The Prophet of Berkeley Square. Robert Hichens
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accident while on an evening jaunt. We find him now, on this fifteenth day of the first month, aware of his revered grandmother’s intrepid expedition to the Gaiety Theatre, waiting her return to Berkeley Square with mingled feelings which we might analyse for pages, but which we prefer baldly to state.
He longed to be proved indeed a prophet, and he longed also to see his beloved relative return from her sheaf of pleasures in the free and unconstrained use of all her graceful limbs. He was, therefore, torn by foes in a mental conflict, and was in no case to sip the philosophic honey of Marcus Aurelius as he sat between the telescope and the fire in the comfortable drawing-room awaiting his grandmother’s return.
“Gustavus,” said Mr. Ferdinand in the servants’ hall to the flushed footman who lay upon a what-not, sipping a glass of ale and reading a new and unabridged farthing edition of Carlyle’s French Revolution, “Gustavus, Mrs. Merillia has been and gone to the Gaiety Theatre to-night. We expect her back at eleven-thirty sharp. She may need assistance on her return, Gustavus.”
The footman put down the tumbler which he was in the act of raising to his pouted lips.
“Assistance, Mr. Ferdinand!” he ejaculated. “Mrs. Merillia, Mr. Ferdinand!”
“She may—we say she may—have to be carried to bed, Gustavus.”
Gustavus’s jaw dropped, and the French Revolution fluttered in his startled hands.
“Good lawks, Mr. Ferdinand!” he exclaimed (not quoting from Carlyle).
“Have an armchair ready in the hall, Gustavus. Mrs. Merillia must not be dropped. You understand? That will do, Gustavus.”
And Mr. Ferdinand passed to the adjacent supper-table, to join the upper housemaid in a discussion of two subjects that were very near to their hearts, a round of beef and a tureen of pickled cabbage, while Gustavus got up from the what-not in a bemused manner, and proceeded to search dreamily for an armchair. He came upon one by chance in the dining-room, and wheeled it out into the hall just as the clocks in the house rang out the half-hour after eleven.
The Prophet above sprang up from the couch by the fire, Mr. Ferdinand below closed his discussion with the upper housemaid, and the former rapidly came down, the latter up, stairs as the roll of wheels broke through the silence of the square.
Gustavus, in an attitude of bridled curiosity, was posed beneath a polar bear that held an electric lamp. His hand was laid upon the back of the armchair, and his round hazel eyes were turned expectantly towards the hall as his two masters joined him.
“Is all ready, Mr. Ferdinand?” said the Prophet, anxiously.
“All is ready, sir,” replied the butler.
“Wheel the chair forward, Gustavus, if you please,” said the Prophet. “Mrs. Merillia must not be dropped. Remember that.”
“Not be dropped, sir—no.”
The chair ran forward on its amicable castors as a carriage was heard to stop outside. Mr. Ferdinand flung open the portal, and the Prophet glided out excitedly upon the step.
“Well?” he cried, “well?”
A footman, in a long drab coat with red facings, was preparing to get off the box of a smart brougham, but before he could reach the pavement, a charming head, covered with a lace cap, was thrust out of the window, and a musical and almost girlish voice cried—
“All nonsense, Hennessey, all rubbish! Saturn don’t know what he’s talkin’ about. Look!”
The carriage door was vivaciously opened from the inside and a delightful little old lady, dressed in brown silk, with a long, cheerful pointed nose, rosy cheeks, and chestnut hair—that almost mightn’t have been a wig in certain lights—prepared to leap forth without waiting for the reverent assistance that the Prophet, flanked by Mr. Ferdinand and Gustavus, was in waiting to afford.
As she jumped, she began to cry, “Not much wrong with me, is there, Hennessey?” but before the sentence was completed she had caught her neat foot in her brown silk gown, had stumbled from the step of the carriage to the pavement, had twisted her pretty ankle, had reeled and almost fallen, had been caught by the Prophet and Mr. Ferdinand, borne tenderly into the hall, and placed in the armchair which the terrified Gustavus, with almost enraged ardour, drove forward to receive her. As she sank down in it, helpless, Mrs. Merillia exclaimed, with unabated vivacity—
“It’s happened, Hennessey, it’s happened! But it was my own doin’ and yours. You shouldn’t have prophesied at your age, and I shouldn’t have jumped at mine.
“Dearest grannie!” cried the Prophet, on his knees beside her, “how grieved, how shocked I am! Is it—is it—”
“Sprained, Hennessey?”
He nodded. Mechanically Mr. Ferdinand nodded. Gustavus let his powdered head drop, too, in imitation of his superiors.
“I’ll tell you in the drawin’—room.”
She placed her pretty, mittened hands upon the arms of the chair, and gave a little wriggle, trying to get up. Then she cried out musically—
“No, I must be carried up. Mr. Ferdinand!”
“Ma’am!”
“Is Gustavus to be trusted?”
“Trusted, ma’am!” cried Mr. Ferdinand, looking at Gustavus, who had assumed an expression of pale and pathetic dignity. “Trusted—a London footman! Oh, ma’am!”
His voice failed. He choked and began to rummage in the pocket of his black tail coat for his perfumed handkerchief.
“T’st, t’st! I mean his arms,” said Mrs. Merillia, patting her delicate hands quickly on the chair. “Can he carry me?”
The countenance of Mr. Ferdinand cleared, while Gustavus eagerly extended his right arm, bent it sharply, and allowed his magnificent biceps to rise up in sudden majesty. Mrs. Merillia was reassured.
“Hoist me to the drawin’-room, then,” she said. “Hennessey, will you walk behind?”
The procession was formed, and the little old lady proceeded by a succession of jerks to the upper floor, her silk gown rustling against the balusters, and her tiny feet dangling loosely in mid-air, while her long and elegant head nodded each time Mr. Ferdinand and Gustavus pranced carefully sideways to a higher step. The Prophet followed solicitously behind, with hands outstretched to check any dangerous recoil. His face was very grave, but not entirely unhappy.
“Set me down by the fire,” said Mrs. Merillia, when she found herself being smoothly propelled through the atmosphere of the drawing-room.
The menials obeyed with breathless assiduity.
“And now bring me a sandwich, a glass of toast and water and a fan, if you please. Yes, put the footstool well under me.”
“Dearest grannie,” said the Prophet, when the men had retired, “are you in great pain?”
“No, Hennessey. Are you?”
Mrs. Merillia’s green eyes twinkled.
“I!”
“Yes, at my accident. For my ankle is sprained, I’m almost sure, and I shall have to lie up presently in wet bandages. Tell me, are you really pained that I have had the accident you prophesied?”
She glanced from her grandson to the telescope that pointed toward the stars and back again.
“I am, indeed, sincerely grieved,” the Prophet answered with genuine emotion.
“Yes. But if I’d jumped out all right, and was sittin’ here now in a perfect condition of health, you’d have been sincerely grieved, too.”
“I hope not, grannie,” said the Prophet. But he looked meditative.