The Brass Bottle Part 29

"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 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 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 a.s.s 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 hoa.r.s.ely, "surely this isn't my--my wedding day?

You're not going to have the ceremony _there_?"

"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 suns.h.i.+ne; 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 n.o.body 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 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 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 c.o.c.kney instinct of _persiflage_.

"For what else but to do thee honour?" answered Fakrash.

"What bos.h.!.+" 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--

"Would we had twenty more Like Horace Ventimore!"

"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."

It struck him that the Jinnee was slightly embarra.s.sed. "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?"