“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?”
CHAPTER IV.
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.