CHAPTER XIV - "SINCE
THERE'S NO HELP, COME, LET US KISS AND PART!"
As soon as the Professor seemed to have regained
his faculties, Horace opened the door and called in Sylvia and her mother, who
were, as was only to be expected, overcome with joy on seeing the head of the
family released from his ignoble condition of a singularly ill-favoured
quadruped.
"There, there," said the Professor, as
he submitted to their embraces and incoherent congratulations, "it's
nothing to make a fuss about. I'm quite myself again, as you can see.
And," he added, with an unreasonable outburst of ill-temper, "if one
of you had only had the common sense to think of such a simple remedy as
sprinkling a little cold water over me when I was first taken like that, I
should have been spared a great deal of unnecessary inconvenience. But that's
always the way with women—lose their heads the moment anything goes wrong! If I
had not kept perfectly cool myself—"
"It was very, very stupid of us not to think
of it, papa," said Sylvia, tactfully ignoring the fact that there was
scarcely an undamaged article in the room; "still, you know, if we had
thrown the water it mightn't have had the same effect."
"I'm not in a condition to argue now,"
said her father; "you didn't trouble to try it, and there's no more to be
said."
"No more to be said!" exclaimed Fakrash.
"O thou monster of ingratitude, hast thou no thanks for him who hath delivered
thee from thy predicament?"
"As I am already indebted to you, sir,"
said the Professor, "for about twenty-four hours of the most poignant and
humiliating mental and bodily anguish a human being can endure, inflicted for
no valid reason that I can discover, except the wanton indulgence of your
unholy powers, I can only say that any gratitude of which I am conscious is of
a very qualified description. As for you, Ventimore," he added, turning to
Horace, "I don't know—I can only guess at—the part you have played in this
wretched business; but in any case you will understand, once for all, that all
relations between us must cease."
"Papa," said Sylvia, tremulously,
"Horace and I have already agreed that—that we must separate."
"At my bidding," explained Fakrash,
suavely; "for such an alliance would be totally unworthy of his merits and
condition."
This frankness was rather too much for the
Professor, whose temper had not been improved by his recent trials.
"Nobody asked for your opinion, sir!" he
snapped. "A person who has only recently been released from a term of long
and, from all I have been able to ascertain, well-deserved imprisonment, is
scarcely entitled to pose as an authority on social rank. Have the decency not
to interfere again with my domestic affairs."
"Excellent is the saying," remarked the
imperturbable Jinnee, "'Let the rat that is between the paws of the
leopard observe rigidly all the rules of politeness and refrain from words of
provocation.' For to return thee to the form of a mule once more would be no
difficult undertaking."
"I think I failed to make myself clear,"
the Professor hastened to observe—"failed to make myself clear. I—I merely
meant to congratulate you on your fortunate escape from the consequences of
what I—I don't doubt was an error of justice. I—I am sure that, in the future,
you will employ your—your very remarkable abilities to better purpose, and I
would suggest that the greatest service you can do this unfortunate young man
here is to abstain from any further attempts to promote his interests."
"Hear, hear!" Horace could not help
throwing in, though in so discreet an undertone that it was inaudible.
"Far be this from me," replied Fakrash.
"For he has become unto me even as a favourite son, whom I design to place
upon the golden pinnacle of felicity. Therefore, I have chosen for him a wife,
who is unto this damsel of thine as the full moon to the glow-worm, and as the
bird of Paradise to an unfledged sparrow. And the nuptials shall be celebrated
before many hours."
"Horace!" cried Sylvia, justly incensed,
"why—why didn't you tell me this before?"
"Because," said the unhappy Horace,
"this is the very first I've heard of it. He's always springing some fresh
surprise on me," he added, in a whisper—"but they never come to anything
much. And he can't marry me against my will, you know."
"No," said Sylvia, biting her lip.
"I never supposed he could do that, Horace."
"I'll settle this at once," he replied.
"Now, look here, Mr. Jinnee," he added, "I don't know what new
scheme you have got in your head—but if you are proposing to marry me to
anybody in particular—"
"Have I not informed thee that I have it in
contemplation to obtain for thee the hand of a King's daughter of marvellous
beauty and accomplishments?"
"You know perfectly well you never mentioned
it before," said Horace, while Sylvia gave a little low cry.
"Repine not, O damsel," counselled the
Jinnee, "since it is for his welfare. For, though as yet he believeth it
not, when he beholds the resplendent beauty of her countenance he will swoon
away with delight and forget thy very existence."
"I shall do nothing of the sort," said
Horace, savagely. "Just understand that I don't intend to marry any
Princess. You may prevent me—in fact, you have—from marrying this lady, but you
can't force me to marry anybody else. I defy you!"
"When thou hast seen thy bride's perfections
thou wilt need no compulsion," said Fakrash. "And if thou shouldst
refuse, know this: that thou wilt be exposing those who are dear to thee in
this household to calamities of the most unfortunate description."
The awful vagueness of this threat completely
crushed Horace; he could not think, he did not even dare to imagine, what
consequences he might bring upon his beloved Sylvia and her helpless parents by
persisting in his refusal.
"Give me time," he said heavily; "I
want to talk this over with you."
"Pardon me, Ventimore," said the
Professor, with acidulous politeness; "but, interesting as the discussion
of your matrimonial arrangements is to you and your—a—protector, I should
greatly prefer that you choose some more fitting place for arriving at a
decision which is in the circumstances a foregone conclusion. I am rather tired
and upset, and I should be obliged if you and this gentleman could bring this
most trying interview to a close as soon as you conveniently can."
"You hear, Mr. Fakrash?" said Horace,
between his teeth, "it is quite time we left. If you go at once, I will
follow you very shortly."
"Thou wilt find me awaiting thee,"
answered the Jinnee, and, to Mrs. Futvoye's and Sylvia's alarm, disappeared
through one of the bookcases.
"Well," said Horace, gloomily, "you
see how I'm situated? That obstinate old devil has cornered me. I'm done
for!"
"Don't say that," said the Professor;
"you appear to be on the eve of a most brilliant alliance, in which I am
sure you have our best wishes—the best wishes of us all," he added
pointedly.
"Sylvia," said Horace, still lingering,
"before I go, tell me that, whatever I may have to do, you will understand
that—that it will be for your sake!"
"Please don't talk like that," she said.
"We may never see one another again. Don't let my last recollection of you
be of—of a hypocrite, Horace!"
"A hypocrite!" he cried. "Sylvia,
this is too much! What have I said or done to make you think me that?"
"Oh, I am not so simple as you suppose,
Horace," she replied. "I see now why all this has happened: why poor
dad was tormented; why you insisted on my setting you free. But I would have
released you without that! Indeed, all this elaborate artifice wasn't in the
least necessary!"
"You believe I was an accomplice in that old
fool's plot?" he said. "You believe me such a cur as that?"
"I don't blame you," she said. "I
don't believe you could help yourself. He can make you do whatever he chooses.
And then, you are so rich now, it is natural that you should want to marry some
one—some one more suited to you—like this lovely Princess of yours."
"Of mine!" groaned the exasperated
Horace. "When I tell you I've never even seen her! As if any Princess in
the world would marry me to please a Jinnee out of a brass bottle! And if she
did, Sylvia, you can't believe that any Princess would make me forget
you!"
"It depends so very much on the
Princess," was all Sylvia could be induced to say.
"Well," said Horace, "if that's all
the faith you have in me, I suppose it's useless to say any more. Good-bye,
Mrs. Futvoye; good-bye, Professor. I wish I could tell you how deeply I regret
all the trouble I have brought on you by my own folly. All I can say is, that I
will bear anything in future rather than expose you or any of you to the
smallest risk."
"I trust, indeed," said the Professor,
stiffly, "that you will use all the influence at your command to secure me
from any repetition of an experience that might well have unmanned a less
equable temperament than my own."
"Good-bye, Horace," said Mrs. Futvoye,
more kindly. "I believe you are more to be pitied than blamed, whatever
others may think. And I don't forget—if Anthony does—that, but for you, he
might, instead of sitting there comfortably in his armchair, be lashing out
with his hind legs and kicking everything to pieces at this very moment!"
"I deny that I lashed out!" said the
Professor. "My—a—hind quarters may have been under imperfect control—but I
never lost my reasoning powers or my good humour for a single instant. I can
say that truthfully."
If the Professor could say that truthfully amidst
the general wreck in which he sat, like another Marius, he had little to learn
in the gentle art of self-deception; but there was nothing to gain by
contradicting him then.
"Good-bye, Sylvia," said Horace, and
held out his hand.
"Good-bye," she said, without offering
to take it or look at him—and, after a miserable pause, he left the study. But
before he had reached the front door he heard a swish and swirl of drapery
behind him, and felt her light hand on his arm. "Ah, no!" she said,
clinging to him, "I can't let you go like this. I didn't mean all the
things I said just now. I do believe in you, Horace—at least, I'll try hard
to.... And I shall always, always love you, Horace.... I shan't care—very
much—even if you do forget me, so long as you are happy.... Only don't be too
happy. Think of me sometimes!"
"I shall not be too happy," he said, as
he held her close to his heart and kissed her pathetically drawn mouth and
flushed cheeks. "And I shall think of you always."
"And you won't fall in love with your
Princess?" entreated Sylvia, at the end of her altruism.
"Promise!"
"If I am ever provided with one," he
replied, "I shall loathe her—for not being you. But don't let us lose
heart, darling. There must be some way of talking that old idiot out of this
nonsense and bringing him round to common sense. I'm not going to give in just
yet!"
These were brave words—but, as they both felt, the
situation had little enough to warrant them, and, after one last long embrace,
they parted, and he was no sooner on the steps than he felt himself caught up
as before and borne through the air with breathless speed, till he was set
down, he could not have well said how, in a chair in his own sitting-room at
Vincent Square.
"Well," he said, looking at the Jinnee,
who was standing opposite with a smile of intolerable complacency, "I
suppose you feel satisfied with yourself over this business?"
"It hath indeed been brought to a favourable
conclusion," said Fakrash. "Well hath the poet written—"
"I don't think I can stand any more 'Elegant
Extracts' this afternoon," interrupted Horace. "Let us come to
business. You seem," he went on, with a strong effort to keep himself in
hand, "to have formed some plan for marrying me to a King's daughter. May
I ask you for full particulars?"
"No honour and advancement can be in excess
of thy deserts," answered the Jinnee.
"Very kind of you to say so—but you are
probably unaware that, as society is constituted at the present time, the
objections to such an alliance would be quite insuperable."
"For me," said the Jinnee, "few
obstacles are insuperable. But speak thy mind freely."
"I will," said Horace. "To begin with,
no European Princess of the Blood Royal would entertain the idea for a moment.
And if she did, she would forfeit her rank and cease to be a Princess, and I
should probably be imprisoned in a fortress for lèse majesté or
something."
"Dismiss thy fears, for I do not propose to
unite thee to any Princess that is born of mortals. The bride I intend for thee
is a Jinneeyeh; the peerless Bedeea-el-Jemal, daughter of my kinsman Shahyal,
the Ruler of the Blue Jann."
"Oh, is she, though?" said Horace,
blankly. "I'm exceedingly obliged, but, whatever may be the lady's
attractions—"
"Her nose," recited the Jinnee, with
enthusiasm, "is like unto the keen edge of a polished sword; her hair
resembleth jewels, and her cheeks are ruddy as wine. She hath heavy lips, and
when she looketh aside she putteth to shame the wild cows...."
"My good, excellent friend," said
Horace, by no means impressed by this catalogue of charms, "one doesn't
marry to mortify wild cows."
"When she walketh with a vacillating
gait," continued Fakrash, as though he had not been interrupted, "the
willow branch itself turneth green with envy."
"Personally," said Horace, "a
waddle doesn't strike me as particularly fascinating—it's quite a matter of
taste. Do you happen to have seen this enchantress lately?"
"My eyes have not been refreshed by her
manifold beauties since I was enclosed by Suleyman—whose name be accursed—in
the brass bottle of which thou knowest. Why dost thou ask?"
"Merely because it occurred to me that, after
very nearly three thousand years, your charming kinswoman may—well, to put it
as mildly as possible, not have altogether escaped the usual effects of Time. I
mean, she must be getting on, you know!"
"O, silly-bearded one!" said the Jinnee,
in half-scornful rebuke; "art thou, then, ignorant that we of the Jinn are
not as mortals, that we should feel the ravages of age?"
"Forgive me if I'm personal," said
Horace; "but surely your own hair and beard might be described as rather
inclining to grey."
"Not from age," said Fakrash, "This
cometh from long confinement."
"I see," said Horace. "Like the
Prisoner of Chillon. Well, assuming that the lady in question is still in the
bloom of early youth, I see one fatal difficulty to becoming her suitor."
"Doubtless," said the Jinnee, "thou
art referring to Jarjarees, the son of Rejmoos, the son of Iblees?"
"No, I wasn't," said Horace;
"because, you see, I don't remember having ever heard of him. However,
he's another fatal difficulty. That makes two of them."
"Surely I have spoken of him to thee as my
deadliest foe? It is true that he is a powerful and vindictive Efreet, who hath
long persecuted the beauteous Bedeea with hateful attentions. Yet it may be
possible, by good fortune, to overthrow him."
"Then I gather that any suitor for Bedeea's
hand would be looked upon as a rival by the amiable Jarjarees?"
"Far is he from being of an amiable
disposition," answered the Jinnee, simply, "and he would be so
transported by rage and jealousy that he would certainly challenge thee to
mortal combat."
"Then that settles it," said Horace.
"I don't think any one can fairly call me a coward, but I do draw the line
at fighting an Efreet for the hand of a lady I've never seen. How do I know
he'll fight fair?"
"He would probably appear unto thee first in
the form of a lion, and if he could not thus prevail against thee, transform
himself into a serpent, and then into a buffalo or some other wild beast."
"And I should have to tackle the entire
menagerie?" said Horace. "Why, my dear sir, I should never get beyond
the lion!"
"I would assist thee to assume similar
transformations," said the Jinnee, "and thus thou mayst be enabled to
defeat him. For I burn with desire to behold mine enemy reduced to
cinders."
"It's much more likely that you would have to
sweep me up!" said Horace, who had a strong conviction that anything in
which the Jinnee was concerned would be bungled somehow. "And if you're so
anxious to destroy this Jarjarees, why don't you challenge him to meet you in
some quiet place in the desert and settle him yourself? It's much more in your
line than it is in mine!"
He was not without hopes that Fakrash might act on
this suggestion, and that so he would be relieved of him in the simplest and
most satisfactory way; but any such hopes were as usual doomed to disappointment.
"It would be of no avail," said the
Jinnee, "for it hath been written of old that Jarjarees shall not perish
save by the hand of a mortal. And I am persuaded that thou wilt turn out to be
that mortal, since thou art both strong and fearless, and, moreover, it is also
predestined that Bedeea shall wed one of the sons of men."
"Then," said Horace, feeling that this
line of defence must be abandoned, "I fall back on objection number one.
Even if Jarjarees were obliging enough to retire in my favour, I should still
decline to become the—a—consort of a Jinneeyeh whom I've never seen, and don't
love."
"Thou hast heard of her incomparable charms,
and verily the ear may love before the eye."
"It may," admitted Horace, "but
neither of my ears is the least in love at present."
"These reasons are of no value," said
Fakrash, "and if thou hast none better—"
"Well," said Ventimore, "I think I
have. You profess to be anxious to—to requite the trifling service I rendered
you, though hitherto, you'll admit yourself, you haven't made a very brilliant
success of it. But, putting the past aside," he continued, with a sudden
dryness in his throat; "putting the past aside, I ask you to consider what
possible benefit or happiness such a match as this—I'm afraid I'm not so fortunate
as to secure your attention?" he broke off, as he observed the Jinnee's
eyes beginning to film over in the disagreeable manner characteristic of
certain birds.
"Proceed," said Fakrash, unskinning his
eyes for a second; "I am hearkening unto thee."
"It seems to me," stammered Horace,
inconsequently enough, "that all that time inside a bottle—well, you can't
call it experience exactly; and possibly in the interval you've forgotten all
you knew about feminine nature. I think you must have."
"It is not possible that such knowledge
should be forgotten," said the Jinnee, resenting this imputation in quite
a human way. "Thy words appear to me to lack sense. Interpret them, I pray
thee."
"Why," explained Horace, "you don't
mean to tell me that this young and lovely relation of yours, a kind of
immortal, and—and with the devil's own pride, would be gratified by your
proposal to bestow her hand upon an insignificant and unsuccessful London
architect? She'd turn up that sharp and polished nose of hers at the mere idea
of so unequal a match!"
"An excellent rank is that conferred by
wealth," remarked the Jinnee.
"But I'm not rich, and I've already declined
any riches from you," said Horace. "And, what's more to the point,
I'm perfectly and hopelessly obscure. If you had the slightest sense of
humour—which I fear you have not—you would at once perceive the absurdity of
proposing to unite a radiant, ethereal, superhuman being to a commonplace
professional nonentity in a morning coat and a tall hat. It's really too ridiculous!"
"What thou hast just said is not altogether
without wisdom," said Fakrash, to whom this was evidently a new point of
view. "Art thou, indeed, so utterly unknown?"
"Unknown?" repeated Horace; "I
should rather think I was! I'm simply an inconsiderable unit in the population
of the vastest city in the world; or, rather, not a unit—a cipher. And, don't
you see, a man to be worthy of your exalted kinswoman ought to be a celebrity.
There are plenty of them about."
"What meanest thou by a celebrity?"
inquired Fakrash, falling into the trap more readily than Horace had ventured
to hope.
"Oh, well, a distinguished person, whose name
is on everybody's lips, who is honoured and praised by all his fellow-citizens.
Now, that kind of man no Jinneeyeh could look down upon."
"I perceive," said Fakrash,
thoughtfully. "Yes, I was in danger of committing a rash action. How do
men honour such distinguished individuals in these days?"
"They generally overfeed them," said
Horace. "In London the highest honour a hero can be paid is to receive the
freedom of the City, which is only conferred in very exceptional cases, and for
some notable service. But, of course, there are other sorts of celebrities, as
you could see if you glanced through the society papers."
"I cannot believe that thou, who seemest a
gracious and talented young man, can be indeed so obscure as thou hast
represented."
"My good sir, any of the flowers that blush
unseen in the desert air, or the gems concealed in ocean caves, so excellently
described by one of our poets, could give me points and a beating in the matter
of notoriety. I'll make you a sporting offer. There are over five million
inhabitants in this London of ours. If you go out into the streets and ask the
first five hundred you meet whether they know me, I don't mind betting you—what
shall I say? a new hat—that you won't find half a dozen who've ever even heard
of my existence. Why not go out and see for yourself?"
To his surprise and gratification the Jinnee took
this seriously. "I will go forth and make inquiry," he said,
"for I desire further enlightenment concerning thy statements. But,
remember," he added: "should I still require thee to wed the
matchless Bedeea-el-Jemal, and thou shouldst disobey me, thou wilt bring
disaster, not on thine own head, but on those thou art most desirous of
protecting."
"Yes, so you told me before," said
Horace, brusquely. "Good evening." But Fakrash was already gone. In
spite of all he had gone through and the unknown difficulties before him,
Ventimore was seized with what Uncle Remus calls "a spell of the dry
grins" at the thought of the probable replies that the Jinnee would meet
with in the course of his inquiries. "I'm afraid he won't be particularly
impressed by the politeness of a London crowd," he thought; "but at
least they'll convince him that I am not exactly a prominent citizen. Then
he'll give up this idiotic match of his—I don't know, though. He's such a
pig-headed old fool that he may stick to it all the same. I may find myself
encumbered with a Jinneeyeh bride several centuries my senior before I know
where I am. No, I forget; there's the jealous Jarjarees to be polished off
first. I seem to remember something about a quick-change combat with an Efreet
in the "Arabian Nights." I may as well look it up, and see what may
be in store for me."
And after dinner he went to his shelves and took
down Lane's three-volume edition of "The Arabian Nights," which he
set himself to study with a new interest. It was long since he had looked into
these wondrous tales, old beyond all human calculation, and fresher, even now,
than the most modern of successful romances. After all, he was tempted to
think, they might possess quite as much historical value as many works with
graver pretentions to accuracy.
He found a full account of the combat with the
Efreet in "The Story of the Second Royal Mendicant" in the first
volume, and was unpleasantly surprised to discover that the Efreet's name was
actually given as "Jarjarees, the son of Rejmoos, the son of Iblees"—evidently
the same person to whom Fakrash had referred as his bitterest foe. He was
described as "of hideous aspect," and had, it seemed, not only
carried off the daughter of the Lord of the Ebony Island on her wedding night,
but, on discovering her in the society of the Royal Mendicant, had revenged
himself by striking off her hands, her feet, and her head, and transforming his
human rival into an ape. "Between this fellow and old Fakrash," he
reflected ruefully, at this point, "I seem likely to have a fairly lively
time of it!"
He read on till he reached the memorable encounter
between the King's daughter and Jarjarees, who presented himself "in a
most hideous shape, with hands like winnowing forks, and legs like masts, and
eyes like burning torches"—which was calculated to unnerve the stoutest
novice. The Efreet began by transforming himself from a lion to a scorpion,
upon which the Princess became a serpent; then he changed to an eagle, and she
to a vulture; he to a black cat, and she to a cock; he to a fish, and she to a
larger fish still.
"If Fakrash can shove me through all that
without a fatal hitch somewhere," Ventimore told himself, "I shall be
agreeably disappointed in him," But, after reading a few more lines, he
cheered up. For the Efreet finished as a flame, and the Princess as a
"body of fire." "And when we looked towards him," continued
the narrator, "we perceived that he had become a heap of ashes."
"Come," said Horace to himself,
"that puts Jarjarees out of action, any way! The odd thing is that Fakrash
should never have heard of it."
But, as he saw on reflection, it was not so very
odd, after all, as the incident had probably happened after the Jinnee had been
consigned to his brass bottle, where intelligence of any kind would be most
unlikely to reach him.
He worked steadily through the whole of the second
volume and part of the third; but, although he picked up a certain amount of
information upon Oriental habits and modes of thought and speech which might
come in useful later, it was not until he arrived at the 24th Chapter of the
third volume that his interest really revived.
For the 24th Chapter contained "The Story of
Seyf-el-Mulook and Bedeea-el-Jemal," and it was only natural that he
should be anxious to know all that there was to know concerning the antecedents
of one who might be his fiancée before long. He read eagerly.
Bedeea, it appeared, was the lovely daughter of
Shahyal, one of the Kings of the Believing Jann; her father—not Fakrash
himself, as the Jinnee had incorrectly represented—had offered her in marriage
to no less a personage than King Solomon himself, who, however, had preferred
the Queen of Sheba. Seyf, the son of the King of Egypt, afterwards fell
desperately in love with Bedeea, but she and her grandmother both declared that
between mankind and the Jann there could be no agreement.
"And Seyf was a King's son!" commented
Horace. "I needn't alarm myself. She wouldn't be likely to have anything
to say to me. It's just as I told Fakrash."
His heart grew lighter still as he came to the
end, for he learnt that, after many adventures which need not be mentioned
here, the devoted Seyf did actually succeed in gaining the proud Bedeea as his
wife. "Even Fakrash could not propose to marry me to some one who has a husband
already," he thought. "Still, she may be a widow!"
To his relief, however, the conclusion ran thus;
"Seyf-el-Mulook lived with Bedeea-el-Jemal a most pleasant and agreeable
life ... until they were visited by the terminator of delights and the
separator of companions."
"If that means anything at all," he
reasoned, "it means that Seyf and Bedeea are both deceased. Even Jinneeyeh
seem to be mortal. Or perhaps she became so by marrying a mortal; I dare say
that Fakrash himself wouldn't have lasted all this time if he hadn't been
bottled, like a tinned tomato. But I'm glad I found this out, because Fakrash
is evidently unaware of it, and, if he should persist in any more of this
nonsense, I think I see my way now to getting the better of him."
So, with renewed hope and in vastly improved
spirits, he went to bed and was soon sound asleep.
CHAPTER XV - BLUSHING HONOURS
It was rather late the next morning when Ventimore
opened his eyes, to discover the Jinnee standing by the foot of his bed.
"Oh, it's you, is it?" he said sleepily. "How did you—a—get on
last night?"
"I gained such information as I
desired," said Fakrash, guardedly; "and now, for the last time, I am
come to ask thee whether thou wilt still persist in refusing to wed the
illustrious Bedeea-el-Jemal? And have a care how thou answerest."
"So you haven't given up the idea?" said
Horace. "Well, since you make such a point of it, I'll meet you as far as
this. If you produce the lady, and she consents to marry me, I won't decline
the honour. But there's one condition I really must insist on."
"It is not for thee to make stipulations.
Still, yet this once I will hear thee."
"I'm sure you'll see that it's only fair.
Supposing, for any reason, you can't persuade the Princess to meet me within a
reasonable time—shall we say a week?—"
"Thou shalt be admitted to her presence
within twenty-four hours," said the Jinnee.
"That's better still. Then, if I don't see
her within twenty-four hours, I am to be at liberty to infer that the
negotiations are off, and I may marry anybody else I please, without any
opposition from you? Is that understood?"
"It is agreed," said Fakrash, "for
I am confident that Bedeea will accept thee joyfully."
"We shall see," said Horace. "But
it might be as well if you went and prepared her a little. I suppose you know
where to find her—and you've only twenty-four hours, you know."
"More than is needed," answered the
Jinnee, with such childlike confidence, that Horace felt almost ashamed of so
easy a victory. "But the sun is already high. Arise, my son, put on these
robes"—and with this he flung on the bed the magnificent raiment which
Ventimore had last worn on the night of his disastrous entertainment—"and
when thou hast broken thy fast, prepare to accompany me."
"Before I agree to that," said Horace,
sitting up in bed, "I should like to know where you're taking me to."
"Obey me without demur," said Fakrash,
"or thou knowest the consequences."
It seemed to Horace that it was as well to humour
him, and he got up accordingly, washed and shaved, and, putting on his dazzling
robe of cloth-of-gold thickly sewn with gems, he joined Fakrash—who, by the
way, was similarly, if less gorgeously, arrayed—in the sitting-room, in a state
of some mystification.
"Eat quickly," commanded the Jinnee,
"for the time is short." And Horace, after hastily disposing of a
cold poached egg and a cup of coffee, happened to go to the windows.
"Good Heavens!" he cried. "What
does all this mean?"
He might well ask. On the opposite side of the
road, by the railings of the square, a large crowd had collected, all staring
at the house in eager expectation. As they caught sight of him they raised a
cheer, which caused him to retreat in confusion, but not before he had seen a
great golden chariot with six magnificent coal-black horses, and a suite of
swarthy attendants in barbaric liveries, standing by the pavement below.
"Whose carriage is that?" he asked.
"It belongs to thee," said the Jinnee;
"descend then, and make thy progress in it through the City."
"I will not," said Horace. "Even to
oblige you I simply can't drive along the streets in a thing like the
band-chariot of a travelling circus."
"It is necessary," declared Fakrash.
"Must I again recall to thee the penalty of disobedience?"
"Oh, very well," said Horace, irritably.
"If you insist on my making a fool of myself, I suppose I must. But where
am I to drive, and why?"
"That," replied Fakrash, "thou
shalt discover at the fitting moment." And so, amidst the shouts of the
spectators, Ventimore climbed up into the strange-looking vehicle, while the
Jinnee took his seat by his side. Horace had a parting glimpse of Mr. and Mrs.
Rapkin's respective noses flattened against the basement window, and then two
dusky slaves mounted to a seat at the back of the chariot, and the horses
started off at a stately trot in the direction of Rochester Row.
"I think you might tell me what all this
means," he said. "You've no conception what an ass I feel, stuck up
here like this!"
"Dismiss bashfulness from thee, since all
this is designed to render thee more acceptable in the eyes of the Princess
Bedeea," said the Jinnee.
Horace said no more, though he could not but think
that this parade would be thrown away.
But as they turned into Victoria Street and seemed
to be heading straight for the Abbey, a horrible thought occurred to him. After
all, his only authority for the marriage and decease of Bedeea was the
"Arabian Nights," which was not unimpeachable evidence. What if she
were alive and waiting for the arrival of the bridegroom? No one but Fakrash
would have conceived such an idea as marrying him to a Jinneeyeh in Westminster
Abbey; but he was capable of any extravagance, and there were apparently no
limits to his power.
"Mr. Fakrash," he said hoarsely,
"surely this isn't my—my wedding day? You're not going to have the
ceremony there?"
"Nay," said the Jinnee, "be not
impatient. For this edifice would be totally unfitted for the celebration of
such nuptials as thine."
As he spoke, the chariot left the Abbey on the
right and turned down the Embankment. The relief was so intense that Horace's
spirits rose irrepressibly. It was absurd to suppose that even Fakrash could
have arranged the ceremony in so short a time. He was merely being taken for a
drive, and fortunately his best friends could not recognise him in his Oriental
disguise. And it was a glorious morning, with a touch of frost in the air and a
sky of streaky turquoise and pale golden clouds; the broad river glittered in
the sunshine; the pavements were lined with admiring crowds, and the carriage
rolled on amidst frantic enthusiasm, like some triumphal car.
"How they're cheering us!" said Horace.
"Why, they couldn't make more row for the Lord Mayor himself."
"What is this Lord Mayor of whom thou
speakest?" inquired Fakrash.
"The Lord Mayor?" said Horace. "Oh,
he's unique. There's nobody in the world quite like him. He administers the
law, and if there's any distress in any part of the earth he relieves it. He
entertains monarchs and Princes and all kinds of potentates at his banquets, and
altogether he's a tremendous swell."
"Hath he dominion over the earth and the air
and all that is therein?"
"Within his own precincts, I believe he
has," said Horace, rather lazily, "but I really don't know precisely
how wide his powers are." He was vainly trying to recollect whether such
matters as sky-signs, telephones, and telegraphs in the City were within the
Lord Mayor's jurisdiction or the County Council's.
Fakrash remained silent just as they were driving
underneath Charing Cross Railway Bridge, when he started perceptibly at the
thunder of the trains overhead and the piercing whistles of the engines.
"Tell me," he said, clutching Horace by the arm, "what meaneth
this?"
"You don't mean to say," said Horace,
"that you have been about London all these days, and never noticed things
like these before?"
"Till now," said the Jinnee, "I
have had no leisure to observe them and discover their nature."
"Well," said Horace, anxious to let the
Jinnee see that he had not the monopoly of miracles, "since your days we
have discovered how to tame or chain the great forces of Nature and compel them
to do our will. We control the Spirits of Earth, Air, Fire, and Water, and make
them give us light and heat, carry our messages, fight our quarrels for us,
transport us wherever we wish to go, with a certainty and precision that throw
even your performances, my dear sir, entirely into the shade."
Considering what a very large majority of
civilised persons would be as powerless to construct the most elementary
machine as to create the humblest kind of horse, it is not a little odd how
complacently we credit ourselves with all the latest achievements of our
generation. Most of us accept the amazement of the simple-minded barbarian on
his first introduction to modern inventions as a gratifying personal tribute:
we feel a certain superiority, even if we magnanimously refrain from
boastfulness. And yet our own particular share in these discoveries is limited
to making use of them under expert guidance, which any barbarian, after
overcoming his first terror, is quite as competent to do as we are.
It is a harmless vanity enough, and especially
pardonable in Ventimore's case, when it was so desirable to correct any
tendency to "uppishness" on the part of the Jinnee.
"And doth the Lord Mayor dispose of these
forces at his will?" inquired Fakrash, on whom Ventimore's explanation had
evidently produced some impression.
"Certainly," said Horace; "whenever
he has occasion."
The Jinnee seemed engrossed in his own thoughts,
for he said no more just then.
They were now nearing St. Paul's Cathedral, and
Horace's first suspicion returned with double force.
"Mr. Fakrash, answer me," he said.
"Is this my wedding day or not? If it is, it's time I was told!"
"Not yet," said the Jinnee, enigmatically,
and indeed it proved to be another false alarm, for they turned down Cannon
Street and towards the Mansion House.
"Perhaps you can tell me why we're going
through Victoria Street, and what all this crowd has come out for?" asked
Ventimore. For the throng was denser than ever; the people surged and swayed in
serried ranks behind the City police, and gazed with a wonder and awe that for
once seemed to have entirely silenced the Cockney instinct of persiflage.
"For what else but to do thee honour?"
answered Fakrash.
"What bosh!" said Horace. "They
mistake me for the Shah or somebody—and no wonder, in this get-up."
"Not so," said the Jinnee. "Thy
names are familiar to them."
Horace glanced up at the hastily improvised
decorations; on one large strip of bunting which spanned the street he read:
"Welcome to the City's most distinguished guest!" "They can't
mean me," he thought; and then another legend caught his eye: "Well
done, Ventimore!" And an enthusiastic householder next door had burst into
poetry and displayed the couplet—
"Would
we had twenty more
Like
Horace Ventimore!"
"They do mean me!" he exclaimed.
"Now, Mr. Fakrash, will you kindly explain what tomfoolery you've been up
to now? I know you're at the bottom of this business."
It struck him that the Jinnee was slightly
embarrassed. "Didst thou not say," he replied, "that he who
should receive the freedom of the City from his fellow-men would be worthy of
Bedeea-el-Jemal?"
"I may have said something of the sort. But,
good heavens! you don't mean that you have contrived that I should receive the
freedom of the City?"
"It was the easiest affair possible,"
said the Jinnee, but he did not attempt to meet Horace's eye.
"Was it, though?" said Horace, in a
white rage. "I don't want to be inquisitive, but I should like to know
what I've done to deserve it?"
"Why trouble thyself with the reason? Let it
suffice thee that such honour is bestowed upon thee."
By this time the chariot had crossed Cheapside and
was entering King Street.
"This really won't do!" urged Horace.
"It's not fair to me. Either I've done something, or you must have made
the Corporation believe I've done something, to be received like this. And, as
we shall be in the Guildhall in a very few seconds, you may as well tell me
what it is!"
"Regarding that matter," replied the
Jinnee, in some confusion, "I am truly as ignorant as thyself."
As he spoke they drove through some temporary
wooden gates into the courtyard, where the Honourable Artillery Company
presented arms to them, and the carriage drew up before a large marquee
decorated with shields and clustered banners.
"Well, Mr. Fakrash," said Horace, with
suppressed fury, as he alighted, "you have surpassed yourself this time.
You've got me into a nice scrape, and you'll have to pull me through it as well
as you can."
"Have no uneasiness," said the Jinnee,
as he accompanied his protégé into the marquee, which was brilliant with pretty
women in smart frocks, officers in scarlet tunics and plumed hats, and servants
in State liveries.
Their entrance was greeted by a
politely-subdued[Pg 181] buzz of applause and admiration, and an official, who
introduced himself as the Prime Warden of the Candlestick-makers' Company,
advanced to meet them. "The Lord Mayor will receive you in the
library," he said. "If you will have the kindness to follow me—"
Horace followed him mechanically. "I'm in for
it now," he thought, "whatever it is. If I can only trust Fakrash to
back me up—but I'm hanged if I don't believe he's more nervous than I am!"
As they came into the noble Library of the
Guildhall a fine string band struck up, and Horace, with the Jinnee in his
rear, made his way through a lane of distinguished spectators towards a dais,
on the steps of which, in his gold-trimmed robes and black-feather hat, stood
the Lord Mayor, with his sword and mace-bearers on either hand, and behind him
a row of beaming sheriffs.
A truly stately and imposing figure did the Chief
Magistrate for that particular year present: tall, dignified, with a lofty
forehead whose polished temples reflected the light, an aquiline nose, and
piercing black eyes under heavy white eyebrows, a frosty pink in his wrinkled
cheeks, and a flowing silver beard with a touch of gold still lingering under
the lower lip: he seemed, as he stood there, a worthy representative of the
greatest and richest city in the world.
Horace approached the steps with an unpleasant
sensation of weakness at the knees, and no sort of idea what he was expected to
do or say when he arrived.
And, in his perplexity, he turned for support and
guidance to his self-constituted mentor—only to discover that the Jinnee, whose
short-sightedness and ignorance had planted him in this present false position,
had mysteriously and perfidiously disappeared, and left him to grapple with the
situation single-handed.
