CHAPTER X - NO PLACE LIKE HOME!
"May thy head long survive!" said
Fakrash, by way of salutation, as he stepped through the archway.
"You're very good," said Horace, whose
anger had almost evaporated in the relief of the Jinnee's unexpected return,
"but I don't think any head can survive this sort of thing long."
"Art thou content with this dwelling I have
provided for thee?" inquired the Jinnee, glancing around the stately hall
with perceptible complacency.
It would have been positively brutal to say how
very far from contented he felt, so Horace could only mumble that he had never
been lodged like that before in all his life.
"It is far below thy deserts," Fakrash
observed graciously. "And were thy friends amazed at the manner of their
entertainment?"
"They were," said Horace.
"A sure method of preserving friends is to
feast them with liberality," remarked the Jinnee.
This was rather more than Horace's temper could
stand. "You were kind enough to provide my friends with such a
feast," he said, "that they'll never come here again."
"How so? Were not the meats choice and
abounding in fatness? Was not the wine sweet, and the sherbet like unto
perfumed snow?"
"Oh, everything was—er—as nice as
possible," said Horace. "Couldn't have been better."
"Yet thou sayest that thy friends will return
no more—for what reason?"
"Well, you see," explained Horace,
reluctantly, "there's such a thing as doing people too well. I mean, it
isn't everybody that appreciates Arabian cooking. But they might have stood
that. It was the dancing-girl that did for me."
"I commanded that a houri, lovelier than the
full moon, and graceful as a young gazelle, should appear for the delight of
thy guests."
"She came," said Horace, gloomily.
"Acquaint me with that which hath
occurred—for I perceive plainly that something hath fallen out contrary to thy
desires."
"Well," said Horace, "if it had
been a bachelor party, there would have been no harm in the houri; but, as it
happened, two of my guests were ladies, and they—well, they not unnaturally put
a wrong construction on it all."
"Verily," exclaimed the Jinnee,
"thy words are totally incomprehensible to me."
"I don't know what the custom may be in
Arabia," said Horace, "but with us it is not usual for a man to
engage a houri to dance after dinner to amuse the lady he is proposing to
marry. It's the kind of attention she'd be most unlikely to appreciate.
"Then was one of thy guests the damsel whom
thou art seeking to marry?"
"She was," said Horace, "and the
other two were her father and mother. From which you may imagine that it was
not altogether agreeable for me when your gazelle threw herself at my feet and
hugged my knees and declared that I was the light of her eyes. Of course, it
all meant nothing—it's probably the conventional behaviour for a gazelle, and
I'm not reflecting upon her in the least. But, in the circumstances, it was
compromising."
"I thought," said Fakrash, "that
thou assuredst me that thou wast not contracted to any damsel?"
"I think I only said that there was no one
whom I would trouble you to procure as a wife for me," replied Horace;
"I certainly was engaged—though, after this evening, my engagement is at
an end—unless ... that reminds me, do you happen to know whether there really
was an inscription on the seal of your bottle, and what it said?"
"I know naught of any inscription," said
the Jinnee; "bring me the seal that I may see it."
"I haven't got it by me at this moment,"
said Horace; "I lent it to my friend—the father of this young lady I told
you of. You see, Mr. Fakrash, you got me into—I mean, I was in such a hole over
this affair that I was obliged to make a clean breast of it to him. And he
wouldn't believe it, so it struck me that there might be an inscription of some
sort on the seal, saying who you were, and why Solomon had you confined in the
bottle. Then the Professor would be obliged to admit that there's something in
my story."
"Truly, I wonder at thee and at the smallness
of thy penetration," the Jinnee commented; "for if there were indeed
any writing upon this seal, it is not possible that one of thy race should be
able to decipher it."
"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Horace;
"Professor Futvoye is an Oriental scholar; he can make out any
inscription, no matter how many thousands of years old it may be. If anything's
there, he'll decipher it. The question is whether anything is there."
The effect of this speech on Fakrash was as
unexpected as it was inexplicable: the Jinnee's features, usually so mild,
began to work convulsively until they became terrible to look at, and suddenly,
with a fierce howl, he shot up to nearly double his ordinary stature.
"O thou of little sense and breeding!"
he cried, in a loud voice; "how camest thou to deliver the bottle in which
I was confined into the hands of this learned man?"
Ventimore, startled as he was, did not lose his
self-possession. "My dear sir," he said, "I did not suppose you
could have any further use for it. And, as a matter of fact, I didn't give
Professor Futvoye the bottle—which is over there in the corner—but merely the
stopper. I wish you wouldn't tower over me like that—it gives me a crick in the
neck to talk to you. Why on earth should you make such a fuss about my lending
the seal; what possible difference can it make to you even if it does confirm
my story? And it's of immense importance to me that the Professor should
believe I told the truth."
"I spoke in haste," said the Jinnee,
slowly resuming his normal size, and looking slightly ashamed of his recent outburst
as well as uncommonly foolish. "The bottle truly is of no value; and as
for the stopper, since it is but lent, it is no great matter. If there be any
legend upon the seal, perchance this learned man of whom thou speakest will by
this time have deciphered it?"
"No," said Horace, "he won't tackle
it till to-morrow. And it's as likely as not that when he does he won't find
any reference to you—and I shall be up a taller tree than ever!"
"Art thou so desirous that he should receive
proof that thy story is true?"
"Why, of course I am! Haven't I been saying
so all this time?"
"Who can satisfy him so surely as I?"
"You!" cried Horace. "Do you mean
to say you really would? Mr. Fakrash, you are an old brick! That would be the
very thing!"
"There is naught," said the Jinnee,
smiling indulgently, "that I would not do to promote thy welfare, for thou
hast rendered me inestimable service. Acquaint me therefore with the abode of
this sage, and I will present myself before him, and if haply he should find no
inscription upon the seal, or its purport should be hidden from him, then will
I convince him that thou hast spoken the truth and no lie."
Horace very willingly gave him the Professor's
address. "Only don't drop in on him to-night, you know," he thought
it prudent to add, "or you might startle him. Call any time after
breakfast to-morrow, and you'll find him in."
"To-night," said Fakrash, "I return
to pursue my search after Suleyman (on whom be peace!). For not yet have I
found him."
"If you will try to do so many things at
once," said Horace, "I don't see how you can expect much
result."
"At Nineveh they knew him not—for where I
left a city I found but a heap of ruins, tenanted by owls and bats."
"They say the lion and the lizard keep the
Courts—" murmured Horace, half to himself. "I was afraid you might be
disappointed with Nineveh myself. Why not run over to Sheba? You might hear of
him there."
"Seba of El-Yemen—the country of Bilkees, the
Queen beloved of Suleyman," said the Jinnee. "It is an excellent
suggestion, and I will follow it without delay."
"But you won't forget to look in on Professor
Futvoye to-morrow, will you?"
"Assuredly I will not. And now, ere I depart,
tell me if there be any other service I may render thee."
Horace hesitated. "There is just one,"
he said, "only I'm afraid you'll be offended if I mention it."
"On the head and the eye be thy
commands!" said the Jinnee; "for whatsoever thou desirest shall be
accomplished, provided that it lie within my power to perform it."
"Well," said Horace, "if you're
sure you don't mind, I'll tell you. You've transformed this house into a
wonderful place, more like the Alhambra—I don't mean the one in Leicester
Square—than a London lodging-house. But then I am only a lodger here, and the
people the house belongs to—excellent people in their way—would very much
rather have the house as it was. They have a sort of idea that they won't be
able to let these rooms as easily as the others."
"Base and sordid dogs!" said the Jinnee,
with contempt.
"Possibly," said Horace, "it's
narrow-minded of them—but that's the way they look at it. They've actually left
rather than stay here. And it's their house—not mine."
"If they abandon this dwelling, thou wilt
remain in the more secure possession."
"Oh, shall I, though? They'll go to law and
have me turned out, and I shall have to pay ruinous damages into the bargain.
So, you see, what you intended as a kindness will only bring me bad luck."
"Come—without more words—to the statement of
thy request," said Fakrash, "for I am in haste."
"All I want you to do," replied Horace,
in some anxiety as to what the effect of his request would be, "is to put
everything here back to what it was before. It won't take you a minute."
"Of a truth," exclaimed Fakrash,
"to bestow a favour upon thee is but a thankless undertaking, for not
once, but twice, hast thou rejected my benefits—and now, behold, I am at a loss
to devise means to gratify thee!"
"I know I've abused your good nature,"
said Horace; "but if you'll only do this, and then convince the Professor
that my story is true, I shall be more than satisfied. I'll never ask another
favour of you!"
"My benevolence towards thee hath no
bounds—as thou shalt see; and I can deny thee nothing, for truly thou art a
worthy and temperate young man. Farewell, then, and be it according to thy
desire."
He raised his arms above his head, and shot up
like a rocket towards the lofty dome, which split asunder to let him pass.
Horace, as he gazed after him, had a momentary glimpse of deep blue sky, with a
star or two that seemed to be hurrying through the transparent opal scud,
before the roof closed in once more.
Then came a low, rumbling sound, with a shock like
a mild earthquake: the slender pillars swayed under their horseshoe arches; the
big hanging-lanterns went out; the walls narrowed, and the floor heaved and
rose—till Ventimore found himself up in his own familiar sitting-room once
more, in the dark. Outside he could see the great square still shrouded in grey
haze—the street lamps flickering in the wind; a belated reveller was beguiling
his homeward way by rattling his stick against the railings as he passed.
Inside the room everything was exactly as before,
and Horace found it difficult to believe that a few minutes earlier he had been
standing on that same site, but twenty feet or so below his present level, in a
spacious blue-tiled hall, with a domed ceiling and gaudy pillared arches.
But he was very far from regretting his
short-lived splendour; he burnt with shame and resentment whenever he thought
of that nightmare banquet, which was so unlike the quiet, unpretentious little
dinner he had looked forward to.
However, it was over now, and it was useless to
worry himself about what could not be helped. Besides, fortunately, there was
no great harm done; the Jinnee had been brought to see his mistake, and, to do
him justice, had shown himself willing enough to put it right. He had promised
to go and see the Professor next day, and the result of the interview could not
fail to be satisfactory. And after this, Ventimore thought, Fakrash would have
the sense and good feeling not to interfere in his affairs again.
Meanwhile he could sleep now with a mind free from
his worst anxieties, and he went to his room in a spirit of intense
thankfulness that he had a Christian bed to sleep in. He took off his gorgeous
robes—the only things that remained to prove to him that the events of that
evening had been no delusion—and locked them in his wardrobe with a sense of
relief that he would never be required to wear them again, and his last
conscious thought before he fell asleep was the comforting reflection that, if
there were any barrier between Sylvia and himself, it would be removed in the
course of a very few more hours.
CHAPTER XI - A FOOL'S PARADISE
Ventimore found next morning that his bath and
shaving-water had been brought up, from which he inferred, quite correctly,
that his landlady must have returned.
Secretly he was by no means looking forward to his
next interview with her, but she appeared with his bacon and coffee in a spirit
so evidently chastened that he saw that he would have no difficulty so far as
she was concerned.
"I'm sure, Mr. Ventimore, sir," she
began, apologetically, "I don't know what you must have thought of me and
Rapkin last night, leaving the house like we did!"
"It was extremely inconvenient," said
Horace, "and not at all what I should have expected from you. But possibly
you had some reason for it?"
"Why, sir," said Mrs. Rapkin, running
her hand nervously along the back of a chair, "the fact is, something come
over me, and come over Rapkin, as we couldn't stop here another minute not if
it was ever so."
"Ah!" said Horace, raising his eyebrows,
"restlessness—eh, Mrs. Rapkin? Awkward that it should come on just then,
though, wasn't it?"
"It was the look of the place, somehow,"
said Mrs. Rapkin. "If you'll believe me, sir, it was all changed
like—nothing in it the same from top to bottom!"
"Really?" said Horace. "I don't notice
any difference myself."
"No more don't I, sir, not by daylight; but
last night it was all domes and harches and marble fountings let into the
floor, with parties moving about downstairs all silent and as black as your
hat—which Rapkin saw them as well as what I did."
"From the state your husband was in last
night," said Horace, "I should say he was capable of seeing
anything—and double of most things."
"I won't deny, sir, that Rapkin mayn't have
been quite hisself, as a very little upsets him after he's spent an afternoon
studying the papers and what-not at the libery. But I see the niggers too, Mr.
Ventimore, and no one can say I ever take more than is good for me."
"I don't suggest that for a moment, Mrs.
Rapkin," said Horace; "only, if the house was as you describe last
night, how do you account for its being all right this morning?"
Mrs. Rapkin in her embarrassment was reduced to
folding her apron into small pleats. "It's not for me to say, sir,"
she replied, "but, if I was to give my opinion, it would be as them
parties as called 'ere on camels the other day was at the bottom of it."
"I shouldn't wonder if you were right, Mrs.
Rapkin," said Horace blandly; "you see, you had been exerting
yourself over the cooking, and no doubt were in an over-excited state, and, as
you say, those camels had taken hold of your imagination until you were ready
to see anything that Rapkin saw, and he was ready to see anything you did. It's
not at all uncommon. Scientific people, I believe, call it 'Collective
Hallucination.'"
"Law, sir!" said the good woman,
considerably impressed by this diagnosis, "you don't mean to say I had
that? I was always fanciful from a girl, and could see things in coffee-grounds
as nobody else could—but I never was took like that before. And to think of me
leaving my dinner half cooked, and you expecting your young lady and her pa and
ma! Well, there, now, I am sorry. Whatever did you do, sir?"
"We managed to get food of sorts from
somewhere," said Horace, "but it was most uncomfortable for me, and I
trust, Mrs. Rapkin—I sincerely trust that it will not occur again."
"That I'll answer for it shan't, sir. And you
won't take no notice to Rapkin, sir, will you? Though it was his seein' the
niggers and that as put it into my 'ed; but I 'ave spoke to him pretty severe
already, and he's truly sorry and ashamed for forgetting hisself as he
did."
"Very well, Mrs. Rapkin," said Horace;
"we will understand that last night's—hem—rather painful experience is not
to be alluded to again—on either side."
He felt sincerely thankful to have got out of it
so easily, for it was impossible to say what gossip might not have been set on
foot if the Rapkins had not been brought to see the advisability of reticence
on the subject.
"There's one more thing, sir, I wished for to
speak to you about," said Mrs. Rapkin; "that great brass vawse as you
bought at an oction some time back. I dunno if you remember it?"
"I remember it," said Horace.
"Well, what about it?"
"Why, sir, I found it in the coal-cellar this
morning, and I thought I'd ask if that was where you wished it kep' in future.
For, though no amount o' polish could make it what I call a tasty thing, it's
neither horniment nor yet useful where it is at present."
"Oh," said Horace, rather relieved, for
he had an ill-defined dread from her opening words that the bottle might have
been misbehaving itself in some way. "Put it wherever you please, Mrs.
Rapkin; do whatever you like with it—so long as I don't see the thing
again!"
"Very good, sir; I on'y thought I'd ask the
question," said Mrs. Rapkin, as she closed the door upon herself.
Altogether, Horace walked to Great Cloister Street
that morning in a fairly cheerful mood and amiably disposed, even towards the
Jinnee. With all his many faults, he was a thoroughly good-natured old
devil—very superior in every way to the one the Arabian Nights fisherman found
in his bottle.
"Ninety-nine Jinn out of a hundred,"
thought Horace, "would have turned nasty on finding benefit after benefit
'declined with thanks.' But one good point in Fakrash is that he does take a
hint in good part, and, as soon as he can be made to see where he's wrong, he's
always ready to set things right. And he thoroughly understands now that these
Oriental dodges of his won't do nowadays, and that when people see a penniless
man suddenly wallowing in riches they naturally want to know how he came by
them. I don't suppose he will trouble me much in future. If he should look in
now and then, I must put up with it. Perhaps, if I suggested it, he wouldn't
mind coming in some form that would look less outlandish. If he would get
himself up as a banker, or a bishop—the Bishop of Bagdad, say—I shouldn't care
how often he called. Only, I can't have him coming down the chimney in either
capacity. But he'll see that himself. And he's done me one real service—I
mustn't let myself forget that. He sent me old Wackerbath. By the way, I wonder
if he's seen my designs yet, and what he thinks of them."
He was at his table, engaged in jotting down some
rough ideas for the decoration of the reception-rooms in the projected house,
when Beevor came in.
"I've got nothing doing just now," he
said; "so I thought I'd come in and have a squint at those plans of yours,
if they're forward enough to be seen yet."
Ventimore had to explain that even the imperfect
method of examination proposed was not possible, as he had despatched the
drawings to his client the night before.
"Phew!" said Beevor; "that's sharp
work, isn't it?"
"I don't know. I've been sticking hard at it
for over a fortnight."
"Well, you might have given me a chance of
seeing what you've made of it. I let you see all my work!"
"To tell you the honest truth, old fellow, I
wasn't at all sure you'd like it, and I was afraid you'd put me out of conceit
with what I'd done, and Wackerbath was in a frantic hurry to have the plans—so
there it was."
"And do you think he'll be satisfied with
them?"
"He ought to be. I don't like to be
cock-sure, but I believe—I really do believe—that I've given him rather more
than he expected. It's going to be a devilish good house, though I say it
myself."
"Something new-fangled and fantastic, eh?
Well, he mayn't care about it, you know. When you've had my experience, you'll
realise that a client is a rum bird to satisfy."
"I shall satisfy my old bird," said
Horace, gaily. "He'll have a cage he can hop about in to his heart's
content."
"You're a clever chap enough," said
Beevor; "but to carry a big job like this through you want one thing—and
that's ballast."
"Not while you heave yours at my head! Come,
old fellow, you aren't really riled because I sent off those plans without
showing them to you? I shall soon have them back, and then you can pitch into
'em as much as you please. Seriously, though, I shall want all the help you can
spare when I come to the completed designs."
"'Um," said Beevor, "you've got
along very well alone so far—at least, by your own account; so I dare say
you'll be able to manage without me to the end. Only, you know," he added,
as he left the room, "you haven't won your spurs yet. A fellow isn't
necessarily a Gilbert Scott, or a Norman Shaw, or a Waterhouse just because he
happens to get a sixty-thousand pound job the first go off!"
"Poor old Beevor!" thought Horace,
repentantly, "I've put his back up. I might just as well have shown him
the plans, after all; it wouldn't have hurt me and it would have pleased him.
Never mind, I'll make my peace with him after lunch. I'll ask him to give me
his idea for a—no, hang it all, even friendship has its limits!"
He returned from lunch to hear what sounded like
an altercation of some sort in his office, in which, as he neared his door,
Beevor's voice was distinctly audible.
"My dear sir," he was saying, "I
have already told you that it is no affair of mine."
"But I ask you, sir, as a brother
architect," said another voice, "whether you consider it professional
or reasonable—?"
"As a brother architect," replied
Beevor, as Ventimore opened the door, "I would rather be excused from
giving an opinion.... Ah, here is Mr. Ventimore himself."
Horace entered, to find himself confronted by Mr.
Wackerbath, whose face was purple and whose white whiskers were bristling with
rage. "So, sir!" he began. "So, sir!—--" and choked ignominiously.
"There appears to have been some
misunderstanding, my dear Ventimore," explained Beevor, with a studious
correctness which was only a shade less offensive than open triumph. "I
think I'd better leave you and this gentleman to talk it over quietly."
"Quietly?" exclaimed Mr. Wackerbath,
with an apoplectic snort; "quietly!!"
"I've no idea what you are so excited about,
sir," said Horace. "Perhaps you will explain?"
"Explain!" Mr. Wackerbath gasped;
"why—no, if I speak just now, I shall be ill: you tell him," he
added, waving a plump hand in Beevor's direction.
"I'm not in possession of all the
facts," said Beevor, smoothly; "but, so far as I can gather, this
gentleman thinks that, considering the importance of the work he intrusted to
your hands, you have given less time to it than he might have expected. As I
have told him, that is a matter which does not concern me, and which he must
discuss with you."
So saying, Beevor retired to his own room, and
shut the door with the same irreproachable discretion, which conveyed that he
was not in the least surprised, but was too much of a gentleman to show it.
"Well, Mr. Wackerbath," began Horace,
when they were alone, "so you're disappointed with the house?"
"Disappointed!" said Mr. Wackerbath,
furiously. "I am disgusted, sir, disgusted!"
Horace's heart sank lower still; had he deceived
himself after all, then? Had he been nothing but a conceited fool, and—most
galling thought of all—had Beevor judged him only too accurately? And yet, no,
he could not believe it—he knew his work was good!
"This is plain speaking with a
vengeance," he said; "I'm sorry you're dissatisfied. I did my best to
carry out your instructions."
"Oh, you did?" sputtered Mr. Wackerbath.
"That's what you call—but go on, sir, go on!"
"I got it done as quickly as possible,"
continued Horace, "because I understood you wished no time to be
lost."
"No one can accuse you of dawdling over it.
What I should like to know is how the devil you managed to get it done in the
time?"
"I worked incessantly all day and every
day," said Horace. "That's how I managed it—and this is all the
thanks I get for it!"
"Thanks?" Mr. Wackerbath well-nigh
howled. "You—you insolent young charlatan; you expect thanks!"
"Now look here, Mr. Wackerbath," said
Horace, whose own temper was getting a little frayed. "I'm not accustomed
to being treated like this, and I don't intend to submit to it. Just tell me—in
as moderate language as you can command—what you object to?"
"I object to the whole damned thing, sir! I
mean, I repudiate the entire concern. It's the work of a raving lunatic—a place
that no English gentleman, sir, with any self-respect or—ah!—consideration for
his reputation and position in the county, could consent to occupy for a single
hour!"
"Oh," said Horace, feeling deathly sick,
"in that case it is useless, of course, to suggest any
modifications."
"Absolutely!" said Mr. Wackerbath.
"Very well, then; there's no more to be
said," replied Horace. "You will have no difficulty in finding an
architect who will be more successful in realising your intentions. Mr. Beevor,
the gentleman you met just now," he added, with a touch of bitterness,
"would probably be just your man. Of course I retire altogether. And
really, if any one is the sufferer over this, I fancy it's myself. I can't see
how you are any the worse."
"Not any the worse?" cried Mr.
Wackerbath, "when the infernal place is built!"
"Built!" echoed Horace feebly.
"I tell you, sir, I saw it with my own eyes
driving to the station this morning; my coachman and footman saw it; my wife
saw it—damn it, sir, we all saw it!"
Then Horace understood. His indefatigable Jinnee
had been at work again! Of course, for Fakrash it must have been what he would
term "the easiest of affairs"—especially after a glance at the plans
(and Ventimore remembered that the Jinnee had surprised him at work upon them,
and even requested to have them explained to him)—to dispense with contractors
and bricklayers and carpenters, and construct the entire building in the course
of a single night.
It was a generous and spirited action—but,
particularly now that the original designs had been found faulty and rejected,
it placed the unfortunate architect in a most invidious position.
"Well, sir," said Mr. Wackerbath, with
elaborate irony, "I presume it is you whom I have to thank for improving
my land by erecting this precious palace on it?"
"I—I—" began Horace, utterly broken
down; and then he saw, with emotions that may be imagined, the Jinnee himself,
in his green robes, standing immediately behind Mr. Wackerbath.
"Greeting to you," said Fakrash, coming
forward with his smile of amiable cunning. "If I mistake not," he
added, addressing the startled estate agent, who had jumped visibly, "thou
art the merchant for whom my son here," and he laid a hand on Horace's
shrinking shoulder, "undertook to construct a mansion?"
"I am," said Mr. Wackerbath, in some
mystification. "Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Ventimore,
senior?"
"No, no," put in Horace; "no
relation. He's a sort of informal partner."
"Hast thou not found him an architect of
divine gifts?" inquired the Jinnee, beaming with pride. "Is not the
palace that he hath raised for thee by his transcendent accomplishments a
marvel of beauty and stateliness, and one that Sultans might envy?"
"No, sir!" shouted the infuriated Mr.
Wackerbath; "since you ask my opinion, it's nothing of the sort! It's a
ridiculous tom-fool cross between the palm-house at Kew and the Brighton
Pavilion! There's no billiard-room, and not a decent bedroom in the house. I've
been all over it, so I ought to know; and as for drainage, there isn't a sign
of it. And he has the brass—ah, I should say, the unblushing effrontery—to call
that a country house!"
Horace's dismay was curiously shot with relief.
The Jinnee, who was certainly very far from being a genius except by courtesy,
had taken it upon himself to erect the palace according to his own notions of
Arabian domestic luxury—and Horace, taught by bitter experience, could
sympathise to some extent with his unfortunate client. On the other hand, it
was balm to his smarting self-respect to find that it was not his own plans,
after all, which had been found so preposterous; and, by some obscure mental
process, which I do not propose to explain, he became reconciled, and almost
grateful, to the officious Fakrash. And then, too, he was his Jinnee, and
Horace had no intention of letting him be bullied by an outsider.
"Let me explain, Mr. Wackerbath," he
said. "Personally I've had nothing to do with this. This gentleman,
wishing to spare me the trouble, has taken upon himself to build your house for
you, without consulting either of us, and, from what I know of his powers in
the direction, I've no doubt that—that it's a devilish fine place, in its way.
Anyhow, we make no charge for it—he presents it to you as a free gift. Why not
accept it as such and make the best of it?"
"Make the best of it?" stormed Mr.
Wackerbath. "Stand by and see the best site in three counties defaced by a
jimcrack Moorish nightmare like that! Why, they'll call it 'Wackerbath's
Folly,' sir. I shall be the laughing-stock of the neighbourhood. I can't live
in the beastly building. I couldn't afford to keep it up, and I won't have it
cumbering my land. Do you hear? I won't! I'll go to law, cost me what it may,
and compel you and your Arabian friends there to pull the thing down. I'll take
the case up to the House of Lords, if necessary, and fight you as long as I can
stand!"
"As long as thou canst stand!" repeated
Fakrash, gently. "That is a long time truly, O thou litigious one!... On
all fours, ungrateful dog that thou art!" he cried, with an abrupt and
entire change of manner, "and crawl henceforth for the remainder of thy
days. I, Fakrash-el-Aamash, command thee!"
It was both painful and grotesque to see the
portly and intensely respectable Mr. Wackerbath suddenly drop forward on his
hands while desperately striving to preserve his dignity. "How dare you,
sir?" he[Pg 125] almost barked, "how dare you, I say? Are you aware
that I could summon you for this? Let me up. I insist upon getting up!"
"O contemptible in aspect!" replied the
Jinnee, throwing open the door. "Begone to thy kennel."
"I won't! I can't!" whimpered the
unhappy man. "How do you expect me—me!—to cross Westminster Bridge on all
fours? What will the officials think at Waterloo, where I have been known and
respected for years? How am I to face my family in—in this position? Do, for
mercy's sake, let me get up!"
Horace had been too shocked and startled to speak
before, but now humanity, coupled with disgust for the Jinnee's high-handed
methods, compelled him to interfere. "Mr. Fakrash," he said,
"this has gone far enough. Unless you stop tormenting this unfortunate
gentleman, I've done with you."
"Never," said Fakrash. "He hath
dared to abuse my palace, which is far too sumptuous a dwelling for such a son
of a burnt dog as he. Therefore, I will make his abode to be in the dust for
ever."
"But I don't find fault," yelped poor
Mr. Wackerbath. "You—you entirely misunderstood the—the few comments I
ventured to make. It's a capital mansion, handsome, and yet 'homey,' too. I'll
never say another word against it. I'll—yes, I'll live in it—if only you'll let
me up?"
"Do as he asks you," said Horace to the
Jinnee, "or I swear I'll never speak to you again."
"Thou art the arbiter of this matter,"
was the reply. "And if I yield, it is at thy intercession, and not his.
Rise then," he said to the humiliated client; "depart, and show us
the breadth of thy shoulders."
It was this precise moment which Beevor, who was
probably unable to restrain his curiosity any longer, chose to re-enter the
room. "Oh, Ventimore," he began, "did I leave my—?... I beg your
pardon. I thought you were alone again."
"Don't go, sir," said Mr. Wackerbath, as
he scrambled awkwardly to his feet, his usually florid face mottled in grey and
lilac. "I—I should like you to know that, after talking things quietly
over with your friend Mr. Ventimore and his partner here, I am thoroughly
convinced that my objections were quite untenable. I retract all I said. The
house is—ah—admirably planned: most convenient, roomy, and—ah—unconventional.
The—the entire freedom from all sanitary appliances is a particular
recommendation. In short, I am more than satisfied. Pray forget anything I may
have said which might be taken to imply the contrary.... Gentlemen, good
afternoon!"
He bowed himself past the Jinnee in a state of
deference and apprehension, and was heard stumbling down the staircase. Horace
hardly dared to meet Beevor's eyes, which were fixed upon the green-turbaned
Jinnee, as he stood apart in dreamy abstraction, smiling placidly to himself.
"I say," Beevor said to Horace, at last,
in an undertone, "you never told me you had gone into partnership."
"He's not a regular partner," whispered
Ventimore; "he does odd things for me occasionally, that's all."
"He soon managed to smooth your client
down," remarked Beevor.
"Yes," said Horace; "he's an
Oriental, you see, and, he has a—a very persuasive manner. Would you like to be
introduced?"
"If it's all the same to you," replied
Beevor, still below his voice, "I'd rather be excused. To tell you the
truth, old fellow, I don't altogether fancy the looks of him, and it's my
opinion," he added, "that the less you have to do with him the
better. He strikes me as a wrong'un, old man."
"No, no," said Horace; "eccentric,
that's all—you don't understand him."
"Receive news!" began the Jinnee, after
Beevor, with suspicion and disapproval evident even on his back and shoulders,
had retreated to his own room, "Suleyman, the son of Daood, sleeps with
his fathers."
"I know," retorted Horace, whose nerves
were unequal to much reference to Solomon just then. "So does Queen
Anne."
"I have not heard of her. But art thou not
astounded, then, by my tidings?"
"I have matters nearer home to think
about," said Horace, dryly. "I must say, Mr. Fakrash, you have landed
me in a pretty mess!"
"Explain thyself more fully, for I comprehend
thee not."
"Why on earth," Horace groaned,
"couldn't you let me build that house my own way?"
"Did I not hear thee with my own ears lament
thy inability to perform the task? Thereupon, I determined that no disgrace
should fall upon thee by reason of such incompetence, since I myself would
erect a palace so splendid that it should cause thy name to live for ever. And,
behold, it is done."
"It is," said Horace. "And so am I.
I don't want to reproach you. I quite feel that you have acted with the best
intentions; but, oh, hang it all! can't you see that you've absolutely wrecked
my career as an architect?"
"That is a thing that cannot be,"
returned the Jinnee, "seeing that thou hast all the credit."
"The credit! This is England, not Arabia.
What credit can I gain from being supposed to be the architect of an Oriental
pavilion, which might be all very well for Haroun-al-Raschid, but I can assure
you is preposterous as a home for an average Briton?"
"Yet that overfed hound," remarked the
Jinnee, "expressed much gratification therewith."
"Naturally, after he had found that he could
not give a candid opinion except on all-fours. A valuable testimonial, that!
And how do you suppose I can take his money? No, Mr. Fakrash, if I have to go
on all-fours myself for it, I must say, and I will say, that you've made a most
frightful muddle of it!"
"Acquaint me with thy wishes," said
Fakrash, a little abashed, "for thou knowest that I can refuse thee
naught."
"Then," said Horace, boldly,
"couldn't you remove that palace—dissipate it into space or
something?"
"Verily," said the Jinnee, in an
aggravated tone, "to do good acts unto such as thee is but wasted time,
for thou givest me no peace till they are undone!"
"This is the last time," urged Horace;
"I promise never to ask you for anything again."
"Not for the first time hast thou made such a
promise," said Fakrash. "And save for the magnitude of thy service
unto me, I would not hearken to this caprice of thine, nor wilt thou find me so
indulgent on another occasion. But for this once"—and he muttered some
words and made a sweeping gesture with his right hand—"thy desire is
granted unto thee. Of the palace and all that is therein there remaineth no
trace!"
"Another surprise for poor old
Wackerbath," thought Horace, "but a pleasant one this time. My dear
Mr. Fakrash," he said aloud, "I really can't say how grateful I am to
you. And now—I hate bothering you like this, but if you could manage to look in
on Professor Futvoye—"
"What!" cried the Jinnee, "yet
another request? Already!"
"Well, you promised you'd do that before, you
know!" said Horace.
"For that matter," remarked Fakrash,
"I have already fulfilled my promise."
"You have?" Horace exclaimed. "And
does he believe now that it's all true about that bottle?"
"When I left him," answered the Jinnee,
"all his doubts were removed."
"By Jove, you are a trump!" cried
Horace, only too glad to be able to commend with sincerity. "And do you
think, if I went to him now, I should find him the same as usual?"
"Nay," said Fakrash, with his weak and
yet inscrutable smile, "that is more than I can promise thee."
"But why?" asked Horace, "if he
knows all?"
There was the oddest expression in the Jinnee's
furtive eyes: a kind of elfin mischief combined with a sense of wrong-doing,
like a naughty child whose palate is still reminiscent of illicit jam.
"Because," he replied, with a sound between a giggle and a chuckle,
"because, in order to overcome his unbelief, it was necessary to transform
him into a one-eyed mule of hideous appearance."
"What!" cried Horace. But, whether to
avoid thanks or explanations, the Jinnee had disappeared with his customary
abruptness.
"Fakrash!" shouted Horace, "Mr.
Fakrash! Come back! Do you hear? I must speak to you!" There was no
answer; the Jinnee might be well on his way to Lake Chad, or Jericho, by that
time—he was certainly far enough from Great Cloister Street.
Horace sat down at his drawing-table, and, his
head buried in his hands, tried to think out this latest complication. Fakrash had
transformed Professor Futvoye into a one-eyed mule. It would have seemed
incredible, almost unthinkable, once, but so many impossibilities had happened
to Horace of late that one more made little or no strain upon his credulity.
What he felt chiefly was the new barrier that this
event must raise between himself and Sylvia; to do him justice, the mere fact
that the father of his fiancée was a mule did not lessen his ardour in the
slightest. Even if he had felt no personal responsibility for the calamity, he
loved Sylvia far too well to be deterred by it, and few family cupboards are
without a skeleton of some sort.
With courage and the determination to look only on
the bright side of things, almost any domestic drawback can be lived down.
But the real point, as he instantly recognised,
was whether in the changed condition of circumstances Sylvia would consent to
marry him. Might she not, after the experiences of that abominable dinner of
his the night before, connect him in some way with her poor father's
transformation? She might even suspect him of employing this means of
compelling the Professor to renew their engagement; and, indeed, Horace was by
no means certain himself that the Jinnee might not have acted from some
muddle-headed motive of this kind. It was likely enough that the Professor,
after learning the truth, should have refused to allow his daughter to marry
the protégé of so dubious a patron, and that Fakrash had then resorted to
pressure.
In any case, Ventimore knew Sylvia well enough to
feel sure that pride would steel her heart against him so long as this obstacle
remained.
It would be unseemly to set down here all that
Horace said and thought of the person who had brought all this upon them, but
after some wild and futile raving he became calm enough to recognise that his
proper place was by Sylvia's side. Perhaps he ought to have told her at first,
and then she would have been less unprepared for this—and yet how could he
trouble her mind so long as he could cling to the hope that the Jinnee would
cease to interfere?
But now he could be silent no longer; naturally
the prospect of calling at Cottesmore Gardens just then was anything but
agreeable, but he felt it would be cowardly to keep away.
Besides, he could cheer them up; he could bring
with him a message of hope. No doubt they believed that the Professor's
transformation would be permanent—a harrowing prospect for so united a family;
but, fortunately, Horace would be able to reassure them on this point.
Fakrash had always revoked his previous
performances as soon as he could be brought to understand their fatuity—and
Ventimore would take good care that he revoked this.
Nevertheless, it was with a sinking heart and an
unsteady hand that he pulled the visitors' bell at the Futvoyes' house that
afternoon, for he neither knew in what state he should find that afflicted
family, nor how they would regard his intrusion at such a time.
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