THE MESSENGER OF HOPE
Jessie, the neat and pretty parlour-maid, opened the door with a smile
of welcome which Horace found reassuring. No girl, he thought, whose
master had suddenly been transformed into a mule could possibly smile
like that. The Professor, she told him, was not at home, which again was
comforting. For a _savant_, however careless about his personal
appearance, would scarcely venture to brave public opinion in the
semblance of a quadruped.
"Is the Professor out?" he inquired, to make sure.
"Not exactly out, sir," said the maid, "but particularly engaged,
working hard in his study, and not to be disturbed on no account."
This was encouraging, too, since a mule could hardly engage in literary
labour of any kind. Evidently the Jinnee must either have overrated his
supernatural powers, or else have been deliberately amusing himself at
Horace's expense.
"Then I will see Miss Futvoye," he said.
"Miss Sylvia is with the master, sir," said the girl; "but if you'll
come into the drawing-room I'll let Mrs. Futvoye know you are here."
He had not been in the drawing-room long before Mrs. Futvoye appeared,
and one glance at her face confirmed Ventimore's worst fears. Outwardly
she was calm enough, but it was only too obvious that her calmness was
the result of severe self-repression; her eyes, usually so shrewdly and
placidly observant, had a haggard and hunted look; her ears seemed on
the strain to catch some distant sound.
"I hardly thought we should see you to-day," she began, in a tone of
studied reserve; "but perhaps you came to offer some explanation of the
extraordinary manner in which you thought fit to entertain us last
night? If so----"
"The fact is," said Horace, looking into his hat, "I came because I was
rather anxious about the Professor.
"About my husband?" said the poor lady, with a really heroic effort to
appear surprised. "He is--as well as could be expected. Why should you
suppose otherwise?" she asked, with a flash of suspicion.
"I fancied perhaps that--that he mightn't be quite himself to-day," said
Horace, with his eyes on the carpet.
"I see," said Mrs. Futvoye, regaining her composure; "you were afraid
that all those foreign dishes might not have agreed with him.
But--except that he is a little irritable this afternoon--he is much as
usual."
"I'm delighted to hear it," said Horace, with reviving hope. "Do you
think he would see me for a moment?"
"Great heavens, no!" cried Mrs. Futvoye, with an irrepressible start; "I
mean," she explained, "that, after what took place last night,
Anthony--my husband--very properly feels that an interview would be too
painful."
"But when we parted he was perfectly friendly."
"I can only say," replied the courageous woman, "that you would find him
considerably altered now."
Horace had no difficulty in believing it.
"At least, I may see Sylvia?" he pleaded.
"No," said Mrs. Futvoye; "I really can't have Sylvia disturbed just now.
She is very busy, helping her father. Anthony has to read a paper at one
of his societies to-morrow night, and she is writing it out from his
dictation."
If any departure from strict truth can ever be excusable, this surely
was one; unfortunately, just then Sylvia herself burst into the room.
"Mother," she cried, without seeing Horace in her agitation, "do come
to papa, quick! He has just begun kicking again, and I can't manage him
alone.... Oh, _you_ here?" she broke off, as she saw who was in the
room. "Why do you come here now, Horace? Please, _please_ go away! Papa
is rather unwell--nothing serious, only--oh, _do_ go away!"
"Darling!" said Horace, going to her and taking both her hands, "I know
all--do you understand?--_all_!"
"Mamma!" cried Sylvia, reproachfully, "have you told him--already? When
we settled that even Horace wasn't to know till--till papa recovers!"
"I have told him nothing, my dear," replied her mother. "He can't
possibly know, unless--but no, that isn't possible. And, after all," she
added, with a warning glance at her daughter, "I don't know why we
should make any mystery about a mere attack of gout. But I had better go
and see if your father wants anything." And she hurried out of the room.
Sylvia sat down and gazed silently into the fire. "I dare say you don't
know how dreadfully people kick when they've got gout," she remarked
presently.
"Oh yes, I do," said Horace, sympathetically; "at least, I can guess."
"Especially when it's in both legs," continued Sylvia.
"Or," said Horace gently, "in all four."
"Ah, you _do_ know!" cried Sylvia. "Then it's all the more horrid of you
to come!"
"Dearest," said Horace, "is not this just the time when my place should
be near you--and him?"
"Not near papa, Horace!" she put in anxiously; "it wouldn't be at all
safe."
"Do you really think I have any fear for myself?"
"Are you sure you quite know--what he is like now?"
"I understand," said Horace, trying to put it as considerately as
possible, "that a casual observer, who didn't know your father, might
mistake him, at first sight, for--for some sort of quadruped."
"He's a mule," sobbed Sylvia, breaking down entirely. "I could bear it
better if he had been a _nice_ mule.... B--but he isn't!"
"Whatever he may be," declared Horace, as he knelt by her chair
endeavouring to comfort her, "nothing can alter my profound respect for
him. And you must let me see him, Sylvia; because I fully believe I
shall be able to cheer him up."
"If you imagine you can persuade him to--to laugh it off!" said Sylvia,
tearfully.
"I wasn't proposing to try to make him see the humorous side of his
situation," Horace mildly explained. "I trust I have more tact than
that. But he may be glad to know that, at the worst, it is only a
temporary inconvenience. I'll take care that he's all right again before
very long."
She started up and looked at him, her eyes widened with dawning dread
and mistrust.
"If you can speak like that," she said, "it must have been _you_
who--no, I can't believe it--that would be too horrible!"
"I who did _what_, Sylvia? Weren't you there when--when it happened?"
"No," she replied. "I was only told of it afterwards. Mother heard papa
talking loudly in his study this morning, as if he was angry with
somebody, and at last she grew so uneasy she couldn't bear it any
longer, and went in to see what was the matter with him. Dad was quite
alone and looked as usual, only a little excited; and then, without the
slightest warning, just as she entered the room, he--he changed slowly
into a mule before her eyes! Anybody but mamma would have lost her head
and roused the whole house."
"Thank Heaven she didn't!" said Horace, fervently. "That was what I was
most afraid of."
"Then--oh, Horace, it _was_ you! It's no use denying it. I feel more
certain of it every moment!"
"Now, Sylvia!" he protested, still anxious, if possible, to keep the
worst from her, "what could have put such an idea as that into your
head?"
"I don't know," she said slowly. "Several things last night. No one who
was really nice, and like everybody else, would live in such queer rooms
like those, and dine on cushions, with dreadful black slaves, and--and
dancing-girls and things. You pretended you were quite poor."
"So I am, darling. And as for my rooms, and--and the rest, they're all
gone, Sylvia. If you went to Vincent Square to-day, you wouldn't find a
trace of them!"
"That only shows!" said Sylvia. "But why should you play such a cruel,
and--and ungentlemanly trick on poor dad? If you had ever really loved
me----!"
"But I do, Sylvia, you can't really believe me capable of such an
outrage! Look at me and tell me so."
"No, Horace," said Sylvia frankly. "I don't believe _you_ did it. But I
believe you know who _did_. And you had better tell me at once!"
"If you're quite sure you can stand it," he replied, "I'll tell you
everything." And, as briefly as possible, he told her how he had
unsealed the brass bottle, and all that had come of it.
She bore it, on the whole, better than he had expected; perhaps, being a
woman, it was some consolation to her to remind him that she had
foretold something of this kind from the very first.
"But, of course, I never really thought it would be so awful as this!"
she said. "Horace, how _could_ you be so careless as to let a great
wicked thing like that escape out of its bottle?"
"I had a notion it was a manuscript," said Horace--"till he came out.
But he isn't a great wicked thing, Sylvia. He's an amiable old Jinnee
enough. And he'd do anything for me. Nobody could be more grateful and
generous than he has been."
"Do you call it generous to change the poor, dear dad into a mule?"
inquired Sylvia, with a little curl of her upper lip.
"That was an oversight," said Horace; "he meant no harm by it. In Arabia
they do these things--or used to in his day. Not that that's much excuse
for him. Still, he's not so young as he was, and besides, being bottled
up for all those centuries must have narrowed him rather. You must try
and make allowances for him, darling."
"I shan't," said Sylvia, "unless he apologises to poor father, and puts
him right at once."
"Why, of course, he'll do that," Horace answered confidently. "I'll see
that he does. I don't mean to stand any more of his nonsense. I'm afraid
I've been just a little too slack for fear of hurting his feelings; but
this time he's gone too far, and I shall talk to him like a Dutch uncle.
He's always ready to do the right thing when he's once shown where he
has gone wrong--only he takes such a lot of showing, poor old chap!"
"But when do you think he'll--do the right thing?"
"Oh, as soon as I see him again."
"Yes; but when _will_ you see him again?"
"That's more than I can say. He's away just now--in China, or Peru, or
somewhere."
"Horace! Then he won't be back for months and months!"
"Oh yes, he will. He can do the whole trip, _aller et retour_, you know,
in a few hours. He's an active old beggar for his age. In the meantime,
dearest, the chief thing is to keep up your father's spirits. So I think
I'd better---- I was just telling Sylvia, Mrs. Futvoye," he said, as
that lady re-entered the room, "that I should like to see the Professor
at once."
"It's quite, _quite_ impossible!" was the nervous reply. "He's in such a
state that he's unable to see any one. You don't know how fractious gout
makes him!"
"Dear Mrs. Futvoye," said Horace, "believe me, I know more than you
suppose."
"Yes, mother, dear," put in Sylvia, "he knows everything--_really_
everything. And perhaps it might do dad good to see him."
Mrs. Futvoye sank helplessly down on a settee. "Oh, dear me!" she said.
"I don't know _what_ to say. I really don't. If you had seen him plunge
at the mere suggestion of a doctor!"
Privately, though naturally he could not say so, Horace thought a vet.
might be more appropriate, but eventually he persuaded Mrs. Futvoye to
conduct him to her husband's study.
"Anthony, love," she said, as she knocked gently at the door, "I've
brought Horace Ventimore to see you for a few moments, if he may."
It seemed from the sounds of furious snorting and stamping within, that
the Professor resented this intrusion on his privacy. "My dear Anthony,"
said his devoted wife, as she unlocked the door and turned the key on
the inside after admitting Horace, "try to be calm. Think of the
servants downstairs. Horace is _so_ anxious to help."
As for Ventimore, he was speechless--so inexpressibly shocked was he by
the alteration in the Professor's appearance. He had never seen a mule
in sorrier condition or in so vicious a temper. Most of the lighter
furniture had been already reduced to matchwood; the glass doors of the
bookcase were starred or shivered; precious Egyptian pottery and glass
were strewn in fragments on the carpets, and even the mummy, though it
still smiled with the same enigmatic cheerfulness, seemed to have
suffered severely from the Professorial hoofs.
Horace instinctively felt that any words of conventional sympathy would
jar here; indeed, the Professor's attitude and expression reminded him
irresistibly of a certain "Blondin Donkey" he had seen enacted by
music-hall artists, at the point where it becomes sullen and defiant.
Only, he had laughed helplessly at the Blondin Donkey, and somehow he
felt no inclination to laugh now.
"Believe me, sir," he began, "I would not disturb you like this
unless--steady there, for Heaven's sake Professor, don't kick till
you've heard me out!" For, the mule, in a clumsy, shambling way which
betrayed the novice, was slowly revolving on his own axis so as to bring
his hind-quarters into action, while still keeping his only serviceable
eye upon his unwelcome visitor.
"Listen to me, sir," said Horace, manoeuvring in his turn. "I'm not to
blame for this, and if you brain me, as you seem to be endeavouring to
do, you'll simply destroy the only living man who can get you out of
this."
The mule appeared impressed by this, and backed cumbrously into a
corner, from which he regarded Horace with a mistrustful, but attentive,
eye. "If, as I imagine, sir," continued Horace, "you are, though
temporarily deprived of speech, perfectly capable of following an
argument, will you kindly signify it by raising your right ear?" The
mule's right ear rose with a sharp twitch.
"Now we can get on," said Horace. "First let me tell you that I
repudiate all responsibility for the proceedings of that infernal
Jinnee.... I wouldn't stamp like that--you might go through the floor,
you know.... Now, if you will only exercise a little patience----"
At this the exasperated animal made a sudden run at him with his mouth
open, which obliged Horace to shelter himself behind a large leather
arm-chair. "You really _must_ keep cool, sir," he remonstrated; "your
nerves are naturally upset. If I might suggest a little champagne--you
could manage it in--in a bucket, and it would help you to pull yourself
together. A whisk of your--er--tail would imply consent." The
Professor's tail instantly swept some rare Arabian glass lamps and vases
from a shelf at his rear, whereupon Mrs. Futvoye went out, and returned
presently with a bottle of champagne and a large china _jardiniere_, as
the best substitute she could find for a bucket.
When the mule had drained the flower-pot greedily and appeared
refreshed, Horace proceeded: "I have every hope, sir," he said, "that
before many hours you will be smiling--pray don't prance like that, I
mean what I say--smiling over what now seems to you, very justly, a most
annoying and serious catastrophe. I shall speak seriously to Fakrash
(the Jinnee, you know), and I am sure that, as soon as he realises what
a frightful blunder he has made, he will be the first to offer you every
reparation in his power. For, old foozle as he is, he's thoroughly
good-hearted."
The Professor drooped his ears at this, and shook his head with a
doleful incredulity that made him look more like the Pantomime Donkey
than ever.
"I think I understand him fairly well by this time, sir," said Horace,
"and I'll answer for it that there's no real harm in him. I give you my
word of honour that, if you'll only remain quiet and leave everything to
me, you shall very soon be released from this absurd position. That's
all I came to tell you, and now I won't trouble you any longer. If you
_could_ bring yourself, as a sign that you bear me no ill-feeling, to
give me your--your off-foreleg at parting, I----"
But the Professor turned his back in so pointed and ominous a manner
that Horace judged it better to withdraw without insisting further. "I'm
afraid," he said to Mrs. Futvoye, after they had rejoined Sylvia in the
drawing-room--"I'm afraid your husband is still a little sore with me
about this miserable business."
"I don't know what else you can expect," replied the lady, rather
tartly; "he can't help feeling--as we all must and do, after what you
said just now--that, but for you, this would never have happened!"
"If you mean it was all through my attending that sale," said Horace,
"you might remember that I only went there at the Professor's request.
You know that, Sylvia."
"Yes, Horace," said Sylvia; "but papa never asked you to buy a hideous
brass bottle with a nasty Genius in it. And any one with ordinary common
sense would have kept it properly corked!"
"What, you against me too, Sylvia!" cried Horace, cut to the quick.
"No, Horace, never against you. I didn't mean to say what I did. Only it
_is_ such a relief to put the blame on somebody. I know, I _know_ you
feel it almost as much as we do. But so long as poor, dear papa remains
as he is, we can never be anything to one another. You must see that,
Horace!"
"Yes, I see that," he said; "but trust me, Sylvia, he shall _not_ remain
as he is. I swear he shall not. In another day or two, at the outside,
you will see him his own self once more. And then--oh, darling, darling,
you won't let anything or anybody separate us? Promise me that!"
He would have held her in his arms, but she kept him at a distance.
"When papa is himself again," she said, "I shall know better what to
say. I can't promise anything now, Horace."
Horace recognised that no appeal would draw a more definite answer from
her just then; so he took his leave, with the feeling that, after all,
matters must improve before very long, and in the meantime he must bear
the suspense with patience.
He got through dinner as well as he could in his own rooms, for he did
not like to go to his club lest the Jinnee should suddenly return during
his absence.
"If he wants me he'd be quite equal to coming on to the club after me,"
he reflected, "for he has about as much sense of the fitness of things
as Mary's lamb. I shouldn't care about seeing him suddenly bursting
through the floor of the smoking-room. Nor would the committee."
He sat up late, in the hope that Fakrash would appear; but the Jinnee
made no sign, and Horace began to get uneasy. "I wish there was some
way of ringing him up," he thought. "If he were only the slave of a ring
or a lamp, I'd rub it; but it wouldn't be any use to rub that
bottle--and, besides, he isn't a slave. Probably he has a suspicion that
he has not exactly distinguished himself over his latest feat, and
thinks it prudent to keep out of my way for the present. But if he
fancies he'll make things any better for himself by that he'll find
himself mistaken."
It was maddening to think of the unhappy Professor still fretting away
hour after hour in the uncongenial form of a mule, waiting impatiently
for the relief that never came. If it lingered much longer, he might
actually starve, unless his family thought of getting in some oats for
him, and he could be prevailed upon to touch them. And how much longer
could they succeed in concealing the nature of his affliction? How long
before all Kensington, and the whole civilised world, would know that
one of the leading Orientalists in Europe was restlessly prancing on
four legs around his study in Cottesmore Gardens?
Racked by speculations such as these, Ventimore lay awake till well into
the small hours, when he dropped off into troubled dreams that, wild as
they were, could not be more grotesquely fantastic than the realities to
which they were the alternative.