Читать книгу The Rejuvenation of Miss Semaphore - Charlotte O'Conor Eccles - Страница 4

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Boarding-houses all the world over have certain features in common. These are the result of haphazard association between people without common interests.

No. 37, Beaconsfield Gardens, South Kensington, was no exception to the rule. Its inmates were chiefly women, the widows and daughters of professional men. A few childless married couples lived there, and a sprinkling of unmarried men who were either old or extremely young. Some of the people were well-connected, others well-off, all were dull, a few pious. Several secretly considered themselves superior to the others. They focussed the attributes of the British Philistine, and were an object-lesson as to the low intellectual level of average respectable humanity.

Lacking occupation and mutual outside interests, the boarders were led to discuss each other freely. The men mostly herded together in the smoking-room. The ladies gathered in the drawing-room. A sort of armed neutrality was maintained between the sexes. He or she who ventured to invade the headquarters of the other was looked on as daring or brazen as the case might be. At meals alone did some thirty-five people assemble. Even then, they were not expected to change their place at table, so had to trust to chance for agreeable neighbours.

The few girls who lived in the house had not a gay time. Poor things! They had no lovers, no interests, no society, no prospects, and incomes that required management. Once they ceased to be new arrivals, the men, all of whom were ineligible, took no notice of them. They were treated with a nonchalance more galling than unkindness, and were subtly given to understand that they could not expect the same consideration as young women outside who lived in their own homes and had parents who entertained. The elderly people, and especially Miss Semaphore, looked rigidly after the proprieties.

Occasionally a dashing widow or an attractive and forward damsel temporarily upset the dulness. Dances were organised, round games started, heads turned. These brilliant meteors never lingered long on the horizon. Their stay usually terminated in some episode that led to a notice to quit. The succeeding flatness was the more marked.

There is no dulness in the quietest home like the dulness that falls at intervals on a boarding-house. It may be that at home one does not expect much, while living with a number of strangers one feels restless, as if something really ought to happen.

There are blanks and periods of depression, extending sometimes to months at a time, when life seems a waste. During these, efforts to get up any amusement are useless. No one will help, and so much cold water is thrown on every suggestion, that in despair the promoter abandons the project.

Such an interval was now being put through at No. 37. Conversation, as we have indicated, languished, being replaced by an occasional interchange of platitudes, failing any private or public sensation. An audacious flirtation on the part of one of the younger women, or a thrilling murder trial, would have interested everybody, especially the flirtation, on the progress of which the boarders would have taken turns to watch and comment on.

Relieved of all household duties, the “ladies,” as Mrs. Wilcox never failed to call them, passed the monotonous days in shopping, novel-reading, and repose. They made up temporary friendships between themselves and fell out with regularity. As usual, they were split into two factions, those who abused the proprietress and those who did not.

The drawing-room in which they nightly assembled was a spacious apartment. A Brussels carpet of pronounced pattern, red Utrecht velvet chairs—solid, as befitted furniture destined to much wear and tear—and gilt-framed mirrors, gave the apartment an early Victorian aspect. The light and airy found no place in this salon, for in boarding-houses everything breakable is broken, and nobody owns to the mischief.

Workbaskets, newspapers, and novels were brought out this evening as usual, and nearly all the party became absorbed in one or other of these excitements. They had exhausted each other, though one or two kept up a dribble of civil enquiries for the sake of saying something.

“What pretty work. How do you do it?”

“Oh! it is a new stitch I have just learned.”

“Were you out this afternoon?”

“No; I lay down and took a nap. Were you?”

“Yes, I went down to High Street for some wool.”

The evening to which we refer, though as dull, was not destined to be as peaceful as its fellows. The cause of the disturbance was Miss Semaphore’s dog. Miss Semaphore’s dog was a mongrel, a snappish little brute called Toutou. Its brown hair was flecked with grey, for it was old, fat, and scant of breath. Toutou had been the cause of more unpleasantness at 37, Beaconsfield Gardens, than any other inmate. If, in the quarrels of men, cherchez la femme holds good, in the quarrels of idle women who live in boarding-houses one may not unfrequently look for the dog. To-night, unfortunately for herself, Miss Belcher, one of the younger women, trod on its tail. Frankly, it was difficult to avoid treading on Toutou’s tail, for he had a trick of getting into the way that was simply exasperating. Miss Belcher, a nice, harmless girl, jumped as if she had been shot.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” she cried; “doggie, poor doggie, are you hurt?” and kneeling down, she tried tenderly to soothe him. Toutou was not hurt, but he howled desperately. Judging by his actions he rather enjoyed getting people into trouble. In an instant Miss Semaphore swooped down, red and angry, seized her favourite, and casting a withering glance at the crestfallen Miss Belcher, carried him off to her own particular corner.

Everyone at 37, Beaconsfield Gardens, had a special chair or a favourite corner, and great was the indignation if anyone else took it.

“It was quite an accident,” stammered Miss Belcher. “I never saw Toutou.”

“Some people,” replied Miss Semaphore, “have no eyes. They think it rather amusing to torture dumb animals, don’t they, my precious?” As she spoke, she bestowed a kiss like a peck on the top of Toutou’s ugly nose. The boarders all ceased work and listened attentively.

“But indeed, Miss Semaphore,” cried poor Miss Belcher, almost crying, “it was not my fault.”

“I suppose, of course, it was Toutou’s,” said Miss Semaphore with sarcasm.

Miss Belcher was getting the worst of it, when her mother, a large, deaf woman of majestic presence, interposed. She domineered over her daughter and everyone else, and had been silent so far because she had been having the state of the case explained in her ear by Mrs. Whitley.

“Don’t mind, Emma,” she said suddenly, “That ridiculous dog is in everyone’s way, It should be got rid of.” Turning to the embarrassed Mrs. Whitley, she made what appeared to be indignant comments on Miss Semaphore, the obnoxious word “old maid” being distinctly audible.

At this awful crisis the boarders stared panic-stricken at Miss Semaphore.

Miss Semaphore, under other circumstances, would have justified their apprehensions. Even she, however, saw it was no use quarrelling with a deaf woman endowed with a terrible tongue. Accordingly, she simply muttered, “Disgraceful!—ill-bred!” and something about “the result of association with such persons,” and relapsed into an oppressive silence.

The innocent little dribble of talk dried up before the sirocco of her suppressed wrath. A silence that might be felt reigned in the drawing-room. Though glances were interchanged, no one ventured to speak except Mrs. Belcher. She, greatly daring, and with the evident intention of flouting both Miss Semaphore and Toutou, addressed her daughter on all manner of subjects, compelling that unhappy young person to reply at the top of her voice. Miss Prudence, who always shrank from her sister’s outbursts, buried herself timidly in the pages of the Lady’s Pictorial and tried to look as if she had heard nothing.

When this painful state of things had lasted for some time, Mrs. Dumaresq, by way of creating a diversion, said in her most fascinating manner,

“That dreadful Mr. Morley has been making another speech. I’m sure it is a wonder how anyone can be found to listen to him. Radicals and Socialists and those sort of people really ought to be locked up.”

“Perhaps, on their side, they think Tories should be locked up,” said Miss Stott, a thick-set young person with views.

“No doubt they do,” answered Mrs. Dumaresq with energy. “No doubt, if they could, they would have all the aristocracy beheaded. As my dear friend, the Baroness de la Veille Roche, once said to me, ‘My darling Mimi, the canaille would wade in our blood if they dared.’”

“I doubt it,” said Miss Stott stolidly; “people are not as bloodthirsty as that, even if they are Radicals or Socialists. After all, human beings are very much alike in the grain whatever their rank, and none of us would care particularly to wade in blood.”

“Alike!” echoed Mrs. Dumaresq. “My dear Miss Stott, you are mistaken. Between the upper and the lower classes there is the greatest possible difference. They have not our sensitiveness, our refinement, our delicacy.” Mrs. Dumaresq said “our” to show she knew her manners, and to accentuate her diplomatic training.

“Do you think not?” queried Miss Stott. “Of course they have not external refinement, nor the advantages of education. But do you really think they are less sensitive, less delicate in their own way? Why, every day there are cases in the paper that seem to show Belgravia and Whitechapel are very much alike when their blood is up. The chief difference to me appears to be that the one does things and does not talk of them, while the other talks of them but does not do them.”

“My dear Miss Stott!” remonstrated Mrs. Dumaresq.

“Yes,” said Miss Stott, “why only to-day I read the account of an action taken by a servant against her mistress, a wealthy woman, who broke her fan on her maid’s shoulder.”

“How shocking!” said Mrs. Dumaresq. “But you must not judge the aristocracy by such persons. The woman, though she may have been rich, could not possibly have been a lady.”

“So I think,” replied Miss Stott; “no doubt, however, she considered herself one, for she was an Earl’s daughter.”

“Oh—h!” said Mrs. Dumaresq, with great surprise. “Then the maid must have been very provoking.”

A rattle of teacups announced the arrival of coffee.

Miss Prudence Semaphore, who was seated in the centre of the room near the lamp, looked round to see if any of the men had come up, and dropped her Pictorial. As she recovered it, an advertisement caught her eye.

“To Ladies and Gentlemen of Means.

“The widow of an eminent explorer, being in straitened circumstances, is compelled to offer for sale a single bottle of water from the Fountain of Youth, vainly sought in Florida by Ponce de Leon. Its marvellous rejuvenating properties cannot be exaggerated. By its means a person of seventy may regain, after six small doses, the age of eighteen. This is genuine. No cosmetic. No imposture. No connection with any preparation making similar claims. The greatest marvel of this or any other century. Money willingly returned if above statement is proved untrue. Please address offers, which must be liberal, as this opportunity is unique, to X. Y. Z., Office of this Paper.”

Greatly struck by the announcement, which she read twice, Miss Prudence passed the paper to her sister, saying, “Look at that!” She then pulled out some knitting, and became absorbed in the mysteries of “slip one, knit one, bring the thread forward, knit two together.”

Miss Semaphore adjusted her long-handled eye-glasses, sole concession to failing sight. Spectacles were abhorrent to her, and even a pince nez she considered too plain an acknowledgment of weakness. She was even more impressed by the advertisement than Miss Prudence had been, and considered it at intervals throughout the evening.

Coffee had been handed round. The men who sauntered upstairs for a cup massed themselves together for company at one end of the room. If separate from their kind, they seemed forlorn and uneasy, and watched an opportunity to escape. One or two of the oldest, including Major Jones, and a Mr. Batley, who was young, but a new-comer and unacquainted with the ways of the house, advanced into what seemed to be looked on as the women’s end.

Miss Prudence Semaphore moved her skirts slightly, so as to give a chance to anyone wishing to sit beside her. No one came. Pretty Miss Fastleigh and her sister, with an unconsciousness born of experience, had thoughtfully taken places as near the men as possible. Soon they were deep in conversation with the more courageous of the advanced guard.

Coffee over, the greater number of the men made a stampede. Some were studying for examinations and could not spare time. More sat in each other’s rooms drinking whisky and soda, others again turned out for a game of billiards.

A whist party was formed by Miss Semaphore, her sister, Major Jones and Mr. Dumaresq. Mrs. Whitley, Mrs. Dumaresq, the medical woman, Miss Belcher, Miss Fastleigh, Mr. Batley, and his sister, took part in a round game. Miss Primsby, a timid girl, very proper, and easily shocked, whose formidable mother went to bed early, after a time slipped gently downstairs to the smoking-room. There she taught chess to Monsieur Lemprière, a young Frenchman who had come over to learn the language. The better to explain the moves, she held his hand in hers.

“In England the Garden of Beauty is kept

By a dragon of prudery placed within call,

But so oft this unamiable dragon hath slept,

That the garden’s but carelessly watched after all.”

The second Miss Fastleigh, who had a good voice, went to the piano unasked and sang one or two songs. Finding no one took any particular notice, she amused herself by running up the scale and sustaining the high A, much to the exasperation of her hearers. The only woman who can endure scales is the woman who is singing them. Mrs. Belcher perused the paper. She did not take it herself, but borrowed it from Major Jones in the evenings. From time to time she gave scraps of news to Mrs. Wilcox, who had read it all before breakfast. Captain Wilcox sat downstairs in his wife’s office, balancing the books.

About half-past ten Miss Semaphore rose. Having carried all before her at the whist table, she was in high spirits, and bade good-night with much affability to everyone except the Belchers. She carried with her the copy of the Lady’s Pictorial. When her sister, having as usual sat with her for twenty minutes, discussing the events of the day, had retired to her own room, which adjoined, she sat down and wrote the following letter:

“37, Beaconsfield Gardens,

“South Kensington.

“June —th, 189–.

“Madam,

“Having seen your advertisement in the current issue of the Lady’s Pictorial, I am induced to reply I should like to become the possessor of the ‘Water’ you offer for sale. While willing to offer liberal terms, I do not of course know what you would consider such. I should be glad, therefore, if you could arrange for an interview, when we might discuss the matter. I take it for granted that the water is as efficacious as you represent it to be, and shall expect proof before purchase.

“I am, Madam,

“Yours faithfully,

“A. J. Semaphore.”

This was enclosed in an envelope addressed to “X. Y. Z., Office of the Lady’s Pictorial.” Next morning Miss Semaphore carried it herself to the post.