CHAPTER VI - EMBARRAS DE
RICHESSES
Ventimore had so thoroughly convinced himself that
the released Jinnee was purely a creature of his own imagination, that he
rubbed his eyes with a start, hoping that they had deceived him.
"Stroke thy head, O merciful and meritorious
one," said his visitor, "and recover thy faculties to receive good
tidings. For it is indeed I—Fakrash-el-Aamash—whom thou beholdest."
"I—I'm delighted to see you," said
Horace, as cordially as he could. "Is there anything I can do for
you?"
"Nay, for hast thou not done me the greatest
of all services by setting me free? To escape out of a bottle is pleasant. And
to thee I owe my deliverance."
It was all true, then: he had really let an
imprisoned Genius or Jinnee, or whatever it was, out of that bottle! He knew he
could not be dreaming now—he only wished he were. However, since it was done,
his best course seemed to be to put a good face on it, and persuade this
uncanny being somehow to go away and leave him in peace for the future.
"Oh, that's all right, my dear sir," he
said, "don't think any more about it. I—I rather understood you to say
that you were starting on a journey in search of Solomon?"
"I have been, and returned. For I visited
sundry cities in his dominions, hoping that by chance I might hear news of him,
but I refrained from asking directly lest thereby I should engender suspicion,
and so Suleyman should learn of my escape before I could obtain an audience of
him and implore justice."
"Oh, I shouldn't think that was likely,"
said Horace. "If I were you, I should go straight back and go on
travelling till I did find Suleyman."
"Well was it said: 'Pass not any door without
knocking, lest haply that which thou seekest should be behind it.'"
"Exactly," said Horace. "Do each
city thoroughly, house by house, and don't neglect the smallest clue. 'If at
first you don't succeed, try, try, try, again!' as one of our own poets
teaches."
"'Try, try, try again,'" echoed the
Jinnee, with an admiration that was almost fatuous. "Divinely gifted truly
was he who composed such a verse!"
"He has a great reputation as a sage,"
said Horace, "and the maxim is considered one of his happiest efforts.
Don't you think that, as the East is rather thickly populated, the less time
you lose in following the poet's recommendation the better?"
"It may be as thou sayest. But know this, O
my son, that wheresoever I may wander, I shall never cease to study how I may
most fitly reward thee for thy kindness towards me. For nobly it was said: 'If
I be possessed of wealth and be not liberal, may my head never be
extended!'"
"My good sir," said Horace, "do
please understand that if you were to offer me any reward for—for a very
ordinary act of courtesy, I should be obliged to decline it."
"But didst thou not say that thou wast sorely
in need of a client?"
"That was so at the time," said Horace;
"but since I last had the pleasure of seeing you, I have met with one who
is all I could possibly wish for."
"I am indeed rejoiced to hear it,"
returned the Jinnee, "for thou showest me that I have succeeded in
performing the first service which thou hast demanded of me."
Horace staggered under this severe blow to his
pride; for the moment he could only gasp: "You—you sent him to me?"
"I, and no other," said the Jinnee,
beaming with satisfaction; "for while, unseen of men, I was circling in
air, resolved to attend to thy affair before beginning my search for Suleyman
(on whom be peace!), it chanced that I overheard a human being of prosperous
appearance say aloud upon a bridge that he desired to erect for himself a
palace if he could but find an architect. So, perceiving thee afar off seated
at an open casement, I immediately transported him to the place and delivered
him into thy hands."
"But he knew my name—he had my card in his
pocket," said Horace.
"I furnished him with the paper containing
thy names and abode, lest he should be ignorant of them."
"Well, look here, Mr. Fakrash," said the
unfortunate Horace, "I know you meant well—but never do a thing like that
again! If my brother-architects came to know of it I should be accused of most
unprofessional behaviour. I'd no idea you would take that way of introducing a
client to me, or I should have stopped it at once!"
"It was an error," said Fakrash.
"No matter. I will undo this affair, and devise some other and better
means of serving thee."
"No, no," he said, "for Heaven's
sake, leave things alone—you'll only make them worse. Forgive me, my dear Mr.
Fakrash, I'm afraid I must seem most ungrateful; but—but I was so taken by
surprise. And really, I am extremely obliged to you. For, though the means you
took were—were a little irregular, you have done me a very great service."
"It is naught," said the Jinnee,
"compared to those I hope to render so great a benefactor."
"But, indeed, you mustn't think of trying to
do any more for me," urged Horace, who felt the absolute necessity of
expelling any scheme of further benevolence from the Jinnee's head once and for
all. "You have done enough. Why, thanks to you, I am engaged to build a
palace that will keep me hard at work and happy for ever so long."
"Are human beings, then, so enamoured of hard
labour?" asked Fakrash, in wonder. "It is not thus with the
Jinn."
"I love my work for its own sake," said
Horace, "and then, when I have finished it, I shall have earned a very
fair amount of money—which is particularly important to me just now."
"And why, my son, art thou so desirous of obtaining
riches?"
"Because," said Horace, "unless a
man is tolerably well off in these days he cannot hope to marry."
Fakrash smiled with indulgent compassion.
"How excellent is the saying of one of old: 'He that adventureth upon
matrimony is like unto one who thrusteth his hand into a sack containing many
thousands of serpents and one eel. Yet, if Fate so decree, he may draw forth
the eel.' And thou art comely, and of an age when it is natural to desire the
love of a maiden. Therefore be of good heart and a cheerful eye, and it may be
that, when I am more at leisure, I shall find thee a helpmate who shall rejoice
thy soul."
"Please don't trouble to find me anything of
the sort!" said Horace, hastily, with a mental vision of some helpless and
scandalised stranger being shot into his dwelling like coals. "I assure
you I would much rather win a wife for myself in the ordinary way—as, thanks to
your kindness, I have every hope of doing before long."
"Is there already some damsel for whom thy
heart pineth? If so, fear not to tell me her names and dwelling place, and I
will assuredly obtain her for thee."
But Ventimore had seen enough of the Jinnee's
Oriental methods to doubt his tact and discretion where Sylvia was concerned.
"No, no; of course not. I spoke generally," he said. "It's
exceedingly kind of you—but I do wish I could make you understand that I am
overpaid as it is. You have put me in the way to make a name and fortune for
myself. If I fail, it will be my own fault. And, at all events, I want nothing
more from you. If you mean to find Suleyman (on whom be peace!) you must go and
live in the East altogether—for he certainly isn't over here; you must give up
your whole time to it, keep as quiet as possible, and don't be discouraged by
any reports you may hear. Above all, never trouble your head about me or my
affairs again!"
"O thou of wisdom and eloquence," said
Fakrash, "this is most excellent advice. I will go, then; but may I drink
the cup of perdition if I become unmindful of thy benevolence!"
And, raising his joined hands above his head as he
spoke, he sank, feet foremost, through the carpet and was gone.
"Thank Heaven," thought Ventimore,
"he's taken the hint at last. I don't think I'm likely to see any more of
him. I feel an ungrateful brute for saying so, but I can't help it. I can not
stand being under any obligation to a Jinnee who's been shut up in a beastly
brass bottle ever since the days of Solomon, who probably had very good reasons
for putting him there."
Horace next asked himself whether he was bound in
honour to disclose the facts to Mr. Wackerbath, and give him the opportunity of
withdrawing from the agreement if he thought fit.
On the whole, he saw no necessity for telling him
anything; the only possible result would be to make his client suspect his
sanity; and who would care to employ an insane architect? Then, if he retired
from the undertaking without any explanations, what could he say to Sylvia?
What would Sylvia's father say to him? There would certainly be an end to his
engagement.
After all, he had not been to blame; the
Wackerbaths were quite satisfied. He felt perfectly sure that he could justify
their selection of him; he would wrong nobody by accepting the commission,
while he would only offend them, injure himself irretrievably, and lose all
hope of gaining Sylvia if he made any attempt to undeceive them.
And Fakrash was gone, never to return. So, on all
these considerations, Horace decided that silence was his only possible policy,
and, though some moralists may condemn his conduct as disingenuous and wanting
in true moral courage, I venture to doubt whether any reader, however
independent, straightforward, and indifferent to notoriety and ridicule, would
have behaved otherwise in Ventimore's extremely delicate and difficult
position.
Some days passed, every working hour of which was
spent by Horace in the rapture of creation. To every man with the soul of an
artist in him there comes at times—only too seldom in most cases—a revelation
of latent power that he had not dared to hope for. And now with Ventimore years
of study and theorising which he had often been tempted to think wasted began
to bear golden fruit. He designed and drew with a rapidity and originality, a
sense of perfect mastery of the various problems to be dealt with, and a
delight in the working out of mass and detail, so intoxicating that he almost
dreaded lest he should be the victim of some self-delusion.
His evenings were of course spent with the
Futvoyes, in discovering Sylvia in some new and yet more adorable aspect.
Altogether, he was very much in love, very happy, and very busy—three states
not invariably found in combination.
And, as he had foreseen, he had effectually got
rid of Fakrash, who was evidently too engrossed in the pursuit of Solomon to
think of anything else. And there seemed no reason why he should abandon his
search for a generation or two, for it would probably take all that time to
convince him that that mighty monarch was no longer on the throne.
"It would have been too brutal to tell him
myself," thought Horace, "when he was so keen on having his case
reheard. And it gives him an object, poor old buffer, and keeps him from
interfering in my affairs, so it's best for both of us."
Horace's little dinner-party had been twice
postponed, till he had begun to have a superstitious fear that it would never
come off; but at length the Professor had been induced to give an absolute
promise for a certain evening.
On the day before, after breakfast, Horace had summoned
his landlady to a consultation on the menu. "Nothing elaborate, you know,
Mrs. Rapkin," said Horace, who, though he would have liked to provide a
feast of all procurable delicacies for Sylvia's refection, was obliged to
respect her father's prejudices. "Just a simple dinner, thoroughly well
cooked, and nicely served—as you know so well how to do it."
"I suppose, sir, you would require Rapkin to
wait?"
As the ex-butler was liable to trances on these
occasions during which he could do nothing but smile and bow with speechless
politeness as he dropped sauce-boats and plates, Horace replied that he thought
of having someone in to avoid troubling Mr. Rapkin; but his wife expressed such
confidence in her husband's proving equal to all emergencies, that Ventimore
waived the point, and left it to her to hire extra help if she thought fit.
"Now, what soup can you give us?" he
inquired, as Mrs. Rapkin stood at attention and quite unmollified.
After protracted mental conflict, she grudgingly
suggested gravy soup—which Horace thought too unenterprising, and rejected in
favour of mock turtle. "Well then, fish?" he continued; "how
about fish?"
Mrs. Rapkin dragged the depths of her culinary
resources for several seconds, and finally brought to the surface what she
called "a nice fried sole." Horace would not hear of it, and urged
her to aspire to salmon; she substituted smelts, which he opposed by a happy
inspiration of turbot and lobster sauce. The sauce, however, presented
insuperable difficulties to her mind, and she offered a compromise in the form
of cod—which he finally accepted as a fish which the Professor could hardly
censure for ostentation.
Next came the no less difficult questions of
entrée or no entrée, of joint and bird. "What's in season just now?"
said Horace; "let me see"—and glanced out of the window as he spoke,
as though in search of some outside suggestion.... "Camels, by Jove!"
he suddenly exclaimed.
"Camels, Mr. Ventimore, sir?" repeated
Mrs. Rapkin, in some bewilderment; and then, remembering that he was given to
untimely flippancy, she gave a tolerant little cough.
"I'll be shot if they aren't camels!"
said Horace. "What do you make of 'em, Mrs. Rapkin?"
Out of the faint mist which hung over the farther
end of the square advanced a procession of tall, dust-coloured animals, with
long, delicately poised necks and a mincing gait. Even Mrs. Rapkin could not
succeed in making anything of them except camels.
"What the deuce does a caravan of camels want
in Vincent Square?" said Horace, with a sudden qualm for which he could
not account.
"Most likely they belong to the Barnum Show,
sir," suggested his landlady. "I did hear they were coming to Olympia
again this year."
"Why, of course," cried Horace,
intensely relieved. "It's on their way from the Docks—at least, it isn't
out of their way. Or probably the main road's up for repairs. That's it—they'll
turn off to the left at the corner. See, they've got Arab drivers with them.
Wonderful how the fellows manage them."
"It seems to me, sir," said Mrs. Rapkin,
"that they're coming our way—they seem to be stopping outside."
"Don't talk such infernal— I beg your pardon,
Mrs. Rapkin; but why on earth should Barnum and Bailey's camels come out of
their way to call on me? It's ridiculous, you know!" said Horace,
irritably.
"Ridicklous it may be, sir," she
retorted, "but they're all layin' down on the road opposite our door, as
you can see—and them niggers is making signs to you to come out and speak to
'em."
It was true enough. One by one the camels, which
were apparently of the purest breed, folded themselves up in a row like
campstools at a sign from their attendants, who were now making profound
salaams towards the window where Ventimore was standing.
"I suppose I'd better go down and see what
they want," he said, with rather a sickly smile. "They may have lost
the way to Olympia.... I only hope Fakrash isn't at the bottom of this,"
he thought, as he went downstairs. "But he'd come himself—at all events,
he wouldn't send me a message on such a lot of camels!" As he appeared on
the doorstep, all the drivers flopped down and rubbed their flat, black noses
on the curbstone.
"For Heaven's sake get up!" said Horace
angrily. "This isn't Hammersmith. Turn to the left, into the Vauxhall Bridge
Road, and ask a policeman the nearest way to Olympia."
"Be not angry with thy slaves!" said the
head driver, in excellent English. "We are here by command of
Fakrash-el-Aamash, our lord, whom we are bound to obey. And we have brought
thee these as gifts."
"My compliments to your master," said
Horace, between his teeth, "and tell him that a London architect has no
sort of occasion for camels. Say that I am extremely obliged—but am compelled
to decline them."
"O highly born one," explained the
driver, "the camels are not a gift—but the loads which are upon the
camels. Suffer us, therefore, since we dare not disobey our lord's commands, to
carry these trifling tokens of his good will into thy dwelling and depart in
peace."
Horace had not noticed till then that every camel
bore a heavy burden, which the attendants were now unloading. "Oh, if you
must!" he said, not too graciously; "only do look sharp about
it—there's a crowd collecting already, and I don't want to have a constable
here."
He returned to his rooms, where he found Mrs.
Rapkin paralysed with amazement. "It's—it's all right," he said;
"I'd forgotten—it's only a few Oriental things from the place where that
brass bottle came from, you know. They've left them here—on approval."
"Seems funny their sending their goods 'ome
on camels, sir, doesn't it?" said Mrs. Rapkin.
"Not at all funny!" said Horace;
"they—they're an enterprising firm—their way of advertising."
One after another, a train of dusky attendants
entered, each of whom deposited his load on the floor with a guttural grunt and
returned backward, until the sitting-room was blocked with piles of sacks, and
bales, and chests, whereupon the head driver appeared and intimated that the
tale of gifts was complete.
"I wonder what sort of tip this fellow
expects," thought Horace; "a sovereign seems shabby—but it's all I
can run to. I'll try him with that."
But the overseer repudiated all idea of a gratuity
with stately dignity, and as Horace saw him to the gate, he found a stolid
constable by the railings.
"This won't do, you know," said the
constable; "these 'ere camels must move on—or I shall 'ave to
interfere."
"It's all right, constable," said
Horace, pressing into his hand the sovereign the head driver had rejected;
"they're going to move on now. They've brought me a few presents from—from
a friend of mine in the East."
By this time the attendants had mounted the
kneeling camels, which rose with them, and swung off round the square in a
long, swaying trot that soon left the crowd far behind, staring blankly after
the caravan as camel after camel disappeared into the haze.
"I shouldn't mind knowin' that friend o'
yours, sir," said the constable; "open-hearted sort o' gentleman, I
should think?"
"Very!" said Horace, savagely, and
returned to his room, which Mrs. Rapkin had now left.
His hands shook, though not with joy, as he untied
some of the sacks and bales and forced open the outlandish-looking chests, the
contents of which almost took away his breath.
For in the bales were carpets and tissues which he
saw at a glance must be of fabulous antiquity and beyond all price; the sacks
held golden ewers and vessels of strange workmanship and pantomimic
proportions; the chests were full of jewels—ropes of creamy-pink pearls as
large as average onions, strings of uncut rubies and emeralds, the smallest of
which would have been a tight fit in an ordinary collar-box, and diamonds,
roughly facetted and polished, each the size of a coconut, in whose hearts
quivered a liquid and prismatic radiance.
On the most moderate computation, the total value
of these gifts could hardly be less than several hundred millions; never
probably in the world's history had any treasury contained so rich a store.
It would have been difficult for anybody, on
suddenly finding himself the possessor of this immense incalculable wealth, to
make any comment quite worthy of the situation, but, surely, none could have
been more inadequate and indeed inappropriate than Horace's—which, heartfelt as
it was, was couched in the simple monosyllable—"Damn!"
CHAPTER VII - "GRATITUDE—A
LIVELY SENSE OF FAVOURS TO COME"
Most men on suddenly finding themselves in
possession of such enormous wealth would have felt some elation. Ventimore, as
we have seen, was merely exasperated. And, although this attitude of his may
strike the reader as incomprehensible or absolutely wrong-headed, he had more
reason on his side than might appear at a first view.
It was undoubtedly the fact that, with the money
these treasures represented, he would be in a position to convulse the money
markets of Europe and America, bring society to his feet, make and unmake
kingdoms—dominate, in short, the entire world.
"But, then," as Horace told himself with
a groan, "it wouldn't amuse me in the least to convulse money markets. Do
I want to see the smartest people in London grovelling for anything they think
they're likely to get out of me? As I should be perfectly well aware that their
homage was not paid to any personal merit of mine, I could hardly consider it
flattering. And why should I make kingdoms? The only thing I understand and
care about is making houses. Then, am I likely to be a better hand at
dominating the world than all the others who have tried the experiment? I doubt
it."
He called to mind all the millionaires he had ever
read or heard of; they didn't seem to get much fun out of their riches. The
majority of them were martyrs to dyspepsia. They were often weighed down by the
cares and responsibilities of their position; the only people who were unable
to obtain an audience of them at any time were their friends; they lived in a
glare of publicity, and every post brought them hundreds of begging letters,
and a few threats; their children were in constant danger from kidnappers, and
they themselves, after knowing no rest in life, could not be certain that even
their tombs would be undisturbed. Whether they were extravagant or thrifty,
they were equally maligned, and, whatever the fortune they left behind them,
they could be absolutely certain that, in a couple of generations, it would be
entirely dissipated.
"And the biggest millionaire living,"
concluded Horace, "is a pauper compared with me!"
But there was another consideration—how was he to
realise all this wealth? He knew enough about precious stones to be aware that
a ruby, for instance, of the true "pigeon's blood" colour and the
size of a melon, as most of these rubies were, would be worth, even when cut,
considerably over a million; but who would buy it?
"I think I see myself," he reflected
grimly, "calling on some diamond merchant in Hatton Garden with half a
dozen assorted jewels in a Gladstone bag. If he believed they were genuine,
he'd probably have a fit; but most likely he'd think I'd invented some dodge
for manufacturing them, and had been fool enough to overdo the size. Anyhow,
he'd want to know how they came into my possession, and what could I say? That
they were part of a little present made to me by a Jinnee in grateful
acknowledgment of my having relieved him from a brass bottle in which he'd been
shut up for nearly three thousand years? Look at it how you will, it's not
convincing. I fancy I can guess what he'd say. And what an ass I should look!
Then suppose the thing got into the papers?"
Got into the papers? Why, of course it would get
into the papers. As if it were possible in these days for a young and hitherto
unemployed architect suddenly to surround himself with wondrous carpets, and
gold vessels, and gigantic jewels without attracting the notice of some
enterprising journalist. He would be interviewed; the story of his curiously
acquired riches would go the round of the papers; he would find himself the
object of incredulity, suspicion, ridicule. In imagination he could already see
the headlines on the news-sheets:
BOTTLED BILLIONS
AMAZING ARABESQUES BY AN ARCHITECT
HE SAYS THE JAR CONTAINED A JINNEE
SENSATIONAL STORY
DIVERTING DETAILS
And so on, through every phrase of alliterative
ingenuity. He ground his teeth at the mere thought of it. Then Sylvia would
come to hear of it, and what would she think? She would naturally be repelled,
as any nice-minded girl would be, by the idea that her lover was in secret
alliance with a supernatural being. And her father and mother—would they allow
her to marry a man, however rich, whose wealth came from such a questionable
source? No one would believe that he had not made some unholy bargain before consenting
to set this incarcerated spirit free—he, who had acted in absolute ignorance,
who had persistently declined all reward after realising what he had done!
No, it was too much. Try as he might to do justice
to the Jinnee's gratitude and generosity, he could not restrain a bitter
resentment at the utter want of consideration shown in overloading him with
gifts so useless and so compromising. No Jinnee—however old, however unfamiliar
with the world as it is now—had any right to be such a fool!
And at this, above the ramparts of sacks and
bales, which occupied all the available space in the room, appeared Mrs.
Rapkin's face.
"I was going to ask you, sir, before them
parcels came," she began, with a dry cough of disapproval, "what you
would like in the way of ongtray to-morrow night. I thought if I could find a
sweetbread at all reasonable—"
To Horace—surrounded as he was by incalculable
riches—sweetbreads seemed incongruous just then; the transition of thought was
too violent.
"I can't bother about that now, Mrs.
Rapkin," he said; "we'll settle it to-morrow. I'm too busy."
"I suppose most of these things will have to
go back, sir, if they're only sent on approval like?"
If he only knew where and how he could send them
back! "I—I'm not sure," he said; "I may have to keep them."
"Well, sir, bargain or none, I wouldn't have
'em as a gift myself, being so dirty and fusty; they can't be no use to
anybody, not to mention there being no room to move with them blocking up all
the place. I'd better tell Rapkin to carry 'em all upstairs out of people's
way."
"Certainly not," said Horace, sharply,
by no means anxious for the Rapkins to discover the real nature of his
treasures. "Don't touch them, either of you. Leave them exactly as they
are, do you understand?"
"As you please, Mr. Ventimore, sir; only, if
they're not to be interfered with, I don't see myself how you're going to set
your friends down to dinner to-morrow, that's all."
And, indeed, considering that the table and every
available chair, and even the floor, were heaped so high with valuables that
Horace himself could only just squeeze his way between the piles, it seemed as
if his guests might find themselves inconveniently cramped.
"It will be all right," he said, with an
optimism he was very far from feeling; "we'll manage somehow—leave it to
me."
Before he left for his office he took the
precaution to baffle any inquisitiveness on the part of his landlady by locking
his sitting-room door and carrying away the key, but it was in a very different
mood from his former light-hearted confidence that he sat down to his
drawing-board in Great Cloister Street that morning. He could not concentrate
his mind; his enthusiasm and his ideas had alike deserted him.
He flung down the dividers he had been using and
pushed away the nest of saucers of Indian ink and colours in a fit of
petulance. "It's no good," he exclaimed aloud; "I feel a perfect
duffer this morning. I couldn't even design a decent dog-kennel!"
Even as he spoke he became conscious of a presence
in the room, and, looking round, saw Fakrash the Jinnee standing at his elbow,
smiling down on him more benevolently than ever, and with a serene expectation
of being warmly welcomed and thanked, which made Horace rather ashamed of his
own inability to meet it.
"He's a thoroughly good-natured old
chap," he thought, self-reproachfully. "He means well, and I'm a
beast not to feel more glad to see him. And yet, hang it all! I can't have him
popping in and out of the office like a rabbit whenever the fancy takes
him!"
"Peace be upon thee," said Fakrash.
"Moderate the trouble of thy heart, and impart thy difficulties to
me."
"Oh, they're nothing, thanks," said
Horace, feeling decidedly embarrassed. "I got stuck over my work for the
moment, and it worried me a little—that's all."
"Then thou hast not yet received the gifts
which I commanded should be delivered at thy dwelling-place?"
"Oh, indeed I have!" replied Horace;
"and—and I really don't know how to thank you for them."
"A few trifling presents," answered the
Jinnee, "and by no means suited to thy dignity—yet the best in my power to
bestow upon thee for the time being."
"My dear sir, they simply overwhelm me with
their magnificence! They're beyond all price, and—and I've no idea what to do
with such a superabundance."
"A superfluity of good things is good,"
was the Jinnee's sententious reply.
"Not in my particular case. I—I quite feel
your goodness and generosity; but, indeed, as I told you before, it's really
impossible for me to accept any such reward."
Fakrash's brows contracted slightly. "How
sayest thou that it is impossible—seeing that these things are already in thy
possession?"
"I know," said Horace; "but—you
won't be offended if I speak quite plainly?"
"Art thou not even as a son to me, and can I
be angered at any words of thine?"
"Well," said Horace, with sudden hope,
"honestly, then, I would very much rather—if you're sure you don't
mind—that you would take them all back again."
"What? Dost thou demand that I,
Fakrash-el-Aamash, should consent to receive back the gifts I have bestowed?
Are they, then, of so little value in thy sight?"
"They're of too much value. If I took such a
reward for—for a very ordinary service, I should never be able to respect myself
again."
"This is not the reasoning of an intelligent
person," said the Jinnee, coldly.
"If you think me a fool, I can't help it. I'm
not an ungrateful fool, at all events. But I feel very strongly that I can't
keep these gifts of yours."
"So thou wouldst have me break the oath which
I swore to reward thee fitly for thy kind action?"
"But you have rewarded me already," said
Horace, "by contriving that a wealthy merchant should engage me to build
him a residence. And—forgive my plain speaking—if you truly desire my happiness
(as I am sure you do) you will relieve me of all these precious gems and
merchandise, because, to be frank, they will not make me happy. On the
contrary, they are making me extremely uncomfortable."
"In the days of old," said Fakrash,
"all men pursued wealth; nor could any amass enough to satisfy his
desires. Have riches, then, become so contemptible in mortal eyes that thou
findest them but an encumbrance? Explain the matter."
Horace felt a natural delicacy in giving his real
reasons. "I can't answer for other men," he said. "All I know is
that I've never been accustomed to being rich, and I'd rather get used to it
gradually, and be able to feel that I owed it, as far as possible, to my own
exertions. For, as I needn't tell you, Mr. Fakrash, riches alone don't make any
fellow happy. You must have observed that they're apt to—well, to land him in
all kinds of messes and worries.... I'm talking like a confounded
copybook," he thought, "but I don't care how priggish I am if I can
only get my way!"
Fakrash was deeply impressed. "O young man of
marvellous moderation!" he cried. "Thy sentiments are not inferior to
those of the Great Suleyman himself (on whom be peace!). Yet even he doth not
utterly despise them, for he hath gold and ivory and precious stones in
abundance. Nor hitherto have I ever met a human being capable of rejecting them
when offered. But, since thou seemest sincere in holding that my poor and
paltry gifts will not advance thy welfare, and since I would do thee good and
not evil—be it even as thou wouldst. For excellently was it said: 'The worth of
a present depends not on itself, nor on the giver, but on the receiver
alone.'"
Horace could hardly believe that he had really
prevailed. "It's extremely good of you, sir," he said, "to take
it so well. And if you could let that caravan call for them as soon as
possible, it would be a great convenience to me. I mean—er—the fact is, I'm
expecting a few friends to dine with me to-morrow, and, as my rooms are rather
small at the best of times, I don't quite know how I can manage to entertain
them at all unless something is done."
"It will be the easiest of actions,"
replied Fakrash; "therefore, have no fear that, when the time cometh, thou
wilt not be able to entertain thy friends in a fitting manner. And for the
caravan, it shall set out without delay."
"By Jove, though, I'd forgotten one
thing," said Horace: "I've locked up the room where your presents
are—they won't be able to get in without the key."
"Against the servants of the Jinn neither
bolts nor bars can prevail. They shall enter therein and remove all that they
brought thee, since it is thy desire."
"Very many thanks," said Horace.
"And you do really understand that I'm every bit as grateful as if I could
keep the things? You see, I want all my time and all my energies to complete
the designs for this building, which," he added gracefully, "I should
never be in a position to do at all, but for your assistance."
"On my arrival," said Fakrash, "I
heard thee lamenting the difficulties of the task; wherein do they
consist?"
"Oh," said Horace, "it's a little
difficult to please all the different people concerned, and myself too. I want
to make something of it that I shall be proud of, and that will give me a
reputation. It's a large house, and there will be a good deal of work in it;
but I shall manage it all right."
"This is a great undertaking indeed,"
remarked the Jinnee, after he had asked various by no means unintelligent
questions and received the answers. "But be persuaded that it shall all
turn out most fortunately and thou shalt obtain great renown. And now," he
concluded, "I am compelled to take leave of thee, for I am still without
any certain tidings of Suleyman."
"You mustn't let me keep you," said
Horace, who had been on thorns for some minutes lest Beevor should return and
find him with his mysterious visitor. "You see," he added
instructively, "so long as you will neglect your own much more important
affairs to look after mine, you can hardly expect to make much progress, can
you?"
"How excellent is the saying," replied
the Jinnee: "'The time which is spent in doing kindnesses, call it not
wasted.'"
"Yes, that's very good," said Horace,
feeling driven to silence this maxim, if possible, with one of his own
invention. "But we have a saying too—how does it go? Ah, I remember. 'It
is possible for a kindness to be more inconvenient than an injury.'"
"Marvellously gifted was he who discovered
such a saying!" cried Fakrash.
"I imagine," said Horace, "he
learnt it from his own experience. By the way, what place were you thinking of
drawing—I mean trying—next for Suleyman?"
"I purpose to repair to Nineveh, and inquire
there."
"Capital," said Ventimore, with hearty
approval, for he hoped that this would take the Jinnee some little time.
"Wonderful city, Nineveh, from all I've heard—though not quite what it
used to be, perhaps. Then there's Babylon—you might go on there. And if you
shouldn't hear of him there, why not strike down into Central Africa, and do
that thoroughly? Or South America; it's a pity to lose any chance—you've never
been to South America yet?"
"I have not so much as heard of such a
country, and how should Suleyman be there?"
"Pardon me, I didn't say he was there. All I
meant to convey was, that he's quite as likely to be there as anywhere else.
But if you're going to Nineveh first, you'd better lose no more time, for I've
always understood that it's rather an awkward place to get at—though probably
you won't find it very difficult."
"I care not," said Fakrash, "though
the search be long, for in travel there are five advantages—"
"I know," interrupted Horace, "so
don't stop to describe them now. I should like to see you fairly started, and
you really mustn't think it necessary to break off your search again on my
account, because, thanks to you, I shall get on splendidly alone for the
future—if you'll kindly see that that merchandise is removed."
"Thine abode shall not be encumbered with it
for another hour," said the Jinnee. "O thou judicious one, in whose
estimation wealth is of no value, know that I have never encountered a mortal
who pleased me as thou hast; and moreover, be assured that such magnanimity as
thine shall not go without a recompense!"
"How often must I tell you," said
Horace, in a glow of impatience, "that I am already much more than
recompensed? Now, my kind, generous old friend," he added, with an emotion
that was not wholly insincere, "the time has come to bid you farewell—for
ever. Let me picture you as revisiting your former haunts, penetrating to
quarters of the globe (for, whether you are aware of it or not, this earth of
ours is a globe) hitherto unknown to you, refreshing your mind by foreign
travel and the study of mankind—but never, never for a moment losing sight of
your main object, the eventual discovery of and reconciliation with Suleyman
(on whom be peace!). That is the greatest, the only happiness you can give me
now. Good-bye, and bon voyage!"
"May Allah never deprive thy friends of thy
presence!" returned the Jinnee, who was apparently touched by this
exordium, "for truly thou art a most excellent young man!"
And stepping back into the fireplace, he was gone
in an instant.
Ventimore sank back in his chair with a sigh of
relief. He had begun to fear that the Jinnee never would take himself off, but
he had gone at last—and for good.
He was half ashamed of himself for feeling so
glad, for Fakrash was a good-natured old thing enough in his way. Only he would
overdo things: he had no sense of proportion. "Why," thought Horace,
"if a fellow expressed a modest wish for a canary in a cage he's just the
sort of old Jinnee to bring him a whole covey of rocs in an aviary about ten
times the size of the Crystal Palace. However, he does understand now that I
can't take anything more from him, and he isn't offended either, so that's all
settled. Now I can set to work and knock off these plans in peace and
quietness."
But he had not done much before he heard sounds in
the next room which told him that Beevor had returned at last. He had been
expected back from the country for the last day or two, and it was fortunate
that he had delayed so long, thought Ventimore, as he went in to see him and to
tell him the unexpected piece of good fortune that he himself had met with
since they last met. It is needless to say that, in giving his account, he
abstained from any mention of the brass bottle or the Jinnee, as unessential
elements in his story.
Beevor's congratulations were quite as cordial as
could be expected, as soon as he fully understood that no hoax was intended.
"Well, old man," he said, "I am glad. I really am, you know. To
think of a prize like that coming to you the very first time! And you don't
even know how this Mr. Wackerbath came to hear of you—just happened to see your
name up outside and came in, I expect. Why, I dare say, if I hadn't chanced to
go away as I did—and about a couple of paltry two thousand pound houses, too!
Ah, well, I don't grudge you your luck, though it does seem rather— It was
worth waiting for; you'll be cutting me out before long—if you don't make a
mess of this job. I mean, you know, old chap, if you don't go and give your
City man a Gothic castle when what he wants is something with plenty of
plate-glass windows and a Corinthian portico. That's the rock I see ahead of
you. You mustn't mind my giving you a word of warning!"
"Oh no," said Ventimore; "but I
shan't give him either a Gothic castle or plenty of plate-glass. I venture to
think he'll be pleased with the general idea as I'm working it out."
"Let's hope so," said Beevor. "If
you get into any difficulty, you know," he added, with a touch of
patronage, "just you come to me."
"Thanks," said Horace, "I will. But
I'm getting on very fairly at present."
"I should rather like to see what you've made
of it. I might be able to give you a wrinkle here and there."
"It's awfully good of you, but I think I'd
rather you didn't see the plans till they're quite finished," said Horace.
The truth was that he was perfectly aware that the other would not be in
sympathy with his ideas; and Horace, who had just been suffering from a cold
fit of depression about his work, rather shrank from any kind of criticism.
"Oh, just as you please!" said Beevor, a
little stiffly; "you always were an obstinate beggar. I've had a certain
amount of experience, you know, in my poor little pottering way, and I thought
I might possibly have saved you a cropper or two. But if you think you can
manage better alone—only don't get bolted with by one of those architectural
hobbies of yours, that's all."
"All right, old fellow. I'll ride my hobby on
the curb," said Horace, laughing, as he went back to his own office, where
he found that all his former certainty and enjoyment of his work had returned
to him, and by the end of the day he had made so much progress that his designs
needed only a few finishing touches to be complete enough for his client's
inspection.
Better still, on returning to his rooms that
evening to change before going to Kensington, he found that the admirable
Fakrash had kept his promise—every chest, sack, and bale had been cleared away.
"Them camels come back for the things this
afternoon, sir," said Mrs. Rapkin, "and it put me in a fluster at
first, for I made sure you'd locked your door and took the key. But I must have
been mistook—leastways, them Arabs got in somehow. I hope you meant everything
to go back?"
"Quite," said Horace; "I saw
the—the person who sent them this morning, and told him there was nothing I
cared for enough to keep."
"And like his impidence sending you a lot o'
rubbish like that on approval—and on camels, too!" declared Mrs. Rapkin.
"I'm sure I don't know what them advertising firms will try next—pushing,
I call it."
Now that everything was gone, Horace felt a little
natural regret and doubt whether he need have been quite so uncompromising in
his refusal of the treasures. "I might have kept some of those tissues and
things for Sylvia," he thought; "and she loves pearls. And a prayer-carpet
would have pleased the Professor tremendously. But no, after all, it wouldn't
have done. Sylvia couldn't go about in pearls the size of new potatoes, and the
Professor would only have ragged me for more reckless extravagance. Besides, if
I'd taken any of the Jinnee's gifts, he might keep on pouring more in, till I
should be just where I was before—or worse off, really, because I couldn't
decently refuse them, then. So it's best as it is."
And really, considering his temperament and the
peculiar nature of his position, it is not easy to see how he could have
arrived at any other conclusion.
