.
Читать онлайн книгу.
with unabated fervour. “And it’s the same with Capricornus. My boy shall not be thrown in with prophets. Did Malkiel the First start the Almanac for that? Did he foster it till it went from the poor servant girl’s attic into the gilded apartments of the aristocracy and lay even upon Royal tables for that? Did he, I say?”
“I haven’t an idea,” said the Prophet.
“He did not, sir. And I—I myself”—he arranged the diamond pin in his white satin tie with an almost imperial gesture—“have not followed upon the lines he laid down without imbibing, as I may truly say, the lofty spirit that guided him, the lofty social spirit, as Madame calls it. There have been other prophets, I know. There are other prophets. I do not attempt to deny it. But where else than here, sir”—the dogskin glove lay upon the breast of the chocolate brown frock coat—“where else than here will you find a prophet who hides his identity beneath an alias, who remains, as Madame always says, perdew, and who conducts his profession on honourable and business-like lines? Am I dressed like a prophet?” He suddenly brought his doubled fist down upon the Prophet’s knee.
“No,” cried Hennessey. “Certainly not!”
“Why, sir, how can I be when I tell you that Merriman & Saxster of Regent Street are my tailors, and have been since my first pair of trouserings? Do I bear myself prophetically? I think you will agree that I do not when you know that I am frequently mistaken for an outside broker—yes, sir, and that this has even happened upon the pier at Margate. You have seen my demeanour at Jellybrand’s. You saw me come into the library. You saw my manner with Frederick Smith. Was it assuming? Did I lord it over the lad?”
“Certainly not.”
“No. I might have been anybody, any ordinary person living in Grosvenor Place, or, like yourself, in the Berkeley Square. And so it ever is. Other prophets there are—possibly men of a certain ability even in that direction—but there is only one Malkiel, only one who attends strictly to business, who draws a good income from the stars, sir, and satisfies the public month in, month out, without making a fuss about it. Wait a few years, sir, only wait!”
“Certainly,” said the Prophet. “I will.”
“Wait till the children are grown up. Wait till Capricornus has got his Latin by heart and gone to Oxford. Then, and only then, you will know whether Malkiel the Second is the exception to the rule of prophets. Yes, and Madame shall know it, too. She trusted me, sir, as only a woman can. She knew I was a prophet and had a prophet for a father before me. And yet she trusted me. It was a daring thing to do. Many would call it foolhardy. Wouldn’t they, sir?”
The dogskin glove was raised. The Prophet hastened to reply—
“I daresay they would.”
“But she was not afraid, and she shall have her reward. Corona shall never set foot in Drakeman’s Villas, nor breathe the air of Hagglin’s. I must have a glass of water, I must, sir, indeed.”
He gasped heavily and was about to rise, when the Prophet said:
“Join me in a glass of wine.”
“I should be delighted,” Malkiel answered. “Delighted, I’m sure, but I doubt whether Jellybrand’s—”
“Could not Frederick Smith go out and fetch us a—a pint bottle of champagne?” said the Prophet, playing a desperate card in the prophetic game.
An expression almost of joviality overspread the tragic farce of Malkiel’s appearance.
“We’ll see,” he answered, opening the deal door. “Frederick Smith!”
“Here, Mr. Sagittarius,” cried the soprano voice of the young librarian.
“Can you leave the library for a moment, Frederick Smith?”
The Prophet held up a sovereign over Malkiel the Second’s narrow shoulder.
“Yes, Mr. Sagittarius, for half a mo!”
“Ah! Where is the nearest champagne, Frederick Smith?”
“The nearest—”
“Champagne, I said, Frederick Smith.”
“I daresay I could get a dozen at Gillow’s next the rabbit shop,” replied the young librarian, thoughtfully.
The Prophet shuddered to the depths of his being, but he was now embarked upon his enterprise and must crowd all sail.
“Go to Gillow’s,” he exclaimed, with an assumption of feverish geniality, “and bring back a couple of rabbits—I mean bottles. They must be dry. You understand?”
The young librarian looked out of the window.
“Oh, I’ll manage that, sir. It ain’t raining,” he replied carelessly.
The Prophet stifled a cry of horror as he pressed the sovereign into the young librarian’s hand.
“You can keep the change,” he whispered, adding in a tremulous voice, “Tell me—tell me frankly—do you think in your own mind that there will be any?”
“I don’t know about in my own mind,” rejoined the young librarian, drawing a tweed cap from some hidden recess beneath the counter. “But if you only want two bottles I expect there’ll be ten bob over.”
The Prophet turned as pale as ashes and had some difficulty in sustaining himself to the parlour, where he and Malkiel the Second sat down in silence to await the young librarian’s return. Frederick Smith came back in about five minutes, with an ostentatious-looking bottle smothered in gold leaf under each arm.
“There was four shillings apiece to pay, sir,” he remarked to the Prophet as he placed them upon the table. “I got the ‘our own make’ brand with the ‘creaming foam’ upon the corks.”
The Prophet bent his head. He was quite unable to speak, but he signed to the young librarian to open one of the bottles and pour its contents into the two tumblers of thick and rather dusty glass that Jellybrand’s kept for its moments of conviviality. Malkiel the Second lifted the goblet to the window and eyed the beaded nectar with an air of almost rakish anticipation.
“Ready, sir?” he said, turning to the Prophet, who, with a trembling hand, followed his example.
“Quite—ready,” said the Prophet, shutting his eyes.
“Then,” rejoined Malkiel the Second in a formal voice, “here’s luck!”
He held the tumbler to his lips, waiting for the Prophet’s reply to give the signal for a unanimous swallowing of the priceless wine.
“Luck,” echoed the Prophet in a faltering voice.
As he gradually recovered his faculties, he heard Malkiel the Second say, with an almost debauched accent—
“That puts heart into a man. I shall give Gillows an order. Leave us, Frederick Smith, and remember that Miss Minerva is on no account to be let in here till this gentleman and I have finished the second bottle.”
The Prophet could not resist a wild movement of protest, which was apparently taken by the young librarian as a passionate gesture of dismissal. For he left the room rapidly and closed the door with decision behind him.
“And now, sir, I am at your service,” said Malkiel the Second, courteously. “Let me pour you another glass of wine.”
The Prophet assented mechanically. It seemed strange to have to die so young, and with so many plans unfulfilled, but he felt that it was useless to struggle against destiny and he drank again. Then he heard a voice say—
“And now, sir, I am all attention.”
He looked up. He saw the parlour, the ground glass of the door, the tumblers and bottles on the table, the sharp features and strained, farcical eyes of Malkiel framed