The Prophet of Berkeley Square Part 61

The girl put her hands to her head.

"Here," she said feebly. "It's like fire running over me and drums beating."

"Fire and drums!" announced Mrs. Harriet to the staring a.s.sembly.

"That's what she's got, poor soul!"

e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns of sympathy and horror made themselves heard.

"Drums! How shocking!" cried Mrs. Bridgeman. "Can you cure even drums, Harriet, my own?"

"Give me ten minutes, Catherine! I ask but that!"

And, so saying, Mrs. Harriet planted her fat hands upon the head of the young patient, closed her eyes and began to breathe very hard.

Silence now fell upon the people, who said not a word, but who could not prevent themselves from rustling as they pressed about this exhibition of a latter-day apostle. The Prophet and Lady Enid were close to the armchair, and the Prophet, who had never before been present at any such ceremony--it was accompanied by the twenty guitars, now tearing out the serenade, "From the bull-ring I come to thee!"--was so interested that he completely forgot Mr. and Madame Sagittarius, and lost for the moment all memory of Sir Tiglath. The silly life engrossed him. He had no eyes for anyone but Mrs. Harriet, who, as she leaned forward in the chair with closed eyes, looked like a determined middle-aged man about to offer up the thin girl on the footstool as a burnt sacrifice.

"You're better now, poor thing," said Mrs. Harriet, after five minutes has elapsed. "You're feeling much better?"

"Oh, no, I'm not!" said the girl, shaking her head under the hands of the demonstrator. "The fire's blazing and the drums are beating like anything."

Mrs. Harriet's hue deepened, and there was a faint murmur of vague reproof from the company.

"H'sh!" said the demonstrator, closing her hands upon the patient's head with some acrimony. "H'sh!"

And she began to breathe hard once more. Another five minutes elapsed, and then Mrs. Harriet exclaimed with decision,--

"There! It's gone now, all gone! I've sent it right away. The fire's out and the drums have stopped beating!"

Exclamations of wonder and joy rose up from the spectators. They were, however, a trifle premature, for the hysterical girl--who was, it seemed, a person of considerable determination, despite her feeble appearance--replied from the footstool,--

"No, it isn't. No they haven't!"

Mrs. Harriet developed a purple shade.

"Nonsense!" she said. "You're cured, love, entirely cured!"

"I'm not," said the girl, beginning to cry. "I feel much worse since you pressed my head."

There was a burst of remonstrance from the crowd, and Mrs. Harriet, speaking with the air of an angry martyr, remarked,--

"It's just like the drinking--she fancies she isn't cured when she is, just the same as she fancied she was drinking when she wasn't."

This unanswerable logic naturally carried conviction to everyone present, and the hysterical girl was warmly advised to make due acknowledgement of the benefits received by her at the healing hands of Mrs. Harriet, while the latter was covered with compliments and a.s.siduously conducted towards the buffet, escorted by the great Towle.

"Isn't she wonderful?" said Mrs. Bridgeman, turning ecstatically to the person nearest to her, who happened to be the saturnine little clergyman. "Isn't she marvellous, Mr.--er--Mr. Segerteribus?"

"Biggle!" cried the little clergyman.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Biggle!" vociferated the little clergyman. "Biggle!"

"Certainly. Did you ever see anything like that cure? Ah! you ought to preach about dear Harriet, Mr. Segerteribus, you really--"

"Biggle!" reiterated the little clergyman, excitedly. "Biggle! Biggle!"

"What does he--" began Mrs. Bridgeman, turning helplessly towards the Prophet.

"It's his name, I fancy," whispered the Prophet.

Mrs. Bridgeman started and smiled.

"Mr. Biggle," she said.

The little clergyman moved on towards the guitars with all the air of a future colonial bishop. Mrs. Bridgeman, who seemed to be somewhat confused, and whose manner grew increasingly vague as the evening wore on, now said to those nearest to her,--

"There are fifteen tables set out--yes, set out,--in the green boudoir."

"Bedad!" remarked an Irish colonel, "then it's meself'll enjoy a good rubber."

"For table-turning," added Mrs. Bridgeman. "Materialisation in the same room after supper. Mr. Towle--yes--will enter the cabinet at about eleven. Where's Madame Charlotte?"

"Looking into the crystal for Lady Ferrier," said someone.

"Oh, and the professor?"

"He's reading Archdeacon Andrew's nose, by the cloak-room."

Mrs. Bridgeman sighed.

"It seems to be going off quite pleasantly," she said vaguely to the Prophet. "I think--perhaps--might I have a cup of tea?"

The Prophet offered his arm. Mrs. Bridgeman took it. They walked forward, and almost instantly came upon Sir Tiglath b.u.t.t, who, with a face even redder than usual, was rolling away from the hall of the guitars, holding one enormous hand to his ear and snorting indignantly at the various clairvoyants, card-readers, spiritualists and palmists whom he encountered at every step he took. The Prophet turned pale, and Lady Enid, who was just behind him, put on her most sensible expression and moved quickly forward.

"Ah, Sir Tiglath!" she said. "How delightful of you to come! Catherine, dear, let me introduce Sir Tiglath b.u.t.t to you. Sir Tiglath b.u.t.t--Mrs.

Vane Bridgeman."

Mrs. Bridgeman behaved as usual.

"So glad!" she said. "So enchanted! Just a few interesting people. So good of you to come. Table-turning is--"

At this moment Lady Enid nipped her friend's arm, and Sir Tiglath exclaimed, looking from Mrs. Bridgeman to the Prophet,--

"What, madam? So you're the brain and eye, eh? Is that it?"

The guitars engaged in "The Gipsies of Granada are wild as mountain birds," and Mrs. Bridgeman looked engagingly distraught, and replied,--

"Ah, yes, indeed! The brain and I, Sir Tiglath; so good of you to say so!"