The Prophet of Berkeley Square. Robert Hichens
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himself to the gaze of Malkiel, instinctively squaring his shoulders, opening out his chest, and expanding his nostrils in an effort to fill as large a space in the atmosphere of the parlour as possible. And Malkiel continued to regard him with the staring eyes of one whose mind is seething with strange, upheaving thoughts and alarming apprehensions. Mutely the Prophet swelled and mutely Malkiel observed him swell, till a point was reached from which further progress—at least on the Prophet’s part—was impossible. The Prophet was now as big as the structure of his frame permitted him to be, and apparently Malkiel realised the fact, for he suddenly dropped his eyes and exclaimed—
“This matter must be threshed out thoroughly, Madame herself would wish it so.”
He paused, drew his chair nearer to the Prophet’s, took off a glove and continued—
“Sir, you may be a prophet. You may have prophesied correctly in the Berkeley Square. But if you are, and if you have, remember this—that you have proved the self-sacrifice, the privation, the denial, the subterfuge, the mask, and the position of Sagittarius Lodge in its own grounds beside the River Mouse at Crampton St. Peter, N.—N., I said, sir—totally and entirely unnecessary. I will go further, sir, and I will say more. You have not only done that. You have also proved the sacred instinct of a woman, a respectable married woman—such as we must all reverence—false and deceived. Remember this, sir, remember all this, then search yourself thoroughly and say whether what you have told me is strictly true.”
“I assure you—” began the Prophet, hastily.
But Malkiel sternly interrupted him.
“Search yourself, sir, I beg!” he cried.
“But upon my honour—”
“Hush, sir, hush! I beg, nay, I insist, that you search yourself thoroughly before you answer this momentous question.”
The Prophet felt rather disposed to ask whether Malkiel expected him to examine his pockets and turn out his boots. However, he sat still while Malkiel drew out a large gold watch, held it solemnly in his hand for a couple of minutes and then returned it to the waistcoat.
“Now, sir,” he said.
“I assure you,” said the Prophet, “on my honour that all I have said is strictly true.”
“And took place in the Berkeley Square?”
“And took place in the Berkeley Square.”
Malkiel nodded morosely.
“It may have been chance,” he said. “A weather forecast and an honoured grandmother may have been mere luck. Still it looks bad—very bad.”
He sighed heavily, and seemed about to fall into a mournful reverie when the Prophet cried sharply—
“Explain yourself, Malkiel the Second. You owe it to me to explain yourself. Why should my strange gift—”
“If you have it, sir,” interrupted Malkiel, quickly.
“If I have it, very well—affect you? Why should it render the self-sacrifice and—and the position of—of Sagittarius Lodge on the river—the river—what river did you say—?”
“The River Mouse,” rejoined Malkiel in a muffled voice, and shaking his head sadly.
“Exactly—on the River Mouse at Crompton—”
“Crampton.”
“Crampton St. Peter total—”
“N.!”
“What?”
“Crampton St. Peter. N. That is the point.”
“Very well—Crampton St. Peteren, totally and entirely unnecessary?”
“You desire my revelation, sir? You desire to enter into the bosom of a family that hitherto has dwelt apart, has lain as I may say perdew beside the secret waters of the River Mouse? Is it indeed so?”
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” cried the Prophet, hastily. “I would not for the world intrude upon—”
“Those hallowed precincts! Well, perhaps you have the right. Jellybrand’s has betrayed me to you. You know my name, my profession. Why should you not know more? Perhaps it is better so.”
With the sudden energy of a man who is reckless of fate he seized his goblet, poured into it at least a shilling’s worth of “creaming foam,” drained it to the dregs and, shaking back his matted hair with a leonine movement of the head, exclaimed—
“Malkiel the First, who founded the Almanac, lay perdew all his life.”
“Beside the secret waters of the River Mouse?” the Prophet could not help interposing.
“No, sir. He would never have gone so far as that. But he lived and died in Susan Road beside the gas-works. He was a great man.”
“I’m sure he was,” said the Prophet, heartily.
“He wished me to live and die there too,” said Malkiel. “But there are limits, sir, even to the forbearance of women. Madame was affected, painfully affected, by the gas, sir. It stank in her nostrils—to use a figure. And then there was another drawback that she could not get over.”
“Indeed!”
“The sweeps, sir.”
“I beg your pardon!” said the Prophet.
“I said—the sweeps.”
“I heard you—well?”
“Being the only people that were not, in the whole road, made for loneliness, sir.”
The Prophet was entirely bouleverse.
“I’m afraid I’m very stupid, but really I—” he began.
“Is it possible that you live in London, sir, and are not aware that Susan Road lies in the most sought-after portion of the sweeps’ quarter?” said Malkiel, with pitying amazement.
The Prophet blushed with shame.
“I beg your pardon. Of course—I understand. Pray go on.”
“It made for loneliness, sir.”
“Naturally.”
“Their hours were not our hours. And then the professional colour! Madame said it was like living among the Sandwich Islanders. And so, to an extent, it was. My father had left a very tidy bit of money—a very tidy bit indeed, and we resolved to move. But where? That was the problem. For I was not as other men. I could not live like them—in the Berkeley Square.”
He smiled with mournful superiority and continued—
“At least I thought so then, and have done till to-day. Prophets—so my father believed, and so Madame—must be connected with the suburbs or with outlying districts. They must not, indeed they cannot, be properly prophetic within the radius. A central atmosphere would reduce them to the level of the conjuror or the muscular suggestionist. Malkiel the First, my father, was born himself in Peckham, and met my mother when coming through the rye.”
He brushed aside a tear that flowed at this almost rustic recollection, and continued—
“Yet Madame was wishful, and I was wishful too, that the children—if we had any—should not grow up Eastern. It was a natural and a beautiful desire, sir, was it not?”
“Oh, very,” replied the Prophet, considerably confused.
“The habits and manners of the East, you see, sir, are not always in strict accordance with propriety. Are they?”
Before the Prophet had time to realise that this question was merely rhetorical, he began—
“From what Professor