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.