E-text prepared by David Clarke, Martin Pettit, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
THE BRASS BOTTLE
by
F. ANSTEY
First Published, October, 1900
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. HORACE VENTIMORE RECEIVES A COMMISSION 1
II. A CHEAP LOT 12
III. AN UNEXPECTED OPENING 18
IV. AT LARGE 31
V. CARTE BLANCHE 36
VI. EMBARRAS DE RICHESSES 51
VII. "GRATITUDE--A LIVELY SENSE OF FAVOURS TO COME" 62
VIII. BACHELOR'S QUARTERS 75
IX. "PERSICOS ODI, PUER, APPARATUS" 85
X. NO PLACE LIKE HOME! 107
XI. A FOOL'S PARADISE 115
XII. THE MESSENGER OF HOPE 132
XIII. A CHOICE OF EVILS 143
XIV. "SINCE THERE'S NO HELP, COME, LET US KISS
AND PART!" 158
XV. BLUSHING HONOURS 174
XVI. A KILLING FROST 182
XVII. HIGH WORDS 193
XVIII. A GAME OF BLUFF 204
THE EPILOGUE 222
THE BRASS BOTTLE
CHAPTER I
HORACE VENTIMORE RECEIVES A COMMISSION
"This day six weeks--just six weeks ago!" Horace Ventimore said, half
aloud, to himself, and pulled out his watch. "Half-past twelve--what was
I doing at half-past twelve?"
As he sat at the window of his office in Great Cloister Street,
Westminster, he made his thoughts travel back to a certain glorious
morning in August which now seemed so remote and irrecoverable. At this
precise time he was waiting on the balcony of the Hotel de la Plage--the
sole hostelry of St. Luc-en-Port, the tiny Normandy watering-place upon
which, by some happy inspiration, he had lighted during a solitary
cycling tour--waiting until She should appear.
He could see the whole scene: the tiny cove, with the violet shadow of
the cliff sleeping on the green water; the swell of the waves lazily
lapping against the diving-board from which he had plunged half an hour
before; he remembered the long swim out to the buoy; the exhilarated
anticipation with which he had dressed and climbed the steep path to the
hotel terrace.
For was he not to pass the whole remainder of that blissful day in
Sylvia Futvoye's society? Were they not to cycle together (there were,
of course, others of the party--but they did not count), to cycle over
to Veulettes, to picnic there under the cliff, and ride back--always
together--in the sweet-scented dusk, over the slopes, between the
poplars or the cornfields glowing golden against a sky of warm purple?
Now he saw himself going round to the gravelled courtyard in front of
the hotel with a sudden dread of missing her. There was nothing there
but the little low cart, with its canvas tilt which was to convey
Professor Futvoye and his wife to the place of _rendezvous_.
There was Sylvia at last, distractingly fair and fresh in her cool pink
blouse and cream-coloured skirt; how gracious and friendly and generally
delightful she had been throughout that unforgettable day, which was
supreme amongst others only a little less perfect, and all now fled for
ever!
They had had drawbacks, it was true. Old Futvoye was perhaps the least
bit of a bore at times, with his interminable disquisitions on Egyptian
art and ancient Oriental character-writing, in which he seemed convinced
that Horace must feel a perfervid interest, as, indeed, he thought it
politic to affect. The Professor was a most learned archaeologist, and
positively bulged with information on his favourite subjects; but it is
just possible that Horace might have been less curious concerning the
distinction between Cuneiform and Aramaean or Kufic and Arabic
inscriptions if his informant had happened to be the father of anybody
else. However, such insincerities as these are but so many evidences of
sincerity.
So with self-tormenting ingenuity Horace conjured up various pictures
from that Norman holiday of his: the little half-timbered cottages with
their faded blue shutters and the rushes growing out of their thatch
roofs; the spires of village churches gleaming above the bronze-green
beeches; the bold headlands, their ochre and yellow cliffs contrasting
grimly with the soft ridges of the turf above them; the tethered
black-and-white cattle grazing peacefully against a background of lapis
lazuli and malachite sea, and in every scene the sensation of Sylvia's
near presence, the sound of her voice in his ears. And now?... He looked
up from the papers and tracing-cloth on his desk, and round the small
panelled room which served him as an office, at the framed plans and
photographs, the set squares and T squares on the walls, and felt a dull
resentment against his surroundings. From his window he commanded a
cheerful view of a tall, mouldering wall, once part of the Abbey
boundaries, surmounted by _chevaux-de-frise_, above whose
rust-attenuated spikes some plane trees stretched their yellowing
branches.
"She would have come to care for me," Horace's thoughts ran on,
disjointedly. "I could have sworn that that last day of all--and her
people didn't seem to object to me. Her mother asked me cordially enough
to call on them when they were back in town. When I did----"
When he had called, there had been a difference--not an unusual sequel
to an acquaintanceship begun in a Continental watering-place. It was
difficult to define, but unmistakable--a certain formality and
constraint on Mrs. Futvoye's part, and even on Sylvia's, which seemed
intended to warn him that it is not every friendship that survives the
Channel passage. So he had gone away sore at heart, but fully
recognising that any advances in future must come from their side. They
might ask him to dinner, or at least to call again; but more than a
month had passed, and they had made no sign. No, it was all over; he
must consider himself dropped.
"After all," he told himself, with a short and anything but mirthful
laugh, "it's natural enough. Mrs. Futvoye has probably been making
inquiries about my professional prospects. It's better as it is. What
earthly chance have I got of marrying unless I can get work of my own?
It's all I can do to keep myself decently. I've no right to dream of
asking any one--to say nothing of Sylvia--to marry me. I should only be
rushing into temptation if I saw any more of her. She's not for a poor
beggar like me, who was born unlucky. Well, whining won't do any
good--let's have a look at Beevor's latest performance."
He spread out a large coloured plan, in a corner of which appeared the
name of "William Beevor, Architect," and began to study it in a spirit
of anything but appreciation.
"Beevor gets on," he said to himself. "Heaven knows that I don't grudge
him his success. He's a good fellow--though he _does_ build
architectural atrocities, and seem to like 'em. Who am I to give myself
airs? He's successful--I'm not. Yet if I only had his opportunities,
what wouldn't I make of them!"
Let it be said here that this was not the ordinary self-delusion of an
incompetent. Ventimore really had talent above the average, with ideals
and ambitions which might under better conditions have attained
recognition and fulfilment before this.
But he was not quite energetic enough, besides being too proud, to push
himself into notice, and hitherto he had met with persistent ill-luck.
So Horace had no other occupation now but to give Beevor, whose offices
and clerk he shared, such slight assistance as he might require, and it
was by no means cheering to feel that every year of this enforced
semi-idleness left him further handicapped in the race for wealth and
fame, for he had already passed his twenty-eighth birthday.
If Miss Sylvia Futvoye had indeed felt attracted towards him at one time
it was not altogether incomprehensible. Horace Ventimore was not a model
of manly beauty--models of manly beauty are rare out of novels, and
seldom interesting in them; but his clear-cut, clean-shaven face
possessed a certain distinction, and if there were faint satirical lines
about the mouth, they were redeemed by the expression of the grey-blue
eyes, which were remarkably frank and pleasant. He was well made, and
tall enough to escape all danger of being described as short;
fair-haired and pale, without being unhealthily pallid, in complexion,
and he gave the impression of being a man who took life as it came, and
whose sense of humour would serve as a lining for most clouds that might
darken his horizon.
There was a rap at the door which communicated with Beevor's office, and
Beevor himself, a florid, thick-set man, with small side-whiskers, burst
in.
"I say, Ventimore, you didn't run off with the plans for that house I'm
building at Larchmere, did you? Because--ah, I see you're looking over
them. Sorry to deprive you, but----"
"Thanks, old fellow, take them, by all means. I've seen all I wanted to
see."
"Well, I'm just off to Larchmere now. Want to be there to check the
quantities, and there's my other house at Fittlesdon. I must go on
afterwards and set it out, so I shall probably be away some days. I'm
taking Harrison down, too. You won't be wanting him, eh?"
Ventimore laughed. "I can manage to do nothing without a clerk to help
me. Your necessity is greater than mine. Here are the plans."
"I'm rather pleased with 'em myself, you know," said Beevor; "that roof
ought to look well, eh? Good idea of mine lightening the slate with that
ornamental tile-work along the top. You saw I put in one of your windows
with just a trifling addition. I was almost inclined to keep both gables
alike, as you suggested, but it struck me a little variety--one red
brick and the other 'parged'--would be more out-of-the-way."
"Oh, much," agreed Ventimore, knowing that to disagree was useless.
"Not, mind you," continued Beevor, "that I believe in going in for too
much originality in domestic architecture. The average client no more
wants an original house than he wants an original hat; he wants
something he won't feel a fool in. I've often thought, old man, that
perhaps the reason why you haven't got on----you don't mind my speaking
candidly, do you?"
"Not a bit," said Ventimore, cheerfully. "Candour's the cement of
friendship. Dab it on."
"Well, I was only going to say that you do yourself no good by all those
confoundedly unconventional ideas of yours. If you had your chance
to-morrow, it's my belief you'd throw it away by insisting on some
fantastic fad or other."
"These speculations are a trifle premature, considering that there
doesn't seem the remotest prospect of my ever getting a chance at all."
"I got mine before I'd set up six months," said Beevor. "The great
thing, however," he went on, with a flavour of personal application, "is
to know how to use it when it _does_ come. Well, I must be off if I mean
to catch that one o'clock from Waterloo. You'll see to anything that may
come in for me while I'm away, won't you, and let me know? Oh, by the
way, the quantity surveyor has just sent in the quantities for that
schoolroom at Woodford--do you mind running through them and seeing
they're right? And there's the specification for the new wing at
Tusculum Lodge--you might draft that some time when you've nothing else
to do. You'll find all the papers on my desk. Thanks awfully, old chap."
And Beevor hurried back to his own room, where for the next few minutes
he could be heard bustling Harrison, the clerk, to make haste; then a
hansom was whistled for, there were footsteps down the old stairs, the
sounds of a departing vehicle on the uneven stones, and after that
silence and solitude.
It was not in Nature to avoid feeling a little envious. Beevor had work
to do in the world: even if it chiefly consisted in profaning sylvan
retreats by smug or pretentious villas, it was still work which
entitled him to consideration and respect in the eyes of all
right-minded persons.
And nobody believed in Horace; as yet he had never known the
satisfaction of seeing the work of his brain realised in stone and brick
and mortar; no building stood anywhere to bear testimony to his
existence and capability long after he himself should have passed away.
It was not a profitable train of thought, and, to escape from it, he
went into Beevor's room and fetched the documents he had mentioned--at
least they would keep him occupied until it was time to go to his club
and lunch. He had no sooner settled down to his calculations, however,
when he heard a shuffling step on the landing, followed by a knock at
Beevor's office-door. "More work for Beevor," he thought; "what luck the
fellow has! I'd better go in and explain that he's just left town on
business."
But on entering the adjoining room he heard the knocking repeated--this
time at his own door; and hastening back to put an end to this somewhat
undignified form of hide-and-seek, he discovered that this visitor at
least was legitimately his, and was, in fact, no other than Professor
Anthony Futvoye himself.
The Professor was standing in the doorway peering short-sightedly
through his convex glasses, his head protruded from his loosely-fitting
great-coat with an irresistible suggestion of an inquiring tortoise. To
Horace his appearance was more welcome than that of the wealthiest
client--for why should Sylvia's father take the trouble to pay him this
visit unless he still wished to continue the acquaintanceship? It might
even be that he was the bearer of some message or invitation.
So, although to an impartial eye the Professor might not seem the kind
of elderly gentleman whose society would produce any wild degree of
exhilaration, Horace was unfeignedly delighted to see him.
"Extremely kind of you to come and see me like this, sir," he said
warmly, after establishing him in the solitary armchair reserved for
hypothetical clients.
"Not at all. I'm afraid your visit to Cottesmore Gardens some time ago
was somewhat of a disappointment."
"A disappointment?" echoed Horace, at a loss to know what was coming
next.
"I refer to the fact--which possibly, however, escaped your
notice"--explained the Professor, scratching his scanty patch of
grizzled whisker with a touch of irascibility, "that I myself was not at
home on that occasion."
"Indeed, I was greatly disappointed," said Horace, "though of course I
know how much you are engaged. It's all the more good of you to spare
time to drop in for a chat just now."
"I've not come to chat, Mr. Ventimore. I never chat. I wanted to see you
about a matter which I thought you might be so obliging as to---- But I
observe you are busy--probably too busy to attend to such a small
affair."
It was clear enough now; the Professor was going to build, and had
decided--could it be at Sylvia's suggestion?--to entrust the work to
him! But he contrived to subdue any self-betraying eagerness, and reply
(as he could with perfect truth) that he had nothing on hand just then
which he could not lay aside, and that if the Professor would let him
know what he required, he would take it up at once.
"So much the better," said the Professor; "so much the better. Both my
wife and daughter declared that it was making far too great a demand
upon your good nature; but, as I told them, 'I am much mistaken,' I
said, 'if Mr. Ventimore's practice is so extensive that he cannot leave
it for one afternoon----'"
Evidently it was not a house. Could he be needed to escort them
somewhere that afternoon? Even that was more than he had hoped for a few
minutes since. He hastened to repeat that he was perfectly free that
afternoon.
"In that case," said the Professor, beginning to fumble in all his
pockets--was he searching for a note in Sylvia's handwriting?--"in that
case, you will be conferring a real favour on me if you can make it
convenient to attend a sale at Hammond's Auction Rooms in Covent Garden,
and just bid for one or two articles on my behalf."
Whatever disappointment Ventimore felt, it may be said to his credit
that he allowed no sign of it to appear. "Of course I'll go, with
pleasure," he said, "if I can be of any use."
"I knew I shouldn't come to you in vain," said the Professor. "I
remembered your wonderful good nature, sir, in accompanying my wife and
daughter on all sorts of expeditions in the blazing hot weather we had
at St. Luc--when you might have remained quietly at the hotel with me.
Not that I should trouble you now, only I have to lunch at the Oriental
Club, and I've an appointment afterwards to examine and report on a
recently-discovered inscribed cylinder for the Museum, which will fully
occupy the rest of the afternoon, so that it's physically impossible for
me to go to Hammond's myself, and I strongly object to employing a
broker when I can avoid it. Where did I put that catalogue?... Ah, here
it is. This was sent to me by the executors of my old friend, General
Collingham, who died the other day. I met him at Nakada when I was out
excavating some years ago. He was something of a collector in his way,
though he knew very little about it, and, of course, was taken in right
and left. Most of his things are downright rubbish, but there are just a
few lots that are worth securing, at a reasonable figure, by some one
who knew what he was about."
"But, my dear Professor," remonstrated Horace, not relishing this
responsibility, "I'm afraid I'm as likely as not to pick up some of the
rubbish. I've no special knowledge of Oriental curios."
"At St. Luc," said the Professor, "you impressed me as having, for an
amateur, an exceptionally accurate and comprehensive acquaintance with
Egyptian and Arabian art from the earliest period." (If this were so,
Horace could only feel with shame what a fearful humbug he must have
been.) "However, I've no wish to lay too heavy a burden on you, and, as
you will see from this catalogue, I have ticked off the lots in which I
am chiefly interested, and made a note of the limit to which I am
prepared to bid, so you'll have no difficulty."
"Very well," said Horace; "I'll go straight to Covent Garden, and slip
out and get some lunch later on."
"Well, perhaps, if you don't mind. The lots I have marked seem to come
on at rather frequent intervals, but don't let that consideration deter
you from getting your lunch, and if you _should_ miss anything by not
being on the spot, why, it's of no consequence, though I don't say it
mightn't be a pity. In any case, you won't forget to mark what each lot
fetches, and perhaps you wouldn't mind dropping me a line when you
return the catalogue--or stay, could you look in some time after dinner
this evening, and let me know how you got on?--that would be better."
Horace thought it would be decidedly better, and undertook to call and
render an account of his stewardship that evening. There remained the
question of a deposit, should one or more of the lots be knocked down to
him; and, as he was obliged to own that he had not so much as ten pounds
about him at that particular moment, the Professor extracted a note for
that amount from his case, and handed it to him with the air of a
benevolent person relieving a deserving object. "Don't exceed my
limits," he said, "for I can't afford more just now; and mind you give
Hammond your own name, not mine. If the dealers get to know I'm after
the things, they'll run you up. And now, I don't think I need detain you
any longer, especially as time is running on. I'm sure I can trust you
to do the best you can for me. Till this evening, then."
A few minutes later Horace was driving up to Covent Garden behind the
best-looking horse he could pick out.
The Professor might have required from him rather more than was strictly
justified by their acquaintanceship, and taken his acquiescence too much
as a matter of course--but what of that? After all, he was Sylvia's
parent.
"Even with _my_ luck," he was thinking, "I ought to succeed in getting
at least one or two of the lots he's marked; and if I can only please
him, something may come of it."
And in this sanguine mood Horace entered Messrs. Hammond's well-known
auction rooms.