Free Decline in Prophets by Sulari Gentill

smiled knowingly at him, her aged hand finding his strong one. “I’m eighty-five, Rowland. I had rather wished I could die leaving the ideals I have worked for in good hands. I
had hoped to convince Jiddu to return but there is little chance of that now.”
    “Perhaps there will be someone else…”
    She shook her head. “I cannot help feeling we have run out of time. Not so long ago the world was ready to hear of hope and tolerance, of brotherhood and love.”
    “And now?”
    She sighed. “I have just come from Europe, Rowland. Mad, evil men are coming to power… men with closed minds and dark hearts… and before you ask, it is not clairvoyance but
common sense that leads me to that belief.” Her eyes were soft and bright with sadness. “I worry about young men like you, like Mr. Isaacs who wears his ideals so outrageously, loyal
Mr. Jones with his quiet decency… You must promise me that you will not let yourselves be changed—that you will keep your minds open.”
    Rowland pressed her hand warmly. He admired her, believed her, though he was not entirely sure what she was saying. “Annie, would you care to dance? I would consider it an honour and a
kindness if you would.”
    Annie Besant laughed. “I should be delighted, Rowland. I am not yet too old to raise the occasional eyebrow, I think.”
    And so Rowland Sinclair danced with the great liberationist. Their steps were careful, without flair or showmanship, but their conversation was that of sincere friendship and mutual regard, and
in that respect there was no misstep.

 
    7
    THEOSOPHISTS IN CHICAGO

    CHICAGO
    Mrs. Annie Besant was cheered when she expressed hope of a reunion with the faction of Theosophists in this country in her address at the annual convention of the
     American Section of the Theosophical Society held to-day at the rooms of the Chicago branch, in the Athenaeum Building. An additional interest was imparted to the occasion by the presence
     of the Countess Wachtmeister and Miss Wilson.
    The New York Times
    I t was the first hours of the day. The party of Australians had discarded their coat-tails, and sat in their waistcoats with their shirtsleeves
rolled as they dealt with the serious business of cards. They played in the comfort of Godfrey Madding’s private suite in the company of both the captain and Yates, the ship’s
ginger-haired doctor. Edna still wore the dark crimson gown in which she had captivated everyone the previous evening, but she was focussed now on the cards she held. A reasonable sum had already
changed hands in the course of the game.
    Madding poured whisky generously for all, except Rowland, who never drank the malted liquor voluntarily. It was a lively informal gathering, neither unduly raucous nor overly refined.
    “I am afraid we were unable to find the photo of Miss Higgins’ mother,” Madding told Rowland quietly. “I’d say Urquhart disposed of it.”
    Rowland nodded. He had suspected as much. He would tell Edna later. For now, let her play cards.
    “My staff captain confirms that Urquhart had been liaising with Miss Hanrahan since we left England. The crew had noticed them,” Madding murmured. He shook his head.
    “Do you think His Grace was aware of it?”
    Madding shrugged. “I hope not, for the girl’s sake.”
    Milton had just upped the ante in a show of bravado when the game was interrupted by an urgent knocking. Clyde answered the door to admit a crewman who sought Dr. Yates and the captain.
    “There’s been an accident on the first class deck, sir,” the sailor reported. “Dr. Yates is required to attend.”
    Yates rose immediately. He had been losing anyway.
    “Spit it out, man,” Madding demanded impatiently. “What happened?”
    “Excuse me, sir. Mrs. Besant has fallen down the stairs.”
    The Australians now discarded their cards and stood.
    Madding raised his hand. “You’d all best stay here,” he said. “I realise Mrs. Besant is a friend of yours… I’ll let