by F. Anstey
CHAPTER III
AN UNEXPECTED OPENING
Ventimore made his way to Cottesmore Gardens that evening in a highlyinconsistent, not to say chaotic, state of mind. The thought that hewould presently see Sylvia again made his blood course quicker, while hewas fully determined to say no more to her than civility demanded.
At one moment he was blessing Professor Futvoye for his happy thought inmaking use of him; at another he was bitterly recognising that it wouldhave been better for his peace of mind if he had been left alone. Sylviaand her mother had no desire to see more of him; if they had, they wouldhave asked him to come before this. No doubt they would tolerate him nowfor the Professor's sake; but who would not rather be ignored thantolerated?
The more often he saw Sylvia the more she would make his heart ache withvain longing--whereas he was getting almost reconciled to herindifference; 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 toleave the catalogue with his compliments, and the Professor would learnall he wanted to know.
On second thoughts he must go in--if only to return the bank-note. Buthe would ask to see the Professor in private. Most probably he would notbe invited to join his wife and daughter, but if he were, he could makesome 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 theFutvoyes' house, one of the neatest and demurest in that retired andirreproachable quarter, he began to feel a craven hope that theProfessor might be out, in which case he need only leave the catalogueand write a letter when he got home, reporting his non-success at thesale, and returning the note.
And, as it happened, the Professor _was_ out, and Horace was not so gladas he thought he should be. The maid told him that the ladies were inthe drawing-room, and seemed to take it for granted that he was comingin, so he had himself announced. He would not stay long--just longenough to explain his business there, and make it clear that he had nowish to force his acquaintance upon them. He found Mrs. Futvoye in thefarther part of the pretty double drawing-room, writing letters, andSylvia, more dazzlingly fair than ever in some sort of gauzy black frockwith a heliotrope sash and a bunch of Parma violets on her breast, wascomfortably established with a book in the front room, and seemedsurprised, if not resentful, at having to disturb herself.
"I must apologise," he began, with an involuntary stiffness, "forcalling at this very unceremonious time; but the fact is, theProfessor----"
"I know all about it," interrupted Mrs. Futvoye, brusquely, while hershrewd, light-grey eyes took him in with a cool stare that washumorously observant without being aggressive. "We heard how shamefullymy husband abused your good-nature. Really, it was too bad of him to aska busy man like you to put aside his work and go and spend a whole dayat that stupid auction!"
"Oh, I'd nothing particular to do. I can't call myself a busyman--unfortunately," said Horace, with that frankness which scorns toconceal what other people know perfectly well already.
"Ah, well, it's very nice of you to make light of it; but he ought notto have done it--after so short an acquaintance, too. And to make itworse, he has had to go out unexpectedly this evening, but he'll be backbefore very long if you don't mind waiting."
"There's really no need to wait," said Horace, "because this cataloguewill tell him everything, and, as the particular things he wanted wentfor 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 iscrammed with odds and ends as it is, and I don't want the whole house tolook like a museum or an antiquity shop. I'd all the trouble in theworld to persuade him that a great gaudy gilded mummy-case was not quitethe thing for a drawing-room. But, please sit down, Mr. Ventimore."
"Thanks," stammered Horace, "but--but I mustn't stay. If you will tellthe Professor how sorry I was to miss him, and--and give him back thisnote which he left with me to cover any deposit, I--I won't interruptyou any longer."
He was, as a rule, imperturbable in most social emergencies, but justnow he was seized with a wild desire to escape, which, to his infinitemortification, made him behave like a shy schoolboy.
"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Futvoye; "I am sure my husband would be mostannoyed 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 evidentlywants to go," said Sylvia, cruelly.
"Well, I won't detain you--at least, not long. I wonder if you wouldmind posting a letter for me as you pass the pillar-box? I've almostfinished it, and it ought to go to-night, and my maid Jessie has such abad cold I really don't like sending her out with it."
It would have been impossible to refuse to stay after that--even if hehad wished. It would only be for a few minutes. Sylvia might spare himthat much of her time. He should not trouble her again. So Mrs. Futvoyewent back to her bureau, and Sylvia and he were practically alone.
She had taken a seat not far from his, and made a few constrainedremarks, obviously out of sheer civility. He returned mechanicalreplies, with a dreary wonder whether this could really be the girl whohad talked to him with such charming friendliness and confidence only afew weeks ago in Normandy.
And the worst of it was, she was looking more bewitching than ever; herslim arms gleaming through the black lace of her sleeves, and the goldthreads in her soft masses of chestnut hair sparkling in the light ofthe shaded lamp behind her. The slight contraction of her eyebrows andthe mutinous downward curve of her mouth seemed expressive of boredom.
"What a dreadfully long time mamma is over that letter!" she said atlast. "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 timefor 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, yousee."
"Very different."
"When one meets people abroad who--who seem at all inclined to besociable," she continued, "one is so apt to think them pleasanter thanthey really are. Then one meets them again, and--and wonders what oneever 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 todeserve that you should tell me so!"
"Oh, I was not blaming you. You have been most angelic. I can't thinkhow papa could have expected you to take all that trouble forhim--still, you did, though you must have simply hated it."
"But, good heavens! don't you know I should be only too delighted to beof the least service to him--or to any of you?"
"You looked anything but delighted when you came in just now; you lookedas if your one idea was to get it over as soon as you could. You knowperfectly well you're longing now for mother to finish her letter andset you free. Do you really think I can't see that?"
"If all that is true, or partly true," said Horace, "can't you guesswhy?"
"I guessed how it was when you called here first that afternoon. Mammahad asked you to, and you thought you might as well be civil; perhapsyou really did think it would be pleasant to see us again--but it wasn'tthe same thing. Oh, I saw it in your face directly--you becameconventional and distant and horrid, and it made me horrid too; and youwent away determined that you wouldn't see any more of us than you couldhelp. That's why I was so furious when I heard that papa had been to seeyou, and with such an object."
All this was so near the truth, and yet missed it with such perverseingenuity, 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 waspainful to me to meet you again? I thought _you_ were changed, that youwished to forget, and wished me to forget--only I can't--that we hadbeen friends for a short time. And though I never blamed you--it wasnatural enough--it hit me pretty hard--so hard that I didn't feelanxious to repeat the experience."
"Did it hit you hard?" said Sylvia, softly. "Perhaps I minded too, justa very little. However," she added, with a sudden smile, that made twoenchanting dimples in her cheeks, "it only shows how much more sensibleit is to have things out. _Now_ perhaps you won't persist in keepingaway from us?"
"I believe," said Horace, gloomily, still determined not to let anydirect avowal pass his lips, "it would be best that I _should_ keepaway."
Her half-closed eyes shone through their long lashes; the violets on herbreast rose and fell. "I don't think I understand," she said, in a tonethat was both hurt and offended.
There is a pleasure in yielding to some temptations that more thancompensates for the pain of any previous resistance. Come what might, hewas not going to be misunderstood any longer.
"If I must tell you," he said, "I've fallen desperately, hopelessly, inlove with you. Now you know the reason."
"It doesn't seem a very good reason for wanting to go away and never seeme 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 totry."
"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 stupidof 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! Forwe can't marry. It may be years before I can ask you to come to me. Youfather 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, atall events."
"Then you shan't feel a cur, for we'll go and tell her together." AndSylvia rose and went into the farther room, and put her arms round hermother's neck. "Mother darling," she said, in a half whisper, "it'sreally all your fault for writing such very long letters, but--but--wedon't exactly know how we came to do it--but Horace and I have gotengaged somehow. You aren't _very_ angry, are you?"
"I think you're both extremely foolish," said Mrs. Futvoye, as sheextricated herself from Sylvia's arms and turned to face Horace. "Fromall I hear, Mr. Ventimore, you're not in a position to marry atpresent."
"Unfortunately, no" said Horace; "I'm making nothing as yet. But mychance 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 readyto wait for him, any time. Nothing will induce me to give him up, and Ishall never, never care for anybody else. So you see you may just aswell give us your consent!"
"I'm afraid I've been to blame," said Mrs. Futvoye. "I ought to haveforeseen this at St. Luc. Sylvia is our only child, Mr. Ventimore, and Iwould far rather see her happily married than making what is called a'grand match.' Still, this really does seem _rather_ hopeless. I amquite sure her father would never approve of it. Indeed, it must not bementioned to him--he would only be irritated."
"So long as you are not against us," said Horace, "you won't forbid meto see her?"
"I believe I ought to," said Mrs. Futvoye; "but I don't object to yourcoming here occasionally, as an ordinary visitor. Only understandthis--until you can prove to my husband's satisfaction that you are ableto support Sylvia in the manner she has been accustomed to, there mustbe 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 thanHorace had expected--for he had always considered her an unsentimentaland rather worldly woman--that he accepted her conditions almostgratefully. After all, it was enough for him that Sylvia returned hislove, and that he should be allowed to see her from time to time.
"It's rather a pity," said Sylvia, meditatively, a little later, whenher mother had gone back to her letter-writing, and she and Horace werediscussing 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'tknow whether it is likely to do me any good with your father." And hetold her how he had come to acquire the brass bottle.
"And you actually gave a guinea for it?" said Sylvia, "when you couldprobably get exactly the same thing, only better, at Liberty's for aboutseven-and-sixpence! Nothing of that sort has any charms for papa, unlessit's dirty and dingy and centuries old."
"This looks all that. I only bought it because, though it wasn't down onthe 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 dadwould be so delighted that he'd consent to anything. Ah, that's his stepoutside ... he's letting himself in. Now mind you don't forget to tellhim about that bottle."
The Professor did not seem in the sweetest of humours as he entered thedrawing-room. "Sorry I was obliged to be from home, and there was nobodybut my wife and daughter here to entertain you. But I am glad youstayed--yes, I'm rather glad you stayed."
"So am I, sir," said Horace, and proceeded to give his account of thesale, which did not serve to improve the Professor's temper. He thrustout his under lip at certain items in the catalogue. "I wish I'd gonemyself," he said; "that bowl, a really fine example of sixteenth-centuryPersian work, going for only five guineas! I'd willingly have given tenfor it. There, there, I thought I could have depended on you to use yourjudgment 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 noteswere merely intended as indications, no more. You might have known thatif you had secured one of the things at any price I should haveapproved."
Horace had no grounds for knowing anything of the kind, and much reasonfor believing the contrary, but he saw no use in arguing the matterfurther, and merely said he was sorry to have misunderstood.
"No doubt the fault was mine," said the Professor, in a tone thatimplied the opposite. "Still, making every allowance for inexperience inthese matters, I should have thought it impossible for any one to spenda whole day bidding at a place like Hammond's without even securing asingle article."
"But, dad," put in Sylvia, "Mr. Ventimore did get _one_ thing--on hisown account. It's a brass bottle, not down in the catalogue, but hethinks it may be worth something perhaps. And he'd very much like tohave 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 asprinkler, or to hold rose-water. Hundreds of 'em about," commented theProfessor, crustily.
"It had a lid, riveted or soldered on," said Horace; "the general shapewas something like this ..." And he made a rapid sketch from memory,which the Professor took reluctantly, and then adjusted his glasses withsome 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 thefisherman found in the 'Arabian Nights'?" cried Sylvia. "What fun if ithad!"
"By genie, I presume you mean a _Jinnee_, which is the more correct andscholarly term," said the Professor. "Female, _Jinneeyeh_, and plural_J
inn_. No, I do _not_ contemplate that as a probable contingency. Butit is not quite impossible that a vessel closed as Mr. Ventimoredescribes may have been designed as a receptacle for papyri or otherrecords of archaeological interest, which may be still in preservation. Ishould recommend you, sir, to use the greatest precaution in removingthe lid--don't expose the documents, if any, too suddenly to the outerair, and it would be better if you did not handle them yourself. I shallbe rather curious to hear whether it really does contain anything, andif so, what."
"I will open it as carefully as possible," said Horace, "and whatever itmay contain, you may rely upon my letting you know at once."
He left shortly afterwards, encouraged by the radiant trust in Sylvia'seyes, 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 closesale-room. His luck had turned at last: he was going to succeed; he feltit 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 hadlodged 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 twolong windows opening on to a trellised verandah and balcony--a roomwhich, as he had furnished and decorated it himself to suit his owntastes, 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 togrope for the matches before he could light his lamp. After he had doneso 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 stoodon the stained boards near the mantelpiece. It had been delivered withunusual promptitude!
Somehow he felt a sort of repulsion at the sight of it. "It's abeastlier-looking object than I thought," he said to himselfdisgustedly. "A chimney-pot would be about as decorative and appropriatein my room. What a thundering ass I was to waste a guinea on it! Iwonder if there really is anything inside it. It is so infernally uglythat it _ought_ to be useful. The Professor seemed to fancy it mighthold documents, and he ought to know. Anyway, I'll find out before Iturn 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 wasthickly coated with a lava-like crust.
"I must get some of that off first, and then try again," he decided; andafter foraging downstairs, he returned with a hammer and chisel, withwhich 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 offthe lid. Then he gripped the vessel between his knees and put forth allhis strength, while the bottle seemed to rock and heave under him insympathy. The cap was beginning to give way, very slightly; one lastwrench--and it came off in his hand with such suddenness that he wasflung violently backwards, and hit the back of his head smartly againstan angle of the wainscot.
He had a vague impression of the bottle lying on its side, with densevolumes of hissing, black smoke pouring out of its mouth and towering upin a gigantic column to the ceiling; he was conscious, too, of a pungentand peculiarly overpowering perfume. "I've got hold of some sort ofinfernal machine," he thought, "and I shall be all over the square inless than a second!" And, just as he arrived at this cheerfulconclusion, he lost consciousness altogether.
He could not have been unconscious for more than a few seconds, for whenhe opened his eyes the room was still thick with smoke, through which hedimly discerned the figure of a stranger, who seemed of abnormal andalmost colossal height. But this must have been an optical illusioncaused by the magnifying effects of the smoke; for, as it cleared, hisvisitor proved to be of no more than ordinary stature. He was elderly,and, indeed, venerable of appearance, and wore an Eastern robe andhead-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. Hewould have preferred an Englishman as a fellow-lodger, but thisforeigner 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 hisfeet. "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 canspeak 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 Ididn't follow--would you mind repeating it?"
"I said: 'Repentance, O Prophet of God! I will not return to the likeconduct ever.'"
"Ah," said Horace. "I dare say you _were_ rather startled. So was I whenI opened that bottle."
"Tell me--was it indeed thy hand that removed the seal, O young man ofkindness and good works?"
"I certainly did open it," said Ventimore, "though I don't know wherethe kindness comes in--for I've no notion what was inside the thing."
"I was inside it," said the stranger, calmly.