“Oh, the crack is very slight; it does not matter,” said Miss Prudence, as she obeyed. “Toutou, my precious,” to the tricksy little dog that was now rolling on the floor, playing with the fringe of the curtains, and trying many long-forgotten games. “Toutou, you nearly did serious damage to your missus’s property, naughty ducksie wucksie.”
Toutou rushed at her with enthusiasm, and was with difficulty persuaded to enter his basket. Then Miss Prudence, with a portentous yawn, bade her sister good-night, and opened the door into the adjoining room.
Left alone, Miss Semaphore slowly divested herself of her wearing apparel, donned her night-gear, and tied on the night-cap of her youth, adhered to despite change of fashion. Notwithstanding the confidence of her manner to her sister, she was secretly a little nervous, now that she was actually to make the experiment. Her spirits went up and down like a see-saw. At one moment she saw herself surrounded by admirers, singing, dancing, with fresh, unwrinkled complexion, bright colour, dark curly hair innocent of “Jetoline.” A ravishing picture. Again she felt like a patient at a dentist’s about to take gas for the first time. What would it be like. Oh, if only Toutou, if only anyone who had tried it could tell her exactly how it felt. Would she lose consciousness or feel pain? Might it not possibly kill her? By this time she had worked herself to a state of intolerable nervousness. She got into bed, and, sitting up, hugging the precious bottle in one hand, and a tea-spoon in the other, tried to decide whether she would actually make the experiment or not. By her bed, within easy reach, burned a gas jet, which she always turned out last thing, and a small table stood near, on which lay a book, a newspaper, a box of matches, and a glass.
“Just a very little,” she murmured, “that can do no harm. Only make me a few years younger. She would never have ventured to give me anything dangerous or poisonous.”
Her hands trembled.
Can one fancy the impatience of an old woman who had missed the joys of life, to be young? A woman with the means in her grasp? Miss Semaphore panted with excitement; her heart thumped like a steam hammer. Twice she took up the bottle from the table. Twice she laid it down again.
“Just a very little,” ran her thoughts, “a few drops to see what it is like.”
Alas for her nervousness! By some untoward movement the frill of her sleeve caught the bottle, and knocked it over. For one terrible moment she sat as if petrified, watching the Water of Youth flowing across the table, and dribbling on to the floor on the side farthest from her. Then, quick as lightning, she jumped out of her bed, got down on her knees, and received the little stream into her open mouth as the liquid gushed over the edge. That her position was undignified did not trouble her, did not even enter her mind. The overwhelming nature of the misfortune, and how to rectify it, as far as possible, alone occupied her. The bottle had broken in half where it was cracked, so that the contents rushed out at once. She swallowed all that flowed freely, and, damming the rest with her finger, stood up. The Water was horribly wasted. Some had soaked into the carpet. The newspaper had received a certain amount, and this, owing to a lucky crease, formed a little pool on its surface. Now, for the first time, Miss Semaphore thought of her sister, whose money had been equally invested in the purchase. Should she call Prudence, tell her what had happened, and bid her drink the little that remained? The fear that there would not be enough for herself prevailed, and stifling the voice of conscience, Augusta gathered up the paper with delicate fingers, carefully made it into a sort of funnel, and drank off its contents. Then she sat down on the side of the bed, and considered her conduct with a certain amount of shame, not unmingled with alarm. So far, she felt nothing more than the sensation of having swallowed a quantity of cold water of peculiar flavour.
“After all,” she said, to stifle her remorse, “there was scarcely sufficient to make one person young, not to speak of two, and I wanted it much more than Prudence. Why, she does not want it at all! She looked quite a girl just now. Besides, there really was no time. Before I could have roused her and explained matters the water would have soaked through the paper. Of course I shall have to return her the money she advanced. I am quite willing to do that if she makes a fuss. Perhaps it’s just as well I did not call her. She was frightened to-night at the idea of drinking it. I really think she would prefer not to have any.”
Despite these powerful arguments Miss Semaphore felt rather mean as she crept once more between the sheets, and turned out the gas with a jerk. For a long time she lay wakeful, thinking of what the morrow might bring, of how she could tell Prudence there was no Water of Youth left for her, or of how she could best get away from Beaconsfield Gardens without being noticed, if she found herself only twenty, and other reflections of the same kind, until at last tired out by the excitements of the day she fell asleep.