by F. Anstey
CHAPTER XII
THE MESSENGER OF HOPE
Jessie, the neat and pretty parlour-maid, opened the door with a smileof welcome which Horace found reassuring. No girl, he thought, whosemaster had suddenly been transformed into a mule could possibly smilelike that. The Professor, she told him, was not at home, which again wascomforting. For a _savant_, however careless about his personalappearance, would scarcely venture to brave public opinion in thesemblance 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 literarylabour of any kind. Evidently the Jinnee must either have overrated hissupernatural powers, or else have been deliberately amusing himself atHorace's expense.
"Then I will see Miss Futvoye," he said.
"Miss Sylvia is with the master, sir," said the girl; "but if you'llcome 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. Outwardlyshe was calm enough, but it was only too obvious that her calmness wasthe result of severe self-repression; her eyes, usually so shrewdly andplacidly observant, had a haggard and hunted look; her ears seemed onthe strain to catch some distant sound.
"I hardly thought we should see you to-day," she began, in a tone ofstudied reserve; "but perhaps you came to offer some explanation of theextraordinary manner in which you thought fit to entertain us lastnight? If so----"
"The fact is," said Horace, looking into his hat, "I came because I wasrather anxious about the Professor.
"About my husband?" said the poor lady, with a really heroic effort toappear surprised. "He is--as well as could be expected. Why should yousuppose otherwise?" she asked, with a flash of suspicion.
"I fancied perhaps that--that he mightn't be quite himself to-day," saidHorace, with his eyes on the carpet.
"I see," said Mrs. Futvoye, regaining her composure; "you were afraidthat all those foreign dishes might not have agreed with him.But--except that he is a little irritable this afternoon--he is much asusual."
"I'm delighted to hear it," said Horace, with reviving hope. "Do youthink he would see me for a moment?"
"Great heavens, no!" cried Mrs. Futvoye, with an irrepressible start; "Imean," she explained, "that, after what took place last night,Anthony--my husband--very properly feels that an interview would be toopainful."
"But when we parted he was perfectly friendly."
"I can only say," replied the courageous woman, "that you would find himconsiderably 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 oneof his societies to-morrow night, and she is writing it out from hisdictation."
If any departure from strict truth can ever be excusable, this surelywas one; unfortunately, just then Sylvia herself burst into the room.
"Mother," she cried, without seeing Horace in her agitation, "do cometo papa, quick! He has just begun kicking again, and I can't manage himalone.... Oh, _you_ here?" she broke off, as she saw who was in theroom. "Why do you come here now, Horace? Please, _please_ go away! Papais rather unwell--nothing serious, only--oh, _do_ go away!"
"Darling!" said Horace, going to her and taking both her hands, "I knowall--do you understand?--_all_!"
"Mamma!" cried Sylvia, reproachfully, "have you told him--already? Whenwe settled that even Horace wasn't to know till--till papa recovers!"
"I have told him nothing, my dear," replied her mother. "He can'tpossibly know, unless--but no, that isn't possible. And, after all," sheadded, with a warning glance at her daughter, "I don't know why weshould make any mystery about a mere attack of gout. But I had better goand 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'tknow how dreadfully people kick when they've got gout," she remarkedpresently.
"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 youto come!"
"Dearest," said Horace, "is not this just the time when my place shouldbe near you--and him?"
"Not near papa, Horace!" she put in anxiously; "it wouldn't be at allsafe."
"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 aspossible, "that a casual observer, who didn't know your father, mightmistake him, at first sight, for--for some sort of quadruped."
"He's a mule," sobbed Sylvia, breaking down entirely. "I could bear itbetter if he had been a _nice_ mule.... B--but he isn't!"
"Whatever he may be," declared Horace, as he knelt by her chairendeavouring to comfort her, "nothing can alter my profound respect forhim. And you must let me see him, Sylvia; because I fully believe Ishall 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 hissituation," Horace mildly explained. "I trust I have more tact thanthat. But he may be glad to know that, at the worst, it is only atemporary inconvenience. I'll take care that he's all right again beforevery long."
She started up and looked at him, her eyes widened with dawning dreadand 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 papatalking loudly in his study this morning, as if he was angry withsomebody, and at last she grew so uneasy she couldn't bear it anylonger, and went in to see what was the matter with him. Dad was quitealone and looked as usual, only a little excited; and then, without theslightest warning, just as she entered the room, he--he changed slowlyinto a mule before her eyes! Anybody but mamma would have lost her headand roused the whole house."
"Thank Heaven she didn't!" said Horace, fervently. "That was what I wasmost afraid of."
"Then--oh, Horace, it _was_ you! It's no use denying it. I feel morecertain of it every moment!"
"Now, Sylvia!" he protested, still anxious, if possible, to keep theworst from her, "what could have put such an idea as that into yourhead?"
"I don't know," she said slowly. "Several things last night. No one whowas really nice, and like everybody else, would live in such queer roomslike those, and dine on cushions, with dreadful black slaves, and--anddancing-girls and things. You pretended you were quite poor."
"So I am, darling. And as for my rooms, and--and the rest, they're allgone, Sylvia. If you went to Vincent Square to-day, you wouldn't find atrace 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 lovedme----!"
"But I do, Sylvia, you can't really believe me capable of such anoutrage! Look at me and tell me so."
"No, Horace," said Sylvia frankly. "I don't believe _you_ did it. But Ibelieve 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 youeverything." And, as briefly as possible, he told her how he hadunsealed the brass bottle, and all that had come of it.
She bore it, on the whole, better than he had expected; perhaps, being awoman, it was some consolation to her to remind
him that she hadforetold 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 greatwicked 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 Jinneeenough. And he'd do anything for me. Nobody could be more grateful andgenerous 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 Arabiathey do these things--or used to in his day. Not that that's much excusefor him. Still, he's not so young as he was, and besides, being bottledup for all those centuries must have narrowed him rather. You must tryand make allowances for him, darling."
"I shan't," said Sylvia, "unless he apologises to poor father, and putshim right at once."
"Why, of course, he'll do that," Horace answered confidently. "I'll seethat he does. I don't mean to stand any more of his nonsense. I'm afraidI've been just a little too slack for fear of hurting his feelings; butthis 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 hehas 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, orsomewhere."
"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 thinkI'd better---- I was just telling Sylvia, Mrs. Futvoye," he said, asthat lady re-entered the room, "that I should like to see the Professorat once."
"It's quite, _quite_ impossible!" was the nervous reply. "He's in such astate that he's unable to see any one. You don't know how fractious goutmakes him!"
"Dear Mrs. Futvoye," said Horace, "believe me, I know more than yousuppose."
"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 plungeat 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 toconduct him to her husband's study.
"Anthony, love," she said, as she knocked gently at the door, "I'vebrought Horace Ventimore to see you for a few moments, if he may."
It seemed from the sounds of furious snorting and stamping within, thatthe Professor resented this intrusion on his privacy. "My dear Anthony,"said his devoted wife, as she unlocked the door and turned the key onthe inside after admitting Horace, "try to be calm. Think of theservants downstairs. Horace is _so_ anxious to help."
As for Ventimore, he was speechless--so inexpressibly shocked was he bythe alteration in the Professor's appearance. He had never seen a mulein sorrier condition or in so vicious a temper. Most of the lighterfurniture had been already reduced to matchwood; the glass doors of thebookcase were starred or shivered; precious Egyptian pottery and glasswere strewn in fragments on the carpets, and even the mummy, though itstill smiled with the same enigmatic cheerfulness, seemed to havesuffered severely from the Professorial hoofs.
Horace instinctively felt that any words of conventional sympathy wouldjar here; indeed, the Professor's attitude and expression reminded himirresistibly of a certain "Blondin Donkey" he had seen enacted bymusic-hall artists, at the point where it becomes sullen and defiant.Only, he had laughed helplessly at the Blondin Donkey, and somehow hefelt no inclination to laugh now.
"Believe me, sir," he began, "I would not disturb you like thisunless--steady there, for Heaven's sake Professor, don't kick tillyou've heard me out!" For, the mule, in a clumsy, shambling way whichbetrayed the novice, was slowly revolving on his own axis so as to bringhis hind-quarters into action, while still keeping his only serviceableeye upon his unwelcome visitor.
"Listen to me, sir," said Horace, manoeuvring in his turn. "I'm not toblame for this, and if you brain me, as you seem to be endeavouring todo, you'll simply destroy the only living man who can get you out ofthis."
The mule appeared impressed by this, and backed cumbrously into acorner, from which he regarded Horace with a mistrustful, but attentive,eye. "If, as I imagine, sir," continued Horace, "you are, thoughtemporarily deprived of speech, perfectly capable of following anargument, will you kindly signify it by raising your right ear?" Themule's right ear rose with a sharp twitch.
"Now we can get on," said Horace. "First let me tell you that Irepudiate all responsibility for the proceedings of that infernalJinnee.... 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 mouthopen, which obliged Horace to shelter himself behind a large leatherarm-chair. "You really _must_ keep cool, sir," he remonstrated; "yournerves are naturally upset. If I might suggest a little champagne--youcould manage it in--in a bucket, and it would help you to pull yourselftogether. A whisk of your--er--tail would imply consent." TheProfessor's tail instantly swept some rare Arabian glass lamps and vasesfrom a shelf at his rear, whereupon Mrs. Futvoye went out, and returnedpresently with a bottle of champagne and a large china _jardiniere_, asthe best substitute she could find for a bucket.
When the mule had drained the flower-pot greedily and appearedrefreshed, Horace proceeded: "I have every hope, sir," he said, "thatbefore many hours you will be smiling--pray don't prance like that, Imean what I say--smiling over what now seems to you, very justly, a mostannoying and serious catastrophe. I shall speak seriously to Fakrash(the Jinnee, you know), and I am sure that, as soon as he realises whata frightful blunder he has made, he will be the first to offer you everyreparation in his power. For, old foozle as he is, he's thoroughlygood-hearted."
The Professor drooped his ears at this, and shook his head with adoleful incredulity that made him look more like the Pantomime Donkeythan 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 myword of honour that, if you'll only remain quiet and leave everything tome, you shall very soon be released from this absurd position. That'sall 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, togive me your--your off-foreleg at parting, I----"
But the Professor turned his back in so pointed and ominous a mannerthat Horace judged it better to withdraw without insisting further. "I'mafraid," he said to Mrs. Futvoye, after they had rejoined Sylvia in thedrawing-room--"I'm afraid your husband is still a little sore with meabout this miserable business."
"I don't know what else you can expect," replied the lady, rathertartly; "he can't help feeling--as we all must and do, after what yousaid 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 hideousbrass bottle with a nasty Genius in it. And any one with ordinary commonsense 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_ youfeel it almost as
much as we do. But so long as poor, dear papa remainsas 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_ remainas 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 tosay. I can't promise anything now, Horace."
Horace recognised that no appeal would draw a more definite answer fromher 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 bearthe suspense with patience.
He got through dinner as well as he could in his own rooms, for he didnot like to go to his club lest the Jinnee should suddenly return duringhis 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 thingsas Mary's lamb. I shouldn't care about seeing him suddenly burstingthrough the floor of the smoking-room. Nor would the committee."
He sat up late, in the hope that Fakrash would appear; but the Jinneemade no sign, and Horace began to get uneasy. "I wish there was someway of ringing him up," he thought. "If he were only the slave of a ringor a lamp, I'd rub it; but it wouldn't be any use to rub thatbottle--and, besides, he isn't a slave. Probably he has a suspicion thathe has not exactly distinguished himself over his latest feat, andthinks it prudent to keep out of my way for the present. But if hefancies he'll make things any better for himself by that he'll findhimself mistaken."
It was maddening to think of the unhappy Professor still fretting awayhour after hour in the uncongenial form of a mule, waiting impatientlyfor the relief that never came. If it lingered much longer, he mightactually starve, unless his family thought of getting in some oats forhim, and he could be prevailed upon to touch them. And how much longercould they succeed in concealing the nature of his affliction? How longbefore all Kensington, and the whole civilised world, would know thatone of the leading Orientalists in Europe was restlessly prancing onfour legs around his study in Cottesmore Gardens?
Racked by speculations such as these, Ventimore lay awake till well intothe small hours, when he dropped off into troubled dreams that, wild asthey were, could not be more grotesquely fantastic than the realities towhich they were the alternative.