The Prophet of Berkeley Square | Page 4

twinkled
brightly over this battalion of deuced fine women, who were all,
without one exception, the grandmothers--in various degrees--of the
Prophet. When speaking of them, in the highest terms, he never
differentiated them by the adjectives great, or great-great. They were all
kind and condescending enough to be his grandmothers. For a man of
his sensitive, delicate and grateful disposition this was enough. He
thought them all quite perfect, and took them all under the protection of
his soft and beaming eyes.
Of Mrs. Merillia, the live grandmother with whom he had the great
felicity to dwell in Berkeley Square, he seldom said anything in public

praise. The incense he offered at her shrine rose, most sweetly
perfumed, from his daily life. The hearth of this agreeable and
grandmotherly chamber was attractive with dogs, the silver cage beside
it with green love-birds. Upon the floor was a heavy, dull-blue carpet
over which--as has been intimated--even a butler so heavy as Mr.
Ferdinand could go softly. The walls were dressed with a dull blue
paper that looked like velvet.
Here and there upon them hung a picture: a landscape of George
Morland, lustily English, a Cotman, a Cuyp--cows in twilight--a
Reynolds, faded but exquisitely genteel. A lovely little
harpsichord--meditating on Scarlatti--stood in one angle, a harp, tied
with most delicate ribands of ivory satin powdered with pimpernels, in
another. Many waxen candles shed a tender and unostentatious
radiance above their careful grease- catchers. Upon pretty tables lay
neat books by Fanny Burney, Beatrice Harraden, Mary Wilkins, and
Max Beerbohm, also the poems of Lord Byron and of Lord de Tabley.
Near the hearth was a sofa on which an emperor might have laid an
easy head that wore a crown, and before every low and seductive chair
was set a low and seductive footstool.
A grandmother's clock pronounced the hour of ten in a frail and elegant
voice as the finely-carved oak door was opened, and the Prophet
seriously entered this peaceful room, carrying a copy of the
/Meditations of Marcus Aurelius/ in his hand.
He was a neatly-made little man of fashionable, even of modish, cut,
spare, smart and whimsical, with a clean-shaved, small-featured face,
large, shining brown eyes, abundant and slightly-waving brown hair,
that could only be parted, with the sweetest sorrow, in the centre of his
well-shaped, almost philosophical head, and movements light and
temperate as those of a meditative squirrel. Having just dined he was
naturally in evening dress, with a butterfly tie, gleaming pumps, and a
buttonhole of violets. He shut the door gently, glanced at his nice-
looking grandmothers, and, walking forward very quietly and demurely,
applied his eye to the telescope, lowering himself slightly by a Sandow
exercise, which he had practised before he became a prophet. Having

remained in this position of astronomical observation for some minutes,
he deviated into the upright, closed the window, and tinkled a small
silver bell that stood on the tulip-wood table beside Malkiel's
/Almanac/.
Mr. Ferdinand appeared, looking respectfully buoyant.
"Has Mr. Malkiel sent any reply to my inquiry, Mr. Ferdinand?" asked
the Prophet.
"He has not, sir," replied Mr. Ferdinand, sympathetically.
"Did the boy messenger say he delivered my note?"
"He said so, sir, on his Bible oath, sir."
"And do you believe him?"
"Oh, sir!" responded Mr. Ferdinand, in a shocked voice, "surely a
London lad would not be found to tell a lie!"
"I hope not, Mr. Ferdinand. Still--did he look a nervous sort of lad?"
"He was a trifle pale, sir, about the gills--but a heart of gold, sir, I feel
sure. He wore four medals, sir."
"Four medals! Nevertheless, he may have been frightened to go to Mr.
Malkiel's door. That will do, Mr. Ferdinand."
Mr. Ferdinand was about to bow and retire when the Prophet, after a
moment of hesitation, added,--
"Stay, Mr. Ferdinand. Mrs. Merillia has gone to the Gaiety Theatre
to-night. I expect her back at half-past eleven. She may need assistance
on her return."
"Assistance, sir! Mrs. Merillia, sir!"
Mr. Ferdinand's luminous eyes shone with amazement.

"She may--I say she /may/--have to be carried to bed."
Mr. Ferdinand's jaw dropped. He gave at the knees and was obliged to
cling to a Chippendale cabinet for support.
"Have an armchair ready in the hall in case of necessity and tell
Gustavus to sit up. Mrs. Merillia must not be dropped. You understand.
That will do, Mr. Ferdinand."
Mr. Ferdinand endeavoured to bow, and ultimately succeeded in
retiring. When his tremulous shoulders were no longer visible, the
Prophet opened Marcus Aurelius, and, seating himself in a corner of the
big couch by the fire, crossed his legs one over the other and began to
read that timid Ancient's consolatory, but unconvincing, remarks.
Occasionally he paused, however, murmured doubtfully, "Will she
have to be