CHAPTER VIII - BACHELOR'S
QUARTERS
Horace was feeling particularly happy as he walked
back the next evening to Vincent Square. He had the consciousness of having
done a good day's work, for the sketch-plans for Mr. Wackerbath's mansion were
actually completed and despatched to his business address, while Ventimore now
felt a comfortable assurance that his designs would more than satisfy his
client.
But it was not that which made him so light of
heart. That night his rooms were to be honoured for the first time by Sylvia's
presence. She would tread upon his carpet, sit in his chairs, comment upon, and
perhaps even handle, his books and ornaments—and all of them would retain something
of her charm for ever after. If she only came! For even now he could not quite
believe that she really would; that some untoward event would not make a point
of happening to prevent her, as he sometimes doubted whether his engagement was
not too sweet and wonderful to be true—or, at all events, to last.
As to the dinner, his mind was tolerably easy, for
he had settled the remaining details of the menu with his landlady that
morning, and he could hope that without being so sumptuous as to excite the
Professor's wrath, it would still be not altogether unworthy—and what goods
could be rare and dainty enough?—to be set before Sylvia.
He would have liked to provide champagne, but he
knew that wine would savour of ostentation in the Professor's judgment, so he
had contented himself[Pg 76] instead with claret, a sound vintage which he knew
he could depend upon. Flowers, he thought, were clearly permissible, and he had
called at a florist's on his way and got some chrysanthemums of palest yellow
and deepest terra-cotta, the finest he could see. Some of them would look well
on the centre of the table in an old Nankin blue-and-white bowl he had; the
rest he could arrange about the room: there would just be time to see to all
that before dressing.
Occupied with these thoughts, he turned into
Vincent Square, which looked vaster than ever with the murky haze, enclosed by
its high railings, and under a wide expanse of steel-blue sky, across which the
clouds were driving fast like ships in full sail scudding for harbour before a
storm. Against the mist below, the young and nearly leafless trees showed flat,
black profiles as of pressed seaweed, and the sky immediately above the
house-tops was tinged with a sullen red from miles of lighted streets; from the
river came the long-drawn tooting of tugs, mingled with the more distant wail
and hysterical shrieks of railway engines on the Lambeth lines.
And now he reached the old semi-detached house in
which he lodged, and noticed for the first time how the trellis-work of the
veranda made, with the bared creepers and hanging baskets, a kind of decorative
pattern against the windows, which were suffused with a roseate glow that
looked warm and comfortable and hospitable. He wondered whether Sylvia would
notice it when she arrived.
He passed under the old wrought-iron arch that
once held an oil-lamp, and up a short but rather steep flight of steps, which
led to a brick porch built out at the side. Then he let himself in, and stood
spellbound with perplexed amazement,—for he was in a strange house.
In place of the modest passage with the yellow
marble wall-paper, the mahogany hat-stand, and the elderly barometer in a state
of chronic depression which he[Pg 77] knew so well, he found an arched
octagonal entrance-hall with arabesques of blue, crimson, and gold, and
richly-embroidered hangings; the floor was marble, and from a shallow basin of
alabaster in the centre a perfumed fountain rose and fell with a lulling
patter.
"I must have mistaken the number," he
thought, quite forgetting that his latch-key had fitted, and he was just about
to retreat before his intrusion was discovered, when the hangings parted, and
Mrs. Rapkin presented herself, making so deplorably incongruous a figure in
such surroundings, and looking so bewildered and woebegone, that Horace, in
spite of his own increasing uneasiness, had some difficulty in keeping his
gravity.
"Oh, Mr. Ventimore, sir," she lamented;
"whatever will you go and do next, I wonder? To think of your going and
having the whole place done up and altered out of knowledge like this, without
a word of warning! If any halterations were required, I do think as me and
Rapkin had the right to be consulted."
Horace let all his chrysanthemums drop unheeded
into the fountain. He understood now: indeed, he seemed in some way to have
understood almost from the first, only he would not admit it even to himself.
The irrepressible Jinnee was at the bottom of
this, of course. He remembered now having made that unfortunate remark the day
before about the limited accommodation his rooms afforded.
Clearly Fakrash must have taken a mental note of
it, and, with that insatiable munificence which was one of his worst failings,
had determined, by way of a pleasant surprise, to entirely refurnish and
redecorate the apartments according to his own ideas.
It was extremely kind of him; it showed a truly
grateful disposition—"but, oh!" as Horace thought, in the bitterness
of his soul, "if he would only learn to let well alone and mind his own
business!"
However, the thing was done now, and he must
accept[Pg 78] the responsibility for it, since he could hardly disclose the
truth. "Didn't I mention I was having some alterations made?" he said
carelessly. "They've got the work done rather sooner than I expected.
Were—were they long over it?"
"I'm sure I can't tell you, sir, having
stepped out to get some things I wanted in for to-night; and Rapkin, he was
round the corner at his reading-room; and when I come back it was all done and
the workmen gone 'ome; and how they could have finished such a job in the time
beats me altogether, for when we 'ad the men in to do the back kitchen they
took ten days over it."
"Well,"
said Horace, evading this point, "however they've done this, they've done
it remarkably well—you'll admit that, Mrs. Rapkin?"
"That's as
may be sir," said Mrs. Rapkin, with a sniff, "but it ain't my taste,
nor yet I don't think it will be Rapkin's taste when he comes to see it."
It was not Ventimore's taste either, though he was
not going to confess it. "Sorry for that, Mrs. Rapkin," he said,
"but I've no time to talk about it now. I must rush upstairs and
dress."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but that's a total
unpossibility—for they've been and took away the staircase.'
"Taken away the staircase? Nonsense!"
cried Horace.
"So I think, Mr. Ventimore—but it's what them
men have done, and if you don't believe me, come and see for yourself!"
She drew the hangings aside, and revealed to
Ventimore's astonished gaze a vast pillared hall with a lofty domed roof, from
which hung several lamps, diffusing a subdued radiance. High up in the wall, on
his left, were the two windows which he judged to have formerly belonged to his
sitting-room (for either from delicacy or inability, or simply because it had
not occurred to him, the Jinnee had not interfered with the external[Pg 79]
structure), but the windows were now masked by a perforated and gilded lattice,
which accounted for the pattern Horace had noticed from without. The walls were
covered with blue-and-white Oriental tiles, and a raised platform of alabaster
on which were divans ran round two sides of the hall, while the side opposite
to him was pierced with horseshoe-shaped arches, apparently leading to other
apartments. The centre of the marble floor was spread with costly rugs and
piles of cushions, their rich hues glowing through the gold with which they
were intricately embroidered.
"Well," said the unhappy Horace,
scarcely knowing what he was saying, "it—it all looks very cosy, Mrs.
Rapkin."
"It's not for me to say, sir; but I should
like to know where you thought of dining?"
"Where?" said Horace. "Why, here,
of course. There's plenty of room."
"There isn't a table left in the house,"
said Mrs. Rapkin; "so, unless you'd wish the cloth laid on the
floor—"
"Oh, there must be a table somewhere,"
said Horace, impatiently, "or you can borrow one. Don't make difficulties,
Mrs. Rapkin. Rig up anything you like.... Now I must be off and dress."
He got rid of her, and, on entering one of the
archways, discovered a smaller room, in cedar-wood encrusted with ivory and
mother-o'-pearl, which was evidently his bedroom. A gorgeous robe, stiff with
gold and glittering with ancient gems, was laid out for him—for the Jinnee had
thought of everything—but Ventimore, naturally, preferred his own evening
clothes.
"Mr. Rapkin!" he shouted, going to
another arch that seemed to communicate with the basement.
"Sir?" replied his landlord, who had
just returned from his "reading-room," and now appeared, without a
tie and in his shirt-sleeves, looking pale and wild, as was, perhaps,
intelligible in the circumstances. As he[Pg 80] entered his unfamiliar marble
halls he staggered, and his red eyes rolled and his mouth gaped in a cod-like
fashion. "They've been at it 'ere, too, seemin'ly," he remarked
huskily.
"There have been a few changes," said
Horace, quietly, "as you can see. You don't happen to know where they've
put my dress-clothes, do you?"
"I don't 'appen to know where they've put
nothink. Your dress clothes? Why, I dunno where they've bin and put our little
parler where me and Maria 'ave set of a hevenin' all these years regular. I
dunno where they've put the pantry, nor yet the bath-room, with 'ot and cold
water laid on at my own expense. And you arsk me to find your hevenin' soot! I
consider, sir, I consider that a unwall—that a most unwarrant-terrible liberty
have bin took at my expense."
"My good man, don't talk rubbish!" said
Horace.
"I'm talking to you about what I know, and I
assert that an Englishman's 'ome is his cashle, and nobody's got the right when
his backsh turned to go and make a 'Ummums of it. Not nobody 'asn't!"
"Make a what of it?" cried Ventimore.
"A 'Ummums—that's English, ain't it? A
bloomin' Turkish baths! Who do you suppose is goin' to take apartments
furnished in this 'ere ridic'loush style? What am I goin' to say to my
landlord? It'll about ruing me, this will; and after you bein' a lodger 'ere
for five year and more, and regarded by me and Maria in the light of one of the
family. It's 'ard—it's damned 'ard!"
"Now, look here," said Ventimore,
sharply—for it was obvious that Mr. Rapkin's studies had been lightened by
copious refreshment—"pull yourself together, man, and listen to me."
"I respeckfully decline to pull myshelf
togerrer f'r anybody livin'," said Mr. Rapkin, with a noble air. "I
shtan' 'ere upon my dignity as a man, sir. I shay, I shtand 'ere upon—"
Here he waved his hand, and sat down suddenly upon the marble floor.
"You can stand on anything you like—or
can," said Horace; "but hear what I've got to say. The—the people who
made all these alterations went beyond my instructions. I never wanted the
house interfered with like this. Still, if your landlord doesn't see that its
value is immensely improved, he's a fool, that's all. Anyway, I'll take care
you shan't suffer. If I have to put everything back in its former state, I
will, at my own expense. So don't bother any more about that."
"You're a gen'l'man, Mr. Ventimore,"
said Rapkin, cautiously regaining his feet. "There's no mishtaking a
gen'l'man. I'm a gen'l'man."
"Of course you are," said Horace
genially, "and I'll tell you how you're going to show it. You're going
straight downstairs to get your good wife to pour some cold water over your
head; and then you will finish dressing, see what you can do to get a table of
some sort and lay it for dinner, and be ready to announce my friends when they
arrive, and wait afterwards. Do you see?"
"That will be all ri', Mr. Ventimore,"
said Rapkin, who was not far gone enough to be beyond understanding or obeying.
"You leave it entirely to me. I'll unnertake that your friends shall be
made comforrable, perfelly comforrable. I've lived as butler in the besht, the
mosht ecxlu—most arishto—you know the sort o' fam'lies I'm tryin' to
r'member—and—and everything was always all ri', and I shall be all ri' in a few
minutes."
With this assurance he stumbled downstairs,
leaving Horace relieved to some extent. Rapkin would be sober enough after his
head had been under the tap for a few minutes, and in any case there would be
the hired waiter to rely upon.
If he could only find out where his evening
clothes were! He returned to his room and made another frantic search—but they
were nowhere to be found; and as he could not bring himself to receive his
guests in his ordinary morning costume—which the Professor would probably
construe as a deliberate slight, and which would certainly seem a solecism in
Mrs. Futvoye's eyes, if not in her daughter's—he decided to put on the Eastern
robes, with the exception of a turban, which he could not manage to wind round
his head.
Thus arrayed he re-entered the domed hall, where
he was annoyed to find that no attempt had been made as yet to prepare a
dinner-table, and he was just looking forlornly round for a bell when Rapkin
appeared. He had apparently followed Horace's advice, for his hair looked wet
and sleek, and he was comparatively sober.
"This is too bad!" cried Horace;
"my friends may be here at any moment now—and nothing done. You don't
propose to wait at table like that, do you?" he added, as he noted the man's
overcoat and the comforter round his throat.
"I do not propose to wait in any garments
whatsoever," said Rapkin; "I'm a-goin' out, I am."
"Very well," said Horace; "then
send the waiter up—I suppose he's come?"
"He come—but he went away again—I told him as
he wouldn't be required."
"You told him that!" Horace said
angrily, and then controlled himself. "Come, Rapkin, be reasonable. You
can't really mean to leave your wife to cook the dinner, and serve it
too!"
"She ain't intending to do neither; she've left
the house already."
"You must fetch her back," cried Horace.
"Good heavens, man, can't you see what a fix you're leaving me in? My
friends have started long ago—it's too late to wire to them, or make any other
arrangements."
There was a knock, as he spoke, at the front door;
and odd enough was the familiar sound of the cast-iron knocker in that Arabian
hall.
"There they are!" he said, and the idea
of meeting them at the door and proposing an instant adjournment[Pg 83] to a
restaurant occurred to him—till he suddenly recollected that he would have to
change and try to find some money, even for that. "For the last time,
Rapkin," he cried in despair, "do you mean to tell me there's no
dinner ready?"
"Oh," said Rapkin, "there's dinner
right enough, and a lot o' barbarious furriners downstairs a cookin' of
it—that's what broke Maria's 'art—to see it all took out of her 'ands, after
the trouble she'd gone to."
"But I must have somebody to wait,"
exclaimed Horace.
"You've got waiters enough, as far as that
goes. But if you expect a hordinary Christian man to wait along of a lot o'
narsty niggers, and be at their beck and call, you're mistook, sir, for I'm
going to sleep the night at my brother-in-law's and take his advice, he bein' a
doorkeeper at a solicitor's orfice and knowing the law, about this 'ere
business, and so I wish you a good hevening, and 'oping your dinner will be to
your liking and satisfaction."
He went out by the farther archway, while from the
entrance-hall Horace could hear voices he knew only too well. The Futvoyes had
come; well, at all events, it seemed that there would be something for them to
eat, since Fakrash, in his anxiety to do the thing thoroughly, had furnished
both the feast and attendance himself—but who was there to announce the guests?
Where were these waiters Rapkin had spoken of? Ought he to go and bring in his
visitors himself?
These questions answered themselves the next
instant, for, as he stood there under the dome, the curtains of the central
arch were drawn with a rattle, and disclosed a double line of tall slaves in
rich raiment, their onyx eyes rolling and their teeth flashing in their
chocolate-hued countenances, as they salaamed.
Between this double line stood Professor and Mrs.
Futvoye and Sylvia, who had just removed their wraps and were gazing in
undisguised astonishment on the splendours which met their view.
Horace advanced to receive them; he felt he was in
for it now, and the only course left him was to put as good a face as he could
on the matter, and trust to luck to pull him through without discovery or
disaster.
CHAPTER IX - "PERSICOS ODI, PUER, APPARATUS"
"So you've found your way here at last?"
said Horace, as he shook hands heartily with the Professor and Mrs. Futvoye.
"I can't tell you how delighted I am to see you."
As a matter of fact, he was very far from being at
ease, which made him rather over-effusive, but he was determined that, if he
could help it, he would not betray the slightest consciousness of anything
bizarre or unusual in his domestic arrangements.
"And these," said Mrs. Futvoye, who was
extremely stately in black, with old lace and steel embroidery—"these are
the bachelor lodgings you were so modest about! Really," she added, with a
humorous twinkle in her shrewd eyes, "you young men seem to understand how
to make yourselves comfortable—don't they, Anthony?"
"They do, indeed," said the Professor,
dryly, though it manifestly cost him some effort to conceal his appreciation.
"To produce such results as these must, if I mistake not, have entailed
infinite research—and considerable expense."
"No," said Horace, "no. You—you'd
be surprised if you knew how little."
"I should have imagined," retorted the
Professor, "that any outlay on apartments which I presume you do not
contemplate occupying for an extended period must be money thrown away. But,
doubtless, you know best."
"But your rooms are quite wonderful,
Horace!" cried Sylvia, her charming eyes dilating with admiration.
"And where, where did you get that magnificent dressing-gown? I never saw
anything so lovely in my life!"
She herself was lovely enough in a billowy,
shimmering frock of a delicate apple-green hue, her only ornament a deep-blue
Egyptian scarab with spread wings, which was suspended from her neck by a
slender gold chain.
"I—I ought to apologise for receiving you in
this costume," said Horace, with embarrassment; "but the fact is, I
couldn't find my evening clothes anywhere, so—so I put on the first things that
came to hand."
"It is hardly necessary," said the
Professor, conscious of being correctly clad, and unconscious that his
shirt-front was bulging and his long-eared white tie beginning to work up
towards his left jaw—"hardly necessary to offer any apology for the
simplicity of your costume—which is entirely in keeping with the—ah—strictly
Oriental character of your interior."
"I feel dreadfully out of keeping!" said
Sylvia, "for there's nothing in the least Oriental about me—unless it's my
scarab—and he's I don't know how many centuries behind the time, poor
dear!"
"If you said 'thousands of years,' my
dear," corrected the Professor, "you would be more accurate. That
scarab was taken out of a tomb of the thirteenth dynasty."
"Well, I'm sure he'd rather be where he
is," said Sylvia, and Ventimore entirely agreed with her. "Horace, I
must look at everything. How clever and original of you to transform an
ordinary London house into this!"
"Oh, well, you see," explained Horace,
"it—it wasn't exactly done by me."
"Whoever did it," said the Professor,
"must have devoted considerable study to Eastern art and architecture. May
I ask the name of the firm who executed the alterations?"
"I really couldn't tell you, sir,"
answered Horace, who was beginning to understand how very bad a mauvais quart
d'heure can be.
"You can't tell me!" exclaimed the
Professor. "You order these extensive, and I should say expensive,
decorations, and you don't know the firm you selected to carry them out!"
"Of course I know," said Horace,
"only I don't happen to remember at this moment. Let me see, now. Was it
Liberty? No, I'm almost certain it wasn't Liberty. It might have been Maple,
but I'm not sure. Whoever did do it, they were marvellously cheap."
"I am glad to hear it," said the
Professor, in his most unpleasant tone. "Where is your dining-room?"
"Why, I rather think," said Horace,
helplessly, as he saw a train of attendants laying a round cloth on the floor,
"I rather think this is the dining-room."
"You appear to be in some doubt?" said
the Professor.
"I leave it to them—it depends where they
choose to lay the cloth," said Horace. "Sometimes in one place;
sometimes in another. There's a great charm in uncertainty," he faltered.
"Doubtless," said the Professor.
By this time two of the slaves, under the
direction of a tall and turbaned black, had set a low ebony stool, inlaid with
silver and tortoiseshell in strange devices, on the round carpet, when other
attendants followed with a circular silver tray containing covered dishes,
which they placed on the stool and salaamed.
"Your—ah—groom of the chambers," said the
Professor, "seems to have decided that we should dine here. I observe they
are making signs to you that the food is on the table."
"So it is," said Ventimore. "Shall
we sit down?"
"But, my dear Horace," said Mrs.
Futvoye, "your butler has forgotten the chairs."
"You don't appear to realise, my dear,"
said the[Pg 88] Professor, "that in such an interior as this chairs would
be hopelessly incongruous."
"I'm afraid there aren't any," said
Horace, for there was nothing but four fat cushions. "Let's sit down on
these," he proposed. "It—it's more fun!"
"At my time of life," said the
Professor, irritably, as he let himself down on the plumpest cushion,
"such fun as may be derived from eating one's meals on the floor fails to
appeal to my sense of humour. However, I admit that it is thoroughly
Oriental."
"I think it's delightful," said Sylvia;
"ever so much nicer than a stiff, conventional dinner-party."
"One may be unconventional," remarked
her father, "without escaping the penalty of stiffness. Go away, sir! go away!"
he added snappishly, to one of the slaves, who was attempting to pour water
over his hands. "Your servant, Ventimore, appears to imagine that I go out
to dinner without taking the trouble to wash my hands previously. This, I may
mention, is not the case."
"It's only an Eastern ceremony,
Professor," said Horace.
"I am perfectly well aware of what is
customary in the East," retorted the Professor; "it does not follow
that such—ah—hygienic precautions are either necessary or desirable at a
Western table."
Horace made no reply; he was too much occupied in
gazing blankly at the silver dish-covers and wondering what in the world might
be underneath; nor was his perplexity relieved when the covers were removed,
for he was quite at a loss to guess how he was supposed to help the contents
without so much as a fork.
The chief attendant, however, solved that
difficulty by intimating in pantomime that the guests were expected to use
their fingers.
Sylvia accomplished this daintily and with intense
amusement, but her father and mother made no secret of their repugnance. "If
I were dining in the desert with a Sheik, sir," observed the Professor,
"I should, I hope, know how to conform to his habits and prejudices. Here,
in the heart of London, I confess all this strikes me as a piece of needless
pedantry."
"I'm very sorry," said Horace; "I'd
have some knives and forks if I could—but I'm afraid these fellows don't even
understand what they are, so it's useless to order any. We—we must rough it a
little, that's all. I hope that—er—fish is all right, Professor?"
He did not know precisely what kind of fish it
was, but it was fried in oil of sesame and flavoured with a mixture of cinnamon
and ginger, and the Professor did not appear to be making much progress with
it. Ventimore himself would have infinitely preferred the original cod and
oyster sauce, but that could not be helped now.
"Thank you," said the Professor,
"it is curious—but characteristic. Not any more, thank you."
Horace could only trust that the next course would
be more of a success. It was a dish of mutton, stewed with peaches, jujubes and
sugar, which Sylvia declared was delicious. Her parents made no comment.
"Might I ask for something to drink?"
said the Professor, presently; whereupon a cupbearer poured him a goblet of
iced sherbet perfumed with conserve of violets.
"I'm very sorry, my dear fellow," he
said, after sipping it, "but if I drink this I shall be ill all next day.
If I might have a glass of wine—"
Another slave instantly handed him a cup of wine,
which he tasted and set down with a wry face and a shudder. Horace tried some
afterwards, and was not surprised. It was a strong, harsh wine, in which
goatskin and resin struggled for predominance.
"It's an old and, I make no doubt, a fine
wine," observed the Professor, with studied politeness, "but I fancy
it must have suffered in transportation. I really think that, with my gouty
tendency, a little whisky and Apollinaris would be better for me—if you keep
such occidental fluids in the house?"
Horace felt convinced that it would be useless to
order the slaves to bring whisky or Apollinaris, which were of course, unknown
in the Jinnee's time, so he could do nothing but apologise for their absence.
"No matter," said the Professor; "I
am not so thirsty that I cannot wait till I get home."
It was some consolation that both Sylvia and her
mother commended the sherbet, and even appreciated—or were so obliging as to
say they appreciated—the entrée, which consisted of rice and mincemeat wrapped
in vine-leaves, and certainly was not appetising in appearance, besides being
difficult to dispose of gracefully.
It was followed by a whole lamb fried in oil,
stuffed with pounded pistachio nuts, pepper, nutmeg, and coriander seeds, and
liberally besprinkled with rose-water and musk.
Only Horace had sufficient courage to attack the
lamb—and he found reason to regret it. Afterwards came fowls stuffed with
raisins, parsley, and crumbled bread, and the banquet ended with pastry of
weird forms and repellent aspect.
"I hope," said Horace, anxiously,
"you don't find this Eastern cookery very—er—unpalatable?"—he himself
was feeling distinctly unwell: "it's rather a change from the ordinary
routine."
"I have made a truly wonderful dinner, thank
you," replied the Professor, not, it is to be feared, without intention.
"Even in the East I have eaten nothing approaching this."
"But where did your landlady pick up this
extraordinary cooking, my dear Horace?" said Mrs. Futvoye. "I thought
you said she was merely a plain cook. Has she ever lived in the East?"
"Not exactly in the East," exclaimed
Horace; "not what you would call living there. The fact is," he continued,
feeling that he was in danger of drivelling, and that he had better be as
candid as he could, "this dinner wasn't cooked by her. She—she was obliged
to go away quite suddenly. So the dinner was all sent in by—by a sort of
contractor, you know. He supplies the whole thing, waiters and all."
"I was thinking," said the Professor,
"that for a bachelor—an engaged bachelor—you seemed to maintain rather a
large establishment."
"Oh, they're only here for the evening,
sir," said Horace. "Capital fellows—more picturesque than the local
greengrocer—and they don't breathe on the top of your head."
"They're perfect dears, Horace,"
remarked Sylvia; "only—well, just a little creepy-crawly to look at!"
"It would ill become me to criticise the
style and method of our entertainment," put in the Professor, acidly,
"otherwise I might be tempted to observe that it scarcely showed that regard
for economy which I should have—"
"Now, Anthony," put in his wife,
"don't let us have any fault-finding. I'm sure Horace has done it all
delightfully—yes, delightfully; and even if he has been just a little
extravagant, it's not as if he was obliged to be as economical now, you
know!"
"My dear," said the Professor, "I
have yet to learn that the prospect of an increased income in the remote future
is any justification for reckless profusion in the present."
"If you only knew," said Horace,
"you wouldn't call it profusion. It—it's not at all the dinner I meant it
to be, and I'm afraid it wasn't particularly nice—but it's certainly not
expensive."
"Expensive is, of course, a very relative
term. But I think I have the right to ask whether this is the footing on which
you propose to begin your married life?"
It was an extremely awkward question, as the
reader will perceive. If Ventimore replied—as he might with truth—that he had
no intention whatever of maintaining his wife in luxury such as that, he stood
convicted of selfish indulgence as a bachelor; if, on the other hand, he
declared that he did propose to maintain his wife in the same fantastic and
exaggerated splendour as the present, it would certainly confirm her father's
disbelief in his prudence and economy.
And it was that egregious old ass of a Jinnee, as
Horace thought, with suppressed rage, who had let him in for all this, and who
was now far beyond all remonstrance or reproach!
Before he could bring himself to answer the
question, the attendants had noiselessly removed the tray and stool, and were
handing round rosewater in a silver ewer and basin, the character of which,
luckily or otherwise, turned the Professor's inquisitiveness into a different
channel.
"These are not bad—really not bad at
all," he said, inspecting the design. "Where did you manage to pick
them up?"
"I didn't," said Horace; "they're
provided by the—the person who supplies the dinner."
"Can you give me his address?" said the
Professor, scenting a bargain; "because really, you know, these things are
probably antiques—much too good to be used for business purposes."
"I'm wrong," said Horace, lamely;
"these particular things are—are lent by an eccentric Oriental gentleman,
as a great favour."
"Do I know him? Is he a collector of such things?"
"You wouldn't have met him; he—he's lived a
very retired life of late."
"I should very much like to see his
collection. If you could give me a letter of introduction—"
"No," said Horace, in a state of prickly
heat; "it wouldn't be any use. His collection is never shown. He—he's a
most peculiar man. And just now he's abroad."
"Ah! pardon me if I've been indiscreet; but I
concluded from what you said that this—ah—banquet was furnished by a
professional caterer."
"Oh, the banquet? Yes, that came from the
Stores," said Horace, mendaciously. "The—the Oriental Cookery
Department. They've just started it, you know; so—so I thought I'd give them a
trial. But it's not what I call properly organised yet."
The slaves were now, with low obeisances, inviting
them to seat themselves on the divan which lined part of the hall.
"Ha!" said the Professor, as he rose
from his cushion, cracking audibly, "so we're to have our coffee and what
not over there, hey?... Well, my boy, I shan't be sorry, I confess, to have
something to lean my back against—and a cigar, a mild cigar, will—ah—aid
digestion. You do smoke here?"
"Smoke?" said Horace, "Why, of
course! All over the place. Here," he said, clapping his hands, which
brought an obsequious slave instantly to his side; "just bring coffee and
cigars, will you?"
The slave rolled his brandy-ball eyes in obvious
perplexity.
"Coffee," said Horace; "you must
know what coffee is. And cigarettes. Well, chibouks, then—'hubble-bubbles'—if
that's what you call them."
But the slave clearly did not understand, and it
suddenly struck Horace that, since 'tobacco and coffee were not introduced,
even in the East, till long after the Jinnee's time, he, as the founder of the
feast, would naturally be unaware how indispensable they had become at the
present day.
"I'm really awfully sorry," he said;
"but they don't seem to have provided any. I shall speak to the manager
about it. And, unfortunately, I don't know where my own cigars are."
"It's of no consequence," said the
Professor, with the sort of stoicism that minds very much. "I am a
moderate smoker at best, and Turkish coffee, though delicious, is apt to keep
me awake. But if you could let me have a look at that brass bottle you got at
poor Collingham's sale, I should be obliged to you."
Horace had no idea where it was then, nor could
he, until the Professor came to the rescue with a few words of Arabic, manage
to make the slaves comprehend what he wished them to find.
At length, however, two of them appeared, bearing
the brass bottle with every sign of awe, and depositing it at Ventimore's feet.
Professor Futvoye, after wiping and adjusting his
glasses, proceeded to examine the vessel. "It certainly is a most unusual
type of brassware," he said, "as unique in its way as the silver ewer
and basin; and, as you thought, there does seem to be something resembling an
inscription on the cap, though in this dim light it is almost impossible to be
sure."
While he was poring over it, Horace seated himself
on the divan by Sylvia's side, hoping for one of the whispered conversations
permitted to affianced lovers; he had pulled through the banquet somehow, and
on the whole he felt thankful things had not gone off worse. The noiseless and
uncanny attendants, whom he did not know whether to regard as Efreets, or
demons, or simply illusions, but whose services he had no wish to retain, had
all withdrawn. Mrs. Futvoye was peacefully slumbering, and her husband was in a
better humour than he had been all the evening.
Suddenly from behind the hangings of one of the archways
came strange, discordant sounds, barbaric janglings and thumpings, varied by
yowls as of impassioned cats.
Sylvia drew involuntarily closer to Horace; her
mother woke with a start, and the Professor looked up from the brass bottle
with returning irritation.
"What's this? What's this?" he demanded;
"some fresh surprise in store for us?"
It was quite as much of a surprise for Horace, but
he was spared the humiliation of owning it by the entrance of some half-dozen
dusky musicians swathed in white and carrying various strangely fashioned
instruments, with which they squatted down in a semi-circle by the opposite
wall, and began to twang, and drub, and squall with the complacent cacophony of
an Eastern orchestra. Clearly Fakrash was determined that nothing should be
wanting to make the entertainment a complete success.
"What a very extraordinary noise!" said
Mrs. Futvoye; "surely they can't mean it for music?"
"Yes, they do," said Horace;
"it—it's really more harmonious than it sounds—you have to get accustomed
to the—er—notation. When you do, it's rather soothing than otherwise."
"I dare say," said the poor lady.
"And do they come from the Stores, too?"
"No," said Horace, with a fine
assumption of candour, "they don't; they come from—the Arab Encampment at
Earl's Court—parties and fêtes attended, you know. But they play here for
nothing; they—they want to get their name known, you see; very deserving and
respectable set of fellows."
"My dear Horace!" remarked Mrs. Futvoye,
"if they expect to get engagements for parties and so on, they really
ought to try and learn a tune of some sort."
"I understand, Horace," whispered
Sylvia, "it's very naughty of you to have gone to all this trouble and
expense (for, of course, it has cost you a lot) just to please us; but,
whatever, dad may say, I love you all the better for doing it!"
And her hand stole softly into his, and he felt
that he could forgive Fakrash everything, even—even the orchestra.
But there was something unpleasantly spectral
about their shadowy forms, which showed in grotesquely baggy and bulgy shapes
in the uncertain light. Some of them wore immense and curious white
head-dresses, which gave them the appearance of poulticed thumbs; and they all
went on scraping and twiddling and caterwauling with a doleful monotony that
Horace felt must be getting on his guests' nerves, as it certainly was on his
own.
He did not know how to get rid of them, but he
sketched a kind of gesture in the air, intended to intimate that, while their
efforts had afforded the keenest pleasure to the company generally, they were
unwilling to monopolise them any longer, and the artists were at liberty to
retire.
Perhaps there is no art more liable to
misconstruction than pantomime; certainly, Ventimore's efforts in this direction
were misunderstood, for the music became wilder, louder, more aggressively and
abominably out of tune—and then a worse thing happened.
For the curtains separated, and, heralded by sharp
yelps from the performers, a female figure floated into the hall and began to
dance with a slow and sinuous grace.
Her beauty, though of a pronounced Oriental type,
was unmistakable, even in the subdued light which fell on her; her diaphanous
robe indicated a faultless form; her dark tresses were braided with sequins;
she had the long, lustrous eyes, the dusky cheeks artificially whitened, and
the fixed scarlet smile of the Eastern dancing-girl of all time.
And she paced the floor with her tinkling feet,
writhing and undulating like some beautiful cobra, while the players worked
themselves up to yet higher and higher stages of frenzy.
Ventimore, as he sat there looking helplessly on,
felt a return of his resentment against the Jinnee. It was really too bad of
him; he ought, at his age, to have known better!
Not that there was anything objectionable in the
performance itself; but still, it was not the kind of entertainment for such an
occasion. Horace wished now he had mentioned to Fakrash who the guests were
whom he expected, and then perhaps even the Jinnee would have exercised more
tact in his arrangements.
"And does this girl come from Earl's
Court?" inquired Mrs. Futvoye, who was now thoroughly awake.
"Oh dear, no," said Horace; "I
engaged her at—at Harrod's—the Entertainment Bureau. They told me there she was
rather good—struck out a line of her own, don't you know. But perfectly
correct; she—she only does this to support an invalid aunt."
These statements were, as he felt even in making
them, not only gratuitous, but utterly unconvincing, but he had arrived at that
condition in which a man discovers with terror the unsuspected amount of
mendacity latent in his system.
"I should have thought there were other ways
of supporting invalid aunts," remarked Mrs. Futvoye. "What is this
young lady's name?"
"Tinkler," said Horace, on the spur of
the moment. "Miss Clementine Tinkler."
"But surely she is a foreigner?"
"Mademoiselle, I ought to have said. And
Tinkla—with an 'a,' you know. I believe her mother was of Arabian
extraction—but I really don't know," explained Horace, conscious that
Sylvia had withdrawn her hand from his, and was regarding him with covert
anxiety.
"I really must put a stop to this," he
thought.
"You're getting bored by all this,
darling," he said aloud; "so am I. I'll tell them to go." And he
rose and held out his hand as a sign that the dance should cease.
It ceased at once; but, to his unspeakable horror,
the dancer crossed the floor with a swift jingling rush, and sank in a gauzy
heap at his feet, seizing his hand in both hers and covering it with kisses,
while she murmured speeches in some tongue unknown to him.
"Is this a usual feature in Miss Tinkla's
entertainments, may I ask?" said Mrs. Futvoye, bristling with not
unnatural indignation.
"I really don't know," said the unhappy
Horace; "I can't make out what she's saying."
"If I understand her rightly," said the
Professor, "she is addressing you as the 'light of her eyes and the vital
spirit of her heart.'"
"Oh!" said Horace, "she's quite
mistaken, you know. It—it's the emotional artist temperament—they don't mean
anything by it. My—my dear young lady," he added, "you've danced most
delightfully, and I'm sure we're all most deeply indebted to you; but we won't
detain you any longer. Professor," he added, as she made no offer to rise,
"will you kindly explain to them in Arabic that I should be obliged by
their going at once?"
The Professor said a few words, which had the
desired effect. The girl gave a little scream and scudded through the archway,
and the musicians seized their instruments and scuttled after her.
"I am so sorry," said Horace, whose
evening seemed to him to have been chiefly spent in apologies; "it's not
at all the kind of entertainment one would expect from a place like
Whiteley's."
"By no means," agreed the Professor;
"but I understood you to say Miss Tinkla was recommended to you by
Harrod's?"
"Very likely, sir," said Horace;
"but that doesn't affect the case. I shouldn't expect it from them."
"Probably they don't know how shamelessly
that young person conducts herself," said Mrs. Futvoye. "And I think
it only right that they should be told."
"I shall complain, of course," said
Horace. "I shall put it very strongly."
"A protest would have more weight coming from
a woman," said Mrs. Futvoye; "and, as a shareholder in the company, I
shall feel bound—"
"No, I wouldn't," said Horace; "in
fact, you mustn't. For, now I come to think of it, she didn't come from
Harrod's, after all, or Whiteley's either."
"Then perhaps you will be good enough to
inform us where she did come from?"
"I would if I knew," said Horace;
"but I don't."
"What!" cried the Professor, sharply,
"do you mean to say you can't account for the existence of a dancing-girl
who—in my daughter's presence—kisses your hand and addresses you by endearing
epithets?"
"Oriental metaphor!" said Horace.
"She was a little overstrung. Of course, if I had had any idea she would
make such a scene as that— Sylvia," he broke off, "you don't doubt
me?"
"No, Horace," said Sylvia, simply,
"I'm sure you must have some explanation—only I do think it would be
better if you gave it."
"If I told you the truth," said Horace,
slowly, "you would none of you believe me!"
"Then you admit," put in the Professor,
"that hitherto you have not been telling the truth?"
"Not as invariably as I could have
wished," Horace confessed.
"So I suspected. Then, unless you can bring
yourself to be perfectly candid, you can hardly wonder at our asking you to
consider your engagement as broken off?"
"Broken off!" echoed Horace.
"Sylvia, you won't give me up! You know I wouldn't do anything unworthy of
you!"
"I'm certain that you can't have done
anything which would make me love you one bit the less if I knew it. So why not
be quite open with us?"
"Because, darling," said Horace,
"I'm in such a fix that it would only make matters worse."
"In that case," said the Professor,
"and as it is already rather late, perhaps you will allow one of your
numerous retinue to call a four-wheeler?"
Horace clapped his hands, but no one answered the
summons, and he could not find any of the slaves in the antechamber.
"I'm afraid all the servants have left,"
he explained; and it is to be feared he would have added that they were all
obliged to return to the contractor by eleven, only he caught the Professor's
eye and decided that he had better refrain. "If you will wait here, I'll
go out and fetch a cab," he added.
"There is no occasion to trouble you,"
said the Professor; "my wife and daughter have already got their things
on, and we will walk until we find a cab. Now, Mr. Ventimore, we will bid you
good-night and good-bye. For, after what has happened, you will, I trust, have
the good taste to discontinue your visits and make no attempt to see Sylvia
again."
"Upon my honour," protested Horace,
"I have done nothing to warrant you in shutting your doors against
me."
"I am unable to agree with you. I have never
thoroughly approved of your engagement, because, as I told you at the time, I
suspected you of recklessness in money matters. Even in accepting your
invitation to-night I warned you, as you may remember, not to make the occasion
an excuse for foolish extravagance. I come here, and find you in apartments
furnished and decorated (as you informed us) by yourself, and on a scale which
would be prodigal in a millionaire. You have a suite of retainers which (except
for their nationality and imperfect discipline) a prince might envy. You
provide a banquet of—hem!—delicacies which must have cost you infinite trouble
and unlimited expense—this, after I had expressly stipulated for a quiet family
dinner! Not content with that, you procure for our diversion Arab music and
dancing of a—of a highly recondite character. I should be unworthy of the
name of father, sir, if I were to entrust my only daughter's happiness
to a young man with so little common sense, so little self-restraint. And she
will understand my motives and obey my wishes."
"You're right, Professor, according to your
lights," admitted Horace. "And yet—confound it all!—you're utterly
wrong, too!"
"Oh, Horace," cried Sylvia; "if you
had only listened to dad, and not gone to all this foolish, foolish expense, we
might have been so happy!"
"But I have gone to no expense. All this
hasn't cost me a penny!"
"Ah, there is some mystery! Horace, if you
love me, you will explain—here, now, before it's too late!"
"My darling," groaned Horace, "I
would, like a shot, if I thought it would be of the least use!"
"Hitherto," said the Professor,
"you cannot be said to have been happy in your explanations—and I should
advise you not to venture on any more. Good-night, once more. I only wish it
were possible, without needless irony, to make the customary acknowledgments
for a pleasant evening."
Mrs. Futvoye had already hurried her daughter
away, and, though she had left her husband to express his sentiments unaided,
she made it sufficiently clear that she entirely agreed with them.
Horace stood in the outer hall by the fountain, in
which his drowned chrysanthemums were still floating, and gazed in stupefied
despair after his guests as they went down the path to the gate. He knew only
too well that they would never cross his threshold, nor he theirs, again.
Suddenly he came to himself with a start.
"I'll try it!" he cried. "I can't and won't stand this!"
And he rushed after them bareheaded.
"Professor!" he said breathlessly, as he
caught him up, "one moment. On second thoughts, I will tell you my secret,
if you will promise me a patient hearing."
"The pavement is hardly the place for
confidences," replied the Professor, "and, if it were, your costume
is calculated to attract more remark than is desirable. My wife and daughter
have gone on—if you will permit me, I will overtake them—I shall be at home
to-morrow morning, should you wish to see me."
"No—to-night, to-night!" urged Horace.
"I can't sleep in that infernal place with this on my mind. Put Mrs.
Futvoye and Sylvia into a cab, Professor, and come back. It's not late, and I
won't keep you long—but for Heaven's sake, let me tell you my story at once."
Probably the Professor was not without some
curiosity on the subject; at all events he yielded. "Very well," he
said, "go into the house and I will rejoin you presently. Only
remember," he added, "that I shall accept no statement without the
fullest proof. Otherwise you will merely be wasting your time and mine."
"Proof!" thought Horace, gloomily, as he
returned to his Arabian halls, "The only decent proof I could produce
would be old Fakrash, and he's not likely to turn up again—especially now I
want him."
A little later the Professor returned, having
found a cab and despatched his women-folk home. "Now, young man," he
said, as he unwound his wrapper and seated himself on the divan by Horace's
side, "I can give you just ten minutes to tell your story in, so let me
beg you to make it as brief and as comprehensible as you can."
It was not exactly an encouraging invitation in
the circumstances, but Horace took his courage in both hands and told him
everything, just as it had happened.
"And that's your story?" said the
Professor, after listening to the narrative with the utmost attention, when
Horace came to the end.
"That's my story, sir," said Horace.
"And I hope it has altered your opinion of me."
"It has," replied the Professor, in an
altered tone; "it has indeed. Yours is a sad case—a very sad
case."
"It's rather awkward, isn't it? But I don't
mind so long as you understand. And you'll tell Sylvia—as much as you think
proper?"
"Yes—yes; I must tell Sylvia."
"And I may go on seeing her as usual?"
"Well—will you be guided by my advice—the
advice of one who has lived more than double your years?"
"Certainly," said Horace.
"Then, if I were you, I should go away at
once, for a complete change of air and scene."
"That's impossible, sir—you forget my work!"
"Never mind your work, my boy: leave it for a
while, try a sea-voyage, go round the world, get quite away from these
associations."
"But I might come across the Jinnee
again," objected Horace; "he's travelling, as I told you."
"Yes, yes, to be sure. Still, I should go
away. Consult any doctor, and he'll tell you the same thing."
"Consult any— Good God!" cried Horace;
"I see what it is—you think I'm mad!"
"No, no, my dear boy," said the
Professor, soothingly, "not mad—nothing of the sort; perhaps your mental
equilibrium is just a trifle—it's quite intelligible. You see, the sudden turn
in your professional prospects, coupled with your engagement to Sylvia—I've
known stronger minds than yours thrown off their balance—temporarily, of
course, quite temporarily—by less than that."
"You believe I am suffering from
delusions?"
"I don't say that. I think you may see
ordinary things in a distorted light."
"Anyhow, you don't believe there really was a
Jinnee inside that bottle?"
"Remember, you yourself assured me at the
time you opened it that you found nothing whatever inside it. Isn't it more
credible that you were right then than that you should be right now?"
"Well," said Horace, "you saw all
those black slaves; you ate, or tried to eat, that unutterably beastly banquet;
you heard that music—and then there was the dancing-girl. And this hall we're
in, this robe I've got on—are they delusions? Because if they are, I'm afraid
you will have to admit that you're mad too."
"Ingeniously put," said the Professor.
"I fear it is unwise to argue with you. Still, I will venture to assert
that a strong imagination like yours, over-heated and saturated with Oriental
ideas—to which I fear I may have contributed—is not incapable of unconsciously
assisting in its own deception. In other words, I think that you may have
provided all this yourself from various quarters without any clear recollection
of the fact."
"That's very scientific and satisfactory as
far as it goes, my dear Professor," said Horace; "but there's one
piece of evidence which may upset your theory—and that's this brass
bottle."
"If your reasoning powers were in their
normal condition," said the Professor, compassionately, "you would
see that the mere production of an empty bottle can be no proof of what it
contained—or, for that matter, that it ever contained anything at all!"
"Oh, I see that," said Horace; "but
this bottle has a stopper with what you yourself admit to be an inscription of
some sort. Suppose that inscription confirms my story—what then? All I ask you
to do is to make it out for yourself before you decide that I'm either a liar
or a lunatic."
"I warn you," said the Professor,
"that if you are trusting to my being unable to decipher the inscription,
you are deceiving yourself. You represent that this bottle belongs to the
period of Solomon—that is, about a thousand years B.C. Probably you are not
aware that the earliest specimens of Oriental metal-work in existence are not
older than the tenth century of our era. But, granting that it is as old as you
allege, I shall certainly be able to read any inscription there may be
on it. I have made out clay tablets in Cuneiform which were certainly written a
thousand years before Solomon's time."
"So much the better," said Horace.
"I'm as certain as I can be that, whatever is written on that lid—whether
it's Phœnician, or Cuneiform, or anything else—must have some reference to a
Jinnee confined in the bottle, or at least bear the seal of Solomon. But there
the thing is—examine it for yourself."
"Not now," said the Professor;
"it's too late, and the light here is not strong enough. But I'll tell you
what I will do. I'll take this stopper thing home with me, and examine it
carefully to-morrow—on one condition."
"You have only to name it," said Horace.
"My condition is, that if I, and one or two
other Orientalists to whom I may submit it, come to the conclusion that there
is no real inscription at all—or, if any, that a date and meaning must be
assigned to it totally inconsistent with your story—you will accept our finding
and acknowledge that you have been under a delusion, and dismiss the whole
affair from your mind."
"Oh, I don't mind agreeing to that,"
said Horace, "particularly as it's my only chance."
"Very well, then," said the Professor,
as he removed the metal cap and put it in his pocket; "you may depend upon
hearing from me in a day or two. Meantime, my boy," he continued, almost
affectionately, "why not try a short bicycle tour somewhere, hey? You're a
cyclist, I know—anything but allow yourself to dwell on Oriental
subjects."
"It's not so easy to avoid dwelling on them
as you think!" said Horace, with rather a dreary laugh. "And I fancy,
Professor, that—whether you like it or not—you'll have to believe in that
Jinnee of mine sooner or later."
"I can scarcely conceive," replied the
Professor, who was by this time at the outer door, "any degree of evidence
which could succeed in convincing me that your brass bottle had ever contained
an Arabian Jinnee. However, I shall endeavour to preserve an open mind on the
subject. Good evening to you."
As soon as he was alone, Horace paced up and down
his deserted halls in a state of simmering rage as he thought how eagerly he
had looked forward to his little dinner-party; how intimate and delightful it
might have been, and what a monstrous and prolonged nightmare it had actually
proved. And at the end of it there he was—in a fantastic, impossible dwelling,
deserted by every one, his chances of setting himself right with Sylvia hanging
on the slenderest thread; unknown difficulties and complications threatening
him from every side!
He owed all this to Fakrash. Yes, that
incorrigibly grateful Jinnee, with his antiquated notions and his high-flown
professions, had contrived to ruin him more disastrously than if he had been
his bitterest foe! Ah! if he could be face to face with him once more—if only
for five minutes—he would be restrained by no false delicacy: he would tell him
fairly and plainly what a meddling, blundering old fool he was. But Fakrash had
taken his flight for ever: there were no means of calling him back—nothing to
be done now but go to bed and sleep—if he could!
Exasperated by the sense of his utter
helplessness, Ventimore went to the arch which led to his bed-chamber and drew
the curtain back with a furious pull. And just within the archway, standing
erect with folded arms and the smile of fatuous benignity which Ventimore was
beginning to know and dread, was the form of Fakrash-el-Aamash, the Jinnee!
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