The Carpet From Bagdad

The Carpet From Bagdad
by Harold MacGrath
1911
To Robert Hichens
The wild hawk to the windswept sky.
The deer to the wholesome wold,
And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid.
As it was in the days of old,
-- Rudyard Kipling.

CHAPTER I
WHAT'S IN A NAME?
To possess two distinctly alien red corpuscles in one's blood,
metaphorically if not in fact, two characters or individualities under one
epidermis, is, in most cases, a peculiar disadvantage. One hears of
scoundrels and saints striving to consume one another in one body,
angels and harpies; but ofttimes, quite the contrary to being a curse,
these two warring temperaments become a man's ultimate blessing: as
in the case of George P. A. Jones, of Mortimer & Jones, the great
metropolitan Oriental rug and carpet company, all of which has a
dignified, sonorous sound. George was divided within himself. This he
would not have confessed even into the trusted if battered ear of the
Egyptian Sphynx. There was, however, no demon-angel sparring for
points in George's soul. The difficulty might be set forth in this manner:

On one side stood inherent common sense; on the other, a boundless,
roseate imagination which was likewise inherent-- a kind of quixote
imagination of suitable modern pattern. This alter ego terrified him
whenever it raised its strangely beautiful head and shouldered aside his
guardian-angel (for that's what common sense is, argue to what end you
will) and pleaded in that luminous rhetoric under the spell of which our
old friend Sancho often fell asleep.
P. A., as they called him behind the counters, was but twenty-eight, and
if he was vice-president in his late father's shoes he didn't wabble round
in them to any great extent. In a crowd he was not noticeable; he didn't
stand head and shoulders above his fellow-men, nor would he have
been mistaken by near-sighted persons, the myopes, for the Vatican's
Apollo in the flesh. He was of medium height, beardless, slender, but
tough and wiry and enduring. You may see his prototype on the streets
a dozen times the day, and you may also pass him without turning
round for a second view. Young men like P. A. must be intimately
known to be admired; you did not throw your arm across his neck,
first-off. His hair was brown and closely clipped about a head that
would have gained the attention of the phrenologist, if not that of the
casual passer-by. His bumps, in the phraseology of that science, were
good ones. For the rest, he observed the world through a pair of kindly,
shy, blue eyes.
Young girls, myopic through ignorance or silliness, seeing nothing
beyond what the eyes see, seldom gave him a second inspection; for he
did not know how to make himself attractive, and was mortally afraid
of the opposite, or opposing, sex. He could bullyrag a sheik out of his
camels' saddle-bags, but petticoats and lace parasols and small Oxfords
had the same effect upon him that the prodding stick of a small boy has
upon a retiring turtle. But many a worldly-wise woman, drawing out
with tact and kindness the truly beautiful thoughts of this young man's
soul, sadly demanded of fate why a sweet, clean boy like this one had
not been sent to her in her youth. You see, the worldly-wise woman
knows that it is invariably the lay-figure and not Prince Charming that a
woman marries, and that matrimony is blindman's-buff for grown-ups.

Many of us lay the blame upon our parents. We shift the burden of
wondering why we have this fault and lack that grace to the shoulders
of our immediate forebears. We go to the office each morning denying
that we have any responsibility; we let the boss do the worrying. But
George never went prospecting in his soul for any such dross
philosophy. He was grateful for having had so beautiful a mother;
proud of having had so honest a sire; and if either of them had endued
him with false weights he did his best to even up the balance.
The mother had been as romantic as any heroine out of Mrs. Radcliff's
novels, while the father had owned to as much romance as one
generally finds in a thorough business man, which is practically none at
all. The very name itself is a bulwark against the intrusions of romance.
One can not lift the imagination to the prospect of picturing a Jones in
ruffles and highboots, pinking a varlet in the midriff. It smells of
sugar-barrels and cotton-bales, of steamships and railroads, of stolid
routine in the office and of placid concern over the daily news under
the evening lamp.
Mrs. Jones, lovely, lettered yet not worldly, had dreamed of her boy,