Mr. Nutley was considerably relieved when he heard that Chase had gone
back to Wolverhampton. From being negligible, Chase had lately become a
slightly inconvenient presence at Blackboys; not that he ever criticized
or interfered with the arrangements that Nutley made, but Nutley felt
vaguely that he watched everything and registered internal comments;
yes, although not a very sensitive chap, perhaps—he hadn’t time for
that—Nutley had become aware that very little eluded Chase’s
observation. It was odd, and rather annoying, that in spite of his
taciturnity and his shy manner, Chase should so contrive to make himself
felt. Any of the people on the estate, who had spoken with him more than
once or twice, had a liking and a respect for him. Perhaps, Nutley
consoled himself, it was thanks to tradition quite as much as to Chase’s
personality, and he permitted himself a little outburst against the
tradition he hated, envied, and scorned.
Now that Chase had gone back to Wolverhampton, Nutley arrived more
aggressively at Blackboys, rang the bell louder, made more demands on
Fortune, and bustled everybody about the place.
The first time he came there in the owner’s absence the dog met him in
the hall, stretching himself as though just awakened from sleep, coming
forward with his nails clicking on the boards.
“He misses his master,” said Fortune compassionately.
Nutley thought, with discomfort, that the whole place missed Chase.
There were traces of him everywhere—the obverse of his handwriting on
the pad of blotting-paper in the library, his stick in the hall, and
some of his clothes in a pile on the bed in his bedroom.
“Yes, Mr. Chase left a good many of his things behind,” said Fortune
when consulted.
“When does he think he’s coming back?—the sale takes place next week,”
grumbled Nutley.
It was nearly midsummer; the heat-haze wickered above the ground, and
the garden was tumultuous with butterflies and flowers.
“It seems a pity to think of Mr. Chase missing all this fine weather,”
Fortune remarked.
Nutley had no affection whatever for Fortune; he possessed the knack of
making remarks to which he could not reasonably take exception, but
which contrived slightly to irritate him.
“I daresay he’s getting the fine weather where he is,” he replied
curtly.
“Ah, but in towns it isn’t the same thing; when he’s got his own garden
here, and all,” said Fortune, not yielding to Nutley, who merely
shrugged, and started talking about the sale in a sharp voice.
He was in his element, Chase once dismissed from his mind. He came up to
Blackboys nearly every day, quite unnecessarily, giving every detail his
attention, fawning upon anyone who seemed a likely purchaser for the
house, gossiping with the dealers who now came in large numbers, and
accepting their cigars with a “Well, I don’t mind if I do—bit of a
strain, you know, all this—the responsibility, and so on.” He had the
acquisitiveness of a magpie, for scraps of sale-room gossip. Dealers
ticking off items in their catalogues, men in green baize aprons
shifting furniture, the front door standing permanently open to all
comers, were all a source of real gratification to him; while in the
number of motors that waited under the shade of the trees he took a
personal pride. He rubbed his hands with pleasure over the coming and
going, and at the crunch of fresh wheels on the gravel. Chase’s
ridiculous little padlock on the wooden gate—there wasn’t much trace of
that now! Front door and back door were open, the summer breeze
wandering gently between them and winnowing the shreds of straw that
trailed about the hall, and in the passage beyond; and anyone who had
finished inspecting the house might pass into the garden by the back
door, to stroll up the central walk, till Nutley, looking out of an
upper floor window, taking upon himself the whole credit, and full of a
complacent satisfaction, thought that the place had the appearance of a
garden party.
A country sale! It was one that would set two counties talking, one that
would attract all the biggest swells from London (Wertheimer, Durlacher,
Duveen, Partridge, they had all been already, taking notes), such a
collection didn’t often come under the hammer—no, by jove, it didn’t!
and Nutley, reading for the fiftieth time the name “Nutley, Farebrother
and Co., Estate Agents and Solicitors,” at the foot of the poster,
reflected how that name would gain in fame and lustre by the
association. Not that Farebrother, not that Co., had been allowed many
fingers in the pie; he, Nutley, had done it all; it was _his_ show,
_his_ ewe-lamb; he would have snapped the head off anyone who had dared
to claim a share, or scorned them with a single glance.
He wondered to whom the house itself would ultimately fall. He had
received several offers for it, but none of them had reached the reserve
figure of thirty thousand. The dealers, of course, would make a ring for
the furniture, the tapestries, and the pictures, and would doubtless
resell them to its new owner of the house at an outrageous profit.
Nutley had his eye on a Brazilian as a very probable purchaser; not only
had he called at the estate office himself for all possible particulars,
but on a second occasion he had brought his son and his daughter with
him, exotic birds brilliantly descending upon the country solicitor’s
office. They had come in a white Rolls-Royce, which had immediately
compelled Nutley’s disapproving respect; it had a negro chauffeur on the
box, the silver statuette of a nymph with streaming hair on the bonnet,
and a spray of orchids in a silver and crystal vase inside. The
Brazilian himself was an unpretentious cattle magnate, with a quick,
clipped manner, and a wrinkled face the colour of a coffee-bean; he
might be the purveyor of dollars, but he wasn’t the showy one; the
ostentation of the family had passed into the children. These were in
their early twenties, spoilt and fretful; the tyrants of their widowed
father, who listened to all their remarks with an indulgent smile.
Nutley, who had never in the whole of his life seen anything like them,
tried to make himself believe that he couldn’t decide which was the more
offensive, but, secretly, he was much impressed. “Plenty of bounce,
anyway,” he reflected, observing the son, his pearl-grey suit over
admirably waisted stays, his black hair swept back from his brow, and
shining like the flanks of a wet seal, his lean hands weighted with fat
platinum rings, his walk that slightly swayed, as though the syncopated
rhythm of the plantations had passed for ever into his blood; and,
observing him, the strangest shadow of envy passed across the shabby
little solicitor in the presence of such lackadaisical youth.... The
daughter, more languid and more subtly insolent, so plump that she
seemed everywhere cushioned: her tiny hands had no knuckles, but only
dimples, and everything about her was round, from the single pearls on
her fingers to the toecaps of her patent leather shoes. Clearly the
father had offered Blackboys to the pair as an additional toy. They were
as taken with it as their deliberately unenthusiastic manner would
permit them to betray; and Nutley guessed that sufficient sulks on the
part of the daughter would quickly induce the widower to increase his
offer of twenty-five thousand by the necessary five. Up to the present
he had held firm, a business convention which Nutley was ready tacitly
to accept. He had reported the visit to Chase, but Chase (the
unaccountable) hadn’t taken much interest. Since then he had seen the
brother and sister several times wandering over the house and garden,
and this he took to be a promising sign. The father he hadn’t seen
again, but that didn’t distress him: the insolent pair were the ones who
counted.