A CAREER OF DECEPTION.
Never did a placid, good-natured woman, habitually truthful,
unaccustomed to all save the shallowest of plots, unused to taking the
initiative, and indeed, preferring to depend on the advice of others,
find herself in a more unpleasant predicament than did Miss Prudence
Semaphore. That her dilemma originated in no fault of her own, served in
no wise to console her. To a certain extent she rose to the situation
and decided, with a promptitude that for her was marvellous, on a course
of action, but she longed for some friendly soul to whom she could tell
her difficulties, and whose counsel she could seek. Happily, perhaps,
for the keeping of her secret, she had to bear her own burden in
silence, and take all the responsibility on her own weak shoulders.
A very pale and tremulous Miss Prudence appeared at the breakfast table
on the morning of the tragedy related in our last chapter.
“Dear, dear! How ill you look!” was the medical lady’s cheerful
greeting. “Have you had a bad night?”
Miss Prudence admitted that she had.
“And your sister?—How late she is to-day. She is generally one of the
first down.”
“She is not very well this morning, and I persuaded her to stay in bed,”
said Prudence, colouring to the eyes, as she embarked on her career of
falsehood.
“Very wise of you; she had much better breakfast in her room if she is
feeling ill. There is some nice kedgeree she might like.”
“Thank you,” said Prudence with embarrassment. “Do not mind it. She told
me she would take no breakfast, but I said I would bring her up a cup of
milk and make her drink it.”
“One of her bilious attacks, no doubt, since she refuses to eat,” said
the medical lady.
“Yes, yes,” assented Miss Prudence eagerly. “That is what it is—a bad
bilious attack.”
“Do you think then,” asked the medical lady severely, “that it is wise
of you to give her milk?”
“Oh, yes!” said poor Miss Prudence “She likes it—it is good for her—she
takes nothing else.”
“Indeed!” said the medical lady, helping herself to potted sardines.
“That is very singular for a bilious subject, but no doubt you know
best.”
“Does Miss Semaphore often suffer from these unpleasant attacks?” asked
Mrs. Whitley.
“No,” said Prudence. “Never—that is to say—yes—frequently.”
Mrs. Whitley looked astonished, as well she might, and Prudence, to
avoid further cross-examination, began to read the paper upside down.
The paper, unfortunately, belonged to Mr. Lorimer, and was one of the
points whereon he was touchy. He could not bear anyone to look at it
unless specially invited thereto by him. Presently the abstracted
Prudence became aware that an angry altercation was in progress, between
her neighbour and Müller.
“Müller!” he growled.
“Blease?” said Müller enquiringly.
“Where the devil have you put _The Standard_?”
Mrs. Whitley prepared to look shocked at such language, but first
glanced at Mrs. Dumaresq, from whom she took her cue. Mrs. Dumaresq,
however, only smiled slightly.
“I left it dere,” said Müller.
“But you didn’t. If you had it would be here now.”
“I—I believe I have it,” stammered Prudence, suddenly awaking to what
was going on.
“Oh, you have, have you?” said Mr. Lorimer crossly, taking it without a
word of apology from her outstretched hand. “I do not provide papers for
the benefit of this establishment.”
“It is more blessed to give than to receive,” put in Mrs. Whitley
archly, with the sweet smile of the peacemaker.
“No doubt, ma’am,” replied Mr. Lorimer savagely, “but it’s a good deal
more expensive,” and he became absorbed in the columns of his oracle.
The ladies exchanged glances. The subject of Mr. Lorimer and his paper
was a standing joke in the house, and Mrs. Whitley whispered to Prudence
not to mind him, it was “only his way.” Prudence, indeed, poor woman,
was too much occupied with her own troubles to take the young man’s
rudeness to heart, and after passing a few minutes in breaking her toast
and sipping her tea, she felt justified in rising from table. She took a
cup of milk with her and departed, watched by the medical lady, who
shook her head.
The younger Miss Semaphore found her sister rolling her eyes in the most
alarming fashion.
“What is the matter?” she asked, but Augusta of course was unable to
tell. She fixed an angry glance, however, on the door of her sister’s
room and nodded towards it. Something in that direction was evidently
the cause of her displeasure. As a matter of fact she had had a fright.
While Prudence was downstairs, one of the housemaids, not knowing that
anyone was there, made an attempt to get in, and as the lock on that
particular door was shaky, Miss Semaphore expected every moment to see
the girl enter the room. She could not explain this, so had to content
herself with looking cross.
Prudence pulled the curtains, moved a number of things, saying each
time, “Is it this?” “Is it that?” but failing naturally, to get a reply,
she gave up the attempt and began to feed her sister. The operation was
not successful.
Prudence proved but an awkward nurse. Augusta being, in body at least,
practically but eight days old, choked, cried, and had to be patted on
the back when she got too large a spoonful of milk. Half the contents of
the cup went the wrong way. Augusta kicked, and spilt a portion on the
carpet, but at last the meal was got through, though with little
satisfaction to either sister.
“Now,” said Prudence, as she finished her task, “I shall have to leave
you alone for some time.”
Augusta evidently disliked the idea of being left alone, for she
immediately screwed up her face into contortions that announced an
outburst of weeping.
“Oh, stop! do stop!” cried her sister exasperated, “they are sure to
hear you if you cry. How inconsiderate you are! For goodness sake do be
quiet and think a little of someone beside yourself. What else am I to
do? It is all very well for you to object, but something must be done
and done quickly, and as you cannot help me, I must decide for myself. I
shall go at once to Mrs. Geldheraus and implore of her to give me
something to cure you. She is sure to know what should be done, and in
the meantime I beg of you keep quiet, or Mary will hear you in the
corridor. I shall tell her you are ill and on no account to be
disturbed.”
Augusta apparently listened to reason, for gradually her features
relaxed and she ceased whimpering. Prudence put on her bonnet, veil, and
mantle, tucked in the elderly infant, locked the doors carefully, warned
Mary, and started off to find the explorer’s widow.
The poor lady’s mind was a chaos of conflicting thought and emotions as
she wound her way through the Bloomsbury squares to Handel Street. No.
194 was gaunt and dingy. Over the door hung a framed card, bearing the
legend, “Apartments,” and on the sill of the dining-room window sat a
black cat, lazily washing herself in the sun. In answer to repeated
ringing, a dirty servant, with her cap all to one side, opened the door.
“Mrs. Geldheraus,” she said, “she ain’t here. Left this morning first
thing, she did. Had a tellygram last night to hurry up.”
Prudence never knew till that moment when her heart sank heavy as lead,
how hope had buoyed her up.
“Where has she gone to?” she asked feebly. “Will she return?”
“She’s gone to Paris,” said the maid, “an’ I don’t think she’s a-coming
back.”
“Can you give me her address in Paris?”
“She wrote something out for missus, as to where letters was to be sent
for her. If you’ll step in an’ wait a bit, mum, I’ll see if I can get it
for you. I can’t read them furrin names.”
Prudence stepped into the stuffy hall and waited.
Presently the maid returned with a halfsheet of note-paper, on which
only the words “Poste Restante, Paris,” were written. Bitterly
disappointed the younger Miss Semaphore turned away.
“Even if I write to her,” she said to herself, “it will mean a couple of
days delay at the very least, and great Heaven! what should I do if
anyone saw Augusta in the meantime? I must see to some place for her at
once, and get her out of that house.”
The very weakest women, when forced into a position of danger and
responsibility, will act with a certain energy, and will display a
resourcefulness that surprises no one more than it surprises themselves.
Necessity is a hard taskmaster, who makes people capable of feats
hitherto undreamt of by them.
Miss Semaphore’s first move, therefore, was to find a small stationer’s
shop, where she obtained permission to write a letter. The letter was to
Mrs. Geldheraus, marked “Urgent and Private.” In it she detailed the
horrible accident that had happened to her sister, and implored the
explorer’s widow to write or wire particulars of an antidote, if there
was one, and in all cases to let her know exactly how the Water of Youth
worked, and how long its effects were likely to last in such a case. She
said, “You can imagine the dreadful position in which I am placed. My
sister is altered out of knowledge; though she still seems, so far as I
can judge, to preserve her memory and understanding, she cannot speak.
You have left England, and the story sounds so improbable, that I cannot
hope any of our friends would believe me if I told them the truth. I
live in terror of my sister being discovered under her present aspect,
so implore you to lose no time in relieving my suspense.”
This she posted, but the most gloomy apprehensions assailed her.
“Mrs. Geldheraus may not call for letters for a week,” she reflected,
“and where on earth can I hide Augusta? Who will take her? What story
can I tell about her? It is distracting!”
By degrees she grew a little calmer. It would not be difficult, she
hoped, to find some decent woman to mind her sister at her own home.
Surely there were plenty of people in London willing to take care of a
child. She would enquire. Meantime it struck her that Augusta looked
ridiculous in her great night-dress and cap, so that before placing her
in the hands of any stranger it would be necessary to buy her a complete
set of baby linen.
To this end, having walked to the top of Tottenham Court Road she hailed
a hansom, and drove to Westbourne Grove.