Part 8 (1/2)

”No, no,” he said, ”for Heaven's sake, leave things alone--you'll only make them worse. Forgive me, my dear Mr. Fakrash, I'm afraid I must seem most ungrateful; but--but I was so taken by surprise. And really, I am extremely obliged to you. For, though the means you took were----were a little irregular, you have done me a very great service.”

”It is naught,” said the Jinnee, ”compared to those I hope to render so great a benefactor.”

”But, indeed, you mustn't think of trying to do any more for me,” urged Horace, who felt the absolute necessity of expelling any scheme of further benevolence from the Jinnee's head once and for all. ”You have done enough. Why, thanks to you, I am engaged to build a palace that will keep me hard at work and happy for ever so long.”

”Are human beings, then, so enamoured of hard labour?” asked Fakrash, in wonder. ”It is not thus with the Jinn.”

”I love my work for its own sake,” said Horace, ”and then, when I have finished it, I shall have earned a very fair amount of money--which is particularly important to me just now.”

”And why, my son, art thou so desirous of obtaining riches?”

”Because,” said Horace, ”unless a man is tolerably well off in these days he cannot hope to marry.”

Fakrash smiled with indulgent compa.s.sion. ”How excellent is the saying of one of old: 'He that adventureth upon matrimony is like unto one who thrusteth his hand into a sack containing many thousands of serpents and one eel. Yet, if Fate so decree, he _may_ draw forth the eel.' And thou art comely, and of an age when it is natural to desire the love of a maiden. Therefore be of good heart and a cheerful eye, and it may be that, when I am more at leisure, I shall find thee a helpmate who shall rejoice thy soul.”

”Please don't trouble to find me anything of the sort!” said Horace, hastily, with a mental vision of some helpless and scandalised stranger being shot into his dwelling like coals. ”I a.s.sure you I would much rather win a wife for myself in the ordinary way--as, thanks to your kindness, I have every hope of doing before long.”

”Is there already some damsel for whom thy heart pineth? If so, fear not to tell me her names and dwelling place, and I will a.s.suredly obtain her for thee.”

But Ventimore had seen enough of the Jinnee's Oriental methods to doubt his tact and discretion where Sylvia was concerned. ”No, no; of course not. I spoke generally,” he said. ”It's exceedingly kind of you--but I _do_ wish I could make you understand that I am overpaid as it is. You have put me in the way to make a name and fortune for myself. If I fail, it will be my own fault. And, at all events, I want nothing more from you. If you mean to find Suleyman (on whom be peace!) you must go and live in the East altogether--for he certainly isn't over here; you must give up your whole time to it, keep as quiet as possible, and don't be discouraged by any reports you may hear. Above all, never trouble your head about me or my affairs again!”

”O thou of wisdom and eloquence,” said Fakrash, ”this is most excellent advice. I will go, then; but may I drink the cup of perdition if I become unmindful of thy benevolence!”

And, raising his joined hands above his head as he spoke, he sank, feet foremost, through the carpet and was gone.

”Thank Heaven,” thought Ventimore, ”he's taken the hint at last. I don't think I'm likely to see any more of him. I feel an ungrateful brute for saying so, but I can't help it. I can _not_ stand being under any obligation to a Jinnee who's been shut up in a beastly bra.s.s bottle ever since the days of Solomon, who probably had very good reasons for putting him there.”

Horace next asked himself whether he was bound in honour to disclose the facts to Mr. Wackerbath, and give him the opportunity of withdrawing from the agreement if he thought fit.

On the whole, he saw no necessity for telling him anything; the only possible result would be to make his client suspect his sanity; and who would care to employ an insane architect? Then, if he retired from the undertaking without any explanations, what could he say to Sylvia? What would Sylvia's father say to _him_? There would certainly be an end to his engagement.

After all, he had not been to blame; the Wackerbaths were quite satisfied. He felt perfectly sure that he could justify their selection of him; he would wrong n.o.body by accepting the commission, while he would only offend them, injure himself irretrievably, and lose all hope of gaining Sylvia if he made any attempt to undeceive them.

And Fakrash was gone, never to return. So, on all these considerations, Horace decided that silence was his only possible policy, and, though some moralists may condemn his conduct as disingenuous and wanting in true moral courage, I venture to doubt whether any reader, however independent, straightforward, and indifferent to notoriety and ridicule, would have behaved otherwise in Ventimore's extremely delicate and difficult position.

Some days pa.s.sed, every working hour of which was spent by Horace in the rapture of creation. To every man with the soul of an artist in him there comes at times--only too seldom in most cases--a revelation of latent power that he had not dared to hope for. And now with Ventimore years of study and theorising which he had often been tempted to think wasted began to bear golden fruit. He designed and drew with a rapidity and originality, a sense of perfect mastery of the various problems to be dealt with, and a delight in the working out of ma.s.s and detail, so intoxicating that he almost dreaded lest he should be the victim of some self-delusion.

His evenings were of course spent with the Futvoyes, in discovering Sylvia in some new and yet more adorable aspect. Altogether, he was very much in love, very happy, and very busy--three states not invariably found in combination.

And, as he had foreseen, he had effectually got rid of Fakrash, who was evidently too engrossed in the pursuit of Solomon to think of anything else. And there seemed no reason why he should abandon his search for a generation or two, for it would probably take all that time to convince him that that mighty monarch was no longer on the throne.

”It would have been too brutal to tell him myself,” thought Horace, ”when he was so keen on having his case reheard. And it gives him an object, poor old buffer, and keeps him from interfering in my affairs, so it's best for both of us.”

Horace's little dinner-party had been twice postponed, till he had begun to have a superst.i.tious fear that it would never come off; but at length the Professor had been induced to give an absolute promise for a certain evening.

On the day before, after breakfast, Horace had summoned his landlady to a consultation on the _menu_. ”Nothing elaborate, you know, Mrs.

Rapkin,” said Horace, who, though he would have liked to provide a feast of all procurable delicacies for Sylvia's refection, was obliged to respect her father's prejudices. ”Just a simple dinner, thoroughly well cooked, and nicely served--as you know so well how to do it.”

”I suppose, sir, you would require Rapkin to wait?”