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.
Mr. Ferdinand brought the toast and water, the sandwich and the fan. When he had trodden across the carpet out of the room Mrs. Merillia continued—
“Hennessey, you see where this prophetic business is leadin’ you. It has made you charmed at my accident. Yes, it has.”
She spoke without any pathos, humorously indeed, in a bright tone full of common sense. And she nodded at him over her toast and water with a chaffing, demure smile. But the Prophet winced and put his hand to his thick brown hair.
“No, no,” he cried quickly. “That’s impossible. It can’t be.” But the statements sounded like perturbed questions.
“Think!” said his grandmother, looking down at her poor, helpless foot as it lay on the velvet stool. “If I hadn’t had an accident to-night, you’d have been obliged to think ill of—of—which of them was it that had the impertinence to talk my affairs over with you?”
“Mercury and Uranus, Jupiter, Saturn and Venus,” said the Prophet with almost terrible gravity.
“Exactly. I always have thought ill of the last, but that’s nothin’ to do with it. Weigh me in the balance against five planets—are they all planets?—and how do the scales go? You see, Hennessey!”
The Prophet looked much distressed. He saw his beloved grandmother by the fire and the bright stars twinkling through the frosty window-panes. He thought of his telescope, of Sir Tiglath, of Mr. Malkiel, and of the future, and the velvety blue walls of the drawing-room seemed to spin round him.
“Prophecy,” continued Mrs. Merillia, fanning herself till the lace lappets of her priceless cap fluttered above her orderly and clasping wig, “is dangerous, for often it can cause its own fulfilment. If you hadn’t said that because of a certain conjunction of planets—or whatever it was—in my horoscope, I should have an accident to-night, I shouldn’t have jumped out of the brougham. I should have waited for Mr. Ferdinand to assist me, as befits a gentlewoman.”
“But, grannie, I assure you I was most anxious to save you. I hoped I had made a mistake in your horoscope. I did, really. I was so nervous that I sent to Mr. Malkiel while you were at the theatre and implored him to look into the matter as an expert.”
“Mr. Malkiel! Who is he? Do we know him?”
“No. But we know his marvellous Almanac.”
“The Almanac person! Why, Malkiel is surely a myth, Hennessey, a number of people, a company, a syndicate, or something of that kind.”
“So I thought, grannie. But I have made inquiries—through a detective agency—and I have discovered that he is one person; in fact, a man, just like you and me.”
“Rather an odd man then! Is he in the Red Book?”
“No. He is, I understand, of a very retiring and secretive disposition. In fact, I have had great difficulty in learning anything about him. But at length I have discovered that he receives and answers letters at an address in London.”
“Indeed. Where is it?”
“Jellybrand’s Library, Eleven Hundred Z, Shaftesbury Avenue. I sent a boy messenger there to-day.”
“Did you receive a reply?”
“No. I think the boy—although Mr. Ferdinand tells me he wore four medals, I presume for courage—must have become nervous on perceiving Mr. Malkiel’s name on the envelope, have thrown the note down a grating, and bolted before he reached the place, though he said—on his Bible oath, I understand from Mr. Ferdinand—he delivered the note. In any case I got no answer. How are you feeling?”
“Twisted, but prophetic. I foretell that my ankle will be swelled beyond recognition to-morrow. Help me to bed, Hennessey.”
The Prophet flew to his dear relative’s assistance, and Mrs. Merillia endeavoured to rise and to lean upon his anxious arm. After a struggle, however, in which the Prophet took part and two chairs were overset, she was obliged to desist.
“You must ring the bell, Hennessey,” she said. “Mr. Ferdinand and Gustavus must carry me to bed in the chair.”
The Prophet sprang tragically to the bell. It was answered. The procession was re-formed, and Mrs. Merillia was carried to bed, still smiling, nodding at each stair and bearing herself with admirable courage.
As Mr. Ferdinand and Gustavus descended to the basement after the completion of their unusual task, the latter said solemnly—
“However should master have come to know as the missis wouldn’t be able to put foot to floor this night, Mr. Ferdinand? However?”
“I cannot answer you, Gustavus,” Mr. Ferdinand replied, shaking his broad and globe-like head, round whose bald cupola the jet-black hair was brushed in two half moons decorated with a renowned “butler’s own special pomade.”
“Well,
