IN WHICH MISS PRUDENCE EXPLAINS MATTERS.
The next thing Miss Prudence felt she should do was to see Mrs. Wilcox
and prepare her for hearing at any time that Augusta had left suddenly.
Mrs. Wilcox sat in the little room she called her Office, where she
received callers on business, made up her books, wrote letters, and
otherwise employed herself.
“I am so sorry to hear your sister is not well,” she said as Prudence
entered. “I hope she feels better now.”
“Not much, I am afraid,” said Prudence.
“Will she be able to come down to tea?”
“I—I fear not.”
“Then she is worse than I thought. I had better go and see her. Will you
tell her I will come up presently?”
“Oh, thanks, but I don’t think it would be advisable to disturb her just
now. She prefers keeping quite quiet. You see this is—is a very severe
attack. I never saw her quite like this before.”
“Good gracious! You don’t say she is as ill as all that?” cried Mrs.
Wilcox, whose one weakness was a frantic fear of contagious maladies.
“You don’t think it can be any thing serious coming on? They say there
is a lot of fever and diphtheria about. Excuse my asking, Miss Prudence,
but what are her symptoms? We must take precautions in a house like
this.”
“Her symptoms? Oh, her symptoms—her symptoms are rather peculiar.”
“Indeed. Head-ache? Sore throat? Pain in the back?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. I—am sure it is nothing infectious.”
“I hope not, but please tell me what does she complain of?”
“A—a sort of shrinking feeling?”
“Oh! a sinking feeling. No doubt the stomach is out of order. She has
taken something that disagreed with her.”
“I feel sure she has.”
“But if there is nothing more serious than this feeling of sinking, she
will probably be able to come down to dinner. Meals in the bedrooms you
know are such a trouble to the servants.”
“I don’t think she can come down. She is far too ill. She won’t take any
dinner. Just a glass of milk.”
“But, Miss Prudence, I fear she must really have some other symptoms
that you are keeping back from me. Do pray tell me frankly what else you
see amiss with her.”
“Well,” said the badgered Prudence, “I have noticed a—a—a sort of
childishness about her.”
“Good Heavens! You don’t say so! She is not—not delirious? Not wandering
in her mind, is she?”
“No, no. She is very silent—on the contrary—has not spoken to me at
all.”
“But you said she was childish.”
“I did not mean in that way—it is difficult to explain.”
“It seems to be,” said Mrs. Wilcox drily, “in your place I should have
Doctor Creedy in at once. You know, Miss Semaphore, we must take
precautions—we must take precautions—and if your sister has any symptoms
betokening infectious disease, I lay it on you as a matter of conscience
to tell me about it at once, that her removal may be arranged for before
it is too late.”
“You are mistaken, indeed, you are mistaken, Mrs. Wilcox,” urged poor
Miss Prudence, with tears in her eyes. “There is no possible need for
alarm. It really is nothing catching. I only wish it were.”
“I’m sure I don’t,” interjected Mrs. Wilcox, more than ever amazed by
the confusion of Prudence.
“Well, I don’t exactly mean that, but there is no earthly cause for
alarm on your part. If Augusta had anything serious the matter with her,
anything in that way, I’d be the very first to tell you, and to send for
the doctor, but she hasn’t. She just is—is—not quite herself—has very
little appetite and so on—I—I saw a great change in her appearance this
morning, and it alarmed me. I think, and she agrees with me—indeed this
is what I came to say, that if she went away to-morrow or next day for
change of air, and meantime kept very quiet, was not disturbed in any
way or by anyone, she would soon be all right.”
“You know best!” said Mrs. Wilcox, “but don’t you really think it would
be well for me to go up and see her presently? I would not disturb her
in the least.”
“Thanks, no. I should say it would be better not. She does not like
being roused in any way. She is so silent; in fact,” with a flash of
inspiration, “she has completely lost her voice. Then the shrinking—I
mean, of course, as you say, the sinking—is so painful.”
“Oh, very well,” said Mrs. Wilcox offended, “I do not want to press the
matter. But I think she had better have something to eat. What shall it
be? A glass of milk is nothing.”
“She cares for nothing else.”
“But don’t you think she ought to have some beef-tea and a little dry
toast? That cannot possibly harm her.”
“Very well. Anything you like,” said Prudence desperately, for she felt
she could stand no more questioning, and gladly made her escape to her
own room under cover of Mrs. Wilcox’s directions to the cook on behalf
of the supposed invalid.
Mary, the housemaid, presently brought up a tray and tried the handle of
Augusta’s door, only to find it locked. Prudence peeped out of her
apartment and bade the girl lay the tray on the mat, promising to take
it in presently. At this, Mary, who did not like the Misses Semaphore,
flounced angrily downstairs, muttering, “Some people is so mystearyous.”