A CHOICE OF EVILS
Not even his morning tub could brace Ventimore's spirits to their usual
cheerfulness. After sending away his breakfast almost untasted he stood
at his window, looking drearily out over the crude green turf of Vincent
Square at the indigo masses of the Abbey and the Victoria Tower and the
huge gasometers to the right which loomed faintly through a dun-coloured
haze.
He felt a positive loathing for his office, to which he had gone with
such high hopes and enthusiasm of late. There was no work for him to do
there any longer, and the sight of his drawing-table and materials
would, he knew, be intolerable in their mute mockery.
Nor could he with any decency present himself again at Cottesmore
Gardens while the situation still remained unchanged, as it must do
until he had seen Fakrash.
When would the Jinnee return, or--horrible suspicion!--did he never
intend to return at all?
"Fakrash!" he groaned aloud, "you _can't_ really mean to leave me in
such a regular deuce of a hole as this?"
"At thy service!" said a well-known voice behind him, and he turned to
see the Jinnee standing smiling on the hearthrug--and at this
accomplishment of his dearest desire all his indignation surged back.
"Oh, _there_ you are!" he said irritably. "Where on earth have you been
all this time?"
"Nowhere on earth," was the bland reply; "but in the regions of the air,
seeking to promote thy welfare."
"If you have been as brilliantly successful up there as you have down
here," retorted Horace, "I have much to thank you for."
"I am more than repaid," answered the Jinnee, who, like many highly
estimable persons, was almost impervious to irony, "by such assurances
of thy gratitude."
"I'm _not_ grateful," said Horace, fuming. "I'm devilish annoyed!"
"Well hath it been written," replied the Jinnee:--
"'Be disregardful of thine affairs, and commit them to the course
of Fate,
For often a thing that enrages thee may eventually be to thee
pleasing.'"
"I don't see the remotest chance of that, in my case," said Horace.
"Why is thy countenance thus troubled, and what new complaint hast thou
against me?"
"What the devil do you mean by turning a distinguished and perfectly
inoffensive scholar into a wall-eyed mule?" Horace broke out. "If that
is your idea of a practical joke----!"
"It is one of the easiest affairs possible," said the Jinnee,
complacently running his fingers through the thin strands of his beard.
"I have accomplished such transformations on several occasions."
"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself, that's all. The question is
now--how do you propose to restore him again?"
"Far from undoing be that which is accomplished!" was the sententious
answer.
"What?" cried Horace, hardly believing his ears; "you surely don't mean
to allow that unhappy Professor to remain like that for ever, do you?"
"None can alter what is predestined."
"Very likely not. But it wasn't decreed that a learned man should be
suddenly degraded to a beastly mule for the rest of his life. Destiny
wouldn't be such a fool!"
"Despise not mules, for they are useful and valuable animals in the
household."
"But, confound it all, have you no imagination? Can't you enter
at all into the feelings of a man--a man of wide learning and
reputation--suddenly plunged into such a humiliating condition?"
"Upon his own head be it," said Fakrash, coldly. "For he hath brought
this fate upon himself."
"Well, how do you suppose that you have helped _me_ by this performance?
Will it make him any the more disposed to consent to my marrying his
daughter? Is that all you know of the world?"
"It is not my intention that thou shouldst take his daughter to wife."
"Whether you approve or not, it's my intention to marry her."
"Assuredly she will not marry thee so long as her father remaineth a
mule."
"There I agree with you. But is that your notion of doing me a good
turn?"
"I did not consider thy interest in this matter."
"Then will you be good enough to consider it now? I have pledged my word
that he shall be restored to his original form. Not only my happiness is
at stake, but my honour."
"By failure to perform the impossible none can lose honour. And this is
a thing that cannot be undone."
"Cannot be undone?" repeated Horace, feeling a cold clutch at his heart.
"Why?"
"Because," said the Jinnee, sullenly, "I have forgotten the way."
"Nonsense!" retorted Horace; "I don't believe it. Why," he urged,
descending to flattery, "you're such a clever old Johnny--I beg your
pardon, I meant such a clever old _Jinnee_--you can do anything, if you
only give your mind to it. Just look at the way you changed this house
back again to what it was. Marvellous!"
"That was the veriest trifle," said Fakrash, though he was obviously
pleased by this tribute to his talent; "this would be a different affair
altogether."
"But child's play to _you_!" insinuated Horace. "Come, you know very
well you can do it if you only choose."
"It may be as thou sayest. But I do not choose."
"Then I think," said Horace, "that, considering the obligation you admit
yourself you are under to me, I have a right to know the reason--the
_real_ reason--why you refuse."
"Thy claim is not without justice," answered the Jinnee, after a pause,
"nor can I decline to gratify thee."
"That's right," cried Horace; "I knew you'd see it in the proper light
when it was once put to you. Now, don't lose any more time, but restore
that unfortunate man at once, as you've promised."
"Not so," said the Jinnee; "I promised thee a reason for my refusal--and
that thou shalt have. Know then, O my son, that this indiscreet one had,
by some vile and unhallowed arts, divined the hidden meaning of what was
written upon the seal of the bottle wherein I was confined, and was
preparing to reveal the same unto all men."
"What would it matter to you if he did?"
"Much--for the writing contained a false and lying record of my
actions."
"If it is all lies, it can't do you any harm. Why not treat them with
the contempt they deserve?"
"They are not _all_ lies," the Jinnee admitted reluctantly.
"Well, never mind. Whatever you've done, you've expiated it by this
time."
"Now that Suleyman is no more, it is my desire to seek out my kinsmen of
the Green Jinn, and live out my days in amity and honour. How can that
be if they hear my name execrated by all mortals?"
"Nobody would think of execrating you about an affair three thousand
years old. It's too stale a scandal."
"Thou speakest without understanding. I tell thee that if men knew but
the half of my misdoings," said Fakrash, in a tone not altogether free
from a kind of sombre complacency, "the noise of them would rise even
unto the uppermost regions, and scorn and loathing would be my portion."
"Oh, it's not so bad as all that," said Horace, who had a private
impression that the Jinnee's "past" would probably turn out to be
chiefly made up of peccadilloes. "But, anyway, I'm sure the Professor
will readily agree to keep silence about it; and, as you have of course,
got the seal in your own possession again----"
"Nay; the seal is still in his possession, and it is naught to me where
it is deposited," said Fakrash, "since the only mortal who hath
deciphered it is now a dumb animal."
"Not at all," said Horace. "There are several friends of his who could
decipher that inscription quite as easily as he did."
"Is this the truth?" said the Jinnee, in visible alarm.
"Certainly," said Horace. "Within the last quarter of a century
archaeology has made great strides. Our learned men can now read
Babylonian bricks and Chaldean tablets as easily as if they were
advertisements on galvanised iron. You may think you've been extremely
clever in turning the Professor into an animal, but you'll probably find
you've only made another mistake."
"How so?" inquired Fakrash.
"Well," said Horace, seeing his advantage, and pushing it
unscrupulously, "now, that, in your infinite wisdom, you have ordained
that he should be a mule, he naturally can't possess property. Therefore
all his effects will have to be sold, and amongst them will be that seal
of yours, which, like many other things in his collection, will probably
be bought up by the British Museum, where it will be examined and
commented upon by every Orientalist in Europe. I suppose you've thought
of all that?"
"O young man of marvellous sagacity!" said the Jinnee; "truly I had
omitted to consider these things, and thou hast opened my eyes in time.
For I will present myself unto this man-mule and adjure him to reveal
where he hath bestowed this seal, so that I may regain it."
"He can't do that, you know, so long as he remains a mule."
"I will endow him with speech for the purpose."
"Let me tell you this," said Horace: "he's in a very nasty temper just
now, naturally enough, and you won't get anything out of him until you
have restored him to human form. If you do that, he'll agree to
anything."
"Whether I restore him or not will depend not on me, but on the damsel
who is his daughter, and to whom thou art contracted in marriage. For
first of all I must speak with her."
"So long as I am present and you promise not to play any tricks," said
Horace, "I've no objection, for I believe, if you once saw her and heard
her plead for her poor father, you wouldn't have the heart to hold out
any longer. But you must give me your word that you'll behave yourself."
"Thou hast it," said the Jinnee; "I do but desire to see her on thine
account."
"Very well," agreed Horace; "but I really can't introduce you in that
turban--she'd be terrified. Couldn't you contrive to get yourself up in
commonplace English clothes, just for once--something that wouldn't
attract so much attention?"
"Will this satisfy thee?" inquired the Jinnee, as his green turban and
flowing robes suddenly resolved themselves into the conventional
chimney-pot hat, frock-coat, and trousers of modern civilisation.
He bore a painful resemblance in them to the kind of elderly gentleman
who comes on in the harlequinade to be bonneted by the clown; but Horace
was in no mood to be critical just then.
"That's better," he said encouragingly; "much better. Now," he added, as
he led the way to the hall and put on his own hat and overcoat, "we'll
go out and find a hansom and be at Kensington in less than twenty
minutes."
"We shall be there in less than twenty seconds," said the Jinnee,
seizing him by the arm above the elbow; and Horace found himself
suddenly carried up into the air and set down, gasping with surprise and
want of breath, on the pavement opposite the Futvoyes' door.
"I should just like to observe," he said, as soon as he could speak,
"that if we've been seen, we shall probably cause a sensation. Londoners
are not accustomed to seeing people skimming over the chimney-pots like
amateur rooks."
"Trouble not for that," said Fakrash, "for no mortal eyes are capable of
following our flight."
"I hope not," said Horace, "or I shall lose any reputation I have left.
I think," he added, "I'd better go in alone first and prepare them, if
you don't mind waiting outside. I'll come to the window and wave my
pocket-handkerchief when they're ready. And _do_ come in by the door
like an ordinary person, and ask the maidservant if you may see me."
"I will bear it in mind," answered the Jinnee, and suddenly sank, or
seemed to sink, through a chink in the pavement.
Horace, after ringing at the Futvoyes' door, was admitted and shown into
the drawing-room, where Sylvia presently came to him, looking as lovely
as ever, in spite of the pallor due to sleeplessness and anxiety. "It is
kind of you to call and inquire," she said, with the unnatural calm of
suppressed hysteria. "Dad is much the same this morning. He had a fairly
good night, and was able to take part of a carrot for breakfast--but
I'm afraid he has just remembered that he has to read a paper on
'Oriental Occultism' before the Asiatic Society this evening, and it's
worrying him a little.... Oh, Horace," she broke out, unexpectedly, "how
perfectly awful all this is! How _are_ we to bear it?"
"Don't give way, darling!" said Horace; "you will not have to bear it
much longer."
"It's all very well, Horace, but unless something is done _soon_ it will
be too late. We can't go _on_ keeping a mule in the study without the
servants suspecting something, and where are we to put poor, dear papa?
It's too ghastly to think of his having to be sent away to--to a Home of
Rest for Horses--and yet what _is_ to be done with him?... Why do you
come if you can't do anything?"
"I shouldn't be here unless I could bring you good news. You remember
what I told you about the Jinnee?"
"Remember!" cried Sylvia. "As if I could forget! Has he really come
back, Horace?"
"Yes. I think I have brought him to see that he has made a foolish
mistake in enchanting your unfortunate father, and he seems willing to
undo it on certain conditions. He is somewhere within call at this
moment, and will come in whenever I give the signal. But he wishes to
speak to you first."
"To _me_? Oh, no, Horace!" exclaimed Sylvia, recoiling. "I'd so much
rather not. I don't like things that have come out of brass bottles. I
shouldn't know what to say, and it would frighten me horribly."
"You must be brave, darling!" said Horace. "Remember that it depends on
you whether the Professor is to be restored or not. And there's nothing
alarming about old Fakrash, either, I've got him to put on ordinary
things, and he really doesn't look so bad in them. He's quite a mild,
amiable old noodle, and he'll do anything for you, if you'll only stroke
him down the right way. You _will_ see him, won't you, for your father's
sake?"
"If I must," said Sylvia, with a shudder, "I--I'll be as nice to him as
I can."
Horace went to the window and gave the signal, though there was no one
in sight. However, it was evidently seen, for the next moment there was
a resounding blow at the front door, and a little later Jessie, the
parlour-maid, announced "Mr. Fatrasher Larmash--to see Mr. Ventimore,"
and the Jinnee stalked gravely in, with his tall hat on his head.
"You are probably not aware of it, sir," said Horace, "but it is the
custom here to uncover in the presence of a lady." The Jinnee removed
his hat with both hands, and stood silent and impassive.
"Let me present you to Miss Sylvia Futvoye," Ventimore continued, "the
lady whose name you have already heard."
There was a momentary gleam in Fakrash's odd, slanting eyes as they
lighted on Sylvia's shrinking figure, but he made no acknowledgment of
the introduction.
"The damsel is not without comeliness," he remarked to Horace; "but
there are lovelier far than she."
"I didn't ask you for either criticisms or comparisons," said Ventimore,
sharply; "there is nobody in the world equal to Miss Futvoye, in my
opinion, and you will be good enough to remember that fact. She is
exceedingly distressed (as any dutiful daughter would be) by the cruel
and senseless trick you have played her father, and she begs that you
will rectify it at once. Don't you, Sylvia?"
"Yes, indeed!" said Sylvia, almost in a whisper, "if--if it isn't
troubling you too much!"
"I have been turning over thy words in my mind," said Fakrash to Horace,
still ignoring Sylvia, "and I am convinced that thou art right. Even if
the contents of the seal were known of all men, they would raise no
clamour about affairs that concern them not. Therefore it is nothing to
me in whose hands the seal may be. Dost thou not agree with me in this?"
"Of course I do," said Horace. "And it naturally follows that----"
"It naturally follows, as thou sayest," said the Jinnee, with a cunning
assumption of indifference, "that I have naught to gain by demanding
back the seal as the price of restoring this damsel's father to his
original form. Wherefore, so far as I am concerned, let him remain a
mule for ever; unless, indeed, thou art ready to comply with my
conditions."
"Conditions!" cried Horace, utterly unprepared for this conclusion.
"What can you possibly want from me? But state them. I'll agree to
anything, in reason!"
"I demand that thou shouldst renounce the hand of this damsel."
"That's out of all reason," said Horace, "and you know it. I will never
give her up, so long as she is willing to keep me."
"Maiden," said the Jinnee, addressing Sylvia for the first time, "the
matter rests with thee. Wilt thou release this my son from his contract,
since thou art no fit wife for such as he?"
"How can I," cried Sylvia, "when I love him and he loves me? What a
wicked tyrannical old thing you must be to expect it! I _can't_ give him
up."
"It is but giving up what can never be thine," said Fakrash. "And be not
anxious for him, for I will reward and console him a thousandfold for
the loss of thy society. A little while, and he shall remember thee no
more."
"Don't believe him, darling," said Horace; "you know me better than
that."
"Remember," said the Jinnee, "that by thy refusal thou wilt condemn thy
parent to remain a mule throughout all his days. Art thou so unnatural
and hard-hearted a daughter as to do this thing?"
"Oh, I couldn't!" cried Sylvia. "I can't let poor father remain a mule
all his life when one word--and yet what _am_ I to do? Horace, what
shall I say? Advise me.... Advise me!"
"Heaven help us both!" groaned Ventimore. "If I could only see the
right thing to do. Look here, Mr. Fakrash," he added, "this is a matter
that requires consideration. Will you relieve us of your presence for a
short time, while we talk it over?"
"With all my heart," said the Jinnee, in the most obliging manner in the
world, and vanished instantly.
"Now, darling," began Horace, after he had gone, "if that unspeakable
old scoundrel is really in earnest, there's no denying that he's got us
in an extremely tight place. But I can't bring myself to believe that he
_does_ mean it. I fancy he's only trying us. And what I want you to do
is not to consider me in the matter at all."
"How can I help it?" said poor Sylvia. "Horace, you--you don't _want_ to
be released, do you?"
"I?" said Horace, "when you are all I have in the world! That's so
likely, Sylvia! But we are bound to look facts in the face. To begin
with, even if this hadn't happened, your people wouldn't let our
engagement continue. For my prospects have changed again, dearest. I'm
even worse off than when we first met, for that confounded Jinnee has
contrived to lose my first and only client for me--the one thing worth
having he ever gave me." And he told her the story of the mushroom
palace and Mr. Wackerbath's withdrawal. "So you see, darling," he
concluded, "I haven't even a home to offer you; and if I had, it would
be miserably uncomfortable for you with that old Marplot continually
dropping in on us--especially if, as I'm afraid he has, he's taken some
unreasonable dislike to you."
"But surely you can talk him over?" said Sylvia; "you said you could do
anything you liked with him."
"I'm beginning to find," he replied, ruefully enough, "that he's not so
easily managed as I thought. And for the present, I'm afraid, if we are
to get the Professor out of this, that there's nothing for it but to
humour old Fakrash."
"Then you actually advise me to--to break it off?" she cried; "I never
thought you would do that!"
"For your own sake," said Horace; "for your father's sake. If _you_
won't, Sylvia, I _must_. And you will spare me that? Let us both agree
to part and--and trust that we shall be united some day."
"Don't try to deceive me or yourself, Horace," she said; "if we part
now, it will be for ever."
He had a dismal conviction that she was right. "We must hope for the
best," he said drearily; "Fakrash may have some motive in all this we
don't understand. Or he may relent. But part we must, for the present."
"Very well," she said. "If he restores dad, I will give you up. But not
unless."
"Hath the damsel decided?" asked the Jinnee, suddenly re-appearing; "for
the period of deliberation is past."
"Miss Futvoye and I," Horace answered for her, "are willing to consider
our engagement at an end, until you approve of its renewal, on condition
that you restore her father at once."
"Agreed!" said Fakrash. "Conduct me to him, and we will arrange the
matter without delay."
Outside they met Mrs. Futvoye on her way from the study. "You here,
Horace?" she exclaimed. "And who is this--gentleman?"
"This," said Horace, "is the--er--author of the Professor's misfortunes,
and he had come here at my request to undo his work."
"It _would_ be so kind of him!" exclaimed the distressed lady, who was
by this time far beyond either surprise or resentment. "I'm sure, if he
knew all we have gone through----!" and she led the way to her husband's
room.
As soon as the door was opened the Professor seemed to recognise his
tormentor in spite of his changed raiment, and was so powerfully
agitated that he actually reeled on his four legs, and "stood over" in
a lamentable fashion.
"O man of distinguished attainments!" began the Jinnee, "whom I have
caused, for reasons that are known unto thee, to assume the shape of a
mule, speak, I adjure thee, and tell me where thou hast deposited the
inscribed seal which is in thy possession."
The Professor spoke; and the effect of articulate speech proceeding from
the mouth of what was to all outward seeming an ordinary mule was
strange beyond description. "I'll see you damned first," he said
sullenly. "You can't do worse to me than you've done already!"
"As thou wilt," said Fakrash; "but unless I regain it, I will not
restore thee to what thou wast."
"Well, then," said the mule, savagely, "you'll find it in the top
right-hand drawer of my writing-table: the key is in that diorite bowl
on the mantelpiece."
The Jinnee unlocked the drawer, and took out the metal cap, which he
placed in the breast pocket of his incongruous frock-coat. "So far,
well," he said; "next thou must deliver up to me the transcription thou
hast made, and swear to preserve an inviolable secrecy regarding the
meaning thereof."
"Do you know what you're asking, sir?" said the mule, laying back his
ears viciously. "Do you think that to oblige you I'm going to suppress
one of the most remarkable discoveries of my whole scientific career?
Never, sir--never!"
"Since if thou refusest I shall assuredly deprive thee of speech once
more and leave thee a mule, as thou art now, of hideous appearance,"
said the Jinnee, "thou art like to gain little by a discovery which thou
wilt be unable to impart. However, the choice rests with thee."
The mule rolled his one eye, and showed all his teeth in a vicious
snarl. "You've got the whip-hand of me," he said, "and I may as well
give in. There's a transcript inside my blotting-case--it's the only
copy I've made."
Fakrash found the paper, which he rubbed into invisibility between his
palms, as any ordinary conjurer might do.
"Now raise thy right forefoot," he said, "and swear by all thou holdest
sacred never to divulge what thou hast learnt"--which oath the
Professor, in the vilest of tempers, took, clumsily enough.
"Good," said the Jinnee, with a grim smile. "Now let one of thy women
bring me a cup of fair water."
Sylvia went out, and came back with a cup of water. "It's filtered," she
said anxiously; "I don't know if that will do?"
"It will suffice," said Fakrash. "Let both the women withdraw."
"Surely," remonstrated Mrs. Futvoye, "you don't mean to turn his wife
and daughter out of the room at such a moment as this? We shall be
perfectly quiet, and we may even be of some help."
"Do as you're told, my dear!" snapped the ungrateful mule; "do as you're
told. You'll only be in the way here. Do you suppose he doesn't know his
own beastly business?"
They left accordingly; whereupon Fakrash took the cup--an ordinary
breakfast cup with a Greek key-border pattern in pale blue round the
top--and, drenching the mule with the contents, exclaimed, "Quit this
form and return to the form in which thou wast!"
For a dreadful moment or two it seemed as if no effect was to be
produced; the animal simply stood and shivered, and Ventimore began to
feel an agonising suspicion that the Jinnee really had, as he had first
asserted, forgotten how to perform this particular incantation.
All at once the mule reared, and began to beat the air frantically with
his fore-hoofs; after which he fell heavily backward into the nearest
armchair (which was, fortunately, a solid and capacious piece of
furniture) with his fore-legs hanging limply at his side, in a
semi-human fashion. There was a brief convulsion, and then, by some
gradual process unspeakably impressive to witness, the man seemed to
break through the mule, the mule became merged in the man--and Professor
Futvoye, restored to his own natural form and habit, sat gasping and
trembling in the chair before them.