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Brass Bottle

[Pg 174] <h2>CHAPTER XV</h2> <h3>BLUSHING HONOURS</h3> It was rather late the next morning when Ventimore opened his eyes, to discover the Jinnee standing by the foot of his bed. "Oh, it's you, is it?" he said sleepily. "How did you—a—get on last night?" "I gained such information as I desired," said Fakrash, guardedly; "and now, for the last time, I am come to ask thee whether thou wilt still persist in refusing to wed the illustrious Bedeea-el-Jemal? And have a care how thou answerest." "So you haven't given up the idea?" said Horace. "Well, since you make such a point of it, I'll meet you as far as this. If you produce the lady, and she consents to marry me, I won't decline the honour. But there's one condition I really must insist on." "It is not for thee to make stipulations. Still, yet this once I will hear thee." "I'm sure you'll see that it's only fair. Supposing, for any reason, you can't persuade the Princess to meet me within a reasonable time—shall we say a week?——" "Thou shalt be admitted to her presence within twenty-four hours," said the Jinnee. "That's better still. Then, if I don't see her within twenty-four hours, I am to be at liberty to infer that the negotiations are off, and I may marry anybody else I please, without any opposition from you? Is that understood?" "It is agreed," said Fakrash, "for I am confident that Bedeea will accept thee joyfully." "We shall see," said Horace. "But it might be as well if you went and prepared her a little. I suppose[Pg 175] you know where to find her—and you've only twenty-four hours, you know." "More than is needed," answered the Jinnee, with such childlike confidence, that Horace felt almost ashamed of so easy a victory. "But the sun is already high. Arise, my son, put on these robes"—and with this he flung on the bed the magnificent raiment which Ventimore had last worn on the night of his disastrous entertainment—"and when thou hast broken thy fast, prepare to accompany me." "Before I agree to that," said Horace, sitting up in bed, "I should like to know where you're taking me to." "Obey me without demur," said Fakrash, "or thou knowest the consequences." It seemed to Horace that it was as well to humour him, and he got up accordingly, washed and shaved, and, putting on his dazzling robe of cloth-of-gold thickly sewn with gems, he joined Fakrash—who, by the way, was similarly, if less gorgeously, arrayed—in the sitting-room, in a state of some mystification. "Eat quickly," commanded the Jinnee, "for the time is short." And Horace, after hastily disposing of a cold poached egg and a cup of coffee, happened to go to the windows. "Good Heavens!" he cried. "What does all this mean?" He might well ask. On the opposite side of the road, by the railings of the square, a large crowd had collected, all staring at the house in eager expectation. As they caught sight of him they raised a cheer, which caused him to retreat in confusion, but not before he had seen a great golden chariot with six magnificent coal-black horses, and a suite of swarthy attendants in barbaric liveries, standing by the pavement below. "Whose carriage is that?" he asked. "It belongs to thee," said the Jinnee; "descend then, and make thy progress in it through the City." "I will not," said Horace. "Even to oblige you I[Pg 176] simply can't drive along the streets in a thing like the band-chariot of a travelling circus." "It is necessary," declared Fakrash. "Must I again recall to thee the penalty of disobedience?" "Oh, very well," said Horace, irritably. "If you insist on my making a fool of myself, I suppose I must. But where am I to drive, and why?" "That," replied Fakrash, "thou shalt discover at the fitting moment." And so, amidst the shouts of the spectators, Ventimore climbed up into the strange-looking vehicle, while the Jinnee took his seat by his side. Horace had a parting glimpse of Mr. and Mrs. Rapkin's respective noses flattened against the basement window, and then two dusky slaves mounted to a seat at the back of the chariot, and the horses started off at a stately trot in the direction of Rochester Row. "I think you might tell me what all this means," he said. "You've no conception what an ass I feel, stuck up here like this!" "Dismiss bashfulness from thee, since all this is designed to render thee more acceptable in the eyes of the Princess Bedeea," said the Jinnee. Horace said no more, though he could not but think that this parade would be thrown away. But as they turned into Victoria Street and seemed to be heading straight for the Abbey, a horrible thought occurred to him. After all, his only authority for the marriage and decease of Bedeea was the "Arabian Nights," which was not unimpeachable evidence. What if she were alive and waiting for the arrival of the bridegroom? No one but Fakrash would have conceived such an idea as marrying him to a Jinneeyeh in Westminster Abbey; but he was capable of any extravagance, and there were apparently no limits to his power. "Mr. Fakrash," he said hoarsely, "surely this isn't my—my wedding day? You're not going to have the ceremony there?" [Pg 177] "Nay," said the Jinnee, "be not impatient. For this edifice would be totally unfitted for the celebration of such nuptials as thine." As he spoke, the chariot left the Abbey on the right and turned down the Embankment. The relief was so intense that Horace's spirits rose irrepressibly. It was absurd to suppose that even Fakrash could have arranged the ceremony in so short a time. He was merely being taken for a drive, and fortunately his best friends could not recognise him in his Oriental disguise. And it was a glorious morning, with a touch of frost in the air and a sky of streaky turquoise and pale golden clouds; the broad river glittered in the sunshine; the pavements were lined with admiring crowds, and the carriage rolled on amidst frantic enthusiasm, like some triumphal car. "How they're cheering us!" said Horace. "Why, they couldn't make more row for the Lord Mayor himself." "What is this Lord Mayor of whom thou speakest?" inquired Fakrash. "The Lord Mayor?" said Horace. "Oh, he's unique. There's nobody in the world quite like him. He administers the law, and if there's any distress in any part of the earth he relieves it. He entertains monarchs and Princes and all kinds of potentates at his banquets, and altogether he's a tremendous swell." "Hath he dominion over the earth and the air and all that is therein?" "Within his own precincts, I believe he has," said Horace, rather lazily, "but I really don't know precisely how wide his powers are." He was vainly trying to recollect whether such matters as sky-signs, telephones, and telegraphs in the City were within the Lord Mayor's jurisdiction or the County Council's. Fakrash remained silent just as they were driving underneath Charing Cross Railway Bridge, when he started perceptibly at the thunder of the trains overhead[Pg 178] and the piercing whistles of the engines. "Tell me," he said, clutching Horace by the arm, "what meaneth this?" "You don't mean to say," said Horace, "that you have been about London all these days, and never noticed things like these before?" "Till now," said the Jinnee, "I have had no leisure to observe them and discover their nature." "Well," said Horace, anxious to let the Jinnee see that he had not the monopoly of miracles, "since your days we have discovered how to tame or chain the great forces of Nature and compel them to do our will. We control the Spirits of Earth, Air, Fire, and Water, and make them give us light and heat, carry our messages, fight our quarrels for us, transport us wherever we wish to go, with a certainty and precision that throw even your performances, my dear sir, entirely into the shade." Considering what a very large majority of civilised persons would be as powerless to construct the most elementary machine as to create the humblest kind of horse, it is not a little odd how complacently we credit ourselves with all the latest achievements of our generation. Most of us accept the amazement of the simple-minded barbarian on his first introduction to modern inventions as a gratifying personal tribute: we feel a certain superiority, even if we magnanimously refrain from boastfulness. And yet our own particular share in these discoveries is limited to making use of them under expert guidance, which any barbarian, after overcoming his first terror, is quite as competent to do as we are. It is a harmless vanity enough, and especially pardonable in Ventimore's case, when it was so desirable to correct any tendency to "uppishness" on the part of the Jinnee. "And doth the Lord Mayor dispose of these forces at his will?" inquired Fakrash, on whom Ventimore's[Pg 179] explanation had evidently produced some impression. "Certainly," said Horace; "whenever he has occasion." The Jinnee seemed engrossed in his own thoughts, for he said no more just then. They were now nearing St. Paul's Cathedral, and Horace's first suspicion returned with double force. "Mr. Fakrash, answer me," he said. "Is this my wedding day or not? If it is, it's time I was told!" "Not yet," said the Jinnee, enigmatically, and indeed it proved to be another false alarm, for they turned down Cannon Street and towards the Mansion House. "Perhaps you can tell me why we're going through Victoria Street, and what all this crowd has come out for?" asked Ventimore. For the throng was denser than ever; the people surged and swayed in serried ranks behind the City police, and gazed with a wonder and awe that for once seemed to have entirely silenced the Cockney instinct of persiflage. "For what else but to do thee honour?" answered Fakrash. "What bosh!" said Horace. "They mistake me for the Shah or somebody—and no wonder, in this get-up." "Not so," said the Jinnee. "Thy names are familiar to them." Horace glanced up at the hastily improvised decorations; on one large strip of bunting which spanned the street he read: "Welcome to the City's most distinguished guest!" "They can't mean me," he thought; and then another legend caught his eye: "Well done, Ventimore!" And an enthusiastic householder next door had burst into poetry and displayed the couplet— <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> <div>"Would we had twenty more</div> <div>Like Horace Ventimore!"</div> </div></div> "They do mean me!" he exclaimed. "Now, Mr. Fakrash, will you kindly explain what tomfoolery you've been up to now? I know you're at the bottom of this business." [Pg 180] It struck him that the Jinnee was slightly embarrassed. "Didst thou not say," he replied, "that he who should receive the freedom of the City from his fellow-men would be worthy of Bedeea-el-Jemal?" "I may have said something of the sort. But, good heavens! you don't mean that you have contrived that I should receive the freedom of the City?" "It was the easiest affair possible," said the Jinnee, but he did not attempt to meet Horace's eye. "Was it, though?" said Horace, in a white rage. "I don't want to be inquisitive, but I should like to know what I've done to deserve it?" "Why trouble thyself with the reason? Let it suffice thee that such honour is bestowed upon thee." By this time the chariot had crossed Cheapside and was entering King Street. "This really won't do!" urged Horace. "It's not fair to me. Either I've done something, or you must have made the Corporation believe I've done something, to be received like this. And, as we shall be in the Guildhall in a very few seconds, you may as well tell me what it is!" "Regarding that matter," replied the Jinnee, in some confusion, "I am truly as ignorant as thyself." As he spoke they drove through some temporary wooden gates into the courtyard, where the Honourable Artillery Company presented arms to them, and the carriage drew up before a large marquee decorated with shields and clustered banners. "Well, Mr. Fakrash," said Horace, with suppressed fury, as he alighted, "you have surpassed yourself this time. You've got me into a nice scrape, and you'll have to pull me through it as well as you can." "Have no uneasiness," said the Jinnee, as he accompanied his protégé into the marquee, which was brilliant with pretty women in smart frocks, officers in scarlet tunics and plumed hats, and servants in State liveries. Their entrance was greeted by a politely-subdued[Pg 181] buzz of applause and admiration, and an official, who introduced himself as the Prime Warden of the Candlestick-makers' Company, advanced to meet them. "The Lord Mayor will receive you in the library," he said. "If you will have the kindness to follow me——" Horace followed him mechanically. "I'm in for it now," he thought, "whatever it is. If I can only trust Fakrash to back me up—but I'm hanged if I don't believe he's more nervous than I am!" As they came into the noble Library of the Guildhall a fine string band struck up, and Horace, with the Jinnee in his rear, made his way through a lane of distinguished spectators towards a dais, on the steps of which, in his gold-trimmed robes and black-feather hat, stood the Lord Mayor, with his sword and mace-bearers on either hand, and behind him a row of beaming sheriffs. A truly stately and imposing figure did the Chief Magistrate for that particular year present: tall, dignified, with a lofty forehead whose polished temples reflected the light, an aquiline nose, and piercing black eyes under heavy white eyebrows, a frosty pink in his wrinkled cheeks, and a flowing silver beard with a touch of gold still lingering under the lower lip: he seemed, as he stood there, a worthy representative of the greatest and richest city in the world. Horace approached the steps with an unpleasant sensation of weakness at the knees, and no sort of idea what he was expected to do or say when he arrived. And, in his perplexity, he turned for support and guidance to his self-constituted mentor—only to discover that the Jinnee, whose short-sightedness and ignorance had planted him in this present false position, had mysteriously and perfidiously disappeared, and left him to grapple with the situation single-handed. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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