CHAPTER VIII.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 Prudenceappeared 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 medicallady 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 putThe 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 owntroubles 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 onearth 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.