The Prophet of Berkeley Square. Robert Hichens
you see where this prophetic business is leadin’ you. It has made you charmed at my accident. Yes, it has.”
She spoke without any pathos, humorously indeed, in a bright tone full of common sense. And she nodded at him over her toast and water with a chaffing, demure smile. But the Prophet winced and put his hand to his thick brown hair.
“No, no,” he cried quickly. “That’s impossible. It can’t be.” But the statements sounded like perturbed questions.
“Think!” said his grandmother, looking down at her poor, helpless foot as it lay on the velvet stool. “If I hadn’t had an accident to-night, you’d have been obliged to think ill of—of—which of them was it that had the impertinence to talk my affairs over with you?”
“Mercury and Uranus, Jupiter, Saturn and Venus,” said the Prophet with almost terrible gravity.
“Exactly. I always have thought ill of the last, but that’s nothin’ to do with it. Weigh me in the balance against five planets—are they all planets?—and how do the scales go? You see, Hennessey!”
The Prophet looked much distressed. He saw his beloved grandmother by the fire and the bright stars twinkling through the frosty window-panes. He thought of his telescope, of Sir Tiglath, of Mr. Malkiel, and of the future, and the velvety blue walls of the drawing-room seemed to spin round him.
“Prophecy,” continued Mrs. Merillia, fanning herself till the lace lappets of her priceless cap fluttered above her orderly and clasping wig, “is dangerous, for often it can cause its own fulfilment. If you hadn’t said that because of a certain conjunction of planets—or whatever it was—in my horoscope, I should have an accident to-night, I shouldn’t have jumped out of the brougham. I should have waited for Mr. Ferdinand to assist me, as befits a gentlewoman.”
“But, grannie, I assure you I was most anxious to save you. I hoped I had made a mistake in your horoscope. I did, really. I was so nervous that I sent to Mr. Malkiel while you were at the theatre and implored him to look into the matter as an expert.”
“Mr. Malkiel! Who is he? Do we know him?”
“No. But we know his marvellous Almanac.”
“The Almanac person! Why, Malkiel is surely a myth, Hennessey, a number of people, a company, a syndicate, or something of that kind.”
“So I thought, grannie. But I have made inquiries—through a detective agency—and I have discovered that he is one person; in fact, a man, just like you and me.”
“Rather an odd man then! Is he in the Red Book?”
“No. He is, I understand, of a very retiring and secretive disposition. In fact, I have had great difficulty in learning anything about him. But at length I have discovered that he receives and answers letters at an address in London.”
“Indeed. Where is it?”
“Jellybrand’s Library, Eleven Hundred Z, Shaftesbury Avenue. I sent a boy messenger there to-day.”
“Did you receive a reply?”
“No. I think the boy—although Mr. Ferdinand tells me he wore four medals, I presume for courage—must have become nervous on perceiving Mr. Malkiel’s name on the envelope, have thrown the note down a grating, and bolted before he reached the place, though he said—on his Bible oath, I understand from Mr. Ferdinand—he delivered the note. In any case I got no answer. How are you feeling?”
“Twisted, but prophetic. I foretell that my ankle will be swelled beyond recognition to-morrow. Help me to bed, Hennessey.”
The Prophet flew to his dear relative’s assistance, and Mrs. Merillia endeavoured to rise and to lean upon his anxious arm. After a struggle, however, in which the Prophet took part and two chairs were overset, she was obliged to desist.
“You must ring the bell, Hennessey,” she said. “Mr. Ferdinand and Gustavus must carry me to bed in the chair.”
The Prophet sprang tragically to the bell. It was answered. The procession was re-formed, and Mrs. Merillia was carried to bed, still smiling, nodding at each stair and bearing herself with admirable courage.
As Mr. Ferdinand and Gustavus descended to the basement after the completion of their unusual task, the latter said solemnly—
“However should master have come to know as the missis wouldn’t be able to put foot to floor this night, Mr. Ferdinand? However?”
“I cannot answer you, Gustavus,” Mr. Ferdinand replied, shaking his broad and globe-like head, round whose bald cupola the jet-black hair was brushed in two half moons decorated with a renowned “butler’s own special pomade.”
“Well, Mr. Ferdinand,” rejoined Gustavus, stretching out one hand for pale ale, the other for French Revolution, “I don’t like it.”
“Why, Gustavus?” inquired Mr. Ferdinand, preparing to resume his discussion with the accommodating upper housemaid. “Why?”
“Because it seems strange like, Mr. Ferdinand,” said Gustavus, lifting the glass to his lips, the French Revolution to his eyes.
“It do seem strange, Gustavus,” answered Mr. Ferdinand, leaving out the “like” in a cultivated manner. “It do.”
In the drawing-room the Prophet stood, with clenched hands, gazing through the telescope at Mercury and Uranus, Jupiter, Saturn and Venus, while, on the second floor, Mrs. Fancy Quinglet, Mrs. Merillia’s devoted, but occasionally disconcerting, maid, swathed her mistress’s ankle in bandages previously steeped in cold water and in vinegar.
CHAPTER II
MALKIEL THE SECOND IS BETRAYED BY THE YOUNG LIBRARIAN
Mrs. Merillia’s accident made a very deep impression upon the Prophet’s mind. He thought it over carefully, and desired to discuss it in all its bearings with Mrs. Fancy Quinglet, who had been his confidante for full thirty years. Mrs. Fancy—who had not been married—was no longer a pretty girl. Indeed it was possible that she had never, even in her heyday, been otherwise than moderately plain. Now, at the age of fifty-one and a half, she was a faithful creature with a thin, pendulous nose, a pale, hysteric eye, a tendency to cold in the head and chilblains in the autumn of the year, and a somewhat incoherent and occasionally frenzied turn of mind. Argument could never at any time have had much effect upon her nature, and as she grew towards maturity its power over her most markedly decreased. This fact was recognised by everybody, last of all by Mrs. Merillia, who was at length fully convinced of the existence of certain depths in her maid’s peculiar character by the following circumstance.
Mrs. Merillia had a bandy-legged dachshund called Beau, whose name was for many years often affectionately, and quite correctly, pronounced by Fancy Quinglet. One day, however, she chanced to see it written upon paper—B.E.A.U.
“Whatever does that mean, ma’am?” she asked of Mrs. Merillia.
“Why, Beau, of course, Beau—the dog. What should it mean?”
“Bow?” cried Fancy. “Is he writ so?”
“Of course, silly girl. It is written Beau, and you can pronounce it as you would pronounce a bow of ribbon.”
Fancy said no more, though it was easy to see that she was much shaken by this circumstance. But she could never afterwards be induced to utter her favourite’s name. She was physically unable to speak the word so strangely,