"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 Hôtel 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 archæologist, 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
Aramæan 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.
CHAPTER II - A CHEAP LOT
In spite of the fact that it was the luncheon hour
when Ventimore reached Hammond's Auction Rooms, he found the big, skylighted
gallery where the sale of the furniture and effects of the late General
Collingham was proceeding crowded to a degree which showed that the deceased
officer had some reputation as a connoisseur.
The narrow green baize tables below the
auctioneer's rostrum were occupied by professional dealers, one or two of them
women, who sat, paper and pencil in hand, with much the same air of apparent
apathy and real vigilance that may be noticed in the Casino at Monte Carlo.
Around them stood a decorous and businesslike crowd, mostly dealers, of various
types. On a magisterial-looking bench sat the auctioneer, conducting the sale
with a judicial impartiality and dignity which forbade him, even in his most
laudatory comments, the faintest accent of enthusiasm.
The October sunshine, striking through the glazed
roof, re-gilded the tarnished gas-stars, and suffused the dusty atmosphere with
palest gold. But somehow the utter absence of excitement in the crowd, the
calm, methodical tone of the auctioneer, and the occasional mournful cry of
"Lot here, gentlemen!" from the porter when any article was too large
to move, all served to depress Ventimore's usually mercurial spirits.
For all Horace knew, the collection as a whole
might be of little value, but it very soon became clear that others besides
Professor Futvoye had singled out such gems as there were, also that the
Professor had considerably under-rated the prices they were likely to
fetch.
Ventimore made his bids with all possible
discretion, but time after time he found the competition for some perforated
mosque lantern, engraved ewer, or ancient porcelain tile so great that his
limit was soon reached, and his sole consolation was that the article
eventually changed hands for sums which were very nearly double the Professor's
estimate.
Several dealers and brokers, despairing of a
bargain that day, left, murmuring profanities; most of those who remained
ceased to take a serious interest in the proceedings, and consoled themselves
with cheap witticisms at every favourable occasion.
The sale dragged slowly on, and, what with
continual disappointment and want of food, Horace began to feel so weary that
he was glad, as the crowd thinned, to get a seat at one of the green baize
tables, by which time the skylights had already changed from livid grey to
slate colour in the deepening dusk.
A couple of meek Burmese Buddhas had just been put
up, and bore the indignity of being knocked down for nine-and-sixpence the pair
with dreamy, inscrutable simpers; Horace only waited for the final lot marked
by the Professor—an old Persian copper bowl, inlaid with silver and engraved
round the rim with an inscription from Hafiz.
The limit to which he was authorised to go was two
pounds ten; but, so desperately anxious was Ventimore not to return
empty-handed, that he had made up his mind to bid an extra sovereign if
necessary, and say nothing about it.
However, the bowl was put up, and the bidding soon
rose to three pounds ten, four pounds, four pounds ten, five pounds, five
guineas, for which last sum it was acquired by a bearded man on Horace's right,
who immediately began to regard his purchase with a more indulgent eye.
Ventimore had done his best, and failed; there was
no reason now why he should stay a moment longer—and yet he sat on, from sheer
fatigue and disinclination to move.
"Now we come to Lot 254, gentlemen," he
heard the auctioneer saying, mechanically; "a capital Egyptian mummy-case
in fine con— No, I beg pardon, I'm wrong. This is an article which by some
mistake has been omitted from the catalogue, though it ought to have been in
it. Everything on sale to-day, gentlemen, belonged to the late General
Collingham. We'll call this No. 253a. Antique brass bottle. Very curious."
One of the porters carried the bottle in between
the tables, and set it down before the dealers at the farther end with a tired
nonchalance.
It was an old, squat, pot-bellied vessel, about
two feet high, with a long thick neck, the mouth of which was closed by a sort
of metal stopper or cap; there was no visible decoration on its sides, which
were rough and pitted by some incrustation that had formed on them, and been
partially scraped off. As a piece of bric-à-brac it certainly possessed few
attractions, and there was a marked tendency to "guy" it among the
more frivolous brethren.
"What do you call this, sir?" inquired
one of the auctioneer, with the manner of a cheeky boy trying to get a rise out
of his form-master. "Is it as 'unique' as the others?"
"You're as well able to judge as I am,"
was the guarded reply. "Any one can see for himself it's not modern
rubbish."
"Make a pretty little ornament for the
mantelpiece!" remarked a wag.
"Is the top made to unscrew, or what,
sir?" asked a third. "Seems fixed on pretty tight."
"I can't say. Probably it has not been
removed for some time."
"It's a goodish weight," said the chief
humorist, after handling it. "What's inside of it, sir—sardines?"
"I don't represent it as having anything
inside it," said the auctioneer. "If you want to know my opinion, I
think there's money in it."
"'Ow much?"
"Don't misunderstand me, gentlemen. When I
say I consider there's money in it, I'm not alluding to its contents. I've no
reason to believe that it contains anything. I'm merely suggesting the thing
itself may be worth more than it looks."
"Ah, it might be that without 'urting
itself!"
"Well, well, don't let us waste time. Look
upon it as a pure speculation, and make me an offer for it, some of you.
Come."
"Tuppence-'ap'ny!" cried the comic man,
affecting to brace himself for a mighty effort.
"Pray be serious, gentlemen. We want to get
on, you know. Anything to make a start. Five shillings? It's not the value of
the metal, but I'll take the bid. Six. Look at it well. It's not an article you
come across every day of your lives."
The bottle was still being passed round with
disrespectful raps and slaps, and it had now come to Ventimore's right-hand
neighbour, who scrutinised it carefully, but made no bid.
"That's all right, you know," he
whispered in Horace's ear. "That's good stuff, that is. If I was you, I'd
'ave that."
"Seven shillings—eight—nine bid for it over
there in the corner," said the auctioneer.
"If you think it's so good, why don't you
have it yourself?" Horace asked his neighbour.
"Me? Oh, well, it ain't exactly in my line,
and getting this last lot pretty near cleaned me out. I've done for to-day, I
'ave. All the same, it is a curiosity; dunno as I've seen a brass vawse just
that shape before, and it's genuine old, though all these fellers are too
ignorant to know the value of it. So I don't mind giving you the tip."
Horace rose, the better to examine the top. As far
as he could make out in the flickering light of one of the gas-stars, which the
auctioneer had just ordered to be lit, there were half-erased scratches and
triangular marks on the cap that might possibly be an inscription. If so, might
there not be the means here of regaining the Professor's favour, which he felt
that, as it was, he should probably forfeit, justly or not, by his ill-success?
He could hardly spend the Professor's money on it,
since it was not in the catalogue, and he had no authority to bid for it, but
he had a few shillings of his own to spare. Why not bid for it on his own
account as long as he could afford to do so? If he were outbid, as usual, it
would not particularly matter.
"Thirteen shillings," the auctioneer was
saying, in his dispassionate tones. Horace caught his eye, and slightly raised
his catalogue, while another man nodded at the same time. "Fourteen in two
places." Horace raised his catalogue again. "I won't go beyond
fifteen," he thought.
"Fifteen. It's against you, sir. Any advance
on fifteen? Sixteen—this very quaint old Oriental bottle going for only sixteen
shillings.
"After all," thought Horace, "I
don't mind anything under a pound for it." And he bid seventeen shillings.
"Eighteen," cried his rival, a short, cheery, cherub-faced little
dealer, whose neighbours adjured him to "sit quiet like a good little boy
and not waste his pocket-money."
"Nineteen!" said Horace.
"Pound!" answered the cherubic man.
"A pound only bid for this grand brass
vessel," said the auctioneer, indifferently. "All done at a
pound?"
Horace thought another shilling or two would not
ruin him, and nodded.
"A guinea. For the last time. You'll lose it,
sir," said the auctioneer to the little man.
"Go on, Tommy. Don't you be beat. Spring
another bob on it, Tommy," his friends advised him ironically; but
Tommy shook his head, with the air of a man who knows when to draw the line.
"One guinea—and that's not half its value! Gentleman on my left,"
said the auctioneer, more in sorrow than in anger—and the brass bottle became
Ventimore's property.
He paid for it, and, since he could hardly walk
home nursing a large metal bottle without attracting an inconvenient amount of
attention, directed that it should be sent to his lodgings at Vincent Square.
But when he was out in the fresh air, walking
westward to his club, he found himself wondering more and more what could have
possessed him to throw away a guinea—when he had few enough for legitimate expenses—on
an article of such exceedingly problematical value.
CHAPTER III - AN UNEXPECTED
OPENING
Ventimore made his way to Cottesmore Gardens that
evening in a highly inconsistent, not to say chaotic, state of mind. The
thought that he would presently see Sylvia again made his blood course quicker,
while he was fully determined to say no more to her than civility demanded.
At one moment he was blessing Professor Futvoye
for his happy thought in making use of him; at another he was bitterly recognising
that it would have been better for his peace of mind if he had been left alone.
Sylvia and her mother had no desire to see more of him; if they had, they would
have asked him to come before this. No doubt they would tolerate him now for
the Professor's sake; but who would not rather be ignored than tolerated?
The more often he saw Sylvia the more she would
make his heart ache with vain longing—whereas he was getting almost reconciled
to her indifference; he would very soon be cured if he didn't see her.
Why should he see her? He need not go in at all.
He had merely to leave the catalogue with his compliments, and the Professor
would learn all he wanted to know.
On second thoughts he must go in—if only to return
the bank-note. But he would ask to see the Professor in private. Most probably
he would not be invited to join his wife and daughter, but if he were, he could
make some excuse. They might think it a little odd—a little discourteous,
perhaps; but they would be too relieved to care much about that.
When he got to Cottesmore Gardens, and was
actually at the door of the Futvoyes' house, one of the neatest and demurest in
that retired and irreproachable quarter, he began to feel a craven hope that
the Professor might be out, in which case he need only leave the catalogue and
write a letter when he got home, reporting his non-success at the sale, and
returning the note.
And, as it happened, the Professor was out, and
Horace was not so glad as he thought he should be. The maid told him that the
ladies were in the drawing-room, and seemed to take it for granted that he was
coming in, so he had himself announced. He would not stay long—just long enough
to explain his business there, and make it clear that he had no wish to force
his acquaintance upon them. He found Mrs. Futvoye in the farther part of the
pretty double drawing-room, writing letters, and Sylvia, more dazzlingly fair
than ever in some sort of gauzy black frock with a heliotrope sash and a bunch
of Parma violets on her breast, was comfortably established with a book in the
front room, and seemed surprised, if not resentful, at having to disturb
herself.
"I must apologise," he began, with an
involuntary stiffness, "for calling at this very unceremonious time; but
the fact is, the Professor—"
"I know all about it," interrupted Mrs.
Futvoye, brusquely, while her shrewd, light-grey eyes took him in with a cool
stare that was humorously observant without being aggressive. "We heard
how shamefully my husband abused your good-nature. Really, it was too bad of
him to ask a busy man like you to put aside his work and go and spend a whole
day at that stupid auction!"
"Oh, I'd nothing particular to do. I can't
call myself a busy man—unfortunately," said Horace, with that frankness
which scorns to conceal what other people know perfectly well already.
"Ah, well, it's very nice of you to make
light of it; but he ought not to have done it—after so short an
acquaintance, too. And to make it worse, he has had to go out unexpectedly this
evening, but he'll be back before very long if you don't mind waiting."
"There's really no need to wait," said
Horace, "because this catalogue will tell him everything, and, as the
particular things he wanted went for much more than he thought, I wasn't able
to get any of them."
"I'm sure I'm very glad of it," said
Mrs. Futvoye, "for his study is crammed with odds and ends as it is, and I
don't want the whole house to look like a museum or an antiquity shop. I'd all
the trouble in the world to persuade him that a great gaudy gilded mummy-case
was not quite the thing for a drawing-room. But, please sit down, Mr.
Ventimore."
"Thanks," stammered Horace,
"but—but I mustn't stay. If you will tell the Professor how sorry I was to
miss him, and—and give him back this note which he left with me to cover any
deposit, I—I won't interrupt you any longer."
He was, as a rule, imperturbable in most social
emergencies, but just now he was seized with a wild desire to escape, which, to
his infinite mortification, made him behave like a shy schoolboy.
"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Futvoye; "I
am sure my husband would be most annoyed if we didn't keep you till he
came."
"I really ought to go," he declared,
wistfully enough.
"We mustn't tease Mr. Ventimore to stay,
mother, when he so evidently wants to go," said Sylvia, cruelly.
"Well, I won't detain you—at least, not long.
I wonder if you would mind posting a letter for me as you pass the pillar-box?
I've almost finished it, and it ought to go to-night, and my maid Jessie has
such a bad cold I really don't like sending her out with it."
It would have been impossible to refuse to stay
after that—even if he had wished. It would only be for a few minutes. Sylvia
might spare him that much of her time. He should not trouble her again.
So Mrs. Futvoye went back to her bureau, and Sylvia and he were practically
alone.
She had taken a seat not far from his, and made a
few constrained remarks, obviously out of sheer civility. He returned
mechanical replies, with a dreary wonder whether this could really be the girl
who had talked to him with such charming friendliness and confidence only a few
weeks ago in Normandy.
And the worst of it was, she was looking more
bewitching than ever; her slim arms gleaming through the black lace of her
sleeves, and the gold threads in her soft masses of chestnut hair sparkling in
the light of the shaded lamp behind her. The slight contraction of her eyebrows
and the mutinous downward curve of her mouth seemed expressive of boredom.
"What a dreadfully long time mamma is over
that letter!" she said at last. "I think I'd better go and hurry her
up."
"Please don't—unless you are particularly
anxious to get rid of me."
"I thought you seemed particularly anxious to
escape," she said coldly. "And, as a family, we have certainly taken
up quite enough of your time for one day."
"That is not the way you used to talk at St.
Luc!" he said.
"At St. Luc? Perhaps not. But in London
everything is so different, you see."
"Very different."
"When one meets people abroad who—who seem at
all inclined to be sociable," she continued, "one is so apt to think
them pleasanter than they really are. Then one meets them again, and—and wonders
what one ever saw to like in them. And it's no use pretending one feels the
same, because they generally understand sooner or later. Don't you find
that?"
"I do, indeed," he said, wincing,
"though I don't know what I've done to deserve that you should tell me
so!"
"Oh, I was not blaming you. You have been
most angelic. I can't think how papa could have expected you to take all that
trouble for him—still, you did, though you must have simply hated it."
"But, good heavens! don't you know I should
be only too delighted to be of the least service to him—or to any of you?"
"You looked anything but delighted when you
came in just now; you looked as if your one idea was to get it over as soon as
you could. You know perfectly well you're longing now for mother to finish her
letter and set you free. Do you really think I can't see that?"
"If all that is true, or partly true,"
said Horace, "can't you guess why?"
"I guessed how it was when you called here
first that afternoon. Mamma had asked you to, and you thought you might as well
be civil; perhaps you really did think it would be pleasant to see us again—but
it wasn't the same thing. Oh, I saw it in your face directly—you became
conventional and distant and horrid, and it made me horrid too; and you went
away determined that you wouldn't see any more of us than you could help.
That's why I was so furious when I heard that papa had been to see you, and
with such an object."
All this was so near the truth, and yet missed it
with such perverse ingenuity, that Horace felt bound to put himself right.
"Perhaps I ought to leave things as they
are," he said, "but I can't. It's no earthly use, I know; but may I
tell you why it really was painful to me to meet you again? I thought you were
changed, that you wished to forget, and wished me to forget—only I can't—that
we had been friends for a short time. And though I never blamed you—it was
natural enough—it hit me pretty hard—so hard that I didn't feel anxious to
repeat the experience."
"Did it hit you hard?" said Sylvia,
softly. "Perhaps I minded too, just a very little. However,"
she added, with a sudden smile, that made two enchanting dimples in her cheeks,
"it only shows how much more sensible it is to have things out. Now
perhaps you won't persist in keeping away from us?"
"I believe," said Horace, gloomily,
still determined not to let any direct avowal pass his lips, "it would be
best that I should keep away."
Her half-closed eyes shone through their long
lashes; the violets on her breast rose and fell. "I don't think I
understand," she said, in a tone that was both hurt and offended.
There is a pleasure in yielding to some
temptations that more than compensates for the pain of any previous resistance.
Come what might, he was not going to be misunderstood any longer.
"If I must tell you," he said,
"I've fallen desperately, hopelessly, in love with you. Now you know the
reason."
"It doesn't seem a very good reason for
wanting to go away and never see me again. Does it?"
"Not when I've no right to speak to you of
love?"
"But you've done that!"
"I know," he said penitently; "I
couldn't help it. But I never meant to. It slipped out. I quite understand how
hopeless it is."
"Of course, if you are so sure as all that,
you are quite right not to try."
"Sylvia! You can't mean that—that you do
care, after all?"
"Didn't you really see?" she said, with
a low, happy laugh. "How stupid of you! And how dear!"
He caught her hand, which she allowed to rest
contentedly in his. "Oh, Sylvia! Then you do—you do! But, my God, what a
selfish brute I am! For we can't marry. It may be years before I can ask you to
come to me. You father and mother wouldn't hear of your being engaged to
me."
"Need they hear of it just yet, Horace?"
"Yes, they must. I should feel a cur if I
didn't tell your mother, at all events."
"Then you shan't feel a cur, for we'll go and
tell her together." And Sylvia rose and went into the farther room, and
put her arms round her mother's neck. "Mother darling," she said, in
a half whisper, "it's really all your fault for writing such very long
letters, but—but—we don't exactly know how we came to do it—but Horace and I
have got engaged somehow. You aren't very angry, are you?"
"I think you're both extremely foolish,"
said Mrs. Futvoye, as she extricated herself from Sylvia's arms and turned to
face Horace. "From all I hear, Mr. Ventimore, you're not in a position to
marry at present."
"Unfortunately, no" said Horace;
"I'm making nothing as yet. But my chance must come some day. I don't ask
you to give me Sylvia till then."
"And you know you like Horace, mother!"
pleaded Sylvia. "And I'm ready to wait for him, any time. Nothing will
induce me to give him up, and I shall never, never care for anybody else. So you
see you may just as well give us your consent!"
"I'm afraid I've been to blame," said
Mrs. Futvoye. "I ought to have foreseen this at St. Luc. Sylvia is our
only child, Mr. Ventimore, and I would far rather see her happily married than
making what is called a 'grand match.' Still, this really does seem rather
hopeless. I am quite sure her father would never approve of it. Indeed, it must
not be mentioned to him—he would only be irritated."
"So long as you are not against us,"
said Horace, "you won't forbid me to see her?"
"I believe I ought to," said Mrs.
Futvoye; "but I don't object to your coming here occasionally, as an
ordinary visitor. Only understand this—until you can prove to my husband's
satisfaction that you are able to support Sylvia in the manner she has been
accustomed to, there must be no formal engagement. I think I am entitled
to ask that of you."
She was so clearly within her rights, and so much
more indulgent than Horace had expected—for he had always considered her an
unsentimental and rather worldly woman—that he accepted her conditions almost
gratefully. After all, it was enough for him that Sylvia returned his love, and
that he should be allowed to see her from time to time.
"It's rather a pity," said Sylvia,
meditatively, a little later, when her mother had gone back to her
letter-writing, and she and Horace were discussing the future; "it's
rather a pity that you didn't manage to get something at that sale. It might
have helped you with papa."
"Well, I did get something on my own
account," he said, "though I don't know whether it is likely to do me
any good with your father." And he told her how he had come to acquire the
brass bottle.
"And you actually gave a guinea for it?"
said Sylvia, "when you could probably get exactly the same thing, only
better, at Liberty's for about seven-and-sixpence! Nothing of that sort has any
charms for papa, unless it's dirty and dingy and centuries old."
"This looks all that. I only bought it
because, though it wasn't down on the catalogue, I had a fancy that it might
interest the Professor."
"Oh!" cried Sylvia, clasping her pretty
hands, "if only it does, Horace! If it turns out to be tremendously rare
and valuable! I do believe dad would be so delighted that he'd consent to
anything. Ah, that's his step outside ... he's letting himself in. Now mind you
don't forget to tell him about that bottle."
The Professor did not seem in the sweetest of
humours as he entered the drawing-room. "Sorry I was obliged to be from
home, and there was nobody but my wife and daughter here to entertain you. But
I am glad you stayed—yes, I'm rather glad you stayed."
"So am I, sir," said Horace, and
proceeded to give his account of the sale, which did not serve to improve the Professor's temper. He thrust out his under lip at certain items in the
catalogue. "I wish I'd gone myself," he said; "that bowl, a
really fine example of sixteenth-century Persian work, going for only five
guineas! I'd willingly have given ten for it. There, there, I thought I could
have depended on you to use your judgment better than that!"
"If you remember, sir, you strictly limited
me to the sums you marked."
"Nothing of the sort," said the
Professor, testily; "my marginal notes were merely intended as
indications, no more. You might have known that if you had secured one of the
things at any price I should have approved."
Horace had no grounds for knowing anything of the
kind, and much reason for believing the contrary, but he saw no use in arguing
the matter further, and merely said he was sorry to have misunderstood.
"No doubt the fault was mine," said the
Professor, in a tone that implied the opposite. "Still, making every
allowance for inexperience in these matters, I should have thought it
impossible for any one to spend a whole day bidding at a place like Hammond's
without even securing a single article."
"But, dad," put in Sylvia, "Mr.
Ventimore did get one thing—on his own account. It's a brass bottle, not down
in the catalogue, but he thinks it may be worth something perhaps. And he'd
very much like to have your opinion."
"Tchah!" said the Professor. "Some
modern bazaar work, most probably. He'd better have kept his money. What was
this bottle of yours like, now, eh?"
Horace described it.
"H'm. Seems to be what the Arabs call a
'kum-kum,' probably used as a sprinkler, or to hold rose-water. Hundreds of 'em
about," commented the Professor, crustily.
"It had a lid, riveted or soldered on,"
said Horace; "the general shape was something like this ..." And he
made a rapid sketch from memory, which the Professor took reluctantly, and then
adjusted his glasses with some increase of interest.
"Ha—the form is antique, certainly. And the
top hermetically fastened, eh? That looks as if it might contain
something."
"You don't think it has a genie inside, like
the sealed jar the fisherman found in the 'Arabian Nights'?" cried Sylvia.
"What fun if it had!"
"By genie, I presume you mean a Jinnee, which
is the more correct and scholarly term," said the Professor. "Female,
Jinneeyeh, and plural Jinn. No, I do not contemplate that as a probable
contingency. But it is not quite impossible that a vessel closed as Mr.
Ventimore describes may have been designed as a receptacle for papyri or other
records of archæological interest, which may be still in preservation. I should
recommend you, sir, to use the greatest precaution in removing the lid—don't
expose the documents, if any, too suddenly to the outer air, and it would be
better if you did not handle them yourself. I shall be rather curious to hear
whether it really does contain anything, and if so, what."
"I will open it as carefully as
possible," said Horace, "and whatever it may contain, you may rely
upon my letting you know at once."
He left shortly afterwards, encouraged by the
radiant trust in Sylvia's eyes, and thrilled by the secret pressure of her hand
at parting.
He had been amply repaid for all the hours he had
spent in the close sale-room. His luck had turned at last: he was going to
succeed; he felt it in the air, as if he were already fanned by Fortune's
pinions.
Still thinking of Sylvia, he let himself into the
semi-detached, old-fashioned house on the north side of Vincent Square, where
he had lodged for some years. It was nearly twelve o'clock, and his landlady,
Mrs. Rapkin, and her husband had already gone to bed.
Ventimore went up to his sitting-room, a
comfortable apartment with two long windows opening on to a trellised verandah
and balcony—a room which, as he had furnished and decorated it himself to suit
his own tastes, had none of the depressing ugliness of typical lodgings.
It was quite dark, for the season was too mild for
a fire, and he had to grope for the matches before he could light his lamp.
After he had done so and turned up the wicks, the first object he saw was the
bulbous, long-necked jar which he had bought that afternoon, and which now
stood on the stained boards near the mantelpiece. It had been delivered with
unusual promptitude!
Somehow he felt a sort of repulsion at the sight
of it. "It's a beastlier-looking object than I thought," he said to
himself disgustedly. "A chimney-pot would be about as decorative and
appropriate in my room. What a thundering ass I was to waste a guinea on it! I
wonder if there really is anything inside it. It is so infernally ugly that it
ought to be useful. The Professor seemed to fancy it might hold documents, and
he ought to know. Anyway, I'll find out before I turn in."
He grasped it by its long, thick neck, and tried
to twist the cap off; but it remained firm, which was not surprising, seeing
that it was thickly coated with a lava-like crust.
"I must get some of that off first, and then
try again," he decided; and after foraging downstairs, he returned with a
hammer and chisel, with which he chipped away the crust till the line of the
cap was revealed, and an uncouth metal knob that seemed to be a catch.
This he tapped sharply for some time, and again
attempted to wrench off the lid. Then he gripped the vessel between his knees
and put forth all his strength, while the bottle seemed to rock and heave under
him in sympathy. The cap was beginning to give way, very slightly; one last
wrench—and it came off in his hand with such suddenness that he was flung
violently backwards, and hit the back of his head smartly against an angle of
the wainscot.
He had a vague impression of the bottle lying on
its side, with dense volumes of hissing, black smoke pouring out of its mouth
and towering up in a gigantic column to the ceiling; he was conscious, too, of
a pungent and peculiarly overpowering perfume. "I've got hold of some sort
of infernal machine," he thought, "and I shall be all over the square
in less than a second!" And, just as he arrived at this cheerful conclusion,
he lost consciousness altogether.
He could not have been unconscious for more than a
few seconds, for when he opened his eyes the room was still thick with smoke,
through which he dimly discerned the figure of a stranger, who seemed of
abnormal and almost colossal height. But this must have been an optical
illusion caused by the magnifying effects of the smoke; for, as it cleared, his
visitor proved to be of no more than ordinary stature. He was elderly, and,
indeed, venerable of appearance, and wore an Eastern robe and head-dress of a
dark-green hue. He stood there with uplifted hands, uttering something in a
loud tone and a language unknown to Horace.
Ventimore, being still somewhat dazed, felt no
surprise at seeing him. Mrs. Rapkin must have let her second floor at last—to
some Oriental. He would have preferred an Englishman as a fellow-lodger, but
this foreigner must have noticed the smoke and rushed in to offer assistance,
which was both neighbourly and plucky of him.
"Awfully good of you to come in, sir,"
he said, as he scrambled to his feet. "I don't know what's happened
exactly, but there's no harm done. I'm only a trifle shaken, that's all. By the
way, I suppose you can speak English?"
"Assuredly I can speak so as to be understood
by all whom I address," answered the stranger.
"Dost thou not understand my speech?"
"Perfectly, now," said Horace. "But
you made a remark just now which I didn't follow—would you mind repeating
it?"
"I said: 'Repentance, O Prophet of God! I
will not return to the like conduct ever.'"
"Ah," said Horace. "I dare say you
were rather startled. So was I when I opened that bottle."
"Tell me—was it indeed thy hand that removed
the seal, O young man of kindness and good works?"
"I certainly did open it," said
Ventimore, "though I don't know where the kindness comes in—for I've no
notion what was inside the thing."
"I was inside it," said the stranger,
calmly.
No comments:
Post a Comment