered Mrs. Dumaresq, “we have of course been
away, but the dear Prince will arrange all that; and then, practically
speaking, I have attended a Drawing-room within the last two years.”
No one asked what she meant.
Meantime Miss Semaphore was reading the following letter:—
“194, Handel Street, W.C.
“—th June, 189–.
“Madam,
“In reply to your communication, I beg to say that I shall be pleased
to dispose of the Water referred to in my advertisement for the sum of
£1000. This minimum price is absolutely fixed, and I cannot take less.
Considering that the effect is guaranteed, and that I am the only
person in the world who has this marvellous water to sell, I am sure
you will admit the price is low. Were it not that I am in pressing and
immediate need of money, I could easily get much more. If you are
inclined to conclude the business at once, I shall be happy to see you
here to-morrow at 4.30 p.m., and give you a proof before purchase. My
bankers, Coutts & Co.; my solicitors, Lewis & Lewis, Dr. Llewellyn
Smith, of 604, Harley Street; and His Grace the Duke of Fordham have
kindly permitted me to name them as references, should you care to
make enquiries about me.
“I am, Madam,
“Yours faithfully,
“SOPHIA GELDHERAUS.”
Miss Semaphore ate her breakfast pensively and in silence, then made her
way to her room. A thousand pounds! It was a large sum of money, a very
large sum. The sisters were fairly well off, still that was a great deal
to give out of their capital. But if this Mrs. Geldheraus—Miss Semaphore
knew the name as that of a famous African traveller of German birth—if
Mrs. Geldheraus spoke the truth, the water was well worth it.
Miss Semaphore scarcely allowed her mind to dwell on the ecstatic
delight of being once more nineteen—intelligent nineteen this time,
nineteen conscious of its powers, knowing the value of youth, enjoying
the mere being young as no one could who had not been old. Had she dwelt
on it, she would have felt prepared for this one good to give not only
one thousand pounds, but her entire fortune and count it well spent.
Still, common sense told her a thousand pounds was no trifle for a woman
of her means. She could not raise it herself all at once.
On consideration, she decided to tell her sister, to share the bottle
with her, and halve the expense. Prudence being younger, would naturally
require less of the water. There was no need, however, to allude to that
beforehand, else she might feel inclined to pay only in proportion.
The Misses Semaphore had had a life similar to that of many single
women—a grey, colourless life, full of petty cares and petty interests.
Born in a country town, where their parents were the magnates of a dull
and highly-respectable circle, they had had a martinet father and an
invalid mother. Church work occupied the days of their youth. Few
visitors called on them except elderly married people that they had
known all their lives. The very curates in Pillsborough were married.
Colonel Semaphore, like many retired military men, had had strict
principles, and had taught his daughters to be suspicious of everything
that looked pleasant. Reading, except of devotional works, had not been
encouraged in their home. Neither of the girls had been rebellious or
particularly bright. They had tried to do their duty, and had found it
monotonous. Seeing little of the world, and having no youthful society,
they had grown elderly, prim, and formal without knowing it. Dreaming
that their lives were all before them, they had waked up suddenly to
find that life is youth, and that youth was over.
When their father had died at an advanced age, they had moved to London,
feeling themselves most adventurous in making such a change. Years had
hardened Miss Augusta and softened Miss Prudence. The former was the
terror of the giddy at Beaconsfield Gardens. Behind her back they made
fun of her, and imitated her precise manner, but no one liked to come in
collision with her. Miss Prudence, soft-hearted, soft-headed, and a
little romantic, was the favourite. She was always ready to fall in
love, but lacked opportunity. Her little airs, graces, and stratagems
were as transparent as the day. She had difficulty in realising that she
was grown-up, and would have called anyone who forced the truth on her
“a horrid thing.” Her strong-minded sister’s dominion over her and her
affairs tended to strengthen the delusion. Miss Semaphore managed the
property and investments from which their income was derived, and seldom
referred to Prudence in such matters, save when her signature was
required.
Under all her severity, however, Miss Semaphore was by no means as rigid
as she looked. Since coming to London, she had begun half-unconsciously
to contrast the life she had led with the lives that young women about
her led. Something stirred vaguely in her. She felt she had been
defrauded of many things that were bright and pleasant and harmless in
themselves. How matters in the past could have been different she did
not quite know, but she wished they had been different. All this was
food to her desire to be young, to have her time over again, to enjoy
herself just a little; and many of her disagreeable speeches might have
been traced, by a student of human nature, to the bitterness towards
others that sometimes wells in the heart of a lonely woman, making her
feel, “I have had a bad time, why should not they?”