“Oh, my poor missis!” wailed Mrs. Fancy, trembling in her night-socks. “Oh, my poor dear missis! I can’t speak different nor mean other. Oh, missis, missis!”
“Hush, Fancy!” said the Prophet, in the greatest distraction. “Grannie! Grannie!”
And seizing the handle of the door he shook it violently. Mrs. Merillia was now very naturally under the impression that the ratcatcher was determined to break in and murder her without more ado. Extreme danger often seems to exercise a strangely calming influence upon the human soul. So it was now. Upon hearing her bedroom door quivering under the assault of the Prophet, Mrs. Merillia was abruptly invaded by a sort of desperate courage. She left the bells, tottered to the grate in which a good fire was blazing, seized the poker and thrust it between the bars and into the heart of the flames, at the same time crying out in a quavering but determined voice,—
“I am heating the poker! If you come in you will repent it. I am heating the poker!”
On hearing this remark, the Prophet desisted from his assault upon the door, overcome by the absolute conviction that his beloved grandmother was suffering from a pronounced form of homicidal mania. His affection prompted him to keep such a catastrophe secret as long as possible, and he therefore turned to Mrs. Fancy and Gustavus, and said hurriedly,—
“This is a matter for me alone. Mrs. Fancy, please go away at once. Gustavus, you will accompany Mrs. Fancy.”
His manner was so firm, his face so iron in its determination, that Mrs. Fancy and Gustavus dared not proffer a word. They turned away and disappeared softly down the stairs, to wait the denouement of this tragedy in the hall below. Meantime the poker was growing red hot in the coals, and Mrs. Merillia announced to the supposed ratcatcher,—
“I can hear you—I hear you breathing—” (the Prophet endeavoured not to breathe). “I hear you rustling, but you can’t touch me. The poker is red hot.”
And she drew it smoking from the grate and approached the door, holding it in her delicate hand like a weapon.
“Grannie!” said the Prophet, making his voice as much like it generally was as he possibly could. “Dearest grannie!”