The Prophet of Berkeley Square Part 71

"Kindly step into the drawing-room," he said, having first, by a rapid glance, a.s.sured himself that Malkiel was not changing Mr. Ferdinand's trousers there. "I will send Mrs. Fancy to chaperon you."

Lady Enid stepped in obediently, and the Prophet, who could distinctly hear Mrs. Fancy sobbing on the landing above, proceeded thither, took her hand and guided her down to the drawing-room.

"Oh, my poor, poor missis!" gulped the devoted creature. "Oh, my--"

"Precisely," rejoined the Prophet, with pa.s.sionless equanimity. "Please go in there and remain to guard this young lady."

He a.s.sisted Mrs. Fancy to fall in a heap upon the nearest sociable, and then, still moving with a species of frozen deliberation, betook himself once more to the hall. The astronomer and Gustavus were standing there in silence.

"Sir Tiglath," said the Prophet, in a very formal manner, "you can now begin to search for this ruffian."

Sir Tiglath cleared his throat, and continued to stand still.

"I hope you will find him," continued the Prophet.

Sir Tiglath cleared his throat again and added,--

"Why?"

"Why? Because I think it quite time that he was murdered," answered the Prophet, unemotionally. "Well! why don't you search?"

The astronomer, whose face began to look less red than usual, rolled his gla.s.sy eyes round upon the shadowy hall, the dim staircase and the gloomy-looking closed doors that confronted them.

"Where is the old astronomer to search?" he asked, in a low voice.

"Oh-h-h-h!"

The final exclamation sounded remarkably tremulous.

"Anywhere--except in my grandmother's bedroom. That of course is sacred.

Well, why don't you begin?"

Sir Tiglath eyed the Prophet furtively.

"I'm--I'm going to," he murmured hoa.r.s.ely. "The old astronomer does not know the meaning of the word--fear."

Exactly as he uttered these inspiring words the hall clock growled, like a very large dog, and struck two. Sir Tiglath started and caught hold of Gustavus, who started in his turn and shrank away. The Prophet alone stood up to the clock, which finished its remark with a click, and resumed its habitual occupation of ticking.

"Pray begin, Sir Tiglath," said the Prophet.

"The old astronomer--must have a--a--a--candle."

"Here is one," said the Prophet, handing the desired article.

"A lighted candle."

"Why lighted? Oh, so that you can see to murder him! Gustavus, light the candle."

Gustavus, who was trembling a good deal more than an autumn leaf, complied after about fifteen unavailing attempts.

"There, Sir Tiglath," said the Prophet. "Now you can begin." And he seated himself upon a settee, leaned back and crossed his legs.

"You will not accompany the old astronomer? Oh-h-h"

"No. I will rest here. When you have found the ruffian and murdered him, I shall be glad to hear your news."

And, so saying, the Prophet settled himself comfortably with a cushion behind his back, and calmly closed his eyes. The candlestick clattered in Sir Tiglath's gouty hand. The Prophet heard it, heard heavy feet shuffling very slowly and cautiously over the floor of the hall, finally heard the door leading to the servants' quarters swing on its hinges.

Still he did not open his eyes. He felt that if he were to do so just then he would probably begin to shriek, rave, foam at the mouth, and in all known ways comport himself as do the inhabitants of Bedlam. A delicate silence fell in the hall. How long it lasted the Prophet never knew. It might have been five minutes or five years as far as he was concerned. It was broken at length by the following symphony of sounds--an elderly man's voice roaring, a woman's voice uttering a considerable number of very powerful screams on a rather low but still resounding note, a loud thump, a crash of gla.s.s, a prodigious clattering, as of utensils made in some noisy material falling from a height and rolling vigorously in innumerable directions, two or three bangs of doors, and the peculiar patter of rather large and flat feet, unaccustomed to any rapid exercise, moving over boards, oilcloth and carpet. Then the swing door sang, and the Prophet, opening his eyes, perceived Madame Malkiel moving forward with considerable vivacity, and screaming as she moved, her bonnet depending down her back and the rabbit-skins flowing from her ample shoulders. Immediately behind her ran her spouse, holding in one hand a silver pepper castor, and in the other a small and very beautifully finished bronze teapot of the William of Orange period. The worthy couple fleeted by, and the Prophet turned his expressionless eyes towards the swing door expecting immediately to perceive Sir Tiglath b.u.t.t in valiant pursuit. As no such figure presented itself, and as the Malkiels were now beginning to mount the stairs with continually increasing velocity, the Prophet slowly uncrossed his legs, and was thinking of getting upon his feet when there came a loud knock upon the hall door.

"Gustavus!" said the Prophet, glancing round.

He perceived the footman lying in a dead faint near the umbrella stand.

"Oh!" he said, speaking to himself aloud. "Oh! Then I must go myself."

Acting upon his conception of his duty, he accordingly walked to the front door, opened it, and found the policeman outside supporting the senseless form of Sir Tiglath b.u.t.t in one hand and holding a broken truncheon in the other.

"Well?" said the Prophet, calmly. "Well?"

"I knocked him down as he was making a bolt," said the policeman.

The Prophet found himself wondering why so industrious and even useful an occupation should be interfered with in such a manner. However, he only replied,--

"Indeed!"

"Ah," said the policeman, stepping into the hall and laying the astronomer out across a chair, "what's up?"

"They are both up," answered the Prophet, pointing with a lethargic finger towards the staircase, from which, at this moment, arose a perfect hubbub of voices.

"Come on!" cried the policeman.

"Why?" asked the Prophet.

"Why! you're a nice un, you are! Why! And nab 'em, of course!"

"You think it would be wise to--what was the word--nab them?" inquired the Prophet. "You really think so?"

"Well, what am I here for then?" said the policeman, with angry irony.

"Oh, if you prefer," rejoined the Prophet, civilly. "Nab them by all means. I shall not prevent you."

The policeman, who was an active and industrious fellow deserving of praise, waited for no further permission, but immediately darted up the stairs, and in less than a minute returned with Mrs. Merillia--attired in a black silk gown, a bonnet, and an Indian shawl presented to her on her marriage by a very great personage--in close custody.

"Here's one of 'em!" he shouted. "Here, you lay hold of her while I fetch the rest!"

And with these words he thrust the Prophet's grandmother into one of his hands, the broken truncheon into the other, and turning smartly round, again bounded up the stairs.

In a famous poem of the late Lord Tennyson there is related a dramatic incident of a lady whose disinclination to cry, when such emotion would have been only natural, was overcome by the presentation to her of her child. A somewhat similar effect was produced upon our Prophet by the constable's presentation to him of his honoured grandmother. The sight of her reverent head, surmounted by the bonnet which she had a.s.sumed in readiness to flee from the house which she could no longer regard as a home--the touch of her delicate hand--the flutter of her so hallowed Indian shawl--these things broke down the strange calm of her devoted grandson. Like summer tempest came his emotion, and, when the policeman presently returned with Malkiel the Second and Madame nabbed by his right and left hands, and followed by Lady Enid and the weeping Mrs.

Fancy, he was confronted by a most pathetic tableau. The Prophet and Mrs. Merillia were weeping in each other's arm's while Sir Tiglath and Gustavus--just returned to consciousness--were engaged in examining the proceeding with puppy dog's eyes.