"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 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 _entree_, 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 _fetes_
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 Phoenician, 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!