"SINCE THERE'S NO HELP, COME, LET US KISS AND PART!"
As soon as the Professor seemed to have regained his faculties, Horace
opened the door and called in Sylvia and her mother, who were, as was
only to be expected, overcome with joy on seeing the head of the family
released from his ignoble condition of a singularly ill-favoured
quadruped.
"There, there," said the Professor, as he submitted to their embraces
and incoherent congratulations, "it's nothing to make a fuss about. I'm
quite myself again, as you can see. And," he added, with an unreasonable
outburst of ill-temper, "if one of you had only had the common sense to
think of such a simple remedy as sprinkling a little cold water over me
when I was first taken like that, I should have been spared a great deal
of unnecessary inconvenience. But that's always the way with women--lose
their heads the moment anything goes wrong! If I had not kept perfectly
cool myself--"
"It was very, very stupid of us not to think of it, papa," said Sylvia,
tactfully ignoring the fact that there was scarcely an undamaged article
in the room; "still, you know, if _we_ had thrown the water it mightn't
have had the same effect."
"I'm not in a condition to argue now," said her father; "you didn't
trouble to try it, and there's no more to be said."
"No more to be said!" exclaimed Fakrash. "O thou monster of ingratitude,
hast thou no thanks for him who hath delivered thee from thy
predicament?"
"As I am already indebted to you, sir," said the Professor, "for about
twenty-four hours of the most poignant and humiliating mental and bodily
anguish a human being can endure, inflicted for no valid reason that I
can discover, except the wanton indulgence of your unholy powers, I can
only say that any gratitude of which I am conscious is of a very
qualified description. As for you, Ventimore," he added, turning to
Horace, "I don't know--I can only guess at--the part you have played in
this wretched business; but in any case you will understand, once for
all, that all relations between us must cease."
"Papa," said Sylvia, tremulously, "Horace and I have already agreed
that--that we must separate."
"At my bidding," explained Fakrash, suavely; "for such an alliance would
be totally unworthy of his merits and condition."
This frankness was rather too much for the Professor, whose temper had
not been improved by his recent trials.
"Nobody asked for your opinion, sir!" he snapped. "A person who has only
recently been released from a term of long and, from all I have been
able to ascertain, well-deserved imprisonment, is scarcely entitled to
pose as an authority on social rank. Have the decency not to interfere
again with my domestic affairs."
"Excellent is the saying," remarked the imperturbable Jinnee, "'Let the
rat that is between the paws of the leopard observe rigidly all the
rules of politeness and refrain from words of provocation.' For to
return thee to the form of a mule once more would be no difficult
undertaking."
"I think I failed to make myself clear," the Professor hastened to
observe--"failed to make myself clear. I--I merely meant to congratulate
you on your fortunate escape from the consequences of what I--I don't
doubt was an error of justice. I--I am sure that, in the future, you
will employ your--your very remarkable abilities to better purpose, and
I would suggest that the greatest service you can do this unfortunate
young man here is to abstain from any further attempts to promote his
interests."
"Hear, hear!" Horace could not help throwing in, though in so discreet
an undertone that it was inaudible.
"Far be this from me," replied Fakrash. "For he has become unto me even
as a favourite son, whom I design to place upon the golden pinnacle of
felicity. Therefore, I have chosen for him a wife, who is unto this
damsel of thine as the full moon to the glow-worm, and as the bird of
Paradise to an unfledged sparrow. And the nuptials shall be celebrated
before many hours."
"Horace!" cried Sylvia, justly incensed, "why--_why_ didn't you tell me
this before?"
"Because," said the unhappy Horace, "this is the very first I've heard
of it. He's always springing some fresh surprise on me," he added, in a
whisper--"but they never come to anything much. And he can't marry me
against my will, you know."
"No," said Sylvia, biting her lip. "I never supposed he could do that,
Horace."
"I'll settle this at once," he replied. "Now, look here, Mr. Jinnee," he
added, "I don't know what new scheme you have got in your head--but if
you are proposing to marry me to anybody in particular----"
"Have I not informed thee that I have it in contemplation to obtain for
thee the hand of a King's daughter of marvellous beauty and
accomplishments?"
"You know perfectly well you never mentioned it before," said Horace,
while Sylvia gave a little low cry.
"Repine not, O damsel," counselled the Jinnee, "since it is for his
welfare. For, though as yet he believeth it not, when he beholds the
resplendent beauty of her countenance he will swoon away with delight
and forget thy very existence."
"I shall do nothing of the sort," said Horace, savagely. "Just
understand that I don't intend to marry any Princess. You may prevent
me--in fact, you _have_--from marrying this lady, but you can't force me
to marry anybody else. I defy you!"
"When thou hast seen thy bride's perfections thou wilt need no
compulsion," said Fakrash. "And if thou shouldst refuse, know this: that
thou wilt be exposing those who are dear to thee in this household to
calamities of the most unfortunate description."
The awful vagueness of this threat completely crushed Horace; he could
not think, he did not even dare to imagine, what consequences he might
bring upon his beloved Sylvia and her helpless parents by persisting in
his refusal.
"Give me time," he said heavily; "I want to talk this over with you."
"Pardon me, Ventimore," said the Professor, with acidulous politeness;
"but, interesting as the discussion of your matrimonial arrangements is
to you and your--a--protector, I should greatly prefer that you choose
some more fitting place for arriving at a decision which is in the
circumstances a foregone conclusion. I am rather tired and upset, and I
should be obliged if you and this gentleman could bring this most trying
interview to a close as soon as you conveniently can."
"You hear, Mr. Fakrash?" said Horace, between his teeth, "it is quite
time we left. If you go at once, I will follow you very shortly."
"Thou wilt find me awaiting thee," answered the Jinnee, and, to Mrs.
Futvoye's and Sylvia's alarm, disappeared through one of the bookcases.
"Well," said Horace, gloomily, "you see how I'm situated? That obstinate
old devil has cornered me. I'm done for!"
"Don't say that," said the Professor; "you appear to be on the eve of a
most brilliant alliance, in which I am sure you have our best
wishes--the best wishes of us all," he added pointedly.
"Sylvia," said Horace, still lingering, "before I go, tell me that,
whatever I may have to do, you will understand that--that it will be for
your sake!"
"Please don't talk like that," she said. "We may never see one another
again. Don't let my last recollection of you be of--of a hypocrite,
Horace!"
"A hypocrite!" he cried. "Sylvia, this is too much! What have I said or
done to make you think me that?"
"Oh, I am not so simple as you suppose, Horace," she replied. "I see now
why all this has happened: why poor dad was tormented; why you insisted
on my setting you free. But I would have released you without _that_!
Indeed, all this elaborate artifice wasn't in the least necessary!"
"You believe I was an accomplice in that old fool's plot?" he said. "You
believe me such a cur as that?"
"I don't blame you," she said. "I don't believe you could help yourself.
He can make you do whatever he chooses. And then, you are so rich now,
it is natural that you should want to marry some one--some one more
suited to you--like this lovely Princess of yours."
"Of mine!" groaned the exasperated Horace. "When I tell you I've never
even seen her! As if any Princess in the world would marry me to please
a Jinnee out of a brass bottle! And if she did, Sylvia, you can't
believe that any Princess would make me forget you!"
"It depends so very much on the Princess," was all Sylvia could be
induced to say.
"Well," said Horace, "if that's all the faith you have in me, I suppose
it's useless to say any more. Good-bye, Mrs. Futvoye; good-bye,
Professor. I wish I could tell you how deeply I regret all the trouble I
have brought on you by my own folly. All I can say is, that I will bear
anything in future rather than expose you or any of you to the smallest
risk."
"I trust, indeed," said the Professor, stiffly, "that you will use all
the influence at your command to secure me from any repetition of an
experience that might well have unmanned a less equable temperament than
my own."
"Good-bye, Horace," said Mrs. Futvoye, more kindly. "I believe you are
more to be pitied than blamed, whatever others may think. And _I_ don't
forget--if Anthony does--that, but for you, he might, instead of sitting
there comfortably in his armchair, be lashing out with his hind legs and
kicking everything to pieces at this very moment!"
"I deny that I lashed out!" said the Professor. "My--a--hind quarters
may have been under imperfect control--but I never lost my reasoning
powers or my good humour for a single instant. I can say that
truthfully."
If the Professor could say that truthfully amidst the general wreck in
which he sat, like another Marius, he had little to learn in the gentle
art of self-deception; but there was nothing to gain by contradicting
him then.
"Good-bye, Sylvia," said Horace, and held out his hand.
"Good-bye," she said, without offering to take it or look at him--and,
after a miserable pause, he left the study. But before he had reached
the front door he heard a swish and swirl of drapery behind him, and
felt her light hand on his arm. "Ah, no!" she said, clinging to him, "I
can't let you go like this. I didn't mean all the things I said just
now. I _do_ believe in you, Horace--at least, I'll try hard to.... And I
shall always, _always_ love you, Horace.... I shan't care--very
much--even if you do forget me, so long as you are happy.... Only don't
be _too_ happy. Think of me sometimes!"
"I shall _not_ be too happy," he said, as he held her close to his heart
and kissed her pathetically drawn mouth and flushed cheeks. "And I shall
think of you always."
"And you won't fall in love with your Princess?" entreated Sylvia, at
the end of her altruism. "Promise!"
"If I am ever provided with one," he replied, "I shall loathe her--for
not being you. But don't let us lose heart, darling. There must be some
way of talking that old idiot out of this nonsense and bringing him
round to common sense. I'm not going to give in just yet!"
These were brave words--but, as they both felt, the situation had little
enough to warrant them, and, after one last long embrace, they parted,
and he was no sooner on the steps than he felt himself caught up as
before and borne through the air with breathless speed, till he was set
down, he could not have well said how, in a chair in his own
sitting-room at Vincent Square.
"Well," he said, looking at the Jinnee, who was standing opposite with a
smile of intolerable complacency, "I suppose you feel satisfied with
yourself over this business?"
"It hath indeed been brought to a favourable conclusion," said Fakrash.
"Well hath the poet written----"
"I don't think I can stand any more 'Elegant Extracts' this afternoon,"
interrupted Horace. "Let us come to business. You seem," he went on,
with a strong effort to keep himself in hand, "to have formed some plan
for marrying me to a King's daughter. May I ask you for full
particulars?"
"No honour and advancement can be in excess of thy deserts," answered
the Jinnee.
"Very kind of you to say so--but you are probably unaware that, as
society is constituted at the present time, the objections to such an
alliance would be quite insuperable."
"For me," said the Jinnee, "few obstacles are insuperable. But speak thy
mind freely."
"I will," said Horace. "To begin with, no European Princess of the Blood
Royal would entertain the idea for a moment. And if she did, she would
forfeit her rank and cease to be a Princess, and I should probably be
imprisoned in a fortress for _lese majeste_ or something."
"Dismiss thy fears, for I do not propose to unite thee to any Princess
that is born of mortals. The bride I intend for thee is a Jinneeyeh; the
peerless Bedeea-el-Jemal, daughter of my kinsman Shahyal, the Ruler of
the Blue Jann."
"Oh, is she, though?" said Horace, blankly. "I'm exceedingly obliged,
but, whatever may be the lady's attractions----"
"Her nose," recited the Jinnee, with enthusiasm, "is like unto the keen
edge of a polished sword; her hair resembleth jewels, and her cheeks are
ruddy as wine. She hath heavy lips, and when she looketh aside she
putteth to shame the wild cows...."
"My good, excellent friend," said Horace, by no means impressed by this
catalogue of charms, "one doesn't marry to mortify wild cows."
"When she walketh with a vacillating gait," continued Fakrash, as though
he had not been interrupted, "the willow branch itself turneth green
with envy."
"Personally," said Horace, "a waddle doesn't strike me as particularly
fascinating--it's quite a matter of taste. Do you happen to have seen
this enchantress lately?"
"My eyes have not been refreshed by her manifold beauties since I was
enclosed by Suleyman--whose name be accursed--in the brass bottle of
which thou knowest. Why dost thou ask?"
"Merely because it occurred to me that, after very nearly three thousand
years, your charming kinswoman may--well, to put it as mildly as
possible, not have altogether escaped the usual effects of Time. I mean,
she must be getting on, you know!"
"O, silly-bearded one!" said the Jinnee, in half-scornful rebuke; "art
thou, then, ignorant that we of the Jinn are not as mortals, that we
should feel the ravages of age?"
"Forgive me if I'm personal," said Horace; "but surely your own hair
and beard might be described as rather inclining to grey."
"Not from age," said Fakrash, "This cometh from long confinement."
"I see," said Horace. "Like the Prisoner of Chillon. Well, assuming that
the lady in question is still in the bloom of early youth, I see one
fatal difficulty to becoming her suitor."
"Doubtless," said the Jinnee, "thou art referring to Jarjarees, the son
of Rejmoos, the son of Iblees?"
"No, I wasn't," said Horace; "because, you see, I don't remember having
ever heard of him. However, he's _another_ fatal difficulty. That makes
two of them."
"Surely I have spoken of him to thee as my deadliest foe? It is true
that he is a powerful and vindictive Efreet, who hath long persecuted
the beauteous Bedeea with hateful attentions. Yet it may be possible, by
good fortune, to overthrow him."
"Then I gather that any suitor for Bedeea's hand would be looked upon as
a rival by the amiable Jarjarees?"
"Far is he from being of an amiable disposition," answered the Jinnee,
simply, "and he would be so transported by rage and jealousy that he
would certainly challenge thee to mortal combat."
"Then that settles it," said Horace. "I don't think any one can fairly
call me a coward, but I do draw the line at fighting an Efreet for the
hand of a lady I've never seen. How do I know he'll fight fair?"
"He would probably appear unto thee first in the form of a lion, and if
he could not thus prevail against thee, transform himself into a
serpent, and then into a buffalo or some other wild beast."
"And I should have to tackle the entire menagerie?" said Horace. "Why,
my dear sir, I should never get beyond the lion!"
"I would assist thee to assume similar transformations," said the
Jinnee, "and thus thou mayst be enabled to defeat him. For I burn with
desire to behold mine enemy reduced to cinders."
"It's much more likely that you would have to sweep _me_ up!" said
Horace, who had a strong conviction that anything in which the Jinnee
was concerned would be bungled somehow. "And if you're so anxious to
destroy this Jarjarees, why don't you challenge him to meet you in some
quiet place in the desert and settle him yourself? It's much more in
your line than it is in mine!"
He was not without hopes that Fakrash might act on this suggestion, and
that so he would be relieved of him in the simplest and most
satisfactory way; but any such hopes were as usual doomed to
disappointment.
"It would be of no avail," said the Jinnee, "for it hath been written of
old that Jarjarees shall not perish save by the hand of a mortal. And I
am persuaded that thou wilt turn out to be that mortal, since thou art
both strong and fearless, and, moreover, it is also predestined that
Bedeea shall wed one of the sons of men."
"Then," said Horace, feeling that this line of defence must be
abandoned, "I fall back on objection number one. Even if Jarjarees were
obliging enough to retire in my favour, I should still decline to become
the--a--consort of a Jinneeyeh whom I've never seen, and don't love."
"Thou hast heard of her incomparable charms, and verily the ear may love
before the eye."
"It may," admitted Horace, "but neither of _my_ ears is the least in
love at present."
"These reasons are of no value," said Fakrash, "and if thou hast none
better----"
"Well," said Ventimore, "I think I have. You profess to be anxious
to--to requite the trifling service I rendered you, though hitherto,
you'll admit yourself, you haven't made a very brilliant success of it.
But, putting the past aside," he continued, with a sudden dryness in his
throat; "putting the past aside, I ask you to consider what possible
benefit or happiness such a match as this--I'm afraid I'm not so
fortunate as to secure your attention?" he broke off, as he observed the
Jinnee's eyes beginning to film over in the disagreeable manner
characteristic of certain birds.
"Proceed," said Fakrash, unskinning his eyes for a second; "I am
hearkening unto thee."
"It seems to me," stammered Horace, inconsequently enough, "that all
that time inside a bottle--well, you can't call it _experience_ exactly;
and possibly in the interval you've forgotten all you knew about
feminine nature. I think you _must_ have."
"It is not possible that such knowledge should be forgotten," said the
Jinnee, resenting this imputation in quite a human way. "Thy words
appear to me to lack sense. Interpret them, I pray thee."
"Why," explained Horace, "you don't mean to tell me that this young and
lovely relation of yours, a kind of immortal, and--and with the devil's
own pride, would be gratified by your proposal to bestow her hand upon
an insignificant and unsuccessful London architect? She'd turn up that
sharp and polished nose of hers at the mere idea of so unequal a match!"
"An excellent rank is that conferred by wealth," remarked the Jinnee.
"But I'm _not_ rich, and I've already declined any riches from you,"
said Horace. "And, what's more to the point, I'm perfectly and
hopelessly obscure. If you had the slightest sense of humour--which I
fear you have not--you would at once perceive the absurdity of proposing
to unite a radiant, ethereal, superhuman being to a commonplace
professional nonentity in a morning coat and a tall hat. It's really too
ridiculous!"
"What thou hast just said is not altogether without wisdom," said
Fakrash, to whom this was evidently a new point of view. "Art thou,
indeed, so utterly unknown?"
"Unknown?" repeated Horace; "I should rather think I was! I'm simply an
inconsiderable unit in the population of the vastest city in the world;
or, rather, not a unit--a cipher. And, don't you see, a man to be worthy
of your exalted kinswoman ought to be a celebrity. There are plenty of
them about."
"What meanest thou by a celebrity?" inquired Fakrash, falling into the
trap more readily than Horace had ventured to hope.
"Oh, well, a distinguished person, whose name is on everybody's lips,
who is honoured and praised by all his fellow-citizens. Now, _that_ kind
of man no Jinneeyeh could look down upon."
"I perceive," said Fakrash, thoughtfully. "Yes, I was in danger of
committing a rash action. How do men honour such distinguished
individuals in these days?"
"They generally overfeed them," said Horace. "In London the highest
honour a hero can be paid is to receive the freedom of the City, which
is only conferred in very exceptional cases, and for some notable
service. But, of course, there are other sorts of celebrities, as you
could see if you glanced through the society papers."
"I cannot believe that thou, who seemest a gracious and talented young
man, can be indeed so obscure as thou hast represented."
"My good sir, any of the flowers that blush unseen in the desert air, or
the gems concealed in ocean caves, so excellently described by one of
our poets, could give me points and a beating in the matter of
notoriety. I'll make you a sporting offer. There are over five million
inhabitants in this London of ours. If you go out into the streets and
ask the first five hundred you meet whether they know me, I don't mind
betting you--what shall I say? a new hat--that you won't find half a
dozen who've ever even heard of my existence. Why not go out and see for
yourself?"
To his surprise and gratification the Jinnee took this seriously. "I
will go forth and make inquiry," he said, "for I desire further
enlightenment concerning thy statements. But, remember," he added:
"should I still require thee to wed the matchless Bedeea-el-Jemal, and
thou shouldst disobey me, thou wilt bring disaster, not on thine own
head, but on those thou art most desirous of protecting."
"Yes, so you told me before," said Horace, brusquely. "Good evening."
But Fakrash was already gone. In spite of all he had gone through and
the unknown difficulties before him, Ventimore was seized with what
Uncle Remus calls "a spell of the dry grins" at the thought of the
probable replies that the Jinnee would meet with in the course of his
inquiries. "I'm afraid he won't be particularly impressed by the
politeness of a London crowd," he thought; "but at least they'll
convince him that I am not exactly a prominent citizen. Then he'll give
up this idiotic match of his--I don't know, though. He's such a
pig-headed old fool that he may stick to it all the same. I may find
myself encumbered with a Jinneeyeh bride several centuries my senior
before I know where I am. No, I forget; there's the jealous Jarjarees to
be polished off first. I seem to remember something about a quick-change
combat with an Efreet in the "Arabian Nights." I may as well look it up,
and see what may be in store for me."
And after dinner he went to his shelves and took down Lane's
three-volume edition of "The Arabian Nights," which he set himself to
study with a new interest. It was long since he had looked into these
wondrous tales, old beyond all human calculation, and fresher, even now,
than the most modern of successful romances. After all, he was tempted
to think, they might possess quite as much historical value as many
works with graver pretentions to accuracy.
He found a full account of the combat with the Efreet in "The Story of
the Second Royal Mendicant" in the first volume, and was unpleasantly
surprised to discover that the Efreet's name was actually given as
"Jarjarees, the son of Rejmoos, the son of Iblees"--evidently the same
person to whom Fakrash had referred as his bitterest foe. He was
described as "of hideous aspect," and had, it seemed, not only carried
off the daughter of the Lord of the Ebony Island on her wedding night,
but, on discovering her in the society of the Royal Mendicant, had
revenged himself by striking off her hands, her feet, and her head, and
transforming his human rival into an ape. "Between this fellow and old
Fakrash," he reflected ruefully, at this point, "I seem likely to have a
fairly lively time of it!"
He read on till he reached the memorable encounter between the King's
daughter and Jarjarees, who presented himself "in a most hideous shape,
with hands like winnowing forks, and legs like masts, and eyes like
burning torches"--which was calculated to unnerve the stoutest novice.
The Efreet began by transforming himself from a lion to a scorpion, upon
which the Princess became a serpent; then he changed to an eagle, and
she to a vulture; he to a black cat, and she to a cock; he to a fish,
and she to a larger fish still.
"If Fakrash can shove me through all that without a fatal hitch
somewhere," Ventimore told himself, "I shall be agreeably disappointed
in him," But, after reading a few more lines, he cheered up. For the
Efreet finished as a flame, and the Princess as a "body of fire." "And
when we looked towards him," continued the narrator, "we perceived that
he had become a heap of ashes."
"Come," said Horace to himself, "that puts Jarjarees out of action, any
way! The odd thing is that Fakrash should never have heard of it."
But, as he saw on reflection, it was not so very odd, after all, as the
incident had probably happened after the Jinnee had been consigned to
his brass bottle, where intelligence of any kind would be most unlikely
to reach him.
He worked steadily through the whole of the second volume and part of
the third; but, although he picked up a certain amount of information
upon Oriental habits and modes of thought and speech which might come in
useful later, it was not until he arrived at the 24th Chapter of the
third volume that his interest really revived.
For the 24th Chapter contained "The Story of Seyf-el-Mulook and
Bedeea-el-Jemal," and it was only natural that he should be anxious to
know all that there was to know concerning the antecedents of one who
might be his _fiancee_ before long. He read eagerly.
Bedeea, it appeared, was the lovely daughter of Shahyal, one of the
Kings of the Believing Jann; her father--not Fakrash himself, as the
Jinnee had incorrectly represented--had offered her in marriage to no
less a personage than King Solomon himself, who, however, had preferred
the Queen of Sheba. Seyf, the son of the King of Egypt, afterwards fell
desperately in love with Bedeea, but she and her grandmother both
declared that between mankind and the Jann there could be no agreement.
"And Seyf was a King's son!" commented Horace. "I needn't alarm myself.
She wouldn't be likely to have anything to say to _me_. It's just as I
told Fakrash."
His heart grew lighter still as he came to the end, for he learnt that,
after many adventures which need not be mentioned here, the devoted Seyf
did actually succeed in gaining the proud Bedeea as his wife. "Even
Fakrash could not propose to marry me to some one who has a husband
already," he thought. "Still, she _may_ be a widow!"
To his relief, however, the conclusion ran thus; "Seyf-el-Mulook lived
with Bedeea-el-Jemal a most pleasant and agreeable life ... until they
were visited by the terminator of delights and the separator of
companions."
"If that means anything at all," he reasoned, "it means that Seyf and
Bedeea are both deceased. Even Jinneeyeh seem to be mortal. Or perhaps
she became so by marrying a mortal; I dare say that Fakrash himself
wouldn't have lasted all this time if he hadn't been bottled, like a
tinned tomato. But I'm glad I found this out, because Fakrash is
evidently unaware of it, and, if he _should_ persist in any more of this
nonsense, I think I see my way now to getting the better of him."
So, with renewed hope and in vastly improved spirits, he went to bed and
was soon sound asleep.