The Prophet fell down upon the maroon sofa like a man smitten with paralysis.He felt suddenly old, and very weak.He tried to think, to consider how he could explain Madame Sagittarius to his grandmother--for she must surely now become aware of the presence of strangers in her pretty home--how he could arrange matters with Mr.Ferdinand, how he could apologise to a lady whom he had never yet seen for appearing at her house with two uninvited guests, how he could get rid of the Sagittariuses when the horrible night watch should be at an end and the frigid winter dawn be near.But his mind refused to work.His brain was a blank, containing nothing except, perhaps, a vague desire for sudden death.Mr.Sagittarius did not disturb his contemplation of the inevitable.Indeed, that gentleman also seemed meditative, and the silence lasted until the reappearance of Madame, in a brown robe--of a slightly tea-gown type--trimmed with green chiffon and coffee-coloured lace, a black bonnet adorned with about a score of imitation plums made in some highly-glazed material, a heavy cloak lined with priceless rabbit-skins, and the outdoor boots.
If the Prophet had found the journey to the Mouse a painful experience, what can be said of his feelings during the journey from that noble stream? Long afterwards he recalled his state of mind during the tramp across the Common among the broken crockery, the dust-heaps, the decaying vegetables and the occasional lurking rats, the journey in the train, the reembarkment upon the purple 'bus from the gentle eminence sloping towards the coal-yard, the long pilgrimage towards the central districts with his very outlying companions.He recalled the peculiar numbness that strove against the desperation of his thoughts, his feeble efforts to lay plans frustrated by a perpetual buzzing in his brain, his flitting visions of that gentle grandmother round whose venerable age and dignity he was about to group such peculiar personalities, and beneath whose roof he was about to indulge in such unholy prophetic practices.Long afterwards--but even then he could not smile as men so often smile when they look back on lost despairs!
He and his companions spoke but little together as they journeyed.
Occasionally Madame and Mr.Sagittarius conversed in husky whispers, like brigands the Prophet thought, and the veiled click of Madame's contralto struck through the startled air.But mostly a silence prevailed--a silence alive with fate.
At the corner of Air Street they got out and began to walk down Piccadilly towards the Berkeley square.It was now evening.The lamps were lighted and the murmur of strolling crowds filled the gloomy air.
Madame stared feverishly about her, excited by the press, the flashing hansoms and the gaily-illuminated shops.Once, as she passed Benoist's, she murmured "/O festum dies/!" and again, by the Berkeley, when she was momentarily jostled by a very large and umbrageous tramp who had apparently been celebrating the joys of beggary--"/Acto profanus vulgam/!" But generally she was silent, enwrapped, no doubt, in bookish thought.When, at length, they stood before the door of number one thousand she breathed a heavy sigh.
"Please," said the Prophet, in a trembling voice, "please enter quietly.My grandmother is very unwell.""Ankles seems to be a very painful complaint, sir," said Mr.
Sagittarius."But Madame and self are not in the habit of creating uproar by our movements.""No, no.Of course not.Still--on tiptoe if you don't mind.""I cannot walk on tiptoe," said Madame, in a voice that sounded to the Prophet terrifically powerful."The attitude is precarious and undignified.As the great Juvenile--""Yes, yes.Ah! that's it!"
He managed to get his key into the door and very gingerly opened it.
Madame and Mr.Sagittarius stepped into the hall, followed closely by the Prophet, who was content on conveying them unobserved to the library.
"This way," he whispered."This way.Softly! Softly!"He began to steal, like a shadow, across the hall, and, impressed by his surreptitious manner, his old and valued friends instinctively followed his example.All three of them, then, with long steps and theatrical pauses, were stagily upon the move, when suddenly the door that led to the servants' quarters swung open and Mrs.Fancy Quinglet debouched into their midst, succeeded by Mr.Ferdinand, who carried in his hand a menu card in a silver holder.At the moment of their appearance the Prophet, holding his finger to his lips, was taking a soft and secret stride in the direction of the library door, his body bent forward and his head protruded towards the sanctum he longed to gain, and Madame and Mr.Sagittarius, true to the instinct of imitation that dwells in our monkey race, were in precisely similar attitudes behind him.The hall being rather dark, and the gait of the trio it contained thus tragically surreptitious, it was perhaps not unnatural that Mrs.Fancy should give vent to a piercing cry of terror, and that Mr.Ferdinand should drop the menu and crouch back against the wall in a hunched position expressive of alarm.At any rate, such were their actions, while--for their part--the Prophet and his two old and valued friends uttered a united exclamation and struck three attitudes that were pregnant with defensive amazement.
