The Brass Bottle

by F. Anstey

  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, halfaloud, to himself, and pulled out his watch. "Half-past twelve--what wasI 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 gloriousmorning in August which now seemed so remote and irrecoverable. At thisprecise time he was waiting on the balcony of the Hotel de la Plage--thesole hostelry of St. Luc-en-Port, the tiny Normandy watering-place uponwhich, by some happy inspiration, he had lighted during a solitarycycling tour--waiting until She should appear.

  He could see the whole scene: the tiny cove, with the violet shadow ofthe cliff sleeping on the green water; the swell of the waves lazilylapping against the diving-board from which he had plunged half an hourbefore; he remembered the long swim out to the buoy; the exhilaratedanticipation with which he had dressed and climbed the steep path to thehotel terrace.

  For was he not to pass the whole remainder of that blissful day inSylvia Futvoye's society? Were they not to cycle together (there were,of course, others of the party--but they did not count), to cycle overto Veulettes, to picnic there under the cliff, and ride back--alwaystogether--in the sweet-scented dusk, over the slopes, between thepoplars or the cornfields glowing golden against a sky of warm purple?

  Now he saw himself going round to the gravelled courtyard in front ofthe hotel with a sudden dread of missing her. There was nothing therebut the little low cart, with its canvas tilt which was to conveyProfessor Futvoye and his wife to the place of _rendezvous_.

  There was Sylvia at last, distractingly fair and fresh in her cool pinkblouse and cream-coloured skirt; how gracious and friendly and generallydelightful she had been throughout that unforgettable day, which wassupreme amongst others only a little less perfect, and all now fled forever!

  They had had drawbacks, it was true. Old Futvoye was perhaps the leastbit of a bore at times, with his interminable disquisitions on Egyptianart and ancient Oriental character-writing, in which he seemed convincedthat Horace must feel a perfervid interest, as, indeed, he thought itpolitic to affect. The Professor was a most learned archaeologist, andpositively bulged with information on his favourite subjects; but it isjust possible that Horace might have been less curious concerning thedistinction between Cuneiform and Aramaean or Kufic and Arabicinscriptions if his informant had happened to be the father of anybodyelse. However, such insincerities as these are but so many evidences ofsincerity.

  So with self-tormenting ingenuity Horace conjured up various picturesfrom that Norman holiday of his: the little half-timbered cottages withtheir faded blue shutters and the rushes growing out of their thatchroofs; the spires of village churches gleaming above the bronze-greenbeeches; the bold headlands, their ochre and yellow cliffs contrastinggrimly with the soft ridges of the turf above them; the tetheredblack-and-white cattle grazing peacefully against a background of lapislazuli and malachite sea, and in every scene the sensation of Sylvia'snear presence, the sound of her voice in his ears. And now?... He lookedup from the papers and tracing-cloth on his desk, and round the smallpanelled room which served him as an office, at the framed plans andphotographs, the set squares and T squares on the walls, and felt a dullresentment against his surroundings. From his window he commanded acheerful view of a tall, mouldering wall, once part of the Abbeyboundaries, surmounted by _chevaux-de-frise_, above whoserust-attenuated spikes some plane trees stretched their yellowingbranches.

  "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 herpeople didn't seem to object to me. Her mother asked me cordially enoughto call on them when they were back in town. When I did----"

  When he had called, there had been a difference--not an unusual sequelto an acquaintanceship begun in a Continental watering-place. It wasdifficult to define, but unmistakable--a certain formality andconstraint on Mrs. Futvoye's part, and even on Sylvia's, which seemedintended to warn him that it is not every friendship that survives theChannel passage. So he had gone away sore at heart, but fullyrecognising that any advances in future must come from their side. Theymight ask him to dinner, or at least to call again; but more than amonth had passed, and they had made no sign. No, it was all over; hemust consider himself dropped.

  "After all," he told himself, with a short and anything but mirthfullaugh, "it's natural enough. Mrs. Futvoye has probably been makinginquiries about my professional prospects. It's better as it is. Whatearthly 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 ofasking any one--to say nothing of Sylvia--to marry me. I should only berushing into temptation if I saw any more of her. She's not for a poorbeggar like me, who was born unlucky. Well, whining won't do anygood--let's have a look at Beevor's latest performance."

  He spread out a large coloured plan, in a corner of which appeared thename of "William Beevor, Architect," and began to study it in a spiritof anything but appreciation.

  "Beevor gets on," he said to himself. "Heaven knows that I don't grudgehim his success. He's a good fellow--though he _does_ buildarchitectural atrocities, and seem to like 'em. Who am I to give myselfairs? 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 anincompetent. Ventimore really had talent above the average, with idealsand ambitions which might under better conditions have attainedrecognition and fulfilment before this.

  But he was not quite energetic enough, besides being too proud, to pushhimself into notice, and hitherto he had met with persistent ill-luck.

  So Horace had no other occupation now but to give Beevor, whose officesand clerk he shared, such slight assistance as he might require, and itwas by no means cheering to feel that every year of this enforcedsemi-idleness left him further handicapped in the race for wealth andfame, for he had already passed his twenty-eighth birthday.

  If Miss Sylvia Futvoye h
ad indeed felt attracted towards him at one timeit was not altogether incomprehensible. Horace Ventimore was not a modelof manly beauty--models of manly beauty are rare out of novels, andseldom interesting in them; but his clear-cut, clean-shaven facepossessed a certain distinction, and if there were faint satirical linesabout the mouth, they were redeemed by the expression of the grey-blueeyes, which were remarkably frank and pleasant. He was well made, andtall 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, andwhose sense of humour would serve as a lining for most clouds that mightdarken his horizon.

  There was a rap at the door which communicated with Beevor's office, andBeevor himself, a florid, thick-set man, with small side-whiskers, burstin.

  "I say, Ventimore, you didn't run off with the plans for that house I'mbuilding at Larchmere, did you? Because--ah, I see you're looking overthem. Sorry to deprive you, but----"

  "Thanks, old fellow, take them, by all means. I've seen all I wanted tosee."

  "Well, I'm just off to Larchmere now. Want to be there to check thequantities, and there's my other house at Fittlesdon. I must go onafterwards and set it out, so I shall probably be away some days. I'mtaking Harrison down, too. You won't be wanting him, eh?"

  Ventimore laughed. "I can manage to do nothing without a clerk to helpme. Your necessity is greater than mine. Here are the plans."

  "I'm rather pleased with 'em myself, you know," said Beevor; "that roofought to look well, eh? Good idea of mine lightening the slate with thatornamental tile-work along the top. You saw I put in one of your windowswith just a trifling addition. I was almost inclined to keep both gablesalike, as you suggested, but it struck me a little variety--one redbrick 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 toomuch originality in domestic architecture. The average client no morewants an original house than he wants an original hat; he wantssomething he won't feel a fool in. I've often thought, old man, thatperhaps the reason why you haven't got on----you don't mind my speakingcandidly, do you?"

  "Not a bit," said Ventimore, cheerfully. "Candour's the cement offriendship. Dab it on."

  "Well, I was only going to say that you do yourself no good by all thoseconfoundedly unconventional ideas of yours. If you had your chanceto-morrow, it's my belief you'd throw it away by insisting on somefantastic fad or other."

  "These speculations are a trifle premature, considering that theredoesn'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 greatthing, however," he went on, with a flavour of personal application, "isto know how to use it when it _does_ come. Well, I must be off if I meanto catch that one o'clock from Waterloo. You'll see to anything that maycome in for me while I'm away, won't you, and let me know? Oh, by theway, the quantity surveyor has just sent in the quantities for thatschoolroom at Woodford--do you mind running through them and seeingthey're right? And there's the specification for the new wing atTusculum Lodge--you might draft that some time when you've nothing elseto 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 minuteshe could be heard bustling Harrison, the clerk, to make haste; then ahansom was whistled for, there were footsteps down the old stairs, thesounds of a departing vehicle on the uneven stones, and after thatsilence and solitude.

  It was not in Nature to avoid feeling a little envious. Beevor had workto do in the world: even if it chiefly consisted in profaning sylvanretreats by smug or pretentious villas, it was still work whichentitled him to consideration and respect in the eyes of allright-minded persons.

  And nobody believed in Horace; as yet he had never known thesatisfaction of seeing the work of his brain realised in stone and brickand mortar; no building stood anywhere to bear testimony to hisexistence and capability long after he himself should have passed away.

  It was not a profitable train of thought, and, to escape from it, hewent into Beevor's room and fetched the documents he had mentioned--atleast they would keep him occupied until it was time to go to his cluband lunch. He had no sooner settled down to his calculations, however,when he heard a shuffling step on the landing, followed by a knock atBeevor's office-door. "More work for Beevor," he thought; "what luck thefellow has! I'd better go in and explain that he's just left town onbusiness."

  But on entering the adjoining room he heard the knocking repeated--thistime at his own door; and hastening back to put an end to this somewhatundignified form of hide-and-seek, he discovered that this visitor atleast was legitimately his, and was, in fact, no other than ProfessorAnthony Futvoye himself.

  The Professor was standing in the doorway peering short-sightedlythrough his convex glasses, his head protruded from his loosely-fittinggreat-coat with an irresistible suggestion of an inquiring tortoise. ToHorace his appearance was more welcome than that of the wealthiestclient--for why should Sylvia's father take the trouble to pay him thisvisit unless he still wished to continue the acquaintanceship? It mighteven be that he was the bearer of some message or invitation.

  So, although to an impartial eye the Professor might not seem the kindof elderly gentleman whose society would produce any wild degree ofexhilaration, Horace was unfeignedly delighted to see him.

  "Extremely kind of you to come and see me like this, sir," he saidwarmly, after establishing him in the solitary armchair reserved forhypothetical clients.

  "Not at all. I'm afraid your visit to Cottesmore Gardens some time agowas somewhat of a disappointment."

  "A disappointment?" echoed Horace, at a loss to know what was comingnext.

  "I refer to the fact--which possibly, however, escaped yournotice"--explained the Professor, scratching his scanty patch ofgrizzled whisker with a touch of irascibility, "that I myself was not athome on that occasion."

  "Indeed, I was greatly disappointed," said Horace, "though of course Iknow how much you are engaged. It's all the more good of you to sparetime to drop in for a chat just now."

  "I've not come to chat, Mr. Ventimore. I never chat. I wanted to see youabout a matter which I thought you might be so obliging as to---- But Iobserve you are busy--probably too busy to attend to such a smallaffair."

  It was clear enough now; the Professor was going to build, and haddecided--could it be at Sylvia's suggestion?--to entrust the work tohim! But he contrived to subdue any self-betraying eagerness, and reply(as he could with perfect truth) that he had nothing on hand just thenwhich he could not lay aside, and that if the Professor would let himknow what he required, he would take it up at once.

  "So much the better," said the Professor; "so much the better. Both mywife and daughter declared that it was making far too great a demandupon your good nature; but, as I told them, 'I am much mistaken,' Isaid, 'if Mr. Ventimore's practice is so extensive that he cannot leaveit for one afternoon----'"

  Evidently it was not a house. Could he be needed to escort themsomewhere that afternoon? Even that was more than he had hoped for a fewminutes since. He hastened to repeat that he was perfectly free thatafternoon.

  "In that case," said the Professor, beginning to fumble in all hispockets--was he searching for a note in Sylvia's handwriting?--"in thatcase, you will be conferring a real favour on me if you can make itconvenient 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 creditthat he allowed no sign of it to appear. "Of course I'll go, withpleasure," he said, "if I can be of any use."

  "I knew I shouldn't come to you in vain," said the Professor. "Iremembered your wonderful good nature, sir, in accompanying my wife anddaughter on all sorts of expeditions in
the blazing hot weather we hadat 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 OrientalClub, and I've an appointment afterwards to examine and report on arecently-discovered inscribed cylinder for the Museum, which will fullyoccupy the rest of the afternoon, so that it's physically impossible forme to go to Hammond's myself, and I strongly object to employing abroker when I can avoid it. Where did I put that catalogue?... Ah, hereit is. This was sent to me by the executors of my old friend, GeneralCollingham, who died the other day. I met him at Nakada when I was outexcavating 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 rightand left. Most of his things are downright rubbish, but there are just afew lots that are worth securing, at a reasonable figure, by some onewho knew what he was about."

  "But, my dear Professor," remonstrated Horace, not relishing thisresponsibility, "I'm afraid I'm as likely as not to pick up some of therubbish. I've no special knowledge of Oriental curios."

  "At St. Luc," said the Professor, "you impressed me as having, for anamateur, an exceptionally accurate and comprehensive acquaintance withEgyptian and Arabian art from the earliest period." (If this were so,Horace could only feel with shame what a fearful humbug he must havebeen.) "However, I've no wish to lay too heavy a burden on you, and, asyou will see from this catalogue, I have ticked off the lots in which Iam chiefly interested, and made a note of the limit to which I amprepared to bid, so you'll have no difficulty."

  "Very well," said Horace; "I'll go straight to Covent Garden, and slipout and get some lunch later on."

  "Well, perhaps, if you don't mind. The lots I have marked seem to comeon at rather frequent intervals, but don't let that consideration deteryou from getting your lunch, and if you _should_ miss anything by notbeing on the spot, why, it's of no consequence, though I don't say itmightn't be a pity. In any case, you won't forget to mark what each lotfetches, and perhaps you wouldn't mind dropping me a line when youreturn the catalogue--or stay, could you look in some time after dinnerthis evening, and let me know how you got on?--that would be better."

  Horace thought it would be decidedly better, and undertook to call andrender an account of his stewardship that evening. There remained thequestion of a deposit, should one or more of the lots be knocked down tohim; and, as he was obliged to own that he had not so much as ten poundsabout him at that particular moment, the Professor extracted a note forthat amount from his case, and handed it to him with the air of abenevolent person relieving a deserving object. "Don't exceed mylimits," he said, "for I can't afford more just now; and mind you giveHammond your own name, not mine. If the dealers get to know I'm afterthe things, they'll run you up. And now, I don't think I need detain youany longer, especially as time is running on. I'm sure I can trust youto do the best you can for me. Till this evening, then."

  A few minutes later Horace was driving up to Covent Garden behind thebest-looking horse he could pick out.

  The Professor might have required from him rather more than was strictlyjustified by their acquaintanceship, and taken his acquiescence too muchas a matter of course--but what of that? After all, he was Sylvia'sparent.

  "Even with _my_ luck," he was thinking, "I ought to succeed in gettingat least one or two of the lots he's marked; and if I can only pleasehim, something may come of it."

  And in this sanguine mood Horace entered Messrs. Hammond's well-knownauction rooms.