CASTLES IN THE AIR.
That evening, a little shamefacedly, Miss Semaphore told Prudence how
she had answered the advertisement in _The Pictorial_, and received a
reply from Mrs. Geldheraus.
Prudence was very much surprised and delighted, being in one of her rare
spasms of remembrance that she no longer was a girl. She expressed
herself as not only willing but ready and anxious to help in raising
half of the money required, if the explorer’s widow persisted in
demanding a thousand pounds.
The sisters resolved, however, that Miss Augusta should endeavour to
persuade her to accept £600, advancing to £800, and only paying the full
sum if she remained obdurate. They decided, too, that despite her
excellent references, it would be only judicious to postdate the cheque
offered her, that they might have an opportunity of personally testing
the efficacy of the water before the draft was presented.
“She is very emphatic as to its genuineness,” said Miss Semaphore; “but
of course we do not know her, and she may not speak the truth. If she is
an honest person—and certainly her references are all that can be
desired—she will be quite willing to give us a chance of first finding
out whether the water is really any good. A thousand pounds is a great
deal of money, and we ought to run no risks.”
“She says she is willing to give you a proof before purchase.”
“I wonder what sort of proof?”
“Perhaps take some herself.”
“I shouldn’t like that. It would be a pity to waste any of it.”
“I tell you what,” said Miss Semaphore, after consideration, “I’ll take
Toutou and make her give him a little, just for an experiment. You see
he would require much less than a human being, unless we had quite a
young girl at hand, and on her it might not show. The poor darling is
nearly fifteen. A mere sip should suffice for him.”
“Perhaps it does not act on animals,” suggested Miss Prudence.
“Why should it not? I once read something about the Water of Youth
before in a book, and my belief is that they said it acted not only on
people, but on insects, and on flowers; then why not on a dog?”
“Augusta dear! what will you do when you are young again?” asked
Prudence softly.
“Oh, lots of things,” said Miss Semaphore. “She did not like to own,
even to her sister, the golden dreams that floated before her, and that
she felt would be slightly ridiculous for a mature woman to confess.
“How old will you be?”
“Well, if the thing can be regulated, I should like to be about
eight-and-twenty. You see that is considered young, but not too young.
At eight-and-twenty a woman has sense, if ever she is going to have it,
and is old enough then to know her own mind. Eight-and-twenty, and stay
at it, is my idea.”
“I should like to be eighteen,” said Prudence.
“Too young. At eighteen one is generally either a fool or a pert Miss,
and therefore unattractive to the best sort of men. However, I should
not mind standing at twenty if that is more convenient; but I must first
find out how the water works.”
“Just fancy you twenty and me eighteen! What young creatures we shall
be! Oh, Augusta dear, do you know I feel quite frightened. What shall we
do alone in London with no one to look after us?”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Miss Semaphore crossly. “We have only to
consider our appearance. We shan’t really be so ridiculously young, you
know. I have no doubt we shall retain our present minds and experience,
and be perfectly well able to manage for ourselves. Of course I shall
make all enquiries to-morrow as to the effects and act accordingly. And
for goodness sake, Prudie, if it is successful, don’t keep remembering
and talking about things that you could not possibly have seen or known
if you were really only eighteen. That is just the sort of stupid thing
you are likely to do. We must carefully look out the proper date and
avoid remembering anything before that.”
“Don’t you think, dear,” said Miss Prudence after a pause, “it will be
well to go away from here before trying the experiment, away to some
place where we are not known? It will be so awkward else.”
“Yes,” said Miss Semaphore reflectively, “I suppose it would be better;
but we can consider that to-morrow, and now I am quite tired. It is time
for us both to go to bed.”
The sisters duly undressed and sought repose, but for a long time none
came. The future was too full of bewildering possibilities. Each felt
that she ought not to let her mind dwell on what might never come to
pass. Mrs. Geldheraus might be an imposter, the Water of Youth a fraud.
Still, supposing—there was no harm in supposing—supposing both were
genuine, what a delightful prospect. To be at once young and
experienced; could anything surpass it? Pitfalls might be avoided,
amusement sought, courses of conduct followed after a fashion impossible
to anyone who was eighteen or twenty for the first and only time in
life. To get all one’s chances over again, and to be assured of missing
none of them, what luck! what unexampled good fortune!
Rosy visions of what they would do intruded on both of them, but we
grieve to state that the wildest and flightiest of these visions were
those of the elder Miss Semaphore. Were her eyes or those of her sister
ever to light on these lines, were there a chance that her acquaintances
might see this veracious history, we should hesitate to set her fancies
down, and this for two reasons. First, because Miss Semaphore herself
would be confused and confounded to a painful degree, and this, as she
is an excellent if somewhat hard woman, we have no wish to bring about.
Second, because her sister and friends would write lengthy and indignant
letters denying our statements, and citing her reputation for propriety,
not to say rigidity, of conduct, and her severely religious tone, her
want of sympathy with flightiness of any kind, as proof positive that
she never could, would, or should have thought what we assert was in her
mind.
Fortunately we need not fear either danger, and so in all truthfulness
may state exactly what Miss Semaphore hoped to do with her renewed
youth.
In her secret soul she had come to think that it was rather a pity she
had not had a past to reflect upon. She had gathered no roses while she
might. She had been only too well brought up, and she was determined,
_en tout bien et en tout honneur_ be it understood, to change all that.
Someone has said, _il n’y a aucune austerité supérieure qui ne laisse
pas quelques régrets_. She would try the delights of an impeccable but
more frivolous existence. She would be fascinating, coquettish, would
avoid the misplaced gravity of her inexperienced youth, that had been
not only afraid to enjoy itself, but had not known how to set about it,
and had never got the chance.
As a preliminary to a dazzling career of conquest she decided that as
soon as she was twenty she would take lessons in stage dancing and have
her voice trained. Her father, or any of the worthy inhabitants of
Pillsborough known to her, would have fainted at mention of the stage.
Indeed, when young, Miss Semaphore shared their views; but she had been
gradually coming round since she moved to London and found that even
amongst the Philistines “the profession” was not in such bad odour as in
the country. She felt it to be wicked but fascinating, believed she had
genuine, if uncultivated, dramatic talent, and actually regretted that
circumstances had kept her from cultivating it.
Now, she thought, she would not be stopped. This goes to prove that the
most proper and severe persons often think a course of action suitable
for themselves which they would reprehend in others.
She argued, and with truth, that dangerous though the stage might be,
she would have the experience of over fifty years to guide her, and
would therefore be in a different position from other girls of twenty.
In a lurid but delightful vision she saw herself gay, beautiful, famous,
the delight of the stalls, the admiration of the gallery, the recipient
of bouquets and _billets-doux_, her photograph in every shop window,
offers of marriage coming by every post. At last she fell asleep, a
beatific smile on her face.
She had quite forgotten how two or three years before she had brought
pressure to bear on Mrs. Wilcox to give notice to a girl who had gone on
the stage. Englishwomen are often shocked at others doing what they
would do themselves, if they had the chance or the aptitude.
Miss Prudence meanwhile, in her little white room adjoining, thought
kindly of Major Jones and yearningly of the Rev. Harry Lyndon, Curate of
St. Botolph’s, a consumptive young man of twenty-eight. She had always
admired the Reverend Harry, though reluctantly admitting in her heart of
hearts that he was somewhat too young for her. But now what would there
be to prevent their union? She fell into a train of reverie as to how
the matter should be managed. Would she let him think she had always
been no more than eighteen, or would she tell him of the wonderful
water? Sleep came to her while deliberating.